Thus they stood for what they say was a minute, but which seemed like
hours. The attorney composedly admired the unusual sight. The Indian and
Furguson swore softly but most viciously until the moose moved away. The
Indian hurled the hatchet at the retreating figure, with a final curse,
and the thing was over.
"Those fellows who are out in their canoes will be sick abed when we
tell them what's been going on in the camp this morning," sighed Mr.
Furguson, as he scoured a cooking-pot.
I fear we would have had that moose on our consciences if we had been
there: the game law was not up at the time, but I should have asked for
strength from a higher source than my respect for law.
The golden days passed and the lake grew great.
The wind blew at our backs. The waves rolled in restless surges, piling
the little canoes on their crests and swallowing them in the troughs.
The canoes thrashed the water as they flew along, half in, half out, but
they rode like ducks. The Abwees took off their hats, gripped their
double blades, made the water swirl behind them, howled in glee to each
other through the rushing storm. To be five miles from shore in a seaway
in kayaks like ours was a sensation. We found they stood it well, and
grew contented. It was the complement to the golden lazy days when the
water was glass, and the canoes rode upsidedown over its mirror surface.
The Norseman grinned and shook his head in token of his pleasure, much
as an epicure might after a sip of superior Burgundy.
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