Under the Big Dipper

wrinkles as he smiled.

“There ain’t much to tell, I guess. I’ve known Mr. John ever since he was a boy of ten or twelve, and a finer youngster never lived. His father, old Dan Morton, used to come every summer to the Upper Lakes for the fishin’, and when the boy got old enough to travel he took him along. In those days, I used to work as a guide in summer and fall and did loggin’ in winter and spring. After the great catch of 1874, the old gentleman had me for guide regularly; and when young John started to come up alone, I always rowed and cooked for him.”

Don paused for a moment; mechanically, his hand slipped into a side pocket of his coat to reappear with a pipe in it. He glanced at it, then recollecting himself, he quickly put it back. The Princess smiled: “Please, Mr. McCormick, don’t deprive yourself. Light your pipe.”

Don looked queerly dubious and hesitated. “You are very kind, but I’m afraid my tobacco ain’t a cigar.” The

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