“Cross-eyed! Poor crittur,” murmured Hiram, sympathetically, as he laid the lash along the animal’s ribs. “How’d it happen?”
“Don’t know exactly. Born so, I expect; but I heerd say onst that the children o’ the people who had ’im afore me dropped a nail into his feed bag. Don’t know how true it is.”
Hiram struggled desperately with the reins to free the sled, but without success.
To back the craft would have required more than the entire strength of the party, so John Mansell’s axe came into play, the tree was felled, and leaping over its stump the sled was soon bounding on.
After three hours of heavy toil for both horses and men, we completed the six miles, and arrived at the uninteresting sheet of water called Mud Pond.
“Jemima!” cried Hiram, as he surveyed the pond and gauged the depth of the water; “how are we going to get across?”
“Have to dig a channel with our paddles,” said John.
“Me think so—yes!” ejaculated the Indian, as with a miss-step he almost sank from sight in the mud.
A channel was soon made, canoes repacked, and by dint of hard poling we reached deep water, and paddled for the opposite shore a mile distant.
On arriving the same difficulties which prevented our embarking delayed our landing, and at one time it looked as if each man would make his canoe his camp for the night. But just as the sun set we managed to land, and pitched our tents in the dark.