Adrian remembered that his mate had spoken of it at the time, when by some carelessness they had not secured the crotched sapling on which they hung their birch kettle.
“Oh! you simple thing. Why will you go through life tormenting yourself with such nonsense? Come--eat your breakfast. We’re going straight to Donovan’s as fast as we can. I’ve done with the woods for a time. So should you be done. You’re needed at the island. Not because of any dreams, but because the more I recall of Mr. Dutton’s appearance the surer I am that he is a sick man. You’ll go back, won’t you?”
“Yes; I’m going back. Not because you ask me, though.”
Adrian smiled. “Of course, you’re not. You’ll never have money enough. It would cost lots.”
“’Tisn’t that. ’Twas the dream. That was sent me. All them animals in black paint, and the blue herons without any heads, and--my mother came for me last night.”
“I heartily wish you could go to her this minute. She’s superstitious enough, in all conscience, yet she has the happy faculty of keeping her lugubrious son in subjection.”
Whenever Pierre became particularly depressing, the other would rattle off as many of the longest words as occurred to him. They had the effect of diverting his comrade’s thoughts.
Then they pulled on again, nor did anything disastrous happen to further hinder their progress. The food did not give out, for they lived mostly upon berries, having neither time nor desire to stop and cook their remnant of beans. When they were especially tired, Pierre lighted a fire and made a bucket of hemlock tea, but Adrian found cold water preferable to this decoction; and, in fact, they were much nearer Donovan’s, that first settlement in the wilderness, than even Pierre had suspected.
Their last portage was made--an easy one, there being nothing but themselves and the canoe to carry--and they came to a big dead water where they had looked to find another running stream; but had no sooner sighted it than their ears were greeted by the laughter of loons, which threw up their legs and dived beneath the surface in that absurd manner which Adrian always found amusing.
“Bad luck again!” cried Pierre, instantly; “never heard a loon but--”
“But you see a house. Look! look! Donovan’s, or somebody’s, no matter whose. A house, a house!”