He stopped for not more than two or three minutes at each of these places, and was then on his way again.
Peter was fascinated by the unexcited persistency of the man's movement.
He followed it, watched it, and became more and more interested in the unvarying monotony of it.

There were the same up-and-down strokes of the long pole, the slight swaying of the upstanding body, the same eddy behind the cedar logs--and occasionally wisps of smoke floating behind when the pursuer smoked his pipe.

Not once did Peter see Breault turn his head to look behind him.

Yet Breault was seeing everything.

Five times that morning he saw Peter, but not once did he make a sign or call to him.
He drove his raft ashore at twelve o'clock to prepare his dinner, and after he had built a fire, and his cooking things were scattered about, he straightened himself up and called in that same matter-of-fact way, as if expecting an immediate response, "Here, Peter!--Peter!--Come in, Boy!" And Peter came.