222 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 



bread and we had dinner. He cared nothing for bread 

 unless soaked with fat, but the amount of meat he could 

 secrete was enormous. It is surprising what an amount 

 of animal food a white man can consume in the clear, 

 cold winter air of the woods, whether in Wisconsin, 

 Maine or the Adirondacks, especially if he is running a 

 line of traps or hauling half a bear over a trail that is 

 covered with crusted snow, but an Indian can discount 

 him. From that time forward I had no fear of asserting 

 myself, and of bossing the ranch when our guest and I 

 were left alone. I dropped all my civilized notions of 

 etiquette and got along nicely. This, of course, does not 

 apply to Antoine, for he and I vied with each other in 

 doing camp work, and he had all the consideration for a 

 companion that could be expected of a man who had 

 been reared among different surroundings; but for an 

 Indian I began to entertain different feelings. I under- 

 stood and appreciated them better afterward, but just 

 then I was in the transition state of being disillusioned. 



When Antoine came, two days later, he had some 

 skins, and a woeful tale of broken dead-falls and of traps 

 carried off. Ah-se-bun had gone. A wolverine had 

 struck Antoine's line, and the old man was tired and 

 cross. He sat with his head in his hands before the fire, 

 while I made him some coffee and broiled him some 

 venison chops on a grill made from some wire we had 

 brought for tying traps or other purposes, and then I 

 fried some fish in bear fat and set out the tin cups and 

 plates, and we ate in silence. It was a good dinner, fit 

 for a hard-working trapper who had come in tired and 

 angry at having lost the fruits of his labor. I would not 

 use the hackneyed phrase, "Fit for a king," because it 

 was too good for most of the kings who have come to 

 my notice the dinner was good for Antoine and for me, 



