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"Oh yes, sir." "A gap? Hully Gee!" "Nope, it's a dog. Now then, you see these two boys runnin' away from the gap?".

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"I guess I've found it, Bill. Come over close, so's I kin touch you, then we'll be movin' 'long. Hully gee! but I'm wet. Got both them charms safe?" The place which old Harry O'Dule called home was a crumbling log cabin on the shore of Levee Creek, just on the border of the Scroggie bush. Originally it had been built as a shelter for sheep, but with the clearing of the land it had fallen into disuse. O'Dule had found it on one of his pilgrimages and had promptly appropriated it unto himself. Nobody thought of disputing his possession, perhaps because most of the good people of Scotia inwardly feared the old man's uncanny powers of second sight, and the foreshadowing—on those who chose to cross him—of dire evils, some of which had been known to materialize. Old Harry boasted that he was the seventh son of a seventh son. A long time Wilson stood pondering. When at length he bestirred himself a full moon swam above a transfigured world. A silvery sheen swept softly the open spaces; through the trees the white bay-waters shimmered; the clearing fires had receded to mere sparks with silvery smoke trails stretching straight up towards a starred infinity. As he spoke, he saw another boat round the distant grass-point and put into Jerunda cut, the entrance to the main pond. The smile left his face. "Beat us to it, Moll," he sighed to the spaniel whose brown eyes had also glimpsed the skiff. "They'll be set by the time we get in an' they've got the pick of the ponds, no use denyin' that. We'll have to portage 'cross to a back slough an' all the ducks we'll get a chance at are them they miss. Well, cheer up," as the dog, sensing the disgust in his voice, growled deep in her throat..