Keeping close to the shore after rounding the point, Sleuth plied his oars in a gentle way, as if trying to make as little noise as possible. Presently he ran into the narrow mouth of a sluggish, boggy brook and made a landing amid some overhanging bushes, where were to be seen marks which seemed to indicate that this was not the first time a boat had touched there. Stepping ashore, he pulled the little boat up until it was well hidden by the bushes, after which he took the gun and turned away. His manner, as he stole cautiously through the woods with the gun in his hands, was that of one bent upon a stealthy and dangerous manœuvre. No scout or trapper of colonial days had ever attempted to preserve more caution in a region possibly infested by redskins. For something like a quarter of a mile the boy made his way through the thickets, maintaining that air of extreme caution. Indeed, if possible, he became even more careful, and finally he took to creeping forward on all fours, ending with a snake-like squirm flat upon his stomach, which brought him to a thick cluster of bushes on the edge of a small clearing near the lake shore. Parting the bushes gently, he thrust his head into them and looked forth through a filmy veil of ferns into the clearing. [Illustration: PARTING THE BUSHES GENTLY, HE THRUST HIS HEAD INTO THEM AND LOOKED FORTH INTO THE CLEARING. —Page 277. ] Near the shore, where there was a landing place, lay an overturned canoe, and from the landing a path ran up to the open door of a small log cabin. That there was someone within the cabin this open door seemed to denote, but from his place of concealment Piper could perceive no person. Nevertheless, with amazing patience, Sleuth remained hidden there, watching and waiting, his chin upon his hands and the shotgun beside him. Nearly an hour had passed in this manner when from the cabin there came a spasmodic clicking sound, which caused the concealed youth to breathe a sigh of satisfaction. “He’s there,” whispered Sleuth to himself. “I knew he must be, for the door is open and the canoe is in sight. He’s hammering at his old typewriter. It’s about time he did something else.” But it seemed that Sleuth waited in vain for Charles Granger to do anything else. The dozy afternoon hours crept on. At times the sound of the typewriter would cease, only to be heard after an interval. A kingfisher, swooping along the shore, uttered a shriek and went careening away with a burst of mocking laughter. A chipmunk, scurrying through the underbrush, stopped suddenly within three feet of Piper and challenged him with a sharp chatter. The lad remaining motionless, the little ground squirrel seemed both perplexed and offended, for he continued to squeak and chitter and flit his tail in a desperate effort to make the silent figure stir. Wearying of this at last, Sleuth turned his head a bit and gave a sharp hiss, whereupon, with a scream of delighted dismay, the squirrel fled.