14014	----	No. 556 DANGERS ON THE ICE OFF THE COAST OF LABRADOR With Some Interesting Particulars Respecting the Natives of that Country Printed for the Religious Tract Society London [Price One Penny] [Illustration] The Moravian Missionaries on the coast of Labrador (a part of North America) for many years suffered much from the severity of the climate, and the savage disposition of the natives. In the year 1782, the brethren, Liebisch and Turner, experienced a remarkable preservation of their lives; the particulars show the dangers the Missionaries underwent in pursuing their labours. To this Narrative are added some further particulars, which show their labours were not without success. Early on March the 11th, they left Nain to go to Okkak, a journey of 150 miles. They travelled in a sledge drawn by dogs, and another sledge with Esquimaux joined them, the whole party consisting of five men, one woman, and a child. The weather was remarkably fine, and the track over the frozen sea was in the best order, so that they travelled at the rate of six or seven miles an hour. All therefore were in good spirits, hoping to reach Okkak in two or three days. Having passed the islands in the bay, they kept at a considerable distance from the shore, both to gain the smoothest part of the ice, and to avoid the high and rocky promontory of Kiglapeit. About eight o'clock they met a sledge with Esquimaux driving towards the land, who intimated that it might be well not to proceed; but as the missionaries saw no reason for it, they paid no regard to these hints, and went on. In a while, however, their own Esquimaux remarked, that there was a swell under the ice. It was then hardly perceptible, except on applying the ear close to the ice, when a hollow grating and roaring noise was heard. The weather remained clear, and no sudden change was expected. But the motion of the sea under the ice had grown so perceptible as rather to alarm our travellers, and they began to think it prudent to keep closer to the shore. The ice in many places had fissures and cracks, some of which formed chasms of one or two feet wide; but as they are not uncommon, and the dogs easily leap over them, the sledge following without danger, they are terrible only to new comers. As soon as the sun declined, the wind increased and rose to a storm. The snow was driven about by whirl winds, both on the ice and from off the peaks of the high mountains, and filled the air. At the same time the swell had increased so much, that its effects upon the ice became very extraordinary and alarming. The sledges, instead of gliding along smoothly upon an even surface, sometimes ran with violence after the dogs, and shortly after seemed with difficulty to ascend the rising hill; for the elasticity of so vast a body of ice, of many leagues square, supported by a troubled sea, though in some places three or four yards in thickness, would, in some degree, occasion a motion not unlike that of a sheet of paper upon the surface of a rippling stream. Noises were now likewise heard in many directions, like the report of cannon, owing to the bursting of the ice at some distance. The Esquimaux drove with all haste towards the shore, as it plainly appeared the ice would break and disperse in the open sea. When the sledges approached the coast, the prospect before them was truly terrific. The ice, having broken loose from the rocks, was forced up and down, grinding and breaking into a thousand pieces against the precipices, with a tremendous noise, which, added to the raging of the wind, and the snow driving about in the air, nearly deprived the travellers of the power of hearing and seeing any thing distinctly. To make the land at any risk, was now the only hope left, but it was with the utmost difficulty the frighted dogs could be forced forward, the whole body of the ice sinking frequently below the rocks, then rising above them. As the only moment to land was that when the ice gained the level of the shore, the attempt was extremely nice and hazardous. However, by God's mercy, it succeeded; both sledges gained the shore, and were drawn up the beach, though with much difficulty. The travellers had hardly time to reflect with gratitude to God for their safety, when that part of the ice from which they had just now made good their landing, burst asunder, and the water forcing itself from below, covered and precipitated it into the sea. In an instant, the whole mass of ice, extending for several miles from the coast, and as far as the eye could reach, burst, and was overwhelmed by the rolling waves. The sight was tremendous and awfully grand; the large fields of ice raising themselves out of the water, striking against each other, and plunging into the deep, with a violence not to be described, and a noise like the discharge of innumerable batteries of heavy guns. The darkness of the night; the roaring of the wind and the sea, and the dashing of the waves and ice against the rocks, filled the travellers with sensations of awe and horror, so as almost to deprive them of the power of utterance. They stood overwhelmed with astonishment at their miraculous escape, and even the heathen Esquimaux expressed gratitude to God for their deliverance. The Esquimaux now began to build a hut with snow, about thirty paces from the beach, but before they had finished their work, the waves reached the place where the sledges were secured, and they were with difficulty saved from being washed into the sea. About nine o'clock all of them crept into the snow-house, thanking God for this place of refuge; for the wind was piercingly cold, and so violent, that it required great strength to stand against it. Before they entered this habitation, they could not help once more turning their eyes to the sea, which was now free from ice. They beheld with horror, mingled with gratitude for their safety, the enormous waves driving furiously before the wind and approaching the shore, where with dreadful noise they dashed against the rocks, foaming and filling the air with spray. The whole company now got their supper, and having sung an evening hymn in the Esquimaux language, lay down to rest about ten o'clock. The Esquimaux were soon fast asleep, but brother Liebisch could not get any rest, partly on account of the dreadful roaring of the wind, and partly owing to a sore throat, which gave him much pain. His wakefulness proved the deliverance of the whole party from sudden destruction. About two o'clock in the morning, he perceived some salt water dropping from the roof of the snow-house upon his lips. On a sudden, a tremendous wave broke close to the house, discharging a quantity of water into it; a second soon followed, and carried away the slab of snow placed as a door before the entrance. The missionaries having roused the sleeping Esquimaux, they instantly set to work, One of them with a knife cut a passage through the house, and each seizing some part of the baggage, threw it out on a higher part of the beach; brother Turner assisting them. Brother Liebisch and the woman and child fled to a neighbouring eminence. The latter were wrapt up by the Esquimaux in a large skin, and the former took shelter behind a rock, for it was impossible to stand against the wind, snow, and sleet. Scarcely had the company retreated, when an enormous wave carried away the whole house. They now found themselves a second time delivered from the most imminent danger of death; but the remaining part of the night, before the Esquimaux could seek and find another and safer place for a snow-house, were hours of great distress and very painful reflections. Before the day dawned, the Esquimaux cut a hole in a large drift of snow, to serve as a shelter to the woman and child and the two missionaries. Brother Liebisch, however, owing to the pain in his throat, could not bear the closeness of the air, and was obliged to sit down at the entrance, being covered with skins, to guard him against the cold. As soon as it was light, they built another snow-house, and miserable as such an accommodation must be, they were glad and thankful to creep into it. The missionaries had taken but a small stock of provisions with them, merely sufficient for the short journey to Okkak. Joel, his wife and child, and Kassigiak, a heathen sorcerer, who was with them, had nothing. They were obliged therefore to divide the small stock into daily portions, especially as there appeared no hopes of soon quitting this place and reaching any dwellings. They therefore resolved to serve out no more than a biscuit and a half per day to each. The missionaries remained in the snowhouse, and every day endeavoured to boil so much water over their lamps, as might supply them with two cups of coffee a-piece. Through mercy they were preserved in good health, and, quite unexpectedly, brother Liebisch recovered on the first day of his sore throat. The Esquimaux also kept up their spirits, and even Kassigiak, though a wild heathen, declared; that it was proper to be thankful that they were still alive; adding, that if they had remained a little longer on the ice yesterday all their bones would have been broken in a short time. Towards noon of the 13th, the weather cleared up, and the sea was seen as far as the eye could reach, quite clear and free from ice; but the weather being very stormy, the Esquimaux could not quit the snow-house, which made them very low-spirited and melancholy. They, however, possess one advantage, namely, the power of going to sleep when they please, and, if need be, they will sleep for days and night together. In the evening of the 15th, the sky became clear, and their hopes revived. Mark and Joel went out to reconnoitre, and reported that the ice had acquired a considerable degree of solidity, and might soon afford a safe passage. The poor dogs had now nearly fasted four days, but in the prospect of a speedy release, the missionaries allowed to each a few morsels of food. The temperature of the air having been rather mild, it occasioned new source of distress, for, from the warmth of the inhabitants, the roof of the snow-house began to melt, which occasioned a continual dropping, and by degrees made every thing soaking wet. The missionaries considered this the greatest hardship they had to endure, for they had not a dry thread about them, nor a dry place to lie in. On the 16th, early, the sky cleared, but the fine particles of snow were driven about like clouds. Their present distress dictated the necessity of venturing something to reach the habitations of men, and yet they were rather afraid of passing over the newly frozen sea, and could not determine what to do. Brother Turner went again with Mark to examine the ice, and both seemed satisfied that it had acquired sufficient strength. They therefore came to a final resolution to return to Nain, committing themselves to the protection of the Lord. Notwithstanding the wind had considerably increased, accompanied with heavy showers of snow and sleet, they ventured to set off at half past ten o'clock in the forenoon of the 19th. Mark ran all the way round Kiglapeit before the sledge to find a good track, and about one o'clock, through God's mercy, they were out of danger and reached the Bay. Here they found a good track upon smooth ice, and made a meal upon the remnant of their provisions. Thus refreshed, they resolved to proceed without stopping till they reached Nain, where they arrived at twelve o'clock at night. It may easily be conceived with what gratitude to God the whole family at Nain bade them welcome. During the storm, they had considered with some dread, what might be the fate of their brethren, though its violence was not felt so much there. Added to this, the hints of the Esquimaux had considerably increased their apprehensions for their safety, and their fears began to get the better of their hopes. All, therefore, joined most fervently in praise and thanksgiving to God, for this signal deliverance. For many years the conversion of the heathen in Labrador, not only proceeded very slowly, but was attended with many discouraging circumstances. The missionaries had patiently persevered in preaching to the natives, and watching every opportunity to make them attentive to the best interests of their soils: but reaped little fruit from their labours. Visits were frequent, and there was in general no want of hearers to address, but they showed no disposition to be instructed. If even a salutary impression was occasionally made on their minds, it was not abiding. Some families were indeed collected in the different settlements, but after staying there the winter, they mostly moved away again in summer, and apparently forgot all they had heard. Before the close of the year 1804, a new period commenced. A fire from the Lord was kindled among the Esquimaux, accompanied with the clearest evidence of being the effect of the operations of the divine Spirit on their hearts. It commenced at Hopedale, the very place which presented the most discouraging prospect. When the Esquimaux of that place returned from their summer excursions, the missionaries were delighted to find, that they not only had been preserved from sinful practices, but had greatly increased in the knowledge of divine truth. They had obtained an humbling insight into the corruption and deceitfulness of their hearts, and the wretched state of a person void of faith in Christ. This constrained them to cry for mercy, and gladly to accept salvation on the terms of the gospel: and some afforded encouraging hopes, that they had found forgiveness of sins in the blood of Christ, by which their souls were filled with peace in believing. Out of the abundance of the heart their mouths spake of the love and power of Jesus. Their artless but energetic declarations impressed the rest of the inhabitants. They began to feel the necessity of true conversion; and in a short time all the adults appeared earnestly to seek peace with God. Even several of the children were awakened. The missionaries were daily visited by people, who either inquired "what they must do to be saved," or testified of the grace of God manifested to their souls. The progress of the mission, in the sequel, supplies sufficient proof, that the effect of the gospel, just related, was not a wild fire, or the mere consequence of a momentary impression, but a divine work wrought in the hearts of the natives by the Spirit of God himself. The missionaries frequently mention the attention and diligence shown in the schools, both by adults, and children, and the delight and fervour with which they engage in their family devotions, and in conversations with each other respecting the influence of the gospel on their own souls. Their behaviour at public worship likewise very strikingly differed from that of former years, with regard to the eagerness with which they now attended the house of God, and their deportment during the performance of divine service. On one occasion the missionaries remark, "We no longer see bold, undaunted heathen sitting before us, with defiance or ridicule in their looks; but people expecting, a blessing, desirous to experience the power of the word of life, shedding tears of repentance, and their whole appearance evincing devotion and earnest inquiry." Christians! does not this narrative present us with some useful subjects for reflection? London: Printed for THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY 
14866	----	Commission of Conservation Canada ANIMAL SANCTUARIES IN LABRADOR AN ADDRESS PRESENTED BY LT.-COLONEL WILLIAM WOOD, F.R.S.C. Before the Second Annual Meeting of the Commission of Conservation at Quebec, January, 1911 OTTAWA: CAPITAL PRESS LIMITED, 1911 _Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador_ An Address Presented BY LT.-COLONEL WILLIAM WOOD BEFORE THE SECOND ANNUAL MEETING OF THE COMMISSION OF CONSERVATION HELD AT QUEBEC, JANUARY, 1911 An Appeal All to whom wild Nature is one of the greatest glories of the Earth, all who know its higher significance for civilized man to-day, and all who consequently prize it as an heirloom for posterity, are asked to help in keeping the animal life of Labrador from being wantonly done to death. There is nothing to cause disagreement among the three main classes of people most interested in wild life--the men whose business depends in any way on animal products, the sportsmen, and the Nature-lovers of every kind. There are very good reasons why the general public should support the scheme. And there are equally good reasons why it should be induced to do so by simply telling it the truth about the senseless extermination that is now going on. Every reader can help by spreading some knowledge of the subject in his or her home circle. Canada, like all free countries, is governed by public opinion. And sound public opinion, like all other good things, should always begin at home. The Press can help, as it has helped many another good cause, by giving the subject full publicity. Free use can be made of the present paper in any way desired. It is left non-copyright for this very purpose. Experts can help by pointing out mistakes, giving information, and making suggestions of their own. And if any of them will undertake to lead, the present author will undertake to follow. It is proposed to issue a supplement in 1912, containing all the additional information collected in the mean time. Every such item of information will be duly credited to the person supplying it. All correspondence should be addressed-- COLONEL WOOD, 59, Grande Allée, Quebec. Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador BY LIEUT.-COLONEL WILLIAM WOOD, F.R.S.C., ETC. MR. CHAIRMAN AND GENTLEMEN:-- To be quite honest I must begin by saying that I am not a scientific expert on either animals, sanctuaries or Labrador. But, by way of excusing my temerity, I can plead a life-long love of animals, a good deal of experience and study of them--especially down the Lower St. Lawrence, and considerable attention to sanctuaries in general and their suitability to Labrador in particular. Moreover, I can plead this most pressingly important fact, that a magnificent opportunity is fast slipping away before our very eyes there, without a single effort being made to seize it. I have repeatedly discussed the question with those best qualified to give sound advice--with naturalists, explorers, missionaries, fishermen, furriers, traders, hunters, sportsmen, and many who are accustomed to look ahead into the higher development of our public life. I have also read the books, papers and reports written from up-to-date and first-hand knowledge. And, though I have been careful to consult men who regard such questions from very different points of view, and books showing quite as wide a general divergence, I have found a remarkable consensus of opinion in favour of establishing a system of sanctuaries before it is too late. I should like to add that any information on the subject, or any correction of what I have written here, will be most welcome. The simple address, Quebec, will always find me. The only special point I would ask correspondents to remember is that even the best recommendations must be adapted to the peculiarities of the Labrador problem, which is new, strange, immense, and full of complex human factors. Perhaps I might be allowed to explain that I speak simply as a Canadian. I am not connected with any of the material interests concerned. I do not even belong to a Fish and Game club. My only object is to prove, from verifiable facts, that animal life in Labrador is being recklessly and wantonly squandered, that this is detrimental to everyone except the get-rich-quickly people who are ready to destroy any natural resources forever in order to reap an immediate and selfish advantage, that sanctuaries will better conditions in every way, and that the ultimate benefit to Canada--both in a material and a higher sense--will repay the small present expense required, over and over again. And this repayment need not be long deferred. I can show that once the public grasps the issues at stake it will supply enough petitioners to move any government based on popular support, and that the scheme itself will supply enough money to make the sanctuaries a national asset of the most paying kind, and enough higher human interest to make them priceless as a possession for ourselves and a heritage for all who come after. If, Sir, you would allow me to make one more preliminary explanation, I should like to say that I have purposely left out all the usual array of statistics. I have, of course, examined them carefully myself, and based my arguments upon them. But I have excluded them from my text because they would have made an already long paper unduly longer, and because they are perfectly accessible to every member of the Commission which I have the honour of addressing to-night. SANCTUARIES. A sanctuary may be defined as a place where Man is passive and the rest of Nature active. Till quite recently Nature had her own sanctuaries, where man either did not go at all or only as a tool-using animal in comparatively small numbers. But now, in this machinery age, there is no place left where man cannot go with overwhelming forces at his command. He can strangle to death all the nobler wild life in the world to-day. To-morrow he certainly will have done so, unless he exercises due foresight and self-control in the mean time. There is not the slightest doubt that birds and mammals are now being killed off much faster than they can breed. And it is always the largest and noblest forms of life that suffer most. The whales and elephants, lions and eagles, go. The rats and flies, and all mean parasites, remain. This is inevitable in certain cases. But it is wanton killing off that I am speaking of to-night. Civilized man begins by destroying the very forms of wild life he learns to appreciate most when he becomes still more civilized. The obvious remedy is to begin conservation at an earlier stage, when it is easier and better in every way, by enforcing laws for close seasons, game preserves, the selective protection of certain species, and sanctuaries. I have just defined a sanctuary as a place where man is passive and the rest of Nature active. But this general definition is too absolute for any special case. The mere fact that man has to protect a sanctuary does away with his purely passive attitude. Then, he can be beneficially active by destroying pests and parasites, like bot-flies or mosquitoes, and by finding antidotes for diseases like the epidemic which periodically kills off the rabbits and thus starves many of the carnivora to death. But, except in cases where experiment has proved his intervention to be beneficial, the less he upsets the balance of Nature the better, even when he tries to be an earthly Providence. In itself a sanctuary is a kind of wild "zoo," on a gigantic scale and under ideal conditions. As such, it appeals to everyone interested in animals, from the greatest zoologist to the mere holiday tourist. Before concluding I shall give facts to show how well worth while it would be to establish sanctuaries, even if there were no other people to enjoy the benefits. Yet the strongest of all arguments is that sanctuaries, far from conflicting with other interests, actually further them. But unless we make these sanctuaries soon we shall be infamous forever, as the one generation which defrauded posterity of all the preservable wild life that Nature took a million years to evolve into its present beautiful perfection. Only a certain amount of animal life can exist in a certain area. The surplus must go outside. So sanctuaries are more than wild "zoos", they are overflowing reservoirs, fed by their own springs, and feeding streams of life at every outlet. They serve not only those interested in animal life, but those legitimately interested in animal death, for business, sport or food. I might mention many instances of successful sanctuaries, permanent or temporary, absolute or modified--the Algonquin, Rocky Mountains, Yoho, Glacier, Jasper and Laurentides in Canada; the Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grand Cañon, Olympus and Superior in the United States; with the sea-lions of California, the wonderful revival of ibex in Spain and deer in Maine and New Brunswick, the great preserves in Uganda, India and Ceylon, the selective work of Baron von Berlepsch in Germany, the curious result of taboo protection up the Nelson river, and the effects on seafowl in cases as far apart in time and space as the guano islands under the Incas of Peru, Gardiner island in the United States or the Bass rock off the coast of Scotland. Yet I do not ignore the difficulties. First, there is the universal difficulty of introducing or enforcing laws where there have been no operative laws before. Next, there is the difficulty of arousing public opinion on any subject, however worthy, which requires both insight and foresight. Then, we must remember that protected species increasing beyond their special means of subsistence have to seek other kinds of food, sometimes with unfortunate results. And then there are the several special difficulties connected with Labrador. There are three British governments concerned--Newfoundland, the Dominion and the province of Quebec. There are French and American fishermen along the shore. The proper protection of some migratory species will require co-operation with the United States, perhaps with Mexico and South America for certain birds, and even with Denmark for the Greenland seal. Then, there are the Indians, the whole trade in animal products, the necessity of not interfering with any legitimate development, and the question of immediate expense, however small, for a deferred benefit, however great and near at hand. And, finally, we must remember that scientific knowledge is not by any means adequate to deal with all the factors of the problem at once. LABRADOR But in spite of all these and many other difficulties, I firmly believe that Labrador is by far the best country in the world for the best kinds of sanctuary. The first time you're on a lee shore there, in a full gale, you may well be excused for shrinking back from the wild white line of devouring breakers. But when you actually make for them you find the coast opening into archipelagoes of islands, to let you safely through into the snug little "tickles," between island and mainland, where you can ride out the storm as well as you could in a landlocked harbour. This is typical of many another pleasant surprise. Labrador decidedly improves on acquaintance. The fogs have been grossly exaggerated. The Atlantic seaboard is clearer than the British Isles, which, by the way, lie in exactly the same latitudes. And the Gulf is far clearer than New Brunswick, Nova Scotia and the Banks. The climate is exceptionally healthy, the air a most invigorating tonic, and the cold no greater than in many a civilized northern land. Besides, there is a considerable range of temperatures in a country whose extreme north and south lie 1,000 miles apart, one in the latitude of Greenland, the other in that of Paris. Taking the Labrador peninsula geographically, as including the whole area east of a line run up the Saguenay and on from lake St. John to James bay, it comprises 560,000 square miles--eleven Englands! The actual residents hardly number 20,000. About twice as many outsiders appear off the coasts at certain seasons. So it would take a tenfold increase, afloat and ashore, to make one human being to each square mile of land. But, all the same, wild life needs conservation there, and needs it badly, as we shall presently see. Most of Labrador is a rocky tableland, still rising from the depths, with some old beaches as much as 1,500 feet above the present level of the sea. The St. Lawrence seaboard is famous for its rivers and forests. The Atlantic seaboard has the same myriads of islands, is magnificently bold, is pierced by fiords unexcelled in Norway, and crowned by mountains higher than any others east of the Rockies. Hamilton inlet runs in 150 miles. At Ramah the cliffs rise sheer three thousand five hundred feet and more. The Four peaks, still untrodden by the foot of man, rise more than twice as high again. And the colouration, of every splendid hue, adds beauty to the grandeur of the scene. Inland, there are lakes up to 100 miles long, big rivers by the score, deep canyons and foaming rapids--to say nothing of the countless waterfalls, of which the greatest equals two Niagaras. This vast country is accessible by sea on three sides, and will soon be accessible by land on the fourth. It lies directly half-way between Great Britain and our own North West and is 1,000 miles nearer London than New York is. Its timber, mines and water-power will be increasingly exploited. It should also become increasingly attractive to the best type of tourist, naturalist and sportsman. But supposing all this does happen. The mines, water-powers and lumbering will only create small towns and villages. There will surely be some conservation to have the forests used and not abused especially by fire: and the white man should remember that he is the worst of all in turning a land from green to black. Except in the southwest and a few isolated spots, the country cannot be farmed. At the same time, the urban population must have communications with the outside world, by which regular supplies can come in. This will make the settlers independent of wild life for necessary food; and wild life, in any case, would be too precarious if exploited in the usual way. The traders in wild-animal products, as well as the naturalists, sportsmen and tourists, are interested in keeping the rest of the country well stocked. So that, one way and another, the human and wild-animal life will not conflict, as they do where farming creates a widespread rural population, or wanton destruction of forests ruins land and water, and human and animal life have to suffer for it afterwards. All the different places required for business spheres of influence in the near future, added to all the business spheres of the present, can hardly exceed the area of one whole England, especially if all suitable areas are not thrown open simultaneously to lumbering, at the risk of the usual bad results. So there will remain ten other Englands, admirably fitted, in all respects, to grow wild life in the most beneficial abundance, and quite able to do so indefinitely, if a reasonable amount of general protection is combined with well-situated sanctuaries. The fauna is much more richly varied than people who think of Labrador as nothing but an arctic barren are inclined to suppose. The fisheries have been known for centuries, especially the cod, which has a prerogative right to the simple word "fish." There are herring and lobsters in the Gulf, plenty of salmon and trout in most of the rivers, winninish in all the tributary waters of the Hamilton, as well as in lake St. John, whitefish in the lakes, and so forth. Then, the stone-carrying chub is one of the most interesting creatures in the world.... But the fish and fisheries have problems of their own too great for incidental treatment; and I shall pass on to the birds and mammals. Yet I must not forget the "flies"--who that has felt them once can ever forget them? Labrador is not a very happy hunting-ground for the entomologist. But all it lacks in variety of kinds it more than makes up in number of individuals, especially in the detestable trio of bot-flies, blackflies and mosquitoes. The bot-fly infests the caribou and will probably infest the reindeer. The blackfly and mosquito attack both man and beast in maddening millions. The mosquito is not malarious. But that is the only bad thing he is not. Destruction is "conservation" so far as "flies," parasites and disease germs are concerned. Labrador has over 200 species of birds, from humming-birds and sanderlings to eagles, gannets, loons and herons. Among those able to hold their own, with proper encouragement, are the following: two loons, two murres, the puffin, guillemot, razor-billed auk, dovekie and pomarine jæger; six gulls--ivory, kittiwake, glaucous, great black-back, herring and Bonaparte; two terns--arctic and common; the fulmar, two shearwaters, two cormorants, the red-breasted merganser and the gannet; seven ducks--the black, golden-eye, old squaw and harlequin, with the American, king and Greenland eiders; three scoters; four geese--snow, blue, brant and Canada; two phalaropes, several sandpipers, with the Hudsonian godwit and both yellowlegs; two snipes; five plovers; and the Eskimo and Hudsonian curlews. These two curlews should be absolutely closed to all shooting everywhere for several seasons. They are on the verge of extinction; and it may even now be too late to save them. The great blue heron and American bittern are not common, but less rare than they are supposed to be. Except for the willow and rock ptarmigans the land game-birds are not many in kind or numbers. There are a fair number of ruffed grouse in the south, and more spruce grouse in the north. The birds of prey are well represented by a few golden and more bald-headed eagles, the American rough-legged and other hawks, the black and the white gyrfalcons, the osprey, and eight owls, including the great horned owl, the boldest bird of all. The raven is widely distributed all the year round. Several woodpeckers, kingfishers, jays, bluebird, kingbird, chickadee, snow bunting; several sparrows, including, fortunately, the white-crowned, white-throat and song, but now, unfortunately, the English as well. There are blackbirds, red-polls, a dozen warblers, the American robin, hermit thrush and ruby-throated humming-bird. Both the land and sea mammals are of great importance. Several whales are well known. The Right is almost exterminated; but the Greenland, or Bow-head, is found along the edge of the ice in all Hudsonian waters. The Pollock is rare, and the Sperm, or Cachalot, as nearly exterminated as the Right. But the Little-piked, or _rostrata_, is found inshore along the north and east, the Bottle-nose on the north, the Humpback on the east and south; and the Finback and Sulphur-bottom are common and widely distributed, especially on the east. The Little White whale, or "White porpoise," is fairly common all round; the Killer is widely distributed, but most numerous on the east, where the Narwhal is also found. The Harbour and Striped porpoises, and the Common and Bottle-nosed dolphins, are chiefly on the east and south. There are six Seals--the Harbour, Ringed, Harp, Bearded, Grey and Hooded. The Harbour seal is also called the "Common" and the "Wise" seal, and is the _vitulina_ of zoology. It is common all round the coasts, and the Indians of the interior assert that many live permanently in the lakes. Big and Little Seal lakes are more than 100 miles from the nearest salt water. The Ringed seal is locally called "floe rat" and "gum seal." It is the smallest and least valuable of all, and fairly common all round. The Harp seal is "seal," in the same way as cod is "fish." It has various local names, five among the French-Canadians alone, but is specifically known as the Greenland seal. The young, immediately after birth, have a fine white coat, which makes them valuable. The herds are followed on a large scale at the end of the winter season, which is also the whelping season, and hundreds of thousands are killed, females and young preponderating. They are still common along the east and south, but diminishing steadily, especially in the St. Lawrence. The Bearded, or "Square-flipper," seal is rare in the St. Lawrence and on the Atlantic, but commoner in Hudsonian waters. It is a large seal, eight feet long, and bulky in proportion. The Grey, or Horse-head, seal runs up to about the same size occasionally and is one of the gamest animals that swims. It is rare on the Atlantic and not common anywhere on the St. Lawrence. The "Hoods" are the largest of all and the lions of the lot. They run up to 1,000 pounds and over, and sometimes fourteen feet long. They are rare on the Atlantic and decreasing along the St. Lawrence, owing to the Newfoundland hunters. The Walrus, formerly abundant all round, is now rarely seen except in the far north, where he is fast decreasing. Moose may feel their way in by the southwest to an increasing extent, and might possibly be reinforced by the Alaskan variety. Red deer might possibly be induced to enter by the same way in fair numbers over a limited area. The woodland caribou is almost exterminated, but might be resuscitated. The barren-ground caribou is still plentiful in the north, where most of the herds appear to migrate in an immense ellipse, crossing from west to east, over the barrens, in the fall, to the Atlantic, and then turning south and west through the woods in winter, till they reach their original starting-point near Hudson bay in the spring. But this is not to be counted on. The herds divide, change direction, and linger in different places. Their tame brother, the reindeer, is being introduced as the chief domestic animal of Eastern Labrador, with apparently every prospect of success. Beaver are fairly common and widely distributed in forested areas. Other rodents are frequent--squirrels, musk-rats, mice, voles, lemmings, hares and porcupines. There are two bats. Black bears are general; polars, in the north. Grizzlies have been traded at Fort Chimo in Ungava, but they are probably all killed out. The lynx is common wherever there are woods. There are two wolves, arctic and timber, the latter now rare in the south. The Labrador red fox is very common in the woods, and the "white," or arctic fox, in the barrens and further south on both coasts. The "cross," "silver" and "black" variations of course occur, as they naturally increase towards the northern limits of range. The "blue" is a seasonal change of the "white." The wolverine and otter are common. The skunk is only known in the southwest. The mink ranges through the southern third of the peninsula. The Labrador marten, or "sable," is a sub-species, generally distributed in the forested parts, like the weasel. The "fisher," or Pennant's marten, is much more local, ranging only between the "North Shore" and Mistassini. From the St. Lawrence to the Barren Grounds three-fourths of the land has been burnt over since the white man came. The resultant loss of all forms of life may be imagined, especially when we remember that the fire often burns up the very soil itself, leaving nothing but rocks and black desolation. Still, there is plenty of fur and feather worth preserving. But nothing can save it unless conservation replaces the present reckless destruction. DESTRUCTION When rich virgin soil is first farmed it yields a maximum harvest for a minimum of human care. But presently it begins to fail, and will fail altogether unless man returns to it in one form some of the richness he expects to get from it in another. Now, exploited wild life fails even faster under wasteful treatment; but, on the other hand, with hardly any of the trouble required for continuous farming, quickly recovers itself by being simply let alone. So when we consider how easily it can be preserved in Labrador, and how beneficial its preservation is to all concerned, we can understand how the wanton destruction going on there is quite as idiotic as it is wrong. Take "egging" as an example. The Indians, Eskimos and other beasts of prey merely preserved the balance of nature by the toll they used to take. No beast of prey, not even the white man, will destroy his own stock supply of food. But with the nineteenth century came the white-man market "eggers", systematically taking or destroying every egg in every place they visited. Halifax, Quebec and other towns were centres of the trade. The "eggers" increased in numbers and thoroughness till the eggs decreased in the more accessible spots below paying quantities. But other egging still goes on unchecked. The game laws of the province of Quebec distinctly state: "It is forbidden to take nests or eggs of wild birds at any time". But the swarms of fishermen who come up the north shore of the St. Lawrence egg wherever they go. If they are only to stay in the same spot for a day or two, they gather all the eggs they can, put them into water, and throw away every one that floats. Sometimes three, four, five or even ten times as many are thrown away as are kept, and all those bird lives lost for nothing. Worse still, if the men are going to stay long enough they will often go round the nests and make sure of smashing every single egg. Then they come back in a few days and gather every single egg, because they know it has been laid in the mean time and must be fresh. When we remember how many thousands of men visit the shore, and that the resident population eggs on its own account, at least as high up as the Pilgrims, only 100 miles from Quebec, we need not be prophets to foresee the inevitable end of all bird life when subjected to such a drain. And this is on the St. Lawrence, where there are laws and wardens and fewer fishermen. What about the Atlantic Labrador, where there are no laws, no wardens, many more fishermen, and ruthless competitive egging between the residents and visitors? Of course, where people must egg or starve there is nothing more to be said. But this sort of egging is very limited, not enough to destroy the birds, and the necessity for it will become less frequent as other sources of supply become available. It is the utterly wanton destruction that is the real trouble. And it is just as bad with the birds as with the eggs. A schooner captain says, "Now, boys, here's your butcher shop: help yourselves!" and this, remember, is in the brooding season. Not long ago the men from a vessel in Cross harbour landed on an islet full of eiders and killed every single brooding mother. Such men have grown up to this, and there is that amount of excuse for them. Besides, they ate the birds, though they destroyed the broods. Yet, as they always say, "We don't know no law here," it may be suspected that they do know there really is one. These men do a partly excusable wrong. But what about those who ought to know better? In the summer of 1907 an American millionaire's yacht landed a party who shot as many brooding birds on St. Mary island as they chose, and then left the bodies to rot and the broods to perish. That was, presumably, for sport. For the same kind of sport, motor boats cut circles round diving birds, drown them, and let the bodies float away. The North Shore people have drowned myriads of moulting scoters in August; but they use the meat. Bestial forms of sport are many and vile. "C'est un plaisir superbe" was the description given by some voyageurs on exploring work, who had spent the afternoon chasing young birds about the rocks and stamping them to death. Deer were literally hacked to pieces by construction gangs on new lines last summer. Dynamiting a stream is quite a common trick wherever it is safe to play it. Harbour seals are wantonly shot in deep fresh water where they cannot be recovered, much as seagulls are shot by blackguards from an ocean liner. And the worst of it is that all this wanton destruction is not by any means confined to the ignorant or those who have been brought up to it. The men from the American yacht must have known better. So do those educated men from our own cities, who shoot out of season down the St. Lawrence and plead, quite falsely, that there is no game law below the Brandy Pots. It is, of course, well understood that a man can always shoot for necessary food. But this provision is shamelessly misused. Last summer, when a great employer of labour down the Gulf was telling where birds could be shot to the greatest advantage out of season, and I was objecting that it was not clean sport, he said, "Oh, but Indians can shoot for food at any time--_and we're all Indians here!"_ And what are we to think of a rich man who used caribou simply as targets for his new rifle, and a scientific man who killed 72 in one morning, only to make a record? We need the true ideal of sport and an altogether new ideal of conservation, and we need them very badly and very soon. We have had our warnings. The great auk and the Labrador duck have both become utterly extinct within living memory. The Eskimo curlew is decreasing to the danger point, and the Yellowlegs is following. The lobster fishing is being wastefully conducted along the St. Lawrence; so, indeed, are the other fisheries. Whales are diminishing: the Cape Charles and Hawke Harbour establishments are running, but those at L'Anse au Loup and Seven islands are not. The whole whaling industry is disappearing all over the world before the uncontrolled persecution of the new steam whalers. The walrus is exterminated everywhere in Labrador except in the north. The seals are diminishing. Every year the hunters are better supplied with better implements of butchery. The catch is numbered by the hundreds of thousands, and this only for one fleet in one place at one season, when the Newfoundlanders come up the St. Lawrence at the end of the winter. The woodland caribou has been killed off to such an extent as to cause both Indians and wolves to die off with him. The barren-ground caribou is still plentiful, though decreasing. The dying out of so many Indians before the time of the Low and Eaton expedition of 1893-4 led to an increase of fur-bearing animals. But renewed, improved, increased and uncontrolled trapping has now reduced them below their former level. Hunting for the market seems to be going round in a vicious circle, always narrowing in on the quarry, which must ultimately be strangled to death. The white man comes in with better equipment, more systematic methods and often a "get-rich-and-get-out" idea that never entered a native head. The Indian has to go further afield. The white follows. Their prey shrinks back in diminishing numbers before them both. Prices go up. The hunt becomes keener, the animals fewer and farther off. Presently hunters and hunted will reach the far side of the utmost limits. And then traded, traders and trade will all disappear together. And it might so well be otherwise. There is another point that should never be passed over. In these days the public conscience is beginning to realize that the objection to man's cruelty towards his other fellow-beings is something more than a fad or a fancy. And wanton slaughter is very apt to be accompanied by shameless cruelty. To kill off parents when the young are helpless.... But I have already given enough sickening details of this. The treatment of the adults is almost worse in many typical cases. An Indian will skin a hare alive and gloat over his quivering death-agonies. The excuse is, "white man have fun, Indian have fun, too." And it is a valid excuse, from one point of view. When "there's nothing in caribou" except the value of the tongue, the tongue has been cut out of the living deer, whose only other value is considered to be the amusement afforded by his horrible fate. And, fiendish cruelty like this is not confined to the outer wilds. When some civilized English-speaking bird-catchers get a bird they do not want, they will deliberately wrench its bill apart, so that it must die of lingering starvation. Sometimes the cruelty is done to man himself. Not so many years ago some whalers secured a lot of walrus hides and tusks by having a whole herd of walrus wiped out, in spite of the fact that these animals were, at that very time, known to be the only food available for a neighbouring tribe of Eskimos. The Eskimos were starved to death, every soul among them, as the Government explorers found out. But Eskimos have no votes and never write to the papers; while walrus hides were booming in the markets of civilization. Things like these are not much spoken of. They very rarely appear in print. And when they are mentioned at all it is generally with an apology for introducing unpleasant details. But I am sure I need not apologize to gentlemen who are anxious to know the full truth of this great question, who cannot fail to see the connection between wanton destruction and revolting cruelty, and who must be as ready to rouse the moral conscience of our people against the cruelty as they are to rouse its awakening sense of conservation against the destruction. CONSERVATION All the sound reasons ever given for conserving other natural resources apply to the conservation of wild life--and with three-fold power. When a spend-thrift squanders his capital it is lost to him and his heirs; yet it goes somewhere else. When a nation allows any one kind of natural resource to be squandered it must suffer a real, positive loss; yet substitutes of another kind can generally be found. But when wild life is squandered it does not go elsewhere, like squandered money; it cannot possibly be replaced by any substitute, as some inorganic resources are: it is simply an absolute, dead loss, gone beyond even the hope of recall. Now, we have seen verifiable facts enough to prove that Labrador, out of its total area of eleven Englands, is not likely to be advantageously exploitable over much more than the area of one England for other purposes than the growth and harvesting of wild life by land and water. How are these ten Englands to be brought under conservation, before it is too late, in the best interests of the five chief classes of people who are concerned already or will be soon? Of course, the same individual may belong to more than one class. I merely use these divisions to make sure of considering all sides of the question. The five great interests are those of--1. Food. 2. Business. 