Yates replied that he had.

“I’m a goin’ to sign that, an’ ye can take it along with ye.  Swap seats.”

Yates rose, and Jim seated himself upon the chest.

“I’m a goin’ to sign this, settin’ over the Bible.  I ain’t goin’ to take no advantage on ye.  Now we’re squar’,” said he, as he blazoned the document with his coarse and clumsy sign-manual.  “Put that in yer pocket, an’ keep it for five year.”

“Is the business all settled?” inquired Yates.

“Clean,” replied Jim.

“When am I to have the liberty to go out of the woods?”

“Ye ain’t goin’ out o’ the woods for a fortnight.  Ye’re a goin’ to stay here, an’ have the best fishin’ ye ever had in yer life.  It’ll do ye good, an’ ye can go out when yer man comes arter ye.  Ye can stay to the raisin’, an’ gi’en us a little lift with the other fellers that’s comin’.  Ye’ll be as strong as a hoss when ye go out.”

An announcement more welcome than this could not have been made to Sam Yates; and now that there was no secrecy between them, and confidence was restored, he looked forward to a fortnight of enjoyment.  He laid aside his coat, and, as far as possible, reduced his dress to the requirements of camp life.  Jim and Mr. Benedict were very busy, so that he was obliged to find his way alone, but Jim lent him his fishing-tackle, and taught him how to use it; and, as he was an apt pupil, he was soon able to furnish more fish to the camp than could be used.

Yates had many a long talk with Benedict, and the two men found many points of sympathy, around which they cemented a lasting friendship.  Both, though in different ways, had been very low down in the valley of helpless misfortune; both had been the subjects of Mr. Belcher’s brutal will; and both had the promise of a better life before them, which it would be necessary to achieve in opposition to that will.  Benedict was strengthened by this sympathy, and became able to entertain plans for the assertion and maintenance of his rights.

When Yates had been at the camp for a week and had taken on the color and the manner of a woodsman, there came one night to Number Nine a dozen men, to assist in the raising of Jim’s hotel.  They were from the mill where he had purchased his lumber, and numbered several neighbors besides, including Mike Conlin.  They came up the old “tote-road” by the river side, and a herd of buffaloes on a stampede could hardly have made more noise.  They were a rough, merry set, and Jim had all he could do to feed them.  Luckily, trout were in abundant supply, and they supped like kings, and slept on the ground.  The following day was one of the severest labor, but when it closed, the heaviest part of the timber had been brought and put up, and when the second day ended, all the timbers were in their place, including those which defined the outlines of Jim’s “cupalo.”

When the frame was at last complete, the weary men retired to a convenient distance to look it over; and then they emphasized their approval of the structure by three rousing cheers.