For
a moment it continued, and what it meant, Rolf never knew or
guessed.
"Trot, trot," he went, reeling off six miles in the open, two or
perhaps three in the thickets, but on and on, ever eastward. Hill
after hill, swamp after swamp, he crossed, lake after lake he
skirted round, and, when he reached some little stream, he sought
a log bridge or prodded with a pole till he found a ford and
crossed, then ran a mile or two to make up loss of time.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, and his steady breath and his steady heart
kept unremitting rhythm.
Chapter 73. Rolf Makes a Record
Twelve miles were gone when the foreglow -- the first cold
dawn-light showed, and shining across his path ahead was a mighty
rolling stream. Guided by the now familiar form of Goodenow Peak
he made for this, the Hudson's lordly flood. There was his raft
securely held, with paddle and pole near by, and he pushed off
with all the force of his young vigour. Jumping and careening
with the stream in its freshet flood, the raft and its hardy
pilot were served with many a whirl and some round spins, but the
long pole found bottom nearly everywhere, and not ten minutes
passed before the traveller sprang ashore, tied up his craft,
then swung and tramped and swung.
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