For a moment the leader fancied there was a gleam of malice in his hireling’s eye, but he considered it beneath his notice and calmly turned the canoe into the thoroughfare he had chosen. It was wonderfully smooth and delightful paddling. In all their trip they had not found so level a stream, and it was nothing but enjoyment of the scenery that Adrian felt; until it seemed to him that they had been moving a long time without arriving anywhere. “Haven’t we?” he asked.
“Oh! we’ll get there soon, now.”
Presently things began to look familiar. There was one curiously-shaped, lightning-riven pine, standing high above its fellows, that appeared like an old friend.
“Why, what’s this? Can there be two trees, exactly alike, within a half-day’s rowing? I’ve certainly sketched that old landmark from every side, and—Hello! yonder’s my group of white birches, or I’m blind. How queer!”
A few more sweeps and the remains of the camp they had that morning left were before them, and Pierre could no longer repress his glee.
“Good guide, you! Trust a know-it-all for a fool.”
“What does it mean?” demanded Adrian, angrily.
“Nothing. Only you picked out a run-about, a little branch of river, that wanders out of course and then comes home again. Begins and ends the same. Oh! you’re wise, you are.”
“Would the other lead us right?”
“Yes.”