th a sliding door that could be noiselessly slipped over the glass
with a touch, causing the blackness of a total eclipse.

This was the deer-hunters' "jack-lamp," familiarly called by Neal's
companion the "jack."

And now it may be readily guessed in what thrilling night-work these
canoe-men are engaged as they skim over Squaw Pond, with no swish of
paddle, nor jar of motion, nor even a noisy breath, disturbing the
brooding silence through which they glide. They are "jacking" or
"floating" for deer, showing the radiant eye of their silvery jack to
attract any antlered buck or graceful doe which may come forth from the
screen of the forest to drink at this quiet hour amid the tangled
grasses and lily-pads at the pond's brink.

Now, a deer, be it buck, doe, or fawn in the spotted coat, will stand as
if moonstruck, if it hears no sound; to gaze at the lantern, studying
the meteor which has crossed its world as an astronomer might
investigate a rare, radiant comet. So it offers a steady mark for the
sportsman's bullet, if he can glide near enough to discern its outline
and take aim. There is one exception to this rule. If the wary animal
has ever been startled by a shot fired from under the jack, trust him
never to watch a light again, though it shine like the Kohinoor.

As for Neal Farrar, this was his first attempt at playing the part of
midnight hunter; and I am bound to say that--being English born and
city bred--he found the situation much too mystifying for his peace of
mind.

He knew that the canoe was moving, moving rapidly; for giant pines along
the shore, looking solid and black as mourning pillars, shot by him as
if theirs were the motion, with an effect indescribably weird. Now and
again a gray pine stump, appearing, if the light struck it, twice its
real size, passed like a shimmering ghost. But he felt not the slightest
tremor of advance, heard no swish or ripple of paddle.

A moisture oozed from his skin, and gathered in heavy drips under the
brim of his hat, as he began to wonder whether the light bark skiff was
working through the water at all, or skimming in some unnatural way
above it. For the life of him he could not settle this doubt. And,
fearful of balking the expedition by a stir, he dared not turn his head
to investigate the doings of his comrade, Cyrus Garst.

Cyrus, though also city bred, was an American, and evidently an old hand
at the present business. The Maine wilds had long been his