"I guess you know where we are," he suggested.

"No, honestly," said the boy; but he grinned, and Westover still doubted
him.

"Hark! What's that?" he said, hushing further speech from him with a
motion of his hand. It was the sound of an axe.

"Oh, I know where we are," said Jeff. "It's that Canuck chopping in
Whitwell's clearing. Come along."

He led the way briskly down the mountain-side now, stopping from time to
time and verifying his course by the sound of the axe. This came and
went, and by-and-by it ceased altogether, and Jeff crept forward with a
real or feigned uncertainty. Suddenly he stopped. A voice called, "Heigh,
there!" and the boy turned and fled, crashing through the underbrush at a
tangent, with his dog at his heels.

Westover looked after them, and then came forward. A lank figure of a man
at the foot of a poplar, which he had begun to fell, stood waiting him,
one hand on his axe-helve and the other on his hip. There was the scent
of freshly smitten bark and sap-wood in the air; the ground was paved
with broad, clean chips.

"Good-morning," said Westover.

"How are you?" returned the other, without moving or making any sign of
welcome for a moment. But then he lifted his axe and struck it into the
carf on the tree, and came to meet Westover.