"I believe you will find things pretty much to your hand there," he went
on, in a ruminative voice. "You remember I came from that part of the
country, and the locality is entirely familiar. I have been all over
Bald Knob a dozen times. Eight years ago a shack stood just where you
would want yours. I think a fellow who had a natural love for the woods
built it some eighteen or nineteen years ago, lived there a while, and
later moved to another State. It is made entirely of undressed logs, and
has one room and a kitchen. It ought to be in good condition yet,
because it is protected by the bulk of the knob. I should guess the room
to be about sixteen feet square, and the kitchen is a box, but big
enough. There is a spring near, considerably impregnated with sulphur.
This water can have nothing but a good effect. If the shack still
stands, you should consider yourself very lucky."
As he drew this picture, I could not help but gaze at the sumptuous
furnishings of the room in which I sat.
"How close is the nearest town?" I asked.
"The nearest town is Cedarton, my old home, ten miles from Bald Knob,
but there is a hamlet within three miles. This consists of a few
cottages, a store, a blacksmith shop and a distillery. You will have
occasion to visit neither place often. If you should happen to run short
of provisions, go to the hamlet called Hebron."
"Then seclusion is as necessary as pure air and plain food?"
"It is to prevent you from forming the habit that I advise you not to
seek people. Man is naturally gregarious. If you began going to the
hamlet once a week you would soon be going every day, and you would
deteriorate into a cracker box philosopher or a nail keg politician,
spending your time in hump-shouldered inertia rather than in tramping
through the health-giving open in quest of the life-plant. You are going
forth with a purpose, my son; don't forget that."
I threw my head back against the cushioned leather, and in doing so my
eyes lighted on a magnificent moose head over the mantel.
"You killed that fellow?" I asked, swerving suddenly from the subject
without apology, as is permitted between old friends.
"Yes; in northern Maine. I trailed him ten days, went hungry for two,
broke through some thin lake ice in zero weather, tramped five miles
with my wet clothes frozen on me before I could get to a fire, and slept
two nights under snow a foot deep. Then I killed him."