For two solid hours Dan Dalzell paddled lazily wherever his skipper told him to.

The nearest that Tom seemed destined to get a "strike" was when his hook caught in the weeds.
At last they were some distance out on the lake, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards from shore.

Reade, wholly discouraged, was about to give the order to make for camp.
Turning about in the canoe, Reade discovered that Dalzell was in a brown study, slowly lifting his paddle and lifting it out again, but without watching his course.
"Look out, Danny boy," cautioned Tom, "or you'll scratch the sides of the canoe on those bushes right ahead." Dan glanced up with a start, backing water.

They had now passed in under the shadow of trees, for the sun was low, and it was somewhat dark and gloomy in there.
"It's queer for bushes to be growing so far out from shore," muttered Tom, "and it shows how shallow the water must be about here.
You had better back water out of here, Danny." Dalzell was about to do so when his glance fell on something that halted his arm.
In the same moment Tom Reade saw the object that had arrested Dan's attention.
From between the bushes peered a pair of deep-set, frightened eyes that looked out from the haggard, despairing face of a man whose head alone was visible.
Just for the moment neither Tom nor Dalzell could really guess whether the face belonged to the living or the dead.

The sight caused cold shivers to run up and down their spines, for that face was ghastly and haunting in the extreme.
But quickly Tom Reade found his voice sufficiently to ask huskily: "What's your trouble, my friend ?".