“Now, look at that Prince critter, will you? He’s all of a broad grin—happy as a clam at high water. He don’t hafter worry about rent, or clo’es, or how to meet the next payment on the pianner. He sure is in an easy state of mind.” “Yes,” Carolyn May agreed, “I think Prince is a very cheerful dog. Why, he almost laughs sometimes!” “I reckon he does,” agreed Tim. “Only, dumb critters don’t never really laff.” “Oh, yes, they do!” cried Carolyn May, eager to give information when she could. “Anyhow, _some_ animals do.” “Pitcher of George Washington!” ejaculated the man. “What animals, I’d be proud ter know?” “Why, there were some of them at the Zoo. That’s ’way up in the Bronx, you know.” “What’s the Brow-n-x?” interrupted Tim as they jounced along. “Why—why, it’s a park. Bigger’n Central Park, you know—oh! ever so much bigger. And they have lots of animals—wild animals.” “Not _loose_?” cried her listener. “Oh, no. That is, not all of them. Some are in big fields, or yards; but there are fences up.” “Yep, I sh’d hope so,” returned Tim. “And, if I was goin’ to visit ’em, I sh’d want them fences to be horse high, hog tight, and bull strong. I sure would!” “Well, but the laughing hyenas are in cages,” explained Carolyn May. “Do tell! An’ do they laff? They must be good-natured critters, after all, them—what d’ye call ’em—laffin’ hannahs?” “Hy-_e_-nas,” repeated Carolyn May carefully. “They look something like dogs—only they aren’t. And they look something like zebras—only they aren’t. And when they do laugh, Mr. Tim, it just makes the cold chills run up and down your back. Oh, they are dreadful ugly beasts! So laughing don’t always make things good-natured, does it?” “Pitcher of George Washington!” murmured Tim, the hackman, staring at her wide-eyed. “What a ’magination that young one’s got!” But the little girl did not hear this comment, else she would have been unhappy. They jogged along very comfortably, reaching the camp a little before noon. Adams’ camp was the largest lumber camp near Sunrise Cove; but it was a raw-looking place—nothing but a clump of sheet-iron sheds and log huts. The snow on the roofs, and the fact that the drifts hid many unsightly things, made the place seem less crude than it really was. Still, Carolyn May was doubtful as to whether or not she would like to live there. There was but one woman in the camp, Judy Mason. She lived in one of the log huts with her husband. He was a sawyer, and Judy did the men’s washing. Benjamin Hardy was pleased, indeed, to see his little friend again. She sought him out as soon as the engineer blew the whistle for the noon rest, and they went into the bunk-house together, where more than forty men gathered around the long table for dinner. There was no tablecloth, and the food was served in basins, and they ate off tin pie plates, and drank out of tin mugs. But the men were a jolly crowd, and the dinner hour was enlivened by jokes and good-natured foolery.