Camp and Trail | Page 2

a fellow feel creepy before ever he starts. I could bear
the worst racket on earth better than a dead quiet."
This dialogue was exchanged in low but excited voices between a
young man of about one and twenty, and a lad who was apparently five
years his junior, while they waded knee-deep in water among the long,
rank grasses and circular pads of water-lilies which border the banks of
Squaw Pond, a small lake in the forest region of northern Maine.
The hour was somewhere about eleven o'clock. The night was intensely
still, without a zephyr stirring among the trees, and of that wavering
darkness caused by a half-clouded moon. On the black and green water
close to the bank rocked a light birch-bark canoe, a ticklish craft, which
a puff might overturn. The young man who had urged the necessity for
silence was groping round it, fumbling with the sharp bow, in which he
fixed a short pole or "jack-staff," with some object--at present no one
could discern what--on top.

"There, I've got the jack rigged up!" he whispered presently. "Step in
now, Neal, and I'll open it. Have you got your rifle at half-cock? That's
right. Be careful. A fellow would need to have his hair parted in the
middle in a birch box like this. Remember, mum's the word!"
The lad obeyed, seating himself as noiselessly as he could in the bow of
the canoe, and threw his rifle on his shoulder in a convenient position
for shooting, with a freedom which showed he was accustomed to
firearms.
At the same time his companion stepped into the canoe, having first
touched the dark object on the pole just over Neal's head. Instantly it
changed into a brilliant, scintillating, silvery eye, which flashed
forward a stream of white light on a line with the pointed gun, cutting
the black face of the pond in twain as with a silver blade, and making
the leaves on shore glisten like oxidized coins.
The effect of this sudden illumination was so sudden and beautiful that
the boy for a minute or two held his rifle in unsteady hands while the
canoe glided out from the bank. An exclamation began in his throat
which ended in an indistinct gurgle. Remembering that he was pledged
to silence, he settled himself to be as wordless and motionless as if his
living body had become a statue.
From his position no revealing radiance fell on him. He sat in shadow
beside that glinting eye, which was really a good-sized lantern, fitted at
the back with a powerful silvered reflector, and in front with a glass
lens, the light being thrown directly ahead. It was provided also with a
sliding door that could be noiselessly slipped over the glass with a
touch, causing the blackness of a total eclipse.
This was the deer-hunters' "jack-lamp," familiarly called by Neal's
companion the "jack."
And now it may be readily guessed in what thrilling night-work these
canoe-men are engaged as they skim over Squaw Pond, with no swish
of paddle, nor jar of motion, nor even a noisy breath, disturbing the
brooding silence through which they glide. They are "jacking" or

"floating" for deer, showing the radiant eye of their silvery jack to
attract any antlered buck or graceful doe which may come forth from
the screen of the forest to drink at this quiet hour amid the tangled
grasses and lily-pads at the pond's brink.
Now, a deer, be it buck, doe, or fawn in the spotted coat, will stand as if
moonstruck, if it hears no sound; to gaze at the lantern, studying the
meteor which has crossed its world as an astronomer might investigate
a rare, radiant comet. So it offers a steady mark for the sportsman's
bullet, if he can glide near enough to discern its outline and take aim.
There is one exception to this rule. If the wary animal has ever been
startled by a shot fired from under the jack, trust him never to watch a
light again, though it shine like the Kohinoor.
As for Neal Farrar, this was his first attempt at playing the part of
midnight hunter; and I am bound to say that--being English born and
city bred--he found the situation much too mystifying for his peace of
mind.
He knew that the canoe was moving, moving rapidly; for giant pines
along the shore, looking solid and black as mourning pillars, shot by
him as if theirs were the motion, with an effect indescribably weird.
Now and again a gray pine stump, appearing, if the light struck it, twice
its real size, passed like a shimmering ghost. But he felt not the
slightest tremor of advance, heard no swish or ripple of paddle.
A moisture oozed from his skin,