"Oh," said Whitey, "and I wait up in the mountains alone. Perhaps you wouldn't mind sending me daily or hourly reports of Bull's condition while he is recovering from the fatigue of his journey." Injun didn't know whether this was sarcasm, or if he was being kidded, and he didn't care. His was a serious mind that was not easily turned to light thoughts. "No," said Whitey, "he goes with us, I can't bear to disappoint him." And perhaps Injun was better satisfied at this decision, though he did not express himself.
So the journey was resumed. For a time Whitey would carry Bull. When he tired, Injun would carry Bull awhile. When Injun tired, Bull would waddle a way. It was a strange way for a dog to go hunting.
As we are soon to part from Injun and Whitey, there is one more thing I feel that I should tell you about them. In a way I don't like to tell it, in another way I feel that I ought to tell it and—anyway, I'm going to tell it and to call it:
CHAPTER XXIV
"IN MEMORY"
Up in the mountains, about two miles northwest of Moose Lake, was a hole which old Mother Nature had carelessly left there, and afterwards thoughtfully filled with water. The water was blue—probably in imitation of the near-by sky—so the place was called Blue Lake.
At Moose Lake there was a cabin and a canoe, as you may remember, and to Injun and Whitey that had seemed too civilized for a pioneer hunting trip. So they had fished the canoe out of the lake, and had made a portage with it. The canoe was light, and a boy could carry it over his head for quite a distance before he got tired or fell over a rock.