ly to her hand.
Unless Fingers had changed its location, the scow should be somewhere
within forty or fifty paces of the end of the trail. It was small, a
two-man scow, with a tight little house built amidships. And it was
tied close up against the shore. Marette told him this as they felt
their way through brush and reeds. Then he stumbled against something
taut and knee-high, and he found it was the tie-rope.

Leaving Marette with her back to the anchor tree, he went aboard. The
water was three or four inches deep in the bottom of the scow, but the
cabin was built on a platform raised above the floor of the boat, and
Kent hoped it was still dry. He groped until he found the twisted wire
which held the door shut. Opening it, he ducked his head low and
entered. The little room was not more than four feet high, and for
greater convenience he fell upon his knees while fumbling under his
slicker for his water-proof box of matches. The water had not yet risen
above the floor.

The first light he struck revealed the interior to him. It was a tiny
cabin, scarcely larger than some boxes he had seen. It was about eight
feet long by six in width, and the ceiling was so low that, even
kneeling, his head touched it. His match burned out, and he lighted
another. This time he saw a candle stuck in a bit of split birch that
projected from the wall. He crept to it and lighted it. For a moment he
looked about him, and again he blessed Fingers. The little scow was
prepared for a voyage. Two narrow bunks were built at the far end, one
so close above the other that Kent grinned as he thought of squeezing
between. There were blankets. Within reach of his arm was a tiny stove,
and close to the stove a supply of kindling and dry wood. The whole
thing made him think of a child's playhouse. Yet there was still room
for a wide, comfortable, cane-bottomed chair, a stool, and a
smooth-planed board fastened under a window, so that it answered the
purpose of a table. This table was piled with many packages.

He stripped off his packs and returned for Marette. She had come to the
edge of the scow and called to him softly as she heard him splashing
through the water. Her arms were reaching toward him, to meet him in
the darkness. He carried her through the shallow sea about his feet and
laughed as he put her down on the edge of the platform at the door. It
was a low, joyous laugh. The yellow light of the candle sputtered in
their wet faces. Only d