We came to Paleyville with time only for a bite of luncheon before
dark. We could see no sign of life on the island or the "Canuck
shore" as we turned our bows to the south channel. That evening
the innkeeper sat with us under a creeking sign, our chairs tilted
to the tavernside.

D'ri was making a moose-horn of birch-bark as he smoked
thoughtfully. When he had finished, he raised it to his lips and
moved the flaring end in a wide circle as he blew a blast that rang
miles away in the far forest.

"Ef we heppen t' git separated in any way, shape, er manner 'cept
one," said he, as he slung it over his shoulder with a string,
"ye'll know purty nigh where I be when ye hear thet air thing."

"You said, 'in any way, shape, er manner 'cept one.'" I quoted.
"What do you mean by that?"

My friend expectorated, looking off into the night soberly a moment.

"Guess I didn't mean nuthin'," said he, presently. "When I set out
t' say suthin', don't never know where I 'm goin' t' land. Good
deal luk settin' sail without a compass. Thet 's one reason I
don't never say much 'fore women."

Our good host hurried the lagging hours with many a tale of the
river and that island we were soon to visit, once the refuge of
Tadusac, the old river pirate, so he told us, with a cave now
haunted by some ghost. We started for the shore near ten o'clock,