"I have no desire to do so; I enjoy this sport better than to sit by
the fire and listen to the most entertaining hunter. Isn't that he?"

The cabin was several rods from the shore, the space in front being
clear of trees and affording an unobstructed view of the little log
structure, with its single door and window in front, and the stone
chimney from which the smoke was ascending. Half-way between the cabin
and the stream, and in the path connecting the two, stood a man with
folded arms looking at them. He was so motionless that he suggested a
stump, but the bright moonlight left no doubt of his identity.

"Holloa, Quance!" shouted Fred, slightly slackening his speed and
curving in toward shore.

The old man made no reply. Then Jennie's musical voice rang out on the
frosty air, but still the hunter gave no sign that he knew he had been
addressed. He did not move an arm nor stir.

"I wonder whether he hasn't frozen stiff in that position," remarked
Sterry. "He may have been caught in the first snap several weeks ago
and has been acting ever since as his own monument."

At the moment of shooting out of sight around the curve the three
glanced back. The old fellow was there, just as they saw him at first.
They even fancied he had not so much as turned his head while they
were passing, but was still gazing at the bank opposite him, or, what
was more likely, peering sideways without shifting his head to any
extent.