Cyrus Garst rose suddenly. He kicked the camp-fire to make a blaze, then looked the woodsman fair in the eyes.
“I know, Herb,” he said; “the spirit of mercy will conquer.”
“Glad you think so!” answered Herb. “But I ain’t so sure. Sho! boys, I’ve kept you up till near midnight with my yarns. We must go to roost quick, or you’ll never be fit to light out for Katahdin to-morrow.”
Chapter XVIII.
To Lonelier Wilds
Before daybreak next morning Herb Heal was astir. Apparently even a short night’s sleep had driven from him all disturbing memories. He whistled and hummed softly, like the strong, hopeful fellow he was, controlling his notes so that they should not awaken his companions, while he hauled out and overlooked the canvas for a tent, to see if it was sound. Next he surveyed the camp-stores, and put up a supply of flour, pork, and coffee in a canvas bag, enough for four persons to subsist upon with economy during an excursion of six or seven days. For he knew that his employers would follow his suggestion, and be eager to start for the woods near Katahdin soon after they got their eyes open.
He had been doing his work with a candle held in his brown fingers; but as dawn-light began to enter the cabin, he quenched its dingy, yellow flicker, opened the camp-door, and surveyed the morning sky.
“It’ll be a good day to start out, I guess,” he muttered. “Let’s see, what time is it?”
The stars had not yet paled, and Herb forthwith fell to studying them; for they were his jewelled time-piece, by which he could tell the hour so long as they shone. Watch he had none.
While he gazed aloft at the glinting specks, he unconsciously began to croon, in a powerful bass voice, with deep gutturals, some words which certainly weren’t woodsman’s English.