3. The Indians and Eskimos. 4. Sport, and 5. The Zoophilists, by which I mean all people interested in wild-animal life, from zoologists to tourists. 1. FOOD.--The resident population is so sparse that there is not one person for every 20,000 acres; and most of these people live on the coast. Consequently, the vast interior could not be used for food supplies in any case. Besides, ever since the white man occupied the coast, the immediate hinterland, which used to be full of life, has become more and more barren. Fish is plentiful enough. A few small crops of common vegetables could be grown in many places, and outside supplies are becoming more available. So the toll of birds and mammals taken by the present genuine residents for necessary food is not a menace, if taken in reason. In isolated places in the Gulf, like Harrington, the Provincial law might safely be relaxed, so as to allow the eggs of ducks and gulls to be taken up to the 5th of June and those of murres, auks and puffins up to the 15th. Flight birds might also be shot at any time on the outside capes and islands. There is a local unwritten law down there--"No guns inside, after the 1st of June"--and it has been kept for twenty years. Similar relaxations might be allowed in other places, in genuine cases of necessity. But the egging and out-of-season slaughter done by people, resident or not, who are in touch with the outside world, should be stopped absolutely. And the few walrus now required as food by the few out-living Eskimos should be strictly protected. Of course, killing for food under real stress of need at any time or place goes without saying. The real and spurious cases will soon be discriminated by any proper system. 2. BUSINESS.--Business is done in fish, whales, seals, fur, game, plumage and eggs. The fish are a problem apart. But it is worth noting that uncontrolled exploitation is beginning to affect even their countless numbers in certain places. Whales have always been exploited indiscriminately, and their wide range outside of territorial waters adds to the difficulties of any regulation. But some seasonal and sanctuary protection is necessary to prevent their becoming extinct. The "white porpoise" could have its young protected; and whaling stations afford means of inspection and consequent control. The only chance at present is that when whales become too scarce to pay they are let alone, and may revive a little. The seals can be protected locally and ought to be. The preponderance of females and young killed in the whelping season is a drain impossible for them to withstand under modern conditions of slaughter. The difficulty of policing large areas simultaneously might be compensated for by special sanctuaries. The Americans are protecting their seals by restrictions on the numbers, ages and sex of those killed; and doing so successfully. The fur trade is open to the same sort of wise restriction, when necessary, to the protection of wild fur by the breeding of tame, as in the fox farms, and to the benefits of sanctuaries. Marketable game, plumage and eggs can be regulated at out ports and markets. And the extension of suitable laws to non-game animals, coupled with the establishment of sanctuaries, would soon improve conditions all round, especially in the interest of business itself. No one wants his business to be destroyed. But if Labrador is left without control indefinitely every business dealing with the products of wild life will be obliged to play the suicidal game of competitive grab till the last source of supply is exhausted, and capital, income and employment all go together. 3. INDIANS AND ESKIMOS.--The Eskimos are few and mostly localized. The Indians stand to gain by anything that will keep the fur trade in full vigour, as they are mostly hunters and trappers. Restriction on the number of skins, if that should prove necessary, and certainly on the sale of all poisons, could be made operative. Strychnine is said to kill animals eating the carcases even so far as to the seventh remove. Close seasons and sanctuaries are difficult to enforce with all Indians. But the registration of trappers, the enforcement of laws, the employment of Indians as guides for sportsmen, and other means, would have a salutary effect. The full-bloods, unfortunately, do not take kindly to guiding. Indians wishing to change their way of life or proving persistent lawbreakers might be hived in reserves with their wives and families. The reserves themselves would cost nothing, the Indians could find employment as other Indians have, and the expense of establishing would be a bagatelle. As a matter of fact, in spite of all the bad bargains having always been on the Indian side when sales and treaties were made with the whites, there is enough money to the credit of the Indians in the hands of the Government to establish a dozen hives and keep the people in them as idle as drones on the mere interest of it. But good hunting grounds are better than good hives. 4. SPORT.--Sport should have a great future in Labrador. Inland game birds, except ptarmigan, are the only kind of which there is never likely to be a great abundance, owing to the natural scarcity of their food. But, besides the big game on land and game birds on the coast, there are some unusual forms of sport appealing to adventurous natures. Harpooning the little white whale by hand in a North Shore canoe, or shooting the largest and gamest of all the seals--the great "hood"--also out of a canoe, requires enough skill and courage to make success its own reward. The extension and enforcement of proper game laws would benefit sport directly, while indirectly benefitting all the other interests. 5. ZOOPHILISTS.--The zoophilist class seems only in place as an afterthought. But I am convinced that it will soon become of at least equal importance with any other. All the people, from zoologists to tourists, who are drawn to such places by the attraction of seeing animal life in its own surroundings, already form an immense class in every community. And it is a rapidly increasing class. Could we do posterity any greater injury than by destroying the ten Englands of glorious wild life in Labrador, just at the very time when our own and other publics are beginning to appreciate the value of the appeal which such haunts of Nature make to all the highest faculties of civilized man? The way can be made clear by scientific study. The laws can be drawn up by any intelligent legislators, and enforced quite as efficiently as other laws have been by the Mounted Police in the North West. The expense will be small, the benefits great and widely felt. The only real hitch is the uninformed and therefore apathetic state of public opinion. If people only knew that Labrador contained a hundred Saguenays, wild zoos, Thousand Islands, fiords, palisades, sea mountains, cañons, great lakes and waterfalls, if they only knew that they could get the enjoyment of it for a song, and make it an heirloom for no more trouble than letting it live, they might do all that is needed to-morrow. But they don't know. And the three Governments cannot do much without the support of public opinion. At present they do practically nothing. The Ungavan Labrador has neither organization nor laws. The Newfoundland Labrador has organization but no laws. And the Quebec Labrador has laws but no observance of them. However, Quebec has laws, which are something, legislators who have made the laws, and leaders who have introduced them. The trouble is that the public generally has no sense of responsibility in the matter of enforcement. It still has a hazy idea that Nature has an overflowing sanctuary of her own, somewhere or other, which will fill up the gaps automatically. The result is that poaching is commonly regarded as a venial offence, poachers taken red-handed are rarely punished, and willing ears are always lent to the cry that rich sportsmen are trying to take the bread out of the poor settler's mouth. The poor settler does not reflect that he himself, and all other classes alike, really have a common interest in the conservation of any wild life that does not conflict with legitimate human development. There is some just cause of complaint that the big-game reserves are hampering the peasants in parts of India and the settlers and natives in parts of Uganda. But no such complaint can be raised against the Laurentide National Park, so wisely established by the Quebec Government. The worst of it is that many of the richer people set the example in law-breaking. The numbers of big game allowed are exceeded, out-of-season shooting goes on, and both out-of-season and forbidden game is sold in the markets and served at the dinner tables of the very class who should be first in protecting it. Partly because Quebec has taken the lead in legislation, and partly because an ideal site is ready to hand under its jurisdiction, I would venture to suggest the immediate establishment of an absolute sanctuary for all wild birds and mammals along as much of the coast as possible on either side of cape Whittle. The best place of all to keep is from cape Whittle eastward to cape Mekattina, 64 miles in a straight line by sea. The 45 miles from cape Mekattina eastward to Shekatika bay are probably the next best; and, next, the 35 from cape Whittle westward to Cloudberry point. As there are 800 miles between Quebec and the Strait, I am only proposing to make from one-tenth to one-fifth of them into a sanctuary. And this part is the least fitted for other purposes, except sea-fishing, which would not be restricted at all, the least inhabited, and the most likely to succeed as a sanctuary, especially for birds. Cape Whittle is 550 miles below Quebec, 70 below Natashkwan, which is the last port of call for the mail boats, and 50 below Kegashka, the last green spot along the shore. It faces cape Gregory, near the bay of Islands in Newfoundland, 130 miles across; and is almost as far from the north-east point of Anticosti. It is a great landmark for coasting vessels, and for the seal herds as well. A refuge for seals is absolutely necessary to preserve their numbers and the business connected with them. Of course, I know there is a feeling that, if they are going to disappear, the best thing to do is to exploit them to the utmost in the meanwhile, so as to snatch every present advantage, regardless of consequences. But is this business, sense, or conservation? Even if any restriction in the way of numbers, sex, age or season should be imposed on seal hunting, a small sanctuary cannot but be beneficial. While, if there is no other protection, a sanctuary is a _sine qua non_. It is possible that some protection might also be afforded to the whales that hug the shore. The case of the birds is quite as strong, and the chance of protection by this sanctuary much greater. With the exception of the limited egging and shooting for the necessary food of the few residents--the whole district of Mekattina contained only 213 people at the last census--not an egg nor a bird should be touched at all. The birds soon find out where they are well off, and their increase will recruit the whole river and gulf. A few outlying bird sanctuaries should be established in connection with this one, which might be called the Harrington Sanctuary, as Harrington is a well-known telegraph station, a central point between cape Whittle and Mekattina, and it enjoys a name that can be easily pronounced. In the Gulf the Bird rocks and Bonaventure island to the south; one of the Mingan islands, the Perroquets and Egg island to the north; with the Pilgrims, up the River, above the Saguenay and off the South Shore, are the best. The Pilgrims, 700 miles from the Atlantic, are probably the furthest inland point in the world where the eider breeds. They would make an ideal seabird sanctuary. On the Atlantic Labrador there are plenty of suitable islands from which to choose two or three sanctuaries, between Hamilton inlet and Ramah. The east coast of Hudson bay is full of islands from which two corresponding sanctuaries might be selected, one in the neighbourhood of the Portland promontory and the other in the southeast corner of James bay. There is the further question--affecting all migratory animals, but especially birds--of making international agreements for their protection. There are precedents for this, both in the Old World and in the New. And, so far as the United States are concerned, there should be no great difficulty. True, they have set us some lamentable examples of wanton destruction. But they have also set us some noble examples of conservation. And we have good friends at court, in the members of the New York Zoological, the Audubon and other societies, in Mr. Roosevelt, himself an ardent conserver of wild life, and in Mr. Bryce, who is an ex-president of the Alpine Club and a devoted lover of nature. Immediate steps should be taken to link our own bird sanctuaries with the splendid American chain of them which runs round the Gulf of Mexico and up the Atlantic coast to within easy reach of the boundary line. Corresponding international chains up the Mississippi and along the Pacific would be of immense benefit to all species, and more particularly to those unfortunate ones which are forced to migrate down along the shore and back by the middle of the continent, thus running the deadly gauntlet both by land and sea. Inland sanctuaries are more difficult to choose and manage. A deer sanctuary might answer near James bay. Fur sanctuaries must also be in some fairly accessible places, on the seaward sides of the various heights-of-land, and not too far in. The evergreen stretches of the Eastmain river have several favourable spots. What is needed most is an immediate examination by a trained zoologist. The existing information should be brought together and carefully digested for him in advance. There are the Dominion, Provincial and Newfoundland official reports; the Hudson Bay Company, the Moravian missionaries; Dr. Robert Bell, Mr. A.P. Low, Mr. D.I.V. Eaton, Dr. Grenfell, Dr. Hare, Mr. Napoléon Comeau, not to mention previous writers, like Packard, McLean and Cartwright--a whole host of original authorities. But their work has never been thoroughly co-ordinated from a zoological point of view. A form of sanctuary suggested for the fur-bearing Yukon is well worth considering. It consists in opening and closing the country by alternate sections, like crops and fallow land in farming. The Indians have followed this method for generations, dividing the family hunting grounds into three parts, hunting each in rotation, and always leaving enough to breed back the numbers. But the pressure of the grab-all policy from outside may become irresistible. The one great point to remember is that there is no time to lose in beginning conservation by protecting every species in at least two separate localities. A word as to the management and wardens. Two zoologists and twenty men afloat, and the same number ashore, could probably do the whole work, in connection with local wardens. This may seem utterly ridiculous as a police force to patrol ten Englands and three thousand miles of sea. But look at what the Royal North West Mounted Police have done over vast areas with a handful of men, and what has been effected in Maine, New Brunswick and Ontario. Once the public understands the question, and the governments mean business, the way of the transgressor will be so hard--between the wardens, zoologists and all the preventive machinery of modern administration--that it will no longer pay him to walk in it. Special precautions must be taken against that vilest of all inventions of diabolical ingenuity--the Maxim "silencer." No argument is needed to prove that silent firearms could not suit crime better if they were made expressly for it. The mere possession of any kind of "silencer" should constitute a most serious criminal offence. The right kind of warden will be forthcoming when he is really wanted and is properly backed up. I need not describe the wrong kind. We all know him, only too well. BENEFITS I am afraid I have already exceeded my allotted time. But, with your kind indulgence, Sir, I should like, in conclusion, simply to enumerate a few of the benefits certain to follow the introduction and enforcement of law and the establishment of sanctuaries. First, it cannot be denied that the constant breaking of the present law makes for bad citizenship, and that the observance of law will make for good. Next, though it is often said that what Canada needs most is development and not conservation, I think no one will deny that conservation is the best and most certainly productive form of development in the case before us. Then, I think we have here a really unique opportunity of effecting a reform that will unite and not divide all the legitimate interests concerned. What could appear to have less in common than electricity and sanctuaries? Yet electricity in Labrador requires water-power, which requires a steady flow, which requires a head-water forest, which, in its turn, is admirably fit to shelter wild life. Except for those who would selfishly and shortsightedly take all this wealth of wild life out of the world altogether, in one grasping generation, there is nobody who will not be the better for the change. I have talked with interested parties of every different kind, and always found them agree that conservation is the only thing to do--provided, as they invariably add, that it is done "straight" and "the same for all." Fourthly, a word as to sport. I have invoked the public conscience against wanton destruction and its inevitable accompaniment of cruelty. I know, further, that man is generally cruel and a bully towards other animals. And, as an extreme evolutionist, I believe all animals are alike in kind, however much they may differ in degree. But I don't think clean sport cruel. It does not add to the sum total of cruelty under present conditions. Wild animals shun pain and death as we do. But under Nature they never die what we call natural deaths. They starve or get killed. Moreover, town-bred humanitarians feel pain and death more than the simpler races of men, who, in their turn, feel it more than lower animals. A wild animal that has just escaped death will resume its occupation as if nothing had happened. The sportsman's clean kill is only an incident in the day's work, not anxiously apprehended like an operation or a battle. But pain and death are very real, all the same. So death should be inflicted as quickly as possible, even at the risk of losing the rest of one's bag. And, even beyond the reach of any laws, no animal should ever be killed in sport when its own death might entail the lingering death of its young. A sportsman who observes these rules instinctively, and who never kills what he cannot get and use, is not a cruel man. He certainly is a beast of prey. But so is the most delicate invalid woman when drinking a cup of beef tea. Sport has its use in the development of health and skill and courage. Its practice is one of life's eternal compromises. And the best thing we can do for it now is to make it clean. We have far too much of the other kind. The essential difference has never been more shrewdly put than in the caustic epigram, that there is the same difference between a sportsman and a "sport" as there is between a gentleman and a "gent." I believe that the enforcement of laws and the establishment of sanctuaries will raise our sport to a higher plane, reduce the suffering now inflicted when killing for business, and help in every way towards the conversion of the human into the humane. Besides, paradoxical as it may seem to some good people, the true sportsman has always proved to be one of the very best conservers of all wild life worth keeping. So there is a distinctly desirable benefit to be expected in this direction, as in every other. Finally, I return to my zoophilists, a vast but formless class of people, both in and outside of the other classes mentioned, and one which includes every man, woman and child with any fondness for wild life, from zoologists to tourists. There are higher considerations, never to be forgotten. But let me first press the point that there's money in the zoophilists--plenty of it. A gentleman, in whom you, Sir, and your whole Commission have the greatest confidence, and who was not particularly inexpert at the subject, made an under-valuation to the extent of no less than 75 per cent., when trying to estimate the amount of money made by the transportation companies directly out of travel to "Nature" places for sport, study, scenery and other kinds of outing. There is money in it now, millions of it; and there is going to be much more money in it later on. Civilized town-dwelling men, women and children are turning more and more to wild Nature for a holiday. And their interest in Nature is widening and deepening in proportion. I do not say this as a rhetorical flourish. I have taken particular pains to find out the actual growth of this interest, which is shown in ways as comprehensive as educational curricula, picture books for children, all sorts of "Animal" works, "zoos", museums, lectures, periodicals and advertisements; and I find all facts pointing the same way. The president of one of the greatest publishers' associations in the world told me, and without being asked, that the most marked and the steadiest development in the trade was in "Nature" books of every kind. And this reminds me of the countless readers who rarely hear the call of the wild themselves, except through word and picture, but who would bitterly and justifiably resent the silencing of that call in the very places where it ought to be heard at its best. Now, where can the call of wild Nature be heard to greater advantage than in Labrador, which is a land made on purpose to be the home of fur, fin and feather? And it is accessible, in the best of all possible ways--by sea. It is about equidistant from central Canada, England and the States--a wilderness park for all of them. Means of communication are multiplying fast. Even now, it would be possible, in a good steamer, to take a month's holiday from London to Labrador, spending twenty days on the coast and only ten at sea. I think we may be quite sure of such travel in the near future; that is, of course, if the travellers have a land of life, not death, to come to. And an excellent thing about it is that Labrador cannot be overrun and spoilt like what our American friends so aptly call a "pocket wilderness". Ten wild Englands, properly conserved, cannot be brought into the catalogue of common things quite so easily as all that! Besides, Labrador enjoys a double advantage in being essentially a seaboard country. The visitor has the advantage of being able to see a great deal of it--and the finest parts, too--without getting out of touch with his moveable base afloat. And the country itself has the corresponding advantage of being less liable to be turned into a commonplace summer resort by the whole monotonizing apparatus of hotels and boarding houses and conventional "sights". And now, Sir, I venture once more to mention the higher interests, and actually to specify one of them, although I have been repeatedly warned by outsiders that no public men would ever listen to anything which could not be expressed in "easy terms of dollars and cents!" And I do so in full confidence that no appeal to the intellectual life would fall on deaf ears among the members of a Commission which was founded to lead rather than follow the best thought of our time. I need not remind you that from the topmost heights of Evolution you can see whole realms of Nature infinitely surpassing all those of business, sport and tourist recreation, and that the theory of Evolution itself is the crowned brain of the entire Animal Kingdom. But I doubt whether, as yet, we fully realize that Labrador is absolutely unique in being the only stage on which the prologue and living pageant of Evolution can be seen together from a single panoramic point of view. The sea and sky are everywhere the same primeval elements. But no other country has so much primeval land to match them. Labrador is a miracle of youth and age combined. It is still growing out of the depths with the irresistible vigour of youth. But its titanic tablelands consist of those azoic rocks which form the very roots of all the other mountains in the world, and which are so old, so immeasurably older than any others now standing on the surface of the globe, that their Laurentians alone have the real right to bear the title of "The Everlasting Hills". Being azoic these Laurentians are older than the first age when our remotest ancestors appeared in the earliest of animal forms, millions and millions of years ago. They are, in fact, the only part of the visible Earth which was present when Life itself was born. So here are the three great elemental characters, all together--the primal sea and sky and land--to act the azoic prologue. And here, too, for all mankind to glory in, is the whole pageant of animal life: from the weakest invertebrate forms, which link us with the illimitable past, to the mightiest developments of birds and mammals at the present day, the leviathan whales around us, the soaring eagles overhead, and man himself--the culmination of them all--and especially migrating man, whose incoming myriads are linking us already with the most pregnant phases of the future. Where else are there so many intimate appeals both to the child and the philosopher? Where else, in all this world, are there any parts of the Creation more fit to exalt our visions and make us "Look, through Nature, up to Nature's God"? But, Sir, I must stop here; and not without renewed apologies for having detained you so long over a question on which, as I have already warned you, I do not profess to be a scientific expert. I fear I have been no architect, not even a builder. But perhaps I have done a hodman's work, by bringing a little mortar, with which some of the nobler materials may presently be put together. Bibliography This short list is a mere indication of what can be found in any good library. General information is given in _Labrador; its Discovery, Exploration and Development--By W.G. Gosling: Toronto, Musson._ The Atlantic Labrador is dealt with by competent experts in _Labrador: the Country and the People--By W.T. Grenfell and Others: New York, The Macmillan Company, 1910._ This has several valuable chapters on the fauna. The Peninsula generally, the interior especially, and the fauna incidentally, are dealt with in the reports of _A.P. Low_ and _D.I.V. Eaton_ to the _Geological Survey of Canada, 1893-4-5._ An excellent general paper on the country is _The Labrador Peninsula, By Robert Bell_, in _The Scottish Geographical Magazine_ for July, 1895. The N. of the S.W. part is more particularly described in his _Recent Explorations to the South of Hudson Bay_ in _The Geographical Journal_ for July, 1897. The Quebec Labrador is the subject of a recent Provincial report, _La Côte Nord du Saint Laurent et le Labrador Canadien--Par Eugène Rouillard: Quebec, 1908--Ministère de la Colonisation, des Mines et des Pêcheries._ An excellent account of animal life on the W. half of the Quebec Labrador is to be found in _Life and Sport on the North Shore--By Napoléon A. Comeau: Quebec, 1909._ The zoology of the Mammals, though not particularly in their Labrador habitat, is to be found in _Life-Histories of Northern Mammals--By Ernest Thompson-Seton: London, Constable, 2 Vols., 1910._ The birds, similarly, in the _Catalogue of Canadian Birds--By John Macoun and James M. Macoun: Ottawa, Government Printing Bureau, 1909._ Some books about adjacent areas may be profitably consulted, like _Newfoundland and its Untrodden Ways--By John Guille Millais,_ and American official publications, like the _Birds of New York--By Elon Howard Eaton: Albany, University of the State of New York, 1910._ No. 34 of the _New York Zoological Society Bulletin_--for June, 1909--is a "Wild-life Preservation Number." The best general history and present-day summary of the world's fur trade is to be found in a recent German work, a genuine _Urquellengeschichte._ French and English translations will presumably appear in due course. The statistical tables are wonderfully complete. The illustrations are the least satisfactory feature. This book is--_Aus dem Reiche der Pelze. Von Emil Brass: Berlin, Im Verlage der Neuen Pelzwaren-Zeitung, 1911._ 
14750	----	BOWDOIN BOYS IN LABRADOR An Account of the Bowdoin College Scientific Expedition to Labrador Led by Prof. Leslie A. Lee of the Biological Department by JONATHAN PRINCE CILLEY, JR. Rockland, Maine: Rockland Publishing Company PREFACE This letter from the President of Bowdoin College is printed as an appropriate preface to the pages which follow. I thank you for the advanced sheets of the "Bowdoin Boys in Labrador." As Sallust says, "In primis arduum videtur res gestas scribere; quod facta dictis sunt exaequanda." In this case, the diction is equal to the deed: the clear and vivacious style of the writer is fully up to the level of the brilliant achievements he narrates. The intrinsic interest of the story, and its connection with the State and the College ought to secure for it a wide reading. Very truly yours, WILLIAM DEW. HYDE. BOWDOIN BOYS IN LABRADOR ON BOARD THE "JULIA A. DECKER," Port Hawkesbury, Gut of Canso, July 6th. 1891. Here the staunch Julia lies at anchor waiting for a change in the wind and a break in the fog. To-day will be memorable in the annals of the "Micmac" Indians, for Prof. Lee has spent his enforced leisure in putting in anthropometric work among them, inducing braves, squaws and papooses of both sexes to mount the trunk that served as a measuring block and go through the ordeal of having their height, standing and sitting, stretch of arms, various diameters of head and peculiarities of the physiognomy taken down. While he with two assistants was thus employed, two of our photographic corps were busily engaged in preserving as many of their odd faces and costumes as possible, making pictures of their picturesque camp on the side of a hill sloping toward an arm of the Gut, with its round tent covered with birch and fir bark, dogs and children, and stacks of logs or wood--from which they make the strips for their chief products, baskets--cows, baggage and all the other accompaniments of a comparatively permanent camp. They go into the woods and make log huts for winter, but such miserable quarters as these prove to be on closer inspection, with stoves, dirt and chip floor, bedding and food in close proximity to the six or eight inhabitants of each hut, suffice them during warm weather. We found that they elect a chief, who holds the office for life. The present incumbent lives near by St. Peter's Island, and is about forty years old. They hold a grand festival in a few weeks somewhere on the shore of Brasd'Or Lake, at which nearly every Indian on the Island is expected, some two thousand in all, we are informed, and after experiencing our good-fellowship at their camp and on board they invited us one and all to come down, only cautioning us to bring along a present of whiskey for the chief. The Gut, in this part at least, is beautiful sailing ground, with bold, wooded shores, varied by slight coves and valleys with little hamlets at the shore and fishermen's boats lying off the beach. The lower part we passed in a fog, so we are ignorant of its appearance as though the Julia had not carried us within a hundred miles of it, instead of having knowingly brought us past rock and shoal to this quiet cove, under the red rays of the light on Hawkesbury Point, and opposite Port Mulgrave, with which Hawkesbury is connected by a little two-sailed, double-ended ferry-boat built on a somewhat famous model. It seems that a boat builder of this place, who, by the way, launched a pretty little yacht to-day, sent a fishing boat, whose model and rig was the product of many years' experience as a fisherman, to the London Fisheries' Exhibit of a few years past, and received first medal from among seven thousand five hundred competitors. The Prince of Wales was so pleased with the boat, which was exhibited under full sail with a wax fisherman at the helm, that he purchased it and has since used it. Later, when the United States fish commission schooner Grampus was here with the present assistant commissioner, Capt. Collins, in command, the plans were purchased by our government on the condition that no copies were to be made without Mr. Embree's consent. A little later yet, a commissioner from Holland and Sweden came over, bought the plans and built a perfect copy of the original, the seaworthy qualities of which has caused its type to entirely displace the old style of small fishing boats in those countries. The boat's abilities in heavy waters have been tested many times, and have never failed to equal her reputation. But, meanwhile, the Julia lies quietly at anchor, as if it were mutely reproaching your correspondent with singing another's praises when she has brought us safely and easily thus far, in spite of gales, fog, and headwind, calm, and treacherous tide, and even now is eagerly waiting for the opportunity to carry us straight and swiftly to Battle Harbor in the straits of Belle Isle, where letters and papers from home await us, and then up through the ice fields to Cape Chudleigh. [The Real Start] Our real start was made from Southwest Harbor, Mt. Desert, the Monday after leaving Rockland. Saturday night, after a short sail in the dark and a few tacks up the Thoroughfare to North Haven village, we anchored and rested from the confusion and worry of getting started and trying to forget nothing that would be needed in our two and one-half months' trip. Sunday morning was nearly spent before things were well enough stowed to allow us to get under weigh in safety, and then our bow was turned eastward and, as we thought, pointed for Cape Sable. Going by the hospital on Widow's Island and the new light on Goose Rock nearly opposite it, out into Isle au Haut bay, we found a fresh northeaster, which warned us not to go across the Bay of Fundy if we had no desire for an awful shaking up. In view of all the facts, such as green men, half-stowed supplies and threatening weather, we decided that we must not put our little vessel through her paces that night, and chose the more ignominious, but also more comfortable course of putting into a harbor. Consequently after plunging through the rips off Bass Head, and cutting inside the big bell buoy off its entrance, we ran into Southwest Harbor and came to anchor. In the evening many of the party thought it wise to improve the last opportunity for several months, as we then supposed, to attend church, and to one who knew the chapel-cutting proclivities of many of our party while at Bowdoin, it would have been amusing to see them solemnly tramp into church, rubber boots and all. It is a fact, however, that every member of our party, with a possible exception, went to church in this place yesterday largely for the same reason. Our little Julia rewarded our action of the night previous by taking us out by Mt Desert Rock at a rattling pace Monday morning, bowing very sharply and very often to the spindle-like tower on the rock, as she met the Bay of Fundy chop, and at the same time administered a very effective emetic to all but five or six of the Bowdoin boys aboard. She is wise as well as bold and strong, and so after nightfall waited under easy canvas for light to reveal Seal Island to our watchful eyes. Shortly after daylight the low coast was made out, the dangerous rocks passed, and Cape Sable well on our quarter. But there it stayed. We made but little progress for two days, and employed the time in laying in a supply of cod, haddock and pollock, till our bait was exhausted. Then we shot at birds, seals and porpoises whenever they were in sight, and from the success, apparently, at many when they were not in sight; put the finishing touches on our stowage, and kept three of the party constantly employed with our long bamboo-handled dip-net, in fishing up specimens for the professor and his assistants. As the result of this we have a large number of fish eggs which we are watching in the process of hatching, many specimens of crustacea and of seaweed. The photographers, in the meanwhile, got themselves into readiness for real work by practicing incessantly upon us. Thursday, we made Sambro light; soon pilot boat number one hailed us and put a man aboard, whom we neither needed nor wanted, and we were anchored off the market steps at Halifax. The run up the harbor was very pleasant. Bright skies, a fresh breeze off the land, and vessels all about us made many lively marine pictures. The rather unformidable appearing fortification, on account of which Halifax boasts herself the most strongly fortified city of America, together with the flag-ship Bellerophon and two other vessels of the Atlantic squadron, the Canada and the Thrush, the latter vessel until lately having been commanded by Prince George, gave the harbor and town a martial tone that was heightened upon our going ashore and seeing the red coats that throng the streets in the evening. Halifax, with its squat, smoky, irregular streets is well known, and its numerous public buildings, drill barracks, and well kept public gardens, all backed by the frowning citadel, probably need no description from me. After receiving the letters for which we came in, and sending the courteous United States Consul General, Mr. Frye, and his vice-consul, Mr. King, Colby '89, ashore with a series of college yells that rather startled the sleepy old town, we laid a course down the harbor, exchanged salutes with the steamship Caspian, and were soon ploughing along, before a fine south-west breeze for Cape Canso. [Ward Room of the Julia Decker] While our little vessel is driving ahead with wind well over the quarter, groaning, as it were, at the even greater confusion in the wardroom than when we left Rockland, owing to the additional supplies purchased at Halifax, it may be well to briefly describe her appearance, when fitted to carry seventeen Bowdoin men in her hold in place of the lime and coal to which she has been accustomed. Descending, then, the forward hatch, protected by a plain hatch house, the visitor turns around and facing aft, looks down the two sides of the immense centreboard box that occupies the centre of our wardroom from floor to deck. Fastened to it are the mess tables, nearly always lighted by some four or five great lamps, which serve to warm as well, as the pile of stuff around and beneath the after-hatch house cuts off most of the light that would otherwise come down there. On the port side of the table runs the whole length of the box; two wooden settles serve for dining chairs and leave about four feet clear space next the "deacon's seat" that runs along in front of the five double-tiered berths. These are canvas-bottomed, fitted with racks, shelves, and the upper ones with slats overhead, in which to stow our overflowing traps. At the after end, on both sides of the wardroom, are large lockers coming nearly to the edge of the hatch, in which most of the provisions are stowed. At the forward end, next to the bulkhead that separates us from the galley, are, on the port side, a completely equipped dark room in which many excellent pictures have already been brought to light, and on the starboard side a large rack holding our canned goods, ketchup, lime-juice, etc. Along the bulkhead are the fancy cracker boxes, tempting a man to take one every time he goes below, and under the racks are our kerosene and molasses barrels. Between the line of four double-tier berths on the starboard side and the rack just described is a handy locker for oil clothes and heavy overcoats. Lockers run along under the lower berths, and trunks with a thousand other articles are stowed under the tables. A square hole cut in the bulkhead, just over the galley head, lets heat into the wardroom and assists the lamps in keeping us warm. As yet, in spite of some quite cold weather, we have been perfectly comfortable. Sometimes, however, odors come in as well as heat from the galley, and do not prove so agreeable. If to this description, clothes of various kinds, guns, game bags, boots, fishing tackle and books, should, by the imagination of the reader, to be scattered about, promiscuously hung, or laid in every conceivable nook and corner, a fair idea of our floating house could be obtained. On deck we are nearly as badly littered, though in more orderly fashion. Two nests of dories, a row boat, five water tanks, a gunning float, and an exploring boat, partly well fill the Julia's spacious decks. The other exploring boat hangs inside the schooner's yawl at the stern. Add to these two hatch houses, a small pile of lumber, and considerable fire wood snugly stowed between the casks, and you have a fair idea of our anything but clear decks. A yellow painted bust, presumably of our namesake Julia, at the end of figure-head, peers through the fog and leads us in the darkness; a white stripe relieves the blackness of our sides; a green rail surmounts all; and, backed by the forms of nineteen variously attired Bowdoin men, from professor, their tutor, alumnus, to freshmen, complete our description. [The Fourth of July] Meanwhile the night, clear but windless, has come on, and we drift along the Nova Scotia coast, lying low and blue on our northern board. The Fourth dawns rather foggy, but it soon yields to the sun's rays and a good breeze which bowls us along toward the Cape. An elaborate celebration of the day is planned, but only the poem is finally rendered, due probably to increased sea which the brisk breeze raises incapacitating several of the actors for their assigned parts. The poem, by the late editor of '91's "BUGLE," is worthy of preservation, but would hardly be understood unless our whole crowd were present to indicate by their roars the good points in it. At night our constant follower, the fog, shuts in, and the captain steering off the Cape, we lay by, jumping and rolling in a northeast sea, waiting for daylight to assist us to Cape Canso Harbor and the Little Ant. About six next morning we form one of a fleet of five or six sail passing the striped lighthouse on Cranberry Island, and with a rush go through the narrow passage lined with rocks and crowded with fishermen. Out into the fog of Chedebucto Bay we soon pass and in the fog we remain, getting but a glimpse of the shore now and then, till we reach Port Hawkesbury. JONA. P. CILLEY, JR. * * * * * ON BOARD THE "JULIA A. DECKER," OFF ST. JOHN'S BAY, NEWFOUNDLAND. We are bowling along with a fine southwest wind, winged out, mainsail reefed and foresail two-reefed, and shall be in the straits in about two hours. The Julia is a flyer. Between 12 and 4 this morning we logged just 46 knots, namely, 13.5 miles per hour for four hours. I doubt if I ever went much faster in a sailing vessel. It is now about 10 o'clock, and we have made over 75 miles since 4. All hands are on watch for a first glimpse of the Labrador coast, which will probably be Cape Armours with the light on it. I wrote last time from Hawkesbury in the Gut of Canso. We laid there all day Monday, July 6th, as the wind, southeast in the harbor, was judged by everybody to be northeast out in George's Bay, and consequently dead ahead for us. Monday evening, at the invitation of the purser, we all went down aboard the "State of Indiana," the regular steamer of the "State Line" between Charlottetown, P.E.I., and Boston, touching at Halifax, and in the Gut. After going ashore we stayed on the wharf till she left, singing college songs, giving an impromptu athletic exhibition, etc., to the intense delight of about fifty small boys (I can't conceive where they all came from), and the two or three hundred servant girls going home to P.E.I. for a summer vacation. I would put in here parenthetically, that since writing the above I have been on deck helping jibe the mainsail, as we have changed our course to about east by north, having rounded a couple of small low, sandy islands off the Bay of St. John, and now point straight into the strait of Belle Isle. In the afternoon we examined some of the old red sandstone which underlies all that part of Cape Breton Island, found some good specimens, and some very plain and deep glacial scratches. There is also some coal and a good deal of shale in with the sandstone. We had a good opportunity to see this, since the railroad connecting Port Hawkesbury with Sidney is new, having started running only last March, and hence the cuts furnished admirable fields in which to examine the geology. The road is surveyed and bed made along the Cape Breton shore of the Gut nearly to the northern end, and when completed will be a delightful ride. I think the Gut for 10 miles north of Port Hawkesbury resembles the Hudson just by the Palisades. It is grander than Eggemoggin Reach and on a far larger scale than Somes' Sound. At the northern end it broadens and becomes just a magnificent waterway, without the grand scenery. We were becalmed nearly all day in George's Bay, at one time getting pretty near Antigonish, but got a breeze towards evening. We tried fishing several times but could not get a bite though several fishermen were in sight and trawls innumerable. We passed one fisherman, a fine three-master, just as we were coming out of the Gut from Frenchman's Bay, going home, but with very little fish. I got the captain to call me about 4, Wednesday morning, to fish, but got none. We were then off North Cape, having had a good breeze all night. The wind was light all day, but towards the latter part of the afternoon commenced to blow from the southeast, kicking up a nasty sea very soon. We double reefed the mainsail reefed the foresail and hauled the flying jib down. About 8 P.M. we laid to with the jib hauled down, on the starboard tack. The wind had backed to the east about four points and was blowing a gale. About 12 M. it suddenly dropped, a flat calm, leaving a tremendous sea running from the southeast, combined with a smaller one from the east. Our motions, jumps, rolls and pitches, can be better imagined than described. It seemed at times that our bow and our stern were where the mastheads usually are, and our rails were frequently rolled under. Rice and Hunt stood one watch, Cary and I the second, and here Rice, though a good sailor and an experienced yachtsman, finally succumbed. We hauled everything down with infinite difficulty, owing to the violent motion, and made it fast, then let her roll and pitch to her heart's content. A sorrier looking place than our wardroom, and a sicker set of fellows it would be hard to find. The dishes had some play in the racks, and kept up an infernal racket that I tried in every way to stop and could not. To cap all, the wind came off a gale northwest about 4 A.M., and made yet another sea. As soon as possible we set a double-reefed foresail, and then I turned in. When I turned out at noon we had made Newfoundland and set a whole foresail, jib and one reef out of the mainsail. We were becalmed, but found excellent fishing, so did not care. The sea had gone down and we began to enjoy the Norway-like rugged coast of Newfoundland. The mountains come right down to the water, and are about 1,400 feet high, by our measurement, using angular altitude by sextant and base line, our distance off shore as shown by our observation for latitude and longitude. There are many deep, narrow-mouthed coves and harbors, a good number of islands and points making a most magnificent coast line. In many cases 50 or 75 fathoms are found right under the shore. Great patches of snow, miles in extent, cover the mountain sides. Great brown patches, which the professor thinks are washings from the fine examples of erosion, but which look to me like patches of brown grass as we see in Penobscot Bay on the islands, vary with what is apparently a scrubby evergreen growth and bald, bare rocks. As we are about 18 miles off, the blue haze over all makes an enlarged, roughened and much more deeply indented Camden mountain coast line. The bays are in some cases so deep that we can look into narrow entrances and see between great cliffs, only a few miles apart, a water horizon on the other side. We wished very much to get in towards the shore, but the calm and very strong westerly current, about 1-1/2 knots, prevented. While enjoying the calm in pleasant contrast to our late shaking up, it will be well to introduce the members of the party whom Bowdoin has thought worthy to bear her name into regions seldom vexed by a college yell, and to whom she has entrusted the high duties of scientific investigation, in which, since the days of Professor Cleaveland, she has kept a worthy place. [Members of the Expedition] In command is Prof. Leslie A. Lee, of the Biological Department of Bowdoin. With a life-long experience in all branches of natural history, the experience which a year in charge of the scientific staff of the U.S. Fish Commission Steamer "Albatross" in a voyage from Washington around Cape Horn to Alaska, and an intimate connection with the Commission of many