"What's that?" inquired Bill.

"Why, about the eagle a-hollering like mad fer liberty and so on. Ye see, we uns are gitting a new brand of stuff with an eagle on it and it would look grand like to hev them words on, too."

"Aye, perhaps," said Bill with a smile, "but I wonder how they teach those events over in England. They must ignore them. Say, stranger, how do they teach in Louisiana those salient points of our national history?"

"What a scholard!" murmured the tavern keeper as he passed a drink to a newcomer.

"Concerning the salient points of American history," responded the red-bearded stranger, "they teach about the same as in this section, I surmise,—that is, local events are dwelt upon unduly and there is a tendency to glorify the victories and mitigate the defeats. The school children, there, know more about Jackson and the Battle of New Orleans than about Ross or Fort Meigs. In England the same thing obtains. Local events are prominent and the glorious things are magnified, while the dark, unhappy events are passed lightly over."

"Yes, so I thought. Now in this country, though, there is a tendency to do those things, yet national and international questions are fairly represented," said Bill.

The stranger shook his head in dissent.

"The very same thing is as prevalent in America as in England. The bright things are haloed and the dark obscured. The schoolboy gets but one side of the question at issue. History ought to be taught for the sake of truth and not for the sake of generating patriotism. Take the American Revolution. Children, here, are taught that England was a hateful tyrant, taxing us unreasonably, simply for the pleasure of showing the strong hand, and wantonly aggressive in destroying the patriots' powder and ball. Yorktown, Stony Point, and Saratoga are dwelt on. What American does not know those battles by heart and how feebly impressed on the American mind are the occupations of Boston, New York, Philadelphia, the Battle of Brandy-wine, the Long Island defeats, and the disasters in the South? Now a fair way would be to emphasise both sides of the war, the battles, and the causes. Causes are given in many American histories of the war, but they are American causes; the English are not mentioned. Would it not be foolish to war without a cause?"

"Well, what causes did Britain have for the war and her oppression?" said Bill, sharply.

"Many," said the red-bearded stranger, sharply. "Taxation, for instance, is not wrong in itself. The government of a country is supported by taxes. Britain sent quite a few armies to this country in the time of the French and Indian war to protect the colonies. Could the colonies, notwithstanding the bravery of her few colonial troops, have withstood the armies of France, Montcalm and the others, without aid? Hence the armies of Braddock, Amherst, Wolf and others. The home government was burdened with a debt that had been greatly for the protection and augmentation of the American colonies. Indeed, had that war not been; had Wolf not taken Quebec, the glorious United States would be only a narrow strip of country along the Atlantic seaboard. Even this part and other parts west of the Alleghenies would be French soil, and you would all be French citizens."

"The stranger must be a scholard, too," muttered the tavern keeper.

"And," continued the stranger warming up, "England, therefore, incurred a great debt and insured to America the territory to the Mississippi and even be yond partly. What benefit was this to the English citizen? Had he a right to pay it all? Ought not America a right to bear a part of the burden?"

"True," said Bill, thoughtfully, "but how about non-representation? Was it right to tax us without our consent?"

"Easily explained," resumed the stranger. "England herself did not have representation. Many parts, great cities, Manchester, Sheffield, and others had none. The House of Commons did not represent England. Was representation to be given to the colonies when it was denied to England herself?"

"Very true," said Bill, uneasily, "but what about oppressive taxes?"

"Not much oppression. Americans admitted themselves that it was not the weight of the taxes, which were small, but the principle of the thing. The chief taxes were stamp and tea taxes and taxes of a similar nature. The burden was laid on the rich, mostly. The labouring man had little occasion for stamped paper. In reference to tea, tea was a luxury and not a necessity at that time. Is there much oppression in that? And about the seizing of powder and ball of the patriots, that's nothing more than the United States would do should the State of Pennsylvania gather up powder and ball to be used against the national government."

"Well, why did the American nation arise en masse in revolt, if they were not overly oppressed," persisted Bill.

"The American people did not arise en masse," responded the stranger. "There were thousands of citizens, wealthy and influential, on the King's side, until toward the middle of the war. Would it have been so easy for the British to take Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Charleston, if they were wholly in favour of Washington and the war? No. They would have burned their cities like the Russians did Moscow. Both sides ought to be taught in the study of history and a better grasp of truth would result. About non-representation, that was wrong and the Americans were partly justified in struggling against it. The English people are struggling for the same thing, to-day. They have no real representation, but will get it soon. It is much better, however, to win representation and liberty by peaceful means than by war."

