“But it turns north. We’re bound south.”
“That’s no matter. Can’t a river turn, same as run-about?”
“I give up. You guide. I’ll stick to my brush.”
This restored affairs to the ground which Pierre considered proper, and, having paused long enough to eat a lunch, they set out afresh. The new track they followed ascended steadily, and it proved a difficult stream to warp up; but the ascent was accomplished without accident, and then the surface of the land altered. Again they reached a point where two branches met, and Pierre explained that the waters of one ran due north, but the other bent gradually toward the south and in a little while descended through one of the most dangerous “rips” he had ever seen.
“Only saw them once, either. When I went as far as Donovan’s with the master, year before last.”
“Didn’t know he ever came so far from the island.”
“Why, he goes once every summer, or fall, as far as that New York of yours. Likely he’ll be going soon again.”
“He does! Queer he never mentioned it.”
“Maybe. I’ve a notion, though, that the things he don’t say are more important than what he does. Ever shoot a rip?”
“No. I’ve tried and failed. That’s how I happened to get lost and wandered to Dutton’s.”