year's standing, and the training that scholarly habits, platform lecturing and collegic instruction have given him, you see a man still young, for he was graduated from St. Lawrence University in 1872, and equal to all the fatigues that out-of-door, raw-material, scientific work demands. The rest of the party have yet to prove their mettle, and of them but little can now be said. Dr. Parker, who, with the Professor, captain and mate, occupies the cabin proper, is an '86 man, cut out for a physician and thoroughly prepared to fulfil all the functions of a medical staff, from administering quinine to repairing broken limbs. Cary of '87, who is even now planning for his struggle with the difficulties on the way to the Grand Falls, has had the most experience in work of the sort the expedition hopes to do, save the Professor and Cole. Logging and hunting in the Maine forests in the vicinity of his home in Machias, and fishing on the Georges from Cape Ann smacks, have fitted him physically, as taking the highest honors for scholarship at Bowdoin, teaching and university work in his chosen branch, have prepared him mentally, for the great task in which he leads. Cole who accompanies him up Grand River, was Prof. Lee's assistant on the "Albatross," and is well fitted by experience and by a vigorous participation in athletics at college before his graduation in '88. From the expedition's actual starting place, Rockland, there are four members: Rice, the yachtsman, Simonton, Spear and the writer, all fair specimens of college boys, and eager to get some reflection from the credit which they hope to help the expedition to win. Portland has two representatives: Rich, '92, and Baxter, 93, the latter our only freshman; while Bangor sends three: Hunt, '90, Hunt, '91, who has charge of the dredging, and Hastings the taxidermist. W.R. Smith, another salutatorian of his class, is one of the many Maine boys whom Massachusetts has called in to help train the youth of our mother Commonwealth, and has been at the head of the High School at Leicester for the past year. He, too, is thought to equal in physical vigor his mental qualities, and has been selected to brave the hardships of the Grand River. To complete the detail for this exploration, Young of Brunswick and of '92, has been selected, another athlete of the college, who has had, in addition to his training at Bowdoin, a year or more of instruction in the schools and gymnasiums of Germany. Porter, Andrews, and Newbegin, the latter, the only man not from Maine, coming from Ohio, and only to be accounted for as a member of the expedition by the fact that his initials P.C. stand for Parker Cleaveland, finish the list, with but one exception and that is Lincoln. The merry-maker and star on deck and below--except when the weather is too rough--he keeps the crowd good-natured when fogs, rain, head winds and general discomfort tend to discontent: and on shore he sees that the doctor is not too hard worked in making the botanical collections. For two days we lazily drifted, the elements seeming to be making up for their late riot; but the weather was clear and bright, the scenery way off to our starboard was grand, and no one was troubled by the delay, except as the thoughts of the Grand River men turned to the great distance and the short time of their trip. At last, however, the breeze came, with which I opened this letter, and which we then hoped would continue till we reached Battle Harbor. We just flew up the straits, saw many fishermen at anchor with their dories off at the trawls, schooners and dories both jumping in great shape; also a school of whales and an "ovea" or whale-killer, with a fin over three feet long sticking straight up. He also broke right alongside and blew. Considerable excitement attended our first sight of an iceberg; it was a rotten white one, but soon we saw a lot, some very dark and deep-colored. [Red Bay] Our first sight of the long-desired coast was between Belle Armours Point and the cliffs near Red Bay, the thick haze making the outlines very indistinct. Just two weeks out from Rockland we made our first harbor on the Labrador coast. Red Bay is a beautiful little place, and with the added features of two magnificent icebergs close by which we passed in entering, the towering red cliffs on the left from which it takes its name, and the snug little island in the middle, and the odd houses we saw dotting the shores of the summer settlement of the natives, it seemed a sample fully equal to our expectations of what we should find in Labrador. There is an inner harbor into which we could have gone, with seven fathoms of water and in which vessels sometimes winter as it is so secure, but we did not enter it because the captain was doubtful which of the two entrances to take and the chart seemed indefinite on the point. There are about one hundred and seventy-five people in the settlement, some of them staying there the year round, fishing in the summer and hunting the rest of the time. They have another settlement of winter houses at the head of the inner harbor, but, for convenience in getting at their cod traps, live on the island in the middle, and on the sides of the outer harbor in the summer. Their houses are made of logs about the size of small railroad ties, which are stood on end and clapboarded. The winter houses are built in a similar way with earth packed around and over them. The party for Grand River--Cary, Cole, W.R. Smith and Young--have decided to dispense with a guide; very wisely, I think, from what I have seen of native Labradoreans. While the journey they undertake is one in which the skill of Indians or half-breeds, familiar with Labrador wildernesses would be of great value and would add to the comfort of our party, it is very doubtful if any living person has ever been to the falls or knows any more about the last, and probably the hardest part of the trip, than Cary. And, further, the travel is so difficult that about all a man can carry is supplies for himself; and the Indians cannot stand the pace that our men intend to strike; nor, if it should come to the last extremity, and a forlorn hope was needed to make a last desperate push for discovery or relief, could the Indian guides, so far as we have any knowledge of them, be relied on. That the boldest measures are often the surest, will probably again be demonstrated by our Grand River party. We tried the exploring boats very thoroughly at Chateau Bay, three of us getting caught about six miles from the vessel in quite a blow, and the well-laden boat proved herself very seaworthy. When loaded, she still draws but little water, and is good in every way for the trip. This letter was begun in the fine breeze off Newfoundland, but could not be mailed till the port of entry and post-office of Labrador, Battle Harbor, was reached. A week was consumed in getting from our first anchorage in Labrador to this harbor, as the captain was unaccustomed to icebergs, and properly decided to take no risks with them in the strong shifting currents and thick weather of the eastern end of the straits. The wind was ahead for several days, and the heavy squalls coming off the land in quick succession made us fear the wind would drop and leave us banging around in the fog that usually accompanies a calm spell, so we kept close to harbors and dodged in on the first provocation. The season is three weeks late this year; the first mail boat has not yet arrived, though last year at this time she was on her second trip. The last report from the North--down the coast they call it--that went to Newfoundland and St. John's was "that it was impassable ice this side Hamilton Inlet." A vessel--a steam sealing bark--though, that was here yesterday and has gone to Sidney, C.B.I., reports now that the coast is clear to Hopedale. Beyond we know nothing about it. On Henley and Castle Islands, at the mouth of Chateau Bay, are basaltic table-lands about half a mile across, perfectly flat on top and about two hundred feet high. We walked around one, went to its top and secured specimens from the columns. The famous "natural images" of men, are, to my eye, not nearly so good as the descriptions lead one to expect. The history of the place could hardly be guessed from its present barren, desolate, poverty-stricken appearance; but the remains of quite a fort on Barrier Point show some signs of former and now departed glory. It seems that it has been under the dominion of England, France and the United States, all of whom took forceful possession of it, and England and France have governed it. An American privateer once sacked the place, carrying away, I believe, about 3,500 pounds worth of property. Now, a very small population eke out a wretched existence by fishing, only a few remaining, living at the heads of the bays, in the winter, and most of them going home to Newfoundland. The icebergs are in great plenty. I counted eighty from the basaltic table-land at one time, and the professor saw even more at once. Belle Isle is in plain sight from this place, looking like Monhegan from the Georges Islands, though possibly somewhat longer. [Battle Harbor] Finally, as the wind showed no signs of changing, the captain, to our intense delight, decided to beat around to Battle Harbor and we anchored here at about 5:50 P.M., July 17th. Many of the icebergs we passed were glorious, and the scene was truly arctic. It was bitterly cold, and heavy coats were the order of the day. We passed Cape St. Charles, the proposed terminus of the Labrador Railroad to reduce the time of crossing the Atlantic to four days, saw the famous table-land, and soon opened Battle Harbor which we had to beat up, way round to the northward, to enter. It was slow business with a strong head current, but the fishermen say a vessel never came around more quickly. We found the harbor very small, with rocks not shown in chart or coast pilot, and had barely room to come to without going ashore. We went in under bare poles, and then had too much way on. The agent for the Bayne, Johnston Co., which runs this place, keeping nearly all its three hundred inhabitants in debt to it, is a Mr. Smith, who has taken the professor and seven or eight of the boys on his little steamer to the other side of the St. Lewis Sound. The doctor has gone with them to look after some grip patients, and the professor expects to measure some half-breed Eskimo living there. The boys are expecting to get some fine trout. The grip was brought to this region by the steamer bringing the first summer fishing colonies, and has spread to all and killed a great many. There is an Episcopal rector here, Mr. Bull, who says everybody had it. I believe it is owing to his care and slight medical skill that none have died here. It is hard for this people to have such a sickness just as the fishing season is best. The doctor has opportunity to use all and far more than the amount of medicine he brought, much to Professor Lee's amusement. He is reaping a small harvest of furs, grateful tokens of his services, that many of his patients send him, and some of his presents have also improved our menu. This place is named Battle Harbor from the conflict that took place here between the Indians and English settlers, aided by a man-of-war. The remains of the fight are now in a swamp covered with fishflakes. There are also some strange epitaphs in the village graveyard, with its painted wooden head-boards, and high fence to keep the dogs out. These latter are really dangerous, making it necessary to carry a stick if walking alone. Men have been killed by them, but last year the worst of the lot were exported across the bay, owing to a bold steal of a child by them and its being nearly eaten up. They are a mixture of Eskimo, Indian and wolf, with great white shaggy coats. The steamer with mail and passengers from St. John's, Newfoundland, is expected every day, and as our rivals for the honor of rediscovering Grand Falls are probably on board, there is a race in store for us to see who will get to Rigolette first, and which party will start ahead on the perilous journey up the Grand River. As they have refused our offer of co-operation, we now feel no sympathy with their task, and will have but little for them till we see them, as we hope, starting up the river several days behind our hardy crew. JONATHAN P. CILLEY, JR. * * * * * ON BOARD THE JULIA A. DECKER, OFF BIRD ROCKS, Gulf of St. Lawrence, Sept. 10, 1891. While our little vessel is rushing through the blue waters of the gulf, apparently scorning the efforts of the swift little Halifax trader who promised to keep us company from the Straits to the Gut, and who, by dint of good luck and constant attention to sails has thus far kept her word, but is now steadily falling astern and to leeward, I will tell you about the snug little harbors, the bold headlands, barren slopes, and bird-covered rocks, and also the odorous fishing villages and the kind-hearted people with whom she has made us acquainted. The Bowdoin scientific expedition to Labrador is now familiar with six of the seven wonders in this truly wonderful region. It has visited Grand Falls and "Bowdoin Canyon;" has been bitten by black flies and mosquitoes which only Labrador can produce, both in point of quality and quantity; has wandered through the carriage roads (!) and gardens of Northwest River and Hopedale; has dug over, mapped and photographed the prehistoric Eskimo settlements that line the shores, to the north of Hamilton Inlet; has made itself thoroughly conversant with the great fishing industry that has made Labrador so valuable, to Newfoundland in particular, and to the codfish consuming world in general; and finally is itself the sixth wonder, in that it has accomplished all it set out to do, though of course not all that would have been done had longer time, better weather and several other advantages been granted it. It is almost another wonder, too, in the eyes of the Labradoreans, that we have, without pilot and yet without accident or trouble of any sort, made such a trip along their rocky coast, entered their most difficult harbors, and outsailed their fastest vessels, revenue cutters, traders and fishermen. It will be a good many years before the visit of the "Yankee college boys," the speed of the Yankee schooner and the skill and seamanship of the Yankee captain are forgotten "on the Labrador." The day after we left, July 19th, the mail steamer reached Battle Harbor with the first mail of the season. On board were Messrs. Bryant and Kenaston, anxiously looking for the Bowdoin party and estimating their chances of getting to the mouth of Grand River. They brought with them an Adirondack boat, of canoe model, relying on the country to furnish another boat to carry the bulk of their provisions and a crew to man the same. [Rigolette] When the news was received that we were a day ahead, the race began in earnest, the captain of the "Curlew" entering heartily into the sport and doing his best to overhaul the speedy Yankee schooner. When about half way up to Rigolette, on the third day from Battle Harbor, as we were drifting slowly out of "Seal Bight," into which we had gone the previous night to escape the numerous icebergs that went grinding by, the black smoke, and later the spars of the mail steamer were seen over one of the numerous rocky little islets that block the entrance to the bight. The steamer's flag assured us that it was certainly the mail steamer, and many and anxious were the surmises as to whether our rivals were on board, and earnest were the prayers for a strong and favoring wind. It soon came, and we bowled along at a rattling pace, our spirits rising as we could see the steamer, in shore, gradually dropping astern. Towards night we neared Domino Run, and losing sight of the steamer, which turned out to make a stop at some wretched little hamlet that had been shut out from the outer world for nine months, at about the same time lost our breeze also. But the wind might rise again, and time was precious, so a bright lookout was kept for bergs, and we drifted on through the night. The next morning a fringe of islands shut our competitor from sight, but after an aggravating calm in the mouth of the inlet, we felt a breeze and rushed up towards Rigolette, only to meet the steamer coming out while we were yet several hours from that place. Here we had our first experience with the immense deer-flies of Labrador. Off Mt. Gnat they came in swarms and for self-protection each man armed himself with a small wooden paddle and slapped at them right and left, on the deck, the rail, another fellow's back or head, in fact, wherever one was seen to alight. The man at the wheel was doubly busy, protecting himself, with the assistance of ready volunteers, from their lance-like bites, and steering the quickly moving vessel. At last the white buildings and flag-staff which mark all the Hudson Bay Co.'s posts in Labrador, came in sight, snugly nestled in a little cove, beneath a high ridge lying just to the north-west of it, and soon we were at anchor. Our intention was to get into the cove, but the six knot current swept us by the mouth before the failing breeze enabled us to get in. After supper the necessary formal call was made on the factor, Mr. Bell, by the professor, armed with a letter of introduction from the head of the company in London, and escorted by three or four of the party. A rather gruff reception, at first met with, became quite genial, when it appeared that we wanted no assistance save a pilot, and called only to cultivate the acquaintance of the most important official in Labrador. With a promise to renew the acquaintance upon our return, we left, and after a hard pull and an exciting moment in getting the boat fast alongside, on account of the terrific current, we reached the deck and reported. Our rivals were there, and had hired the only available boat and crew to transport them to North West River. This threw us back on our second plan, viz: to take our party right to the mouth of the Grand River ourselves, which involved a trip inland of one hundred miles to the head of Lake Melville. This it was decided to do, and after some delay in securing a pilot, owing to the transfer at the last moment of the affections of the first man we secured to the other party, John Blake came aboard and we started on our new experience in inland navigation. Just as we entered the narrows, after a stop at John's house to tell his wife where we were taking him, and to give her some medicine and advice from the doctor, we saw our rivals starting in the boat they had secured. That was the last we saw of them, till they reached North West River, two days after our party had started up the Grand River. North West River is the name of the Hudson Bay Co.'s post at the mouth of the river of the same name, flowing into the western extremity of Lake Melville, about fifteen miles north of the mouth of Grand River. Hamilton Inlet proper extends about forty miles in from the Atlantic to the "Narrows," a few miles beyond Rigolette, where Lake Melville begins. A narrow arm of the lake extends some unexplored distance east of the Narrows, south of and parallel to the southern shore of the inlet. The lake varies from five to forty miles in width and is ninety miles long, allowing room for an extended voyage in its capacious bosom. The water is fresh enough to drink at the upper end of the lake, and at the time of our visit was far pleasanter and less arctic for bathing than the water off any point of the Maine coast. About twenty miles from the Narrows a string of islands, rugged and barren, but beautiful for their very desolation, as is true of so much of Labrador, nearly block the way, but we found the channels deep and clear, and St. John's towering peak makes an excellent guide to the most direct passage. One night was spent under way, floating quietly on the lake, so delightfully motionless after the restless movements of Atlantic seas. A calm and bright day following, during which the one pleasant swim in Labrador waters was taken by two of us, was varied by thunder squalls and ended in fog and drizzle, causing us to anchor off the abrupt break in the continuous ridge along the northern shore, made by the Muligatawney River. Although in an insecure and exposed anchorage, yet the fact that we were in an inclosed lake gave a sense of security to the less experienced, that the snug and rocky harbors to which we had become accustomed, usually failed to give on account of the roaring of the surf a few hundred yards away, on the other side of the narrow barrier that protected the rocky basin. The following day was bright and showery by turns, but the heart's wish of our Grand River men was granted, and while the schooner lay off the shoals at the mouth of the river they were to make famous, they started as will be described, and the rest of the expedition turned towards North West River, hoping they, too, could now get down to their real work. The noble little vessel was reluctant to leave any of her freight in so desolate a place, in such frail boats as the Rushtons seemed, and in the calm between the thunder squalls, several times turned towards them, as they energetically pushed up the river's mouth, and seemed to call them back as she heavily flapped her white sails. They kept steadily on, however, while the Julia, bowing to a power stronger than herself, and to a fresh puff from the rapidly rising thunder heads, speedily reached North West River. North West River is a sportsman's paradise. Here we found the only real summer weather of the trip, the thermometer reaching 76 deg. F. on two days in succession, and thunder storms occurring regularly every afternoon. Our gunners and fishermen were tempted off on a long trip. One party planning to be away two or three days, but returning the following morning, reported tracks and sounds of large animals. They said the rain induced them to return so soon. [Montagnais Indians] Here we found a camp of Montagnais Indians, bringing the winter's spoils of furs to trade at the post for flour and powder, and the other articles of civilization that they are slowly learning to use. They loaf on their supplies during the summer, hunting only enough to furnish themselves with meat, and then starve during the winter if game happens to be scarce. Measurements were made of some twenty-five of this branch of the Kree tribe, hitherto unknown to anthropometric science, and a full collection of household utensils peculiar to their tribe was procured. Several of the Nascopee tribe were with them, the two inter-marrying freely, and were also measured. The latter are not such magnificent specimens of physical development as the Montagnais, but their tribe is more numerous and seems, if anything, better adapted to thrive in Labrador than their more attractive brothers. The only remains of their picturesque national costume that we saw, was the cap. The women wore a curious knot of hair, about the size of a small egg, over each ear, while the men wore their hair cut off straight around, a few inches above the shoulders. In point of personal cleanliness, these people equal any aborigines we have seen, though their camp exhibited that supreme contempt for sanitation that characterizes every village except the Hudson Bay Co.'s posts on the Labrador coast, whether of Indians, Esquimaux or "planters," as the white and half-breed settlers are called. Some curious scenes were enacted while the professor was trading for his desired ethnological material. With inexhaustible patience and imperturbable countenance, he sat on a log, surrounded by yelping dogs, and by children and papooses of more or less tender ages and scanty raiment, playing on ten cent harmonicas that had for a time served as a staple of trade, struggling with the dogs and with their equally excited mothers and sisters for a sight of the wonderful basket from whose apparently inexhaustible depths came forth yet more harmonicas, sets of celluloid jewelry, knives, combs, fish-hooks, needles, etc., _ad infinitum_. The men, whose gravity equalled the delight of the women and children, held themselves somewhat aloof, seldom deigning to enter the circle about the magic basket, and making their trades in a very dignified and careless fashion. That these people are capable of civilization there can be no doubt. Missing the interpreter, without whom nothing could be done, the professor inquired for him and learned that he had returned to his wigwam. Upon being summoned he said he was tired of talking. Thereupon the professor bethought himself and asked him if he wanted more pay. The interpreter, no longer tired, was willing to talk all night. The camp was in a bend of the river and at the head of rapids about four miles from the mouth, up which we had to track, that is, one man had to haul the boat along by the bank with a small rope called a tracking line, while another kept her off the rocks by pushing against her with an oar. At that point the river opened out into a beautiful lake from one to two miles in width, whose further end we could not see. As this river never has been explored to its head, we were surprised that Messrs. Bryant and Kenaston, who were ready for their inland trip about a week after our party had started up the Grand River, had not chosen it as a field for their work rather than follow in the footsteps of our expedition. [A carriage road] Of all Labrador north of the Straits, North West River alone boasts a carriage road. To be sure, there are neither horses nor carriages at that post, but when Sir Donald A. Smith, at present at the head of the Hudson Bay Co.'s interests in Canada, but then plain Mr. Smith, factor, was in charge of that post his energy made the place a garden in the wilderness, and in addition to luxuries of an edible sort, he added drives in a carriage through forest and by shore, for about two miles, on a well made road. Now, we are informed there is not a horse or cow north of Belle Isle. The present factor, Mr. McLaren, is a shrewd Scotchman, genial and warm-hearted beneath a rather forbidding exterior, as all of our party who experienced his hospitality can testify. In spite of all its attractions we could not stay at North West River. In five weeks we were to meet our river detail at Rigolette, and during that time a trip north of 400 miles was to be made and the bulk of the expedition's scientific work to be done. Our day's sail, with fresh breezes and favoring squalls, took us the whole length of the delightful lake, whose waters had seldom been vexed by a keel as long as the Julia's, and brought us to an anchor off Eskimo Island. Here we had one of our regular fights with the mosquitoes, the engagement perhaps being a trifle hotter than usual, for they swarmed down the companion way every time the "mosquito door," of netting on a light frame hinged to the hatch house, was opened, in brigades and divisions and finally by whole army corps, till we were forced to retreat to our bunks, drive out the intruding hosts, which paid no respect whatever to our limited 6x3x3 private apartments, by energetically waving and slapping a towel around, then quickly shutting the door of netting, also on a tightly fitting frame, and devoting an hour or two at our leisure to demolishing the few stragglers that remained within; or possibly the whole night, if an unknown breach had been found by the wily mosquito somewhere in our carefully made defenses. A few bones were taken from the Eskimo graves that abound on the island, but the mosquitoes seriously interfered with such work and the party soon returned to the vessel. The absolutely calm night allowed the mosquitoes to reach us and stay; and in spite of its brevity and the utter stillness of the vast solitude about us, broken only now and then by a noise from the little Halifax trader whose acquaintance we here made for the first time, and of whom we saw so much on our return voyage across the gulf, or by the howling of wolves and Eskimo dogs in the distance, we were glad when it was over and a morning breeze chased from our decks the invading hosts. A short stop at Rigolette, to send about fifty letters ashore, a two days' delay in a cold, easterly storm at Turner Cove, on the south side of the inlet, when the icy winds, in contrast to the warm weather we had lately enjoyed, made us put on our heavy clothes and, even then, shiver--a delay, however, that we did not grudge, for we were in a land of fish, game and labradorite--this of a poor quality, as we afterward learned--and where the doctor had more patients than he could easily attend to. At last a pleasant Sunday's run to Indian Harbor got us clear of Hamilton Inlet. There we found the usual complement of fish and fishing apparatus, but with the addition of a few Yankee vessels and a church service. The latter we were quite surprised to find, and several went, out of curiosity, and had the satisfaction of finding a small room, packed with about fifty human beings, with no ventilation whatever, and of sitting on seats about four inches wide with no backs. The people were earnest and respectful, but did not seem to understand all that was said, as, perhaps, is not to be wondered at, since they are the poorest class of Newfoundlanders. Indian Harbor is like so many others on the coast, merely a "tickle" with three ticklish entrances full of sunken rocks and treacherous currents. The small islands that make the harbor are simply bare ledges, very rough and irregular in outline. The fishing village, also, like all others, consists of little earthen-covered hovels, stuck down wherever a decently level spot fifteen feet square can be found, and of fishing stages running out from every little point and cove, in which the catch is placed to be taken care of, and alongside of which the heavy boats can lie without danger of being smashed by the undertow that is continually heaving against the shore. [Storm and fog] A two days' run brought us up to Cape Harrigan, rounding which we went into Webeck Harbor, little thinking that in that dreary place storm and fog would hold us prisoners for five days. That was our fate, and even now we wonder how we lived through that dismal time. One day served to make us familiar with the flora, fauna, geography and geology of the region, for it was not an interesting place from a scientific point of view, however the fishermen may regard it, and after the departure of the mail steamer, leaving us all disappointed in regard to mail, time dragged on us terribly. Two or three of the more venturesome ones could get a little sport by pulling a long four miles down to the extremity of Cape Harrigan, where sea pigeon had a home in the face of a magnificent cliff, against the bottom of which the gunners had to risk being thrown by the heavy swell rolling against it, as they shot from a boat bobbing like a cork, at "guillemots" flying like bullets from a gun out of the face of the cliff. One evening a relief party was sent off for two who had gone off to land on a bad lee shore and were some hours overdue. To be sure the missing ones arrived very soon, all right, while the search party got back considerably later, drenched with spray and with their boat half full of water, but the incident gave some relief from the monotony. Another evening several visiting captains and a few friends from ashore were treated to a concert by the Bowdoin Glee and Minstrel Club. All the old favorites of from ten years ago and less were served up in a sort of composite hash, greatly to the delight of both audience and singers. [Abundance of codfish] At Webeck Harbor, which we came to pronounce "Wayback," probably because it seemed such a long way back to anything worthy of human interest, we saw the business of catching cod at its best. They had just "struck a spurt," the fishermen said, and day after day simply went to their traps, filled their boats and bags, took the catch home, where the boys and "ship girls" took charge of it, and returned to the traps to repeat the process. An idea of the amount of fish taken may be given by the figures of the catch of five men from one schooner, who took one thousand quintals of codfish in thirteen days. We obtained a better idea of the vast catch by the experience of one of our parties who spent part of a day at the traps, as the arrangement of nets along the shore is called, into which the cod swim and out of which they are too foolish to go. They are on much the same plan as salmon weirs, only larger, opening both ways, and being placed usually in over ten fathoms of water and kept in place by anchors, shore lines, and floats and sinkers. Once down they are usually kept in place a whole season. The party were in a boat, inside the line of floats, so interested in watching the fishermen making the "haul," as the process of overhauling the net and passing it under the boat is called, by which the fish are crowded up into one corner where they can be scooped out by the dozen, that they did not notice that the enormous catch was being brought to the surface directly under them till their own boat began to rise out of the water, actually being grounded on the immense shoal of codfish. It was a strange sensation and makes a strange story. All the time that we were storm-stayed at Webeck the "spurt" continued, and the trap owners were tired but jubilant. The "hand-lining" crews were correspondingly depressed, for, though so plenty, not a cod would bite a hook. It is this reason, that is, because an abundance of food brings the cod to the shores in great numbers and at the same time prevents them from being hungry, that led to the abandonment of trawling and the universal adoption of the trap method. We did not see a single trawl on the coast, and it is doubtful if there was one there in use. During these spurts, the day's work just begins, in fact, after the hard labor of rowing the heavy boats out, perhaps two miles, to the trap, hauling, mending the net, loading and unloading the fish--always a hard task and sometimes a very difficult one on account of the heavy sea--has been repeated three or four times; for the number of fish is so great that the stage becomes overloaded by night, and the boat crews then have to turn to and help take care of the catch and clear the stage for the next day's operations. Till long after midnight the work goes merrily on in the huts or shelters over the stages, for the hard work then means no starvation next winter in the Newfoundland homes, and the fish are split, cleaned, headed, salted and packed with incredible rapidity. The tired crews get an hour or two of sleep just as they are; then, after a pot of black tea and a handful of bread, start out to begin the next day's work, resting and eating during the hour between the trips, and then going out again, and repeating the some monotonous round over and over till we wondered how they lived through it, and what was to be done with all the fish. When there is a good breeze the boats are rigged and a large part of the weary labor of rowing is escaped. How tired the crews would look as the big twenty-four feet boats went dashing by our vessel in the fog and rain, on the outward trip, and how happy, though if possible more tired, as they came back three or four hours later, loaded to the gunwale with cod, and thinking, perhaps, of the bags full that they had left buoyed near the trap because the boat would not carry the whole catch. It is a hard life, and no wonder the men are not much more than animals; but they work with dogged persistence, for in a little more than two months enough must be earned to support their families for the year. When the "spurt" ends the crews get a much needed rest, and attend to getting a supply of salt ashore from the salt vessel from Cadiz, Spain, one of which we found lying in nearly every fishing harbor, serving as a storehouse for that article so necessary to the fishermen. As to the magnitude of the industry, it is estimated that there are about 3,000 vessels and 20,000 men employed in it during the season. Some of the vessels are employed in merely bringing salt and taking away the fish, notably the great iron tramp steamers of from 1,500 to 2,000 tons, which seem so much out of place moored to the sides of some of the little rocky harbors. The average catch in a good year is, we were informed, from four to six hundred quintals in a vessel of perhaps forty tons, by a crew of from four to eight men. The trap outfit costs about $500 and is furnished by the large fish firms in Newfoundland, to be paid for with fish. As the market price, to the fishermen, is from five dollars to six dollars a quintal, the value of the industry is at once apparent. The great bulk of the fish go to Mediterranean ports direct, to Catholic countries, chiefly, and also to Brazil. The small size and imperfect curing which the Labrador summer allows make the fish almost unsalable in English and American markets. Many of the cod are of the black, Greenland variety, which are far less palatable, and are usually thrown away or cured separately for the cheaper market. All storms come to an end finally, and at last the sun shone, the windlass clanked and we were underway. The long delay seemed to have broken our little schooner's spirits, for after being out three or four hours we had gone but as many miles, and those in the wrong direction. At length the gentle breeze seemed to revive her and we gently slipped by the Ragged Islands and Cape Mokkavik. That Sunday evening will long be remembered by us, for in addition to the delight we felt at again moving northward, and the charm of a bright evening with a gentle, fair wind and smooth water, allowing us to glide by hundreds of fulmar and shearwater sitting on the water, scarcely disturbed by our passage, the moon was paled by the brightest exhibition of the aurora we saw while in northern waters. Its sudden darts into new quarters of the heavens, its tumultuous waves and gentle undulations, now looking like a fleecy cloud, now like a gigantic curtain shaken by still more gigantic hands into ponderous folds--all were reflected in the quiet water and from the numerous bergs, great and small, that dotted the surface, till the beholder was at times awe-struck and silent, utterly unable to find words with which to express himself. The next day we rounded Gull Island, which we identified with some difficulty, owing to the absence of the flagstaff by which the coast pilot says it can be distinguished, and, after a delightful sail up the clear sound leading through the fringe of islands to Hopedale, we spied the red-roofed houses and earth-covered huts, the mission houses and Eskimo village, of which the settlement consists, snugly hidden behind little "Anatokavit," or little Snow Hill Island, at the foot of a steep and lofty hill surmounted by the mission flagstaff. Here we were destined to pass five days as pleasant as the five at Webeck had been tedious. [Hopedale] The harbor at Hopedale is the best one we visited on the coast. The twelve miles of sound, fringed and studded with islands, completely broke the undertow which had kept our vessel constantly rolling, when at anchor, in every harbor except those up Hamilton Inlet and Lake Melville. About two miles south of us a vast, unexplored bay ran for a long distance inland, while to the north, looking from Flagstaff Peak, we could see Cape Harrigan and the shoals about it, the numberless inlets, coves and bays which fill in the sixty miles to Nain. We were very much disappointed at our inability to go north to that place, but before our start from the United States Hopedale had been named as the point with which we would be content if ice and winds allowed us to reach it, and that point proved the northern limit of our voyage. About half a mile across the point of land on which the missionary settlement lies, is the site of the pre-historic village of "Avatoke," which means "may-we-have-seals." It consisted of three approximately circular houses, in line parallel with the shore, at the head of a slight cove, backed to the west by a high hill, and with a fine beach in front, now raised considerably from the sea level. Along the front of the row of houses were immense shell heaps, from which we dug ivory, that is, walrus teeth; carvings, stone lamps, spear heads, portions of kyaks, whips, komatiks, as the sleds are called, etc., etc., and bones innumerable of all the varieties of birds, fish and game on which the early Eskimo dined; as well as remnants of all the implements which Eskimos used in the household generations ago, and which can nearly all now be recognized by the almost identically shaped and made implements in the houses of Eskimos there in Hopedale, so little do they change in the course of centuries. The village has been completely deserted for over one hundred years, and was in its prime centuries before that, so the tales of its greatness are only dim Eskimo traditions. The houses were found to average about thirty-five feet across on the inside; are separated by a space of about fifteen feet, and each had a long, narrow doorway or entrance, being almost exactly in line. The walls are about fifteen feet thick and now about five feet high, of earth, with the gravel beach for a foundation. The inside of the wall was apparently lined with something resembling a wooden bench. When, in one of the houses, the remains of the dirt and stone roof that had long since crushed down the rotten poles and seal skins that made the framework and first covering, had been carefully removed, the floor was found to be laid with flagstones, many three or four feet across, closely fitted at the edges and well laid in the gravel so as to make a smooth, even floor. This extended to the remains of the bench at the sides, and made a dwelling which for Eskimo land must have been palatial. The evidences of fire showed the hearth to have been near the center of the floor, a little towards the entrance, in order to get the most from its heat. The Hopedale Eskimo were themselves surprised at the stone floor, but one old man remembered that he had been told that such floors were used long ago, in the _palmier_ days of Eskimo history, if such an expression is fitting for an arctic people. A village arranged on a similar plan, except that the houses were joined together, was found to constitute the supposed remains of a settlement on Eskimo Island in Lake Melville. In both cases the front of the row is towards the east, and the houses are dug down to sand on the inside, making their floors somewhat below the level of the ground. [Eskimos] A more thorough investigation than we were able to make of the remains at Eskimo Island would undoubtedly yield much of interest and value, for they were if anything even older than those at Hopedale, probably having been abandoned after the battle between Eskimo and Indians, fought on the same island, which has now become a tradition among the people. Five days were spent in this most interesting ethnological work, and hard days they were, too, as well as interesting, for the mosquitoes, black flies and midges were always with us; but on the other hand, the Eskimo interpreter was continually describing some national custom which some find would suggest to him, and very ingenious he proved to be in naming finds which we were entirely ignorant of or unable to identify. The race as a whole is exceedingly ingenious, quick to learn, handy with tools, and also ready at mastering musical instruments. One of the best carpenters on the Labrador is an Eskimo at Aillik, from whom we bought a kyak; and at Hopedale in the winter they have a very fair brass band. The art of fine carving, however, seems to be dying out among them, and now there is but one family, at Nain, who do anything of the sort worthy the name of carving. Prof. Lee obtained several very fine specimens for the Bowdoin cabinets, but as a rule it is very high priced and rare. Most of it is taken to London by the Moravian mission ship, and has found its way into English and Continental museums. The figures of dogs, of Eskimos themselves, as well as of kyaks and komatiks, seals, walrus, arctic birds and the like are most exquisitely done. The mission itself deserves a brief description. It was founded in 1782 and has been steadily maintained by the Moravian society for the furtherance of the Gospel, and is now nearly self-supporting. There are three missions of the society in Labrador, the one at Nain being the chief and the residence of the director, but Hopedale is very important as it is the place where the debasing influence of the traders and fishermen is most felt by the Eskimo, and the work of the missionaries consequently made least welcome to them. However, they have persevered, in the German fashion, and seem to have a firm hold on the childlike people which the seductions of the traders cannot shake off. There are five missionaries now stationed at Hopedale: Mr. Townly, an Englishman, whose work is among the "planters" and fishermen; Mr. Hansen, the pastor of the Eskimo church; and Mr. Kaestner, the head of the mission, and in special charge of the store and trading, by which the mission is made nearly self-supporting; Mrs. Kaestner and Mrs. Hansen complete the number, and the five make up a community almost entirely isolated from white people during nine months of every year. The fact that the two ladies spoke very little English was somewhat of a drawback, but detracted very slightly from our enjoyment of Mrs. Hanson's delightful singing and none at all from our appreciation of her playing on the piano and organ. To get such a musical treat in the Labrador wilds was most unexpected and for that reason all the more thoroughly enjoyed. The mission house is a yellow, barn-like building, heavily built to prevent its being blown away, snugly stowed beneath a hill, and seeming like a mother round which the huts of the Eskimo cluster. The rooms in which we were so pleasantly entertained were very comfortably and tastily furnished, a grand piano in one of them seeming out of place in a village of Labrador, but so entirely in harmony with its immediate surroundings that we hardly thought of the strangeness of it, within a few yards of a village of pure Eskimo, living in all their primitive customs and in their own land. A few rods behind the mission are the gardens, cut up into small squares by strong board fences to prevent the soil from blowing away, each with a tarpaulin near by to spread over it at night. In this laborious way potatoes, cabbages and turnips are raised. In a large hothouse the missionaries raise tomatoes, lettuce, and also flowers, but for everything else, except fish, game and ice, they have to depend on the yearly visit of the Moravian mission ship. She left for Nain just the day before we reached Hopedale, and after unloading supplies, etc., there, she proceeds north, collecting furs and fish until loaded, and then goes to London. About fifty Eskimos were measured and collections made of their clothing, implements of war and chase and household utensils, which are the best of our collections, for the World's Fair and the Bowdoin museums. After spending these five pleasant and profitable days at Hopedale, and regretfully looking out by Cape Harrigan, to Nain, whose gardens are the seventh wonder of Labrador, through which, reports say, one can walk for two miles, and whose missionaries, warned of our coming, were making ready to give us a warm reception; and near it Paul's Island, on which was so much of interest to our party; all this we thought of mournfully as our vessel's head was pointed southward and we sped along, reluctant on this account, and yet eager to hear of the success of our boldest undertaking, the Grand River exploration party. At Aillik, where there is an abandoned Hudson Bay Co.'s post, we measured a few more Eskimo, obtained a kyak, which a day or two later nearly became a coffin to one of our party, and tried a trout stream that proved the best we found in Labrador. In about an hour, three of our party caught over eighty magnificent trout, and, naturally, returned much elated. The next day we poked the Julia's inquisitive nose into one or two so-called but misnamed harbors that afforded very little shelter, and had a threatening and deserted look which, although the characteristic of the Labrador shore in general, has never been noticeable in the harbors we have visited. Many of them are very small, and in some it is necessary to lay quite close to the rocks, but yet we have had no trouble from the extremely deep water that we were told we should have to anchor in, nor yet from getting into harbors so small that it was hard to get out of them. [Tickles] As a matter of fact, experience has taught the fishermen to use "tickles," as narrow passages are called, for harbors, that there may always be a windward and a leeward entrance. In a few cases where the harbor is too small to beat out of, and has no leeward entrance, we have found heavy ring bolts fastened into proper places in the cliffs, to which vessels can make their lines fast, and warp themselves into weatherly position from which a course can be laid out of the harbor. Meanwhile we are again approaching the Ragged Islands, which we passed just as we were beginning that memorable Sunday evening sail, about fifteen miles from the place we so much dread, Webeck Harbor. On them we found the only gravel bed we saw in Labrador, and yet their name is due to the rough piled basaltic appearing rock, that proved on close