There was silence for a moment, and then Professor Bill responded.

"Those are new ideas to me, and you have opened up a new channel of thought; but at least you will admit that our histories are substantially correct and fair in reference to the late war, the War of 1812. What right had England to prey upon our commerce and impress our seamen even though they were formerly Englishmen?"

"The preying upon commerce was piracy upon the part of England——"

"Good and well said," affirmed Professor Bill.

"The impressment of American seamen—Americans must handle the subject carefully or——"

"Or what?"

"They'll be trampling on their own laws and government. England claimed once an Englishman always an Englishman, naturalisation notwithstanding. American law, that is based on English to a great extent, is somewhat the same. A citizen of the United States cannot throw off his allegiance and unite with another nation without the consent of the United States. Witness the case of Murray and the Charming Betsey in 1804, before the Supreme Court. In the case of Isaac Williams before the Circuit Court of the United States for the District of Connecticut, in 1797, it was decided that no member could dissolve the compact of citizenship except by consent of the United States, and there had been no consent on the part of the United States. These cases were of Americans who attempted to become citizens of the newly formed republics of South America. And yet we say England was wrong in taking American citizens, who had been formerly Englishmen, and had become naturalised Americans contrary to England's will. There is an apparent inconsistency in the matter, visible even to the dullest mind."

Professor Bill was silent and apparently in deep thought.

"You have travelled some," said Hugh Lark.

"Yes," said the red-bearded stranger. "My friend here and myself, during the last eight years have been travellers. We have been in Brazil and other American countries. That is why I remember the cases of the Charming Betsey and Williams. The decision of the United States in those cases still rankles in the hearts of the people of the southern continent."

The raftsmen and schoolmaster were eager for tales of adventure and strange countries, when the supper bell rang, and the two gentlemen disappeared into the long dining-room. After supper they retired, being thoroughly tired with the travel of the day.

"Who air those fellows?" asked one of the raftsmen.

The question was voiced by all in the public room.

The tavern keeper, obsequiously handed the record book to Bill, who read out for the benefit of all the following:

"Andrew Trembath, Esq., New Orleans."

"Richard Thomas, New Orleans."

"The one must be a lawyer," said Professor Bill, with a good bit of respect in his tones.

"Did you notice the silent one? What a giant in size he is? He'd make an oar fly, I'll wager, eh, Hugh?" said one of the raftsmen.

"Aye," said Hugh, meditatively.

"The one fellow is a Cornishman," said Bill.

"Whas that, Bill?" said the tavern keeper.

"A native of the southwest of England, a section noted for its minerals and seamen."

"How do ye ken that, Bill?" asked Hugh Lark.

"Because," said Bill,

CHAPTER XXII

Ande and Dick, for the strangers were none other, were aroused by the first, glancing rays of the sun that penetrated the curtains of their little window. Flinging aside the curtain drapery, they gazed forth delighted on the scene. Within a few yards of the house wall rolled the roaring, yellow flood of the Lycamahoning, a mighty torrent, sweeping beyond its natural bounds. Tree trunk and brush and what not tossed hither and thither by its rollicking mood, yet bore ever onward. It was an ambitious stream, for the banks could not hold it. The turnpike, beyond the bridge, was hidden three feet from sight, and tearing through the underbrush on either side of the public way was an ever-widening torrent. The town was on higher ground than the turnpike beyond and so escaped the damage of the flood.

"What a grand country, Dick, old chap," said Ande, surveying the scene with interest. "This is better than hot Louisiana or even the Mississippi prairies."

"Humph!" yawned Dick; "but not better than Brazil." Then as he ceased stretching his great arms over his head; "Just think of it, Ande, if we had not been picked up by that outward bound Brazilian ship, we would not be independent now. Ah! diamonds and gold! That's the country, lad."

"Softly, softly, Dick," said Ande in a lower tone, "we're not going to advertise our circumstances. A month or so here, then home to Merrie England."

"And right glad will I be," said Dick; "but let's down and see what this settlement in the backwoods is like."

