Almost as soon as they left the Carry they plunged into thick woods. Here the snow was much deeper than out in the open but, as Bob hoped, it was not so wet and the traveling was easier, although it was by no means good. They had gone but a short distance when Bob stopped and pulled a map out of his pocket. “Now here’s a map of this part of the state,” he explained. “Here’s where we are now and there’s where we want to go. I’ve got my compass with me and I’m going to lay a course and keep by it as closely as I can. As near as I can figure it out,” he said a moment later, after carefully studying the map, “Musquacook Lake is about twenty points east of north, and that’s just about that way,” and he pointed with his finger. “We must do our best to keep it straight as we don’t want to lose any more time than we can help.” It was impossible to make anything like fast time and the boys were too wise to tire themselves out by trying to hurry. A steady easy pace they knew would result in the most speed in the end. So they ploughed steadily forward only stopping now and then to consult the compass. “My, but this is great timber up here,” Bob declared after they had covered some miles. He stopped as he spoke and looked about him at the mighty spruce trees which lifted their lofty heads high up into the air. “I’ll bet it would cut close on to 15,000 feet to the acre right here.” “Wouldn’t wonder,” Jack replied. “I wonder who owns it.” “Don’t know, but whoever does has got one pretty bit of timber,” Bob replied. They started on again, but had gone a short distance when Jack, who was leading, stopped suddenly and, pointing ahead, said, “I say, Bob, look at that spruce will you.” Bob looked and saw, a few feet ahead of them, a queer looking spruce. It stood in the center of a small clearing, perhaps twenty feet across. The middle branches had been trimmed away in a broad ring, leaving the tufted top and the bushy bottom, with only the bare trunk in between. “What, in the world, do you make of that?” Jack asked. For a moment Bob did not reply. He was deep in thought. Then, as Jack was about to ask him again, he said: “Unless I’m very much mistaken that’s a lop stick.” “Come again, please,” Jack laughed. “I said it is a lop stick.” “Well, it’s lopped all right, all right,” Jack declared. “But how did it get that way?” “Some Indian trimmed it that way,” Bob explained. “You see,” he went on, “it’s a kind of a talisman or mascot. I remember reading, not long ago, that a certain tribe of Indians do that to trees. You see an Indian trims a certain tree that way and then he believes that, in some way, his fate is linked with it. That’s about all I know about it.” “Well, they can’t be very abundant around here,” Jack said as they started off again.