“Millinokett Lake,” said Cyrus, prolonging the syllables with a soft, liquid sound.  “It’s an Indian name, boys; it signifies ’Lake of Islands.’  Whatever else the red men can boast of, the music of their names is unequalled.  I don’t know exactly how many of those islets there are, but I believe Millinokett has over two hundred of them anyhow.  Our camp is on the western shore.  Shall we be moving?”

After skirting the water for another mile or two, the travellers reached a broad, open tract, bare of timber.  At the farther end of this clearing were two log cabins, low, but very roomy, situated at a distance of a few hundred yards from the lake, with a background of splendid firs and spruces, the lively green of the latter making the former look black in contrast.

“Is that our camp?  How perfectly glorious!” boomed Neal and Dol together.

“It’s our camp, sure enough,” answered Garst, with no less enthusiasm.  “At least the first cabin will be ours.  I don’t know whether there are any hunters in the other one just now.”

The log shanties had been put up by an enterprising settler to accommodate sportsmen who might penetrate to this far part of the wilds in search of moose or caribou.  Cyrus had arranged for the use of one during the months of October and November.  Here it was that Herb Heal had engaged to await him.  And as he had commissioned this famous guide to stock the camp with all such provisions as could be procured from neighboring settlements, such as flour, potatoes, pork, etc., he expected to slide into the lap of luxury.

In one sense he did.  When the trio, their hearts thumping with anticipation, reached the low door of the first cabin, they found it securely fastened on the outside, so that no burglar-beast could force an entrance, but easily opened by man.  Cyrus hurriedly undid the bolts, and stepped under the log roof, followed by his comrades.  The camp was in beautiful order, clean, well-stocked, and provided with primitive comforts.  An enticing-looking bed of fresh fir-boughs was arranged in a sort of rude bunk which extended along one side of the cabin, having a head-board and foot-board.  The latter was fitted to form a bench as well.  A man might perch on it, and stretch his toes to the fire in the great stone fireplace only two feet distant.

The boys could well imagine that this would make an ideal seat for a hunter at night, where he might lazily fill his pipe and tell big yarns, while the winter storm howled outside, and snow-flurries drifted against his log walls.  But they looked at it wistfully now, for it was empty.  There was no figure of a moccasined forest hero on bench or in bunk.  There was no Herb Heal.

“Bless the fellow!  Where on earth is he?” Garst exclaimed.  “He’s been here, you see, and has the camp provisioned and ready.  Perhaps he’s only prowling about in the woods near.  I’ll give him a ‘Coo-hoo!’”

[Illustration:  “HERB HEAL.”]