“What do they do it for?” he demanded—­having perhaps a vague idea that all the motives of the wild creatures were, or ought to be, purely utilitarian.

Uncle Andy turned upon him a withering look; and he shifted his feet uneasily, convicted of another “footy” question.

“What do you slide down hill for?” inquired Uncle Andy sarcastically.

“Oh!” said the Babe hastily.  “I see.  And now are we going to catch some fish?”

But Uncle Andy had stood his rod in a bush and sat down on the fallen tree; and now he was getting out his old black pipe.

“Well now,” he answered presently, “I don’t think it would be much use trying.  What do you think?”

“Of course not,” answered the Babe.  “Otter have scared ’em all away.”

“You really are doing very well,” said Uncle Andy, “if you did ask that one fool question.  When we were creeping up on the otter, to try and get a look at them while they were playing, you did very well indeed.  You stepped as light as a cat, and that’s not easy mind, I tell you, when one’s not trained to it.  You didn’t even breathe too hard—­and I know you must have been just bursting with excitement.  You’ve got the makings of a first-rate woodsman in you, if you take pains.”

The Babe’s small chest swelled with pride; for commendation from Uncle Andy was a scarce article.  He too sat down on the fallen trunk and began digging at the bark with his knife to hide his exultation.

“I suppose now,” went on Uncle Andy presently, when his pipe was drawing well, “you know quite a lot about otter.”

“Nothing at all but what Bill’s told me,” answered the Babe with fine diplomacy.

“Forget it!” said Uncle Andy; and went on smoking in thoughtful silence.  Presently he remarked—­“This otter family appears to have been having a pretty good time!”

“Great!” said the Babe laconically.

“Well,” continued Uncle Andy, regarding him with approval, “there was once another otter family, away up on the Little North Fork of the Ottanoonsis, that used to have such good times till at last they struck a streak of bad luck.”

“Did you know them?” asked the Babe.

“Well, not as you might say intimately,” answered Uncle Andy, with a far-away look in his grey eyes.  “You see, they had no way of knowing how nice I was, so they never admitted me into their family circle.  But I knew a lot more about them than they ever guessed, I can tell you.  When the flies weren’t too bad I used to lie by the hour behind a thick bush, never stirring a finger, and watch them.”

“My, but how tired you must have got!” interrupted the Babe feelingly.

“I don’t have to twiddle my fingers, and scratch my head, and jump up and down every two minutes and a half,” said Uncle Andy rather severely.  “But, as I was going to say, they also got used to seeing me sitting on the bank, quiet and harmless, till they no longer felt so shy of me as they did of Jim Cringle, my guide.  They knew Jim was an enemy, and they gave him a wide berth always.  But they seemed to think I wasn’t of much account.”