The reader will have gathered by this time that I had set out with only
a hazy idea of what camping in Nova Scotia would be like. I think I had
some notion that our beds would be down in the mud as often as not, and
sticky and disagreeable--something to be endured for the sake of the
day's sport. Things were not as I expected, of course. Things never are.
Our beds were not in the mud--not often--and there were days--chill,
wet, disheartening days--when I looked forward to them and to the
campfire blaze at the tent door with that comfort which a child finds in
the prospect of its mother's arm.
On the whole, I am sure our camps were more commodious than I had
expected them to be; and they were pretentious affairs, considering that
we were likely to occupy them no more than one night. We had three
tents--Eddie's, already described; a tent for the guides, of about the
same proportions, and a top or roof tent, under which we dined when it
rained. Then there was a little porch arrangement which we sometimes put
out over the front, but we found it had the bad habit of inviting the
smoke to investigate and permeate our quarters, so we dedicated the
little porch fly to other uses. A waterproof ground cloth was spread
between our stretcher beds, and upon the latter, as mentioned before,
were our sleeping-bags; also our various bundles, cozily and
conveniently bestowed. It was an inviting interior, on the whole
something to anticipate, as I have said.
Yet our beds were not perfect. Few things are. I am a rather large man,
and about three o'clock in the morning I was likely to wake up somewhat
cramped and pinched together from being so long in the little canvas
trough, with no good way of putting out my arms; besides being a little
cold, maybe, because about that hour the temperature seemed to make a
specialty of dropping low enough to get underneath one's couch and creep
up around the back and shoulders. It is true it was June, but June
nights in Nova Scotia have a way of forgetting that it is drowsy,
scented summertime; and I recall now times when I looked out through the
tent flap and saw the white frost gleaming on the trees, and wondered if
there was any sum of money too big to exchange for a dozen blankets or
so, and if, on the whole, perishing as I was, I would not be justified
in drugging Eddie in taking possession of his sleeping-bag. He had
already given me one of the woolen pockets, for compared with mine his
was a genuine Arctic affair, and, I really believe, kept him
disgustingly warm, even when I was freezing. I was grateful, of course,
for I should have perished early in the fight without it. I was also
appreciative. I knew just how much warmer a few more of those soft,
fleecy pockets would make me, especially on those nights when I woke
about the cheerless hour of three, to find the world all hard and white,
with the frost fingers creeping down my shoulder blades and along my
spine. Then it was I would work around and around--slowly and with due
deliberation of movement, for a sleeping-bag is not a thing of sudden
and careless revolution--trying to find some position or angle wherein
the cold would not so easily and surely find my vitals. At such a time,
the desire for real comfort and warmth is acute, and having already one
of Eddie's pockets and realizing its sterling worth--also that no more
than two feet away from me he lay warm and snug, buried in the undue
luxury of still other pockets--I may confess now I was goaded almost to
the point of arising and taking peremptory possession of the few paltry
pockets that would make my lot less hard.
[Illustration: "Nightly he painted my scratches with new skin."]
Sooner or later, I suppose, I should have murdered Eddie for his
blankets if he had not been good to me in so many ways. Daily he gave me
leaders, lines, new flies and such things; nightly he painted my
scratches with new skin. On the slightest provocation he would have
rubbed me generously with liniment, for he had a new, unopened bottle
which he was dying to try. Then there was scarcely an evening after I
was in bed--I was always first to go, for Eddie liked to prepare his bed
unhurriedly--that he did not bring me a drink, and comfort me with
something nice to eat, and maybe sing a little while he was "tickling"
his own bed (there is no other name for it), and when he had finished
with the countless little tappings, and pattings, and final touches
which insured the reposeful comfort of his couch, he would place the
candle lantern just between, where each could see equally well and so
read a little in order that we might compose our minds for rest.