MIXUP WITH THE LAUGHERS 211 



"Where are they feeding? " 



"West." 



There followed a muffled conversation, but I 

 knew what it was. Andy was breaking it to his 

 father — the commander-in-chief of many of our 

 expeditions into the goose-grounds — then: 



" It's too wxt to stack to-morrow ; meet us at 

 the cemetery at four in the morning. The kid 

 and I will be there." 



At a quarter past two next morning, 

 the clamorous din of my lusty alarm clock, re- 

 verberating through the tent, disturbed the night 

 silence, — also several white-footed mice — and 

 called me from slumber and the warm blankets. 

 Booohrrr! that atmosphere was frigid, but soon 

 the little chip stove was puffing merrily, and 

 breakfast ready. When a wondrously large 

 potful of oatmeal porridge — the same that had 

 simmered two hours or more on the embers the 

 previous evening — and some bacon and eggs had 

 been stowed away below, I was ready for the 

 road. 



About three o'clock I shouldered my traps 

 and struck off afoot in the darkness. The traps 

 were no small item either, for in addition to the 

 six-pound kodak and its accessories, I had a 