Ande followed by Dick went cautiously down the steep stairway, that seemed squeezed between the great chimney and the farther wall and led out at the bottom into the public room. There was no one in the public room when they entered, and so they wended their way across to the door and thence out into the street, if street it could be called. The hotel of Peter Burke was at the head of the main and only street of Burgtown, and one walking straight from the front door of the hotel would pass down an avenue, prolific in stumps, midway between two rows of log houses. Back of the tavern and but a few yards from it rolled and roared the Lycamahoning, and but a few yards from the north end was the covered bridge. It thus stood with the homes stretching from it in parallel lines, like a captain at the head of his soldiers. Several citizens were abroad already with their axes and were busily felling a forest giant that, isolated and ostracised with a few others, waved its branches in the air above the middle of the main thoroughfare of Burgtown. Several raftsmen with Hugh Lark at their head were standing at the end of the broad porch gazing over toward the bridge and the rushing yellow flood, shaking their heads dubiously at it, well knowing that there would be no rafting either that day or the next. The flood was too high.

There was the sound of cracking and rending of wood from the thoroughfare, a swishing and snapping of branches, a cry of warning, then one of terror, and with a resounding blow the mighty, woodland giant sprawled its full length on the ground. With an exclamation Hugh Lark leaped into the roadway followed by the other raftsmen and Ande and Dick. They were soon on the scene. There pinned to the earth under the heavy tree trunk, unconscious, his brow streaked with blood, was a man, evidently the chief chopper.

Women from the neighbouring homes were wringing their hands in dismay, and then from a distant cabin came a woman's scream, a cry full of anguish, and then a flying form burst the crowd and flung herself down near the head of the unconscious chopper. With tender hands she mopped the blood from his forehead and kissed his pale brow again and again, calling by every endearing name to the unconscious one to answer her. Hugh Lark wiped the moisture from his eyes, as did many others. Then with the instinct of the leader of men:

"Run, Jack, and get the rope and tackle and block from the raft. Jim, go get the heaviest crowbar from the tavern, and the rest of you men get crowbars. Peter Burke, get to thy tavern as fast as your legs will carry you and bring a flask of brandy."

"Can nothing be done until the coming of the block and tackle," ventured Ande. "Is it too heavy for a couple of fellows to lift by main strength?"

The raft pilot shook his head. "Three men could not lift the butt of that tree, and more than three couldn't try, without doing more injury to Tom underneath. I only hope he won't die before the rope comes."

Dick had not said a word, but he now hauled off his coat, and placing his big arms around the butt end of the fallen tree began to exert his strength.

"The man is mad," muttered Hugh Lark to one or two bystanders, while they all looked and wondered.

The blood mounted to his face and forehead, crimsoning his features like the sunrise of a rainy day, and then the veins stood out like whipcord upon his brow and arms, but the tree moved not. There was a straining of the eyes of Old Ironsides until they threatened to burst from their sockets, a rigidity of the limbs that though motionless yet indicated that the giant was putting forth every atom of his strength. The spectators scarcely breathed. Then, even before the people were aware of it, the tree began to move, silently, slowly, almost imperceptibly, inch by inch, up from the fallen, injured chopper. There was a suppressed murmur from the crowd, then Hugh with a bound was beside the injured man, and with the assistance of Ande quickly and deftly hauled him from his perilous position. There was a shout from the tavern. The rope and tackle was coming, but there was no need of them. Then Peter Burke, his cross eye glaring at the bystanders, and his other fastened upon Hugh and the succoured one, pushed his rotund, sebaceous body through the crowd, and with one fat, trembling hand extended to Hugh the brandy. A swallow of the fiery liquor and the fellow opened his eyes.

"Hurt much, Tom?" asked Hugh and the chopper's wife in almost one breath.

"Not much. Pretty well shuk up. Yes—pretty well shuk up."

They assisted the fellow to his feet, and then to his cabin home, still muttering in his dazed fashion: "Pretty well shuk up! Yes—pretty well shuk up."

Hugh was relieved. It was evident that whatever injuries he had received, the shock was more than them all, and with rest he would evidently pull through it.

The clang of a breakfast bell sounded on the morning air, and the rafters and travellers trooped to the tavern.

The fame of Dick and his companion speedily spread through the neighbourhood. Dick, according to rough estimates, had lifted a weight of two hundred stone. Hugh Lark was the most affable of all. Tom, the injured chopper, had been a lifelong friend, and this aid to a friend in distress he could not forget.