examination to be much weathered sienite and granite. The harbor is an open place amidst a cluster of rocky islets, and we found it literally packed with fishing vessels. Here an afternoon was spent making pictures and examining the geology of these interesting islands, and here the adventure of the kyak, before referred to, took place. Our fur trader thought he would take a paddle, but had not gone three lengths before he found that he was more expert in dealing with Eskimo furs than in handling Eskimo boats. He rolled over, was soon pulled alongside, and clearing himself from the kyak climbed aboard, just as our gallant mate, his rescuer, rolled out of his dory into the water and took a swim on his own account. All hands were nearly exploded with laughter as he rolled himself neatly into the dory again and climbed aboard, remarking, "That's the way to climb into a dory without capsizing her," as he ruefully shook himself. We wanted to ask him if that was the only way to get out of a dory without turning her over, but we forebore. The next morning as we got clear of the harbor, a trim looking schooner of our size was sighted just off Cape Harrigan, about ten miles ahead. The breeze freshening we gradually overhauled her, and finally, while beating into Holton harbor, one of the most dangerous entrances on the coast, by the way, we passed her, and noticing her neat rig and appearance guessed rightly we had beaten the representatives of the Newfoundland law and the collector of her revenues from this coast. Mr. Burgess, who combines in one unassuming personage the tax and customs collector, the magistrate and the commissioner of poor relief from Labrador, afterward told us that the "Rose" had been on the coast for thirteen years and had been outsailed for the first time. The next morning we again beat her badly, in working up to Indian Harbor, and only then would he acknowledge himself fairly beaten. [Puffins and Auks] Saturday, the 22d of August, having yet three days before we were due at Rigolette to meet our Grand River party, we made memorable in the annals of the puffins and auks of the Heron Islands by spending three or four hours there and taking aboard three hundred and seventy-eight of them. Many more of them were killed but dropped into inaccessible places or into the water and could not be saved. The sound of the fusilade from over twenty gunners must have resembled a small battle, but it did not drive the birds away, and as we left they seemed thicker than ever. Not only was the air alive with them, but as one walked along the cliffs they would dart swiftly out of holes in the rocks or crevices, so the earth, too, seemed full of them. It was great sport for a time, but soon seemed too much like slaughter, and we would let the awkward puffins, with their foolish eyes and Roman noses, come blundering along within a few feet of our muzzles, and chose rather the graceful, swift motioned auks and guillemots, whose rapid flight made them far more sportsmanlike game. The next day, though Sunday, had to be spent in taking care of the best specimens, and the game was not fully disposed of for several days. Our bill of fare was correspondingly improved for a few days. Three days were consumed in beating up to Rigolette. At Indian Harbor we had heard rumors of the return of some party from Grand River on account of injuries received by one of the men, but the description applied best to the second party, and we decided it must refer to Bryant or Kenaston. Near Turner's Cove we found more rumors, but nothing definite enough to satisfy our growing anxiety, and at last, unable to bear the suspense any longer, three of the party took a boat and started to row the fifteen miles between us and Rigolette, while the vessel waited for a change of tide and a breeze. Alternate hope and fear lent strength to our arms as we drove the light boat along, and soon we came in sight of the wharf. There we saw a ragged looking individual, smoking a very short and black clay pipe, with one arm in a sling, who seemed to recognize us, and waved his hat vigorously with his well arm. Soon we recognized Young and were pumping away at his well hand in our delight at finding his injuries no worse, and that Cary and Cole were yet pushing on, determined to accomplish their object. Young's hand had been in a critical state; the slight injury first received unconsciously, from exposure and lack of attention had caused a swelling of his hand and arm that was both extremely painful and dangerous, and which, the doctor said, would have caused the loss of the thumb, or possibly of the whole hand, had it gone uncared for much longer. Of course it was impossible to leave a man in such a condition, or to send him back alone. So Smith very regretfully volunteered to turn back--at a point where a few days more were expected to give a sight of the Falls, and when all thought the hardest work of the Grand River party had been accomplished--and accompany Young back to Rigolette. It was a great sacrifice of Smith's personal desires, to be one of the re-discoverers of the falls, to the interests of the expedition, and it involved a great deal of hard work, for, after paddling and rowing all day, he had to build and break camp every night and morning, as Young's hand grew steadily worse and was all he could attend to. At the mouth of the river, which was reached in shorter time than was expected, and without accident, Young obtained some relief from applications of spruce gum to his hand by Joe Michelini, a trapper and hunter, famous for his skill in all Labrador. Northwest River was reached the following day, and after a few days of rest for Smith, during which time Young's injury began to mend also under the influences of rest and shelter, they hired a small schooner boat to take them to Rigolette. On the passage they were struck by a squall in the night, nearly swamped, and compelled to cut the Rushton boat adrift in order to save themselves. The next day they searched the leeward shore of the lake in vain, and had to go on without her, arriving at Rigolette without further accident, and had been there about a week when we arrived. The boat was picked up later in a badly damaged condition, and given to the finder. While Young outlined his experience we hunted up Smith, who had been making himself useful as a clerk to the factor at the Post, Mr. Bell, and all went on board the Julia as soon as she arrived, to report and relieve in a measure the anxiety of the professor and the boys. [Anxious waiting] The day appointed for meeting the river party was the day on which we reached Rigolette, August 25th, and so a sharp lookout was kept for the two remaining members of the party, on whom, now, the failure or success of that part of the expedition rested. As they did not appear, we moved up to a cove near Eskimo Island, at the eastern end of Lake Melville, the following day, and there spent four days of anxious waiting. Some dredging and geological work was done, and an attempt was made to examine more carefully the remains of the Eskimo village before referred to on Eskimo Island, which some investigators had thought the remains of a Norse settlement. The turf was too tough to break through without a plow, and we had to give it up, doing just enough to satisfy ourselves that the remains were purely Eskimo. All the work attempted was done in a half-hearted manner, for our thoughts were with Cary and Cole, and as the days went by and they did not appear, but were more and more overdue, our suspense became almost unbearable. Added to this was the thought that we could wait but a few days more at the longest, without running the danger of being imprisoned all winter, and for that we were poorly prepared. The first day of September we moved back to Rigolette to get supplies and make preparations for our voyage home, as it was positively unsafe to remain any longer. The Gulf of St. Lawrence is an ugly place to cross at any time in September, for in that month the chances are rather against a small vessel's getting across safely. It was decided that the expedition must start home on Wednesday, the 2nd, and that a relief party should be left for Cary and Cole. With heavy hearts the final preparations were made, and many were the looks cast at the narrows where they would be seen, were they to heave in sight. At last, about 3.30 p.m. Tuesday, the lookout yelled, "Sail ho! in the narrows," and we all jumped for the rigging. They had come, almost at the last hour of our waiting, and with a feeling of relief such as we shall seldom again experience we welcomed them aboard and heard their story. * * * * * ON BOARD THE JULIA A. DECKER, GUT OF CANSO. Bowdoin pluck has overcome Bowdoin luck, and though they literally had to pass through fire and water, the Bowdoin men, from the Bowdoin College Scientific Expedition to Labrador have done what Oxford failed to do, and what was declared well nigh impossible by those best acquainted with the circumstances and presumably best judges of the matter. Austin Cary and Dennis Cole, Bowdoin '87 and '88, respectively, have proven themselves worthy to be ranked as explorers, and have demonstrated anew that energy and endurance are not wanting in college graduates of this generation. A trip up a large and swift river, totally unknown to maps in its upper portions, for three hundred miles, equal to the distance from Brunswick, Me., to New York City, in open fifteen feet boats, is of itself an achievement worthy of remark. But when to this is added the discovery of Bowdoin Canon, one of the most remarkable features of North America, the settlement of the mystery of the Grand Falls, and the bringing to light of a navigable waterway extending for an unbroken ninety miles, and three hundred miles in the interior of an hitherto unknown country, something more than remark is merited. July 26th the schooner hove to about four miles from the mouth of the Grand River, the shoals rendering a nearer approach dangerous, and the boats of the river detachment were sent over the side, taken in tow by the yawl, and the start made on what proved the most eventful part of the Labrador expedition. Cheers and good wishes followed the three boats till out of hearing, and then the Julia gathered way and headed for North West River, while the party in the yawl with the two Rushtons in tow put forth their best efforts to reach the mouth of the river and a lee before the approaching squall should strike them. The squall came first, and as it blew heavily directly out of the river, we could simply lay to and wait for it to blow over. Then a calm followed and by the time the next squall struck we were in a comparative lee. After the heaviest of it had passed, the Grand River boys clambered into their boats and with a hearty "good by" pulled away for the opening close at hand. The yawl meantime had grounded on one of the shoals, but pushing off and carefully dodging the boulders that dot those shallow waters, she squared away for North West River, following around the shore, and with the aid of a fresh breeze reached the schooner shortly after 10 o'clock P.M. [Grand River] The river party was made up of Austin Cary in charge, and W.R. Smith, '90, occupying one boat, and Dennis Cole and E.B. Young, '92, with the other, all strong, rugged fellows, more or less acquainted with boating in rapid water, and well equipped for all emergencies. Their outfit included provisions for five weeks, flour, meal, buckwheat flour, rice, coffee, tea, sugar, beef extract, tins of pea soup, beef tongue, and preserves. They were provided with revolvers, a shot gun and a rifle, and sufficient ammunition, intending to eke out the stores with whatever game came in their way, although the amount of time given them would not allow much hunting. All the supplies, including the surveying, measuring and meteorological instruments, were either in tins or in water-tight wrappings, while the bedding and clothing were protected by rubber blankets. The boats, made by Rushton, the Adirondack boat-builder, were of cedar, fifteen feet long, five feet wide, double-ended, and weighed eighty pounds apiece. A short deck at each end of the boats covered copper air-tanks, which made life-boats of them and added much to their safety. Each boat was equipped with a pair of oars, a paddle and about one hundred feet of small line for tracking purposes. Proceeding about three miles the first camp was made on the south shore of Goose Bay, amid an abundance of mosquitoes. The next day twenty-five miles were made through shoals that nearly close the river's mouth, leaving but one good channel through which the water flows very swiftly, by the house of Joe Michelin, the trapper, at which six weeks later two very gaunt and much used up men were most hospitably received. Here another night was spent almost without sleep, owing to the mosquitoes. Tuesday a large Indian camp was passed, the big "pool," at the foot of the first falls and some three miles long, rowed across, and at noon the carry was begun. It was necessary to make seventeen trips and four and one half hours were used in the task. When the last load had been deposited at the upper end of the carry, the men threw themselves down on the bank utterly weary, and owing to the loss of sleep the two previous nights, were soon all sound asleep. In consequence camp was made here, and the first comfortable night of the trip passed. Including the carry eight miles was the day's advance. The twenty-five miles of the next day were made rowing and tracking up the Porcupine rapids through a series of small lakes, one with a little island in the centre deceiving our boys for awhile into thinking they had reached Gull Island Lake, and then up another short rapid at the head of which the party encamped. Sixteen miles were made next day by alternate rowing and tracking, the foot of Gull Island Lake was reached, and after dinner it was crossed in one and a half hours. Then the heaviest work of the trip thus far was struck and camp was made, about half way up Gull Lake rapid. Supper was made off a goose shot the previous day. It was necessary to double the crews in getting up the latter part of Gull Island rapids, and finally a short carry was made just at noon to get clear of them. From the fact that the light, beautifully modelled boats required four men to take them up the rapids we may get some idea of the swiftness of the river as well as the difficulties attending the mode of travelling. As the river in its swiftest parts is never less than half a mile wide, and averages a mile, it can readily be seen that it is a grand waterway, well deserving its name. Nine miles were made this day and camp was reached at the beginning of rough water on the Horse Shoe Rapid. Here the first evidence of shoes giving out was seen. Constant use over rough rocks while wet proved too much for even the strongest shoes, and when Cary and Cole returned there was not leather enough between them to make one decent shoe. Rain made the night uncomfortable, as the light shelter tent let the water through very easily and was then of little use. At other times the tents were very comfortable. Upon arriving at the spot selected two men would at once set about preparing the brush for beds, pitching the tent, etc., while the other provided wood for the camp and for the cook, in which capacity Cary officiated. I cannot do better than use Cary's own words in reference to his "humble but essential ministrations." "Camp cooking at best is rather a wearing process, but the agonies of a man whose hands are tangled up in dough and whom the flies becloud, competing for standing room on every exposed portion of his body, can be imagined only by the experienced." The party believed that a good night's rest was indispensible where the day was filled with the hardest kind of labor, and spared no pains to secure them. Even on the return Cary and Cole, when half starved, stuck to their practice of making comfortable camps, and it is probable that the wonderful way they held out under their privations was largely due to this. While many in their predicament would have thrown away their blankets, they kept them, and on every cold and stormy night congratulated themselves that they had done so. [Loss of boat] On Saturday, Aug. 1st, the first accident happened. Tracking on the Horse Shoe Rapids was extremely difficult and dangerous. Shortly after dinner a carry was made, taking three and a half hours to track out a path up and along a terrace about fifty feet high. Shortly after this the boat used by Cary and Smith capsized, emptying its load into the river. The party were "tracking" at the time, Cole being nearly the length of the tow line ahead, tugging on it, while Cary was doing his best to keep the boat off the rocks. At the margin of the swift unbroken current there were strong eddies, and in hauling the boat around a bend her bow was pushed into one, her slight keel momentarily preventing her from heading up stream again, and the rush of the water bore her under. At the same time Cary was carried from his footing and just managed to grasp the line as he came up and escape being borne down the stream. When things were collected and an inventory taken of the loss, it was found to include about one-fourth of the provisions, the barometer and chronometer rendered useless and practically lost, measuring chain, cooking utensils, rifles with much of the ammunition, axe and small stores, such as salt, sugar, coffee, etc. The loss was a severe one, and arose from failure to fasten the stores into the boats before starting, as had been ordered. The time given the party for the trip was so short, the distance so uncertain, and the things they desired to have an opportunity to do on the return that would require comparative leisure were so many, that they begrudged the few minutes necessary to properly lash the loads into the boats, each time they broke camp; and delay and disaster were the results. As the day was nearly spent, camp was made but about a mile from the last, and time used in repairing damages. A very ingenious baker for bread was contrived by Cole from an empty flour tin, a new paddle made to replace the one lost, and a redistribution of the baggage remaining effected. In the following five days sixty-six miles were made with a few short carries, some rowing and a good deal of hard tracking. Having passed the Mininipi river and rapids, the latter being the worst on the river, the bank furnishing almost no foothold for tracking the Mauni rapids were reached and finally at 5 P.M., Aug. 6th, the party emerged into Lake Waminikapo. As Cary's journal puts it, here the party "first indulged in hilarity." The hardest part of the work was over and had been done in much less time than had been expected. According to all accounts the falls should be found only thirty miles beyond the head of the lake, which is forty miles long and good rowing water, and about three weeks time yet remained before they were due at Rigolette. Added to this a perfect summer afternoon, comparatively smooth water, running around the base of a magnificent cliff and opening out through a gorge with precipitous sides, showing a beautiful vista of lake and mountain, with the knowledge of rapids behind and the object of the trip but a short way ahead and easy travelling most of that way, and we may readily understand why these tired and travel worn voyagers felt hilarious. Cary says of the scene: "As we gradually worked out of the swift water the terraces of sand and stones were seen to give way and the ridges beyond to approach one another and to erect themselves, until at the lake's mouth we entered a grand portal between cliffs on either hand towering for hundreds of feet straight into the air. And looking beyond and between the reaches of the lake was seen a ribbon of water lying between steep sided ridges, over the face of which, as we pulled along, mountain streams came pouring." One day was used in making the length of the lake, and at the camp at its head Young and Smith turned back. A very badly swelled hand and arm caused by jamming his thumb had prevented Young from getting any sleep and threatened speedily to become worse. This in connection with the loss of provisions in the upset made it expedient to send the two men back. The returning party was given the best boat, the best of the outfit and provisions for six days, in which time they could easily reach the mouth of the river. Meantime Cary and Cole pushed on into what was to prove the most eventful part of their journey. The lake is simply the river valley with the terraces cleaned out, and was probably made when the river was much higher, at a time not far removed from the glacial period. The head of the lake is full of sand bars and shoals, much resembling the mouth of the river as it opens out into Goose bay. On both sides of the lake mountains rise steeply for one thousand or twelve hundred feet. Its average width is from two to three miles and it has three long bends or curves. Only one deep valley breaks the precipitous sides, but many streams flow in over the ridge, making beautiful waterfalls. The river as it enters the lake is about half a mile wide, but soon increases to a mile. Twenty miles were made by the advance the day the parties separated, and at night, almost at the place where the falls were reported, nothing but smooth water could be seen for a long stretch ahead. Sunday, the 9th, twenty-five miles were made the good rowing continuing, by burnt lands, and banks over which many cascades tumbled. Monday, the last day's advance in the boats was made, the water becoming too swift to be stemmed, This day Cary got the second ducking of the trip--a very good record in view of the roughness of the work and the smallness of the boats. During this and the day previous an otter, a crow and a robin were seen. As a rule the river was almost entirely deserted by animal life. [Mount Hyde] The next day the boat and the provisions, excepting a six days supply carried in the packs, were carefully cached, and at 10:45 camp was left and the memorable tramp begun. Each man carried about twenty-five pounds. The stream was followed a short distance, then the abrupt ascent to the plateau climbed, old river beaches being found all the way up. Ascending a birch knoll, the river was in view for quite a long distance and a large branch seen making in from the west. To the north the highest mountain, in fact the only peak in the vicinity, was seen towering up above the level plateau. Towards this peak, christened Mt. Hyde, the party tramped, and arriving at the top saw the country around spread out like a map. Way off towards the northwest a large lake was seen from which Grand River probably flows, and nearer was a chain of small, shallow and rocky ponds. The country is rocky, covered with deep moss and fairly well wooded, with little underbrush. The wood is all spruce save in the river valleys where considerable birch is mixed in. The black flies were present in clouds, even in the strong wind blowing at the top of Mt. Hyde, and made halt for rest or any stop whatever intolerable. Leaving the mountain, after taking bearings of all the points to be seen, the party struck for the river and camped on the bank between the two branches coming in from the westward, several miles apart. The following day, with faces much swollen from fly bites of the day before, the line of march was along the banks till 2 P.M. when the upper fork was reached. The course of the river is southeast. This branch course is from the northwest. The main stream turns off sharply to the northeast and after a few miles passes into a deep canon, christened "Bowdoin Canon," between precipitous walls of archeac rock from six hundred to eight hundred feet high. This canon was afterward found to be about twenty-five miles long and winding in its course. In but few places is the slope such as to permit a descent to the river bank proper, and the canon is so narrow, and the walls of such perpendicular character, as to make the river invisible from a short distance. It might truly be said that the discovery of this canon, infinitely grander on account of its age than any other known to geology, and surpassed by few in size, is the most important result of the expedition. Several photographs of it were made, which were not injured by the exposure to wet and rough usage that the camera had to receive during the return journey, and alone convey an adequate idea of this most wonderful of nature's wonders. At night the first camp away from the river was made, on the plateau. The two men felt that the next day must be their last of advance, so weakened were they by the terrible tramping over deep moss and the persistent bleeding by black flies. The stock of provisions, too, was running low, and with their diminishing strength was a warning to turn back that could not be neglected. A half dozen grouse, three Canada and three rough, had been added to their supplies, but even with full meals they could not long stand the double drain upon their strength. In the morning a high hill was seen, for which they started, drawing slightly away from the river. Soon a roar from the direction of the river was noticed, which differed from the ordinary roar of the rapids. Altering their course it was found the roar "kept away," indicating an unusually heavy sound. Pushing forward, thinking it must be the desired falls, they soon came out upon the river bank, with the water at their level. This proved the falls to be below them, and looking down they could be seen "smoking" about a mile distant. A distinct pounding had also been felt for some time previous, which further assured them that the falls were at hand. The roar that had attracted their attention was of the river running at the plateau level. At the point they came out upon it, it was nearly two hundred yards wide, a heavy boiling rapid. Walking down the great blocks of rock which form the shore, the river appeared to narrow and at 11.45 A.M., the Grand Falls were first seen. [The marked Bowdoin Spruce] After making pictures of the Falls a feeling of reaction manifested itself in Cary's physical condition, and he remarked, "I do not wish to go farther, I need sleep." Cole, as assistant, had avoided the wear and anxiety of leadership. His athletic work at Bowdoin, in throwing the shot and hammer and running on the Topsham track, had given him stored energy of arm and leg. This reserve strength prompted him to press forward and see more of a region new to human eyes. Leaving his hatchet with Cary, now rolled up in his blanket, with the hope and expectation that on waking he would use the same in preparing fuel and cooking supper, Cole pressed forward into the strange and unknown country three or four miles, and then, for a final view of the location, climbed the highest tree he could find and from its top surveyed the waste of land and river. He stood thus exalted near the center of the vast peninsula of Labrador. Four hundred and fifty miles to the east lay the wide expanse of Hamilton Inlet. Four hundred and fifty miles to the north lay Cape Chudleigh, towards which he could imagine the Julia A. Decker, vainly as it proved, pointing her figure head through fog and ice. Only six hundred miles due south the granite chapel of Bowdoin College points heavenward both its uplifted hands. Four hundred and fifty miles to the west rolled the waves of that great inland ocean, Hudson's Bay, into whose depths, Henry Hudson, after his penetrations to northern waters above Spitzbergen, after his pushing along the eastern coast of Greenland, after his magnificent and successful exploration of the American coast from Maine to Virginia, penetrating Delaware bay and river and sailing up that river crowned by the Palisades and the hights of the Catskills, honored with his name and whose waters bear the largest portion of the commercial wealth of our own country; still fascinated by the vision of a northwest passage that intrepid explorer penetrated into the waters of the unknown sea whose waves unseen dash along the coasts of Labrador from its westward to its northern shores and Cape Chudleigh. All these explorations he accomplished in a sailing vessel about the size of the Julia A. Decker, the ship "Discoverie" of seventy tons. He had wintered at the southern extremity of Hudson's Bay surrounded by a mutinous crew. In the hardships and suffering of the next season, after he had divided his last bread with his men, in the summer of 1611, while near the western coast of Labrador, half way back to the Straits, by an ungrateful crew he was thrust into a sail boat with his son John and five sailors sick and blind with scurvy, and was left to perish in the great waste of waters, which, bearing his name, is "his tomb and his monument." Cole, with his mind and imagination filled with these facts, involuntarily took his knife and carved his name and the expedition on the upper part of the tree which formed his outlook. It might be his monument as the Inland Sea was that of Hudson. Then to have the tree marked and observable to other eyes, in case other eyes should see that country, he commenced to cut the branches from near the top of the tall spruce. He regretted much the leaving of the hatchet with Cary as he was obliged to do the work with his knife. It was a slow and laborious job. His imagination, as it roamed over the wide land, and his interest in his present efforts, had consumed time faster than he knew, and the slanting rays of the western sun started him with thoughts of Cary and supper. It was dark when he reached Cary and he was still asleep. The hatchet was idle, and he wished more than ever that his efforts on the branches of the marked Bowdoin Spruce had been rendered less laborious and more expeditious by the aid of this, to be hereafter his constant companion and source of safety along with another and more diminutive friend, a pocket pistol. [Grand Falls] The falls proper are three hundred and sixteen feet high, and just above the river narrows from two hundred and fifty to fifty yards, the water shooting over a somewhat gradual downward course and then plunging straight down with terrific force the distance mentioned, and with an immense volume. The river is much higher at times and the fall must be even grander, for while the party was there the ground quaked with the shock of the descending stream, and the river was nearly at its lowest point. At the bottom is a large pool made by the change of direction of the river from south at and above the falls to nearly east below. The canon begins at the pool and extends as has been described, with many turns and windings, for twenty-five miles through archaic rock. Above the falls in the wide rapids, the bed was of the same rock, which seems to underlie the whole plateau. In 1839, the falls were first seen by a white man, John McLean, an officer of the Hudson Day Co., while on an exploring expedition in that "great and terrible wilderness" known as Labrador. His description is very general, but he was greatly impressed with the stupendous height of the falls, and terms it one of the grandest spectacles of the world. Twenty years later, one Kennedy, also an employe of the Hudson Bay Co., persuaded an Iroquois Indian, who did not share the superstitious dread of them common among the Labrador Indians, to guide him to the thundering fall and misty chasm. He left no account of his visit, however, and in fact, though one other man reached them, and Mr. Holmes, an Englishman, made the attempt and failed, no full account of the falls has been given to the world, until Cary and Cole made their report. Above the falls as far as could be seen, all was white water, indicating a fall of about one hundred foot per mile. In the course of twenty-five or thirty miles there is a descent of twelve hundred feet, nearly equal to the altitude of the "Height of Land," as the interior plateau of Labrador is called, which has probably been previously overestimated. The next forenoon was spent in surveying and making what measurements could be made in the absence of the instruments lost in the upset. At noon, after having spent just twenty-four hours at Grand Falls, the party turned back. The very fact of having succeeded, made distance shorter and fatigue more easily borne, so they travelled along at a rattling pace, surveying at times and little thinking of the disaster that had befallen them. Camp was made on the river bank, beneath one of the terraces which lined both sides. Saturday Aug. 15th, the march back to the boat cache was resumed. Towards night, as they approached the place, smoke was seen rising from the ground, and fearing evil, the men broke into a run during the last two miles. As Cary's journal puts it: "We arrived at our camp to find boat and stores burnt and the fire still smoking and spreading. Cole arrives first, and as I come thrashing through the bushes he sits on a rock munching some burnt flour. He announces with an unsteady voice: 'Well, she's gone.' We say not much, nothing that indicates poor courage, but go about to find what we can in the wreck, and pack up for a tramp down river. In an hour we have picked out everything useful, including my money, nails, thread and damaged provisions, and are on the way down river hoping to pass the rapids before dark, starting at 5." Their position was certainly disheartening. They were one hundred and fifty miles from their nearest cache, and nearly three hundred from the nearest settlement, already greatly used up, needing rest and plenty of food; in a country that forbade any extended tramping inland to cut off corners, on a river in most places either too rough for a raft or with too sluggish a current to make rafting pay; and above all, left with a stock of food comprising one quart of good rice, brought back with them, three quarts of mixed meal, burnt flour and burnt rice, a little tea, one can of badly dried tongue, and one can of baked beans that were really improved by the fire. Add to this some three dozen matches and twenty-five cartridges, blankets and what things they had on the tramp to the falls, and the list of their outfit, with which to cover the three hundred miles, is complete. There was no time to be wasted, and that same night six miles were made before camping. The next day the battle for life began. It was decided that any game or other supplies found on the way should be used liberally, while those with which they started were husbanded. This day several trout were caught, line and hooks being part of each man's outfit, and two square meals enjoyed, which proved the last for a week. A raft was made that would not float the men and baggage, and being somewhat discouraged on the subject of rafting by the failure, another was not then attempted, and the men continued tramping. Following the river, they found its general course between the rapids and Lake Wanimikapo, S.S.E. During part of that day and all the next, they followed in the track of a large panther, but did not get in sight of him. Acting on the principle that they should save their strength as much as possible, camps were gone into fairly early and were well made; and this night, in spite of the desperate straits they were in, both men enjoyed a most delightful sleep. [Squirrel and Cranberries] After this some time every morning was usually occupied in mending shoes. All sorts of devices were resorted to to get the last bit of wear out of them, even to shifting from right to left, but finally Cole had to make a pair of the nondescripts from the leather lining of his pack, which lasted him to the vessel. Cranberries were found during the day and at intervals during the tramp, and were always drawn upon for a meal. About two quarts were added to the stock of provision, and many a supper was made off a red squirrel and a pint of stewed cranberries. Wednesday, the 19th, another raft was made, which took the party into the lake. This was more comfortable than tracking, yet they were in the water for several hours while on the raft, which was made by lashing two cross-pieces about four feet long on the ends of five or six logs laid beside each other and from twenty to thirty feet long, all fastened with roots, and having a small pile of brush to keep the baggage dry. The still water of the lake made the raft useless, even in a fresh, fair breeze, and so this one was abandoned two miles down, and the weary tramping again resumed. Fortunately the water was so low that advantage could be taken of the closely overgrown shore by walking on the lake bed, and far better progress was made owing to the firmer footing. Three days were used in getting down the lake, during which time but one fish, a pickerel, was caught, where they had expected to find an abundance. At the foot of the lake, tracks were seen, which it was thought might be those of hunters. It was learned later that they were more probably tracks of Bryant's and Kenaston's party, who were following them up and probably had been passed on the opposite side of the lake, unnoticed in the heavy rain of the preceeding day. Some bits of meat that had been thrown away were picked up and helped to fill the gap, now becoming quite long, between square meals. Supper on this day is noted in Cary's journal because they "feasted on three squirrels." Having gotten out of the lake into rapid water, trout was once more caught, and as on the following day, Sunday, the 23d, a bear's heart, liver, etc., was found, and later several fish caught. The starvation period was over. In the afternoon another raft was built and the next day carried them five miles down to the last cache. Though so terribly used up that the odd jobs connected with making and breaking camp dragged fearfully, and each day's advance had to be made by pure force of will, the men felt that the worst was over and their final getting out of the woods was a matter of time merely. At this cache, also, a note from Young and Smith was found announcing their passage to that point all right and in less time than expected, so they had drawn no supplies from the stock there. Tuesday, the 25th.--The day, by the way, that the Julia Decker and party arrived at Rigolette according to plans, expecting to find the whole Grand River party, and instead found only Young and Smith, who had been waiting there about a week. Rafting was continued in a heavy rain down to the Mininipi Rapids over which the raft was nearly carried against the will of the occupants. At the foot of these rapids a thirty mile tramp was begun, the raft that had carried them so well for forty-five miles being abandoned, which took them past the Horse Shoe and Gull Island Rapids and occupied most of the two following days. The tracking was fair, and as starvation was over pretty good time was made. Thursday, the 27th.--A raft was made early in the morning that took them by the Porcupine Rapids and landed them safely, though well soaked, at the head of the first falls. Camp was made that night at the first cache below the falls, forty miles having been covered during the day. [The last pistol shot] Friday, they fully expected to reach Joe Michelin's house and get the relief that was sadly needed, but as the necessity for keeping up became less imperative, their weakness began to tell on them more. Cary's shoes became so bad that going barefoot was preferable, except over the sharpest rocks, and Cole's feet had become so sore that as a last resort his coat sleeves were cut off and served as a cross between stockings and boots. They were doomed to disappointment, however, and compelled to camp at nightfall with four or five miles bad travelling and the wide river between them and the house. Fires were made in hopes of attracting the trapper's attention and inducing him to cross the river in his boat, but as they learned the next day, though they were seen, the dark rainy night prevented his going over to find out what they meant. The last shot cartridge was used that night on a partridge, and the red squirrels went unmolested thereafter. This last shot deserves more than a passing notice. In one sense these shot cartridges for Cole's pistol were their salvation. Just before the expedition started from Rockland it was remarked in conversation that the boat crew under DeLong, in the ill-fated expedition of the "Jeanette", met their death by starvation in the delta of the Lena, with the exception of two, Naros and Nindermann, simply because their hunter, Naros, had only a rifle with ball cartridges, the shot guns having been left on board the "Jeanette;" that on the delta there was quite an abundance of small birds which it was almost impossible to kill by a bullet and even when killed by a lucky shot, little was left of the bird. Cole was impressed by these facts and upon inquiring ascertained that the pistol shot cartridges ordered by the expedition had been overlooked. He energetically set about supplying the lack, and after persistent search, almost at the last hour, succeeded in finding a small stock in the city, which he bought out. To the remnant of this stock which escaped the fire at Burnt Cache camp, as has been said, is the escape of Cary and Cole from starvation largely due. The value of these cartridges had day by day, on the weary return from Grand Falls, become more and more apparent to the owner. At the discharge of the last one, the partridge fell not to the ground, but flew to another and remote cluster of spruces. To this thicket Cole hastened and stood watching to discover his bird. Cary came up and after waiting a little while, said, "It is no use to delay longer, time is too precious." The value of this last cartridge forced Cole to linger. He was reluctant to admit it was wasted. In a few minutes he heard something fall to the ground, he knew not what it was, but with eager steps pressed towards the place, and when near it a slight flutter and rustling of wings led him to discover the partridge, uninjured except that one leg was broken; that by faintness or inability to hold its perch with one foot it had fallen to the ground. The darkness and rain of that night then closing around them were rendered less dark and disagreeable by the assurance that kind Providence showed its hand when the help of an unseen power was needed to deliver them from the perils of the unknown river. It rained hard all the next forenoon, and as the river was rough, the men stayed in camp, hoping Joe would come across, until noon, when a start was made for the house. A crazy raft took them across the river, the waves at times nearly washing over them, and landing on the other side, they started on the last tramp of the trip, which the rain and thick underbrush, together with their weakened condition, made the worst of the trip. About 3 P.M., they struck a path, and in a few minutes were once more under a roof and their perilous journey was practically done. Seventeen days had been used in making the three hundred miles, all but about seventy-five of which were covered afoot. When they came in, besides the blankets, cooking tins and instruments, nothing remained of the outfit with which they started on the return except three matches and one ball cartridge for the revolver, which, in Cole's hands, had proved their main stay from absolute starvation. The following day, Sunday, after having had a night's rest in dry clothes and two civilized meals, Joe took them to Northwest River, where Mr. McLaren, the factor of the Hudson Bay Company's posts showed them every kindness till a boat was procured to take them to Rigolette. A storm and rain, catching them on a lee shore and giving the already exhausted men one more tussle with fortune to get their small vessel into a position of safety, made a fitting end to their experiences. [On board the Julia A. Decker] Tuesday at 4 P.M., they reached the schooner and their journey was done. Amid the banging of guns and rifles, yells of delight and echoes of B-O-W-D-O-I-N flying over the hills, they clambered over the rail from the boat that had been sent to meet them and nearly had their arms wrung off in congratulations upon their success, about which the very first questions had been asked as soon as they came within hearing. They were nearly deafened with exclamations that their appearance called out, and by the questions that were showered on them. At last some order was restored, and after pictures had been made of them just as they came aboard, dressed in sealskin tassock, sealskin and deerskin boots and moccasins, with which they had provided themselves at Northwest River, ragged remnants of trousers and shirts, and the barest apologies for hats, they were given an opportunity to make themselves comfortable and eat supper, and then the professor took them into the cabin to give an account of themselves. It was many days before their haggard appearance, with sunken eyes and dark rings beneath them, and their extreme weakness disappeared. The return trip of Young and Smith from Lake Waminikapo, who reached Rigolette Aug. 18th, was made in five days to Northwest River, and after resting two days, in two more to Rigolette. Their trip was comparatively uneventful. At the foot of Gull Island Lake they met Bryant and Kenaston, who with their party of Indians were proceeding very leisurely and apparently doing very little work themselves. At their rate of progress it seemed to our party very doubtful if they ever reached the falls. They had picked up, in the pool at the foot of the first falls, one of the cans of flour lost in the upset, some fifty or sixty miles up the river, with its contents all right, and strange to say not a dent in it, and returned it to Smith and Young when they met them. That night, with the assistance of the officers and passengers of the mail steamer, which lay alongside of us, a jollification was held. Our return race to Battle Harbor, the last concert of the Glee Club in Labrador waters, the exciting race over the gulf with the little Halifax trader, the tussle with the elements getting into Canso, the sensation of a return to civilization and hearty reception at Halifax, and greeting at Rockland, must remain for another letter. * * * * * ON BOARD THE JULIA A. DECKER, ROCKLAND HARBOR, ME., September 23, 1891. The staunch little schooner has once more picked a safe path through the dangers of fog, rocks and passing vessels, and her party are safely landed at the home port, before quite two weeks of the college term and two weeks of making up had piled up against its members. The crew that weighed anchor at Rigolette on the morning of September 2nd, when the wind came and the tide had turned, was a happy one, for from Professor to "cookee" we all felt that we were truly homeward bound, and that we had accomplished our undertaking without any cause for lasting regret. The mail steamer, whose passengers had joined in the jollification of the night preceding, being independent of the wind, had started ahead of us. Another race was on with the "Curlew," this time a merely friendly contest, without the former anxiety as to some other party's getting the lead of ours in the trip up the Grand River. But the result was not different this time. A fine breeze kept us going all day and the following night. But the next day the fog came. It was no different from the cold, damp, land-mark obscuring mist of the Maine coast in its facility in hiding from view everything we most wanted to see in order to safely find the harbor that we knew must be near at hand, though we could not tell just where. A headland, looming up to twice its real height in the fog about it, was rounded, and the lead followed in the hope that it would take us to the desired haven. Soon a fishing boat hailed, and a voice, quickly followed by a man, emerged from the fog and shouted that if we went farther on that course we would be among the shoals. We were told we had passed the mouth of the harbor, and so turning back, tried to follow our guide, but he soon disappeared. Just at this moment when it seemed impossible for us to find any opening, the fog lifted and we saw a schooner's sail over one of the small islets that lay about us. Taking our cue from that we poked into the next narrow channel we came to, and getting some sailing directions from a passing boat, and from the signal man stationed on a bluff to give assistance to strangers, we glided into an almost circular basin, hardly large enough for the vessel to swing in, set among steep rising sides, into which many ring bolts were seen to be fastened, and perfectly sheltered from every wind. The use for the ring bolts we found later. The fog kept rolling over, and the little fishing vessels kept shooting in, till it seemed the harbor would not hold another. As all sail had to be hauled down before the vessels came in sight of the interior, the vessels seemed literally to scoot into the basin. A few of the vessels were anchored and kept from swinging by lines to the bolts, and the rest of the fleet made fast to them. In all the number of vessels crowded into the space where we hardly thought we could lie was about twenty. How they would ever get out seemed a puzzle, but the next morning it was accomplished, with a light fair wind, by all at once without accident or delay. Had the wind been ahead, the ring bolts would have aided in warping to a weatherly position. During the evening the mail steamer caught us, and after putting a little freight ashore, left us behind again. Here were some strange epitaphs painted on the wooden