The stranger laughed at the startled boys, who gazed at him and the Indian in mute surprise. Wrinkles at the corners of his gray-blue eyes indicated habitual good humor. The eyes themselves seemed always to smile, even when his lips did not.

“You were having such a good time,” said he, in a rich, well-modulated voice, “that I disliked to disturb you, but it has been so long since I saw a white face that I had to do it.”

“We’re mighty glad you did,” answered Paul, who instinctively felt that in spite of his rough exterior and dress their visitor was well bred and cultured. “Won’t you sit down?” he continued. “We’re just out from the post enjoying the holiday.”

“Thank you, we will join you, and perhaps return to the post with you, if you don’t mind.” He kicked off his snowshoes, stuck them upright in the snow at the end of the lean-to, the Indian following his example. Then extending his hand to each of the boys he said, by way of introduction:

“My name is Charles Amesbury. I’m trapping back in the Indian Lake country. My friend here is Ahmik, though you will hear them call him John Buck at the post.”

“My name is Paul Densmore.”

“Mine’s Dan’l Rudd.”

“How do?” said the Indian, following his companion’s example and shaking hands.

“You seem to be having a cozy time here,” remarked Amesbury, picking the ice from his beard as rapidly as the heat from the fire loosened it sufficiently.

“We’re having a bully good day. We were getting homesick over at the post, and ran over for the holiday.”

Dan had gone to the river for a kettle of water, and returning put it over the fire.

“We’ll be boilin’ th’ kettle, an’ you’ll have a snack o’ pa’tridge along with a cup o’ tea,” he suggested.

“Thank you. Don’t mind if we do, eh Ahmik?” And Amesbury contentedly stretched his long legs, which seemed very much in the way.

“Ugh. Good,” remarked Ahmik, who was sitting on his heels.

Four of the ptarmigans, as well as some of the pork and bread, remained, and while the water was heating Dan sliced pork in the frying pan, while Paul dismembered the birds, ready for Dan to arrange them in the pan to fry when the pork grease began to bubble. Amesbury, lazily looking on, began to sing:

The boys laughed, and Paul remarked:

“They can’t fly very far. We clipped their wings on the way out.”

“When did you come from New York, Densmore?”

“Left there last July. How did you know I came from New York?”

“You have the accent, and a New Yorker handles his r’s pretty much as a Londoner handles his h’s; he tacks them on where they don’t belong, and leaves them off where they do. I’m a New Yorker myself, though you’d never suspect it. I outgrew the accent long ago. I haven’t been there for—let me see—more than twenty years—how time flies!”

“From New York!” Paul’s face lighted up with pleasure. “But I thought you said you were a trapper?”

“So I am. I came to this country when I left home, twenty years ago, and I’ve been here ever since.”

“And never been home since! How could you stay away from home for twenty years? And New York too? It seems to me I’ve been away for ages, and it’s only half a year. You bet I’ll go back the first chance.”

Amesbury’s face became grave for an instant.

“It’s too long a story—the story of my coming. I’ll tell you about it, perhaps, some time when I’m not so hungry,” and he smiled. “But how about you? What brought you?”

He listened with manifest interest while Paul related the happenings of the weeks just past, and until Dan finally set the pan of fried ptarmigan between the visitors, interrupting with:

“Tea’s ready, sir. Help yourselves t’ th’ pa’tridges an’ bread.”

And while Dan poured the tea and the two men stirred in molasses from the bottle, Amesbury hummed irrelevantly:

Then, as he took a piece of breast from the pan:

“Well, Densmore, the rest of the story. Don’t mind the interruption. It was important. But so is your story. I’m immensely interested.”

The story and dinner were finished together. Amesbury made no comment at once, then while he cut tobacco from a black plug, and stuffed it into his pipe, he repeated:

“That reference is to you chaps. I wouldn’t be anywhere else if I could, and I wouldn’t have missed this good Christmas dinner and meeting you fellows right here for worlds.”

Reaching for a hot coal he applied it to his pipe, and the pipe lighted he resumed his reclining position, puffing quietly for a moment, when he remarked:

“Old Davy MacTavish is as hard as they make ’em. The company is all there is in the world for him that’s worth while. He’d cut a man’s soul out and throw it to the dogs, if the company would profit by his doing so. Thank God, the factors aren’t all like him.”

“Bad man,” remarked Ahmik, puffing at his pipe.

Amesbury lapsed into silence, while he smoked and gazed at the fire, apparently in deep reflection. Presently, as though a brilliant thought had occurred to him, he exclaimed enthusiastically:

“I have it! How would you chaps like to leave the post and go up Indian Lake way with me trapping for the winter? I go out to Winnipeg in the spring with my catch, and you might go along, if the wolves don’t eat you up in the meantime, or you don’t freeze to death.”

“Could we? Could we go with you?” asked Paul excitedly.

“’T would be wonderful fine!” exclaimed Dan.

“No reason why you can’t. I’m up there all alone, and I need a couple of chaps like you to use for dumb-bells, or to kick around when I want exercise, or suffer from ennui.”

“We’ll be wonderful glad o’ th’ chance t’ go with you,” said Dan, “and t’ be doin’ things t’ help when you’s sick an’ sufferin’, but I’s not likin’ t’ be kicked, sir. Is ‘ownwe’ a bad ailment, sir?”

“Pretty bad sometimes, but I’ll try and control myself and not kick you very hard,” explained Amesbury, looking very grave about his lips but with eyes betraying merriment.

“Oh, Dan,” exclaimed Paul, laughing outright, “ennui isn’t a sickness. Mr. Amesbury is just joking.”

Dan did not understand the joke, but he smiled uncertainly, nevertheless.

“We’ll hit the trail, then, the day after New Year’s. How’ll that suit you?” asked Amesbury.

“Can’t go too soon to suit us,” said Paul.

“Now I’m thinkin’,” suggested Dan, “th’ master’ll not be lettin’ us leave th’ post. I were so glad t’ be goin’ I forgets we has a debt an’ we signed papers t’ work un out, an’ he’ll sure not let us go till we works un out.”

“That’s so,” admitted Paul in a tone of deep disappointment.

“How much did you say the debt amounted to?” asked Amesbury.

“Eighteen dollars for each of us,” answered Paul, “but we’ve been here working two months with wages, and that takes off six dollars from each debt, so the first of the month our debts’ll each be down to twelve dollars.”

“Good arithmetic; worked it out right the first time,” Amesbury nodded in approval. “Now if you each pay the old pirate twelve dollars, how much will you owe him and how long can he hold you at the post?”

“Why the debt would be squared and he couldn’t keep us at all.”

“Right again.”

“But we has no money to pay un,” broke in Dan.

“Just leave all that to me,” counseled Amesbury. “I’ll attend to his case.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Amesbury,” and Paul grasped the trapper’s hand.

“’Tis wonderful kind of you,” said Dan.

“Don’t waste your words thanking me,” cautioned Amesbury. “Wait till I get you out in the bush. I’ll get my money’s worth out of you chaps.”

He stretched his long arms, yawned, untangled his ungainly legs from the knot into which he had twisted them, and rose to his feet, remarking:

“Do you see where the sun is, fellows? It’s time to be going. You can lash these traps of yours on the top of my flat sled. Ahmik and I left our flat sleds just below here.”

“My criky!” exclaimed Paul. “The sun’s setting. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

In accordance with Amesbury’s suggestion all of their things, save their guns, were lashed on one of the long, narrow toboggans upon which he and Ahmik hauled their provisions and camp outfit, and the four turned toward the post, in single file, Paul and Dan highly elated with the prospect of presently turning homeward.