As they looked at him after he had arisen from the log on which he had been seated, they saw he held in his hands the ends of two long night-lines whose floats bobbed up and down some distance out on the surface of the pond.
"Any luck this evening, Adam?" inquired George, cheerfully.
"Luck no good now," replied the old man; "luck no good anywhere. Tell old man," said he, suddenly bending forward, "luck no good for him. Tell him look out," the old Indian went on. "Fire, all, everywhere. War! Three red moons! War! Men kill!" He swept his hand about his head, as if indulging in some occult warning.
The boys looked at one another, and, taking hands, passed on. The Indian, without a further word, seated himself again on the log.
A few steps further up the bank the twins glanced at a rough trap near the roots of a huge sumach-bush, and seeing that luck here was also against them, they skirted the bend and quickly crossed the old bridge back to the house. They stole up to bed through the kitchen entrance. A light was burning in their uncle's office. The three gentlemen were in there, and Uncle Nathan was putting his name to a big paper, which the others witnessed with their signatures. It was his will.
Early the next morning the Frothingham twins made their way to the summit of Tumble Ridge on a tour of inspection of their own.
They looked down into the yawning mouth of the pit, but did not descend and could not see the mischief that the big blast had played with the mine that their uncle had reckoned his best bit of property.
The Frothinghams' shaft was not in use, but George thought he heard the rumble of the Hewes' ore cars descending their side of the hill.
So the boys walked over to the fence, climbed to the top and looked down the further slope, then, balancing themselves, they walked along the rail.