from attack by hostiles than if he had made the journey alone. The armed savage was known as Isaac Trot, whatever his real name may have been, and was an ancient, watery-eyed Massachusett, one of the few remaining remnants of that once numerous tribe. He squatted forward of David, his gun across his knees, and, save for a grunted word of direction to the paddlers, gave all his attention to his pipe.
At noon they stopped for dinner, by which time they had reached the rapids near Watertown. Going down David had shot the rapids without difficulty, no hard task in an empty canoe, but now it was necessary to carry, and so when the food had been eaten, the bundles were lifted from the craft and they set out by the well-trodden path that skirted the river. David shared the burdens, taking for his load a sack of wheat for seeding and his gun. Isaac shouldered the canoe and the other two Indians managed the rest. David, well aware of the Indian weakness for thievery, watched attentively, and yet, when the canoe was again loaded above the rapids, one package was missing. He faced Isaac sternly.
“There were eight pieces, Isaac,” he said.