slabs, also people ready to exchange or sell at a far higher rate than we had hitherto paid, anything they possessed for the cash which was all we had left to bargain with, the available old clothes having been already disposed of. It was hard to disabuse the minds of the people at Square Island Harbor of the idea that we had come to seek gold or other valuable mines, the reason being that several years before a party from the States had spent considerable time prospecting in that vicinity and partly opened one or two worthless mica quarries. [A Bold Skipper] It was a glorious sight to see the fleet get under way the next morning. Many a close shave and more bumps but no serious collisions were caused by the twenty or more vessels crowding out together through the narrow opening, each eager to get the first puff from the fair breeze outside the lee of the cliffs. The whole fleet was bound up the coast, but before many of the schooners had drifted far enough out to catch the breeze it had failed, and only after an hour or more of annoying experience with puffs from every quarter, did the strong sea breeze set in. Sheets were trimmed flat aft, and all settled down to beating up the coast. The Julia soon left the mass of the fleet and before reaching Battle Harbor, where a long desired mail was awaiting, had nearly overtaken the lucky ones who had drifted far enough off shore to make a leading wind of the afternoon breeze. During the calm a school of whales disported themselves in the midst of the fleet, chasing one another, blowing and churning the water to foam about us, apparently as though it was rare fun. Late in the afternoon we approached the entrance to Battle Harbor, but with the wind blowing directly out of the narrow, rocky and winding entrance we wondered how we should get in. Our captain was equal to the problem, however, and undeterred by the crowded state of the harbor, within whose narrow limits were two large steamers, one or two barks and several fishermen, performed a feat of seamanship the equal of which, we were told, preserved in the traditions of the port, and only half believed, as having been done once, thirty years before. Getting about ten knots way on the vessel, and heading her straight for the steamer nearest the mouth, we just brushed by the rocks of the entrance, sheered a bit and shot past the steamer before her astonished officers could utter a word of warning, and were traveling up the harbor at a steamboat pace, the sails meanwhile rattling down, and some of us on board wondering if we should not keep right on out the other entrance to the harbor, while boats scurried out of our way, two men in one fishing boat looking reproachfully at us as we missed them by about two feet just after our fellow on lookout had reported "nothing but a schooner in the way, sir;" and people rushed to their doors and to the decks to see what was exciting such a commotion, just as the anchor was let go with a roar and we quietly swung to and ran our mooring line, as though we had done that thing all our lives. Here about one hundred letters were brought aboard amid much rejoicing, for many had not heard from home at all during the trip. By the time we were ready to make what we hoped would prove the last departure from a Labrador harbor, the next morning, the wind, which had changed in the night and was blowing in exactly the opposite direction, had become so strong that the little steam launch of Bayne & Co., which had been tendered us to tow us out of the harbor, was not powerful enough to pull the schooner against it. The other entrance, for like all the rest this Labrador harbor was merely a "tickle" and had its two entrances, was narrow, shoal, and had such short turns that it seemed impossible to run so large a vessel as the Julia through it. However, our impatience would not brook the uncertain delay of waiting for the wind to change, so taking on board the best pilot that town of pilots could afford, we made the attempt. Three times we held our breaths, almost, as we anxiously watched the great green spots in the water, indicating sunken rocks, glide under our counter or along our side, while the steady voice of the weatherbeaten old man at the fore rigging sounded "port," then in quick, sharp, seemingly anxious tones, "now starboard--hard!" and again "port--lively now," and the graceful vessel turned to the right or left, just grazing the rock or ledge, as though she too could see just how near to them it was safe to go and yet pass through without a scrape. It was a decided relief to all, and the silence on board, that had been broken only by the rush of wind and water, the pilot's voice and the creaking of the wheel as it was whirled around by the skillful hands of the captain, suddenly ceased, when the pilot left his place and walked slowly aft, praising the admirable way in which the vessel behaved at the critical points, and apparently unconscious that in the eyes of twenty college boys he had performed an almost impossible feat. After a hard pull to windward for two of us, to set the pilot ashore, and a wet and rough time getting aboard again, and after our laugh at the expense of the mate, who had cast off our shore warp, as we started out of the harbor, and then had been unable to catch the schooner, which was equally unable to wait for him in the narrow passage, and who had, therefore, to row all the way after us at the top of his speed, and only caught us when we lay to to send off the pilot; we made everything snug and started down the straits, hoping to reach Canso without further delay. [Last harbor in Labrador] That was not our fortune, however, for soon the wind hauled ahead, and with a strong current against us it was impossible to make any progress, so after jumping in a most lively manner all day, in the chops of Belle Isle, we made a harbor for the night at Chateau Bay, in almost the same spot where we had waited two dreary days two months before. The next day we worked along the coast, but at night again put in to what proved our last, as well as our first harbor on the Labrador--Red Bay. Here we found a mail steamer and were allowed irregularly to open the bag to Battle Harbor and take out that which belonged to us, much to our delight, of course, for it gave us news comparatively fresh, that is, not over a month old, from home. Here, also, we laid in a supply of the only fruit that Labrador produces, called "bake apple." It is a berry of a beautiful waxen color when ripe, otherwise looking much like a large raspberry, and having a most peculiar flavor, which we learned to like, and grew very fond of, when the berries were served, stewed with sugar. We had been deprived of fresh fruit so long that we should probably have learned to like anything, however odd its flavor, that had its general characteristics. Here, too, we again fell in with our little Halifax trader, which gave us so hot a race to Halifax in the coming week, both vessels arriving at Halifax within an hour of each other, after starting at the same time from Red Bay and keeping within sight nearly all the time. At length the wind came to the south, and we started, laying our course west, along the Labrador shore, so as to get a windward position and be able to "fetch" Canso when the wind came around to the west, as it is certain to do at that season of the year, compelling us to "tack ship" and stand right out against the stormy Gulf of St. Lawrence. These southwesterly winds had been our dread, for they blow so strongly and in September make the Gulf so rough that getting to windward against them is impossible. Hence our satisfaction can be imagined as we sped along the Labrador coast that day, the wind becoming a trifle easterly, so as to allow us to "start our sheets" and at the same time steadily increase our offing, getting such a weatherly position for Canso that the moment the expected change of direction began we promptly "tacked ship" and at the worst had a leading wind across. For three days we hobnobbed with the little "Minnie Mac" across the Gulf. The first thing we did in the morning was to hunt her up with the glasses from aloft, if not in sight from the deck, and the last thing in order at night were speculations as to where we should next see her. The difference in the build of the two vessels, the one being shoal and centerboard, the other deep and heavily laden, made the race a zigzag. When the wind favored a little and the sheets could be "eased" then the shoal model would push ahead, but when the wind came more nearly ahead, and we had to plunge squarely into a head sea, then the deeper draught and heavier lading told to advantage. During this time we were not idle on board. The Grand River men were beginning to feel vigorous again, and their notes and data had to be worked up. The collections, too, though largely packed away securely for the rough voyage, yet gave plenty of occupation to those not otherwise employed, while the few really industriously inclined used their superfluous energy in seeing to it that the lazy were given no opportunity to enjoy their idleness. The morning of the fourth day the coasts of Cape Breton were in sight, but the wind came straight out of the Gut of Canso in half a gale, and then our rival, owing to her greater weight, forged ahead, and it seemed that we were to be beaten. However, much to our amusement, when we got a few miles off the mouth of the Gut, we found a calm, into which the "Minnie Mac" had run and where she stayed till we came up. With us also came a breeze, and we forged ahead of her into the anchorage at Port Hawksbury just as we had said we would do when we left Red Bay. Here we spent the rest of the day, laying in a stock of much needed fresh provisions, and sending nine of our college base-ballists, at the invitation of the Port Hawkesbury nine, to give them some points on the game. About the fifth inning the game closed on account of darkness, with score in Bowdoin's favor something about 30-0. A short run brought us into Little Canso, where we had to turn to the west to go along the Nova Scotia coast to Halifax, but fog shut down so we spent a day inspecting the plant of the Mackay-Bennett cable, which has its terminus at Hazel Hill, about two miles from Canso, finding some very agreeable acquaintances in the persons of Mr. Dickinson, the manager, and Mr. Upham, his first assistant electrical expert, who proved to be a Castine man and was deligted to meet some Yankees from his old cruising grounds, Penobscot Bay, and getting some interesting knowledge concerning ocean telegraphy. It seemed strange, to say the least, to be in communication, as we were, with a ship out in mid-Atlantic, repairing a cable, and to have an answer from Ireland to our message in less than a minute after it was sent. [Solid shot at Halifax] With one stop on account of fog and threatening storm, we reached Halifax in two more days. The introduction to it, though, was not so pleasant, for as we were running up the harbor solid shot from one of the shore batteries came dropping around us and skipping by us, altogether too near for comfort. However, no damage was done beyond the injury threatened to Her Majesty's property in the proposition for a while considered to call away boarders, land and take the battery. We found later that it was merely target practice and nothing disrespectfully intended towards the flag flying from our peak, so were satisfied that we had not made any hostile response. Once ashore the hospitable Haligonians began by inviting the Professor and others to a dinner at the Halifax Club. The next day we enjoyed an official reception, and accompanied by Premier Fielding and members of his Cabinet, Consul General Frye and other gentlemen, were taken on an excursion about the beautiful harbor in the steam yacht of one of our entertainers, given a dinner and right royally toasted at one of the public buildings, and were finally taken to the Yacht Club House for a final reception. At Halifax some of our party fearing more delay in reaching Rockland, left us, so with diminished numbers but plenty of enthusiasm we made ready for the last stage of the voyage. After some rather amusing experiences with our assistant steward or "cookee," who seemed to reason that because he had been so long deprived of the luxuries of modern civilization he should employ the first opportunity he had to enjoy them in making himself incapable of doing so, and who was brought aboard the morning we sailed only after a somewhat prolonged search, we "squared away" for Cape Sable. The fine fair wind ran us nearly down there, but just as we thought to escape the provoking calms that delayed us in this vicinity on the outward trip, we found the wind drawing ahead and failing. A day was spent in slowly working around the cape, drifting back much of the time, and then we struck one of the southerly fog winds that are too well known on the Maine coast. We were in waters on which our captain had been bred, and so we pushed on into the night, looking eagerly or listening intently as the darkness closed over us for some sign of approaching land. At length, just about eleven, when it seemed we could not stand the suspense of knowing that thousands of rocks were just ahead but not just where they were, and yet equally unwilling to stop then, when so near home, we heard the sound of the breakers, and standing cautiously in on finding the water very deep, soon made Mt. Desert rock light. It was a welcome sight, and from there an easy matter to shape our course for home. At day-break we could still see nothing, but towards noon, the wind being light and our progress slow, we passed the desolate house of refuge on the Wooden Ball Island, and soon the lifting fog showed us the mouth of Penobscot's beautiful bay, and shortly after we dropped our anchor in the long wished for Rockland harbor, and the cruise of the Julia Decker and her crew of Bowdoin boys was ended. [The royal welcome] The account would be incomplete, though, were reference omitted to the royal welcome that awaited us at Rockland. Upon landing we found the church bells ringing, and the city's business for the moment stopped, while the city fathers as well as a goodly number of her sons and daughters greeted us at the wharf. In the evening there was another reception, and there the expedition as such appeared for the last time, and as the most fitting way in which we could express our gratitude at the interest shown in our work and safe return, as well as to contribute our share towards the evening's entertainment, the Bowdoin College Labrador Expedition Glee Club rendered, as its last selection, a popular college song, of which the burden was, as also the title, "The wild man of Borneo has just come to town." JONATHAN P. CILLEY, JR. * * * * * [Missionary in Labrador] Since the Bowdoin College Labrador Expedition much interest has been taken by charitable women in the missionaries who are laboring in that bleak country. As often as possible barrels of clothing and other useful articles have been sent to them. In return the missionaries have sent interesting letters describing their work and acknowledging the gifts. One of these, written to Mrs. James P. Baxter, of Portland, gives a description that will be of general interest: HOPEDALE, LABRADOR, October 3, 1893. Dear Madam: For your very kind letter and for the very useful articles for our people, accept my best and kindest thanks. We have already made some of the people glad with cloth, and we will but be so glad for them in the winter time. Happily the codfishery has been much better this year than last, thus we can more confidently look forward to the coming winter time than we could last year; because our people were so poor and we finished the many kind gifts long before the spring came on, when they were able to earn their own bread. We have had a very cold and dreary summer, the few warm days could easily be counted, and now the winter is at the door. On last Christmas day we had a nice Christmas celebration with our school children in the chapel. For this purpose we had placed two nice Christmas trees and two illuminated transparents in the chapel. My dear husband translated some lovely Christmas songs into Eskimo, and I taught the children to sing them. Between the hymns they recited songs and texts from the Bible. Sometimes one by one and then again altogether. The children made it very nicely. The choir, which sang some nice pieces, helped to make the whole to sound better. Finally every child got a large biscuit and a cup of tea, which seemed to make greater impression than the whole celebration. The congregation were also invited and they were very much interested in it. In the midst of February I accompanied my dear husband on his journey around to the settlers belonging to our congregation, which live scattered far away from here towards the South. We left Hopedale one morning, having 30 degrees Cen. of cold, of course by "kamatik" (dog sledge). I was well wrapped up so that I did not freeze so very much, but the worst is always on such a trip that we cannot eat anything. Before we started I made some meat balls for the purpose to use them during the nine hours driving, but it was impossible to make use of them because they were like stones without fearing to loosen our teeth. Happily I had some biscuits and to become more strengthened I used a little chocolate. We were nearly three weeks away from home and in that time we were nearly every day on the kamatik. Never less than five hours at a time, but generally from seven to nine hours, and twice from eleven to twelve hours. It was indeed sometimes very exhausting especially one time when we came to very poor people where we had for two days nothing to eat and the next day we had to travel for about eleven hours having nothing but dry biscuits. I did not feel so very well that time. Many of these settlers have only the opportunity once a year to hear the gospel of God preached to them, that is when the missionary is visiting them. Many are too far away from Hopedale to come and visit us, and some are too poor; or at least the dogs' food is too expensive. My dear husband made this journey last winter for the fifth time, that is only towards the south. To the north he has also been different times. In such a journey the Sacraments are spent, marriage performed, and meetings are kept as many as possible. The poor children who grow up without having any school are examined as to how much they have improved since the last year. We felt this year very much again the need of having a station among them. There are children among them from 16 to 17 years of age who cannot read at all. We have now asked our society in London and Berthelsdorf, if possible, to build a station for them that they may have their own minister and teacher. We hope it may be done, then we would not have to travel any longer only in cases of need. Every one who has to travel ruins his health if he has to do it for a long time. The settlers could then easily reach the Mission Station or the missionary could in one day get to the place where he is wanted. [Hungry children] May I, dear madam, give you some instances? First about a family having ten children of ages ranging from two to eighteen years. We came to that place in the afternoon about 5 o'clock accompanied by four other persons belonging to their relationship who joined when we left their homes. As soon as we opened the door of the house we were in the dwelling room. At the first sight we saw that great poverty governed here, even the children looked consumed and clothed in rags. The house was so bad that the wind made its way through the many gaps. After I had wrapped myself in a large shawl and placed myself beside the big stove I was still freezing. Some windows were broken, the opening filled with rags. My dear husband asked why they had not nailed a board on the place instead of rags; they answered, "We have got none." But my husband said "You could easily have made a nail of wood," which they promised to do. We could only get a very little bread, because they had only one small piece. I gave the tea. My dear husband spent the Sacrament, communion and baptism in the evening in the hope we would be able to go further the next day, for we could not stay any longer here if we would not starve. We had a poor resting place. It was not possible to undress ourselves. The whole time we felt the snow on our faces and the wind through the many gaps. We froze very much although the fire was kept on during the night. Not very far from us Mr. and Mrs. Tacque were resting, and we heard how the one said to the other, "I hope Mr. and Mrs. Hansen can go further to-morrow, for we have nothing to eat." That was indeed a very sad prospect, for we heard too well the snow storm was howling outside and there was no hope for us to go on. And so it was. The next day I gave from our provisions as much as I could, but we had not very much, and I could not give everything away because we might afterwards be caught out in a snowstorm, which often happens, where we then have to live in a snow house until the storm is over. I gave now coffee for 19 persons, bread we had none, for it always freezes so hard that it is useless. The poor woman collected all the bread she had and we took as little as possible. During the day time my dear husband kept different meetings, talked and prayed with them. For dinner I asked for a large pot and put it on the stove. I had happily taken some preserved soups and cooked now for all the people in the house, put all our meat balls and broken biscuits into the same pot, and gave now from this dish a plateful to every person in the house. I had also put some "Liebig" in my box, before I left my home, and was now able to make the best use of it. It was something touching to see the many hungry children, how they devoured their portion. Anything like that they have perhaps never tasted before, and would gladly have taken some more, but it was already gone. In the afternoon my dear husband kept school for the children, told nice stories and instructed them about different things, and the children would have gone on for a long time. The smell in the house was not so very pleasant, 19 persons in one room, beside this the men smoked their pipes nearly the whole time. The children were crying and would not obey their parents and the parents are so very weak in this way. In the evening I gave once more what I possibly could spare, and for the next morning too. But we really did hunger. The Lord heard our prayers that we were able to go on the next morning to the next place, but because of the deep snow we could only move on very slowly. First after 11 hour's travelling we came in the evening to our next station. We did hunger more in these three days than we have done in our whole lives. The next place was a nice clean house, where we restored ourselves again. In one place we visited an Eskimo. When we entered the room, what did we see? A seal living in the midst of their room. The people had heard of our coming and thus put the monster in the room to thaw it up to feed our dogs with. The animal was soon taken away. The house was clean, but small. In this place we had to sleep on the floor, and we used our blankets to make a couch as well as we could. A sailcloth was used as a curtain, so that we had something like a separated place for us. Our two drivers were also in the same room, and they cared for music during the night, for they snored like a saw mill, and when they woke up they smoked their pipes and gave the air in the room such an odor, which I shall not try to describe. Nevertheless, for all that, we were happy together, and I did not repent one minute to have accompanied my dear good husband, in order to be a faithful partner to him. We remembered also it was not a pleasant, but a mission trip we made, where we may expect many things like that. What is that little we can do for our Lord and Saviour? It is like a drop of water in the bottomless sea of his love. If our journey has but been a blessing to some, and if here and there one corn of gospel's seed may grow up we are more than paid for. [Easter] We had four nice places where the good people did all they could to make it comfortable for us. Everywhere they were very thankful for my coming, and expressed their gratitude in many ways. At Easter time we had more visitors than usual and they seemed to be more happy than else. Will you kindly excuse this short description, dear madam; it would take me too long to describe the whole journey. I used some of your kind gifts for the people whom we visited, and I hope you will, dear madam, and the kind ladies who contributed to your large and rich sending accept our and the people's warmest and best thanks. With kindest regards from my dear husband and me, I am, dear madam, believe me, Your affectionately, ANNIE HANSEN. 
15134	----	Commission of Conservation Canada SUPPLEMENT TO ANIMAL SANCTUARIES IN LABRADOR SUPPLEMENT TO AN ADDRESS PRESENTED BY LT.-COLONEL WILLIAM WOOD, F.R.S.C. Before the Second Annual Meeting of the Commission of Conservation in January, 1911 OTTAWA, JUNE 1912 _Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador_ SUPPLEMENT TO AN ADDRESS BY LT.-COLONEL WILLIAM WOOD OTTAWA, CANADA 1912 SUPPLEMENT TO AN ADDRESS ON Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador BY LIEUT.-COLONEL WILLIAM WOOD, F.R.S.C. The appeal prefixed to the original _Address_ in 1911 announced the issue of the present supplement in 1912, and asked experts and other leaders of public opinion to set the subject on firm foundations by contributing advice and criticism. The response was most gratifying. The twelve hundred review copies sent out to the Canadian press, and the hundreds more sent out to general and specialist periodicals in every part of the English-speaking world, all met with a sympathetic welcome, and were often given long and careful notices. Many scientific journals, like the _Bulletin of the Zoological Society of America_, sporting magazines, like the Canadian _Rod and Gun_, and zoophil organs, like the English _Animals' Guardian_, examined the _Address_ thoroughly from their respective standpoints. The _Empire Review_ has already reprinted it _verbatim_ in London, and an association of outing men are now preparing to do the same in New York. But though the press has been of the greatest service in the matter of publicity the principal additions to a knowledge of the question have come from individuals. Naturalists, sportsmen and leaders in public life have all helped both by advice and encouragement. Quotations from a number of letters are published at the end of this supplement. The most remarkable characteristic of all this private correspondence and public notice, as well as the spoken opinions of many experts, is their perfect agreement on the cardinal point that we are wantonly living like spendthrifts on the capital of our wild life, and that the general argument of the _Address_ is, therefore, incontrovertibly true. The gist of some of the most valuable advice is, that while the _Address_ is true so far as it goes, its application ought to be extended to completion by including the leasehold system, side by side with the establishment of sanctuaries and the improvement and enforcement of laws. Such an extension takes me beyond my original limits. Yet, both for the sake of completeness and because this system is a most valuable means toward the end desired by all conservers of wild life, I willingly insert leaseholds as the connecting link between laws and sanctuaries. But before trying to give a few working suggestions on laws, leaseholds and sanctuaries, and, more particularly still, before giving any quotations from letters, I feel bound to point out again, as I did in the _Address_ itself, that my own personality is really of no special consequence, either in giving the suggestions or receiving the letters. I have freely picked the brains of other men and simply put together the scattered parts of what ought to be a consistent whole. LAWS It is a truism and a counsel of perfection to say so, but, to be effective, wild-life protection laws, like other laws, must be scientific, comprehensive, accepted by the public, understood by all concerned, and impartially enforced. To be scientifically comprehensive they must define man's whole attitude towards wild life, whether for business, sport or study. One general code would suffice. A preamble could explain that the object was to use the interest, not abuse the capital of wild life. Then the noxious and beneficial kinds could be enumerated, close seasons mentioned, regulations laid down, etc. From this one code it would be easy to pick out for separate publication whatever applied only to one place or one form of human activity. But even this general code would not be enough unless the relations between animal and plant life were carefully adjusted, so that each might benefit the other, whenever possible, and neither might suffer because the other was under a different department. If, in both the Dominion and Provincial governments there are unified departments of agriculture to aid and control man's own domestic harvest, why should there not also be unified departments to aid and control his harvest of the wilds? A _Minister of Fauna and Flora_ sounds startling, and perhaps a little absurd. But fisheries, forests and game have more to do with each other than any one of them with mines. And, whatever his designation, such a minister would have no lack of work, especially in Labrador. But here we come again to the complex human factors of three Governments and more Departments. Yet, if this bio-geographic area cannot be brought into one administrative entity, then the next best thing is concerted action on the part of all the Governments and all their Departments. There is no time to lose. Even now, when laws themselves stop short at the Atlantic, new and adjacent areas are about to be exploited without the slightest check being put on the exploiters. An expedition is leaving New York for the Arctic. It is well found in all the implements of destruction. It will soon be followed by others. And the musk-ox, polar bears and walrus will shrink into narrower and narrower limits, when, under protection, far wider ones might easily support abundance of this big game, together with geese, duck and curlews. It is wrong to say that such people can safely have their fling for a few years more. None of the nobler forms of wild life have any chance against modern facilities of uncontrolled destruction. What happened to the great auk and the Labrador duck in the Gulf? What happened to the musk-ox in Greenland? What is happening everywhere to every form of beneficial and preservable wild life that is not being actively protected to-day? Then, there is the disappearing whale and persecuted seal to think of also in those latitudes. The _laissez-faire_ argument is no better here than elsewhere. For if wild life is worth exploiting it must be worth conserving. There is need, and urgent need, for extending protective laws all along the Atlantic Labrador and over the whole of the Canadian Arctic, where the barren-ground caribou may soon share the fate of the barren-ground bear in Ungava, especially if mineral exploitation sets in. Ungava and the Arctic are Dominion grounds, the Atlantic Labrador belongs to Newfoundland, Greenland to Denmark, and the open sea to all comers, among whom are many Americans. Under these circumstances the new international conference on whaling should deal effectively with the protection of all the marine carnivora, and be followed by an inter-dominion-and-provincial conference at which a joint system of conservation can be agreed upon for all the wild life of Labrador, including the cognate lands of Arctic Canada to the north and Newfoundland to the south. This occasion should be taken to place the whole of the fauna under law; not only _game_, but noxious and beneficial species of every kind. And here both local experts and trained zoologists ought to be consulted. Probably everyone would agree that flies, wolves and English sparrows are noxious. But the indiscriminate destruction of all mammals and birds of prey is not a good thing, as a general rule, any more than any other complete upsetting of the balance of nature. A great deal could be learnt from the excellent work already done all over the continent with regard to the farmer's and forester's wild friends and foes. A migrating flight of curlew, snipe, plover or sandpipers is worth much more to the farmer alive than dead. But by no means every farmer knows the value of the difference. This is only one of the many reasons why a special effort should be made to bring a knowledge of the laws home to everyone in the areas affected, including the areas crossed by the lines of migration. The language should be unmistakeably plain. Every form of wild life should be included, as wholly, seasonally, locally or otherwise protected, or as not protected, or as exterminable, with penalties and rewards mentioned in each case. All animals should be called by their scientific, English, French, and special local names, to prevent the possibility of mistake or excuse. Every man, resident or not, who uses rod, gun, rifle, net or snare, afloat or ashore, should be obliged to take out a license, even in cases where it might be given gratis; and his receipt for it should contain his own acknowledgment that he has a copy of the laws, which he thoroughly understands. Particular clauses should be devoted to rapacious dealers who get collecting permits as scientific men, to poison, to shooting from power boats or with swivel guns, to that most diabolical engine of all murderers--the Maxim silencer,--to hounding and crusting, to egging and nefarious pluming, to illegal netting and cod-trapping, and last, but emphatically not least, to any and every form of wanton cruelty. The next step may be to provide against the misuse of aeroplanes. I believe it would be well worth while, from every point of view, to publish the laws, or at all events a digest of them, in all the principal papers. Even educated people know little enough; and no one, even down the coast, at the trading posts, or in Newfoundland, should have the chance of pleading ignorance. "We don't know no law here" ought to be an impossible saying two years hence. And we might remember that the Newfoundlanders who chiefly use it are really no worse than others, and quite as amenable to good laws impartially enforced. They have seen the necessity of laws at home, after depleting their salmon rivers, deer runs and seal floes to the danger point. And there is no reason to suppose that an excellent population in so many ways would be any harder to deal with in this one than the hordes of poachers and sham sportsmen much nearer home. Of course, everything ultimately turns on the enforcement of the laws. And I still think that two naturalists and twenty men afloat and the same number ashore, with double these numbers when Hudson bay and the Arctic are included, would be enough to patrol Labrador satisfactorily, if they were in touch with local and leasehold wardens and with foresters, if the telegraph was used only on their side, if they and the general inspector were all of the right kind, and if the whole service was vigorously backed up at headquarters. Two fast motor cruisers and suitable means of making the land force also as mobile as possible are _sine qua non_. The Ungava peninsula, Hudson bay and Arctic together would mean a million square miles for barely a hundred men. But, with close co-operation between sea and land, they could guard the sanctuaries as efficiently as private wardens guard leased limits, watch the outlets of the trade, and harry law-breakers in the intervening spaces. Of course, the system will never be complete till the law is enforced against both buyers and sellers in the market. But it is worth enforcing, worth it in every way. And the interest of the wild life growing on a million miles will soon pay the keep of the hundred men who guard its capital. LEASEHOLDS An article by Mr. W.H. Blake, K.C., of Toronto, on "The Laurentides National Park" appeared in the February number of the _University Magazine_. The following extracts have been taken from Mr. Blake's manuscript: "It was in the year 1895, that the idea took substance of setting apart some two thousand five hundred square miles of the wild and mountainous country north of Quebec and south of Lake St. John as 'a forest reservation, fish and game preserve, public park and pleasure ground'. At a later date, the area was increased, until now some three thousand seven hundred square miles are removed from sale or settlement. An important though indirect object was the maintenance of water-level in the dozen or more rivers which take their rise in the high-lying plateau forming the heart of the Park. "When the ice takes in early November the caribou make it their great rallying ground. These animals, so wary in summer and early autumn, appear to gain confidence by their numbers, and are easily stalked and all too easily shot. It is to be feared that too great an annual toll is taken, and that the herd is being diminished by more than the amount of its natural increase. Slightly more stringent regulations, the allowance of one caribou instead of two, the forbidding of shooting in December and January, when the bulls have lost their horns, would effect the result, and would ensure excellent sport in the region so long as the Park exists and is administered as it is to-day. There is, however, very serious menace to the caribou in the unfortunate fact that the great timber wolf has at last discovered this happy hunting ground. Already it would seem that there are fewer caribou, but the marked increase in the number of moose may be one cause of this. Before the days of the Park the moose were almost exterminated throughout this region; but a few must have escaped slaughter in some inaccessible fastness, and under a careful and intelligent system of protection they have multiplied exceedingly. Man may not shoot them, and probably only unprotected calves have anything to dread from the wolves. "In the administration of this Reserve the government adopts a policy which has shown admirable results; and as this policy is in direct contrast to the one pursued in the Algonquin Park it may be interesting to explain and discuss it. It can be admitted, as a matter of theory, that a 'public park and pleasure ground' should be maintained by the people for the people, and that no individuals should have exclusive rights conferred upon them to fish or shoot within it. This ideal conception takes no account of human nature, and a scheme that has to do with the control and conduct of men should not disregard their weaknesses, or the powerful motive of self-interest. The greater part of the Laurentide Park is free to anyone who takes out a license and complies with certain regulations. But, at the points most threatened by poachers, the practice is followed of granting five-year leases of moderate areas to individuals and to clubs. The first requirement of these grants is that the lessee shall appoint a guardian, approved by the Department, and shall cause the conceded territories to be protected in an adequate manner. The guardian, for his part, is immediately answerable to an individual who pays his salary. He contrasts his former precarious living as a trapper or poacher with the assured competence which he now earns more easily, and makes his election in favor of virtue. Thus he becomes a faithful servant both of the Government and his employer, and a really effective unit in the protection of the Park. The lessee, in turn, will neither practice nor tolerate any infringement of the laws which would imperil his lease, nor deplete of fish and game a country which he intends to revisit. He would not necessarily be actuated by these motives if he entered the Park casually and considered nothing but his own sport or pleasure. It may be added that the lessee has reasonable assurance of the extension of his privileges if they are not abused and knows that he will be compensated for moneys properly expended if the Government sees fit not to renew his term. The guardians co-operate with one another under the general guidance of a most competent inspector, and the striking increase in fish, fur and feather is apparent not only in the region immediately protected but also ouside its boundaries. Trappers who fought bitterly against being excluded from this part of the public domain now find that the overflow of wild life into the surrounding country enables them to bring more pelts to market than they did in the old days, and have become reconciled. Guardians, gillies, carters, porters and canoemen live in whole or in part, on providing fishing and shooting. Under no other arrangement could the conceded territory afford sport and a living to so many people, and in no other way could the balance between resources and their exhaustion be so nicely maintained." On page 47, Mr. Blake corroborates the statement of the shameful act I mentioned at the bottom of page 18 of my _Address_. "On sighting a band of six caribou he bade his man sit down to give him a rest for his rifle. He then fired and continued firing till all were killed. When his companion made to walk towards the animals, Sir ---- said to him roughly: "'Where are you going?' "'To cut up the caribou.' "'... I don't want them.'" This game murderer killed three times as many as the prescribed limit on this one occasion. Yet nothing was done to him! SANCTUARIES However desirable they are from any point of view leaseholds are not likely to cover much of Labrador for some time to come. They should be encouraged only on condition that every lessee of every kind--sportsman, professional on land or water, lumberman or other--accepts the obligation to keep and enforce the wild-life protection laws in co-operation with the public wardens who guard the sanctuaries, watch the open areas and patrol the trade outlets. I have very little to add to what I said about sanctuaries in the _Address_. Most of the information received since it was published has only emphasized the points it made. And as no one has opposed and many have supported the establishment of the Harrington sanctuary I again recommend it strongly. The 64 miles in a straight line between cape Whittle and cape Mekattina should be made into an absolute sanctuary for all birds and mammals. If some more ground can be taken in on either side, so much the better. But the 64 miles must be kept in any case. The Bird rocks and Bonaventure island, one of the Mingans, the Perroquets, Egg island and The Pilgrims, are all desirable in every way. There are plenty of islands to choose from along the Atlantic Labrador and round Hudson and James bays. It is most important to keep the migratory birds free from molestation during the first fortnight after their arrival; and the same applies to migratory mammals, though not quite in the same way. Inland sanctuaries should be made near Hamilton inlet, in the Mingan and Mistassini districts and up the Eastmain river. Ultimately an Arctic sanctuary might be made on either Baffin or Melville islands. A meteorological station in the Arctic, linked up with Labrador by wireless, would be of great benefit to the weather forecasts, as we now have no reports from where so much of our cold or mild winters are affected by the different drift of enormous ice-fields; and whenever one is established, a wild-life protection station should accompany it. Sanctuaries should never be too big; not one tenth of the whole area will ever be required for them. But they should be placed where they will best serve the double purpose of being natural wild "zoos" and over-flowing reservoirs of wild-life. The exact situations of most, especially inland, will require a good deal of co-operative study between zoologists and other experts. But there is no doubt whatever, that they ought to be established, no matter how well the laws are enforced over both leaseholds and open areas. Civilised man is appreciating them more and more every day; and every day he is becoming better able to reach them. By giving absolute security to all desirable species in at least two different localities we can keep objects of Nature study in the best possible way both for ourselves and our posterity. Only twelve years ago forty mills were debasing the immemorial and gigantic sequoia into mere timber in its last refuge in California. But even the general public sees now that this was a barbarous and idiotic perversion of relative values. What is a little perishable timber, for which substitutes can be found elsewhere, compared with a grove of trees that will be the wonder and delight of generations? What is the fleeting but abominable gratification of destroying the harmless lizard-like Tuatera of New Zealand compared with the deep interest of preserving it as the last living vertebrate that takes us back to Primary times? What is the momentary gratification of wearing egret feathers compared with the certainty of soon destroying the herons that produce them altogether; or what can compensate for the vile cruelty done to mutilated parent birds and starving young, or the murder of Bradley, the bird warden when trying to protect them? LETTERS The following quotations from a few of the many and wholly unsolicited letters received are arranged in alphabetical order. They are strictly _verbatim_: _Australia._ The Animals' Protection Society. F. Montagu Rothery, Esq., Secretary, 82 Pitt Street, Sydney, New South Wales. Here in this State our _fauna_ and _flora_ are both rapidly disappearing, there being so many agencies at work for their destruction. It will soon be too late to save many of our beautiful birds and animals, and I am anxious to bring under notice your words for the preservation of animals by a system of sanctuaries. Dr. Robert Bell, late Chief Geologist, Geological Survey of Canada, who has made many explorations in Labrador and adjacent lands and waters, and who has always given special attention to the mammals, writes: I approve very heartily of the plan. It will be a humane thing to try to protect the animals and will be very advantageous in every way. It will no doubt receive the sympathy of all classes. There will, however, be some difficulties to overcome and much work to be done before the plan gets into successful operation.... As to the location and dimensions of the sanctuary, the north side of the lower St. Lawrence is the most suitable or only region left, except where it is too far north to benefit the most of the mammals and birds which we should try to preserve. It will be desirable to reserve and protect as great a length of the shore as possible, but perhaps enough will be found between Bradore bay on the east and Great Mekattina island on the west, or this might be extended to Natashkwan. To carry it up to Mingan, it would become more and more difficult to protect the coast the further up you come. Between Mekattina island and Natashkwan, there are no attractive rivers to tempt trespassers to go inland, those which exist being difficult for canoe navigation.... The animals soon find out where they are safe and come to live in even a small area. The Algonquin park is a case in point. There the bears have increased immensely in a few years and the less noticeable mammals and birds have also increased very much. I know of a more conspicuous case of a small area, on the Nelson river, where, owing to an old-standing superstition of the Indians, the animals have not been molested for a long period and they have become much more numerous than elsewhere.... Everything that can be killed is called Game. Most of it should be called animal murder and should be discouraged. The Sanctuary should be placed in charge of a committee of naturalists. But zoologists are scarce in Canada and those who have taken an interest in the animals might be included. Faithful men to carry out their instructions I think can be found. The President of the Boone and Crockett Club, Major W. Austin Wadsworth, Geneseo, N.Y., wrote: I wish to express officially the admiration of our Club for your paper on Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador, because the whole question of Game Refuges has been one of especial interest to us and we have been identified with all movements in that direction in this country. Captain R.G. Boulton, R.N., retired, was engaged for many years on the Hydrographic Survey of the Lower St. Lawrence, the Gulf and Newfoundland. He says: There is no doubt, as regards the conservation of _birds_, that sea-birds, such as gulls, &c., &c., are useful "aids to navigation," by warning the mariner of the proximity of land, on making the coast. On foggy shores, like those of Nova Scotia, Newfoundland and Labrador, they are especially useful, and it is to the advantage of the voyaging public to conserve what we have left. While carrying on the Survey of Georgian bay, and North channel of lake Huron, 1883-1893, the _Bayfield_, my surveying vessel, was more than once kept off the rocks in the foggy weather which prevails in May and June, by the chirping and warbling of land birds. His Excellency the Right Hon. James Bryce, British Ambassador at Washington, who is a keen botanist and lover of the wilds, writes: It is painfully interesting. One finds it hard to realize that such wicked waste of the gifts of Providence, and such horrible cruelty, should be going on in our time. You are doing a great service in calling attention to them and I heartily wish you success in your endeavours. At a special meeting of the Board of Governors of the Camp-Fire Club of America, held on December 12th last, the following resolution was unanimously passed: "_Whereas_, the Camp-Fire Club of America desires to express its interest in and endorsement of the plan for the establishment of Bird and Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador, outlined by Lieut.