moving down in the middle of the radiance from the upper end of the pond. It was obviously the trail of some swimmer, but much too broad, it seemed, to be made by anything so small as a beaver. It puzzled him greatly. In his eagerness he pushed noiselessly forward, seeking a better view, till he was within some thirty feet of the dam. Then he made out a small dark spot in the front of the trail,––evidently a beaver’s head; and at last he detected that the little swimmer was carrying a bushy branch, one end held in his mouth while the rest was slung back diagonally across his shoulders.

The Boy crept forward like a cat, his gray eyes shining with expectancy. His purpose was to gain a point where he could crouch in ambush behind the dam, and perhaps get a view of the lake-dwellers actually at work. He was within six or eight feet of the dam, crouching low (for the dam was not more than three feet in height), when his trained and cunning ear caught a soft swirling sound in the water on the other side of the barrier. Instantly he stiffened to a statue, just as he was, his mouth open so that not a pant of his quickened breath might be audible. The next moment the head of a beaver appeared over the edge of the dam, not ten feet away, and stared him straight in the face.

The beaver had a stick of alder in its mouth, to be used, no doubt, in some repairing of the dam. The Boy, all in gray as he was, and absolutely motionless, trusted to be mistaken for one of the gnarled, gray stumps with which the open space below the dam was studded. He had read that the beaver was very near-sighted, and on that he based his hopes, though he was so near, and the moonlight so clear, that he could see the bright eyes of the newcomer staring straight into his with insistent question. Evidently, the story of that near-sightedness had not been exaggerated. He saw the doubt in the beaver’s eye fade gradually into confidence, as the little animal became convinced that the strange gray figure was in reality just one of the stumps. Then, the industrious dam-builder began to climb out upon the crest of the dam, dragging his huge and hairless tail, and glancing along as if to determine where the stick which he carried would do most good. At this critical moment, when the eager watcher felt that he was just about to learn the exact methods of these wonderful architects of the wild, a stick in the slowly settling mud beneath his feet broke with a soft, thick-muffled snap.

7

“BEGAN TO CLIMB OUT UPON THE CREST OF THE DAM.”

So soft was the sound that it barely reached the Boy’s ears. To the marvellously sensitive ears of the beaver, however, it was a warning more than sufficient. It was a noisy proclamation of peril. Swift as a wink of light, the beaver dropped his stick and dived head first into the pond. The Boy straightened up just in time to see him vanish. As he vanished, his broad, flat, naked tail hit the water with a cracking slap which resounded over the pond like a pistol-shot. It was reëchoed by four or five more splashes from the upper portion of the pond. 10 Then all was silence again, and the Boy realized that there would be no more chance that night for him to watch the little people of the House in the Water. Mounting the firm-woven face of the dam and casting his eyes all over the pond, he satisfied himself that two houses which he had first seen were all that it contained. Then, resisting the impulse of his excitement, which was to explore all around the pond’s borders at once, he resolutely turned his face back to camp, full of thrilling plans for the morrow.

CHAPTER II
The Battle in the Pond

AT breakfast, in the crisp of the morning, while yet the faint mists clung over the brook and the warmth of the camp-fire was attractive, the Boy proclaimed his find. Jabe had asked no questions, inquisitiveness being contrary to the backwoodsman’s code of etiquette; but his silence had been full of interrogation. With his mouth half-full of fried trout and cornbread, the Boy remarked:

“That was no windfall, Jabe, that noise we heard last night!”

“So?” muttered the woodsman, rather indifferently.

Without a greater show of interest than that the Boy would not divulge his secret. He helped himself to another flaky pink section of trout, and became seemingly engrossed in it. Presently the woodsman spoke again. He had been thinking, and 12 had realized that his prestige had suffered some kind of blow.

“Of course,” drawled the woodsman sarcastically, “it wa’n’t no windfall. I jest said that to git quit of bein’ asked questions when I was sleepy. I knowed all the time it was beaver!”

“Yes, Jabe,” admitted the Boy, “it was beavers. I’ve found a big beaver-pond just up the brook a ways––a pond with two big beaver-houses in it. I’ve found it––so I claim it as mine, and there ain’t to be any trapping on that pond. Those are my beavers, Jabe, every one of them, and they sha’n’t be shot or trapped!”

“I don’t know how fur yer injunction’d hold in law,” said Jabe dryly, as he speared a thick slab of bacon from the frying-pan to his tin plate. “But fur as I’m concerned, it’ll hold. An’ I reckon the boys of the camp this winter’ll respect it, too, when I tell ’em as how it’s your own partic’lar beaver pond.”

“Bless your old heart, Jabe!” said the Boy. “That’s just what I was hoping. And I imagine anyway there’s lots more beaver round this region to be food for the jaws of your beastly old traps!”

“Yes,” acknowledged Jabe, rising to clear up, 13 “I struck three likely ponds yesterday, as I was cruisin over to west’ard of the camp. I reckon we kin spare you the sixteen or twenty beaver in ‘Boy’s Pond!’”

The Boy grinned appreciation of the notable honour done him in the naming of the pond, and a little flush of pleasure deepened the red of his cheeks. He knew that the name would stick, and eventually go upon the maps, the lumbermen being a people tenacious of tradition and not to be swerved from their own way.

“Thank you, Jabe!” he said simply. “But how do you know there are sixteen or twenty beaver in my pond?”

“You said there was two houses,” answered the woodsman. “Well, we reckon always from eight to ten beaver to each house, bein’ the old couple, and then three or four yearlin’s not yet kicked out to set up housekeeping fer themselves, and three or four youngsters of the spring’s whelping. Beavers’ good parents, an’ the family holds together long’s the youngsters needs it. Now I’m off. See you here at noon, fer grub!” and picking up his axe he strode off to southwestward of the camp to investigate a valley which he had located the day before.

Left alone, the Boy hurriedly set the camp in order, rolled up the blankets, washed the dishes, and put out the last of the fire. Then, picking up his little Winchester, which he always carried,––though he never used it on anything more sensitive than a bottle or a tin can,––he retraced his steps of