It was only his third night in Maine wilds; and I fear that his friend
Cyrus, when inviting him to join in the jacking excursion, had refrained
from explaining the canoe mystery, mischievously promising himself
considerable fun from the English lad's bewilderment.

Neal's hearing was strained to catch any sound of big game beating
about amid the bushes on shore or splashing in the water, but none
reached him. The night seemed to grow stiller, stiller, ever stiller, as
they glided towards the head of the pond, until the dead quiet started
strange, imaginary noises.

There was a pounding as of dull hammers in his ears, a belling in his
head, and a drumming at his heart.

He was tortured by a wild desire to yell his loudest, and defy the
brooding silence.

Another--a midnight watchman--broke it instead.

"Whoo-ho-ho-whah-whoo!"

It was the thrilling scream of a big-eyed owl as he chased a squirrel to
its death, and proceeded to banquet in unwinking solemnity.

"Whoo-ho-ho-whah-whoo!"

Neal started,--who wouldn't?--and joggled the canoe, thereby nearly
ending the night hunt at once by the untimely discharge of his rifle.