Winthrop had given the canoe a quick swerve. But before they could have counted one, the creatures, soundlessly, had all disappeared.
"Men are queer animals," he said; "I should have liked one more good peep. But of course I won't go back."
"Yes—go."
"You are prepared to humor me in everything? Well, it won't take an instant." They were but ten feet away; he gave a stroke with his paddle and brought the canoe up to the entrance again.
Within there was now nothing, their torch-light shone on the bare glistening boards of the floor. But stay—yes, there was; something white in one corner; he took one of the torches, and held it within for a moment. Margaret gave a cry; the light was shining on bones—a white breastbone with the ribs attached, and larger bones near.
He threw the torch into the water, where it went out with a hiss, and sent the canoe rapidly away. This time he did not stop.
Margaret had hidden her face in her hands. "Well," he said, still urging the light boat along, "the last hunter who occupied that cabin was not as tidy in his habits as he might have been; he left the remains of the last bear he had had for dinner behind him."
"Are you sure?" she asked, without looking up, still shuddering.
"Perfectly."
Winthrop held that in some cases a lie was right.