CHAPTER VIII.
IN AMBROSE'S CAMP.
Ambrose was awakened in his mosquito-tent by an alarm from Job.

The sun was just up, and it was therefore no more than three o'clock.

A visitor was approaching in a canoe.
In the North a caller is a caller.

Ambrose crept out of his blankets and, swallowing his yawns, stuck his head in the river to clear his brain.
The visitor was a handsome young breed of Ambrose's own age.

Ambrose surveyed his broad shoulders, his thin, graceful waist and thighs approvingly.