“It’s a booby,” he explained, holding the bird out at arm’s length and surveying it critically. “It’s a wonder he ever grows up. He won’t run when you throw things at him. He’s simply stupid. That’s why they call him booby. He’s really a Canadian grouse. Up here they’re called spruce partridge. They’re good to eat, but taste a little strong. Go it!” And he tossed the bird from him. With a low squawk it ambled leisurely into the bushes.
“This life is great,” cried Stanley, enthusiastically, throwing back his shoulders and breathing deep and long.
“We haven’t started yet,” smiled Bub. “It’s been easy going so far; but wait. My, but it’s getting late. We must hurry.”
“There is nothing to hurt us, is there?” asked Stanley, quickening his pace.
“N-o,” replied Bub, “but there are easier things than tote roads to follow, once the sun gits down. And when it’s dark up here, it’s real dark; none of your village darkness, but so black you can’t cut it with a knife.”
“Here’s the road,” cried Stanley, his voice much relieved.
“But not our road,” corrected Bub. “That was made last year. It leads in where we came from. This is ours dead ahead. See how it’s
