"Twenty-fifth of July, eh?" he mused presently. "Summer's half gone
already. I didn't realize it. We ought to be stirring pretty soon,
lady."
"Let's stir into the house, then," she suggested. "These miserable
little black flies have found a tender place on me. My, but they're
bloodthirsty insects."
Bill laughed, and they took refuge in the cabin, the doorways and
windows of which were barricaded with cotton mosquito net against the
winged swarms that buzzed hungrily without. Ensconced in the big chair
by the fireplace, with Bill sprawled on the bearskin at her feet, Hazel
came back to his last remark.
"Why did you say it was time for us to be stirring, Billum?"
"Because these Northern seasons are so blessed short," he answered.
"We ought to try and do a little good for ourselves--make hay while the
sun shines. We'll needa da mon'."
"Needa fiddlesticks," she laughed. "What do we need money for? It
costs practically nothing to live up here. Why this sudden desire to
pursue the dollar? Besides, how are you going to pursue it?"
"Go prospecting," he replied promptly. "Hit the trail for a place I
know where there's oodles of coarse gold, if you can get to it at low
water.
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