Doctor Nash was a gentleman blessed with the deportment of early and untrained youth, and with the years of middle age. His manners were those of a first-year medical student, though he considered himself to be a polished and sophisticated man of the world. He had practised in four different parts of the country, but had nowhere impressed the people favorably by his cures, or his personality. He was a bachelor. He was narrow and lanky of build, but fat and ruddy of face. His hair was carroty on top of his head, but of a darker shade in mustache and close-trimmed beard. His eyes were small and light, and over the left, the lid drooped in a remarkable way. Whenever he happened to remember the dignity of his profession he became ridiculously consequential—and even when he forgot it he continued to make a fool of himself.

These traits of character did not endear Doctor Nash to Mr. Rayton, but they did not mar the perfection of the farmer's simple hospitality. He produced a cold venison pie for supper, made coffee and buttered toast, and flanked these things with a decanter of whisky on one side and a jug of sweet cider on the other.

"Cold meat pie," remarked Nash slightingly—and immediately began to devour it. After saying that he had never heard of such a thing as buttered toast for supper he ate more than half the supply. He lost no time in informing the other that he had always dined in the evening before fate had thrown him away on a backwoods practice.

Rayton haw-hawed regularly, finding this the easiest way of hiding his feelings.

"Whisky!" exclaimed Nash, after his second cup of coffee with cream. "I believe you live for it, Rayton. I never have it in my own house except for medicinal purposes." Then he helped himself to a bumper that fairly outraged his host's sense of proportions.

"I saw Miss Harley to-day," he said. "She told me that Jim had been to see you, last night."

"Well?" queried Rayton, puzzled. "She does not object, does she?" His mind had been furtively busy with the young woman throughout the meal.

"So I thought that he may have explained his queer behavior to you," said the other.

"Yes, he did."

"What did he say?"

"Really, Nash, I don't know that I have any right to repeat what he told me."

"Did he ask you not to?"

"No; but perhaps he intended to do so and forgot."

Nash laughed uproariously. "You are the limit!" he exclaimed. "You beat the band! Why should he tell you a thing that he would not want me to know?"

Rayton suspected several reasons; but he did not want to offend his guest by advancing them.

"Have you seen Jim since that night?" he asked.

"No."

"But saw his sister?"

"Yes. Jim wasn't at home."

Rayton lit his pipe, reflected for half a minute, and then gave his guest a brief and colorless version of the story. He told it grudgingly, wishing all the while that Harley had asked him not to repeat it.

Nash straddled his long, thin legs toward the fire. "So that's the yarn, is it?" he sneered. "And do you believe it?"

"Believe it? What Harley told me?"

"Yes."

"Certainly I do."

"Then you are more of a fool than I took you for. Don't you see it's all a game of Harley's to keep that young cub away from his sister? He doesn't want to have such a lout hanging 'round all the time for fear it may scare some one else away—some one who'd be a better catch. So he rigged the card and invented the fine story."

Rayton withdrew his pipe from his lips and stared at his guest blankly.

"Oh! that was easy," continued Nash complacently. "I thought, until you told me that yarn, that I really had hold of a problem worth solving. But it is easy as rolling off a log. Here is the marked card. See, it is marked in red chalk. A man could do that in two winks, right under our noses." He handed the card to Rayton—the cross-marked six of clubs. Rayton took it, but did not even glance at it. His gaze was fixed steadily upon his guest.

"I don't quite follow you," he said—"or, at least, I hope I don't."

"Hope you don't follow me? What do you mean?"

"I mean just this, Doctor Nash. When you happen to be in my house be careful what you say about my friends."

Nash stared. Then he laughed unpleasantly. "Are you bitten, too?" he asked.

Rayton got to his feet. "See here, Nash, I don't want to cut up rusty, or be rude, or anything of that kind," he exclaimed, "but I warn you that if you don't drop this personal strain there'll be trouble."

"Personal strain!" retorted the other. "How the devil are we to talk about that card trick, and the cause of it, without becoming personal?"

Rayton was silent.

"But you know what I think about it," continued Nash, "so you can make what you please of it. I'll be going now. I'm not used to be jawed at by a—by a farmer."

The Englishman laughed, helped his offended guest into his overcoat, followed him to the stable, and hitched-in the nag for him.

"A word of advice to you," said Nash, when he was all ready to drive away. "If you have your eye on Miss Harley, take it off. Don't run away with any idea that Jim is trying to scare young Marsh out so as to clear the road for you."

Then the whip snapped and away he rolled into the darkness.

Rayton stood in the empty barnyard for a long time, as motionless as if he had taken root. "I'll keep a grip on my temper," he said at last. "For a while, anyway. When I do let myself out at that silly ass it'll be once and for all."

