Adventure, August 1917 — page 39: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Northwoman only place it could be. If it isn’t there I don’t know where it could be, unless it’s under the surface somewhere.” “‘That’s what Madison claims has hap- pened. I’ve fought the idea because it meant absolute failure. But I guess he’s right, and you’re right.” Wallace turned up the trail to the house and Stanton walked silently at his side. For a moment he saw in the failure of the engineer a chance for his own happiness. But instantly he reproached himself for the thought. “‘T’m sorry, Searles,”’ he said at last. “I’d help if I could. If you had told me sooner I would have taken a few days and hunted too. I didn’t know there was such a hurry. Won’t you come in for supper?” “No, thanks. I must have a talk with Madison tonight. I landed here because it was the nearest way to camp. I'll see you again.” The next morning Stanton balked at an- other day at Fleenor’s trading-post. ‘‘There’s no use, Joan,” he protested. “T’m talked out with the man and there’s nothing to be found there, unless he keeps that breed of his, Louis Debeau, out in the bush with the whisky and peddles it that way. But I saw those Indians paddle from out across the lake yesterday and I saw them paddle back, and there wasn’t a chance. I tell you, that whisky is some- where else on the lake. If it’s Fleenor, as you seem to think, he keeps it in another place, and he’s mighty clever about it, too.” *‘Are you sure you haven’t paddled right by it?” asked Joan. Stanton looked at her sharply. Some- thing in her tone told him that she did not mean the mere physical paddling past a cache of whisky on shore. ‘‘What do you mean?” he asked. “TI thought ‘you might be like Mr. Searles,’’ was the reply. “T guess Iam. He’s lost out. “Lost last night, or this morning, rather.” “Lost!” cried Joan. “What do you mean?” ‘‘Why, Mr. Madison, who was to finance the project, gave him until last night to find the lost river. He didn’t find it, and Madison starts back this morning for the railroad. Without Madison’s_ capital, Searles is helpless. Why, what’s the mat- ter,. Joan?” 37 She had been staring at him, at first in- credulously, then fearfully. “What is it?”’ repeated Stanton. “Nothing,” she replied, her tone without expression. “Only I found the lost river yesterday afternoon. That’s what I was laughing about last night.” , “Found it!’ repeated Stanton in amaze- ment. “Then why on earth didn’t you tell him?” “Tt don’t know exactly why I didn’t,” replied Joan. CHAPTER XI THE NEW RIVER HEN Wallace. Searles returned to his camp beside the dry bed of the river the evening of the third day, his failure was almost forgotten in a sudden determination to win despite the apparent hopelessness of the situation. He walked straight to where Madison was sitting on a windfall in front of his tent. “T didn’t find it, Mr. Madison,” he said. “IT searched the entire south and east shore carefully but there wasn’t an indication. I want one more day in which to go over the north and west shore again. ““You’ve been there twice slready, have- n’t your” “Yes, but there is still a chance, and it must be on that side of the lake. The watershed slopes that way.” “I think this particular watershed slopes straight down, young man,” was the curt rejoiner. “I guessed right the first time when I said it was a subterranean outlet.”’ Wallace remembered what Joan had said the night before and caught the meaning behind her words. “But that’s impossible,” he protested. “If there were an outlet under the surface, in the bottom of the lake, the water would all drain out, or drain down to the level of | the outlet. But it has been absolutely stationary since we came. There is a stake on the mission beach that marks it.” “Unless it filled up some subterranean cavity.” “Then the water in the lake would regain its old level. It has only eight feet to come up.” - | “Young man,” said Madison severely, “get down to earth. Do you think for a minute that, if that were true, ’d sink my (= CoMmiclbooks © 5}