Herb, turning back at that minute to wait for his party, experienced a shock of curiosity which was new to him, at seeing the three in close counsel, shouldering each other upon a trail a couple of feet wide.

But the sensation passed. Dol for once was not guilty of an indiscretion, waking or sleeping. The woodsman got no hint of what matter had been discussed until more than two weeks later, when he stood in the main street of Greenville, beside a tanned, muscular, newly shaven trio, waiting for their departure for Boston.

A few pleasant days, marked by no particular excitements, had been spent at the log camp on Millinokett after that wonderful trip into the forests of Katahdin. Then the weather turned suddenly blustering and cold; and Cyrus, as captain, ordered an immediate forced march to Greenville.

Under Herb's guidance that march was made with singularly few hardships. He managed to hire a "jumper" from a new settler who had a farm a couple of miles from their camp. This contrivance was a rough sort of sled, formed of two stout ash saplings, and hitched to a courageous horse. The "jumper's" one merit was that it could travel along many a rough trail where wheels would be splintered at the outset. But since, as Herb said, it went at "a succession of dead jumps," no camper was willing to trust his bones to its tender mercies. However, it answered admirably for carrying the tent, knapsacks, and trophies of the party, tightly strapped in place, including Neal's bear-skin, which was duly called for, and the moose-antlers, more precious in Dol's sight than if they had been made of beaten gold.

Thus the campers journeyed homeward with their backs as light as their spirits, caring little for the chills of a couple of nights spent under canvas and rubber coverings.

Two gala evenings they had,—one with Uncle Eb in his bark hut near Squaw Pond, where they were regaled with a sumptuous supper, for "coons war in eatin' order now;" and the second with Doctor Phil Buck at his little frame house near Moosehead Lake.

Dear old Doc was as ever a power,—a power to welcome, uplift, entertain.

The campers sought him immediately on their arrival at Greenville; and he stood by them while Cyrus made a full statement before the local coroner about the death and burial of the half-breed, Chris Kemp, the Farrars and Herb confirming what was said with due dignity.

But dignity was blown to the four winds by the very unprofessional and very woodsman-like cheer that Doc raised, and that was echoed thunderously by Joe Flint and a few other guides and loungers who had collected to hear the story, when Cyrus described the splendid rush which Herb made, with the dying man in his arms, and the clay of the landslide half smothering him.

"I'm sorry I wasn't near to try and do something for the poor fellow," said the doctor, later on, when his friends were gathered round a blazing wood-fire in his own snug house. "But I doubt if I could have helped him. I guess he was born with the hankering for whiskey, and when that is in the mongrel blood of a half-breed it is pretty sure to wreck him some time. We must leave him to God, boys, and to changes larger than we know."

"I've a letter for you, Neal," added the host presently in a lighter tone. "It was directed to my care. It is from Philadelphia, from Royal Sinclair, I think."

Neal slit the envelope which was handed to him, and read the few lines it contained aloud, with a longing burst of laughter.

Royal was as short with his pen as he was dash-away with his tongue. The letter was a brief but pressing invitation to Cyrus and the Farrars to visit their camping acquaintances of the Maine wilds at the Sinclairs' home in Philadelphia before the English boys recrossed the Atlantic.

"Come you must!" wrote Roy. "We've promised to give a big spread, and invite all the crowd we train with to meet you. We'll have a great old time, and bring out our best yarns. Don't let me catch you refusing!"

Greenville,—"Farewell To The Woods."

Greenville,—"Farewell To The Woods."

"We won't if we can help it," commented Neal; "if only we can coax the Pater to give us another week in jolly America."

The campers slept upon mattresses that night for the first time in many weeks.

The following morning saw them grouped in the main street of Greenville, with Doc and Herb on hand for a final farewell, waiting for the departure of the coach which was to bear them a little part of the way towards Boston civilization.

Dol was turning over in his jostled thoughts the delicate wording of the hint which he was to convey to Herb about the rifle, when he became aware that Doctor Phil was pinching his shoulder, and saying, while he drew Neal's attention in the same way:—

"Well, you fellows! I'm glad to have known you. If you ever come to Maine again, remember that there's one old forest fogy who'll have a delightful welcome for you in his house or camp, not to speak of the thing he calls his heart. And I hope you'll keep a pleasant corner in your memories for our Pine Tree State, and for American States generally, so far as you've seen them."

Dol tried to answer; but recalling the evening when, wrecked at heart, with stinging feet, he had stumbled at last into the trail to Doc's camp, he could only mutter, "Dash it all!" and rub his leaking eyes.

"Of course I'll think in an hour from now of all the things I want to say," began Neal helplessly, and stopped. "But I'll tell you how I feel, Doc," he added, with a sudden rush of breath: "I think I can never see your Stars and Stripes again without taking off my hat to them, and feeling that they're about equal to my own flag."

"Neatly put, Neal! I couldn't have done it better," laughed Cyrus.

"Shake!" and Doc offered his hand in a heart-grip, while the hairs on it bristled. "Boy! long life to that feeling. You men who are now being hatched will show us one day what Young England and Young America, as a grand brotherhood under comrade flags, can do to give this old earth a lift which she has never had yet towards peace and prosperity. We're looking to you for it!"

"Hur-r-r-rup!" cheered Herb, subduing his shout to the requirements of a settlement, but sending his battered hat some ten feet into the air, and recovering it with a dexterous shoot of his long arm, by way of giving his friends an inspiring send-off.

"Tell you what it is!" he said suddenly, turning upon the Farrars, "I never guided Britishers till now; but, wherever you sprung from, you're clean grit. If a man is that, it don't matter a whistle to me what country riz him."

A few minutes afterwards, with a jingle, jangle, lurch, and rattle, the stage-coach was swaying its way out of Greenville. Dol, stooping from his seat upon it, gripped the guide's hand in a wringing good-by.

"Herb," he said, "we three fellows want you to stay here for a few days, and not to do anything about a second-hand rifle until you hear from us. Mind!"

And so it happened that, ten days or so later, while the three were enjoying the hospitalities of the Sinclairs and "their crowd" in the Quaker City, Herb, who was still in Greenville, waiting for a fresh engagement as guide, was accosted by the driver of the coach from Bangor.

"Herb Heal, here's a bully parcel for you," said the Jehu, with a knowing grin. "Came from Boston, I guess. I war booked to take pertik'lar care of it."

And Herb, feeling his strong fingers tingle, undid many wrappers, and hauled out, before the eyes of Greenville loungers, a rifle such as it is the desire of every Maine woodsman's heart to possess.

A best grade, 45-90, half-magazine Winchester it was, fitted with shot-gun stock and Lyman sights, and bearing a gleaming silver plate, on which was prettily lettered:—

Underneath was engraved a miniature pine, its trunk bearing three sets of initials.

Herb stalked straight off a distance of one mile to Doctor Buck's house, pushed the door open as if it had been the door of a wilderness camp, and shot himself into Doc's little study.

"Look what those three gamy fellows have sent me," he said; and his eyes were now like Millinokett Lake under a full sun-burst. "I thought the old one was a corker, but this"—

Here the woodsman's dictionary gave out. h6KbEx66mQDYfYFnwZrGAAIRUFXBuWrwgWzV+jRg1JuWLa6IZ3ygUVqnlqNv0GPU

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