Wade gazed into the quiet eyes of the veteran as he grasped his hand, and needed no further recommendation than the look old Christopher returned. There are few men in the world with such appealing qualities as those who have passed their lives in the woods and know what the woods mean. Wade realized now, after his talk with Ide, the nature of the task that he faced. Knowing that Christopher Straight was to be his companion and guide, he was heartened, having seen the man. And with intense eagerness to be away, he completed his modest preparations for the exploring trip, and set forth towards the great unknown of the north. He had Rodburd Ide's parting hand-clasp for reassurance, his daughter's sincere godspeed for his comfort, and the chance to do battle for his love. And he walked with Christopher Straight with head erect and a heart full of new hope. CHAPTER VII ON MISERY GORE "I reckon if gab had been sprawl, He'd have climb' to the very top notch. As it was, though, he made just one crawl To a perch in a next-the-ground crotch." --The Pauper. The two men "hopped" the broad expanse of Patch Dam heath, springing from tussock to tussock of the sphagnum moss. In that mighty flat they seemed as insignificant as frogs, and their progress suggested the batrachian as they leaped and zigzagged. Ahead bounced Christopher Straight, the few tins of his scanty cooking-kit rattling in the meal-bag pack on his back. At his heels came Dwight Wade, blanket-roll across his shoulders and calipers and leather-sheathed axe in his hands. Sweat streamed into his eyes, and, athlete though he was, his leg muscles ached cruelly. The September sunshine shimmered hotly across the open, and the young man's head swam. Old Christopher's keen side glance noted this. With the veteran guide's tactful courtesy towards tenderfeet, he halted on a mound and made pretence of lighting his pipe. There was not even a bead of perspiration on his face, and his crisp, gray beard seemed frosty. "I'm ashamed of myself," blurted the young man in blunt outburst. His knees trembled as he steadied himself after his last leap. "It ain't exactly like strollin' down the shady lane, as the song says," replied old Christopher, with gentle satire. He looked away towards the fringe of distant woods. "We could have kept on around by the Tomah trail, Mr. Wade, but I reckon you got as sick as I did of climbin' through old Britt's slash. And until he operated there last winter it used to be one of the best trails north of Castonia. I blazed it myself forty years ago." "And just a little care in felling it would have left it open," cried the young man, indignantly. "There was orders from Britt to drop ev'ry top across that trail that could be dropped there, Mr. Wade. So, unless they come in flyin'-machines, there's been few fishermen and hunters up the Tomah trail this season to build fires and cut tent-poles."