And, if he had noticed that, my imagination could no
longer be held a sufficient explanation of it.
III
At length, after a long pause, he began to talk.
"Queer thing," he added in a hurried sort of voice, as though he wanted to
say something and get it over. "Queer thing. I mean, about that otter last
night."
I had expected something so totally different that he caught me with
surprise, and I looked up sharply.
"Shows how lonely this place is. Otters are awfully shy things--"
"I don't mean that, of course," he interrupted. "I mean--do you think--did
you think it really was an otter?"
"What else, in the name of Heaven, what else?"
"You know, I saw it before you did, and at first it seemed--so much bigger
than an otter."
"The sunset as you looked up-stream magnified it, or something," I replied.
He looked at me absently a moment, as though his mind were busy with other
thoughts.
"It had such extraordinary yellow eyes," he went on half to himself.
"That was the sun too," I laughed, a trifle boisterously. "I suppose you'll
wonder next if that fellow in the boat--"
I suddenly decided not to finish the sentence. He was in the act again of
listening, turning his head to the wind, and something in the expression of
his face made me halt. The subject dropped, and we went on with our
caulking. Apparently he had not noticed my unfinished sentence. Five
minutes later, however, he looked at me across the canoe, the smoking pitch
in his hand, his face exceedingly grave.
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