He ran his eye along the surface of the water, and discerned in the shadow of the wood, near the island, a fourth of a mile distant, a light, and below it the dark form of a boat.  Placing his closed hands to his lips, he blew a strong, clear, full whistle, with one or two notes, and was answered by Theodore.  At the landing near him was a half-rotten canoe, partially filled with water, and near it was an old paddle.  Without a moment’s thought, Barton pushed it into deep water, springing into it as it glided away.  He had not passed half the distance to the other boat, when he discovered that it was filling.  With his usual rashness, he determined to reach his friends in it by his own exertions, and without calling to them for aid, and by an almost superhuman effort he drove on with his treacherous craft.  The ultimate danger was not much to a light and powerful swimmer, and he plunged forward.  The noise and commotion of forcing his waterlogged canoe through the water attracted the attention of the party he was approaching, but who had hardly appreciated his situation as he lightly sprang from his nearly filled boat into their midst.

“Hullo, Bart!  Why under the heavens did you risk that old log?  Why didn’t you call to us to meet you?”

“Because,” said Bart, excited by his effort and danger, “because to myself I staked all my future on reaching you in that old hulk, and I won.  Had it sunk, I had made up my mind to go with her, and, like Mr. Mantalini, in Dickens’s last novel, ’become a body, a demnition moist unpleasant body.’”

“What old wreck is it?” inquired Young, looking at the scarcely perceptible craft that was sinking near them.

“It is the remains of the old canoe made by Thomas Ridgeley, in his day, I think,” said Jonah.

“Nothing of the sort,” said Bart; “it is the remains of old Bullock’s ‘gundalow,’ that has been sinking and swimming, like old John Adams in the Revolution, these five years past.  Don’t let me think to-night, Uncle Jonah, that anything from my father’s hand came to take me into the depths of this pond.”

The craft occupied by the party was a broad, scow-like float, with low sides, steady, and of considerable capacity.  At the bow was a raised platform, covered with gravel, on which stood a fire-jack.  The crew were lying on the silent water, engaged with their lines, when Bart so unceremoniously joined them.  He went forward to a vacant place and lay down in the bottom, declining to take a line.

“What is the matter, Bart?” asked the Doctor.

“I don’t know.  I’ve been wandering about in the woods, and I must have met something, or I have lost something,—­I don’t know which.”

“I guess you saw the wolverine,” said Theodore.

“I guess I did;” and pretty soon, “Doctor, is this your robe?  Let me cover myself with it; I am cold!” and there was something almost plaintive in his voice.

“Let me spread it over you,” said the Doctor, with tenderness.  “What ails you, Bart? are you ill?”