But nobody was in a hurry to obey the summons to bed. While hands and
feet were being stretched out to the sizzling birch logs for a final
toast, Royal Sinclair, who had a trick of speaking very quickly, with a
slight click in his utterance, as if his tongue struck his teeth, began
to pour some communications into Neal's ear in rapid dashes of talk,--

"This is just about the jolliest night we ever had in the forest, and
we've had a staving time all through. We live in Philadelphia, and Uncle
Phil--we call him 'Doc' like everybody else--brought us out here for our
summer vacation. This old log camp was built several years ago by a
hunting-party, of whom he was one. The walls were getting mouldy; but he
cleaned up the largest of the huts, with Joe's help, and made it our
headquarters. He never needs a guide himself; not a bit of it! He can
find his way anywhere through the woods with his compass. But he is a
good deal away, so he engaged Joe to go out with us.

"He often starts off at a moment's notice, and travels dozens of miles
on foot, or in a birch canoe, if he hears of a bad accident far away in
the forest. Sometimes a lumberman or trapper cuts his foot in two, or
nearly chops off his leg with his axe; and these poor fellows would
probably die while their comrades were lugging them through the woods on
a litter, trying to reach a settlement, if it weren't for our Doc.

"Once in a while, when he comes to visit us in Philadelphia, a few
people call him a crank, because he lives out here and dresses like a
settler; but I call him a regular brick."

"So do I," said Neal with spirit.

"You're awfully lucky to be able to camp out during October," rattled on