Looking carefully round before pushing off the canoe to see that nothing was forgotten, Ian observed some chips of wood on the beach close at hand.
“See, Vic!” he said eagerly; “some one has been here—perhaps the Indian.”
They examined the chips, which had been recently cut. “It’s not easy to make out footprints here,” said Ian, going down on his knees the better to observe the ground; “and so many settlers and Indians pass from time to time, having little boys with them too, that—. I say, look here, Vic, this little footmark might or might not be Tony’s, but moccasins are so much alike that—”
“Out o’ the light, man; if you were made o’ glass the moon might get through you. Why, yes, it is Tony’s moccasin!” cried Victor, in eager excitement. “I know it by the patch, for I saw Elsie putting it on this very morning. Look, speak, man! don’t you see it? A square patch on the ball of the right foot!”
“Yes, yes; I see it,” said Ian, going down on his knees in a spirit of semi-worship, and putting his nose close to the ground.
He would fain have kissed the spot that had been pressed by a patch put on by Elsie, but he was “unromantic,” and refrained.
“Now,” he said, springing up with alacrity, “that settles the question. At least it shows that there is strong probability of their having taken the left shore of the lake.”
“Come along, then, let’s after them,” cried Victor impatiently, pushing off the canoe.
The moment she floated—which she did in about four inches of water—they stepped swiftly yet gently into her; for bark canoes require tender treatment at all times, even when urgent speed is needful. Gliding into deep water, they once more dipped their paddles, deep and fast, and danced merrily over the moonlit sea—for a sea Lake Winnipeg certainly is, being upwards of three hundred miles long, and a gathering together of many waters from all parts of the vast wilderness of Rupert’s Land.
After two hours of steady work they paused to rest.