Again a gray wolf
cantered on his trail, and the runner laughed, without a thought
of fear. He seemed to know the creature better now; knew it as a
brother, for it gave no hostile sound, but only seemed to trot,
trot, for the small joy of running with a runner, as a swallow or
an antelope will skim along by a speeding train. For an hour or
more it matched his pace, then left as though its pleasant stroll
was done, and Rolf kept on and on and on.
The spring sun soared on high, the day grew warm at noon. Schroon
River just above the lake was in his path, and here he stopped to
rest. Here, with the last of his oatcake and a little tea, he
made his final meal; thirty eight miles had he covered since he
rose; his clothes were torn, his moccasins worn, but his legs
were strong, his purpose sure; only twenty-two miles now, and his
duty would be done; his honours won. What should he do, push on
at once? No, he meant to rest an hour. He made a good fire by a
little pool, and using a great mass of caribou moss as a sponge,
he had a thorough rub-down. He got out his ever- ready needle and
put his moccasins in good shape; he dried his clothes and lay on
his back till the hour was nearly gone.
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