“Why not call on Zeb here to give his opinion, Rob?” mentioned Andy, having a sudden bright thought. It occurred to him that a veteran woodsman’s advice ought to be particularly valuable under such conditions as now confronted them.
“How foolish o’ us not to hae thought o’ that before,” said Donald contritely.
“Better late than never,” muttered Andy.
Rob, turning upon the big guide, hastened to say: “Zeb, you understand how it is, and why we haven’t bothered mentioning this before. Donald was supposed to know more about this region than any one else; but now he is up a stump, and perhaps you could help us out. So please tell us, if you know about this part of the country, and particularly this trail we’ve been following.”
“Wall, I sartin do have reason for rememberin’ that same big hemlock the cat was squattin’ in,” he said. Apparently the rough Maine woods guide was not cherishing any resentment because he had not been considered in the matter.
“It was under that tree Mr. Hopkins he shot the best moose bull he ever got. That was three winters ago. We was follerin’ this path, when he broke cover and went down all in a heap at the fust shot. Say, but Mr. Hopkins he was some proud o’ that shot, fur it took right behind the shoulder, and tumbled the big bull over inside o’ twenty yards.”
“Try and remember, Zeb, about the trail; forget all those other things. Did it make a twist and a turn somewhere about that hemlock?” asked Rob.
“It sartinly did, sir,” the guide assured him. “I remember it because we had occasion to look fur water, an’ hearin’ a stream nigh by I went on to scout for it. Yes, the path made a quick bend at the hemlock. It took up the old direction arter a bit.”
“That settles it,” remarked Rob, fully satisfied. “We go on further, and I expect we’ll soon run across our trail.”
“Good enough,” grunted Andy. “Nothing like corroborative evidence. Donald thought he was right, and now we know he was, as sure as shooting.”