On the afternoon of the 9th of May, 1775, Job and Nathan laid their guns in the canoe and stood beside her ready to set her afloat in the brown water, whose ripples softly lapped the drift of dried sedges along the shore. Job looked anxiously about, and once more, as he had several times previously done, he whistled a loud shrill note through his fingers.

“Where on airth is that dog? He mistrusted somethin’ was up and run off. He’d ortu be tied up, but we can’t wait any longer, an’ he’ll hafter run loose. Wal, le’s be off.”

Lifting the canoe, they set her afloat, stepped lightly on board, and, kneeling in the bottom, sent her flying down the creek. They skirted the lake almost beneath the spreading branches of the maples, now already dappled with the tender green of budding leaves. A little back from the naked, western shore, with its crumbling ruins of the old French water battery, uprose the gray battlements and barracks of Ticonderoga, and the blazoned cross of England floating lazily in the breeze.

“I’ve follered it for many a day,” said Job sadly, “an’ I never thought to go agin it. But I b’lieve I’m right,” and he turned his face resolutely forward.

The turmoil and horror of war seemed far removed from the serene sky, the rippled water kissing the quiet shores, and the pervading sense of the earth’s renewing life, enforced by bursting buds and opening flowers and songs of birds. Even the grim fortress seemed but a memento of conflict long since ended forever.

Sweeping into the broad mouth of the creek, they joined the motley crowd already gathered there. The assemblage was composed of all who were capable of bearing arms, from gray-headed veterans of the last war, to the striplings who had not yet been mustered on a training field. Job received hearty greetings from more than one old comrade whom he had not seen since they ranged this region, then an unreclaimed wilderness, under the leadership of the brave and wary Robert Rogers, and he was soon in reminiscences of scouts and ambuscades, while Nathan watched and noted everything, a most interested spectator of what was passing so unobtrusively into history.

Presently there was a stir and gathering together of the detached groups and an expectant hush. Then he saw towering among them, in cocked hat and military garb of blue and buff, the stalwart figure of Ethan Allen.

“Fall in, men,” said the deep-toned voice of Allen, and the groups formed in line as best they could among the trees.

As they moved forward to take their places Nathan noticed an unfamiliar form skulking among the tree trunks near him—a swarthy little man wearing a tasseled, woolen cap and gray coat unlike the Yankee garb. It flashed across his mind that this was the Canadian employed by his stepfather, and he tried to keep watch of his movements. But there was much else to engage him, and just then he felt a touch on his leg, and, turning, saw Gabriel’s sorrowful face looking wistfully up to his own. “Down, Gabe,” he said in a low tone, and the hound crouched behind. Just then Ethan Allen, having passed slowly down the line, accosting one and another, broke the silence:

“Friends of the Grants, we are already enough for this business in hand, but there are more to come. There will be boats enough to cross us all in good time. Keep quiet. Cook your rations and eat your supper. To-morrow we’ll eat our breakfast in Ticonderoga, or know the reason why.”

As Nathan’s entranced gaze was for a moment withdrawn from the beloved commander, he caught a glimpse of the little unknown man stealing away among the shadows. Being more accustomed to the rigid discipline of the garrison than to the free and easy customs of volunteers, he did not dare to leave the ranks till many of his comrades had straggled away. Then he sought Job and told him his suspicions.

“I thought Newton was goin’ to tend to them critters. Newton,” he called to his neighbor, “didn’t you put a guard over Toombs and his man?”

“Toombs is safe in care of a good man, but his Canuck couldn’t be found. I guess he’s too stupid to do any mischief, anyway.”

“Well, he’s ben a sneakin’ round here an’ now he’s gone, an’ there’s no tellin’ where. Where’s Toombs’s boat?”

“Here,” and Newton pointed to the landing, where it lay among many others.

“Gabe’s round here somewheres,” said Nathan inadvertently.

“Jest the one I was a wishin’ for,” said the old man, aroused from his troubled pondering. “He can help when nob’dy else can.” He then sent one of his shrill whistles into the woods, and then another, with such good effect that Gabriel presently appeared, loping easily along. “Good fellow, good fellow. Now, Newton, we’ll ketch that skunk. Here, here, old boy,” and he hurried swiftly away with the hound at heel.

Arrived at the house they found Toombs unconfined, but under the vigilant guard of a lynx-eyed Green Mountain Boy. When Job inquired for the Canadian, he detected a gleam of triumph in the glowering eyes of the surly, half-defiant prisoner.

“The fox has slipped,” said Job; “but never mind. If he can fool Gabe he’s a smart ’un. Ruth, where’s somethin’ that ’ere Canuck has wore?”

Ruth, who stood near her idle spinning wheel, half dazed at the unwonted commotion and afraid of she knew not what, pointed covertly to a much worn pair of moccasins hanging near the fireplace to dry.

“Hisn? There couldn’t be nothin’ better. See here, Gabe.”

