A. M. Chisholm

“ Finally I got out my knife, and, as I did so, a canoe came down the river, but its occupant was neither Louis nor Tom.
I did not know him. He was an old man, lean and sinewy, bald save for a fringe of hair back of his ears, with a weather-beaten face, a long neck wrinkled like a turkey's, and small gray eyes very cold and steady. His canoe held a scanty outfit, but I saw a gold pan, and judged him a prospector. He drew in to the landing and caught a stake of it, while he glanced from me to the buck. ”

“ Hayes grinned. "I'm a hard old bird, Louis."
Louis cooked more venison, and he and Tom ate, keeping up a running fire of conversation with Hayes, chiefly concerning men and happenings quite strange to me.
Meanwhile the wind had increased to a gale, and waves crisped the river. It began to rain, in driven sheets which beat and slatted on the widow. To get home by canoe was out of the question, and to go by the bush was decidedly unpleasant.
"You'd better stay the night," said Ballou. "Your folks will know where you are." ”

“ Hayes sniffed the neck with approval.
"Rum!" he decided. "Good hooch. It lays over rye an' Scotch an' such soft stuff. 'S a ho, Tom! The old boys and the old days!"
They had a drink, and another. The smoke of their pipes filled the room. I grew sleepy and nodded by the fife.
"Better turn in," said Ballou. "Needn't wait for us. Take the new bunk in there."
He nodded toward the other room of the cabin, and, very glad to accept his suggestion, I kicked off my moccasins, rolled up in a blanket, and was asleep as quickly as a tired puppy. ”