Two light canoes had been brought along from Nome, lashed to the deck of the schooner, and in these the seven set out. The boys with Dick occupied one canoe, the other three men with a larger portion of the luggage the other.
When everything was in readiness, following a light breakfast on the bank, the two canoes set out, that containing Farnum, Mr. Hampton and Art taking the lead. About ten miles upstream a rapids was encountered, and around this the first portage was made. Then once more they took to the water.
Day followed day, in this fashion, as they pushed steadily forward, until almost a week had elapsed. On the fifth day Tom Farnum let out a whoop of joy and headed his canoe for the right bank of the stream at a little gravelly beach. His sharp eye had detected a small cairn of stones on the edge of the brush, and when the others came up with him and stepped from their craft he was busily demolishing the stones comprising the mound.
“A marker,” was the only explanation he vouchsafed. “Must have been left by Thorwaldsson. Ah.”
At the exclamation he stood upright, holding a small metal box in his hand. The lid was rusted on, and in his impatience, Farnum whipped out a knife and gouged it off while the others crowded around him. Inside was a fold of oilskin, which he ripped open. A folded paper was revealed, which he opened. Then he read aloud the message thereon.
“It’s from Thorwaldsson all right. Listen,” he said, and read:
“Please notify Mr. Otto Anderson, Ashland Block, Seattle, Wash., that I passed here July 2. Party intact with exception of crew sent as he ordered. Farrell says we are on right track.
“Thorwaldsson.”
“What does he mean by that reference to the crew?” asked Jack.