All that night Larry and Jack slept in the canoe, while the Chippewa boy
paddled noiselessly, mile after mile. Above them the loons laughed, and
herons called, and in the dense forest ashore foxes barked and owls
hooted. A beautiful bow of light arched itself in the north, its long,
silvery fingers stretching and darting up to the sky's zenith. But the
Indian paddled on. Those wild sounds and scenes were his birthright, and
he knew no fear of them.

At daylight he beached the canoe so motionlessly the sleepers never
stirred, and he wakened them only when he had the coffee made and a
huge pan of delicious bacon fried above the coals. Both of the paleface
friends then arose, yawned, stretched, stripped and plunged into the
lake, to swim about for a few moments, and then to jump into their
shirts and sweaters, and fall upon the coffee and bacon with fine
relish.

"I believe," said Jack, devouring his third helping, "that my eyes are
better. They don't ache or smart in the least to-day."

"Eye bad?" asked Fox-Foot.

Jack explained.

"I cure, me, if you like. Root good for bad eye grows here, north," said
the Chippewa.

"Better let him try," urged Larry. "He knows all these things. His
flower seeds have evidently put the kibosh on the man in the mackinaw."