three months earlier, if anybody had told adrian he would ever be guilty of such “squeamishness” he would have laughed in derision. now, all unconsciously to himself, the influence of his summer at peace island was upon him and it came to him with the force of a revelation that god had created the wild creatures of his forests for something nobler than to become the prey of man.

“oh! that grand fellow! his splendidly defiant, yet hopeless, facing of death! i wish we’d never met him!”

“well, of all foolishness! i thought you wanted nothing but the chance at him yourself.”

“so i did. before i saw him. what if it had been madoc?”

[pg 158]

“that’s different.”

“the same. might have been twin brothers. maybe they were.”

“couldn’t have been. paddle, won’t you?”

adrian did so, but with a poor grace. he would now far rather have turned the canoe about toward camp, yet railed at himself for his sudden cowardice. he shrank from looking on the dead moose as only an hour before he had longed to do so.

they were soon at the spot where the animal had disappeared and pushing the boat upon the reedy shore, pierre plunged forward through the marsh. adrian did not follow, till a triumphant shout reached him. then he felt in his pocket and, finding a pencil with a bit of paper, made his own way more slowly to the side of his comrade, who, wildly excited, was examining and measuring his quarry. on a broad leaved rush he had marked off a hand’s width and from this unit calculated that:

[pg 159]

“he’s eight feet four from hoof to shoulder, and that betters the king by six inches. see. his horns spread nigh six feet. if he stood straight and held them up he’d be fifteen feet or nothing! they spread more’n six feet, and i tell you, he’s a beauty!”

“yes. he’s all of that. but of what use is his beauty now?”

“humph! didn’t know you was a girl!”

adrian did not answer. he was rapidly and skilfully sketching the prostrate animal, and studying it minutely. from his memory of it alive and the drawing he hoped to paint a tolerably lifelike portrait of the animal; and a fresh inspiration came to him. to those projected woodland pictures he would add glimpses of its wild denizens, and in such a way that the hearts of the beholders should be moved to pity, not to slaughter.

but, already that sharpened knife of pierre’s was at work, defacing, mutilating.

“why do that, man?”

[pg 160]

“why not? what ails you? what’d we hunt for?”

“we don’t need him for food. you cannot possibly carry those horns any distance on our trip, and you’re not apt to come back just this same way. let him lie. you’ve done him all the harm you should. come on. is this like him?” and adrian showed his drawing.

“oh! it’s like enough. if you don’t relish my job—clear out. i can skin him alone.”

adrian waited no second bidding, but strolled away to a distance and tried to think of other things than the butchering in progress. but at last pierre whistled and he had to go back or else be left in the wilderness to fare alone as best he might. it was a ghastly sight. the great skin, splashed and wet with its owner’s blood, the dismembered antlers, the slashed off nose—which such as pierre considered a precious tid-bit, the naked carcass and the butcher’s own uninviting state.

“i declare, i can never get into the same [pg 161]boat with you and all that horror. do leave it here. do wash yourself—there’s plenty of water, and let’s be gone.”

pierre did not notice the appeal. though the lust of killing had died out of his eyes the lust of greed remained. already he was estimating the value of the hide, cured or uncured, and the price those antlers would bring could he once get them to the proper market.

“why, i’ve heard that in some of the towns folks buy ’em to hang their hats on. odd! lend a hand.”

reluctantly, adrian did lift his portion of the heavy horns and helped carry them to the birch. he realized that the pluckiest way of putting this disagreeable spot behind him was by doing as he was asked. he was hopeless of influencing the other by any change in his own feelings and wisely kept silence.

but they hunted no more that day, nor did they make any further progress on their journey. pierre busied himself in erecting a rude frame upon which he stretched the moose skin [pg 162]to dry. he also prepared the antlers and built a sort of hut, of saplings and bark, where he could store his trophies till his return trip.

“for i shall surely come back this same way. it’s good hunting ground and moose feed in herds. small herds, course, but two, three make a fellow rich. eh?”

adrian said nothing. he occupied himself in what pierre considered a silly fashion, sketching, studying “effects,” and carefully cutting big pieces of the birch-bark that he meant to use for “canvas.” to keep this flat during his travels was a rather difficult problem, but finally solved by cutting two slabs of cedar wood and placing the sheets of bark between these.

whereupon, pierre laughed and assured the weary chopper that he had had his trouble for his pains.

“what for you want to carry big lumber that way? roll your bark. that’s all right. when you want to use it put it in water. [pg 163]easy. queer how little you know about things.”

“all right. i was silly, sure enough. but thanks for your teaching. maybe, if you were in my city i might show you a thing or two.”

both lads were glad, however, when night came, and having cooked themselves a good supper and replenished their fire, they slept as only such healthy lads can sleep; to wake at sunrise, ready for fresh adventures, and with the tragedy of the previous day partly forgotten even by adrian. then, after a hearty breakfast, they resumed their trip.

nothing eventful occurred for some time after. no more moose appeared, and beyond winging a duck or two and fishing now and then, pierre kept his hunting instincts down. in fact, he was just then too lazy to exert himself. he felt that he had labored beyond all reason during the past summer and needed a rest. besides, were not his wages steadily going on? if adrian was silly enough to [pg 164]paint and paint and paint—all day, this old tree and that mossy stump, he was not responsible for another man’s stupidity. not he. the food was still holding out, so let things take their course.

suddenly, however, adrian realized that they were wasting time. he had made sketches on everything and anything he could find and had accumulated enough birch-bark to swamp the canoe, should they strike rough water; and far more than was comfortable for him to carry over any portage. so one morning he announced his intention of leaving the wilderness and getting back to civilization.

