"I can see through that all right," Steve admitted, "but ain't they queer
lookin' little rascals, though! Some plump, too!"

"Fat as butter this season," observed Jim. "And I'm just longing to see
how they taste. Last year they didn't just seem to suit my particular
brand of appetite."

"What's that?" almost shouted Steve, "say, Uncle Jim, you're just trying
to give me taffy now, sure you are."

"That's where you're mistaken Steve," said the trapper, smiling at the
horrified expression on the boy's face.

"But--you don't mean to say you _eat_ muskrats?" demanded Steve.

"Do I? Well, you wait and see how I'll tackle these this very evening.
And if we're lucky enough to find a third one in my other set trap, why,
you boys can have a look in, too."

"Me eat rats?" cried Steve, scornfully. "Mebbe I might if I had to do it
or starve to death; but not when I've got other stuff to line my stomach
with, I'm no Chinaman, Uncle Jim."

"Well, you'll change your tune before long," remarked the other, "and
it's a mistake to class these clean little animals with common rats. The
Indian name for him is musquash, and thousands of people appreciate the
fact that his meat is as sweet as that of a squirrel."

"And I've been told," said Max, "much more tender."