Now that our friends were left entirely alone, it became a question whether they should continue journeying by day or night.

"It seems to me that we are approaching a more civilized part of the country," said Howard. "I think there will be little risk in continuing our journey."

Tim industriously used his paddle, and shortly afterward, Elwood pointed to an open space some distance inland.

"Yonder are people, and they look as if they were gathered around a camp-fire at their dinner."

Tim jerked his head around, gave a puff of his pipe and said:

"Rid gintlemen ag'in, and I'll shy the canoe under the bank, and craap along till we gets beyonst thim."

"No, they are not Indians—they are white men," quickly added Elwood.

A careful scrutiny by all ended in a confirmation of Elwood's suspicion.

"That is good," said Howard, with a pleased expression, "it shows that we are getting beyond the wild country into a neighborhood where white men abound, and where we can feel some degree of safety."

"I suppose they are miners or hunters who are taking their midday meal in the open air," added Elwood, who was still gazing at them.

"Shall we heave too, pitch over the anchor, and s'lute them?" asked Tim.

"No; go ahead, we have no time to spare."

The cheering signs continued. An hour later they descried several white men seated in canoes and fishing near shore. They exchanged the courtesies of the day with them and passed on, growing more eager as they neared the goal.

It would have been no difficult feat of the imagination for one standing on shore to fancy that the cause was a pocket edition of a Hudson River steamboat, so powerfully did Tim O'Rooney puff at his pipe, the whiffs speeding away over his shoulder in exact time with the dipping of the paddle, as though the two united cause and effect. The fellow was in the best of spirits. Suddenly he paused and commenced sucking desperately at his pipe-stem, but all in vain; no smoke was emitted.

"What is the matter?" asked Elwood.

"Steam is out, and the paddle won't go."

"Let me relieve you."

The boy used it with good effect, while Tim shoved his blunt finger into the pipe-bowl, shut one eye and squinted into it, rattled it on his hand, puffed at it again, turned his pockets wrong side out, then put them to rights, and repeated the operation, just as we open the door a half-dozen times to make sure our friend isn't behind it, then gave one of his great sighs and looked toward Howard.

"I put the last switch of tobaccy I had in the world into that pipe, just arter throwing myself outside of that quince of fish."

"Quience?" laughed the boy, "you mean quintal."

"Yis, and what's to come of Tim O'Rooney, if he doesn't git some more right spa............