“Oh, but I’m glad to see you, Dan!” he exclaimed. “I never was so dead lonesome in my life!”
“’Tis a bit lonesome bidin’ alone in camp,” admitted Dan, “but see now what I’m gettin’,” and he dropped his game at Paul’s feet.
“A goose and a rabbit! Oh, Dan, what luck! Now we can have a feast, and I’m so hungry I can hardly move.”
“An’ I’m wonderful hungry, too, with th’ long tramp. Now I’ll be dressin’ th’ goose, an’ you puts a kettle o’ water on an’ cuts some wood.”
Paul went at his task with a vim. He wielded the light camp axe very clumsily, for he had never used an axe before; it was, in fact, his first attempt at manual labor. He had, however, a good supply of wood piled up by the time the goose was dressed and in the kettle, and he and Dan sat down to enjoy the appetizing odor of cooking fowl while they chatted.
“Do you know, Dan, we’re having such a dandy time here, I’ll feel almost sorry when the ship comes. This tent is so cozy,” he declared.
“’Tis cozy an’ fine, but I’m thinkin’ we’ll be wantin’ t’ see th’ ship bad enough before we sees her.”
“But she’ll be along tomorrow, won’t she?”
“No, nor th’ next day neither. I were lookin’ t’ th’ n’uthard from th’ rise back here, an’ I sees a wonderful drift o’ ice workin’ up, an’ if th’ blow holds tomorrow, as ’tis sure to hold, there’ll be a pack o’ ice up from th’ n’uthard that the ship’ll never be gettin’ through.”
“What! You don’t mean the ship won’t come at all?”
“I’m not sayin’ that for sure, but it’s how ’tis lookin’ t’ me now.”
“Oh, but Dan, that can’t be! What will we do if we’re not picked up?”
“I’ve been thinkin’ un over, an’ figurin’ un out. Tom were sayin’ they’s tradin’ posts t’ th’ s’uthard, an’ I been figurin’ we’ll have t’ make for un. We’ll have t’ hunt for our grub, but onct we gets t’ th’ posts we’ll be safe.”
“Do you really think we’ll have to do that, and stay here all winter? It would just kill my mother, for she won’t know where I am.”
“I’m just sayin’ what’s like t’ happen, but ’tain’t no way sure. A bit inside I finds a river runnin’ in th’ head o’ this bight, an’ plenty o’ timber. ’Twere near th’ river I kills th’ goose. ’Tain’t such a wonderful bad country.”
This was a possibility that had not occurred to Paul. He had harbored no doubt that the _North Star_ would presently cruise southward along the coast, pick them up, and he would go home in comfort. The bare possibility that they might not be rescued was a shock. All pleasures, all comforts, all hardships and privations are measured by contrast. The tent had seemed very cozy, for unconsciously Paul had compared its warmth and security with the hardships he had experienced on the ice pan. Now the possibility that he might have to spend the winter in a tent in this northern wilderness led him to compare such a condition with the luxurious comforts of his home in New York, and the comparison made him shrink from the hardships that he instinctively attached to tent life in winter in a sub-Arctic wilderness. With the comparison, also, came an overwhelming desire to see his father and mother again.