"What? what? wh-wh-at?" gasped Dol, awaking. "I wasn't talking out loud,
was I?"

"Not talking aloud! Well, I should smile!" answered the camp captain.
"You were making as much noise as a loon, and that's the noisiest thing
I know. Go to sleep again, young one, and don't have any more crazy
spells before dinner-time."

Cyrus removed his hand, shut his eyes, and in a minute or two was
breathing heavily. Neal, who had been aroused too, followed his
example, laughing and mumbling something about "it's being an old trick
of Dol's to hunt in his sleep."

But the junior member of the party remained awake. After his dreams had
been dissipated he cared no more for slumber. When he could venture it
without disturbing his companions, he rose to a sitting posture, and,
after squatting for a while in meditation, got on his feet, picked up
his coat and moccasins, and, stealthily as an Indian, crept out of the
hut.

The rolling music among the pine-tops had died down; only at long
intervals a soft, random rustle swept through them. It was nearly
midday. The camp-fire was almost dead, quenched by the dazzling sunlight
which fell in patches on the camping-ground, and flooded the clearing
beyond the shadow of the pines.

Moreover, the camping-ground was deserted. Neither Uncle Eb nor Tiger
could be seen, though Dol's eyes sought for them wistfully. But
something caught his attention. It was a ray of light filtering through
the pine boughs and glinting on the trigger of an old-fashioned
muzzle-loading shot-gun, which leaned against a corner of the hut. An
ancient, glistening powder-horn and a coon-skin ammunition pouch hung
above it.

Dol lifted the antiquated weapon, withdrew to a short distance, and
examined it closely. He knew it belonged to the guide, but was rarely
used by him since he had purchased the 44-calibre Winchester rifle, with
which he could do uncommon feats in shooting.

The shot-gun interested the boy mightily. There was a facsimile of it,
swathed in green baize, stowed away somewhere in his father's house in
Manchester. The first time he had ever used fire-arms was on a memorable
day when his fingers pulled its trigger in his father's garden under
Neal's direction, and a lean starling fell before his shot. After that
he had often taken out a fowling-piece of a newer style, and had done
pretty well with it too.

As he handled the shot-gun, which the guide had bought away back in the
year '55, musing about