



Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Internet
Archive.









The Tent Dwellers




[Illustration: "He was swearing steadily and I think still blaming me
for most of his troubles."--_Page_ 83.]




THE TENT
DWELLERS


BY
ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE

_Author of "The Van Dwellers," "The Lucky Piece," etc_.


_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HY. WATSON_


[Illustration]


NEW YORK
THE OUTING PUBLISHING CO.
MCMVIII


COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY
THE OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY




Chapter One


  _Come, shape your plans where the fire is bright,_
    _And the shimmering glasses are--_
  _When the woods are white in the winter's night,_
    _Under the northern star._




Chapter One


It was during the holiday week that Eddie proposed the matter. That is
Eddie's way. No date, for him, is too far ahead to begin to plan
anything that has vari- flies in it, and tents, and the prospect
of the campfire smell. The very mention of these things will make his
hair bristle up (rather straight, still hair it is and silvered over
with premature wisdom) and put a new glare into his spectacles (rather
wide, round spectacles they are) until he looks even more like an
anarchist than usual--more indeed than in the old Heidelberg days, when,
as a matter of truth, he is a gentle soul; sometimes, when he has
transgressed, or thinks he has, almost humble.

As I was saying, it was during the holidays--about the end of the week,
as I remember it--and I was writing some letters at the club in the
little raised corner that looks out on the park, when I happened to
glance down toward the fireplace, and saw Eddie sitting as nearly on his
coat collar as possible, in one of the wide chairs, and as nearly in the
open hickory fire as he could get, pawing over a book of Silver
Doctors, Brown Hackles and the like, and dreaming a long, long dream.

Now, I confess there is something about a book of trout flies, even at
the year's end, when all the brooks are flint and gorged with white,
when all the north country hides under seamless raiment that stretches
even to the Pole itself--even at such a time, I say, there is something
about those bits of gimp, and gut, and feathers, and steel, that prick
up the red blood of any man--or of any woman, for that matter--who has
ever flung one of those gaudy things into a swirl of dark water, and
felt the swift, savage tug on the line and heard the music of the
singing reel.

I forgot that I was writing letters and went over there.

"Tell me about it, Eddie," I said. "Where are you going, this time?"

Then he unfolded to me a marvelous plan. It was a place in Nova
Scotia--he had been there once before, only, this time he was going a
different route, farther into the wilderness, the deep unknown,
somewhere even the guides had never been. Perhaps stray logmen had been
there, or the Indians; sportsmen never. There had been no complete
surveys, even by the government. Certain rivers were known by their
outlets, certain lakes by name. It was likely that they formed the usual
network and that the circuit could be made by water, with occasional
carries. Unquestionably the waters swarmed with trout. A certain
imaginative Indian, supposed to have penetrated the unknown, had
declared that at one place were trout the size of one's leg.

Eddie became excited as he talked and his hair bristled. He set down a
list of the waters so far as known, the names of certain guides, a
number of articles of provision and an array of camp paraphernalia.
Finally he made maps and other drawings and began to add figures. It was
dusk when we got back. The lights were winking along the park over the
way,