Kiddie was not in the least nonplussed.
"How'd it come t' be lyin' at the bottom of the lake, anyway?" he questioned.
"Dunno," Rube answered, very much puzzled. "You mean, why ain't it afloat? Guess it's too heavy; though I can't tell just why. All wood floats, don't it?"
"Most wood does—all that grows about here," Kiddie affirmed. "Why, do you suppose, your men with edged tools took the trouble to cut down a big tree like that, and not make any use of so much valuable timber?"
Rube shrugged his shoulders.
"Now you're askin' me a conundrum I can't answer," he said.
"No," returned Kiddie; "because you've got hold of the wrong idea. That tree wasn't felled by any axe. It grew at the edge of the lake, where the ground was soft and moist. It was blown down in some storm or hurricane, and fell into the water. Gradually th' roots an' branches broke off, and after a long while—many years, mebbe—the bare trunk floated off. It drifted about like an iceberg or a derelict ship—drifted an' drifted until it became water-logged an' so heavy that it sank t' th' bottom, where it still lies. It was just an ordinary process of Nature."
Rube was silent for many moments.
"Thar ain't no trippin' you up, Kiddie," he said at length. "I made certain sure I had you that time."
"Wait a bit," pursued Kiddie; "I'll show you something else." He paddled farther out in the lake, taking his bearings by well-remembered landmarks. "Now look down through the water," he instructed, when after many pauses, he at last drew in his paddle. "What d'ye see?"