He looked sideways at Hamil once or twice, and, a trifle disappointed that the pace seemed to suit him, let the little horses out.

“Bad thing to meet a logging team,” he observed.

“Yes,” said Hamil absently.  So Malcourt let the horses run away when they cared to; they needed it and he enjoyed it.  Besides there were never any logging teams on that road.

Malcourt inquired politely concerning the Villa Cardross and its occupants; Hamil answered in generalities.

“You’ve finished there, then!”

“Practically.  I may go down in the autumn to look it over once more.”

“Is Cardross going to put in the Schwarzwald pigs?”

“Yes; they’re ordered.”

“Portlaw wants some here.  I’d give ten dollars, poor as I am, if I could get Portlaw out in the snow and fully occupied with an irritated boar.”

“Under such circumstances one goes up a tree?” inquired Hamil, smiling.

“One does if one is not too fat and can shed snowshoes fast enough. 
Otherwise one keeps on shooting one’s 45-70.  By the way, you were in New
York for a day or two.  How’s the market?”

“Sagging.”

“Money?”

“Scarce.  I saw Mr. Cardross and Acton Carrick.  Nobody seems enthusiastic over the prospect.  While there are no loans being called there are few being made.  I heard rumours of course; a number of banks and trust companies are getting themselves whispered about.  Outside of that I don’t know, Malcourt, because I haven’t much money and what I have is on deposit with the Shoshone Securities Company pending a chance for some safe and attractive investment.”

“That’s Cardross, Carrick & Co.”

“Yes.”  And as they whirled into the clearing and the big, handsome house came into view he smiled:  “Is this Camp Chickadee?”

“Yes, and yonder’s my cottage on Luckless Lake—­a nice name,” added Malcourt, “but Portlaw says it’s safer to leave the name as it stands than to provoke the gods with boastful optimism by changing it to Lucky Lake.  Oh, it’s a gay region; Lake Desolation lies just beyond that spur; Lake Eternity east of us; Little Scalp Lake west—­a fine bunch of names for a landscape in hell; but Portlaw won’t change them.  West and south the wet bones of the Sacandaga lie; and south-east you’re up against the Great Vlaie and Frenchman’s Creek and Sir William’s remains from Guy Park on the Mohawk to the Fish House and all that bally Revolutionary tommy-rot.”  And as he blandly drew in his horses beside the porch:  “Look who’s here!  Who but our rotund friend and lover of all things fat, lord of the manor of Chickadee-dee-dee which he has taught the neighbouring dicky-birds, who sit around the house, to repeat aloud in honour of—­”

“For Heaven’s sake, Louis!  How are you, Hamil?” grunted Portlaw, extending a heavily cushioned, highly coloured hand of welcome.

Hamil and Malcourt descended; a groom blanketed the horses and took them to the stables; and Portlaw, with a large gesture of impatient hospitality, led the way into a great, warm living-room, snug, deeply and softly padded, and in which the fragrance of burning birch-logs and simmering toddy blended agreeably in the sunshine.