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“Thank ye for your welcome, mister,” he began. “I shouldn’t have dropped in on ye at this onseemly hour, but the line of your smoke caught my eye as I was turning the point yonder. I didn’t expect to find a human being on these shores. I ax your pardon for comin’ in on ye, but I have memories of this spot that made me think strange things when I saw your camp. I am John Norton, the trapper. And who might you be, young man?”

“I am Henry Herbert,” I replied; “but just call me plain Henry.”

“Well, Henry,” began the old trapper, “I am going to call you that. When men meet in the woods they don’t put on any airs. I have been in these woods sixty-two years, and they have been a home for me, for my father and mother are gone, and I have never had wife nor child of my own. And I have heard of you, Henry. Ye be no stranger to me. For ten years back I have heard how you like to travel the woods and the waters by yourself, larning things that Nature does not tell about in crowds. I have heard, too, that you be a good shot, and that you know the ways of outwitting the trout and the pickerel. Hearing about you this way, I knew some day that I would come across your trail; but I never thought to run agin you to-night, for I’d no idee that mortal man knowed this lake, save me–save me and that other. . . .”

The old man paused, seated himself on the end of a log, and gazed into the fire with a solemn look on his face.

I did not feel like breaking in on his meditations, whatever they might be. I was silent out of deference to his memories.

“This lake,” John Norton said at length, “this lake is a strange place. I have been here for eleven years. No other place in all this wide country makes me feel as this place does.”

Again he fell into a reverie. I, meanwhile, busied myself with supper; and as soon as this was prepared, the two of us enjoyed it as only woodmen can.

“If you know me,” I said, “we are no strangers to each other, for I know you. Who draws the steadiest bead with a rifle; who is the best boatman who ever feathered paddle, and who is as honest a man as ever drew breath?–who, but John Norton, whom I have always been wanting to meet. No man could be as welcome to my camp.”

“Well, well,” laughed the old man, “when you’re at home you must be one of them detective fellows. I see we aren’t no strangers to each other. And if while in these woods old John Norton can teach you any trick of huntin’ or of fishin’ or of trappin’, be sure he will do so for the welcome you have give him.”

So we sat on either side of the fire, silent for a few moments. Then the old trapper said:

“I am thinking of the things that happened here long years agone. Strange things have come to pass on this very point. It is eleven year this very night that me and the hound slept here, and a solemn night it was, too. . . . God of heaven, man, what is that?”

The old man’s startled ejaculation brought me to my feet as if a panther were upon me. Glancing at the spot he had indicated by look and gesture, I beheld only the shattered portion of the Keg. Not knowing what to make of the trapper’s excited action, I said: “That? That is only a Keg I picked up in the lake this evening.”

John Norton rose in silence to his feet and went over to where the staves lay. One of these he picked up and held contemplatively in his hand.