The hound snuffed eagerly at the soiled footgear, slowly wagging his tail, and then looked inquiringly at his master.

“Sarch him out, boy. Sarch him out,” Job encouraged him, pointing along the ground.

The hound circled about the yard a little, and then, finding the trail, followed it silently and steadily down to the creek to where the men were mustered. There, on the much trodden ground, it baffled him for a while. Resorting to his usual tactics, he made widening circles and again found the trail and went off upon it in a steady, untiring pace southward in the direction of Ticonderoga.

“I knowed it,” said Job to himself, “and I’ll bet ye there’ll be a Canuck treed afore sundown.” Guided by the deep, mellow baying of the hound, he set off, with his gun at atrail, in rapid pursuit.

The agile little Canadian had at least an hour’s start, and made such brisk use of it that he was on the shore opposite the Fort when he was overtaken by the hound, who at once set furiously upon him. Being unarmed, he was forced to scramble up a tree, from which, when he had recovered his breath, he began lustily to hail the Fort, and at intervals to curse the hound. His shouts, and Gabriel’s insistent deep-mouthed bayings, could scarcely fail to attract the attention of the garrison, and Job, pushing forward at his best pace, presently appeared upon the scene.

“Hello de Forrt,” the Canuck was shouting. “Hey! Hello de Forrt! Sacre chien! Go home, Ah tol’ you! Hello, Carillon. Tac-con-derrrque! All de Bastonais was comin’ for took you, Ah tol’ you! Sacre chien! Stop off you nowse so Ah can heard me spik.”

“Shut yer head an’ come down out o’ that mighty quick,” Job commanded in a low voice.

“Me no onstan’ Angleesh,” and again the voice rang out over across the water: “Hello de Forrt!”

Peering through the overhanging branches, Job saw a group of red-coated soldiers gathered on the other shore, and presently saw a boat putting out from it.

“Looka here,” said he sternly, as he cocked his piece and aimed upward; “I don’t want tu be obleeged tu hurt you, but stop yer hollerin’ an’ come right down.”

“Me no onstan’, Ah tol’ you! Hello—.” The lusty hail was cut short by the report of the long smooth-bore. The Canadian’s cap went spinning from his head, and he came scrambling down in a haste that threatened to leave half his clothes behind.

“Ah comin’! Ah comin’! Don’t shot some more!” he cried in a voice trembling with fright.

Job arrested his descent till his gun was reloaded; then, when his captive slid to the ground, he quickly tied his hands behind with a fathom of cord, one end of which he held. Then he removed the woolen sash from the Canadian’s waist and bound it about his mouth.

A glance upon the lake showed the boat half-way across, and approaching as fast as two pairs of oars could impel it. Job hurried his man into an evergreen thicket some twenty yards away, and, leaving him tied to a tree in charge of the hound, he stealthily returned to ascertain if possible whether the nature of the alarm had been comprehended by the soldiers. The boat drew rapidly toward the place where he lay concealed, and, at a little distance, the occupants lay upon their oars while they held consultation, so near that he could hear every word of it.

“Well, boys,” said the sergeant in command, “whathiver it was, Hi don’t hear nothink more of it. But Hi’ll ’ail the shore. ’Ello there, whathiver is the row?” An answer was silently awaited till the echoes died away.

“Ah’t was some o’ thim Yankee divils huntin’ just,” said one of the soldiers, “and that’s all about it. Divil a word could I make out but the dog yowlin’ an’ a man phillalooin’, an’ thin the shot. They kilt whativer they was at an’ thin wint away.”

“Hi believe you’re right, Murphy, an’ we’ll no bother to go ashore, but just pull back and report to the captain,” and off went the boat to the western shore.

With a sigh of relief Job sped back to his prisoner, to whom he motioned the homeward way, and set forth with him in front at a break-neck pace, which was occasionally quickened by a punch of the gun muzzle in the rear, and so was the captive driven to the camp.

Ticonderoga’s evening gun had long since boomed its vesper thunder, and the shadows of evening were thickening into night in the forest, when Job emerged from them into the glare of the camp fire with his hound and prisoner, and received the warm commendations of Allen and his associates for his promptly and skilfully performed exploit.

“I don’t claim no credit for’t. It was all Gabe’s doin’s, an’ if I’d left him tied up to hum as I laid out to, our cake would all ’a’ ben dough.”

“Here, Newton, here’s your man. Put him under guard with that Tory, Toombs,” said Allen.

A tall man of noble, commanding presence, but of a quiet, modest mien, stooped to caress the hound. “Why,” he said, “it’s one of Sunderland’s dogs, that haven’t their equal in New England.”

“You’ve got an eye for houn’ dogs, Capt’n Warner. He sartain is one o’ them dogs an’ll foller anything he’s told to, though ’t ain’t no gre’t trick to track a Canuck more’n an Injin. They’re both strong-scented critters.”