-Colonel William Wood in his address before the Commission of Conservation delivered at Quebec, in January, 1911; "We believe that the establishment of adequate sanctuaries is one of the most potent factors in the conservation of our rapidly disappearing wild life. The Camp-Fire Club of America has taken, and is taking, an active part in the movement for the establishment of such sanctuaries in various places. We believe that such sanctuaries should be established in Labrador in the near future, while an abundance of undeveloped land is available and before the wild life has been decimated to such an extent as to make its preservation difficult; "_Be it therefore Resolved_, that the Secretary convey to Colonel Wood the assurance of our hearty interest in and approval of the plan to establish adequate animal sanctuaries in Labrador, and our hope that such sanctuaries will be established in the near future." Dr. John M. Clarke, Director, Science Division, New York State Education Department, and a gentleman acquainted with the wild life of the gulf of St. Lawrence, writes: I have taken much interest in reading your paper. It seems to be based on an extraordinary acquaintance with the situation. Canada is blessed with many unique natural resorts of animal life and I have been particularly impressed with the invasions that have been made on the wonderful nesting places of the waterfowl. In my repeated stays on the coast of Gaspe and the islands of the Gulf, now running over a dozen years, I have had my attention forced to the hideous sacrifices of bird life that are constantly going on; for example in the Magdalen islands with their extraordinary array of shore birds. The great lagoons within the islands afford ideal breeding conditions, and an extraordinary attraction for the hunter as well. My observation leads me to the conviction that the shooting law is not in the least respected on these islands, except perhaps by the residents themselves. In some cases the outsider is obliged to wait for the fall migration of the ducks and geese and so comes within the law, but there are plenty of early migrants that arrive during the close season, only to be quickly picked up by the summer hunter, who realizes that he is too far away to incur the law's force. As far as the shore birds are concerned, it is not the occasional hunter that does the real damage. The islands are becoming widely known to students of birds, and it is the bird student, the member of the Audubon Society, (in most instances, I regret to say, men of my own country) who are guilty of ruthless slaughter of the shore birds for their skins, and particularly for their eggs; all this in the protected season. The situation is even worse on the Bird rocks. That is a protected area and yet is subject to fearful attacks from the egg hunters. I do not mean the commercial "eggers," but the member of the Audubon Society who has a collection of birds' eggs and skins and wants duplicates in order to enter into exchange with his colleagues. I met there on one of my visits an American "student" who had taken 369 clutches of eggs of each of the seven or more species of waterfowl there breeding, thus destroying at one swoop upwards of two thousand potential birds. It is no wonder that, with such a hideous desecration of the rights of the birds, the population of the Rocks is rapidly decreasing. I believe the light-keeper is supposed to be a conservator of the birds and to prevent such uncontrolled destruction; but what can he do, a man who is practically exiled from the rest of his race for the entire year, frozen in for six months of the year? He is naturally so overjoyed at the sight of a fellow creature from the big world outside as to indulge him, whatever his collecting proclivities may be. The eggs that are taken by the occasional sailor seem to me to cut no figure at all in the actual diminution of the bird life there. That is a slender thing compared with the destruction caused by the bird students. It is a severe indictment of the ornithologist that such statements as the foregoing happen to be true. Almost as remarkable for its number of waterfowl of the same species is the roost on the east cliffs of Bonaventure island. These have fortunately been rendered by Nature, thus far, inaccessible and the bird men have not yet found a way of getting among them. Yet, even so, there is constantly a great deal of reckless shooting at the birds simply for the sake of "stirring them up." This place is not protected by law, I believe, as a special reservation, but that might easily be brought about if the matter were placed in the hands of some responsible citizen residing on that island. There is a happy situation in connection with the great Percé rock at Percé, on the top of which the gulls and cormorants have kept house for untold generations. These birds are a constant temptation to the men with a gun, but the Percé people are so attached to the birds that no one would ever think of killing one, except the occasional French fisherman who will eat a young gull when hard pressed. Any attempt made by outsiders to use the birds as targets is resented so strongly that even the cormorants are let live. Your address seems to me timely and extremely pertinent. I hope your proposition may receive more than passing attention and the suggestions therein be made effective, for they certainly aim to maintain the natural attractions and the natural resources of the country. Mr. Napoleon A. Comeau, author of _Life and Sport on the North Shore_, and one who has had fifty years' practical experience within the Labrador area, writes from Godbout River, Que.: I trust your good work will be crowned with success. A lot of good has already been accomplished by the spreading of literature on this subject by the Audubon Society, the A.O.U. and others, but much remains to be accomplished. It has always been my aim in this section to prevent wanton destruction of all kinds and I am glad to say I have had considerable success in educating our younger generation here. Small birds of all kinds used to be wantonly killed by boys, a thing I rarely see now--it was the same in the other ways by men--but I must say that _real_ trappers or Indians are not the worst by any means. These men will kill at all times and seasons but only through necessity; strangers and so-called sportsmen are generally the offenders. I have been a trapper myself for years, a professional, but had been taught never to kill wantonly.... Of course, much study and care must be exercised in preserving species of birds and animals from destruction, or else, as you say, mistakes may be made. There are species of such that are destructive to others when allowed to increase beyond certain limits, and it takes a very short time to do that in some cases.... About three years ago, ruffed grouse were so scarce everywhere that I have travelled hundreds of miles without seeing one. They were protected by law, which no doubt did much near the densely populated sections, but as far as our coast was concerned did absolutely nothing because Indians and trappers shot them on sight for food. Last year there were a few seen here and there and all at once, during the present season, there are thousands. Hundreds have been shot and they are reported abundant all over. I imagine this must be due to particularly favourable weather conditions and the immense number of foxes trapped last winter. There is also this fall, an extraordinary number of muskrats--they are swarming everywhere, even in totally, unfavourable localities, doing much damage in some places. What is the cause of this? Presumably it must be through some cause decreasing the number of their enemies. This is why I think much care must be taken before any steps are taken to protect certain species. Some still hold their own against all odds. His Royal Highness the Duke of Connaught, Governor General of Canada, acknowledged the receipt of the _Address_ from Balmoral Castle in September, granted an interview at Ottawa in December, and authorized the use of his name to show his sympathy with the movement. Dr. W.T. Grenfell has a long and most intimate knowledge of the Atlantic Labrador. He writes: The matters of animal preservation which interest me most are: The rapid decline in numbers of harp seals which we Northern people can get for our boots and clothing. This food and clothing supply, formerly readily obtainable all along the Labrador, helped greatly to maintain in comfort our scattered population. It is scarcely now worth while putting out seal nets. We attribute this to the destruction of seals at the time of their whelping, by steamers which are ever growing larger and more numerous. No mammal, producing but one offspring can long survive this. Along the Labrador coast east of the Canadian border, birds are destroyed on sight and nests robbed wherever found. The laws are a dead letter because there is no one to enforce them. There is great need also for scientific inquiry with regard to the fisheries--the herring and mackerel are apparently gone, the salmon are getting scarcer, and the cod fisheries have been failing perceptibly these past years. Yet there is no practical effort made to discover the reason and obviate it. On the 9th of September, 1911, Earl Grey made the following entry in the visitors' book at La Roche: I desire to thank the provincial government of Quebec for having given me the opportunity of visiting, as their guest, the Laurentides National Park, and to acknowledge the great pleasure which I have derived from all I have seen and done.... I would also like to congratulate them on the wisdom of their policy in establishing so large a reserve, as a protection for various breeds of wild animals which would otherwise be in danger of extinction, and as a place of rest, refreshment, and recreation for those who love the quiet of the wilds. Mr. George Bird Grinnell, one of the greatest authorities in the world on the Indian and wild life of North America, writes: I have recently read with extraordinary interest your address, presented last January to the Commission of Conservation.... I wish to offer you my personal thanks for the effective way in which you have set forth the desirability of establishing wild-life refuges in Labrador, and I trust that what you have said will start a movement in Canada to carry out this good project. It has long interested me to know that your people and their officials seem much more farseeing than those on this side of the line, and Canada's show of national parks and reservations is far more creditable than that of her neighbour to the south. Dr. H. Mather Hare, who does on the Canadian Labrador what Dr. Grenfell does on the Newfoundland or Atlantic Labrador, and whose headquarters are at Harrington, where the first coast sanctuary ought to be established at the earliest possible moment, says: May I make a suggestion? The fishermen coming here from Nova Scotia and Newfoundland do not believe there is really a law against egging and shooting. They say it is a put-up job by the people living on the coast, because they want all the eggs and birds themselves. This being the case, would it not be a good idea to have a notice in several of the Nova Scotia and Newfoundland papers warning the fishermen against breaking the law, and in this way putting the interdiction on a legal footing; so they may understand that it is not a mere bluff on the part of the people living on the coast. So far there has been nothing but talk, and nothing official; no arrest made, etc., so one can hardly blame them for the position they take, especially as they have been doing the same thing for many years. The notice should be very clear and penalties set forth plainly. Mr. W.T. Lindsay, M.E., who has travelled thousands of miles through Labrador, writes: I have spent two summers in the north eastern wilderness of Quebec and can fully appreciate your suggestions. I take the liberty of sending you a copy of an "interview" by the _Montreal Witness_ upon my return in 1909, by which you will see that I am in accord with your views, _i.e._, unless the Government takes immediate steps to protect the wild animals in the Province of Quebec, many of them will become extinct.... I would suggest that the Commission of Conservation make a close investigation of the _ways and means_ of the fur traders along the north shore, and I believe that official, unbiassed and independent investigation will expose a very peculiar state of affairs in connection with the mal-conservation of game. Mr. Clive Phillips-Wolley, the well known authority on big-game sport, writes from Koksilah, Nanaimo, B.C., Canada: ... of course I agree with your views: we have in this Province been doing our best to put them in practice with the most excellent results. Dr. W.T. Hornaday stirred us up, and, though we did not put our sanctuaries exactly where he suggested we took a hint from him and have been rewarded by an extraordinary increase in big-horns, wapiti and other big game. I, of course, have shot a great deal as a big game hunter, but, thank God, I don't remember one wanton kill, and I know I have not killed one per cent. of the beasts I might have done. No one wants to.... The Hon. Theodore Roosevelt, ex-President of the United States, writes: I desire to extend my most earnest good wishes and congratulations to the Commission of Conservation of Canada. Your address on the need of animal sanctuaries in Labrador must appeal, it seems to me, to every civilized man. The great naturalist, Alfred Russell Wallace, in his book, "The World of Life," recently published, says that all who profess religion, or sincerely believe in the Deity, the designer and maker of this world and of every living thing, as well as all lovers of Nature, should treat the wanton and brutal destruction of living things and of forests as among the first of forbidden sins. In his own words, "All the works of Nature, animate or inanimate, should be invested with a certain sanctity, to be used by us but not abused, and never to be recklessly destroyed or defaced. To pollute a spring or a river, to exterminate a bird or a beast, should be treated as moral offences and as social crimes. Never before has there been such widespread ravage of the earth's surface by the destruction of vegetation, and with it, animal life, and such wholesale defacement of the earth. The nineteenth century saw the rise and development and culmination of these crimes against God and man. Let us hope that the twentieth century will see the rise of a truer religion, a purer Christianity." I have condensed what Mr. Wallace said because it is too long to quote in full. He shows that this wanton and brutal defacement of Nature, this annihilation of the natural resources that should be part of the National capital of our children and children's children, this destruction of so much that is beautiful and grand, goes hand in hand with the sordid selfishness which is responsible for so very much of the misery of our civilization. The movement for the conservation of our natural resources, for the protection of our forests and of the wild life of the woods, the mountains and the coasts, is essentially a democratic movement. Democracy, in its essence, means that a few people shall not be allowed for their own selfish gratification, to destroy what ought to belong to the people as a whole. The men who destroy our forests for their own immediate pecuniary benefit, the men who make a lifeless desert of what were once coasts teeming with a wonderfully varied bird life, these, whether rich or poor, and their fellows in destruction of every type, are robbing the whole people, are robbing the citizens of the future of their natural rights. Over most of the United States, over all of South Africa and large portions of Canada, this destruction was permitted to go on to the bitter end. It is late now, but it is not too late for us to put a stop to the process elsewhere. What is being done in Labrador is substantially what was done, and is still, in places, being done in Florida. A resolute effort is now being made by the Audubon Societies, and all kindred organizations, to stop the waste in the United States. Great good can be done by this effort, for there is still very much left to save in the United States. But there is very much more left to save in Canada. Canada has taken the lead in many matters of far-reaching importance to the future welfare of mankind, and has taught other nations much. She can teach no more important lesson to other nations, and incidentally, she can benefit herself in no more striking way, than by resolutely setting to work to preserve her forests, and the strange and beautiful wild creatures, both beasts and birds, of her forests and her sea-coasts. Labrador offers one of the best of all possible fields for such work. The forests, the wild beasts and wild birds of Labrador can be kept perpetually as one of the great assets of Canada; or they can he destroyed in a spirit of brutal and careless vandalism, with no permanent benefit to anyone, and with the effect of ruining the country and preventing its ever becoming what it otherwise would become. The economic argument is by no means the only argument, and, in my eyes, is hardly the most important argument for preserving the forests and wild life of Labrador, as your Commission desires to preserve them, but it is in itself so important that, even though there were no other reason to be adduced, it would amply warrant the taking of the action you recommend. I extend you my warmest good wishes for the success of your movement. Mr. Ernest Thompson Seton writes: ... your most interesting and convincing address on _Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador_. You certainly have hit the nail on the head. It is now demonstrated by experiments in many parts of the world that the only sure way to preserve indefinitely a supply of wild animals is by giving them well-placed, well-selected sanctuaries, wherein at all seasons they are safe. I am delighted to know that you are taking up this important matter with such vigor. _South Africa_. Major Hamilton, Superintendent, Transvaal Government Game Reserves, Koomatipoort, says: I have been much interested in reading Col. Wood's address. They seem to have the same difficulties to contend with there as we have here, _i.e._, ignorance and apathy of the public, and active opposition from those with axes to grind. Major Hamilton encloses the _Regulations under Section_ 4 _of the Game Preservation Ordinance_, 1905, (C)--_Reserves_. By these it appears that "owners of private land situate in a Reserve or persons having the permission in writing of such owners shall have free access to every part of such land." But routes of access in the Reserve generally are exactly defined and must be followed. Penalties up to £50 may be imposed for the infraction of any one of six different clauses. Major Hamilton also says: The Game Sanctuaries of the Transvaal stretch along the eastern border of the Province for a length of 250 miles with an average breadth of 50 miles. They are in charge of a Warden under whom are six Rangers. Five of these Rangers are in charge of each of one of the five areas into which the Reserves are divided, four for the Sabi Reserve and one for the Singwitsi Reserve, and each has at his disposal a force of 12 native rangers or police. The sixth Ranger is specially employed in the capture of live animals for zoological purposes, the destruction of vermin and for any emergency duty which may arise. His headquarters are, therefore, within easy reach of the Warden. The Warden has, further, in the districts included in the Game Reserve, the powers of a Resident Justice of the Peace, a Sub Native Commissioner, and a Customs Officer, while the Rangers, white and native, have the full powers and duties of police. The area is therefore quite self-contained, and at the Warden's headquarters, are police barracks, court house and lock-up, and a post of the Transvaal police in charge of a corporal is permanently stationed there. The special by-laws which are enforced are set forth in the attached slip. There are about 4,000 natives, all told, resident within the area. Most of them have been admitted as residents on condition of their giving assistance to the staff, and hold their tenure conditionally on their behaviour. This system has been found to work admirably, for, while practically no harm is done by these residents, very considerable assistance has been obtained from them in detecting poachers. All carnivorous mammals are treated as vermin and are systematically destroyed. No shooting or hunting of any kind is permitted in the Reserve, and in fact members of the public except on special permit are not allowed to carry firearms or to leave certain main tracks. The species of game mammals found are as follows: Elephant, rhinoceros, hippopotamus, giraffe, buffalo, zebra, sable and roan antelope, kudu, water buck, blue wilde-beest, impalla, reed buck, bush-buck, steenbok, duiker, klipspringer, mountain reed buck, red duiker. Of game birds there are: five kinds of francolin, two kinds of knorhaan, sand grouse, quail and crested paauw. The most destructive of the carnivora are lions, leopards, chitas, hunting dogs, caracals and servals. Baboons, porcupines, &c., being destructive in various ways, are considered to be vermin. Vermin have perceptibly decreased during the last few years, in spite of the fact that the game has increased at the rate of fully 10 per cent, per annum. About 1,500 head of vermin, on an average, are destroyed annually. The figures for 1910 included 21 lions, 24 leopards, 31 wild dogs, &c., the balance being made up of chetahs, caracals, servals, civets, genets, wild cats, hyenas, jackals, otters, baboons, crocodiles, pythons and birds of prey. There were 133 prosecutions for infringement of the regulations, all against natives. Dr. Charles W. Townsend, Boston, Mass., an eminent ornithologist, says: I have just read with much interest your Address on _Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador_, and wish to tell you how fully I agree with you, not only as to the importance of stopping the destruction in Labrador before it is too late, but also in the value of animal sanctuaries in general and of Labrador in particular. I sincerely hope you will succeed in your good work. In the _Birds of Labrador_, 1907, Boston Society of Natural History, by Mr. Glover, Mr. Allen and myself, we called especial attention to the great destruction of life that has gone on and is still going on there, and we suggested the protection of the eiders for their down, as is done in Norway, instead of their extermination, the present course. Commander W. Wakeham, of the Department of Marine, says: No one can question the desirability of having certain areas set apart, where wild animals may find asylum, and rest.... A few years ago, from some unusual cause, the woodland caribou, in great numbers, visited that part of Labrador, east of Forteau, and along down as far as St. Charles. A large number were there killed by the white settlers--but this was a solitary, and exceptional year. The Indians who hunt in the interior of Labrador undoubtedly do kill a large number of these caribou; but, when we consider the great extent of country over which these deer migrate, compared with the comparatively small number of Indians--and there is a steadily decreasing number--I can hardly believe that there is much fear of their ever exterminating these deer. Then, could we possibly prevent these Indians from hunting the deer wherever they meet them? I hardly think we could. The barren-ground caribou are not hunted to any extent by whites. During the month of August, the Eskimo of the Ungava peninsula, as well as those in Baffin island, resort to certain fords, or narrows where these caribou usually pass at the beginning of the fall migration. They kill considerable numbers--rather for the skins as clothing, than for food. But the Eskimo are few in number, and I cannot conceive that there is any fear of these caribou ever being greatly reduced in number by these native hunters. Any one who has ever met a herd of barren-ground caribou, and seen the countless thousands of them, could hardly conceive of their ever being exterminated. Nor would they be if we had to deal only with the native hunters. But, with our experience of what happened to the buffalo when the white man took up the slaughter, we must take precaution in time. Up to the present, very few white men have penetrated any distance into the interior of the Labrador peninsula, and I do not see that they are very likely to, in the near future. But we never can tell. A few years ago we would have said the same of the Yukon region, so that it would be a wise precaution to have set apart a considerable section of the Labrador, in the interior, as a sanctuary.... It would perhaps be better to have two regions set apart, one near the Saguenay country and another nearer the Atlantic coast. We have, however, to consider the fact that sanctuaries will be of no value unless they are well guarded. In the case of the birds the conditions are bad; the destruction on the Labrador is horrible to contemplate. The outer islands were scoured by crews from foreign vessels, and whole loads of eggs carried off. There has not been much of this done in recent years. There can he no doubt that, if certain of the larger and less inhabited islands were set apart, and carefully protected, the birds would return to them. I believe that owing to the constant way in which the birds--eider ducks, certain of the divers, gulls, &c., were disturbed, on their natural and original nesting places, they have changed their habits; and, instead of nesting on the islands and by the sea, they have moved to the shores of the interior lakes. You see flocks of young birds in the fall; they have come from the interior, as they were not hatched out on the islands as they used to be. The destruction of geese and curlew does not take place on the Labrador. These birds are not disturbed on their nesting grounds; but, to the south and west when they are passing to their winter haunts. Geese are found feeding on the hill-sides, on the most distant and northern islands--as far north as any of our explorers have gone. The first birds Sverdrup met as he was coming south, in the early spring, were wild geese. These birds are not disturbed on their breeding grounds. The Eskimo do not meddle with them. In the same way caribou are found feeding about the shores of Hudson bay and strait. Like the geese, they feed on berries about the hill sides. I have shot them at the mouth of Churchill river, and near cape Digges in August, when they were very fat--so fat that it is said that, on falling on hard ground, they would burst open; though this did not actually happen in my case. I certainly think that it would be a grand thing to have certain groups of islands--or even certain sections of coast--set apart as bird sanctuaries. Your paper deals entirely with conditions in Labrador. There is, however, another part of the Gulf coast, where the need of protection is much greater than on the Labrador. That is the interior of the Gaspe peninsula. A certain region in the interior has been set aside as a park, but it is quite unprotected. Here, we have moose, woodland caribou and the red deer, besides nearly all the fur-bearing animals that we find on the Labrador. There is no game protection whatever. Moose and caribou are killed mostly out of season--when they are yarded, or when it is easy to run them down. In many cases the meat is left in the woods, the hide only being wanted. Lumbermen are penetrating up the rivers, further into the interior--every lumber camp is a centre from which the game laws are persistently violated.... the game, both fur and feather, (particularly the ruffled grouse) is rapidly disappearing before their pitiless onslaughts. Lumber camps are opened much earlier in the season than they used to be; so that the interior lakes and head waters of the rivers are being cleaned out of fish taken while in the act of spawning. All this may seem very strong language; but it is really not exaggerated. It may help to show the need of more and better conservation.... Mr. Alfred Russell Wallace, the founder and exponent of the science of zoo-geography, writes: ... your address on "Animal Sanctuaries" in Labrador, which I have read with the greatest interest and astonishment. Such reckless destruction I should hardly have thought possible. There is a considerable public opinion now against the use of feathers as _ornaments_[A] because it inevitably leads to the extermination of some of the most beautiful of living things; but I think the attempts to stop it by legal enactments begin at the wrong end. They seek to punish the actual collectors or importers of the plumes, who are really the least guilty and the most difficult to get at. It is the actual _wearers_ of such ornaments who should be subject to fines or even imprisonment, because, without the _demand_ they make there would be no supply. They also are, presumably, the most educated and should know better. If it were known that any lady with a feather in her hat (or elsewhere) would be taken before a magistrate and _fined_, and, on a second offence, _imprisoned_, and if this were the case in the chief civilized countries of Europe and America, the whole trade would at once cease and the poor birds be left in peace. You have, however, treated the subject very carefully and thoroughly, and I hope your views will be soon carried out.... I am glad to hear that Mr. Roosevelt is a reader of the "World of Life." My own interest is more especially in the preservation of adequate areas of the glorious tropical and equatorial forests, with their teeming and marvellous forms of life. Numerous other letters from all parts of the world expressing appreciation of the _Address_ have been received, the correspondents expressing strong approval of the effort to establish Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador. The names of some of the correspondents are given herewith: Sir Robert Baden-Powell, London; Prof. H.T. Barnes, Montreal; Julien Corbett, London; Rudyard Kipling; Lord Stamfordham, London; Sir James LeMoine, Quebec; J.M. Macoun, Ottawa; Henry F. Osborn, New York; Madison Grant, New York. _Note._--As a postscript I might add that the owner of part of a very desirable little archipelago, not far from the Saguenay, has already offered to give the property outright if a suitable sanctuary can be made out of the whole. This is all the more encouraging because such a gift involves the refusal of an offer from a speculative purchaser. May others be moved to do the same! FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: Mr. Wallace refers to feathers like egrets, not the permissable kinds, like ostrich plumes.] 
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15436	----	by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions (http://www.canadiana.org/) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes a map of the region described. See 15435-h.htm or 15435-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/4/3/15435/15435-h/15435-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/4/3/15435/15435-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions. See http://www.canadiana.org/ECO/ItemRecord/21002?id=fde620f29a76b4fe Inconsistencies and irregularities in spelling in the original text have been retained. The table of contents was created for this eBook. JOURNAL OF A VOYAGE FROM OKKAK, ON THE COAST OF LABRADOR, TO UNGAVA BAY, WESTWARD OF CAPE CHUDLEIGH; UNDERTAKEN to Explore the Coast, and Visit the ESQUIMAUX in that Unknown Region by BENJAMIN KOHLMEISTER and GEORGE KMOCH Missionaries of the Church of the Unitas Fratrum or United Brethren London: Printed by W. M'Dowall, Pemberton Row, Gough Square, Fleet Street, for the Brethren's Society for the Furtherance of the Gospel Among the Heathen. And Sold By J. Le Febvre, 2, Chapel-Place, Nevils-Court, Fetter-Lane; L. B. Seeley, 169, Fleet-Street; Hazard And Binns, Bath; and T. Bulgin, and T. Lambe, Bristol 1814 JOURNAL OF A VOYAGE, &c. &c. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION 3 CHAPTER I. Outfit. Opinions of the Esquimaux respecting the Voyage. Description of the Company. Departure from Okkak. Arrival at Nungorome. 6 CHAPTER II. Departure from Nungorome Cove. Account of Solomon. Drift-ice. Cape Mugford. Waterfalls from the Kaumayok Mountains. Fruitless attempt to get out of the Ikkerasak, or Straits. 10 CHAPTER III. Quit the Ikkerasak. Account of the Kaumayok Mountains, and of Kangertluksoak. Public Worship on Sunday. Saeglek and its Inhabitants described. The Missionaries visit the Esquimaux at Kikkertarsoak. 14 CHAPTER IV. Departure from Saeglek. Fruitless attempt to reach Nachvak. Retreat into Nullatartok Inlet. Slate Bay. Detention on account of the Ice. Arrive at Nachvak. 20 CHAPTER V. Reception at Nachvak. Description of the bay. The Esquimaux manner of spearing salmon and trout. Christian deportment of the Okkak and Hopedale Esquimaux. Jonas's address to the Heathen. Love of music general among these Indians. Departure from Nachvak. Danger in doubling the North Cape. Arrival at Sangmiyok bay. 27 CHAPTER VI. Pass Cape Nennoktok. Visit the Esquimaux families at Kummaktorvik and Amitok. Description of an Esquimaux travelling bed. Mountains seen at Ungava. Netsek seal described. Greenland houses. Danger of being shipwrecked near Kakkeviak. 33 CHAPTER VII. Arrival at Oppernavik. Account of Uttakiyok. His perseverance in waiting for the arrival of the Missionaries. Islands and bays between Kakkeviak and Killinek. Danger in the ice at Ammitok. Want of fuel supplied by robbing old graves. 39 CHAPTER VIII. Departure from Oppernavik. Pass the Ikkerasak of Killinek. Whirlpools. The coast takes a southerly direction. Meeting with Esquimaux from the Ungava country, who had never seen an European. Anchor at Omanek. High tides. Drift-wood. Double Cape Uibvaksoak. Distant view of Akpatok. 44 CHAPTER IX. Chain of black mountains. The Dragon's dwelling. Changes occasioned by rise and fall of the tides, and dangers attending them. Uttakiyok's superstitious customs. Singular effect of the tide in the bay of Ittimnekoktok. Arrive at Kangertlualuksoak bay and river. Its situation. Transactions there. 50 CHAPTER X. Further transactions in Kangertlualuksoak Bay. The Esquimaux women frightened by reports of Indians. Ceremony of taking possession of this new-explored country, as belonging to the King of England, and of naming the river George river. Leave the bay and proceed to Arvarvik. Whales caught by the Esquimaux in the shallows. Storm at Kernertut. 56 CHAPTER XI. Doubts expressed by Jonathan and the other Esquimaux on the expediency of continuing the voyage. Consultations. Resolve to proceed. Thunder-storm at Pitsiolak. Account of Indians. Esquimaux cookery and hunting feasts. Arrival in the river Koksoak. 62 CHAPTER XII. Sail up the river Koksoak. Transactions in that region. Dangerous eddy. Meet Esquimaux. Address to them. Their joy and eagerness to have Missionaries, resident among them. Find a suitable situation for a settlement. Description of the country. 70 CHAPTER XIII. Return to Okkak. 77 INTRODUCTION. For these many years past, a considerable number of Esquimaux have been in the annual practice of visiting the three missionary establishments of the United Brethren on the coast of Labrador, OKKAK, NAIN, and HOPEDALE, chiefly with a view to barter, or to see those of their friends and acquaintance, who had become obedient to the gospel, and lived together in Christian fellowship, enjoying the instruction of the Missionaries. These people came mostly from the north, and some of them from a great distance. They reported, that the body of the Esquimaux nation lived near and beyond Cape Chudleigh, which they call Killinek, and having conceived much friendship for the Missionaries, never failed to request, that some of them would come to their country, and even urged the formation of a new settlement, considerably to the north of Okkak. To these repeated and earnest applications the Missionaries were the more disposed to listen, as it had been discovered, not many years after the establishment of the Mission in 1771, that that part of the coast on which, by the encouragement of the British government, the first settlement was made, was very thinly inhabited, and that the aim of the Mission, to convert the Esquimaux to Christianity, would be better obtained, if access could be had to the main body of the Indians, from which the roving inhabitants appeared to be mere stragglers. Circumstances, however, prevented more extensive plans from being put in execution; and the Missionaries, having gained the confidence and esteem of the Esquimaux in their neighbourhood, remained stationary on that coast, and, by degrees, formed three settlements, OKKAK, to the north, and HOPEDALE, to the south of NAIN, their first place of residence. In consequence of the abovementioned invitation, it became a subject of serious consideration, by what means a more correct idea of the extent and dwelling-places of the Esquimaux nation might be obtained, and a general wish was expressed, that one or more of the Missionaries would undertake the perilous task of visiting such places as were reported by the Esquimaux themselves to contain more inhabitants than the southern coast, but remained unknown to European navigators. The Synodal Committee, appointed for the management of the Missions of the United Brethren, having given their consent to the measure, and agreed with Brother Kohlmeister, by occasion of a visit paid by him to his relations and friends in Germany, as to the mode of putting it into execution, he returned to Labrador in 1810, and prepared to undertake the voyage early in the spring of 1811. For several years a correspondence had taken place between the Missionaries in Labrador and the Brethren's Society for the Furtherance of the Gospel, established in London, relating to the manner in which the voyage should be performed. Opinions were various on the subject; but it was at length determined, that a steady intelligent Christian Esquimaux, possessing a shallop, with two masts, and of sufficient dimensions, should be appointed to accompany one or two Missionaries, for a liberal recompence; and that the travellers should spend the winter at Okkak, to be ready to proceed on the voyage, without loss of time, as soon as the state of the ice would permit of it. Brother Kohlmeister proposed, in this view, the Esquimaux Jonathan, of Hopedale, and the brig employed to convey the annual supply of necessaries to the three settlements, was ordered to proceed first to Hopedale, partly with a view to this negociation. She arrived safe with Brother Kohlmeister at this place, on the 22d July, 1810. On the same day, he proposed to Jonathan the intended expedition, laid before him the whole plan, with all its difficulties and advantages, and found him immediately willing to undertake the voyage, and to forward its object by every means in his power. This was no small sacrifice on the part of Jonathan. An Esquimaux is naturally attached to the place of his birth; and, though he spends the summer, and indeed great part of the year, necessarily, and from inclination, in roving from one place to another in quest of food; yet in winter he settles, if possible, upon his native spot, where he is esteemed and beloved. This was eminently the case with Jonathan. He was a man of superior understanding and skill, possessed of uncommon presence of mind in difficulties and dangers, and at Hopedale considered as the principal person, or chief of his nation. But he was now ready to forsake all, and to go and reside at OKKAK, among strangers, having no authority or pre-eminence, and to undertake a voyage of unknown length and peril, from whence he could not be sure of a safe or speedy return, before the ice might set in, and confine him upon an unknown shore, during the whole of a second winter. There was, however, one consideration which outweighed every other in his mind, and made him, according to his own declaration, forget all difficulties and dangers. He hoped that the proposed voyage to visit his countrymen in the north would, in time, be a means of their becoming acquainted with the gospel of Christ, and partakers of the same blessings which he now enjoyed. This made him willing to accept of the call without any hesitation. Nor did he ever, during the whole voyage, forsake that generous principle, by which he was at first influenced, but his cheerful, firm, and faithful conduct proved, under all circumstances, most honourable to the character of a true convert to Christianity. Brother KOHLMEISTER being, after seventeen years residence in Labrador, complete master of the Esquimaux language, and deservedly beloved and respected both by Christians and heathens, and possessing an invincible zeal to promote their temporal and spiritual welfare, was a man eminently qualified to undertake the commission, and to conciliate the affections of unknown heathen. He had also previously made himself acquainted with the use of the quadrant, and with other branches of science, useful on such an occasion. Brother KMOCH, his companion, joined to other essential qualifications, great cheerfulness and intrepidity. All the parties having met at Okkak, in the autumn of 1810, the winter was partly spent in preparations for the intended expedition, and Jonathan's boat put into the best possible state of repair. CHAPTER I. _Outfit. Opinions of the Esquimaux respecting the Voyage. Description of the Company. Departure from Okkak. Arrival at Nungorome._ June 16, 1811.--The ice began to loosen in the bay of OKKAK, and to drive out to sea. On the 17th, the bay was quite cleared of it; but on the 18th, it returned, and seemed to preclude all possibility of setting out so soon as we intended. On the 19th, however, it left us entirely. 20th. We were employed in hauling the boat to the edge of the water, and being floated by the tide, she came to anchor at six, P.M. She had been purchased by Jonathan, at Chateau-bay, and was about 45 feet long, twelve broad, and five deep, with two masts. We had furnished her with a complete deck, and divided her into three parts. The centre was our own cabin, into which all our baggage was stowed: the two other divisions were occupied by the Esquimaux. A small boat, brought from Lewis, was taken in tow. 21st. We began to ship our provision and baggage: viz. six cwt. of ship's biscuit, sixteen bushels of pease, one cwt. of salt pork and best beef, (of which but a small portion was consumed, as we were generally well supplied with fresh provisions, procured by shooting), a firkin of butter, half cwt. of captain's biscuit, one cwt. of flour, two small barrels of gunpowder, one cwt. of large and small shot, half cwt. of tobacco, two eighteen-gallon barrels of ale, a few bottles of brandy, eighteen pounds of coffee, which was all consumed, coffee and biscuits being our usual repast; a case containing knives, wire, nails, &c. for barter, if necessary; kettles and other utensils. Besides that every man had his fowling-piece, we had four muskets in reserve. After bringing all on board, we had just room enough to sleep in our cabin. 22d, was spent in conferring with our brethren, on various subjects relating to the voyage. 23d. All the Esquimaux met at the chapel, and in the most affectionate manner, and with many tears, bid us and our company farewell. They were the more affected with grief on this occasion, as the greatest part of our own Esquimaux thought the voyage impracticable, and expected that we should all perish in doubling Cape Chudleigh, (Killinek) on account of the violence of the currents, setting round between the cape, and the many rocks and islands which stretch from it towards the north. Reports had likewise been circulated of the hostile disposition of the Esquimaux in the Ungava bay; and it was boldly asserted, that if we even got there alive, we should never return. An old conjuror, (Angekok), _Atsugarsuk_, had been particularly active in spreading these reports. We cannot deny but that they occasioned some apprehension in our own minds, but being fully determined to venture in the name of God, and trusting in His protection, we were thankful that they failed to produce the intended effect on Jonathan, our guide, and on the other Esquimaux, who were to go with us, and who all remained firm. When Jonathan was told that the Ungava Esquimaux would kill him, he generally answered: "Well, we will try, and shall know better when we get there:" and once, conversing with us on the subject, expressed himself thus: "When I hear people talking about the danger of being killed, I think: Jesus went to death out of love to us, what great matter would it be, if we were to be put to death in His service, should that be His good pleasure concerning us." 24th. Having commended ourselves in prayer to the grace and protecting care of God our Saviour, and to the kind remembrance of our dear fellow missionaries, we set sail at two P.M. Our company consisted of four Esquimaux families: 1. _Jonathan_, and his wife _Sybilla_, both between fifty and sixty years old. He was esteemed one of the most skilful commanders on the whole coast of Labrador, and for many years has shown himself both able and willing to serve the missionaries in a variety of ways. The boat was his own property, and we considered him as the captain of the expedition. 2. _Jonas_, Jonathan's son, and his wife _Agnes_, about thirty years of age, both intelligent, clever Esquimaux; they had their five children with them; _Sophia_, twelve years old, _Susanna_, _Jonathan_, _Thamar_, and _Sybilla_, the youngest but half a year old. 3. _Paul_, and his wife _Mary_, very agreeable, sensible people, about twenty years of age. Paul is Jonathan's cousin, and a man of a very warm temper. In activity and skill, he was next to Jonathan. 4. _David_, and his mother _Rachel_, the first a hopeful young man of about twenty, and the latter a good-natured old woman, who had the care of our clothes and linen, and kept them clean and in good order. Besides these four families, we took with us a boy, _Okkiksuk_, an orphan, about sixteen, whom Jonathan had adopted, and who promised to reward the kindness of his guardian by his good behaviour. He was always ready to render us every service in his power. We were attended on the voyage by a skin-boat (or woman's boat) in which were _Thukkekina_ and his wife, and their adopted child _Mammak_, a boy twelve years old. Their age is about forty. The skin-boat was intended as a refuge, in case of any accident happening to our own boat, and was useful in landing, as we never brought the large boat close in shore. The first four families belong to Hopedale, Thukkekina and his wife to Okkak. They considered it as a great favour conferred on them to be permitted to accompany us. _Jonas_ and his family occupied the after-part, and the rest the fore-part of the boat. The wind was moderate, and due west. We lost sight of our habitations in about half an hour, behind the N.E. point of the island Okkak, called Sungolik. At three, passed Cape Uivak, a cape on the continent, forming a moderately high headland, and the nearest place to Okkak, where Esquimaux spend the winter. Two or three winter-houses were standing. The wind failing, we cast off the skin-boat, which rowed merrily a-head. Before us, between the islands to the east and the continent, we saw much drift-ice, and it required attention to avoid the large shoals, the wind coming round to the N.W. We cast anchor at NUNGOROME, a cove about ten English miles from Okkak, where we found several of our Esquimaux, who had here their summer-station. Several had come from Naujasiorvik and other places, on purpose to meet us, and once more to express their affection and best wishes for our safe voyage and return. Late in the evening, we met on a green spot, where Brother Kohlmeister delivered a short discourse and prayer, after which we retired to sleep on board the boat. CHAPTER II. _Departure from Nungorome Cove. Account of Solomon. Drift-ice. Cape Mugford. Waterfalls from the Kaumayok Mountains. Fruitless attempt to get out of the Ikkerasak, or Straits._ Nungorome is a cove on the south side of the Island Pacharvik. Between this island the main land is a narrow strait, so shallow that no whales can pass. The Esquimaux stretch their nets across, to catch seals, seeking shelter in it when the wind sets in from the open sea. They can only be taken in the night, and the greater part of those which frequent this coast are of the _Kairolik_ kind, a middle-sized animal, and of the _Ugsuk_, the largest species of the seal tribe, weighing sometimes from five to six cwt. The Esquimaux belonging to our congregation, who were at present stationed here, in tents, were _Moses_, _Samuel_, _Thomas_, _Isaac_, _Bammiuk_, and their families. _Solomon_, who has left our communion, was also here. He had formerly been a communicant member of Okkak congregation, but could not resist the temptation of going to the north to feast with the heathen Esquimaux, whenever they had caught a live, or found a dead whale. On such occasions he was seduced to commit many irregularities and sins, but always returned to us with a show of great contrition and repentance. After many relapses, he was informed, that this would do no longer, but that if he went again to these heathenish feasts, he would be excluded. He is a sensible, well-disposed man, and perceived the justice of the sentence; but his love of that species of amusement overcame all his good resolutions. He not only went again, but took also another wife; a step which, of course, excluded him from our fellowship. Yet he is very desirous that his children may receive a Christian education, and remain faithful to the precepts of the gospel. 