"Ah!" mused Ainsworth, "so he doesn't ride in a launch now!"
Old Jim Parsons shuffled his feet irritably on the landing.
"Launch!" he ejaculated in high scorn. "Don't ye know he's the best blade on the river? No dod-blasted sputter-boat fur him!"
The old musher's snort of indignation followed them down the stream, and Ainsworth chuckled in a satisfied manner. After all, a man who preferred his canoe to a launch was man enough to listen to sound reason.
They ran upon him suddenly in a little bay some distance down stream. He had paddled easily, being out for an evening hour, and beached his canoe on the shingle of a half-submerged river bar. He sat upon a rock at the water's edge, smoking and looking into the depths.
As they approached, Ainsworth discerned another figure near Britton.
"He's not alone," he commented. "Do you know the person who is with him?"
Pete stared under his hand, for the evening sun slanted over the wooded ridge with a dazzling glare which prevented easy vision.
"No, by gad," he said in a loud whisper, "fur it wears skirts!"
The bowman was startled, and his brown palm also shaded his dark eyes.