Dingle and Jenkins passed outside, and after a hasty good-by, plunged resolutely into the forest. The ranger led the advance, in his usual cautious manner, proceeding rapidly, and yet so stealthily that their approach could not have been heard a dozen feet distant, excepting now and then, when Jenkins caught his foot in some vine, and tumbled with a suppressed exclamation upon his hands and knees, or forgot himself so much as to undertake to commence a conversation.
The journey was continued without incident worthy of note until nightfall. Not an Indian or white man was encountered through the day. Just at dusk, they reached a river, which, as Dingle informed Jenkins, was the Little Miami.
"My gracious! has that got to be swam, too?" asked the latter, in astonishment.
"No! we'll row over, I guess."
"Row over? how can we do that?"
"Don't ax too many questions and you'll see."
With this, Dingle proceeded some distance upstream, and then halted before a large, tangled mass of undergrowth. Here he stooped down, and pulled out a small birchen canoe, almost as light as paper. An Indian's paddle lay beside it, which he instructed Jenkins to bring forth. As he dropped the boat in the river, it danced as uneasily and buoyantly as an eggshell.
"Where under the sun did you get that thing?" asked Jenkins.
"That belongs to the Frontier Angel. It's the one we used to go sparking in when we was young."
"Pshaw, Dick, you're joking," replied Jenkins, incredulously.