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.
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