"Ye'll come down and see my raft," said he after breakfast. "You have never seen a raft and it'll be interesting to see how it's put together, and how we manage it with the great oars; and then I have something to tell you that will be, no doubt, interesting."

Together Hugh and our travellers wended their way around the tavern end, and down the edge of the stream. They rounded a bend in the stream and there, riding in the comparatively quiet water of the eddy, was the raft of the night before. With a bound Hugh was on it, followed by the others.

"Ye'll notice the way it's put together. First we square the timber sticks after they are cut to proper lengths, then tumble them into the water side by side, and bore these holes with the augur three inches apart. Then we get the stoutest ash or hickory poles, green and strong, and lay across the top of them midway between the holes, and bind them to the timber with well seasoned hickory bows and wooden pins. Ah! I see you are trying the oar." This last to Ande, who swung with his weight the great oar blade from its fastenings, and shoved it to and fro. "It's not easy work in a strong flood, and especially in the Rough Water."

"The Rough Water?"

"Aye! That's a section of the stream in the Big Lycamahoning some fifteen miles from here, where in a course of ten miles the water rushes with the speed of a race horse. It's most dangerous because of the rocks and requires a steady head and a ready hand to pilot through. Yet I have done it many a time and had no accidents. I suppose, with the exception of old Pegleg, I'm the only pilot that can say as much," and then seeing the look of inquiry on the faces of his auditors he continued: "Pegleg is a one-legged pilot who feels as much at home on the bobbing raft as he does on the land. But," and Hugh looked at his auditors kindly, "I didn't fetch ye here for the sake alone of showing the raft. I wanted to get you away from the prying eyes and ears of old Peter Burke and the rest. Last night I felt little like saying much about certain knowledge that I have, but men who have favoured our village by saving the life of one of its citizens, and one of my best friends at that, deserve something in return. If you are prospectors, come to my place to-morrow evening and mayhap I can give ye the information that would be of value to you. But not a word to any others, and especially to old Peter."

"We'll be on hand, never fear," said Ande.

There was a crashing in the underbrush of the shore, and two or three of the raftsmen leaped on the raft.

"When do ye think we can safely start, Hugh?" asked one.

"In two days, not before. The flood will take that time to go down to a good rafting stage. In the mean time, boys, we'll go home; but day after to-morrow we start out for down stream."

All returned to the tavern where, after some conversation, the raftsmen betook themselves to their homes and Ande and Dick having mounted their horses, well rested with the night, pushed down stream, toward the west, on a rude, half-cleared mountain trail. The road wound itself in a sinuous line over hills and through deeply wooded glens, but always the roar of the stream was in their ears.

"What boundless forests these are," said Ande, as they rested their horses on the summit of a steep declivity and gazed o'er the rolling mass of treetops. "No wonder Professor Bill was so oratorical. This is the famous country through which Armstrong marched his troops in 1756 against Shingas and Jacobs, the Shawnese chiefs of Kittanning, and near this section, no doubt farther south, poor grandfather lost his life. It was a fatal mistake."

"Perhaps we shall find something in this section that will tell us of your grandfather."

"If we do, it will be in connection with the Indian eldorado, spoken of by my father."

They had pushed on rapidly and were now nearing the mouth of the Little Lycamahoning. The gleam of a great expanse of water between the trees ahead indicated their approach.

"That must be the Big Lycamahoning of which Lark spoke."

"Hist!" said Dick, "there are some wild geese on the big creek. Hear them gabble. There must be fully a score. It's fortunate we have our guns with us."

They were now fairly in the outer shadow of the trees that o'erhung the trail, and the stream, swollen by the flood to three times its natural size, stretched before them three hundred yards in width.

"You take the right of the group, and I'll take the left," whispered Ande.

Simultaneously with the crack of their own guns another sounded from the midst of the willows that fringed the shore. There was a confused "Hank—Hank!" from the frightened birds as they rose in flight. A second later, a light canoe darted swiftly from the willows, and an aged hunter, its only occupant, gathered up the five or six birds that were slain, placed them in his canoe, and rapidly paddled up stream. All happened so quickly that the canoe with its aged occupant shot around a bend in the stream and disappeared from sight before Ande or his friend could say a word.

