The Indian went on turning the fish, indicating with his head the direction across the river.

“He’s over there, asleep.”

“He may wake at any moment; we must get away at once,” hurried Larry.

“No,” said Fox-Foot, with indifference, “he won’t wake.  There is a flower grows here, small seeds; I creep up close, put it in his teapot.  He not see me.  He boil tea, he drink it; he wake—­maybe sundown to-night.”

Larry and Jack looked at each other.  Then with one accord they burst into laughter.

“Flower seeds!  Where did you learn of these seeds, boy?” asked Larry.

“My mother teach me when I’m small.  She said only use when pain is great, or,” he hesitated, then, with a sly, half humorous look, “or when your enemy is great.”

“Beats all, doesn’t it, Jack?” said Larry.  “Foxy, you’re a wonder!  Did you do anything else to him?”

“No, just to his canoe,” replied the boy.  “I wore a hole through the bottom with rocks; he’ll think he did it himself.  Takes time mend that canoe; we be far up river by then—­far beyond the forks; he not know which headwater we take.”

Matt Larson laid his hand on the straight, jet-black hair.  “Bless you, my boy!” he said comically, but his undertone held intense relief, which did not escape Jack’s ears.

The fish and coffee were ready now, and all three waded into that breakfast with fine relish.

Then came the arduous portage around Red Rock Falls, a difficult task which occupied more than an hour.  Then away upstream once more, this time Jack paddling bow, with young Fox-Foot, lying on a blanket amidships, wrapped in a well-earned sleep.  But once during the entire morning the Indian stirred; he did not seem to awake as other boys do, but more like a rabbit.  His eyes opened without drowsiness; he shot to his knees, sweeping the river bank with a glance like the boring of a gimlet.  Larry, looking at him, knew that nothing—–­nothing, bird, beast or man—­could escape that penetrating scrutiny.  Then, without comment, the boy curled down among his blankets again and slept.

They did not stop for “grub” at midday—­just opened a can of pork and beans, finished up the cold fried fish, and drank from the clear blue waters of the river.  Then on once more upstream, which now began to broaden into placid lakelets, thereby lessening the current and giving them a chance to make more rapid headway.  At four o’clock they reached the forks of the stream—­one flowed towards them from the north, the other from the west.

“Which way?” asked Larson, rousing the Chippewa.  The boy got up immediately and took the stern paddle, steering the western course.  They had paddled something over two miles up that arm when Fox-Foot beached the canoe, built a fire, spilled out the remainder of the pork and beans, threw the tin can on the bank, then marshalled his crew aboard again, and deliberately steered over the course they had already come.