he did not rest. There was something almost
mechanically certain in his slow but steady progress, though he knew it
was possible for the canoe to outdistance him three to one. He was
missing nothing along the shore. Three times during the forenoon he saw
where the canoe had landed, and he chuckled each time, thinking of the
old story of the tortoise and the hare. He stopped for not more than
two or three minutes at each of these places, and was then on his way
again.

Peter was fascinated by the unexcited persistency of the man's
movement. He followed it, watched it, and became more and more
interested in the unvarying monotony of it. There were the same
up-and-down strokes of the long pole, the slight swaying of the
upstanding body, the same eddy behind the cedar logs--and occasionally
wisps of smoke floating behind when the pursuer smoked his pipe. Not
once did Peter see Breault turn his head to look behind him. Yet
Breault was seeing everything. Five times that morning he saw Peter,
but not once did he make a sign or call to him.

He drove his raft ashore at twelve o'clock to prepare his dinner, and
after he had built a fire, and his cooking things were scattered about,
he straightened himself up and called in that same matter-of-fact way,
as if expecting an immediate response,

"Here, Peter!--Peter!--Come in, Boy!"

And Peter came. Fighting against the last instinct that held him back
he first thrust his head out from the brush and looked at Breault.
Breault paid no attention to him for a few moments, but sliced his
bacon. When the perfume of the cooking meat reached Peter's nose he
edged himself a little nearer, and with a whimpering sigh flattened
himself on his belly.

Breault heard the sigh, and grunted a reply,

"Hungry again, Peter?" he inquired casually.

He had saved for this moment a piece of cooked bacon held over from
breakfast, and tearing this with his fingers he tossed the strips to
Peter. As he did this he was thinking to himself,

"Why am I doing this? I don't want the dog. He will be a nuisance. He
will eat my grub. But it's fair. I'm paying a debt. He helped to save
me up on the Barren."

Thus did Breault, the man without mercy, the Nemesis, briefly analyze
the matter. And he cooked five pieces of bacon for Peter.

During the rest of that day Peter made no effort to keep himself in
concealment as he followed Breault and his raft. This afternoon Breault
shot a fawn, and when he made ca