"Doug," said we, "do you want to go to Kawagama to-morrow?"
Doug turned on us a sardonic eye. He made no direct answer, but told
the following story:--
"Once upon a time Judge Carter was riding through a rural district in
Virginia. He stopped at a negro's cabin to get his direction.
"'Uncle,' said he, 'can you direct me to Colonel Thompson's?'
"'Yes, sah,' replied the negro; 'yo' goes down this yah road 'bout two
mile till yo' comes to an ol' ailm tree, and then yo' tu'us sha'p to
th' right down a lane fo' 'bout a qua'ter of a mile. Thah you sees a
big white house. Yo' wants to go through th' ya'd, to a paf that takes
you a spell to a gate. Yo' follows that road to th' lef till yo' comes
to three roads goin' up a hill; and, jedge, _it don' mattah which one
of them thah roads yo' take, yo' gets lost surer 'n hell anyway!_'"
Then Doug turned placidly back to the construction of his trophy.
We interpreted this as an answer, and made up an outfit for five.
The following morning at six o'clock we were under way. Johnnie Challan
ferried us across the river in two instalments. We waved our hands and
plunged through the brush screen.
Thenceforth it was walk half an hour, rest five minutes, with almost
the regularity of clockwork. We timed the Indians secretly, and found
they varied by hardly a minute from absolute fidelity to this schedule.
We had at first, of course, to gain the higher level of the hills, but
Tawabinisay had the day before picked out a route that mounted as
easily as the country would allow, and through a hardwood forest free
of underbrush.
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