ur men that kept the thing going at
all. They went into camp on Beaver Creek, fifty miles and more to the
west of us.

But that was six weeks ago, and seemed as many months, for days and
nights pass slowly in these solitudes and the scale of time changes
wonderfully. Our men always seemed to know by instinct pretty well "whar
them other fellows was movin'," but in the interval no one had come
across their trails, or once so much as heard their rifle shots.

Our little camp consisted of the professor, his wife, a splendid shot
and keen woods-woman, and myself. We had a guide apiece, and hunted
daily in pairs from before sunrise till dark.

It was our last evening in the woods, and the professor was lying in my
little wedge tent, discussing the dangers of hunting alone in couples in
this way. The flap of the tent hung back and let in fragrant odours of
cooking over an open wood fire; everywhere there were bustle and
preparation, and one canoe already lay packed with moose horns, her nose
pointing southwards.

"If an accident happened to one of them," he was saying, "the survivor's
story when he returned to camp would be entirely unsupported evidence,
wouldn't it? Because, you see--"

And he went on laying down the law after the manner of professors, until
I became so bored that my attention began to wander to pictures and
memories of the scenes we were just about to leave: Garden Lake, with
its hundred islands; the rapids out of Round Pond; the countless vistas
of forest, crimson and gold in the autumn sunshine; and the starlit
nights we had spent watching in cold, cramped positions for the wary
moose on lonely lakes among the hills. The hum of the professor's voice
in time grew more soothing. A nod or a grunt was all the reply he looked
for. Fortunately, he loathed interruptions. I think I could almost have
gone to sleep under his very nose; perhaps I did sleep for a brief
interval.

Then it all came about so quickly, and the tragedy of it was so
unexpected and painful, throwing our peaceful camp into momentary
confusion, that now it all seems to have happened with the uncanny
swiftness of a dream.

First, there was the abrupt ceasing of the droning voice, and then the
running of quick little steps over the pine needles, and the confusion
of men's voices; and the next instant the professor's wife was at the
tent door, hatless, her face white, her hunting bloomers bagging at the
wrong places, a rifle in her hand,