“Everybody’s heard of it up there. What about it?”
“Well—I found it.”
The old lumberman opened his eyes, and sat up briskly.
“You found it? Where? Why, it was sunk in the lake.”
“Don’t get stirred up, Father. There’s nothing in it, I’m afraid. But I did find it. It had been sunk, but close to the shore, near the place where the two lakes connect. The water has gone back a good deal: and, besides, the lake was very low this spring, so that the place where the raft had sunk is clean out of the water now. Some of the timber was sticking out of the sand, and most of it seemed to be only a foot or so down, so I had great hopes of getting it out. It seemed to be in first-rate condition.”
“Well, what did you do?” demanded Mr. Jackson, impatiently.
“Why, you see, the timber didn’t belong to me. I thought it was on Uncle Phil’s land, and that’s why I hunted up Dave. But it isn’t.”
“You ought to have sent word to me at once!” exclaimed Mr. Jackson. His eyes were alive now with interest, and he looked ten years younger all at once.
“Just what I was thinking of doing. But it wouldn’t have made any difference, I’m afraid. There was another man prospecting for it—a fellow named Harrison, who had been up there last summer too. He played me a nasty trick, but he had the rights to the raft.”
“The rights? How did he make that out?” cried Mr. Jackson.