gain halting when the trail, because of freshly
fallen pine-needles or leaves, became quite invisible. Again he would
crouch close to the ground, make a circle with his finger round the last
visible print, and work out from that, trying various directions, until
he knew that he was again on the track which the limping moose had
travelled before him.

His comrades followed in single file, carrying their rifles in front of
their bodies instead of on their shoulders, so that there might be no
danger of a sudden clang or rattle from the barrels striking the trees.
Following the example of their guide, each one carefully avoided
stepping on crackling twigs or dry branches, or rustling against bushes
or boughs. The latter they would take gingerly in their hands as they
approached them, bend them out of the way, and gently release them as
they passed. Heroically they forebore to growl when their legs were
scraped by jagged bowlders or prickly shrubs, giving thanks inwardly to
the manufacturers of their stout tweeds that their clothes held
together, instead of hanging on them like streamers on a rag-bush.

It was a good, practical lesson in moose-trailing; but, save for the
knowledge gained by the three who had never stalked a moose before, it
was a failure.

The air beneath the dense foliage grew depressing--suffocating. Each one
longed breathlessly for the minute when he should emerge from this heavy
timber-growth, even to do more rugged climbing. Distant rumbles were
heard. Herb's prophecy was being fulfilled. Pamolah was grumbling at the
trailers, and sending out his Thunder Sons to bid them back.

But it was too late for retreat. If they gave up their purpose, turned
and fled to camp, the storm, which was surely coming, would catch them
under the interlacing trees, a danger which the guide was especially
anxious to avoid. He pressed on with quickened steps, stooping no more
to make circles round the moose's prints. Old Pamolah's threatenings
grew increasingly sullen. At last the desired break in the woods was
reached; the trackers found themselves on the open side of Katahdin,
surrounded by a tangled growth of alders and white birches struggling up
between granite rocks; then the mountain artillery broke forth with
terrifying clatter.

A loud, long thunder-roll was echoed from crag, slide, forest, spur, and
basin. The "home of storms" was a fort of noise.

"Ha! there'll be a big cannonading this time, I guess. Pamola