The stars shone brightly.  The distant shore line stood out in dark silhouette marking the boundary of the land of silence, where no man lived.  A thousand miles of trackless, unknown wilderness lay beyond that dark forest boundary.  Charley’s imagination pictured it as another world, apart and different from anything he had ever seen.  Reared in a great city, it was difficult for him, even after his experience of the past week, to visualize it or form any accurate conception of what lay within its cold, rugged heart.

Listening to the ripple of water, watching the stars, Charley’s thoughts turned from the dark shore line to the brighter home land.  What had his father said when Mr. Wise returned without him?  What would his mother say and feel when his father reached home alone?  How grief-stricken they would be!  Tears came into Charley’s eyes, and remorse threatened to dampen the pleasure, and rob him of the ardour, of the adventure, when Skipper Zeb, in his big, cheery voice, asked: 

“Be you snug and warm back there, Charley, lad?”

“Yes, thank you.”  Charley’s voice betrayed his thoughts, perhaps, for Skipper Zeb asked: 

“Not sorry now that the ship left you, be you, lad?”

“N-n-o,” hesitated Charley, “I’m having a great time, but I was thinking of Dad and Mother, and how badly they will feel.”

“Don’t be thinkin’ o’ that now.  Think how glad you’ll make they when you goes back.”  Skipper Zeb laughed heartily.  “I’m just laughin’ at the way they’ll be takin’ on then!  They’ll be just maulin’ you to pieces, they’ll be so glad!  Think o’ that now.  Think o’ the bad fix you gets out of, and thank the Lard you gets left at Pinch-In Tickle where you was as welcome as a son, instead of at some harbour where no one was bidin’, as might o’ happened.  Just be thinkin’ of to-day, and thank the Lard you’re well and hearty, and has a snug berth with plenty o’ grub.  Nothin’ to worry about!  Not a thing!”

“May I have a pull at the oars?” Charley asked, the gloom suddenly dispersed by Skipper Zeb’s cheery voice and logical argument.

“Aye, lad, ’twill warm you up,” agreed Skipper Zeb heartily.  “Take Toby’s oars.  Let Charley have a pull at your oars, Toby, lad.”

Charley soon wearied of the unaccustomed work, and blisters began to form in the palms of soft hands; and when Toby suggested it, he was glad enough to surrender the oars again to Toby, who minded it not a bit.

Daylight came and with it bright sunshine.  Charley’s heart beat with gladness and the joy of life.  His far away city home seemed farther away than ever.  He remembered it as one remembers a place of dreams-the subways, the elevated railways, the traffic-clogged streets, the high buildings, the noise.  Here were no chimneys vomiting smoke and soot.  Here were no dirty streets to poison the air with noxious fumes and germs of disease.  He breathed deeply of the pure air bearing the sweet perfume of the forest and the refreshing smell of the salt sea.  It filled his lungs like a life-giving tonic.  How glorious this wild world was!

“Well, now!” Skipper Zeb announced an hour before midday.  “Here’s Swile Island before we knows it!  We’ll stop for a bit to boil the kettle and stretch our legs ashore.”

Swile Island was a small, nearly round island, containing an area equal to about that of a city block.  Its center rose to a small hill, covered by a stunted growth of black spruce trees, which somehow clung to its rocky surface.

Charley was glad to go ashore, and he soon learned that “to boil the kettle” meant to prepare and eat luncheon.  While Toby carried up from the boat the food and cooking utensils, Skipper Zeb lighted a fire, and in a little while the kettle was boiling for tea and a pan of salt pork sizzling over the coals.

Never in his life had Charley eaten fried salt pork, and Skipper Zeb’s pork contained no streak of lean.  He would have left the table without eating had such a meal been served him in his city home.  But here he ate the pork, with his bread sopped into the grease, and tea sweetened with molasses, hungrily and with a relish, so quickly had exercise in the pure, clear air of the wilderness had its effect.  Indeed, he was always hungry now, and could scarcely wait for meal time.

“There were lots of things I’d never eat at home,” he said as he passed his plate for a second helping of pork, “but here I like everything.”

“As I were sayin’ before, hunger’s a rare sauce for vittles,” remarked Skipper Zeb.

