So it proved. Tom hurried up to the house and got an astonished but enthusiastic welcome. He had come at an unfortunate moment, however. Uncle Phil and Cousin Ed had started within the last hour for the store and post-office, nine miles away on a bush road that Tom had not suspected, and were not likely to be back before evening.
No one was at home but his aunt and the younger children. Tom ate a huge breakfast, told his story, and gave news of Dave on the gold trail, and rested for an hour or so. But he was uneasily impatient to reach the lakes. He was afraid to wait for his uncle’s return, and he got an early dinner, took a packet of lunch, and set out again shortly after midday.
He had his directions more accurately laid now; but it was rough travel through the woods, and he went more slowly than he had hoped. The sun was almost setting when he emerged at last on the shore of the river. He was still a mile or two below Little Coboconk, but he hastened up the stream and saw the long, placid expanse of the lake.
Nothing moved on its waters. From away up by the narrows he thought he saw a curl of smoke in the evening air. The emptiness relieved him; somehow he had almost expected to see the raft afloat and steering down the lake. But he knew that it was almost impossible for Harrison to have salvaged any great quantity of the timber so soon.
Peering ahead, he walked up the stony margin of the lake in the twilight. He had a strange, uneasy feeling that eyes were upon him, as he had had during the journey to Roswick; but this time he was certain that no one could have followed him through the woods. More than once, all the same, he turned quickly to look, but nothing stirred on the surface of the lake or the darkening shores.
Smoke was certainly rising from Harrison’s encampment, but he was afraid to go within sight of the place while the light lasted. He sat down in the thickets just back from the shore and ate his lunch—wise enough this time to reserve a portion for breakfast. Darkness fell on the water. A half-moon grew visible over the trees, and up by the narrows a red glow began to shine.
Tom resumed his course up the shore, careful to make no noise. The glare over the trees looked as if Harrison had set fire to the forest again. But it was not until he reached the head of Little Coboconk that he could see what was going on.
Harrison’s camp lay across the narrows from him, and there were great fires burning on the shore that cast a flood of red light across the water. Dark figures moved through the lurid illumination; he heard the rattle of chains, the thud of axes, and the cries of men hauling and heaving at the timbers. Evidently Harrison, in his desperate haste to get the walnut out, was working day and night.
Tom crept up closer to the narrow channel, feeling secure in the outlying darkness. From the opposite shore he made out a huge, dark shape stretching like a pier. The raft was being rebuilt. And then Tom distinguished Harrison himself, standing in the full light of one of the fires, talking earnestly to another man, a stranger, an elderly man, who did not look in the least like a lumber-jack.
For a long time Tom crouched in the shadows, watching the scene of activity. Logs were being dug out and piled in place. They were not working on the raft just then. Probably daylight was needed for that. But it looked rather certain that no timber was likely to be floated away for some time, and Tom felt vastly relieved. By the next night his father would be here.