“Your guide ought to know, if he belongs to this district. Why, a raft of valuable timber—black walnut—was sunk and lost on this lake twenty-five or thirty years ago. Everybody has taken a look for it but it’s never been located.”
“Sunk? Why, timber floats, doesn’t it?” said Harrison puzzled.
“Not walnut, unless it’s buoyed with some lighter wood. This raft, they say, was cut by the Wilson Lumber Company. It was floated with pine logs, but it got caught in a storm, broke up, and the walnut went to the bottom—nobody knows where.”
The “fish sharp” looked rather quizzically at him, as if he suspected a joke.
“Some catch in that, isn’t there?” he said. “Never heard of dry wood sinking before. I’d as soon expect to see an ax float.”
As a matter of fact, however, the thing had happened exactly as Tom had said. The “lost raft” had become a tradition of the Coboconk lakes. It was Dave Jackson who had told Tom the story, and Dave had searched for traces of the walnut himself. Tom also had thought of having a look for it when he had nothing else to do. But the lumbering off of the heavy timber had, as usual, affected the watercourses, and the lake had shrunk somewhat and changed its configuration considerably in the last twenty years, so that nobody now knew exactly where the raft had started from shore. The lake had a sandy and soft bottom, and it was probable that the scattered logs had long since sunk deep in the ooze. Experts said, however, that the timber would not be injured by its long immersion.
“Well, if you happen to see a pile of walnut logs on the bottom, I advise you to hook your line on them,” said Tom, laughing. “It was a big raft, and they say that at present prices it would be worth a hundred thousand dollars.”
The ichthyologist gave a cheerfully incredulous laugh, and the sullen-faced guide grinned. Tom paddled away.
“Come up and see me again when I’m home,” he shouted over his shoulder, and Harrison called an acceptance, diving immediately afterward into the bottom of his boat to peer through the glass window.
Tom expected to see his visit returned, but day after day passed in solitude. Twice he went down to the lake but could see nothing of the sporting writer and his guide, though the camp was still there and showed that it was occupied. The weather turned unseasonably warm, almost hot. Birches and maples were in full leaf, and mosquitoes began to be troublesome. Once Tom thought he saw human figures moving about the thickets down toward the lake shore, but no one came near his shack for a week. Then one afternoon Harrison and McLeod tramped in from the woods.