A light breeze sprang up while they were eating, and when they made their departure from Swile Island Skipper Zeb hoisted a leg-o’-mutton sail, and then sat and smoked his pipe and told stories of experiences and adventures on the trail, while Toby took the rudder.

It was nearly three o’clock when Skipper Zeb pointed out a little log hut near the mouth of a small river, and announced: 

“There’s Black River and there’s Black River tilt where we bides to-night.”

A few minutes later the prow of the boat grounded upon a gravelly beach, and while Skipper Zeb unloaded the cargo the boys carried it to the tilt, laying it upon spruce boughs broken by Toby to protect it from the snow.

The tilt was built of logs, with a roof thatched with bark.  The door was not more than four feet in height, and when Skipper Zeb opened it the three were compelled to stoop low to enter.  The interior was a room about eight by ten feet in size.  Across the end opposite the door was a bunk, and, along the right side of the room as they entered, another bunk extended from that at the far end to the wall behind the door.  On the left side of the room, and midway between the end bunk and the door was a sheet-iron tent stove, with a pipe dismantled and lying on top of it.  An old pair of snowshoes, and steel traps, pieces of board shaped for stretching pelts of various sizes and some simple cooking utensils hung upon wooden pegs against the wall.  The floor was of hard-packed earth.

“Well, now!  Here we be safe and sound and ready for work!” boomed Skipper Zeb.  “Everything snug and fine when we gets our beds made and the stove set up and a fire in she.  Whilst you lads gets boughs for the beds, I’ll be puttin’ up the stove and stow the cargo inside.”

Toby and Charley went to work with a will, and soon had deep springy beds laid upon the bunks.  Upon the bunk at the farther end they spread Skipper Zeb’s sleeping bag, and side by side, upon the other bunk, their own.  Already Skipper Zeb had a crackling fire in the stove and the cargo carried in and stowed snugly under the berths.

“Now whilst Toby and I tidy up a bit, put over the kettle, Charley lad, and we’ll have a bite to eat,” suggested Skipper Zeb.

Charley took the tin pail that served as a kettle, to fill it at the river.  Just as he had dipped it and was about to return, his eye fell upon a peculiar looking animal perched upon a branch high up in a spruce tree.  With all speed he ran back to the tilt and called excitedly upon Toby to come and see it.

“’Tis a porcupine!” exclaimed Toby, grabbing his rifle and following Charley.  “I’ll shoot he, and we’ll have he for supper!”

And so it proved.  A shot brought the animal tumbling down.  Toby picked it up gingerly by a leg and carried it back.

“Well, now!  Fresh meat the first night!” boomed Skipper Zeb.  “Whilst you lads tidy the tilt, I’ll skin he.”

In a few minutes Skipper Zeb had the porcupine skinned and dressed, and after washing the meat in the river and cutting it into convenient sections he placed it in a kettle of water to stew for supper.

Two Indian flatsleds or toboggans, which were standing on end against the tilt, were put into repair by Skipper Zeb and made ready for the journey on the morrow, and before dark all preparations for an early departure were completed.

It was snug and cozy now in the tilt, with the fire in the little tent stove cracking and snapping.  The air was spicy sweet with the odour of the spruce and balsam beds, but to the boys a still more delicious and appealing odour was given out by the kettle of stewing porcupine on the stove.  Presently when supper was served Charley declared that the meal more than fulfilled his expectations.

“Why, it makes me think of lamb,” he said, “only it’s a heap better than any stewed lamb I ever ate.  It’s just great!”

“’Twere young and fat,” said Skipper Zeb.  “We likes porcupine wonderful well.  ’Tis a fine treat we thinks.”

Before daybreak the following morning loads were lashed upon the two flatsleds, and all was made ready for the trail.  Snow was not deep enough to require the use of snowshoes, and they were tied securely upon the tops of the loads.

“All ready!” announced Skipper Zeb, in his big hearty voice, as dawn was breaking.  “I’ll be goin’ ahead with the heavy flatsled, and you lads takes turns haulin’ the other.  Toby b’y, you take the first turn at un.”

“Aye,” agreed Toby eagerly, “I’ll haul un a spell first.”

