looked forward
to the camp-ground still so far ahead. He was hungry and tired, and
couldn't even take time to fill his pipe in that hurly-burly.

Meanwhile the bateau had swept down swiftly, and passed them at a
distance of not more than a hundred yards. It was with a qualm of
regret that Chris saw it go by, to be ground to splinters in the
yelling madness of the Devil's Trough. After it had passed, riding the
waves bravely like the good old craft that it was, he glanced back
after it in half-humorous regret. As he did so, his eye caught
something that made him look again. A little furry brown creature was
peering over the gunwale at the canoe. The gunwale tipped toward him
at that instant and he saw it distinctly. Yes, it was a woodchuck, and
no mistake. And it seemed to be making mute appeal to him to come and
save it from a dreadful doom. Chris hesitated, looking doubtfully at
his companion's heaving back. It looked an unresponsive back.
Moreover, Chris felt half ashamed of his own compassionate impulse. He
knew that he was considered foolishly softhearted about animals and
children and women, though few men cared to express such an opinion to
him too frankly. He suspected that, in the present case, his companion
would have a right to complain of him. But he could not stand the idea
of letting the little beast--which had so evidently appealed to him
for succour--go down into the horrors of the Devil's Trough. His mind
was made up.

"Mart," he exclaimed, "I'm goin' to turn. There's somethin' aboard
that there old bateau that I want." And he put the head of the canoe
straight up into a big wave.

"The devil there is!" cried the other, taking in his paddle and
looking around in angry protest. "What is it?"

"Paddle, ye loon! Paddle hard!" ordered Chris. "I'll tell ye when we
git her 'round."

Thus commanded, and the man at the stern paddle being supreme in a
canoe, the backwoodsman obeyed with a curse. It was no time to argue,
while getting the canoe around in that sea. But as soon as the canoe
was turned, and scudding with frightened swoops down the waves in
pursuit of the fleeing bateau, he saw, and understood.

"Confound you, Chris McKeen, if 'tain't nothin' but a blankety blank
woodchuck!" he shouted, making as if to back water and try to turn the
canoe again.

Chris's grey eyes hardened. "Look a' here, Mart Babcock," he shouted,
"don't you be up to no foolishness. Ye kin cuss all ye like--but
either padd