Ab emphasised this lucid view of the night man by an animated movement of his fist that held the big hunting knife with which he whittled.  Then he emptied his pipe and began cutting more tobacco.

’Some says ’e ‘s a ghost,’ said Tip Taylor, splitting his sentence with a yawn, as he lay on a buffalo robe in the shanty.

‘Shucks an’ shoestrings!’ said Ab, ’he looks too nat’ral.  Don’t believe no ghost ever wore whiskers an’ long hair like his’n.  Thet don’t hol’ t’ reason.’

This remark was followed by dead silence.  Tip seemed to lack both courage and information with which to prolong the argument.

Gerald had long been asleep and we were all worn out with uphill travelling and the lack of rest.  Uncle Eb went out to look after the horses that were tethered near us.  Ab rose, looked up through the tree-tops, ventured a guess about the weather, and strode off into the darkness.

We were five days in camp, hunting, fishing, fighting files and picking blueberries.  Gerald’s cough had not improved at all — it was, if anything, a bit worse than it had been and the worry of that had clouded our holiday.  We were not in high spirits when, finally, we decided to break camp the next afternoon.

The morning of our fourth day at Blueberry Uncle Eb and I crossed the lake, at daylight, to fish awhile in Soda Brook and gather orchids then abundant and beautiful in that part of the woods.  We headed for camp at noon and were well away from shore when a wild yell rang in the dead timber that choked the wide inlet behind us.  I was rowing and stopped the oars while we both looked back at the naked trees, belly deep in the water.

But for the dry limbs, here and there, they would have looked like masts of sunken ships.  In a moment another wild whoop came rushing over the water.  Thinking it might be somebody in trouble we worked about and pulled for the mouth of the inlet.  Suddenly I saw a boat coming in the dead timber.  There were three men in it, two of whom were paddling.  They yelled like mad men as they caught sight of us, and one of them waved a bottle in the air.

‘They’re Indians,’ said Uncle Eb.  ’Drunk as lords.  Guess we’d better git out o’ the way.’

I put about and with a hearty pull made for the other side of the lake, three miles away.  The Indians came after us, their yells echoing in the far forest.  Suddenly one of them lifted his rifle, as if taking aim at us, and, bang it went the ball ricocheting across our bows.

‘Crazy drunk,’ said Uncle Eb, ‘an’ they’re in fer trouble.  Pull with all yer might.’

I did that same putting my arms so stiffly to their task I feared the oars would break.

In a moment another ball came splintering the gunwales right between us, but fortunately, well above the water line.  Being half a mile from shore I saw we were in great peril.  Uncle Eb reached for his rifle, his hand trembling.