“Dad! Oh, Dad! This stream flows out of the lake; not into it. Do you notice?”
The leading canoe slowed up while the boys approached.
“It certainly does, Jack,” said his father. “What do you make of it, Farnum?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You must remember this is unexplored country. We’re liable to find anything here. But, maybe——”
“I don’t know. We’re near the Coppermine, aren’t we, Art?”
“Maybe this stream flows into the Coppermine.”
“I’ll bet that’s it,” Art approved. “The waters of that lake empty into the Coppermine. Yes, sir; I’ll bet that’s what it is. Well, that makes travel easy for awhile, anyhow.”
Two days of travel, unbroken by any but routine incidents such as the occasional shooting of wild duck Or geese, brought the party at camping time at the end of the second day to a pleasant, open, grassy prairie between two low-wooded hills. Here it was decided to make camp.
After the evening meal was over, and while Mr. Hampton, who was feeling out of sorts, retired to his little tent to try and sleep without taking part in the usual desultory conversation about the fire—which was kept going for the companionship and cheer it imparted and not from any need of warmth you may be sure—Jack arose and stretched.
“My legs are stiff from that position in the canoe all day,” he said. “I want to stretch them a bit. Who’ll come with me to the top of that nearest hill? The sun is pretty low, but we ought to get a considerable view.”
Bob and Frank both volunteered to accompany him. Farnum sat, smoking his pipe and staring into the fire absently. He didn’t care to go. But Art arose and joined the party. It was not far to the top of the hill, although a stiff climb through the trees and brush. The crest, however, was bare of timber.
Frank, who lighter than the others, was first to reach the top, stood struck with amazement. He turned to beckon the others forward with one hand, while laying the other over his mouth in a gesture enjoining silence.
“For the love o’ Pete,” whispered Art, eyes bulging, as he stood beside Frank and peered down into the grassy vale beyond, half overgrown with young willows.
“Are they caribou?” asked Jack, low-voiced. “They don’t look like the caribou we’ve run across along the streams.”