The route for a time followed the course of Black River.  Now and again Skipper Zeb paused and turned aside to set a trap, where the tracks of martens or minks indicated their presence.  At intervals he took bunches of a dozen or more traps from trees where he had hung them the previous spring when the trapping season had ended.  Charley wondered how it was possible for him to remember where he had left them, and asked: 

“How do you ever find the traps where you left them?  The places all look alike to me.”

“Why, ’tis easy enough, lad.  This bunch I hangs in the only hackmatack tree handy about.  I just looks up and sees the tree, and there I finds the traps just where I leaves un.”

Even still Charley could not understand how Skipper Zeb could know where to look for the particular hackmatack tree, standing alone among the spruces and quaking aspens, for at several points he saw lone hackmatacks in similar surroundings.  Presently he was to learn that the woodsman by long practice learns to know every tree or bush that is even slightly out of the ordinary along his trail, and so trained is he in the art of observation that his subconscious mind records these with no effort on his part.  Thus to the woodsman the trail over which he has traveled two or three times, and often but once, becomes as familiar to him as streets to the city dweller.

After two hours on the trail, Skipper Zeb announced that they would “boil the kettle,” and have a “snack” to eat.  Already the boys were ravenously hungry, and Skipper Zeb chuckled merrily as he observed their keen enjoyment as they ate.

“Settin’ up traps makes for hunger,” said he.  “Fill up now.”

“I was just hollow!” confessed Charley.

“And I was hungrier’n a starved wolf!” added Toby.

Their course now left the river valley, and presently came upon a wide frozen marsh, or “mesh” as Skipper Zeb called it.

“’Tis here on the meshes we finds the best fox footin’,” he explained to Charley.

It was not long until he found tracks that he said were fox tracks, and in various places on the marsh set three traps, which were considerably larger than those set for marten or mink, and had two springs instead of one, and he used much greater care in setting them than in setting those for marten and mink.  With his sheathknife he cut out a square of snow, and excavated in the snow a place large enough to accommodate the trap.  Over the trap a thin crust of snow was placed, and so carefully fitted that its location was hardly discernible.  In like manner the chain, which was attached to the root of a scrubby spruce tree, was also concealed.  From a carefully wrapped package on his flatsled Skipper Zeb produced some ill-smelling meat, and this he scattered upon the snow over and around the trap.

“They likes meat that smells bad,” he explained, “and I’m thinkin’ that smells bad enough for un.”

Evening was falling when suddenly through the forest there glinted the waters of a lake, and here on its shores Skipper Zeb told them they were to camp for the night.  A home-made cotton tent, small but amply large enough for the three, was quickly pitched and a tent stove set up.  Then while Toby and Charley gathered boughs and laid the bed, Skipper Zeb cut a supply of wood for the night, and before the boys had finished the bed he was frying in the pan a delicious supper of partridges, which he and Toby had shot during the afternoon.

Charley was sure he had never been so tired in his life.  It had been a long day of steady walking, save for the brief stops when Skipper Zeb halted to set a trap, and the snow and turns at hauling the flatsled had made it the harder.  He lay back upon his sleeping bag chatting with Toby and watching Skipper Zeb prepare supper.  How cozy and luxurious the tent was!  The pleasant fragrance of spruce and balsam would have put him to sleep at once, had it not been for the pleasanter fragrance of the frying partridges and a hunger that increased with every minute.

When the meal was eaten Charley’s eyes were so heavy that it was little short of torture to keep them open, and he slipped into his sleeping bag, and in an instant had fallen into dreamless, restful sleep.

How long he had been sleeping he did not know, when suddenly he found himself awake and alert.  Something had aroused him, and he sat up and listened.  For a time he heard nothing, save the heavy breathing of Skipper Zeb and Toby, and he was about to lie down again when there came the sound of footsteps in the slightly crusted snow outside.  Some animal was prowling cautiously about the tent sniffing at its side.  The moon was shining, and suddenly he saw the shadowy outline, against the canvas, of a great beast that he knew to be a timber wolf.

He was about to reach over to Skipper Zeb to wake him, when all at once the stillness was broken by a terrifying, heartrending howl, rising and falling in mournful cadence, and echoing through the forest behind them.  The howling creature was separated from Charley only by the thickness of the canvas, and Charley’s blood ran cold.