It was our last evening in the woods, and the professor was lying in my
little wedge tent, discussing the dangers of hunting alone in couples in
this way. The flap of the tent hung back and let in fragrant odours of
cooking over an open wood fire; everywhere there were bustle and
preparation, and one canoe already lay packed with moose horns, her nose
pointing southwards.
"If an accident happened to one of them," he was saying, "the survivor's
story when he returned to camp would be entirely unsupported evidence,
wouldn't it? Because, you see--"
And he went on laying down the law after the manner of professors, until
I became so bored that my attention began to wander to pictures and
memories of the scenes we were just about to leave: Garden Lake, with
its hundred islands; the rapids out of Round Pond; the countless vistas
of forest, crimson and gold in the autumn sunshine; and the starlit
nights we had spent watching in cold, cramped positions for the wary
moose on lonely lakes among the hills. The hum of the professor's voice
in time grew more soothing.
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