Then he returned to the sitting-room fire and thought about Nell Harley.

"Goodine, Marsh, and Nash—they're all in love with her," he muttered. "So it looks as if some one was up to some sort of dirty game with that marked card, after all; but who the devil can it be? It's utter nonsense to suspect poor Dick Goodine—or Jim; but it will do no harm to keep my first idea about Nash in my mind. If he did it, though, I don't believe it was in the way of a joke, after all."

Now to go back to the morning, and David Marsh. At break of day the guide had started the horses and wagon back along the muddy twelve-mile road to the settlement, in charge of a young nephew. They had been gone an hour when Dick Goodine appeared. At that appearance it had immediately jumped into his mind that the trapper was spying on him; but he had kept the thought to himself. He had been greatly relieved, however, to get away from the trapper's company and unsolicited assistance. There was plenty of water in the brook, so he paddled swiftly down the brown current for a mile or two. Then, feeling that he had got clear of Goodine, he let the heavily loaded canoe run with the current and filled his pipe.

"The more I see of that Goodine," he reflected, "the more I mistrust him. And the cheek of him, poor and shiftless, to think about Nell. I bet it was him put the marks on that card, somehow or other. The dirty French blood in him would teach him how to do them kinder tricks. Why, he ain't much better than a half-breed—and yet he talks about bein' above cookin' for sports, and lookin' after them in camp. He's too lazy to do honest work, that's what's the matter. So long's he can raise enough money to go on a spree now and then, he's happy. I don't trust him. I don't like them black eyes of his. I bet he's been spying on me ever since I got to the camp last night. Let him spy! He'd be scared to try anything on with me; and if he thinks a girl like Nell would have anything to do with a darn jumpin' Frenchman like him, he better go soak his head."

So as the stream carried him farther and farther away from the spot where he had left the trapper, his indignation against that young man increased and his uneasiness subsided.

"I wish I'd up and asked him what the devil he wanted," he muttered, "I'd ought to let him see, straight, what I think of him. But maybe he was just lookin' for trouble—for a chance to get out his knife at me. He wouldn't mind killin' a man, I guess—by the looks of him. No, he wouldn't go so far as that, yet a while. That would cook his goose, for sure."

Three miles below the camp, the Teakettle emptied into a larger stream that was known as Dan's River. It was on the headwaters of this river that Marsh had his second and more important sporting camp in a region full of game. On reaching Dan's River, Marsh swung the bow of his canoe upstream, keeping within a yard or two of the right bank. He laid his paddle aside, took up a long pole of spruce, and got to his feet, perfectly balanced. For the first quarter of a mile it was lazy work, and then he came to a piece of swift and broken water called Little Rapids. This was a stiff piece of poling, though not stiff enough under any circumstances to drive an experienced canoe man to portaging around it. David Marsh had mastered it, both ways, at all depths of water, more than a dozen times. The channel was in midstream. The canoe shot across the current and then headed up into that long rush and clatter of waters. The young man set his feet more firmly and put his body into his work.

The slim, deep-loaded craft crawled upward, foot by foot, the clashing waters snarling along her gunwales and curling white at her gleaming bow. Now David threw every ounce of his strength, from heel to neck, into the steady thrust. The long pole bent under the weight, curved valiantly—and broke clean with a report like a rifle shot. David was flung outward, struggling to regain his balance; and, at the same moment, the canoe swung side-on to the roaring water and then rolled over.

David Marsh fought the whirling, buffeting waters with frantic energy. He was struggling for his life. That was his only thought. He struck out to steady himself, to keep clear of the boiling eddies where the black rocks seemed to lift and sink, and to keep his head above the smother. The beating, roaring, and slopping of the rapids almost deafened him, and filled him with a shuddering dread of those raging, clamorous surfaces, and silent, spinning depths. Now he saw the clear, blue sky with a hawk adrift in the sunshine—and now he glimpsed one shore or the other, with dark green of spruce, and a spot or two of frost-bitten red—and now black sinews and twisting ribbons crossed his vision, and torn spray beat against his sight with white hands. The deathly chill of the water bit into blood and bone.

It seemed to him that he was smothered, spun and hammered in this hell of choking tumult for hours. At last the roar and clatter began to soften in his ears—to soften and sweeten to a low song. Wonderful lights swam across his eyes—red, clearest green and the blue of the rainbow. A swift, grinding agony in his right arm aroused him. He was among the rocks at the tail of the rapids. For a minute he fought desperately; and then he dragged himself out of the shouting river and lay still.