"Cool robbery! let's after him," said Ande, and suiting his action to the word, he pushed his horse into the stream and swum to the other side, followed by Dick. The trail was struck again on the other side and up the stream they went at as fast a gait as the many stumps and fallen trees would allow. Several times they crossed the stream by swimming their horses. Two miles up stream the creek valley widened and the stream, winding around the base of a hill, formed a loop or peninsula of some fifteen acres or so in extent. Here, in a small, grassy clearing, a rude cabin of unhewn logs greeted their vision. It was a one-storied affair pierced with loopholes, and had a small window in the end facing the stream. The roof of heavy hand-made clapboards, weighted down with poles, was green with age as also were the mossy logs of its walls. The door, a heavy affair of split timber, was ajar and near it on a wooden settle was the figure of the hunter, a man of some seventy years. The hair of his head and beard were snowy white, but his active frame belied his years. He was clad in leathern breeches, heavily fringed along the outer seams, and moccasins of the same tough material. A loose, woollen wamus, the product of the settlements, served in lieu of shirt and coat. His coonskin cap was beside him on the bench and he was busily engaged in plucking the captured birds. The sound of trotting horses aroused him from his work and he cast a keen, scrutinising, blue eye on the approaching invaders of his little domain.

"I say, sir, we'd like to know why you appropriated our birds," said Ande.

"Aye?" inquired the hunter.

Ande repeated the question.

"I shot these birds."

"Well, we shot some too and you seized them all."

"Ye did shoot some?"

"Yes, we did; we were on the road at the fording and fired at them."

The old man gazed at them earnestly, and evidently believing their tale, said:

"I thought that more were killed with my shot than customary, and if ye fired at the same time that I did, that explains my not hearing the report of your guns. Ye are welcome to some of them."

"Oh, no," said Ande, somewhat mollified by the hunter's generosity and explanation. "We thought you were robbing us, but it was clearly a mistake."

"Will ye sit down; it's nigh dinner time and, if ye can eat with a lone old man, you're most welcome. Ye can pasture your horses in that bit of clearing."

The invitation was accepted. The horses were tethered out where they could nibble the grass, and they returned.

"Come from afar?" interrogated the old hunter.

"From Louisiana," said Ande.

"Here hunting?"

"No, prospecting."

The old hunter straightened up as if shot, and gazed at them as if he would pierce them through with those keen, blue orbs of his.

"What for?" suspiciously.

"Metal, either silver or gold," explained Ande, whose suspicions were also aroused.

"Do ye think ye will find it?"

"Yes, somewhere."

"Where?"

"Along this stream."

"And do ye have any aid to help ye in your search?"

"We have little but our own knowledge."

"And your home is in Louisiana?"

"No, we came from there."

The old man arose with the birds which he had finished plucking and cleaning, and was silent for a time while he placed them in a home-made oven for cooking. Returning to the settle he took up the conversation.

"Ye'll find naught here but woods and hills and coal."

"Have you been here long?" asked Ande, in turn becoming the inquirer.

"Nigh sixteen years."

"How does it happen that you, a hunter, should frequent this section, which is rapidly becoming civilised?"

"Well, the country is becoming more peopled the last year or so, but there is still tolerable hunting. There's black bear in plenty, and there's deer, beaver, coon, and wild birds, and then I have other reasons. This is nigh the place where my father was slain."

"Your father was a hunter, too, then?"

"Aye, aye, he hunted some. He hunted some," went on the old hunter, more to himself than his auditors.

"And did Indians kill him?" asked Dick, becoming interested.

"He was captured by Indians and——" The old man shook his head and then: "Dinner is nigh ready and ye are no doubt as hungry as I am myself." The trapper led the way into the little cabin. Everything within was comfortable as the life of the woods could make them. A rough oak table stood near the opened window, a pile of bear and deerskins in one corner near the fireplace indicated the place where the aged hunter took his rest at night, several rifles hung affectionately on the branches of deer antlers o'er the fireplace, and along the wall ran a slab bench cut from a split log, the rounded side down, into which was inserted the legs. The dinner of roast goose was soon placed on the table and the hungry men sat down and did full justice to the fare. The old hunter fell into a stage of taciturnity from which he could not be aroused. Toward the close of the meal the host again became talkative and pressed his guests, if they stayed long in the neighbourhood, to call as often as they liked.

"It's a bit lonely for an old man, and I like company at times," said he, as they were preparing to leave. They promised to come.

