“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.”
“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:
“Their wings are cut and they cannot fly, Cannot fly, cannot fly; Their wings are cut and they cannot fly, On Christmas day in the morning.”
“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!”