It was, indeed, the accepted theory of the fishermen, albeit many saw in the boogy light a warning to mark the place of forgotten murder, and bore away.

The sun came up in a clear sky, and soon, far and wide, its light was tossing in the rippletops.  We could see them glowing miles away.  We were both armed with sabre and pistols, for that river was the very highway of adventure in those days of the war.

“Don’ jes’ like this kind uv a hoss,” said D’ri.  “Got t’ keep whalin’ ‘im all the while, an’ he ‘s apt t’ slobber ’n rough goin’.”

He looked thoughtfully at the sun a breath, and then trimmed his remark with these words; “Ain’t eggzac’Iy sure-footed, nuther.”

“Don’t require much feed, though,” I suggested.

“No; ye hev t’ dew all the eatin’, but ye can alwus eat ’nough fer both.”

It was a fine day, and a ride to remember.  We had a warm sun, a clear sky, and now and then we could feel the soft feet of the south wind romping over us in the river way.  Here and there a swallow came coasting to the ripples, sprinkling the holy water of delight upon us, or a crow’s shadow ploughed silently across our bows.  It thrilled me to go cantering beside the noisy Rapides du Plats or the wild-footed Galloup, two troops of water hurrying to the mighty battles of the sea.  We mounted reeling knolls, and coasted over whirling dips, and rushed to boiling levels, and jumped foamy ridges, and went galloping in the rush and tumble of long slopes.

“Let ’er rip!” I could hear D’ri shouting, once in a while, as he flashed up ahead of me.  “Let ’er rip!  Consarn ’er pictur’!”

He gave a great yell of triumph as we slowed in a long stretch of still, broad water.  “Judas Priest!” said he, as I came alongside, “thet air’s rougher ’n the bog trail.”

We came to Paleyville with time only for a bite of luncheon before dark.  We could see no sign of life on the island or the “Canuck shore” as we turned our bows to the south channel.  That evening the innkeeper sat with us under a creeking sign, our chairs tilted to the tavernside.

D’ri was making a moose-horn of birch-bark as he smoked thoughtfully.  When he had finished, he raised it to his lips and moved the flaring end in a wide circle as he blew a blast that rang miles away in the far forest.

“Ef we heppen t’ git separated in any way, shape, er manner ’cept one,” said he, as he slung it over his shoulder with a string, “ye’ll know purty nigh where I be when ye hear thet air thing.”

“You said, ’in any way, shape, er manner ‘cept one.’” I quoted.  “What do you mean by that?”

My friend expectorated, looking off into the night soberly a moment.

“Guess I didn’t mean nuthin’,” said he, presently.  “When I set out t’ say suthin’, don’t never know where I ‘m goin’ t’ land.  Good deal luk settin’ sail without a compass.  Thet ’s one reason I don’t never say much ’fore women.”