25th. Brother Kmoch rose at half past one in the morning, and suffering the rest to sleep on, got breakfast ready; he then fired his piece, by which Brother Kohlmeister and all the Esquimaux, young and old, were suddenly roused from their slumbers. Not one, however, regretted the unexpected interruption to their pleasant dreams, on beholding the sea quite free from ice, with a fine morning and fair wind; but after yawning, stretching, and shaking themselves as usual, the Esquimaux with great good humour got ready, and we set sail at half past three. Passed Pacharvik Island at four. Bammiuk and Solomon accompanied us as far as the North Ikkerasak (the Esquimaux name for a strait) between Cape Mugford Island, in 58° N. latitude, and the mountains of Kaumayok. Their being in company retarded our progress, but in the sequel proved no disadvantage. About nine, we entered the straits, and perceiving at a distance much drift-ice a-head, cast anchor, and Brother Kmoch and Jonas landed on Cape Mugford Island. An Esquimaux, called _Niakungetok_, accompanied them to the top of an eminence, from whence the outer opening of the Ikkerasak was seen. They perceived the ice driving into it from the sea in such quantities as to threaten to close it up. Cape Mugford is an high island, extending far into the ocean, and the northern land-mark in steering for Okkak, _Kiglapeit_ promontory bearing south, and the Saddle-island appearing right before the entrance of the bay. On their return to the boat, the wind veered to the north, and we steered for a dwelling-place of the Esquimaux, about twenty miles from Okkak, called _Ukkuararsuk_. To our great joy the ice began now to drive out again to sea, and we resolved to go with it. A gentle S.W. wind brought us to the place, where we had before anchored, but we were now beset with large fields of ice, among which we tacked, till we had nearly cleared the straits, when the great quantity of surrounding ice, pressing upon us, prevented our making further attempts, and we, were compelled to work our way back with oars and boat-hooks. On Cape Mugford island we now discovered more Esquimaux, who by signs directed our course towards a convenient harbour, near their dwellings, which we reached in safety. The Esquimaux pitched their tents on shore, but we slept on board. The situation of this place is remarkably beautiful. The strait is about an English mile broad, and four or five in length. Both shores are lined with precipitous rocks, which in many places rise to a tremendous height, particularly on the Kaumayok side, from whence several waterfalls rush into the sea, with a roar, which quite fills the air. The singular appearance of these cataracts is greatly increased when illuminated by the rising sun, the spray, exhibiting the most beautiful prismatic colours. Below them huge masses of ice are formed, which seem to lean against the sides of the rocks, and to be continually increasing during the winter, but when melted by the power of a summer's sun, and disengaged by their weight, are carried off by the tides, and help to form floating ice-mountains. The coast lies S.W. by N.E. 26th. Being detained here by the state of the ice, and the weather fine and warm, Brother Kmoch and Ogiksuk rowed across the straits to the nearest great cataract, and were able, notwithstanding the steepness of the ascent, to get pretty close to it. It falls fifty or sixty feet perpendicular, and the noise is terrible. The spray ascending from it, like the steam of a huge cauldron, wetted the travellers completely. They amused themselves some time by rolling large stones into the fall, which by its force were carried along towards the sea, down the sloping torrent below. Our people meanwhile caught three seals, and made a hearty meal, of which we also partook, hunger, on this occasion, overcoming our dislike to seal's flesh. A sallad of scurvy-grass was made for supper. 27th. We left this harbour about four A.M. with a favourable wind at West, but as it soon died away, we took to our oars, and reached the north point of Kaumayok, at the northern extremity of the strait. By an observation taken by Brother Kohlmeister, this point is situated in 57° 59' N. latitude. Though calm, there was a great swell from the sea, and the rolling of the boat affected our brave captain not a little, to the diversion of the other Esquimaux. About two P.M. the wind shifted to the N.W. By tacking we got to Kupperlik, about the middle of Kaumayok, but having the skin-boat in tow, could not weather the point, and were at length obliged to return to our former anchorage in the strait. 28th. The wind being North we could not proceed. We therefore ascended the mountain of Cape Mugford. It is a barren rock, though here and there a solitary plant or a tuft of moss clings to its steep sides, and is difficult of access. The numerous waterfalls on the Kaumayok, which still rose above us, were full in view, and we now discovered several small lakes which supply them. Some of them fall from a great height perpendicularly into the sea. We could here discern the island of Okkak, to the S.W. to the East, the boundless ocean, and to the N.E. three high, barren, and steep islands, called Nennoktuts by the Esquimaux, (White mountains.) CHAPTER III. _Quit the Ikkerasak. Account of the Kaumayok Mountains, and of Kangertluksoak. Public Worship on Sunday. Saeglek and its Inhabitants described. The Missionaries visit the Esquimaux at Kikkertarsoak._ June 29th.--We rose soon after two o'clock, and rowed out of the Ikkerasak, with a fair wind. The sea was perfectly calm and smooth. Brother Kmoch rowed in the small boat along the foot of the mountains of Kaumayok, sometimes going on shore, while the large boat was making but little way, keeping out at some distance, to avoid the rocks. The outline of this chain of mountains exhibits the most fanciful figures. At various points, the rocks descend abruptly into the sea, presenting horrid precipices. The strand is covered with a black sand. At the height of about fifty feet from the sea, the rocks have veins of red, yellow, and green stone, running horizontally and parallel; and sometimes in an undulated form. Above these, they present the appearance of a magnificent colonade, or rather of buttresses, supporting a gothic building, varying in height and thickness, and here and there intersected by wide and deep chasms and glens, running far inland between the mountains. Loose stones above, have in some places the appearance of statues, and the superior region exhibits all kind of grotesque shapes. It is by far the most singular and picturesque chain of mountains on this coast. To the highest part of it we gave the name of St. Pauls, as it is not unlike that cathedral when viewed at a distance, with its dome and two towers. Before we left the Kaumayok, Brother Kohlmeister landed, and found the beach covered with blocks of stone, in colour white and grey, like statuary marble, but very hard. We now steered for _Kangertluksoak_, a winter-station of the Esquimaux, where several of our people had pitched their tents. At noon, we were off an island, called _Eingosiarsuk_, (the Little Cup), opposite the _Ittiplek_, (a flat piece of ground joining two headlands) over which the northern Esquimaux pass in sledges to Okkak, round Kaumayok. Farther towards the N.W. lies _Tuppertalik_, a high ridge of mountains, which, from its appearance, we called the Table mountain, having nearly the shape of the mountain so called at the Cape of Good Hope. To the north lies _Nellekartok_, the outermost island on leaving the Ikkerasak, and the first of the _Kangertluksoak_ islands. Behind _Tuppertalik_, a bay opens called _Nappartok_ (a wood), a winter-habitation, with a little wood higher up the country, about eight or ten hours drive from Okkak. A good harbour for large vessels is said to be here, called _Umiakovitannak_, (Broad boat-harbour). Before the entrance to _Nappartok_, lies an island, _Naujartsit_ (the Little Sea-gull island). Seven or eight miles, north of Nappertok, a long flat point runs out, terminated by a small island. On approaching towards Kangertluksoak, a long island runs parallel with the coast called _Illuektulik_, (a burial-place), between which and the main land is a strait, affording good shelter for boats. Into this Jonathan intended to run, but the wind being favourable, we kept on our course, and passed two islands, _Kingmiktok_, (Dog island), and farther north, _Kikkertarsoak_ a great island which defends the entrance into the harbour of _Kangertluksoak_, from the sea. At ten P.M. we came to an anchor in the harbour, and were received by our Esquimaux, of whom several families were stationed here, as well as by the other inhabitants, with demonstrations of great joy. Both the heathen who kept on the right side of the great bay, and our own Christian Esquimaux, on the left, fired numberless shots to welcome us. Several boats were here from _Kittinek_ and _Nachvak_ bound to Okkak. _Kangertluksoak_ lies about sixty miles north of Okkak, is an agreeable place, and has a good strand, and safe anchorage. 30th. Being Sunday, the Missionaries went on shore, and visited all the Christian families, by whom they were received with the most lively expressions of affection and gratitude. Many strangers from the opposite coast had joined them, and they all seated themselves in a large circle on the grass. _Nikupsuk's_ wife, Louisa, who had long ago forsaken the believers, was here, and said, with much apparent contrition, that she was unworthy to be numbered with them. She then seated herself at a little distance from the rest. The number of the congregation, including our boat's company, amounted to about fifty. Brother Kohlmeister first addressed them, by greeting them from their brethren at Okkak, and expressing our joy at finding them well in health, and our hopes, that they were all walking worthy of their Christian profession, as a good example to their heathen neighbours. Then the Litany was read, and a spirit of true devotion pervaded the whole assembly. Our very hearts rejoiced in this place, which had but lately been a den of murderers, dedicated, as it were, by the angekoks, or sorcerers, to the service of the devil, to hear the cheerful voices of converted heathen, most melodiously sounding forth the praises of God, and giving glory to the name of Jesus their Redeemer. Peace, and cheerful countenances dwelt in the tents of the believing Esquimaux. Our people had caught a large white-fish, and pressed us much to be their guests, which we should have accepted of with pleasure, but we thought it prudent to avail ourselves of the favourable wind and weather, to proceed. Instead, therefore, of dining with them, we presented to each tent a quart of pease, which is considered by the Esquimaux as a great luxury, and was received with unbounded thankfulness. About noon we set sail, with a brisk wind at S.E. for _Saeglek_. The coast presents here, moderately high, barren mountains, without bays or islands. The wind becoming more violent, the rope, by which we kept the skin-boat in tow, suddenly snapt, and set her adrift. She was frequently hid from our view by the height of the waves, but we were in no apprehension about her, as these kind of boats are much safer in a high sea, than a European one. At seven P.M. we arrived at _Saeglek_, and were saluted by the firing of muskets and bonfires on the hills. The Esquimaux have their dwellings on a small flat island, between two of larger size, but the strand is bad, and full of sharp shingles. There are about five or six winter-houses at Saeglek, containing each about two or three families. July 1st. Early, two Esquimaux men, _Joas_ and _Uiverunna_, came in their kayaks to pay us a visit. They, with their families, inhabited some tents we had seen yesterday. Brother Kohlmeister spoke seriously to them on the necessity of conversion, especially to Joas, who had Christian parents, and as a child, was baptized at Okkak. He reminded him of his having been devoted to Jesus from his birth; that he therefore ought not to belong to the unbelievers, but to Him who had created and redeemed him; and that the greatest of all the sins he now committed, was his persisting in his determination not to return. He seemed to listen with some humility to the loving and earnest reproof and exhortations of the Missionary, but at last excused himself by laying the blame upon his mother, who kept him back, adding, that he still intended to be converted. Our people had meanwhile made a fire, and put the pot on to boil pease; but the wind changing, Jonathan determined immediately to proceed. The pease had just begun to swell, and as the two Esquimaux had presented us with some fresh meat, they had been asked to partake of our meal; but finding themselves thus disappointed, they fell to, and having greedily devoured a quantity of the half-boiled pease, and filled their gloves with the rest, they took leave, and set sail about 11, A.M. Hearing from some Esquimaux who made towards us in their kayaks, that the Saeglek people were all on the north side of the island of Kikkertarsoak, we proceeded thither, and having doubled the point, saw seven tents full of people. Two of them contained families from Killinek. But the violence of the wind was such, that we could not stay in this unsheltered place with safety. We therefore worked our way, with the help of the Esquimaux, round another point, into a roadstead, rather more sheltered than the former, though open to the sea. A little tobacco is the reward expected and given for such assistance. The beach is composed of numberless black pebbles, polished by the sea, and each about the size of an hen's egg. Brother Kohlmeister immediately landed, and visited the Esquimaux in their tents. Many heathen were at this place, to whom he preached the gospel, and invited them to believe in Jesus, as the Saviour of men, who would deliver them from the love, power, and curse of sin, having shed His blood, and died on the cross, to redeem their souls. He was heard with great attention. A venerable old man, with hair as white as wool, particularly attracted our notice. He called Brother Kohlmeister by name, took hold of both his hands, and begged him to sit down by him. Brother Kohlmeister inquired, whether he knew him. The old man replied: "Thou art Benjamin, often have I heard thy name at Okkak. I therefore rejoice to see thee." He seemed quite at a loss, what way to express his affection; and at length delivered a strap of seals'-leather to Mr. Kohlmeister, with these words: "I am poor, and have nothing else to give thee, yet I wish to give thee some token of my love." Brother Kohlmeister accepted of his present, and inwardly cried to the Lord, to show mercy to this poor ignorant heathen. "You are old," said he, "and have not much more time to live in this world, will you not turn to that Jesus, who has died for your sins also? It is not His desire that you should perish, and be lost in everlasting darkness, but that you should live with Him in the place of light and immortal bliss." The old man replied: "What shall I do? thy words are very pleasant, and I would fain hear much more of Jesus. I do not wish to be lost in the place of darkness." Brother Kohlmeister answered, that if he sincerely wished to be saved, and was troubled on account of his sinful life he should believe in, and call on the name of Jesus, who would certainly hear and reveal Himself unto him. Many people were present in the tent, who behaved with great decency, and whom Brother Kohlmeister earnestly addressed on the necessity of conversion. He wished to prolong the conversation especially with the old man, who promised, that he would never forget the words spoken to him, but it was growing late, and we returned to our cabin. The poor old man having sore legs, some medicine was left for him. The passage from Kangertluksoak to Saeglek is about twenty English miles. Saeglek is a considerable promontory, open to the south. CHAPTER IV. _Departure from Saeglek. Fruitless attempt to reach Nachvak. Retreat into Nullatartok Inlet. Slate Bay. Detention on account of the Ice. Arrive at Nachvak._ July 2d.--At one A.M. we set sail, steering for _Nachvak_, a distance of about thirty miles. Here a chain of mountains runs north and south, nearly parallel with the coast. The coast itself is of moderate height, but very steep, and not being defended by any island, the approach to it as a lee-shore, is very dangerous. It runs generally in a pretty strait line about forty miles, when a wide bay opens, in which lies, towards the north, an island called _Karngalersiorvik_, where there is said to be a good harbour for boats. The rocks, of which the mountains are composed, are of a white grey colour, streaked almost perpendicularly with veins of black stone, about two feet broad. The intermediate strata may be about eight times as broad. We had hoped to reach Nachvak in the morning, by continuing our course through the following night, though the wind was weak and variable, but in the evening we got into drift-ice: yet as the shoals were not close together, we worked our way through them; and stood on with the little wind we had at S.E. 3d. At dawn of day, and being still four miles distant from Nachvak, we perceived both in the open sea, and all along the shore, that our passage was completely occupied with floating ice, which drove towards us, and forced us back. We then endeavoured to find shelter in a bay bounded by high mountains, but found none, the wind driving the ice after us into it, and soon filling it. Jonathan frequently cried out with a plaintive voice: "Alas, alas, we shall soon be without a boat!" We now hastened to the opposite shore to find some cove or inlet, but getting more and more entangled among the ice, were at last obliged, some to land, and haul the boat with ropes round the points, and others with boat-hooks and spars, to keep her off the rocks. Two or three times she stuck fast on sunken rocks, but by God's mercy always got off again without damage. At length we discovered three narrow inlets, the middlemost forming a bay, being the estuary of a river, which runs W.S.W. about eight or ten miles up the country, and is called Nullatartok. Into this we pushed, when shortly after our entrance, the ice entirely filled up the passage, and we were compelled to retreat to the uppermost part, choosing the shallowest possible spot to anchor in. The bay itself is about two miles in breadth, and only in the middle deep enough to admit the larger fields of drift ice to float into it. The strand is broad, and slopes off gently. It is covered with large tables of slate. The mountains on each side are high, and seem to consist of ferruginous slate, the lamina or plates of which are of such immense size, that they might serve for entire walls. Towards the sea, there exudes from these rocks, a yellowish white substance, which has a strong sulphureous smell. It was so powerful, that if a drop fell on a piece of tinned iron, it removed the tin in a few minutes. The vallies in the neighbourhood were green and full of flowers. Not far from the spot where we had pitched our tents, (which rested upon a carpet of _potentilla aurea_, in full bloom, bringing to our minds the European meadows, full of butter-cups), the river, which is of considerable breadth, falls into the bay. It abounds with fine salmon-trout. Farther to the westward, two other rivers flow into it, one of which is much broader than the other, and has a large cataract at some distance from its mouth. The upper parts of the mountains are covered partly with moss, and partly with low brush-wood, birch, and alder, and many berry-bearing shrubs and plants, but no high trees. We found here both arnica and colts-foot in great plenty. Brother Kohlmeister gathered and dried a quantity of each, as they are used in medical cases, and the former cannot be procured from England. The slate is extremely shivery, and is found in slabs, either lying or standing upright from four to eight feet square, most easily splitting into thin plates. Ascending the mountain, they are soon dislodged, by the tread of a man's foot, and glide down towards the beach with a rattling, tinkling noise. At low water, we noticed a bed of stone resembling cast iron, of a reddish hue, and polished by the friction of the water. After supping on salmon-trout, caught in the first-mentioned river, we retired to rest; but had some fears even here for the safety of our boat, the ice pushing in towards us, and our people being employed day and night in warding off the large shoals with their boat-hooks. 4th. The weather being fair, Brother Kmoch ascended to the top of the highest part of the mountain near us, from whence he could see nothing but drift-ice, powerfully in motion towards the bay. Four of our Esquimaux went up the country to hunt reindeer; saw eight head and two fawns; but got none. Perceiving that our abode in this place might be of some duration, we for the first time pitched our tents on shore. Our morning and evening devotion was attended by the whole party; and on Sundays we read the Litany, and conducted the service in the usual way, which proved to us and our Esquimaux of great comfort and encouragement in all difficulties. We were detained here, by the ice, from the 3d to the 15th, and our faith and patience were frequently put to the trial. Meanwhile we found much pleasure in walking up the declivities of the hills, and into the fine green and flowery vallies around us. 5th. We went up the western extremity of the bay, but found nothing worth notice. Here the rocks appeared to be of a species of freestone. 6th. In the evening we met in Jonathan's tent. Brother Kohlmeister addressed the company, and reminded them, that to-day the holy communion would be celebrated in our congregations, which we could not do in this place, under present circumstances. Then kneeling down, he offered up a fervent prayer, entreating the Lord not to forget us in this wilderness, but to give us to feel His all-reviving presence, and to feed our hungry and thirsty souls, out of the fulness of His grace. A comfortable sense of His love and peace filled all our hearts on this occasion. In the evening, Paul began to read out of the Harmony of the four Evangelists, which we shall continue as often as circumstances will admit of it. Jonathan and Jonas generally conduct the daily morning and evening worship. 7th. We were so hard pressed by the ice driving towards us, that we were obliged in part to unload the boat, to be able to bring it into a safer situation in shallow water; and took our turns, three relieving three, to watch and guard off the larger shoals with boat-hooks, by day and night. We were glad to have reached a place, sheltered on all sides from the wind. 8th. Our people went out to look for reindeer, and no prospect of our proceeding to sea appearing, they resolved to stay out all night. 9th. Jonas returned and reported, that they had seen reindeer, but were not able to shoot any. Paul and Thukkekina went to-day to the western mountains, and staid over night. 10th. Brother Kmoch went to the westward to look for birds. He saw a large flight of sea-fowl, but they were extremely shy, and would not permit him to get near them. From the hills around us, we perceived that the entrance into the bay was completely blocked up with ice; and towards the sea, nothing but one continued field of ice appeared. We sighed and prayed to the Lord to help us in this time of need. Jonas went out in his kayak, and shot an _ugsuk_, not far from our tent. Towards evening, we saw a fire made by our reindeer-hunters, at the western extremity of the bay, and they fired their pieces to give us notice, that they had got some game, and that we should fetch it with the small boat. Okkiksuk therefore went, and found them completely overcome with fatigue, having dragged their game, across the mountains for a considerable distance. The Esquimaux are indeed able to carry burdens up and down hill, under which most Europeans would sink, but when they kill a deer far inland, it is hard-earned food, by the trouble of carrying it home. Paul had shot two reindeer, of which we received a portion. Brother Kohlmeister had been on the other side of the bay, and returned with a large parcel of plants and flowers, the examination of which afforded him much amusement. The Esquimaux now boiled a large kettle full of seal's flesh, of which we were invited to partake. This we did, and thought it a very palatable mess, particularly as we had tasted no fresh meat since we had left the North Ikkerasak. The prejudice of the Europeans against seal's flesh, consists mostly in imagination. The dirty kettle in which the Esquimaux boil it, is indeed not calculated to excite an appetite, but the meat, when eaten fresh, tastes much like beef; when cold, it acquires an oily taste; nor durst a person, not accustomed to it from his childhood, make a practice of eating it, as it is of a very heating nature, and would soon bring on serious disorders. It generally prevents sleep, if eaten at supper. 12th. The wind became West, and cleared the bay of the ice. Brother Kmoch and Jonathan went to the opposite shore and found winter-houses, one of which had been inhabited last winter; two others were in ruins. They climbed the highest eminence towards Nachvak, but saw nothing but drift-ice, covering the sea, with but few spots of open water, to the north. 13th. It blew hard from the West. David and Okkiksuk crossed the bay to explore the state of the ice from the hills. In the evening they returned with intelligence, that the sea was cleared of ice to the northward. David had caught a netsek, (a small species of seal), and we had taken a good draught of trout in the net before our tent. 14th. Jonathan roused us at four in the morning, the wind being in our favour, and we immediately made preparations to depart. After breakfast, as we were praying the Litany, a sudden storm arose. We were assembled in Jonathan's tent, and the stones and pegs, with which it had been fastened down to the ground, being already removed, the tent-skins were soon blown about our heads by the violence of the wind, and we were now obliged patiently to wait till the storm abated. In the midst of our deliberations, accompanied with expressions of our disappointment, Thukkekina gravely observed, that we might very likely get away this summer, and need not be dismayed. Towards evening, it fell calm, and the musquitoes teazed us unmercifully. We supped on fresh salmon, filled our tents with smoke, to keep off our winged tormentors, shut ourselves in, and forgot our grievances and Thukkekina's consolations in sound sleep. 15th. In the morning at three o'clock, we took a final leave of Nullatartok bay, and got under way with a favourable, though rather boisterous wind at S.W. having been detained here for twelve days by the ice. After about an hour's sail, we were near the entrance of the inlet, when a sudden gust from the mountains carried away our after-top-mast, with sail and tackle. It fell with great noise on the deck, and into the sea. By God's mercy no one was hurt, and we were more particularly thankful, that of the five children on board, none were just then on deck. It once happened, that the main-yard fell down, and but narrowly missed striking two children, who with a third were sitting and playing together. They must inevitably have lost their lives, had it fallen upon them. We praised God for their preservation during the whole voyage. By the above-mentioned disaster, we were obliged to run into a small cove, where we repaired the mast with all speed, and proceeded with a gentle wind towards Nachvak. A calm ensued, and as there is no anchorage between Nullatartok and Nachvak, we rowed all night, and felt the advantage of the great length of days, at this season of the year. 16th. The view we had of the magnificent mountains of Nachvak, especially about sun-rise, afforded us and our Esquimaux great gratification. Their south-east extremity much resembles Saddle island near Okkak, being high, steep, and of singular shape. These mountains in general are not unlike those of Kaumayok for picturesque outline. In one place, tremendous precipices form a vast amphitheatre, surmounted by a ledge of green sod, which seemed to be the resort of an immense number of sea-gulls and other fowls, never interrupted by the intrusion of man. They flew with loud screams backwards and forwards over our heads, as if to warn off such unwelcome visitors. In another place, a narrow chasm opens into the mountain, widening into a lagoon, the surrounding rocks resembling the ruins of a large Gothic building, with the green ocean for its pavement, and the sky for its dome. The weather being fine, and the sun cheering us with his bright rays, after a cold and sleepless night, we seemed to acquire new vigour, by the contemplation of the grand features of nature around us. We now perceived some Esquimaux with a woman's boat, in a small bay, preparing to steer for Nachvak. They fired their pieces, and called to us to join them, as they had discovered a stranded whale. Going on shore to survey the remains of this huge animal, we found it by no means a pleasant sight. It lay upon the rocks, occupying a space about thirty feet in diameter, but was much shattered, and in a decaying state. Our people, however, cut off a quantity of blubber from its lips. The greater part of the blubber of this fish was lost, as the Esquimaux had no means of conveying it to Okkak. The Esquimaux stationed here showed great willingness to assist us; and as our party was much fatigued with rowing all night, they towed us into Nachvak, where we arrived about 2 P.M. Old Kayaluk and a young man, Parnguna, and his wife, were here. The latter called on Brother Kohlmeister, and thanked him for having saved her life. He had forgotten that he had once given her medicine at Okkak in a dangerous illness, but her gratitude was still unbounded. CHAPTER V. _Reception at Nachvak. Description of the bay. The Esquimaux manner of spearing salmon and trout. Christian deportment of the Okkak and Hopedale Esquimaux. Jonas's address to the Heathen. Love of music general among these Indians. Departure from Nachvak. Danger in doubling the North Cape. Arrival at Sangmiyok bay._ July 16th.--After two or three hours sleep in our cabin, we went on shore. The Esquimaux, who had here a temporary station, about fifty in number, received us with every mark of attention. Loud shouts of joy resounded from all quarters, and muskets were fired in every direction. They could scarcely wait with patience for our landing, and when we pitched our tent, were all eager to assist; thus we were soon at home among them. Seven tents were standing on the strand, and we found the people here differing much in their manners from the people at Saeglek. Their behaviour was modest and rather bashful, nor were we assailed by beggars and importunate intruders, as at the latter place, where beggary seemed quite the fashion, and proved very troublesome to us. But we had no instance of stealing. Thieves are considered by the Esquimaux in general with abhorrence, and with a thief no one is willing to trade. We have discovered, however, that that propensity is not altogether wanting in the northern Esquimaux, who, now and then, if they think that they can do it without detection, will make a little free with their neighbour's property. The Esquimaux not only gave us a most hearty welcome, but attended our morning and evening prayers with great silence and apparent devotion. Indeed, to our great surprise, they behaved altogether with uncommon decorum and regularity during our stay. 17th. Being detained with drift-ice at the mouth of the bay, we pitched our tent on shore. We examined the bay more minutely. It extends to the West to a considerable depth, and is not protected by any islands, except a few rocks, at some distance in the sea. The surrounding mountains are very high, steep, and barren, and verdure is found only in the vallies. Here the _arnica montana_, which the Missionaries have found of great use among the Esquimaux, grows in great abundance. Salmon-trout are caught in every creek and inlet. Like the salmon, they remain in the rivers and fresh-water lakes during the winter, and return to the sea in spring. The Esquimaux about Okkak and Saeglek, catch them in winter under the ice by spearing. For this purpose, they make two holes in the ice, about eight inches in diameter, and six feet asunder, in a direction from north to south. The northern hole they screen from the sun, by a bank of snow about four feet in height, raised in a semicircle round its southern edge, and form another similar bank on the north-side of the southern hole, sloped in such a manner as to reflect the rays of the sun into it. The Esquimaux then lies down, with his face close to the northern aperture, beneath which the water is strongly illuminated by the sunbeams entering at the southern. In his left hand he holds a red string, with which he plays in the water, to allure the fish, and in his right a spear, ready to strike them as they approach. In this manner they soon take as many as they want. The salmon-trout on this coast are from twelve to eighteen inches long, and in August and September so fat, that the Esquimaux collect from them a sufficient quantity of oil for their lamps. The immense abundance of these fish on all parts of the coast, would almost at any time save the Esquimaux from starving with hunger; but as seals furnish them both with food and clothing, it is of most consequence to them to attend to this branch of supply. At Hopedale and Nain, however, salmon-trout are caught only in the summer. We were much pleased with the behaviour of our own Esquimaux, during their stay at Nachvak. In every respect they conducted themselves, in word and deed, as true Christian people. Their conversation with their heathen countrymen, was free and unreserved, and "to the use of edifying." Jonathan and Jonas in particular, gave us great satisfaction. The people having assembled in Jonathan's tent, those who had no room in it, standing without and listening with great order and stillness, Brother Kohlmeister addressed them, explaining the aim of our voyage; that we were going, out of love to their nation, to the northern Esquimaux, and to those of Ungava bay, to make known to them the love of God our Saviour; and, by the gospel, to point out to them the way to obtain life everlasting. We knew that they were heathen, who, being ignorant of the way to God, were in bondage to the devil, and would be lost for ever, unless God had mercy upon them and sent them his word, to lead them to Jesus Christ their only Saviour, who shed His blood, and died on the cross to redeem their souls. They received the discourses and exhortations of the Missionary with reverential attention, but those of their own countrymen, with still greater eagerness, and we hope not without benefit. Jonas once addressed them thus; "We were but lately as ignorant as you are now: we were long unable to understand the comfortable words of the gospel: we had neither ears to hear, nor hearts to receive them, till Jesus, by his power, opened our hearts and ears. Now we know what Jesus has done for us, and how great the happiness of those souls is, who come unto Him, love Him as their Saviour, and know, that they shall not be lost, when this life is past. Without this we live in constant fear of death. You will enjoy the same happiness, if you turn to and believe in Jesus. We are not surprised that you do not yet understand us. We were once like you, but now thank Jesus our Redeemer, with tears of joy, that He has revealed Himself unto us," Thus, with cheerful countenances and great energy, did these Christian Esquimaux praise and glorify the name of Christ our Saviour, and declare, what he had done for their souls, exhorting the heathen likewise to believe. The above address seemed to make a deep impression on the minds of all present. One of their leaders, or captains, exclaimed with great eagerness, in presence of them all: "I am determined to be converted to Jesus." His name is _Onalik_. He afterwards called upon Brother Kohlmeister, and inquired, whether it was the same, to which of the three settlements he removed, as it was his firm determination to become a true believer. Brother Kohlmeister answered: "That it was indifferent where he lived, if he were only converted and became a child of God, and an heir of life eternal." Another, named _Tullugaksoak_, made the same declaration, and added: "That he would no longer live among the heathen." Though the very fickle disposition of the heathen Esquimaux, might cause some doubts to arise in our minds, as to their putting these good resolutions into practice, yet we hope, that the seed of the word of God, sown in this place, may not have altogether fallen upon barren ground. In the evening, our people met in Jonathan's tent, and sang hymns. Almost all the inhabitants were present. They afterwards spent a long time in pleasant and edifying conversation. It may here be observed, that the Esquimaux delight in singing and music. As to national songs, they have nothing deserving of that name; and the various collectors of these precious morsels in our day, would find their labour lost in endeavouring to harmonize the incantations of their sorcerers and witches, which more resemble the howlings of wolves and growlings of bears, than any thing human. But though the hymn and psalm-tunes of the Brethren's Church are mostly of antient construction, and, though rich in harmony, have no airy melodies to make them easily understood by unmusical ears, yet the Esquimaux soon learn to sing them correctly; and the voices of the women are remarkably sweet and well-tuned. Brother Kohlmeister having given one of the children a toy-flute, Paul took it, and immediately picked out the proper stops in playing several psalm-tunes upon it, as well as the imperfect state of the instrument would admit. Brother Kmoch having taken a violin with him, the same Esquimaux likewise took it up, and it was not long before he found out the manner of producing the different notes. 18th. At 8 A.M. Brother Kohlmeister having delivered a farewell-discourse to the Esquimaux, (during which they were much affected), we took leave of these goodnatured people, and set sail with a fair and strong West-wind, but met with much drift-ice at the entrance of the bay. It made less way than our boat, and the wind becoming more violent, we found ourselves in an unpleasant situation. After tacking all day, and a great part of the night, the ice preventing our proceeding, and the wind, our returning to our former station, we were obliged to make for the Eastern point of the bay, where we at length succeeded in gaining a small cove, and cast anchor. Our situation was singular; the rocks rose in a semicircle around us, towering perpendicularly to an amazing height, like an immense wall. After a few hours stay, two Nachvak Esquimaux joined us, and prevailed on Jonathan to return to the tents, but we had scarcely reached the centre of the bay, before the violence of the wind drove us out to sea, and we were compelled to push for the northern promontory, from which all the ice had now retreated. Under the mountains we found shelter from the wind, which had by this time risen to a storm. It was late, and as it appeared dangerous to remain here, we rowed towards the point, but there beheld, with terror, the raging of the sea and dashing of the waves against the rocks, the spray flying like clouds into the air, and returned into smooth water, where, however, we were long in finding a place to anchor in. The night was spent quietly under shelter of the high rocks. They form the base of mountains higher than the _Kiglapeyd_, rise perpendicularly, in some places impending, with fragments, apparently loose, hanging over their edge, and forming all kinds of grotesque figures. 19th. At sun-rise we still saw and heard the storm which threatened us with destruction, if we ventured to double the cape. At nine the wind abated, and we set sail, got safe round the point, and glided, with a gentle wind, into a broad, shallow bay, called Sangmiyok, full both of hidden and visible rocks, in which we cast anchor about five P.M. While Brother Kmoch superintended the concerns of the kitchen, Brother Kohlmeister and Jonathan went on shore, and to the highest mountain on the promontory. From the top of this mountain they could plainly discern the four principal headlands between Cape Mugford and Cape Chudleigh. The former situated in latitude 58° N. the latter in 61°. Between these are four promontories, in a line from S.E. to N.W. The first is _Uivak_, at the entrance into Saeglek Bay, outside of which a small island lies, in form of a pyramid or sugar-loaf. Next follow the two forming Nachvak Bay, another _Uivak_ to the south of _Nennoktok_, upon which we stood. The fourth is _Kakkeviak_, not far from Killinek, or Cape Chudleigh, in form of a tent, called in the charts _Blackhead_. _Nennoktok_ is called _False Blackhead_. CHAPTER VI. _Pass Cape Nennoktok. Visit the Esquimaux families at Kummaktorvik and Amitok. Description of an Esquimaux travelling bed. Mountains seen at Ungava. Netsek seal described. Greenland houses. Danger of being shipwrecked near Kakkeviak._ July 20th.--We proceeded with little or no wind, and taking to our oars, doubled the great Cape of Nennoktok. Here a strong swell from the sea met us, and tossed our boat violently about, and, having no wind, it drove us nearer to the shore than was perfectly safe. We remained about an hour in this unpleasant situation, when a breeze sprung up, which carried us out to the open sea among islands. It now began to rain very hard, and the wind rose. While Brother Kmoch was assisting the people on deck, Brother Kohlmeister had enough to do below, to keep peace among the furniture of our cabin, and sometimes found himself defeated in his attempts, pots and pans, and boxes, and every thing that was not a fixture, tumbling upon him. Several of our people were in the skin-boat, and the fury of the wind and sea would not permit them to come to our assistance. The weather also became so thick and foggy between the islands, that we were unable to see to any distance. Jonathan was therefore glad to have been yesterday on shore, when from the mountain he discovered the situation of the promontory, the coast, and the islands before us, and now contrived to steer in the proper direction. We soon found ourselves in smoother water, and among islands, where a vast number of seals and birds made their appearance. At six in the evening we reached _Kummaktorvik_, and came to an anchor. Having landed, Brother Kmoch shot a hare, close to the beach. These creatures are white in winter, and grey in summer, and in winter so numerous, that though, when roasted, they are excellent food, we were almost tired of them last year at Okkak. The rain continuing during the whole of the night and forenoon of the 21st, we found it necessary by sufficient rest to strengthen ourselves for future watchfulness. An Esquimaux travelling bed consists of a large bag of reindeer-skin, with the hair turned inward, covered with seal-skin, the hair turned outward. It is furnished with a broad flap to cover the mouth, and a strap to fasten down the flap. This bag comprehends the whole apparatus and furniture of an Esquimaux bed-room. Having undressed, the traveller creeps into it, and a kind neighbour having shut him up close by fastening the strap, he leaves him to sleep on till morning, when he helps him out again. In summer the flap is dispensed with. The invention, however, is of European origin, and a luxury introduced by the Missionaries; for an Esquimaux lies down in his clothes, without further preparation. In the morning we landed, and had the usual Sunday's service with our people on shore; after which Brother Kohlmeister visited the Esquimaux in their tents, and had some religious conversation with them, to which they seemed to pay attention. Afterwards Kuttaktok, John, Nukkapiak, and Kajulik, with their wives, came to see us on board. They are the winter inhabitants of this bay. John was baptized in infancy at Okkak, but afterwards left the settlement, and not only associates with the heathen Esquimaux, but has even been guilty of murder. All of them, however, come occasionally to Okkak. They had two tents about four miles from our landing place. 22d. The contrary wind forbidding our departure, Brother Kohlmeister, accompanied by Jonathan, Jonas, and Thukkekina, walked across the country to the N.W. bay, to return their visit. When they saw them coming at a distance, they fired their pieces, to direct them to the tents, and came joyfully to meet the Missionary and his party. Nothing could exceed the cordiality with which they received them. A kettle was immediately put on the fire to cook salmon-trout, and all were invited to partake, which was the more readily accepted, as the length of the walk had created an appetite, the keenness of which overcame all squeamishness. To do these good people justice, their kettle was rather cleaner than usual, the dogs having licked it well, and the fish were fresh and well dressed. To honour the Missionary, a box was placed for him to sit upon, and the fish were served up to each upon a flat stone instead of a plate. After dinner, Brother Kohlmeister, in acknowledgment for their civility, gave to each of the women two needles, and a small portion of tobacco to each man, with which they were highly delighted. All of them being seated, a very lively and unreserved conversation took place concerning the only way of salvation, through Jesus Christ, and the necessity of conversion. With John and his mother Mary, Brother Kohlmeister spoke very seriously, and represented to them the danger of their state, as apostates from the faith; but they seem blinded by Satan, and determined to persist in their heathenish life. The Esquimaux now offered to convey the party across the bay in their skin-boat, which was accepted. Almost all of them accompanied the boat, and met with a very friendly reception from our boat's company. In the evening, after some hymns had been sung by our people, Jonas addressed them and the heathen Esquimaux in a short, nervous discourse, on the blessedness of being reconciled unto God. Kummaktorvik bay runs N.E. and S.W. and is defended by some islands from the sea. It is about four or five miles long, and surrounded by high mountains, with some pleasant plains at their foot, covered with verdure. It's distance from Nachvak is about twelve miles. This chain of mountains, as will be hereafter mentioned, may be seen from Kangertlualuksoak, in Ungava Bay, which is a collateral proof, that the neck of land, terminated to the N. by Cape Chudleigh, is of no great width. Both the Nain and Okkak Esquimaux frequently penetrate far enough inland to find the rivers taking a westerly direction, consequently towards the Ungava country. They even now and then have reached the woods skirting the estuaries of George and South rivers. 23d. We set sail at sun-rise, but the wind being too high to suffer us to proceed with safety, we again anchored in a commodious harbour in _Amitok_ island. Our people were here busily employed in repairing the damaged rigging and sails. Towards evening Jonas caught a seal, to the great gratification of our party. It was dressed immediately, and we joined them in their repast with a good appetite. The _Netsek_ is the only species of seal which remains during the winter under the ice. They form in it large caverns, in which they bring forth their young, two at a time, in March. More than one cavern belongs to one seal, that he may, if disturbed in the first, take shelter in the second. No other kind of seal is caught in winter by the Esquimaux. 