"Fine big birds around here," remarked Harry, as the feathered creatures of the ocean darted through the trees, making their way to the lake's edge.
"Yes, we're planning for a Thanksgiving shoot," Hal told him. "We hope, if we make it up, you can come down."
"I'd like to first-rate," said Harry. "Hello!" he suddenly exclaimed,
"I thought I kicked over a stone hatchet head."
Instantly the three boys were on their knees searching through the brown pine needles.
"There it is!" declared Harry, picking up a queer-shaped stone. "That's real Indian—I know. Father has some, but this is the first I was ever lucky enough to find."
The boys examined the stone. There were queer marks on it, but they were so worn down it was impossible to tell what they might mean.
"What tribe camped here?" asked Harry.
"I don't know," answered Hal. "I just heard an old farmer, out Berkley way, talking about the Indians. You see, we only come down here in the summer time. Then we keep so close to the ocean we don't do much exploring."
The boys were so interested now they did not notice how dark it was getting. Neither did they notice the turns they were making in the deep woodlands. Now and then a new stone would attract their attention. They would kick it over, pick it up, and if it were of queer shape it would be pocketed for further inspection.
"Say," said Hal, suddenly, "doesn't it look like night?" and at that he ran to a clear spot between the trees, where he might see the sky.