picture, but at this moment young Farrar was in no mood for studying
effects. He felt rather unstrung by his recent emotions; and, though he
was by no means an imaginative youth, he actually took it into his head
half seriously that the whooping, hooting thing was taunting him with
making a failure of the jacking business. Without pausing to consider
whether the owl would furnish meat for the camp or not, he let fly at
him suddenly with his rifle.

The fate of that ghostly, big-eyed creature will be forever one of those
mysteries which Neal Farrar would like to solve. Whether the heavy
bullet intended for deer laid him open--which is improbable--or whether
it didn't, nobody had a chance to discover. Being unused to birch-bark
canoes, the sportsman gave a slight lurch aside after he had discharged
his leaden messenger of death, startled doubtless by the loud,
unexpected echoes which reverberated through the forest after his shot.

"Hold on!" cried Cyrus, trying to avert a ducking by a counter-motion.
"You'll tip us over!"

Too late! The birch skiff spun round, rocked crazily for a second or
two, and keeled over, spilling both its occupants into the black and
silver water of the pond.

Of course they ducked under, and of course they rose, gurgling and
spluttering.

"You didn't lose the rifle, Neal, did you?" gasped the American directly
he could speak.

"Not I! I held on to it like grim death."