“What did you do that for?”
“Take this axe and get to work. I’ve chopped long enough. It’s my turn—or would be, only I’m after moose.”
Adrian realized that he had given cause for offense and laughed good-naturedly. His nap had rested him much more than his broken sleep of the night under the rocks, and the word “moose” had an inspiration all its own.
“I’ve cut the firewood. You get poles for the tent. I’ll get things ready for supper.”
Adrian laid his hand dramatically upon his stomach. “I’ve an inner conviction already that dinner precedes supper.”
“Cut, can’t you?”
“Cut it is.”
In a few moments he had chopped down a few slender poles, and, selecting two with forked branches, he planted these upright on a little rise of the dryest ground. Across the notches he laid a third pole, and over this he stretched their strip of sheeting. When this was pegged down at a convenient angle at the back and also secured at the ends, they had a very comfortable shelter from the dew and possible rain. The affair was open on one side, and before this Pierre had heaped the wood for the fire when they should return after the day’s hunt. Together they cut and spread the spruce and hemlock boughs for their bed, arranging them in overlapping rows, with an added quantity for pillows. Wrapped in their blankets, for even at midsummer these were not amiss, they hoped to sleep luxuriously.
They stored their food in as safe a spot as possible, though Pierre said that nothing would molest it, unless it might be a hungry hedgehog; but Adrian preferred to take no risks. Then, with knives freshly sharpened on the rocks, and the gun in hand, they cautiously stepped into the canoe and pushed off.
“One should not jump into a birch. Easiest thing in the world to split the bottom,” its owner had explained.