prised
at length to see it open into a little lake with a dozen beaver huts in
view. "Splash, prong" their builders went at his approach, but he made
for the hillside; the woods were open, the moonlight brilliant now, and
here he trotted at full swing as long as the way was level or down,
but always walked on the uphill. A sudden noise ahead was followed by
a tremendous crashing and crackling of the brush. For a moment it
continued, and what it meant, Rolf never knew or guessed.

"Trot, trot," he went, reeling off six miles in the open, two or perhaps
three in the thickets, but on and on, ever eastward. Hill after hill,
swamp after swamp, he crossed, lake after lake he skirted round, and,
when he reached some little stream, he sought a log bridge or prodded
with a pole till he found a ford and crossed, then ran a mile or two to
make up loss of time.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, and his steady breath and his steady heart kept
unremitting rhythm.

Chapter 73. Rolf Makes a Record

Twelve miles were gone when the foreglow--the first cold dawn-light
showed, and shining across his path ahead was a mighty rolling stream.
Guided by the now familiar form of Goodenow Peak he made for this, the
Hudson's lordly flood. There was his raft securely held, with paddle and
pole near by, and he pushed off with all the force of his young vigour.
Jumping and careening with the stream in its freshet flood, the raft and
its hardy pilot were served with many a whirl and some round spins, but
the long pole found bottom nearly everywhere, and not ten minutes passed
before the traveller sprang ashore, tied up his craft, then swung and
tramped and swung.

Over the hills of Vanderwhacker, under the woods of Boreas. Tramp,
tramp, splash, tramp, wringing and sopping, but strong and hot, tramp,
tramp, tramp, tramp. The partridge whirred from his path, the gray deer
snorted, and the panther sneaked aside. Tramp, tramp, trot, trot, and
the Washburn Ridge was blue against the sunrise. Trot, trot, over the
low, level, mile-long slope he went, and when the Day-god burnt the
upper hill-rim he was by brown Tahawus flood and had covered eighteen
miles.

By the stream he stopped to drink. A partridge cock, in the pride of
spring, strutted arrogantly on a log. Rolf drew his pistol, fired, then
hung the headless body while he made a camper's blaze: an oatcake, the
partridge, and river water were his meal. His impulse was to go on at
once. His reason, said "