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.
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