They were halfway to the potatoes with their earthy hoes on their shoulders when Ben halted suddenly and faced his uncle with an abashed grin.

“I forgot to tend the net,” he said. “It may be full of salmon for all I know—and all the salmon full of eels by this time.”

McAllister’s long, lean frame jerked with laughter.

“That suits me fine, Ben,” he exclaimed as soon as he could speak. “We’ll go tend it now. I’d sooner be on the river this fine morning than hilling potatoes, anyhow; and maybe we’ll find another grilse from French River.”

Uncle Jim was impressed by the red pirogue. He had seen bigger ones but not many of them. In the days of his unsettled and adventurous youth, when he was a “white-water boy,” chopping in the woods every winter and “stream-driving” logs every spring, he had once helped to shape and dig out a thirty-five-foot pirogue. But that had been close onto fifty miles farther upriver and back in the days of big pine timber.

“She’s a sockdolager, all right,” he said. “Didn’t know there was any such pines left on French River. What’s underneath the blankets, aft there?”

Ben stepped into the grounded craft, went aft and lifted the blankets, disclosing a lumpy sack tied at the neck with twine, a battered leather gun case and a bundle wrapped in a rubber ground sheet and securely tied about with rope.

“It’s her dunnage!” exclaimed Uncle Jim. “Off you walked and left it laying! You’re a fine feller to catch a young lady in a net, you ain’t! Where was your wits, Ben?”

“I was upset, that’s a sure thing,” admitted the youth. “And I’m still a good deal puzzled about these Sherwoods,” he added.

In the net they found four salmon, three still sound and one already fallen a prey to devouring eels. Several eels had entered the largest fish by way of the gills and mouth and what had been salmon was now more eel. The silver skin was undamaged and the eels were still inside.

With Marion Sherwood’s baggage, the salmon and the skinful of eels, Ben and his uncle had to make two trips from the river to the house. The eels were thrown to the hogs as they were, alive and in their attractive container. The undamaged fish were cleaned, salted and hung in the smokehouse. During that operation and the journey to the potato field and between brisk bouts of hoe work, James McAllister told his nephew most of what he knew 

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