The practiced hand of Frank Allen, commander-in-chief of the Old Moose Lake expedition, turned the wheel, and the nose of the lithe little craft stood up-river.
“Right on time. I hope that’s a good omen,” observed Frank. “We’re off for an exciting time if our hopes hold up.”
During the middle of the morning Mr. Van Kirk, who had hunted in practically every wild in the United States, whose rifle had always been ready and accurate, whose knives were on exhibit in his room, each with a special history of moments of peril and of success, came down to the wharf and there chatted with the boys on the eve of their putting out to camp on Old Moose Lake, where they hoped they might come in contact with the big moose bull for the capture or killing of which the old hunter had offered a goodly reward.
“We’ll bring you the antlers,” said Frank, during the talk.
“I don’t want the antlers, but I do want to see them. The boy who gets the prize is the one who should have the antlers. And they’ve got a spread of almost five feet,” said Mr. Van Kirk.
“Five feet! That’s a whole lot of spread for the antlers to have!” exclaimed Frank, who had heard a great deal in the last few days about moose and a little about this particular bull.
“Yes. And this old fellow is a giant, too!” the old fellow replied. “I don’t need to describe him to you. You’ll know him when you see him. He’s the king of that territory, actually the monarch of all he surveys.”
Thus it was that the boys, as they chugged up the Harrapin, had their minds full of the old moose bull that had been the cause of many hunts and that had outfought and outwitted many attempts at capture.
The air was cutting cold on the deck of the Rocket, with the breeze blowing downstream while they were making their way against it. A sky banked with lead-gray clouds presaged snow before they got very far. Along the bank of the river most of the bushes and trees had lost their leaves, the skeleton branches thrust out from the shoreline like long, bony fingers of crooked shape, quivering and shaking as the chill winds struck them.
“The only thing warm around here is the motor,” said Lanky. “I wouldn’t mind being a motor to-day myself.”