All our
energies and care were given to preventing those miserable curling
little waves from over-topping our precious two inches, and that
miserable little canoe from departing even by a hair's-breadth from the
exactly level keel. Where we were going did not matter. After an
interminable interval the tail of our eyes would catch the sway of
bushes near at hand.
"Now," Billy would mutter abstractedly.
With one accord we would arise from six inches of wet and step swiftly
into the River. The lightened canoe would strain back; we would brace
our legs. The traverse was accomplished.
[Illustration: WATCHED THE LONG NORTH COUNTRY TWILIGHT STEAL UP LIKE A
GRAY CLOUD FROM THE EAST.]
Being thus under the other bank, I would hold the canoe while Billy,
astraddle the other end for the purpose of depressing the water to
within reach of his hand, would bail away the consequences of our
crossing. Then we would make up the quarter of a mile we had lost.
We quit at the Organ Pool about three o'clock of the afternoon. Not
much was said that evening.
The day following we tied into it again. This time we put Dick and
Deuce on an old Indian trail that promised a short cut, with
instructions to wait at the end of it. In the joyous anticipation of
another wet day we forgot they had never before followed an Indian
trail. Let us now turn aside to the adventures of Dick and Deuce.
Be it premised here that Dick is a regular Indian of taciturnity when
it becomes a question of his own experience, so that for a long time we
knew of what follows but the single explanatory monosyllable which you
shall read in due time.
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