“Ho, lad! so your father let ye come.  I’s glad t’ see ye, lad.  An’ now we’re t’ make a great hunt,” greeted Douglas when the punt ground its nose upon the sandy beach, and Bob jumped out with the painter in his hand to make it fast.

“Aye, sir,” said Bob, “he an’ mother says I may go.”

“Well, come, b’y, an’ we’ll ha’ supper an’ bide here th’ night an’ in th’ mornin’ you’ll get your fit out,” said Douglas when they had pulled the punt up well away from the tide.

Entering the kitchen they found the others still at table.  Greetings were exchanged, and a place was made for Douglas and Bob.

It was a good-sized room, furnished in the simple, primitive style of the country:  an uncarpeted floor, benches and chests in lieu of chairs, a home-made table, a few shelves for the dishes, two or three bunks like ship bunks built in the end opposite the door to serve the post servant and his family for beds, and a big box stove, capable of taking huge billets of wood, crackling cheerily, for the nights were already frosty.  Resting upon crosspieces nailed to the rough beams overhead were half a dozen muzzle loading guns, and some dog harness hung on the wall at one side.  Everything was spotlessly clean.  The floor, the table—­innocent of a cloth—­the shelves, benches and chests were scoured to immaculate whiteness with sand and soap, and, despite its meagre furnishings the room was very snug and cozy and possessed an atmosphere of homeliness and comfort.

A single window admitted the fading evening light and a candle was brought, though Douglas said to the young girl who placed it in the centre of the table: 

“So long as there’s plenty a’ grub, Bessie, I thinks we can find a way t’ get he t’ our mouths without ere a light.”

The meal was a simple one—­boiled fresh trout with pork grease to pour over it for sauce, bread, tea, and molasses for “sweetening.”  Butter and sugar were luxuries to be used only upon rare festal occasions.

After the men had eaten they sat on the floor with their backs against the rough board wall and their knees drawn up, and smoked and chatted about the fishing season just closed and the furring season soon to open, while Margaret Black, wife of Tom Black, the post servant, their daughter Bessie and a couple of young girl visitors of Bessie’s from down the bay, ate and afterwards cleared the table.  Then some one proposed a dance, as it was their last gathering before going to their winter trails, which would hold them prisoners for months to come in the interior wilderness.  A fiddle was brought out, and Dick Blake tuned up its squeaky strings, and, keeping time with one foot, struck up the Virginia reel.

The men discarded their jackets, displaying their rough flannel shirts and belts, in which were carried sheath knives, chose their partners and went at it with a will, to Dick’s music, while he fiddled and shouted such directions as “Sashay down th’ middle,—­swing yer pardners,—­promenade.”