and which the ox! And at such times his teacher would grumblingly regret that his talent did not run more to the art of writing. But, since Obid’s own signature looked more like a rat’s nest than an autograph, the complaint came none too well.
Sitting before the fire to-night, David followed in thought the journey of his father and Obid and wished himself with them. Nathan Lindall had spoken truly when he had predicted hard going, for the ice, which still lay in the swamps because of an unseasonable spell of frost the week gone, was too thin to bear one and the trail to Master Vernham’s must keep to the high ground and the longer distance. The three miles, David reflected, would become four ere the men reached their destination, and in the darkness the ill-defined trail through the woods would be hard to follow. It was far easier to sit here at home, toasting his knees, but no boy of sixteen will choose ease before adventure, and the possibility of the fire having been set by the Indians suggested real adventure.
A year and more ago such a possibility would have been little considered, for the tribes had been long at peace with the col-