“all right. i go with you. show me the town, then i’ll come back.”

“well. as you please. only i don’t propose to pay you any longer than will take us, now by the shortest road, to donovan’s.”

“time enough to borrow that trouble when you see it.”

but pierre suggested that, as adrian wished to learn everything possible about the woods, [pg 165]he should now take the guidance of affairs, and that whenever things went wrong he, pierre, could point the way. he did this because, of late, he fancied that his young employer had taken a “too top-lofty” tone in addressing him; and, in truth, adrian’s day-dreams of coming fame and his own genius were making him feel vastly superior to the rough woodsman.

they had paddled over dead water to a point where two streams touched it, and the question rose—which way?

“that!” said adrian, with decision, pointing to the broader and more southern of the two.

“good enough.”

for a moment the leader fancied there was a gleam of malice in his hireling’s eye, but he considered it beneath his notice and calmly turned the canoe into the thoroughfare he had chosen. it was wonderfully smooth and delightful paddling. in all their trip they had not found so level a stream, and it was nothing [pg 166]but enjoyment of the scenery that adrian felt, until it seemed to him that they had been moving a long time without arriving anywhere. “haven’t we?” he asked.

“oh! we’ll get there soon, now.”

presently things began to look familiar. there was one curiously shaped, lightning-riven pine, standing high above its fellows, that appeared like an old friend.

“why, what’s this? can there be two trees, exactly alike, within a half-day’s rowing? i’ve certainly sketched that old landmark from every side, and—— hello! yonder’s my group of white-birches or i’m blind. how queer!”

a few more sweeps and the remains of the camp they had that morning left were before them, and pierre could no longer repress his glee.

“good guide, you! trust a know-it-all for making mistakes.”

“what does it mean?” demanded adrian, angrily.

[pg 167]

“nothing. only you picked out a run-about, a little branch of river, that wanders out of course and then comes home again. begins and ends the same. oh! you’re wise, you are.”

“would the other lead us right?”

“yes.”

“but it turns north. we’re bound south.”

“that’s no matter. can’t a river turn, same as runabouts?”

“i give up. you guide. i’ll stick to my brush.”

this restored affairs to the ground which pierre considered proper; and having paused long enough to eat a lunch, they set out afresh. the new track they followed ascended steadily, and it proved a difficult stream to get up; but the ascent was accomplished without accident and then the surface of the land altered. again they reached a point where two branches met and pierre explained that the waters of one ran due north, but the other bent gradually [pg 168]toward the south and in a little while descended through one of the most dangerous “rips” he had ever seen.

“only saw them once, too. when i went as far as donovan’s with the master, year before last.”

“didn’t know he ever came so far from the island.”

“why, he goes once every summer, or fall, as far as that new york of yours. likely he’ll be going soon again.”

“he does? queer he never mentioned it.”

“maybe. i’ve a notion, though, that the things he don’t say are more important than what he does. ever shoot a rip?”

“no. i’ve tried and failed. that’s how i happened to get lost and wandered to dutton’s.”

“he’s the boss hand at it. seems as if the danger fired him up. makes him feel as i do when i hunt big game. he didn’t need my help, only fetched me along to take back [pg 169]some truck. that’s how he picked me out to show you. he knew i knew——”

“and i wish i knew—lots of things!”

“one of ’em might be that round that next turn comes the first dip. then, look out.”

the stream was descending very perceptibly; and they needed no paddling to keep them moving. but they did require to be incessantly on the watch to guard against the rocks which obstructed the current and which threatened the safety of their frail craft.

“you keep an eye on me and one on the channel. it’ll take a clear head to carry us through, and no fooling.”

adrian did not answer. he had no thought for anything just then but the menace of those jagged points which seemed to reach toward them as if to destroy.

nor did pierre speak again. far better even than his silent companion could he estimate the perils which beset them. life itself was the price which they would pay for a moment’s [pg 170]carelessness; but a cool head, a clear eye, and a steady wrist—these meant safety and the proud record of a dangerous passage wisely made. a man who could shoot those rapids was a guide who might, indeed, some time demand the high wages at which adrian had jeered.

suddenly, the channel seemed barred by two opposing bowlders, whose points lapped each other. in reality, there was a way between them, by the shortest of curves and of but little more than the canoe’s width. pierre saw and measured the distance skilfully, but he had not counted upon the opposing force of the water that rushed against them.

“look—out! take——”

behind the right-hand rock seethed a mighty whirlpool where the river speeding downward was caught and tossed back upon itself, around and around, mad to escape yet bound by its own power.

into this vortex the canoe was hurled; to [pg 171]be instantly overturned and dashed to pieces on the rock.

on its first circuit of the pool adrian leaped and landed upon the slippery bowlder—breathless, but alive! his hand still clasped the pole he had been using to steer with, and pierre——? he had almost disappeared within the whirling water, that tossed him like a feather.