They had brought a gun along, and kept their eyes open for the possible appearance of some big game--not wishing to waste their limited ammunition on anything small. But nothing larger than a fox appeared, and this animal lost no time in seeking cover as soon as discovered by Owen. The end of the trip was down into a broad valley bordering a long, narrow lake. Here the road was narrow and uneven and more than once they had all they could do to keep the turnout from going over and spilling them and the contents into the snow. "I'll get out and make sure of the path," said Owen at last, and went on ahead, with a long, sharp stick, which he stuck into the snow at every place that looked doubtful. Thus they avoided more than one dangerous hollow and reached ground as safe as it was level. The coming of the two young lumbermen was something of an event in the Gannett camp, and those who were looking for letters crowded around eagerly. Gannett himself, a tall, thin logger, all of six feet four inches in height, greeted them cordially as he gave the hand of each a tight squeeze. "Deownright glad to see ye," he drawled. "Guess ye had a kind of bumpin' ride a-gittin' over, didn't ye?" "It wasn't as smooth as it might be," answered Owen. "Well, hardly. I hain't forgot the last time I druv over, not by er jugful! Got spilt out twict, an' the second time I went into er holler headfust, clar to my boots! Ye done uncommon well not to spill over." "The road at our end is good enough; it's your end that needs looking after," put in Dale, and told how Owen had got out and walked. "Yes, I know the road is putty bad in my camp," said Philander Gannett. "But, ye see, I hain't calkerlatin' ter stay here another season. I'm going to t'other end o' the lake. The timber here aint fit fer telegraph poles, much less boards,--an' I aint a-workin' fer them pulp mills an' a-spilin' my timber a-doin' of it." The camp, in many respects, was similar to that run by Luke Paxton, so there was nothing of novelty to interest the two young lumbermen. Yet, after the team was cared for, they took a look around the various buildings and around the yard at the lake front. At supper time they ate with Philander Gannett and several of his foremen. "How long have you been cutting in this neighborhood?" asked Owen, during the meal. "This aint but the second season," was Gannett's reply. "Ye see, I bought this tract from a Boston man, named Jefferson Wilbur--him as owns thet fancy lodge over to Pine Tree Lake. Wilbur used to run two camps up here in Maine, but he got sick o' it, an' now I understand he's a-puttin' his money in timber lands in the Far West, Oregon and Washington." "Oregon!" repeated Dale, and his mind went back to the mining venture in Oregon, in which his father had invested so much money. "Exactly. He says thet place is the only one to get rich in, an' I reckon he's right--leas'wise, I don't think I'm a-goin' to git rich here."