“Not in a graveyard,” answered Pierre, with a solemnity that checked Adrian’s desire to smile.
A last reverent attention, a final clearing of all rubbish from the spot, and he, too, stepped into the canoe and picked up his paddle. They had passed the rapids and reached a smooth stretch of the river where they had camped, and now pulled steadily and easily away, once more upon their journey south. But not till they had put a considerable distance between themselves and that woodland grave, would Pierre consent to stop and eat the food that Adrian had prepared. Even then, he restricted the amount to be consumed, remarking with doleful conviction:
“We’re going to be starved before we reach Donovan’s. The food stick burnt off and dropped into the fire last night.”
Adrian remembered that his mate had spoken of it at the time, when by some carelessness they had not secured the crotched sapling on which they hung their birch kettle.
“Oh! you simple thing. Why will you go through life tormenting yourself with such nonsense? Come—eat your breakfast. We’re going straight to Donovan’s as fast as we can. I’ve done with the woods for a time. So should you be done. You’re needed at the island. Not because of any dreams, but because the more I recall of Mr. Dutton’s appearance the surer I am that he is a sick man. You’ll go back, won’t you?”
“Yes; I’m going back. Not because you ask me, though.”
“I don’t care why—only go.”
“I’m not going into the show business.”
Adrian smiled. “Of course, you’re not. You’ll never have money enough. It would cost lots.”
“’Tisn’t that. ’Twas the dream. That was sent me. All them animals in black paint, and the blue herons without any heads, and—my mother came for me last night.”