Marsh was young and strong, and had not swallowed a serious amount of water. For ten minutes he lay under the leafless willows, unconsciously struggling for his breath. Then he sat up, swayed dizzily, and screamed suddenly with the pain in his arm. It was that excruciating pain, burning and stabbing from wrist to shoulder, that brought him fully to his senses. He staggered to his feet and gazed up and down the bright course of the river. He shivered with cold and weakness.

"Arm smashed!" he cried, almost sobbing. "Outfit lost! My God!"

He sank again, easing himself to the ground by the willows with his left hand. With the bandanna handkerchief from his neck, a piece of cord from his pocket, a few handfuls of dry grass, and a thin slip of driftwood he made a rough support for his arm and fastened it securely to his side. This took him fully half an hour, and caused him intense pain and severe nervous fatigue. He was shaking and gasping by the time it was done—yes, and on the verge of tears.

"The pole broke," he whimpered. "And it was a good pole—the best I could find. It never happened before."

He got to his feet again, and started painfully along the shore. The bank was steep, with only a narrow fringe of rocky beach. In some places the overhanging thicket forced him to wade knee-deep in the water. He stumbled along, groaning with the pain of his arm. His cheeks were bloodless under the tan, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. Fear still gripped him—not the violent, sickening horror that he had felt while struggling in the eddies of the rapid, but a quiet, vague fear that he could give no name to.

Marsh rested for a few minutes on a little grassy flat at the mouth of the Teakettle. By this time the sun, and his own exertions, had warmed him a little; but still the shadow of fear was in his eyes. "It was a strong pole," he kept muttering. "I cut it myself—and tested it. How did it come to break!"

He found the footing along the smaller stream even more difficult than that which he had left behind. Both banks were flanked with impenetrable snarls of underbrush that overhung the gliding current, and so he was forced to wade, knee-deep. The bottom was rocky and slippery, and the swift water dragged mercilessly at his weary legs. He advanced slowly, painfully, a pitiful figure. Sometimes he stumbled, almost fell, and jarred his shattered arm in his recovery. Sometimes he groaned. Sometimes he cursed aloud. "My luck's gone!" he cried. "The pole broke on me—and it was a good pole. Never broke a pole before! Never got spilled before! Something damn queer about that!" He was forced to rest frequently, sitting on a stranded log or flat rock, or perhaps standing and clinging to the alders and willows. His arm ached numbly now. Now showers of silver sparks streamed across his vision, and again he saw little blue and red dots dancing in the sunlight.

"HE ADVANCED SLOWLY, PAINFULLY, A PITIFUL FIGURE"

It took him a long time to cover the three miles from the mouth of the Teakettle up to the little camp that he had sped so swiftly away from early that morning. It was long past noon when he dragged himself up the steep path, unfastened the door, and stumbled into the shack. After a few minutes' rest on the floor, he managed to light a fire in the stove and put a kettle of water on to boil. He needed tea—tea, hot and strong. That would pull him together for the twelve-mile journey that lay between him and Doctor Nash. But he'd lie down until the water boiled. He pulled off his moccasins and crawled into a bunk, drawing two pairs of heavy blankets over him. He was too tired to think—too tired even to continue his whimpering and cursing. After a minute he dozed off.

David Marsh was awakened shortly by a touch on his injured arm. He yelled with the pain of it even before he opened his eyes. Then he stared, for there stood a young woman named Maggie Leblanc, gazing at him in astonishment. She was a fine-looking young woman in a striking, but rather coarse red and black way. She was roughly dressed, and had an old muzzle-loading gun by her side, and five partridges hanging at her belt. She was the eldest of many children belonging to a worthless couple who lived about two miles from the Marsh farm, in a poor community called French Corner. It was in that same part of the settlement that Dick Goodine's mother lived.

"Hell!" exclaimed Marsh. "Where'd you come from, Maggie?"

"What are you yelling about?" asked the girl. "An' what are you layin' there for, this time o' day?"

"I'm hurt," returned David. "My arm is broke, I guess." Then he told her all about his morning's misfortune.

"And Dick Goodine was here, was he!" cried the girl. "He helped you load the canoe, did he! And then your pole broke! Are you good friends with Dick Goodine?"

David looked at her eagerly. "Not particular," he answered. "What are you drivin' at?"

"He's after your girl, ain't he?" she asked, her black eyes glistening.

"Look here, what are you drivin' at, Maggie?"

She came close to the edge of the bunk. "Maybe he knows what made the pole break! I've heard o' that trick before. He put it in the canoe for you, didn't he?"

"Yes!" cried the young man furiously. "Yes, he did. Damn him!—if he played that dirty trick on me."

"You lay quiet," said Maggie Leblanc. "I'll cook you a bite o' dinner, an' then I'll light out for Doctor Nash. You ain't fit to travel another step."