He poked this way and that way under the ice, until at length he felt something soft.

With the hatchet they cut a hole over the place and then dragged out the body of the lynx.

The beaver, of course, escaped and was probably little the worse.
While Quonab skinned the catch, Rolf prowled around the pond and soon came running back to tell of a remarkable happening.
At another open hole a beaver had come out, wandered twenty yards to a mound which he had castorized, then passed several hard wood trees to find a large poplar or aspen, the favourite food tree.

This he had begun to fell with considerable skill, but for some strange reason, perhaps because alone, he had made a miscalculation, and when the tree came crashing down, it had fallen across his back, killed him, and pinned him to the ground.
It was an easy matter for the hunters to remove the log and secure his pelt, so they left the beaver pond, richer than they had expected.
Next night, when they reached their half-way shanty, they had the best haul they had taken on this line since the memorable day when they got six beavers.
The morning dawned clear and bright.

As they breakfasted, they noticed an extraordinary gathering of ravens far away to the north, beyond any country they had visited.