But the change in the level of the lake had brought some of the former shallows above water. Some of the timber, at any rate, was there in sight, and it was impossible that it was anything else than the wreckage of the old-time raft. Glancing over the scattered logs, Tom thought that there must be thirty or forty thousand feet along that shore, and there was more, perhaps, buried at a little depth. Walnut was then worth, in logs, about three hundred dollars a thousand feet; but if the wood were cut up and dressed in his father’s Toronto yards it would fetch three or four times that price. It was a fortune, and not a small one, that was in sight.
Then suddenly the question of the ownership of the raft struck him. He was the finder, but, after all, not necessarily the owner. Daniel Wilson was dead, and his company long since dissolved. The timber lay on land belonging to his uncle, or his cousin; all the timber on that land belonged to them, whether standing or lying, and this would surely cover driftwood. But was this, after all, Uncle Phil’s homestead; or had he abandoned it; or might it be filed on by the first comer?
Tom did not know. It was the problem of the gravel quarry again, with tenfold intensity. He turned the question over in his mind. In any event he was determined to cling to this treasure-trove if it took the last drop of his blood. And at that moment, glancing up, he perceived Harrison on the other side of the narrows, looking silently at him across the channel.
Tom jumped up almost guiltily. Harrison instantly shouted and waved at him.
“Have you got the canoe? Come over.”
Tom got into the canoe. He felt perfectly certain that Harrison had been watching him for some time—that he knew very well what Tom had discovered—that he had previously discovered it himself. For a moment the boy half hesitated to cross over to the enemy; but after all he had his rifle, and Harrison was unarmed, and moreover he did not think Harrison was a man to resort to open violence.
“What were you doing over there, digging up the ground? Find any grub?” said Harrison with a sharp glance as Tom paddled up beside him.
“I thought I’d seen another canoe there, and I went to look. No, the grub’s all washed away, I’m afraid,” returned Tom.
“Too bad. Well, we’ll just have to put in a hungry night, I guess, but we can get out of here in the morning anyhow.”
He made no further reference to Tom’s prospecting, and they went up the lake to the place where they had spent most of the day, where Tom’s own canoe had been wrecked. It was growing dusk already, and the rain had ceased. The wind had stilled, and the air was thick and fogged with smoke and damp.