The horses were soon untethered and mounting they rode back to Burgtown.

"Dick," said Ande in the privacy of their own room, "I believe that old fellow could tell us something about father, possibly about grandfather. I believe he knows at least something about the eldorado."

"He looked most suspicious when you mentioned that we were prospectors."

"His father was a hunter before him, and surely the one or the other must have met him. We'll see as time goes by. We'll call upon him again and try to worm some knowledge out of him. To-morrow we'll get something, I believe, from Hugh Lark, that will bring us close to the mark at least, I'm a-thinking."

CHAPTER XXIII

There was the steady tramp, tramp of horses' feet o'er the woodland trail and, by the moon's shimmering gleam that sifted down through the shadowy forest screen o'erhead, two horsemen could be perceived picking cautiously their way in the darkness of the shadow. In clear places, where the moonlight beamed unhindered, they pressed forward into a brisk trot and then again slowing down to a steady tramp as they plunged once more into some shadow. The road was uncertain, filled with pitfalls, stumps of fallen forest giants, and other hindrances that necessitated careful procedure. It was Ande and Dick on their way to the home of Hugh Lark, raft-pilot, and squatter on a ridge of hills, the watershed between the Great and Little Lycamahonings that poured their floods into the Allegheny River. The hoot of a night owl sounded dismally in the neighbouring forest and then, as if his call was the waving of an orchestra leader's baton, forth burst in full chorus hundreds of other birds of night, the most with the weird song "Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will."

The effect was grewsome and Ande shivered slightly.

"Dick," said he, "I had a dream last night that troubled me much."

Dick was all attention.

"It seemed in my dream that I had found somewhere a pearl of great price and I cherished it as I did my own soul. In the upper Big Lycamahoning district I found a large, silver ingot. In seeking to grasp the ingot I lost the pearl, and I was filled with sorrow, and then the ingot turned into a diamond of the first water and I was glad. I awoke then, and the sun was beaming brightly in through the tavern window on my face."

Ande ceased speaking. Dick was silent for he was thinking, and, though a good, sincere Methodist, was slightly superstitious.

"God knows, Ande, what it all means, but it seems to me that ee'll lose summat and gain summat better."

Dick had spoken partly in the old Cornish dialect, which they frequently spoke when by themselves.

"Aye, I guess that's the interpretation," said Ande, thoughtfully. The way was pursued in silence for some time, unbroken save by the tramp of horses' feet and the whirring wings of some bird whose solitude was disturbed.

A mile or so was passed over and then through the trees ahead was the gleam of a light, and after a time they rode into Hugh Lark's clearing. The log house, two stories in height, loomed up darkly in the dusk of evening. The moonlight touched up its clap-board roof and the edges of its huge stone chimney, lighting them fantastically, and through the greased paper-paned window came the glow of a fire within, evidently from the great fireplace. There was the baying of a hound, and then the quick bark of a shepherd dog in concert, and then the door opened and the frame of Hugh was outlined against the inner light.

"Get back, you dogs! Back to your kennel, Shep, and you, Jack, over to the barn with you!" he bellowed, and the dogs, that looked most aggressive, slunk off at the word of their master. The horses were soon fastened to the rail fence and the horsemen approached the house to be greeted on the threshold with the outstretched hand of Hugh.

"Come in, mon, come in. It's a cauld nicht, as they ca' it in auld Scotland," and he grasped each man's hand welcomingly and drew them within and up to the great fireplace, for though spring had come, yet the nights were cold. Hugh had greeted them as a Scotchman can. Though a tolerably educated man, yet he loved to drop now and then back into his mother tongue. The pilot's wife, a comely dame but little younger than himself, sat near the light of the fireplace busily spinning. His two chubby children had been put to bed in the room o'erhead and the scene within was that of quiet, home comfort. Bunches of dried herbs and a few hams and flitches of dried bacon and deer meat depended from the rafters of the ceiling. A few common prints adorned the rude white-washed walls and o'er the mantle piece, supported by deer antlers, was an old-time flint-lock rifle of great weight and heavy bore. The pilot introduced his wife, who, having made the customary courtesy, resumed her spinning, the whir, whir of the wheel mingling with the cracking of the fire-logs.

Hugh drew forward two home-made chairs for his visitors, and Ande sat down, but Dick was interested in the great rifle o'er the mantle piece. Hugh noticed his concentrated look on the old rifle.

