A sharp crack cut the air.
"Some one's shooting in the woods ahead," said Warrender. "Perhaps we'll catch sight of them, and get a direction."
"Why not make a polite inquiry of that woodland faun or satyr smoking a clay pipe yonder?" suggested Pratt, pointing with his banjo to the left bank.
On a tree-stump near the water's edge sat a thick-set man, square-faced, beetle-browed, blear-eyed, a cloth cap pushed back on his close-cropped bullet head, a red cloth tie knotted about his neck. He wore a rusty, much-rubbed velveteen jacket, corduroy breeches, and a pair of shabby leggings. Warrender slowed down until the boat just held its own against the current, and called--"Hi! can you tell us of a clear space where we can camp?"
The man looked suspiciously from one to another, chewing the stem of his pipe.
"Can't," said he, surlily.
"Surely there's a stretch of turf somewhere?" Warrender persisted.
"Bain't. Not hereabouts. Woods, from here to village up along."
"Nothing back on the island?"
The man half closed his eyes, and again suspicion lurked in the glance he gave the speaker.