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Updated: May 11, 2025
The paddles did not move, but the phantom craft drew quickly on. "Say, Furguson come here look at that canoe." The Scotchman came down, with a pail in one hand, and looked. "Canoe hell it's a moose and there ain't a pocket-pistol in this camp," and he fairly jumped up and down. "You don't say you really don't say!" gasped the lawyer, who now began to exhibit signs of insanity.
They subsequently got to be about a foot deep all over the camp, while Furguson stood around and regarded the black-magic of the thing with overpowering emotions and Homeric tongue. Furguson was a good genius, big and gentle, and a woodsman root and branch.
The Indian and Furguson swore softly but most viciously until the moose moved away. The Indian hurled the hatchet at the retreating figure, with a final curse, and the thing was over. "Those fellows who are out in their canoes will be sick abed when we tell them what's been going on in the camp this morning," sighed Mr. Furguson, as he scoured a cooking-pot.
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