"Aye, ye are looking at a highly prized relic in that rifle. Test the weight of it, sir; notice the large bore capable of carrying a ball the size of a schoolboy's marble."

Dick took down the gun and examined it.

"That rifle could tell many a tale, Mr. Dick, if it could speak. It was my father's, Captain Ande Lark's gun. Ye ken that captains of sharp-shooters in the days of Washington carried guns. A gun was more use to them then than all of the swords made. Father fired the last shot out of it in 1794, when he was mortally wounded by Indians on the Kiskiminatas. It was this way," said Hugh, seeing the look of interest on the faces of his visitors. "After the Revolution, the nation was heavily indebted, and not even the efforts of Robert Morris could save the nation from financial ruin had not many patriots, among whom was my father, withheld their claims for service. Some speculating jobber offered to trade father a thousand acres of land, where Braddock met his defeat, for the com mission papers and his claims. Father accepted, and loading up his goods on a flat boat he floated down the river Kiskiminatas. He was attacked by lurking savages along the river side and, although he succeeded in bringing down several of them by bullets from 'Old Thump,'"—and the pilot waved his hand expressively toward the old rifle,—"yet he received a wound himself from which he afterward died."

Hugh Lark was silent and his usually pleasant face was sober and sad. There was a long pause, unbroken save by the puffs and clouds of ascending tobacco smoke.

"Light the lamp, Mary," he at length said.

Mrs. Lark arose from her work and took from a receptacle in the wall a species of lamp much used by the woodsmen. It consisted of a turnip, split, and hollowed out within. A stick, around which was wrapped a strip of oiled linen, was inserted upright in the centre, and the vessel having been filled with deer grease was ready for use. The visitors gazed at this primitive vessel, that at best gave forth but a dismal light and a far more disagreeable odour.

"Candles are too much of a luxury for us at present, so we still use the old turnip lamp. But to get down to business. I wanted to speak to you of prospecting."

Hugh poked the fire logs a little, and Mrs. Lark arose and brought in a pitcher of home-made cider and some drinking vessels, and then retired.

"Ye must ken that the Indians kenned more of this country than we do, having lived here longer," said Hugh, as he raked a brand from the fire and lit his pipe; and then without pausing for an answer he continued: "I have read much for a backwoodsman and know of how the spirit of jealousy has ruled nations as well as people. The same spirit of jealousy that led the Asiatics to conceal from Europeans their arts and sciences is within the Indian breast. The Phœnecians, so I have read, hid so truly their art of making their beautiful colour called Phœnecian purple that to-day we know nothing of it. The pyramids to-day are monuments of the lost sciences of the ancients. There is much wealth in the hills of the country, known to the Indian alone. Father thought the same as I did and was convinced of it by a wound he received in an Indian expedition with the famous Sam Brady. His wound was probed and the bullet ye see tied to the old lock by a cord was the one taken out of the wound." Both examined the silver bullet that was attached to the lock of "Old Thump."

"He found the mine. Then you know its location, Mr. Lark?"

"Perhaps we had best have an understanding first, before I say much more. If ye are agreed to give me a fair share with yourselves we will go ahead."

"We are perfectly agreed, and more. If you give my friend, Dick, a share, I desire nothing."

Hugh looked mystified at Ande and said partly in the Scotch dialect, "And ye're not after the siller yoursel'?"

Ande seeing that he must explain, related the tale of his grandfather's dishonour, and Hugh, with various nods and puffs, listened.

"Aye, I see, I see," said Hugh; "and ye think the unearthing of this Indian mine will bring to light your family honour. Ye said the other night that ye were prospecting for character, and we thought it was a joke on the tavern keeper," and Hugh's features relaxed into a smile. "But now for my tale. Indians appear here, from the Shawnee tribes in the west, every few years. They remain for a time and then disappear. Some say they come for hunting, some for to visit the graves of their tribe, but I always had my own opinions. Some years ago there was a great flood and we raftsmen went down to get the rafts in safer positions. I was busy piloting when I thought I saw something out on the waters. It was not a rock nor a piece of driftwood, and after I had almost wearied my eyes I saw it was the head of a man. I gave the oar to Tom, the fellow ye saved from the tree the other day, Mr. Dick, and flung out a rope. It fell nigh the fellow and we dragged him in, and if it wasn't a half-breed Indian, a Canadian, so he afterward told me. He was far from his tribe and people and had hurt himself in some scrimmage or other with a wild animal. After we got the raft safe in good quarters, we took him up to our place here and nursed him for many a day until he was ready to leave, and then he showed what stuff he was made off. He wanted to reward me for my kindness. By his directions I got some paper and a pen and drew off a rude map of the Big Lycamahoning region. After it was made he put his brown finger on a certain section and said, 'If white man know what under there they shoe their oxen with silver.' Here's the map," and Hugh took from an inner pocket of his woollen wamus a rude roll of paper which he spread out for their view near the old turnip lamp. Ande took out his father's map and compared it with the other.

