“Do you know who Tom Bigden is, and what Joe has done to incur his ill-will?” I inquired.
“I have some slight acquaintance with that young gentleman,” answered the canoe, with a laugh. “It was through him that I was snagged and sunk in the Indian Lake country. I don’t know how the fuss started, and neither does any body except Tom Bigden himself; but I suppose that fellow over there and a few others like him, are wholly to blame for it.”
“What fellow? Over where?” I asked; for of course the canvas canoe could not point his finger or nod his head to tell me which way to look.
“This fellow up here,” said a new voice, which came from over the bookcase.
I looked up, and there was another lancewood bow, resting on a pair of deer’s antlers. He was not quite as fancy as the prize bow of whom I have already spoken. His green plush handle was beginning to look threadbare, and that, to my mind, indicated that he had seen service.
“You wouldn’t think that a few insignificant things like that could be the means of setting a whole village together by the ears, would you?” continued the canoe.
“Insignificant yourself,” retorted the long bow; but I was glad to notice that he did not speak as if he were angry. The various articles I saw about me all cherished the most friendly feelings for one another, but when they had nothing to do, they were like a lot of idle boys—always trying to “get a joke” upon some of their number. “You never won a prize for Joe, did you? Well, I have. Go and win a race before you brag. You can’t; you’re much too clumsy. One of those Shadow or Rob Roy canoes out there on the lake would beat you out of sight in going a mile.”
I cared nothing at all for this side sparring. I knew that I would have plenty of time in which to listen to it during the long winter months, when canoe, long bow and fly-rod would be laid up in ordinary, while skates, snow-shoes and toboggans took our places in the affections of our master for the time being. For I saw snow-shoes and a toboggan there, and I knew what they were, because I had seen some like them in Mr. Brown’s store. They came from Canada, and were almost as full of stories as the canoe was. Joe had worn the snow-shoes while hunting caribou in Newfoundland in company with his uncle, and the toboggan had carried his master with lightning speed over the ice bridge at Niagara Falls. Many an hour that would otherwise have dragged by on leaden wings did they brighten for us by relating scraps of their personal history, and at some future time I may induce them to put those same narratives into print for your benefit; but just now we are interested in Tom Bigden. We want to know why he disliked Joe Wayring, and what made him take every opportunity he could find to annoy him.