human presence.

He might easily have allowed himself to be alarmed at the utter
loneliness, and afraid lest he should lose himself. But he knew all
the time that if he should be lost, Kiddie would come out in search of
him and quickly find him.

In his moments of deepest despair, however, he always discovered some
obvious sign which he had previously overlooked, and at last he
perceived that he had been led round in an exact triangle, for through
the green meshes of the trees he caught a glimpse of the lake and a
thin blue column of fire-smoke, and then in the surrounding silence he
heard Kiddie's well-known voice singing a snatch of a Scots ballad--

"Late, late in the gloaming, Kilmeny cam' hame."

"Hullo, Rube; got back inter camp, eh? Been wanderin' about the forest
all on your own, have you? I've waited for you; got tea ready, you
see--all but boilin' th' eggs. Guessed you'd relish a couple of eggs."

Kiddie did not turn to look at Rube as he spoke. He was reclining
between the teepee and the fire with his open note-book on his knee and
a blacklead pencil in his fingers. Beside him was a newly-cut birch
stick with part of the bark whittled off.

"Yes," Rube responded, halting near him and standing looking him up and
down in curious examination. "Yes, I allow I'm some hungry. Say, your
moccasins are wet. Spilt some of the tea-water on 'em? Pity ter spoil
a nice pair of moccasins by wettin' 'em. You ain't written much with
that pencil. The point's still sharp since you sharpened it after
dinner."

Kiddie glanced at the pencil point and smiled.

"Might have sharpened it again, while I've been waitin'," he said.

"But you didn't," returned Rube. "There ain't no chips lyin'
around--unless you've put 'em in your pocket, same's you did before."

Kiddie smiled again. He had moved to the fire to put on the eggs.

"You're becomin' quite observant, Rube," he said. "See anythin'
special on your solitary wanderin's?"

"Guess I found this here scrap of paper," Rube answered. "Looks as if
it had been tore outer that note-book you was pretendin' to be writin'
in--same size, same colour, an' thar's writin' on it, too. Looks like
your own fist, don't it?"

Kiddie reached for the square of paper that was handed to him and
examined it as if he had never seen it before.

[Illustration: Kiddie reached for the square of paper.]

"Queer!" he ruminated, "it's sure my handwritin'--'_Bring this back to