“Come with me and you shall see,” replied Little Rifle, flushing, and dropping his eyes with confusion to the ground.
“All right, lead the way, only don’t walk too fast, for I feel a little rheumatic in my joints, and can’t get along fast.”
As the boy hobbled forward again, leaning upon the arm of his friend, something dropped from his bosom, and as he stooped to pick it up he said, with a laugh:
“I lost my oar, hat and gun, but the spy-glass stuck by me to the last, perhaps because I could better afford to part with that than any of the others.”
“We will go back by the falls,” said Little Rifle, “for I left my gun there when I jumped into the water. Then we will take the nearest cut home, and get there, I hope, in the course of a few hours.”
“See here!” said the other, pausing for a moment, “ain’t there any Indians there?”
“I will look out for them,” was the reply; “but tell me how it was you came to be alone in your canoe on the river.”
“I will tell you as we walk along, for it is quite a long story. What is your name?”
“They call me Little Rifle,” replied the lad, with no little embarrassment of manner, “and if you please, you may do the same.”
“An odd name, but rather pretty. You may call me Harry Northend. I don’t suppose you remember ever seeing me before?” he asked, in a significant manner.