h a sigh, "to do all
things for yourself. It's so free!"

The men's moccasins interested him. He asked a dozen questions about
them,--how they were cut, whether they did not hurt the feet, how long
they would wear. He seemed surprised to learn that they are excellent in
cold weather.

"I thought ANY leather would wet through in the snow!" he cried. "I wish
I could get a pair somewhere!" he exclaimed. "You don't know where I
could buy any, do you?" he asked of Thorpe.

"I don't know," answered he, "perhaps Charley here will make you a
pair."

"WILL you, Charley?" cried the boy.

"I mak' him," replied the Indian stolidly.

The many-voiced night of the woods descended close about the little
camp fire, and its soft breezes wafted stray sparks here and there
like errant stars. The newcomer, with shining eyes, breathed deep in
satisfaction. He was keenly alive to the romance, the grandeur, the
mystery, the beauty of the littlest things, seeming to derive a deep and
solid contentment from the mere contemplation of the woods and its ways
and creatures.

"I just DO love this!" he cried again and again. "Oh, it's great, after
all that fuss down there!" and he cried it so fervently that the other
men present smiled; but so genuinely that the smile had in it nothing
but kindliness.

"I came out for a month," said he suddenly, "and I guess I'll stay the
rest of it right here. You'll let me go with you sometimes hunting,
won't you?" he appealed to them with the sudden open-heartedness of a
child. "I'd like first rate to kill a deer."

"Sure," said Thorpe, "glad to have you."

"My name is Wallace Carpenter," said the boy with a sudden unmistakable
air of good-breeding.

"Well," laughed Thorpe, "two old woods loafers like us haven't got much
use for names. Charley here is called Geezigut, and mine's nearly as
bad; but I guess plain Charley and Harry will do."

"All right, Harry," replied Wallace.

After the young fellow had crawled into the sleeping bag which his guide
had spread for him over a fragrant layer of hemlock and balsam, Thorpe
and his companion smoked one more pipe. The whip-poor-wills called back
and forth across the river. Down in the thicket, fine, clear,
beautiful, like the silver thread of a dream, came the notes of the
white-throat--the nightingale of the North. Injin Charley knocked the
last ashes from his pipe.

"Him nice boy!" said he.

Chapter XIX

The young fellow stayed three weeks,