Camp and Trail | Page 3

and gathered in heavy drips under the
brim of his hat, as he began to wonder whether the light bark skiff was
working through the water at all, or skimming in some unnatural way
above it. For the life of him he could not settle this doubt. And, fearful
of balking the expedition by a stir, he dared not turn his head to
investigate the doings of his comrade, Cyrus Garst.
Cyrus, though also city bred, was an American, and evidently an old
hand at the present business. The Maine wilds had long been his
playground. He had studied the knack of noiseless paddling under the
teaching of a skilled forest guide until he fairly brought it to perfection.
And, in perfection, it is about the most wizard-like art practised in the

nineteenth century.
The silent propulsion was managed thus: the grand master of the paddle
gripped its cross handle in both hands, working it so that its broad blade
cut the water first backward then forward so dexterously that not even
his own practised hearing could detect a sound; nor could he any more
than Neal feel a sensation of motion.
The birch-bark skiff skimmed onward as if borne on unseen pinions.
To Neal Farrar, who had been brought up amid the tumult of rival
noises and the practical surroundings of Manchester, England, who was
a stranger to the solitudes of primitive forests, and almost a stranger to
weird experiences, the silent advance was a mystery. And it began to be
a hateful one; for he had not even the poor explanation of it which has
been given in this record.
It was only his third night in Maine wilds; and I fear that his friend
Cyrus, when inviting him to join in the jacking excursion, had refrained
from explaining the canoe mystery, mischievously promising himself
considerable fun from the English lad's bewilderment.
Neal's hearing was strained to catch any sound of big game beating
about amid the bushes on shore or splashing in the water, but none
reached him. The night seemed to grow stiller, stiller, ever stiller, as
they glided towards the head of the pond, until the dead quiet started
strange, imaginary noises.
There was a pounding as of dull hammers in his ears, a belling in his
head, and a drumming at his heart.
He was tortured by a wild desire to yell his loudest, and defy the
brooding silence.
Another--a midnight watchman--broke it instead.
"Whoo-ho-ho-whah-whoo!"

It was the thrilling scream of a big-eyed owl as he chased a squirrel to
its death, and proceeded to banquet in unwinking solemnity.
"Whoo-ho-ho-whah-whoo!"
Neal started,--who wouldn't?--and joggled the canoe, thereby nearly
ending the night hunt at once by the untimely discharge of his rifle.
He had barely regained some measure of steadiness, though he felt as if
needles were sticking into him all over, when at last there was a
crashing amid the bushes on the right bank, not a hundred yards distant.
Noiselessly as ever the canoe shot around, turning the jack's eye in that
direction. A minute later a magnificent buck, swinging his antlers
proudly, dashed into the pond, and stooped his small red tongue to
drink, licking in the water greedily with a soft, lapping sound.
Neal silently cocked his rifle, almost choking with excitement; then
paused for a few seconds to brace up and control the nervous terrors
which had possessed him, before his eye singled out the spot in the
deer's neck which his bullet must pierce. But he found his operations
further delayed; for the animal suddenly lifted its head, scattered
feathery spray from its horns and hoofs, and retired a few steps up the
bank.
In its former position every part of its body was visibly outlined under
the silver light of the jack. Now a successful shot would be difficult,
though it might be managed. The boy leaned slightly forward, trying to
hold his gun dead straight and take cool aim, when the most curious of
all the curious sensations he had felt this night ran through him,
seeming to scorch like electricity from his scalp to his feet.
From the stand which the deer had taken, its body was in shadow. All
that the sportsman could discern were two living, glowing eyes,
staring--so it appeared to him--straight into his, like starry search-lights,
as if they read the death-purpose in the boy's heart, and begged him to
desist.

It was all over with Neal Farrar's shot. He lowered his rifle, while the
speech, which could no longer be repressed, rattled in his throat before
it broke forth.
"I'll go crazy if I don't speak!" he cried.
At the first word the buck went scudding like the wind through the
forest, doubtless vowing by the shades of his ancestors that he never
would