"Have you any idea of who the owner can be?"
A third affirmative nod followed.
"Who is he?" asked Fred in astonishment.
"Deerfoot."
"What! Does that little canoe belong to you?"
"Deerfoot made it and hid it under the bushes: why did not my brothers use the paddle?"
"We hunted all round, but could not find it."
"It was within reach of my brother's hands; it was covered with leaves."
"And so the boat is yer own?" repeated Terry; "why that looks as if ye lived somewhere in this neighborhood; is such the case, owld boy?"
The question did not seem to please the Shawanoe. He was sitting directly in front of his young friends, who looked earnestly in his face. He made no answer to Terry's question, but continued looking among the coals, as if he was pondering some other matter that had thus been brought to mind. Fred shook his head at Terry as a warning that he should not repeat his query, and the latter was wise enough not to do so; but the friends concluded from that moment that the wandering young Shawanoe made his home at no great distance from where all three were at that moment sitting in the wilderness. And they were right.