On
a point we stopped for lunch: the Scotchman always struck the beach
a-cooking. He had a "kit," which was a big camp-pail, and inside of it
were more dishes than are to be found in some hotels. He broiled the
bacon, instead of frying it, and thus we were saved the terrors of
indigestion. He had many luxuries in his commissary, among them dried
apples, with which he filled a camp-pail one day and put them on to
boil. They subsequently got to be about a foot deep all over the camp,
while Furguson stood around and regarded the black-magic of the thing
with overpowering emotions and Homeric tongue. Furguson was a good
genius, big and gentle, and a woodsman root and branch. The Abwees had
intended their days in the wilderness to be happy singing flights of
time, but with grease and paste in one's stomach what may not befall the
mind when it is bent on nature's doings?
And thus it was that the gloomy Indian Jimmie Friday, despite his
tuberculosis begotten of insufficient nourishment, was happy in these
strange days--even to the extent of looking with wondrous eyes on the
nooks which we loved--nooks which previously for him had only sheltered
possible "dead-falls" or not, as the discerning eye of the trapper
decided the prospects for pelf.
Going ashore on a sandy beach, Jimmie wandered down its length, his
hunter mind seeking out the footprints of his prey. He stooped down, and
then beckoned me to come, which I did.
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