"Ye have a map, too," said Hugh.

"The one sent me years ago by my father."

The two maps coincided in all the essential features.

"And now we know the place and the only thing that remains for us is to set the date of going on our search. The first night of the full moon would be best suited to our purpose. And there must be another let into the secret, for we can't get along handily without the use of the only canoe on the Big Creek, and that's Hunter Tom of the Loop," said Hugh.

"Who's Hunter Tom?" asked Dick.

"He's a queer old character, and has been in the neighbourhood of the Big Creek for the—well—as long as any of us around here, and for a great time longer. He's a hunter and has a cabin over in a little clearing alongside of the Big Creek."

"The very man we ate dinner with the other day," said Ande, and turning to Hugh he related the circumstances of their adventure.

"The very same man, and a better guide and hunter none ever saw," replied Hugh, emphatically. Good-nights were now spoken, and, mounting, the young men rode back to Burgtown.

CHAPTER XXIV

Ande, having received this reply, had not the temerity to push his inquiry further. He admired the old hunter for his kind disposition, and especially because he had seen service under Brock. He had frequently tried to get him to relate tales of battles and adven tures, but the old man was of a taciturn nature, a quality born in him by his years of woodcraft. But his taciturnity did not hinder their intimacy or his friendship. He had given them rare treats in canoeing; night after night they had dropped down with the stream to the shelter of willows, and secure from observation had quietly awaited the coming of the deer to slake their thirst at the margin of the stream. On one occasion he had taken them with him through the Rough Water, shooting the rapids with consummate skill, and pointing out to them the marks of interest, such as Pilot Rock or Shawnee Rock, Driftwood, the Sluice and others.

It was the evening just before the full moon when they made their last trip, still-hunting for deer. They had dropped down with the current, and had just secluded their craft beneath the willows when harsh, guttural, sometimes musical voices were heard on shore, at some distance. The old hunter placed a warning hand on the shoulder of Ande, and with the whisper of "Hist!" they listened. Bidding the young men be silent, and on no account to move from their position, the old trapper slipped up o'er the bank and in an instant was gone from sight. The same voices continued for the space of many minutes without interruption, and then, as cautiously as he had withdrawn, the hunter returned. With finger on his lip to indicate silence he cautiously dipped the paddle, and they moved silently up stream, skirting the willows in their journey. When beyond hearing distance he spoke in audible tones.

"The Shawnese are in the land. They must have come up from the Ohio."

"But they are peaceful, no doubt?"

"Aye, they are peaceful; but I always mistrust them. The cruelties they heaped upon my father and the cruelties that I have witnessed at their hands have always made them hateful to me."

"How do you know that they are Shawnese?" asked Dick.

"How do I know, lad? I have had more dealings with the Indians and the Shawnese than any one around this section. I remember the time I met Tecumseh and his brother, the Prophet, in the Ohio region years ago, and their language is as familiar to me as my own. The silver mine that the pilot was a-telling ye of was even then current among them, but more as a legend than as an active fact."

"The silver mine?"

"Aye, the silver mine. Haven't I searched for it, and found it not. I searched for it until I was weary, and then I gave it up. Of what value is silver or gold to me now. My friends are all dead, and I, myself, have not so many years to live that I should delve after the curse of earth. Two years after I left the old Dart I swore, on the receipt of news of the death of my dear ones, never to return, unless,——" The old hunter was silent.

"Unless?"

"Not unless I accomplish my purpose here. I came not here as a hunter, lad, alone;—there were other pur poses, vain probably now." There was an element of sadness in the hunter's tone. "And yet I should like to see the old home once more. It is very dear to me."