Adam, the Hunter 313 



thought we heard the thump, thump, of a deer run- 

 ning over the hill. There were splashings at a 

 distance which must be analyzed by the ear. 

 "Frogs," finally Gordon decided in a whisper, and 

 we went on, picking each step on which to plant 

 our feet. There was a small, sleek boat hidden 

 near another lake beyond us. We reached it, 

 launched it, letting it down into the water slowly, 

 slipped cartridges into our guns, lit the lamp, and 

 tightened its straps about my head. I consider 

 myself a good boatman, but he is ahead of any man, 

 white or red, I ever was with. The boat appeared 

 to be stationary, though I knew we were moving, 

 and tried to determine the rate of motion by look- 

 ing at the black walls of the forests on the shores, 

 but they gave no sign. Then I turned the ray of 

 my lamp upon the water, and was surprised to see 

 how swiftly we passed the floating bonnet of a lily. 

 The boat paused in the very middle of the lake, to 

 which it had made its silent and ghostly way. 

 Though sitting in the prow of a boat with an oars- 

 man propelling it, one can scarcely dissipate the 

 delusion that he is alone. The perfect boatman 

 gives no indication of his presence or his work. 

 There is no rustle in his unstarched black cotton 

 shirt, there is no twist of his hands on the oar, 

 there is no dip or tinkle in the water. I closed my 

 eyes so as to give undivided attention to listening, 

 but now that the owls were silent, all was silent as 

 a dream. 



