But Rolf felt differently. He knew what his mother would have
thought and done. It meant another visit to Warren's, and the
remedy he brought was a strong-smelling oil, called in those days
"rock oil" -- a crude petroleum. When all cracks in the bed and
near wall were treated with this, it greatly mitigated, if it did
not quite end, the nuisance of the "plague that walks in the
dark."
Meanwhile, Quonab had made good his welcome by working on the
farm. But when a week had flown, he showed signs of restlessness.
"We have enough money, Nibowaka, why do we stay?"
Rolf was hauling a bucket of water from the well at the time. He
stopped with his burden on the well-sweep, gazed into the well,
and said slowly: "I don't know." If the truth were set forth, it
would be that this was the only home circle he knew. It was the
clan feeling that held him, and soon it was clearly the same
reason that was driving Quonab to roam.
"I have heard," said the Indian, "that my people still dwell in
Canada, beyond Rouse's Point. I would see them. I will come
again in the Red Moon (August)."
So they hired a small canoe, and one bright morning, with Skookum
in the bow, Quonab paddled away on his voyage of 120 miles on the
plead waters of Lakes George and Champlain.
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