At length the hunters reached the main trail where their paths separated; but a little of the swamp still remained, and on the other side was the open clearing.
“This is your best way,” said Don, pointing out the path to Hughie. “We had bad luck to-day, but we'll try again. We may meet him still, you know, so don't fire at any squirrel or anything. If I hear a shot I'll come to you, and you do the same by me.”
“I say,” said Hughie, “where does this track of mine come out? Is it below the Deepole there, or is it on the other side of the clearing?”
“Why, don't you know?” said Don. “This runs right up to the back of the Fisher's berry patch, and through the sugar-bush to your own clearing. I'll go with you if you like.”
“Oh, pshaw!” said Hughie, “I'll find it all right. Come on, Fido.” But Fido had disappeared. “Good night, Don.”
“Good night,” said Don. “Mind you don't fire unless it's at a bear. I'll do the same.”
In a few minutes Hughie found himself alone in the thick underbrush of the swamp. The shadows were lying heavy, and the sunlight that still caught the tops of the tall trees was quite lost in the gloom of the low underbrush. Deep moss under foot, with fallen trees and thick-growing balsam and cedars, made the walking difficult, and every step Hughie wished himself out in the clearing. He began to feel, too, the oppression of the falling darkness. He tried whistling to keep up his courage, but the sound seemed to fill the whole woods about him, and he soon gave it up.
After a few minutes he stood still and called for Fido, but the dog had gone on some hunt of his own, and with a sense of deeper loneliness, he set himself again to his struggle with the moss and brush and fallen trees. At length he reached firmer ground, and began with more cheerful heart to climb up to the open.
Suddenly he heard a rustle, and saw the brush in front of him move.
“Oh, there you are, you brute,” he cried, “come in here. Come in, Fido. Here, sir!”