"Sure, 'tis not far," the man again said pleasantly, and clapping his straw hat down over his head till it almost concealed his ears, he led the way into the woods.
"Me name is Smith–Jawn Smith. What's your'n thin?" spoke the genial Irishman, as the two walked quite rapidly, despite the darkness.
"MacLester–I'm Scotch," said Dave, smiling to himself over the thought that his new friend plainly was not French.
Mr. Smith made no reply and a long distance had been covered when Dave spoke again.
"How far back are you–that is, your baggage? We'll never find the lake again, till morning, if we don't watch out."
"Sure, 'tis not far now any more," came the quite unsatisfactory answer. "Is it tired ye air?"
"No–but–great guns!"
With no other remark Dave continued close behind or alongside his guide for a long time–a very long time, it seemed to him,–possibly a quarter hour. Then–
"Where in the world are we bound for?" he asked pretty sharply.
"Sure, ye'll not lave me," was the answer, quite pleadingly.