Never a sound did he make as he crossed the clearing, passing the clump of bushes behind which Cyrus and Neal had lingered on the previous night to hear Uncle Eb’s song.  Owing to his Indian footwear, silently as the gliding redskin himself he entered the woods at a point where he saw a tree with a fresh notch carved in it.  He knew this marked the beginning of the “blazed trail,” and that he must be very wide-awake and show considerable “gumption” if he wanted to follow that line to the pond.

Not every tree was spotted.  Only at intervals of fifteen or twenty yards he came upon a trunk with two small pieces chopped out of it on opposite sides.  These were Uncle Eb’s way-marks.  One set of notches would catch his eye as he went towards the water, the other would lead him back to camp.  Once or twice Dol got away from the trail, but he quickly found it again; and in due time emerged from the forest twilight into the broad glare of the sun, to see Squaw Pond lying before him like a miniature mother-of-pearl sea, so protected by its evergreen woods that scarcely a ripple stirred it.

He heard the shrill, wild call of a loon, the noisy bird to which Cyrus had likened him, and saw its white breast rising above the water, as it swam about among the reeds near the opposite bank.  The cry was oft repeated, making an unearthly din, now joyous, now dreary, among the echoes around the lake.

Dol paused for a minute to listen; but he was bent on business, and did not want to be very long away from camp lest his absence should cause alarm.  He took a careful survey of the scene.  Not beholding any fleet of black ducks as yet, he loaded his gun, and warily proceeded along the bank towards the head of the pond.

Keeping a sharp lookout, he by and by detected something moving among the water grasses a little way ahead, and heard a hoarse, squalling “Quack! quack!”

Immediately afterwards a flock of half a dozen ducks sailed forth from their shelter, nodding and quacking inquisitively.

A wild drumming was at Dol’s heart, and a reckless singing in his ears, as he raised his gun to his shoulder, and fired among them.  Nevertheless, his aim was sure and deadly.  Two quackers were killed with one shot!  The others rose from the water, and with much fluttering and hoarse noise winged their way to safety.

“How’ll they be for meat, I wonder?  Won’t I have a crow over those fellows?” shouted Adolphus aloud, with a yell entirely worthy of a Kickapoo Indian, when he had recovered from surprise at the success of his own shot.

He laid down the gun, pulled off his moccasins and socks, rolled up his trousers, and waded in for the prize.  Truly luck was with him—­so far—­in his first venture in this region of the unknown.  The water was so shallow that, having grabbed the ducks, he splashed out of it, kicking shiny drops from his toes, without wetting an inch of his garments.