"We'll never get it across the river to the markets," he said
dolefully. "I came over this morning in a canoe. Ice is all out."
"What about the Onondaga Jam?" I said. He winked.
"That'll do. I'd forgotten it," he answered, and chirped up right
away like a kid.
But I hadn't forgotten the Jam. It had been a regular gold-mine to
me all that open winter, when the ice froze and thawed every week
and finally jammed itself clean to the river bottom in the throat
of the bend up at Onondaga, and the next day the thermometer fell
to eleven degrees below zero, freezing it into a solid block that
bridged the river for traffic, and saved my falling fortunes.
"And where's the whiskey hidden?" he asked after awhile.
"No you don't," I laughed. "Parson or pal, no man living knows or
will know where it is till he helps me haul it away. I'll trust
none of you."
"I'm not a thief," he pouted.
"No," I said, "but you're blasted hard up, and I don't intend to
place temptation in your way."
He laughed good-naturedly and turned the subject aside just as Lige
Smith and Jack Jackson came in with an unusual companion that put
a stop to all further talk. Women were never seen at night time
around Jake's; even his wife was invisible, and I got a sort of
shock when I saw old Cayuga Joe's girl, Elizabeth, following at the
boys' heels.
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