The mountains, too, with their wild forests and streams beckoned to him.

The old, inherited blood within him made the great pulses leap.

But he slept at last and dreamed of far-off things.
Harry and his father rose at the first silver shoot of dawn, and went quickly through the deserted street to a quiet cove in the Kentucky, where Samuel Jarvis had anchored his raft.

It was a crisp morning, with a tang in the air that made life feel good.

A thin curl of smoke was rising from the raft, showing that the man and his nephew were already up, and cooking in the little hut on the raft.
Harry stepped upon the logs and his father followed him.