24th. Brother Kmoch rose at two, and went on shore to examine the island more minutely. The morning was beautiful, and the sun rose with great splendour. _Amitok_ lies N.W. from Kummaktorvik, is of an oblong shape, and stretches out pretty far towards the sea. The hills are of moderate height, the land is in many places flat, but in general destitute of grass. On the other side are some ruins of Greenland houses. The Esquimaux have a tradition, that the Greenlanders came originally from Canada, and settled on the outermost islands of this coast, but never penetrated into the country, before they were driven eastward to Greenland. This report gains some credit, from the state in which the abovementioned ruins are found. They consist in remains of walls and graves, with a low stone enclosure round the tomb, covered with a slab of the same material. They have been discovered on islands near Nain, and though sparingly, all along the whole eastern coast, but we saw none in Ungava bay. The rocks on Amitok contain large masses of a crumbly, semi-transparent garnet, of a reddish hue. (From some specimens sent out, it rather appears to be a rose red quartz, or beryllite). As it appeared as if we should be detained here, Brother Kmoch had made a fire, and was leisurely cooking a savoury mess of birds for breakfast, when Jonathan returned from the hills, with intelligence that the wind was abating in violence, and he therefore would proceed. The tent was struck, and all hurried on board: yet we had long to combat both an unfavourable wind and a strong current, which compelled us to double the East point of the island, and seek shelter among some small islands, steering for _Niakungu_ point. From hence we got the first sight of _Tikkerarsuk_, (the Esquimaux name for a low point stretching from the continent into the sea), of the island _Aulatzevik_, and the high promontory of _Kakkeviak_. The whole country to the west of _Niakungu_ is called _Serliarutsit_. It fell calm as we doubled the point, and we took to our oars, and came to an anchor in an open bay, south of Tikkerarsuk. 25th. At 6 P.M. we got under weigh with a fine S.E. wind, and made for the island of _Aulatzevik_, which is about the same size as an island of the same name, near Kiglapeyd. The passage between the island and the main is too shallow for an European boat like ours. The wind rising we sailed towards Kakkeviak at a great rate. To the right lay a chain of small islands called by the Esquimaux Pikkiulits, (the habitation of young eider-ducks). Having nearly doubled _Kakkeviak_ cape, we perceived two tents on shore, which occasioned loud rejoicings on board. They belonged to _Kumiganna_ of _Saeglek_, with his party, who being bound to Killinek, had promised to accompany us thither. The wind was very high, and the Cape encircled with numerous visible and invisible rocks, but there was a clear passage to the shore, keeping outside of the breakers. But whether from the violence of the wind, or from the eagerness with which our trusty captain wished soon to join his countrymen, he steered right through the midst of them, when suddenly the boat struck with great violence upon a sunken rock. The shock was so great, that all on board were thrown down, and every thing tumbled about. Poor Agnes, Jonas's wife, got a severe wound in her head. We immediately took in all our sails, and after hard labour, succeeded in pushing the boat off the rock. On examination we found that all was safe, and thanked God, with hearts filled with humble acknowledgments of His mercy, for preserving us from danger and death. The boat had struck in such a manner, that the keel, which was new and strong, being constructed of one solid piece of timber, sustained the whole shock. Had she taken the rock with her bottom, she would most likely have bilged, or upset, and it is a great question, whether our lives, but particularly the lives of the little children, could have been saved, the sea running very high. The skin-boat was thrown right over the rocks on shore, by the violence of the surf. Kumiganna soon came off in his kayak, and advised us to steer for the land right before us, where he thought we should find _Uttakiyok_; nor was there any safe anchorage in this place. We therefore took a young Esquimaux on board as pilot, and steered between the main land and the islands, for _Oppernavik_, twenty English miles off. Having left the skin-boat to follow us, we cut swiftly through the water, and soon reached the place of our destination. CHAPTER VII. _Arrival at Oppernavik. Account of Uttakiyok. His perseverance in waiting for the arrival of the Missionaries. Islands and bays between Kakkeviak and Killinek. Danger in the ice at Ammitok. Want of fuel supplied by robbing old graves._ When we arrived at Oppernavik, we found _Uttakiyok_, with his two wives and youngest brother, waiting to receive us. He and his family are from the Ungava bay, and had been upon the watch in this place during the whole spring. They welcomed us with shouts of joy, and firing of their pieces, and we had indeed the greatest reason to thank God, that he had sent us this man, to conduct us on our way to an unknown country, and through unfrequented seas. For this service Uttakiyok was eminently qualified, and without such a steady, faithful guide, we should have been wandering in the most painful and dangerous uncertainty in the desert regions to the West of Cape Chudleigh, where, on a coast of 100 miles in length, we did not meet with a single inhabitant. He was so anxiously intent upon meeting us, that he had erected signals on all the heights surrounding his tent, to prevent our missing him. Among his countrymen he is much respected, on account of his superior sense, and skill in all Esquimaux arts, and possesses great influence among them. _Uttakiyok_ was one of the two Esquimaux, from whom, in the year 1800, we received the first distinct information respecting the Ungava country and its inhabitants, by which the desire, excited both at home and here in Labrador, to visit the northern Esquimaux, was greatly strengthened, and led to a resolution, if possible, to take early steps to accomplish this object, (See page 3). Two years ago, he had been on a trading voyage to Okkak, from Killinek, where he then dwelt, and intended to return, in the summer following, to Ungava, his native country, but an illness, which befel his son, detained him. This intelligence was received at Okkak during last winter, when we sent him word, that as we purposed paying his countrymen a visit, we wished him to wait for us, that he might conduct us through the straits of Killinek. But having heard nothing further concerning him, we remained in uncertainty respecting his intentions. We were the more thankful to God, who had disposed the heart of this man cheerfully to accept of the commission, and wait to be our guide, an office which he performed with a degree of faithfulness and disinterested kindness, which claims our admiration and gratitude. While we were here waiting for a favourable opportunity to pass the straits, which were yet filled with ice, he behaved in the kindest manner to us and our Esquimaux. Though a heathen, he regularly attended our morning and evening worship, and declared to Jonathan, that he also intended to be converted to Jesus, and if we would form a settlement in his country, would come and live with us, and was sure, that many of his countrymen would do the same. Around his tent, a considerable extent of rock was covered with seal's flesh, and in the hollows were pools of oil. Ten bags of blubber were standing ready for sale; and with a view to shew him our good-will, Brother Kohlmeister bartered with him for three of them, which were hid under the stones, to take them with us, if practicable, on our return. 26th. We put up our three tents; Uttakiyok's people had three more. Wind N.W. We were now near the entrance into the Ikkerasak, (or straits), which separate the island of Killinek and two or three other large islands from the continent. They stretch to the N. to the distance of about 12 or 15 English miles, the outer one forming Cape Chudleigh. To the N.W. of the cape lie some other small islands, called by the Esquimaux _Tutsaets_, and N.N.E. of these, the great island _Resolution_, called _Igloarsuk_, on which, as we were informed, many Esquimaux reside. The Tutsaets were discernible from this place, but not the latter, which however, as the Esquimaux say, may be seen from the Tutsaets. We guessed at its situation, from the clouds hanging over it in the North quarter. The weather was, as might be expected on the northern coast of America, foggy, rainy, and cold, and our small stove, which we brought into the tent, was of great use to us during our stay in this place. 27th. Rain and wind violent, and prevented our proceeding. We caught some _Pitsiolaks_, (awks), and a brace of young puffins, which, with the addition of some salt meat, made excellent broth. 28th. The weather was fair, but the wind still blowing hard at N.W. Brother Kmoch went to Uttakiyok's tent, and sitting down with him at the point of Oppernavik, and looking down the coast as far as Kakkeviak, got him to name all the bays, points, and islands, from Kakkeviak to Oppernavik, of which he made minutes. The distance between the two points or headlands may be guessed at, by the time of sailing with a strong leading wind, namely three hours and a half. Coming up from Kakkeviak, to the E. lie three islands, _Kikkertorsoak_, _Imilialuk_, rather less in view, and _Nessetservik_. Having passed these, there follows a chain of small, naked islands, not very high, stretching towards Killinek. To the W. near Kakkeviak lies _Uglek_; then a bay, _Nulluk_, and farther to the left another bay, _Tellek_, (right arm). The country along these bays is called _Attanarsuk_. Now follow the bay _Ikkorliarsuk_, the lower point of _Tikkerarsuk_, the bay _Annivagtok_, and _Kakkeviak_, a high promontory, (not to be confounded with the other Kakkeviak, where we struck on the rock. This promontory is only about four miles from Oppernavik to the S.E.). Then follow two small bays, _Anniovariktok_ and _Sangmiyok_, then the promontory _Ukkuliakartok_, (meaning a headland between two bays), and the bay _Tunnusuksoak_. Next, the last point on the continent, forming the south entrance to the Ikkerasak. The abovementioned chain of barren islands is called by the Esquimaux _Naviarutsit_, and besides them some low rocks, _Nuvurutsit_. The island of Killinek is about nine miles long, and five broad, high, and forming the north side of the straits. Another Ikkerasak, (or strait), divides it from an island called Kikkertorsoak, (a common name for an island), of considerable height, but not so long as _Killinek_: one, or perhaps more islands follow, narrowing E. and W. and forming Cape Chudleigh. To-day there was much ice both in the strait and at sea. We went to the nearest island, where Brother Kohlmeister took an observation, and found our situation to be 60° 16'. 30th. It blew a hard gale from the N.E., rained hard, and as the ice now began to enter our harbour, we were busily engaged in keeping it off the boat. 31st. Imagining to-day that the straits would be free from ice, we resolved to attempt to pass them, and set sail. But it soon became evident, that there was still plenty of ice in the neighbourhood, and the wind setting to the N.E. with fogs, we were obliged to return. Suspecting also that the easterly wind would again drive the ice into our former harbour at Oppernavik, we ran into a short pass, between that and a small island called Ammitok, where we anchored under shelter of the island. The sequel proved, that we had for once acted with sound judgment and foresight, for our former anchoring-ground was soon filled with ice; and during the night large flakes entered even into our present place of refuge. _August_ 1st. At day break we found ourselves completely surrounded by floating ice, a strong N.W. wind driving the large shoals from the W. side of the little pass in which we lay, with much force towards us, insomuch that our boat was in the greatest danger of being crushed to pieces by them. We were all day long hard at work with poles, boat-hooks, and hatchets, to ward off the larger shoals, but when the tide fell, they hung upon our cables and anchors, of which we had three out, closing in also on all sides of the boat, so that we were every moment in fearful expectation of her being carried away, and our anchors lost, which would have reduced us to the most distressing situation. Indeed we all cried to the Lord to help us in this dangerous situation, and not to suffer us to perish here, but by His almighty aid, to save us and our boat. With great and unremitting exertions we had laboured all day, from the morning early, till seven in the evening, when the Lord heard our prayers, and sent relief. We now succeeded in working the boat out of the ice, the rising of the tide having opened a passage through it, just as we were almost exhausted with fatigue. It also became quite calm, and we felt as if we had passed from death to life. Having anchored again on the opposite side of the little pass or strait, we gave thanks to God, for the deliverance we had experienced through His mercy, in which our Esquimaux, young and old, most fervently joined. During our stay at Oppernavik, our whole stock of fire-wood was expended, and we were obliged to purchase of our companions, what they had to spare. We likewise robbed some old Esquimaux graves of the wooden utensils, which it is the superstitious practice of the heathen to lay beside the corpses of their owners, with old tent-poles, &c. and thus obtained fuel sufficient for our cookery. Wood will not decay by mere exposure to the air in Labrador, but wastes away gradually; and after forty or more years, the wood found at the graves is still fit for use. CHAPTER VIII. _Departure from Oppernavik. Pass the Ikkerasak of Killinek. Whirlpools. The coast takes a southerly direction. Meeting with Esquimaux from the Ungava country, who had never seen an European. Anchor at Omanek. High tides. Drift-wood. Double Cape Uibvaksoak. Distant view of Akpatok._ August 2d.--Having made all needful preparations for the voyage, a gentle but favourable wind, and occasional rowing, brought us, about nine in the morning, to the entrance of the much dreaded Ikkerasak. The weather was pleasant and warm, not a flake of ice was to be seen, and all our fear and anxiety had subsided. Our minds were attuned to praise and thanksgiving for the providential preservation we had experienced yesterday. We performed our morning devotions on deck, and all joined in a joyful hallelujah to God our Saviour, which was sweetly repeated by echoes among the mountains and precipices on either side. The scripture-text appointed in the Church of the United Brethren for this day being read, it seemed as if addressed particularly to us, separated as we felt ourselves, in these lonely regions, from the rest of the inhabitants of the earth: "_See now that I, even I, am He, and there is no God with me: I kill, and I make alive; I wound, and I heal._" Deut. 32, 39. We rejoiced, that we were in the hands of a gracious and merciful God and Father, who would not forsake us, but deal with us according to his wonted mercy and favour. The Ikkerasak, (or strait), is about ten miles in length; the land on each side high and rocky, and in some places precipitous, but there appeared no rocks in the strait itself. The water is deep and clear. Its mouth is wide, and soon after entering, a bay opens to the left, which by an inlet only just wide enough to admit a boat, communicates with a lagoon of considerable magnitude, in which lies an island on its western bank. Beyond this bay, the passage narrows and consequently the stream, always setting from N. to S. grows more rapid. Here the mountains on both sides rise to a great height. Having proceeded for two miles in a narrow channel, the strait opens again, but afterwards contracts to about 1000 yards across; immediately beyond which, the left coast turns to the south. As the tide ebbs regularly with the current from N. to S. along the whole coast of Labrador, the current through the strait is most violent during its fall, and less, when resisted by its influx on rising. We were taught to expect much danger in passing certain eddies or whirlpools in the narrow parts of the straits, and were therefore continually upon the look-out for them. When we passed the first narrow channel, at 12 P.M. it being low water, no whirlpool was perceptible. Having sailed on for little more than half an hour, with wind and tide in our favour, we reached the second. Here, indeed, we discovered a whirlpool, but of no great magnitude at this state of the tide. Near the north-shore the water was, indeed, whirled round in the manner of a boiling cauldron of ten or twelve feet diameter, with considerable noise and much foam; but we passed without the smallest inconvenience, within thirty or forty feet of the outer circle. Our skin-boat, however, which we had in tow, with a man in it, was seized by the vortex, and received a rapid twist; but as the towing-rope did not break, she was immediately rescued from danger by the swiftness of our course, and the affair afforded us more diversion than anxiety. The motion of the water in these eddies is so great, that they never freeze in the severest winter. The ice being drawn towards them with great force, the largest shoals are carried under water, and thrown up again, broken into numerous fragments. The Ikkerasak is at that season utterly impassable for boats. The Killinek people inhabit an island to the right, after leaving the strait. When we quitted the Ikkerasak, and entered the ocean on the western side of Cape Chudleigh, it seemed as if we were transported to a new world. Hitherto the coast to our left had always taken a northerly direction. It now turned to the S.S.W. and is low, with gently sloping hills, the sea being full of small islands, abounding in sea-fowl. To the N. and N.W. we saw the open sea in Hudson's Straits, which, compared to the turbulent Atlantic, seemed calm and peaceful. We sailed briskly amidst the islands, and overtook the inhabitants of Saeglek, whom we had seen at Kakkeviak, where they had got the start of us. The wind being favourable, we did not hail them, but kept on our course. We now saw with pleasure the Ungava country to the South before us, but had first to pass the low point of _Uivarsuk_, the bay of _Arvavik_, in which the people from Saeglek had their summer stations, and the mountain _Omanek_, of moderate height, and surrounded by many small islets, called by the Esquimaux _Erngavinget_, (bowels). We now discovered three skin-boats full of people standing towards us from the shore. They were inhabitants of Ungava, and welcomed our approach with loud shouts of joy and firing their pieces, which was answered by our party. They followed us to Omanek, a round island rising like a loaf among the rest, where they pitched their tents on shore. Some of them had formerly dwelt in different places north of Okkak, and were known to the Missionaries in former times, the rest were perfect strangers. They declared their intention of coming over to the North of Okkak, to remain some time in that country, for the sake of trade. It has been mentioned, that some of the Ungava people have come to Okkak, and carry on a trade between their countrymen and that place. They are a kind of middle men, bring fox and bear-skins, and exchange them for European goods. These they carry back, and sell at a very advanced price in the Ungava country. They spend two years on such a trading voyage. Brother Kohlmeister visited the people in their tents. They were about fifty in number, men, women, and children. He informed them, that nothing could induce the Missionaries to come into this country, but love to the poor heathen, and an ardent desire to make them acquainted with their Creator and Redeemer, that through Him they might attain to happiness in time and eternity. Some seemed to listen with great attention, but the greater part understood nothing of what was said. This, of course, did not surprise us, as most of them were quite ignorant heathen, who had never before seen an European. They, however, raised a shout of joy, when we informed them, that we would come and visit them in their own country. Many were not satisfied with viewing us on every side with marks of great astonishment, but came close up to us, and pawed us all over. At taking leave we presented them with a few trifles, which excited among them the greatest pleasure and thankfulness. We recommend these heathen to the mercy of God, and pray, that the day may soon dawn, when the light of the saving gospel of Jesus may shine into their hearts. 3d. Several of them came on board, once more to see us, and, in their way, to express their regard and gratitude. They also got some useful articles from our people, in exchange for their goods. We now set sail, passed a point called _Oglarvik_, and the bay _Takpangayok_, and arrived at _Tuktusiovik_, (a place where reindeer are seen), where we cast anchor for the night. Already at Omanek we had discovered a great difference between the rise and fall of the tides there and about Killinek. In the latter place it rose to four fathoms, but here still higher. The country looked pleasant, with many berry-bearing plants and bushes. There was, likewise, plenty of drift-wood all along the coast; not the large Greenland timber, but small trees and roots, evidently carried out of the great rivers of the Ungava by the ice. We had, of course, fire-wood enough, without robbing the graves of their superstitious furniture. Our Esquimaux pitched their tent on shore, and we supped with them on a mess of seal's flesh and eider-ducks. The musquitoes were extremely troublesome during our repast, after which we retired to sleep on board the boat. 4th. Wind fair. We passed numerous low rocks; a point, by name unknown to Uttakiyok; the bay _Ikpigitok_, two miles broad, and the cape called _Uibvaksoak_, the northern boundary of the great bay or gulf of _Abloriak_. This cape is surrounded by many bare and sunken rocks, which caused us to stand out pretty far to the westward. While we were off the point, we descried, at a very great distance to the N.W. a large island, called by the Esquimaux _Akpatok_. They say, that it encloses the whole bay or gulf towards the sea, and consists of high land: also, that it is connected with the western continent at low water by an isthmus. The north coast of this island appears to be the line laid down in maps and charts as the coast of America, to the south of Hudson's Straits. But the district of Ungava is separated from the island by a large inland bay, extending southward to the 58° N.L. North of Akpatok, the Esquimaux speak of islands well peopled by their countrymen, who have never seen Europeans. Having safely doubled the point or cape of _Uibvaksoak_, we came to an anchor near a small island to the south, where we spent the night. 5th. Calm weather, and proceeded gently. About 9 A.M. the wind turned against us, and we ran into a small bay, about five miles from our former anchoring-place. Here we found the _Andromeda tetragona_ growing in tolerable quantity, on the banks of a lagoon of fresh water. The face of the country was unpleasant, with many steep rocks. On a precipice behind our tent we perceived nests of birds of prey. The naked rocks had singular shapes, and presented to the imagination the ruins of a destroyed town. In the vallies we saw many small lagoons, but little grass, and the excrements of geese. It was about full moon, and the tide rising here five or six fathom, occasioned the most strange alterations in the prospect towards the sea, which, being smooth and clear of rocks at high water, exhibited, after its fall, an archipelago of rugged islands and black flats. CHAPTER IX. _Chain of black mountains. The Dragon's dwelling. Changes occasioned by rise and fall of the tides, and dangers attending them. Uttakiyok's superstitious customs. Singular effect of the tide in the bay of Ittimnekoktok. Arrive at Kangertlualuksoak bay and river. Its situation. Transactions there._ August 6th.--We crossed the bay _Abloriak_, which is large and wide, with many small islands and rocks towards the sea, and high black mountains inland, called _Torngaets_. Uttakiyok, who was always very eager to make us attentive to every object and its name, shewed us here a wide and deep cavern, in shape like the gable end of an house, situated at the top of a precipice, in a black mountain, of a very horrid and dark appearance. This, he informed us, was the dwelling place of Torngak, the evil spirit. The scenery was, indeed, extremely wild and terrible, and the beforementioned prospect of the rocks and islands at low water gave to the whole country a most singularly gloomy character. Nor is this change, occasioned by the tide in the state of the sea, merely in appearance terrific, it is so in reality: for we never durst cast anchor in less than eight or nine fathoms water, lest at ebb-tide we should find ourselves aground, or even high and dry. The cavern just spoken of, connected with the chain of black mountains in which it is situated, we called the Dragon's dwelling, but had no time to examine the place, though it did not appear inaccessible. Whether Uttakiyok would have ventured to accompany us into it, is another question, for he was, with all his good sense, strongly attached to the superstitious notions and ceremonies of his countrymen. Thus, on passing dangerous places he always hung the claw of a raven to his breast, and carried the blown paunch of a seal upon a tent-pole fixed to one side of his boat. The latter is a common practice among the northern Esquimaux, and probably considered by them all as a very efficient charm. We passed _Sioralik_, and many small and flat rocky islands: the bay _Issorkitok_, (a grassy place), a nameless headland; and the larger bay _Nappartolik_, (a woody country). The wood is said to commence at the interior point of this bay, and to continue throughout the whole of the Ungava country, which, as we afterwards discovered, extends to a considerable distance to the southward. Then follows _Tunnuyalik_, a point, or perhaps an island, on which lies a huge white stone, twenty or thirty feet high, by which it is distinguished from other similar headlands. A chain of low, flat islands, runs out into the sea to a considerable distance, and appearing at a distance as continued land, they are mistaken for a cape. Farther on is the bay _Ittimnekoktok_, where it grew dark before we found a suitable anchorage. The wind was high, and some of our company went on shore in the skin-boat, in order to pitch their tent, and spend the night. 7th. On rising, to our great surprise, we found ourselves left by the tide in a shallow pool of water, surrounded by rocky hills; nor could we at all discover the situation of our skin-boat, till after the water had begun to rise, and raised us above the banks of our watery dungeon, when, with great astonishment, not having been able to find it on the surface of the sea, and accidentally directing our eyes upwards, we saw it perched upon the top of a considerable eminence, and apparently on shore. We then landed, and ascending a rising ground, beheld with some terror, the wonderful changes occasioned by the tides. Our course was visible to the extent of two or three English miles, but the sea had left it, and we were obliged to remain in this dismal place, till about noon, before the water had risen sufficiently to carry us out. We now began to entertain fears, lest we might not always be able to find proper harbours, so as to avoid being left high and dry at low water; for having anchored in nine fathoms last night, we were left in one and a half this morning. Uttakiyok and Thukkekina were with us on shore. The eminence on which we stood was overgrown with vaccinia and other plants, and we saw among them marks of its being visited by hares. Near the summit was a spot, covered with red sand, which stained one's fingers, and among it were fragments of a substance resembling cast iron. We seemed here to stand on a peninsula connected by an isthmus with another island, or with the continent; but probably at high water it may be a separate island. As soon as the tide would permit, we set out, and proceeded towards a cape called _Kattaktok_, surrounded by small islands. Between the cape and our anchoring place, we passed, on the left, the following objects; _Keglo_, a broad deep bay; _Katarusialik_, a headland, probably of the continent; _Ukkasiksalik_, (meaning a place where soap stone is found), a peninsula; and to the right of the latter place, an island, _Kikkertarsoak_, which lies at the entrance of the _Great Bay_, or estuary of the great river _Kangertlualuksoak_. We sailed with a strong, but favourable wind, with some rain, between the peninsula and the island; and not trusting to the depth of the water at ebb-tide, sent two kayaks forward to sound. They soon brought us into a good harbour, where we cast anchor about half past five P.M. _Kangertlualuksoak_ river was the spot to which we had principally directed our views. It lies about 140 miles S.S.W. of Cape Chudleigh. By an observation at its mouth its latitude appeared to be 58° 57'. But we had no means of finding the longitude. At its entrance the bay runs rather S.S.E. for about ten or twelve English miles, then turns due S.E. for six or eight more, and after that S.W. At the second turn towards the S.E. there is the greatest quantity of wood, chiefly Larch, but of moderate size. We particularly noticed a fine slope facing the south, which appeared the most pleasant part of the bay, to which a vessel might approach and anchor with convenience, there being from 24 to 30 fathoms water. We also imagined that the entrance from the sea would be free from obstructions, as no islands are seen in that direction. Uttakiyok likewise declared, that there was no bar or sunken rocks near the mouth of the bay. We found no inhabitants on our arrival, but on the 13th, a whole company of people from Killinek joined us. Our transactions in the bay of _Kangertlualuksoak_, from the 7th, are here noticed more in detail. _August_ 8th. We landed, and went in search of our people, who had spent the night in tents on shore. Okkiksuk accompanied us to the top of a hill, overlooking the bay _Ittimnekoktok_, where we had anchored the day before. We saw it quite dry, and full of large fragments of rock. Turning towards the land, we discovered some wood at a distance. The weather being calm and warm, the musquitoes were excessively troublesome. The vallies here are overgrown with verdure, and the hills pretty well clothed with moss, and berry-bearing plants; but we could not continue our walk, on account of the musquitoes, which persecuted us unmercifully, and drove us back to our tents. All our men were out, two on that side on which we had landed, and the others having crossed the bay in their kayaks, were employed in hunting reindeer. Jonathan only remained at home. In the afternoon he accompanied us in the small boat, to a hill, situated to the South of our station, at about two miles distant, where we landed, and went up the country, but found nothing much worth notice. We observed, that round the headland near us, the water was very rough, with eddies and whirlpools, occasioned by the rising of the high tides. On returning to our little boat, we found it aground. We therefore gathered some drift-wood, of which there was plenty, and made a good fire, at which we sat down and regaled ourselves with some biscuit and beer. Having pushed the boat into the water, we set out, but owing to the violence of the current had hard work to get to the great boat, and did not arrive till dark. Jonas saluted us from on board, by firing off his piece in token of success, and we found that he had got two, and his companion three reindeer, and a small black bear. The carcases were left at the tents, where part was cooked, and a mess brought to us on board, which proved an agreeable repast after our fatigue. Jonas and his family spent the night on board, the rest of the Esquimaux in their tents on shore. 9th. Jonas having found a good harbour on the other side of the bay, and the current being here very strong, we sailed across and anchored there. The strand was even, and full of smooth rocks, above high water mark. The bottom of the bay is mud, and a slimy substance, covering all the stones and pebbles, left by the tide, makes walking very troublesome. The land is not high, but pleasant, covered with moss, with many small ponds, and marks of being frequented by reindeer. 10th. We went farther up the bay in the skin-boat, with Jonathan, Uttakiyok, Thukkekina, Paul, David, and Okkiksuk. At a short distance from the place where we had landed yesterday, we came to a fine green terrace, overgrown with low shrubs and bushes, which delighted us much. From hence, a woody valley, extending to the left, seemed to invite us to take that course into the country, but we would not waste our time by examining it. On sailing farther up the bay, and turning round the abovementioned terrace, we came to a small inlet, dry at low water, on the left shore. Its banks were pleasantly covered with low bushes, interspersed with higher trees, and the place seemed to us very suitable for a settlement. From hence we perceived, at a short distance, on the opposite coast, a cape or headland, over which the tops of trees made their appearance. We sailed towards it, and found behind it a tract covered with low wood, chiefly larch and pine: on landing we saw the tracks of rein-deer, which had just left the spot. Jonathan, in an instant, ran like a young man for his gun, and with it into the wood. We followed him for two or three miles, but saw nothing but the track of the deer. The country inland seems in general level, with some low hills, and many ponds; without wood, but overgrown with rein-deer moss. No success attended our huntsman, and in the evening we met again in the boat. Brother Kmoch had kept up with Jonathan, and saw, among the bushes, the same kind of large partridge, or American wild pheasant, which is found about Okkak, but seems only to live in woods. It was a hen, with a covey of young birds, one of which which he caught, examined, and let go again, nor would he take or shoot the hen, out of compassion to the young brood. Brother Kohlmeister had meanwhile gone farther up the bay, and thought he had discovered the entrance of the river, but no fresh water appearing, we must still have been a great way off its influx into the bay. We now lighted a fire, boiled coffee, and cooked a dish of reindeer venison. The weather was warm, and the night fine and clear, but frosty. Having brought our travelling-beds with us on shore, (see page 34), we crept into them, and spent the night at the fire-side, the Esquimaux lying down anywhere about us. In the morning, the whole country was covered with hoar-frost, and the straw we had lain upon was frozen fast to the ground. CHAPTER X. _Further transactions in Kangertlualuksoak Bay. The Esquimaux women frightened by reports of Indians. Ceremony of taking possession of this new-explored country, as belonging to the King of England, and of naming the river George river. Leave the bay and proceed to Arvarvik. Whales caught by the Esquimaux in the shallows. Storm at Kernertut._ August 11th.--We rose by break of day, and after breakfast, sailed across the bay, and landed at the second small inlet, with an intention of penetrating into the country, but the returning warmth of the weather by day, and the myriads of musquitoes we had to contend with, rendered us unable to execute our purpose. The Missionaries and Jonathan ascended a hill, from which a great tract of country might be overlooked. It was full of wood, as far as the eye could reach. Near the inlet some places seemed boggy, or covered with grass. From hence a valley stretched into the country, with a small lake in it, about two or three miles distant. Berries were every where in abundance. The summits of the hills had no wood upon them, but much reindeer-moss. On our return, being about a mile from our landing-place, we saw our skin-boat in the middle of the bay, and fired a gun as a signal for it to come to us. The Esquimaux had five rein-deer in the boat, which Uttakiyok had perceived on the opposite bank. He had followed them in his kayak, driven them into the water, and killed them there. When hard pressed, reindeer soon take to the water, and swim so well, that a four-oared boat can scarcely come up with them, but an Esquimaux, in his kayak will overtake them. They therefore, if possible, drive them into the water, being then sure of their game. After dining on part of the venison, we returned to the great boat. On the passage, we thought we perceived at a considerable distance a black bear, and Uttakiyok, elated with his recent success, hoped to gain new laurels. He entered his kayak and proceeded as cautiously as possible along the shore, towards the spot, landed, climbed the hill, so as not to be observed, but when he had got just within gun-shot, perceived, that his bear was a black stone. This adventure furnished the company with merriment for the remainder of the voyage to the boat, which we reached about six P.M. When we got on board the boat, we found that all the women had taken refuge in it, thinking that they had seen Indians onshore. The men therefore immediately landed, to take care of the forsaken tents. This was no doubt a false alarm, for we never discovered any traces of them during our stay. To the south of Hopedale the Indians and Esquimaux sometimes meet, but as the Hopedale Esquimaux seek to cultivate their friendship, quarrels and bloodshed seldom occur. In Ungava, however, though they often exchange tokens of friendship, they are apt to give way to their national jealousies; and provocations being aggravated, their meetings now and then terminate in murder. The Esquimaux are much afraid of the Indians, who are a more nimble and active race. 12th. Having finished reconnoitring the neighbourhood, and gathered all the information concerning it, which our means would permit, and likewise fixed upon the green slope or terrace above described, as the most suitable place for a settlement, on account of the abundance of wood in its neighbourhood, we made preparations to proceed. Uttakiyok, who had spent more than one winter in the Ungava country, assured us, that there was here an ample supply of provisions, both in summer and winter, which Jonathan also credited, from his own observation. The former likewise expressed himself convinced, that if we would form a settlement here, many Esquimaux would come to us from all parts. We ourselves were satisfied that Europeans might find the means of existence in this place, as it was accessible for ships, and had wood and water in plenty. As for Esquimaux, there appeared no want of those things upon which they live, the sea abounding with whitefish, seals, sea fowl, &c. and the land with reindeer, hares, bears, and other animals. The people from Killinek declared their intention of removing hither, if we would come and dwell among them, and are even now in the habit of visiting this place every summer. Our own company even expressed a wish to spend the winter here. This being the day before our departure, we erected, on two opposite hills, at the entrance of the bay, high marks of stones, and on the declivity of a hill to the right, a board, into which we had cut an inscription, thus-- [Illustration: In front, Georgius III. Rex. Societas Unitatis Fratrum.] [Illustration: At the back. Benjamin Kohlmeister, George Kmoch, Aug. 7, 1811. The day of our arrival.] We raised and fixed this tablet with some solemnity, in presence of Uttakiyok and his family, as representatives of the people of Ungava, and of our own company, and hoisted the British flag alongside of it, while another was displayed at the same time in the boat. We explained the cause of this ceremony to all present, to the following effect-- "That we, on this day, raised this sign, in the name of our king, George III. the great monarch of all these territories, in testimony of our having explored it, and made choice of it, in case we or our Brethren should think proper to settle here. To which we called upon all present to bear witness." We then proclaimed the name of the Kangertlualuksoak to be henceforth _George River_, upon which every man fired his piece three times, the vollies being answered from the boat. The texts of scripture appointed for this day were then read, and we remarked how encouraging they were, as relating to the purpose, for which we visited these unknown regions: _From the rising of the sun, even to the going down of the same, my name shall be great among the Gentiles, saith the Lord of Hosts!_ Mal. 11, 1. _At the name of Jesus every knee shall bow, of things in heaven, and things in earth, and things under the earth; and every tongue shall confess, that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father!_ Philippians, 2, 10, 11. After the ceremony was over, we distributed some pease, bread, and beer among the Esquimaux, which enabled them to make a splendid feast, and the day was spent in the most agreeable manner. 13th. We set sail, about six A.M. with a gentle breeze, which however soon fell away entirely, and obliged us to take to our oars. Near the mouth of the bay, we met several kayaks, coming towards us. They were Esquimaux from Killinek, who expressed regret at not having sooner heard of our being here; some came on board, and traded with our people. We presented them with a little tobacco, for which they were very thankful. In order to get well out of the bay, we first steered North, and then passed to the S.W. between a peninsula _Nauyat_, lying to the left of the entrance, and seven small islands and rocks on the right, towards the island of _Arvarvik_, about six or seven miles distant, where we were obliged to cast anchor in an exposed situation, the wind having become contrary. There was a strong swell during the night, which violently agitated our boat. _Arvarvik_ is about five miles in circumference. It is covered with the bones of whales, which the Esquimaux catch here in their kayaks. The coast is surrounded by a great number of small low islands, with deep pools between them. Into these the whales stray at high water, and at the ebbing of the tide, are prevented finding their way back again. The Esquimaux then pursue and kill them with harpoons. In the island are ponds of fresh water, and some low hills, overgrown with moss. A great number of sea-fowl, and also reindeer, are found upon it. On the shore we found great quantities of a red jasper, or iron-stone, the same which occurs throughout the coast, from _Killinek_ to South river, not as a stratum, but in lumps, and generally below high water mark. The Esquimaux who landed on the continent reported, that about two miles inland, there was much low wood. 14th. We left our unpleasant anchorage, and returned to a place where the skin-boat had lain during the night, as it was sheltered from the South wind, which had risen considerably. 15th. Our people went out to hunt reindeer, and returned in the evening with two. The wind shifted to the west, and blew with violence. We spent again an uneasy night. 16th. Brother Kmoch went on shore and returned with a parcel of stones for examination. We now began to feel some anxiety on account of the great loss of time we were suffering here by contrary winds. 17th. About eight o'clock we set sail, the wind having come round to the S.E. with a cloudy sky. We passed several nameless islands, at the distance of about a mile from the shore. In the afternoon, it began to rain hard, and after having sailed about twelve miles, we cast anchor near a long point of land, called _Kernertut_, by which we were sheltered from the wind, which had again turned to the South-west. The sky however was clear, and the beginning of the night pleasant, with beautiful appearances of the Aurora Borealis. Most of our people, and with them Uttakiyok, had gone in the skin-boat higher up the bay, but it was too shallow to admit of our following them. Only Jonas and his children, and the two boys Okkiksuk and Mammak, were left with us on board. During the night the wind veered round to the N.E. and blew a gale, which increased in violence till day-break. 18th. The sea now rose to a tremendous height, such as we had never before experienced, and by the change of wind, we were exposed to the whole of its fury. The rain fell in torrents. We lay at three anchors, and the boat was tossed about terribly, the sea frequently breaking quite over her, insomuch that we expected every moment to be swallowed up in the abyss. With much difficulty we succeeded in lowering our after-mast. Jonathan and the rest of our company on shore, were obliged to be passive spectators of the dreadful scene, waiting the event in silent anguish. They quitted their tents, and came forward to some eminences near the beach, where, by lifting up their hands, and other gestures, they expressed terror, bordering on despair. Frequently the boat was hid from their view by the waves, which ran mountains high. They expected every moment that we should break loose from our anchors, and the boat be driven on the rocks. The length of our cables was here of the greatest advantage to us. About noon, the rope by which the small boat was fastened, broke. She was immediately carried up the bay, and thrown, by the violence of the surf, on the top of a rock, where she stuck fast, keel upwards. It was impossible to render us any assistance, till the tide turned, when the raging of the sea, and the wind, began to abate. As soon as it was practicable, Jonathan and the other men came to us in the skin-boat. He seemed quite overcome with joy, and, not able to utter a word, held out his hand, and shed tears of gratitude that he met us again alive, for he had given us up for lost. We now endeavoured to bring the great boat closer to the shore, landed, pitched our tent, and gave thanks to God for the merciful deliverance we had just experienced. Indeed all our people most fervently joined in praise to Him for the preservation of our lives. A warm dinner was soon prepared, by which we were much refreshed. As soon as the tide had ebbed sufficiently for it, our people went to the rock, on which the small boat lay, and got her into the water. To our great surprize we found, that she had received no material injury. CHAPTER XI. _Doubts expressed by Jonathan and the other Esquimaux on the expediency of continuing the voyage. Consultations. Resolve to proceed. Thunder-storm at Pitsiolak. Account of Indians. Esquimaux cookery and hunting feasts. Arrival in the river Koksoak._ Jonathan and Jonas now became more and more anxious about our situation. They represented to us, that, if we attempted to proceed farther, we might probably be compelled to remain here the whole winter, as the stormy season was fast approaching. They added, that to _them_, it would be of little consequence, but that they were concerned on _our_ account. Though we had not said any thing as yet that might tend to shake the confidence of our party, yet we felt no small degree of perplexity concerning present appearances. During the six days since we left George's River, we had made little more than fourteen or fifteen miles, and were at least, as far as we could judge, seventy or eighty from the river _Koksoak_, which we had fixed upon as the final object of the voyage, being the outermost western boundary of the Ungava country. Insurmountable difficulties seemed now to present themselves, owing partly to contrary winds and cold weather, and partly to loss of time, for we had been already two months on the voyage, and had not yet obtained our aim: so that our return might be unseasonably late, if we proceeded. We could not possibly make up our minds to spend the winter here, as we had not a sufficient supply of provisions, and knew what distress it would occasion to our Brethren at Okkak. We felt quite at a loss what to do in this dilemma, and our path seemed enveloped in obscurity. We remembered, that "_to the upright there ariseth a light in the darkness_," (Ps. 112, 4): that is, to them who fear and trust in the Lord, and sincerely desire to know and do His will, He will reveal it. In His name we had entered upon this voyage, the only ultimate object of which was, the conversion of a benighted, neglected nation, in one of the remotest corners of the earth. We were, therefore, sure that He would not forsake us, nor leave us in uncertainty as to His will concerning us, but that He, "_whose eyes run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to shew Himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect towards Him_," (2 Chron. 16, 9.) was, even in this desolate region, present with us, and would hear and answer our prayers. Many comfortable texts of scripture occurred to our minds on this occasion, filling us with an extraordinary degree of faith and confidence in Him, particularly such as, "_He will be very gracious unto thee at the voice of thy cry; when He shall hear it, He will answer thee_," Isa. 30, 19. Also, Dan. 10, 19; Jer. 16, 21; Isa. 43, 2, &c. The mercies, also, which we had already experienced, excited within us a sense of the deepest gratitude and most firm trust; and we therefore told our people, that we indeed participated in their concern, would take the subject into serious consideration, and acquaint them with our determination on the morrow. 19th. In the morning we met in our tent, where we were safe from the intrusion of the Esquimaux, to confer together upon this most important subject. We weighed all the circumstances connected with it, maturely and impartially, as in the presence of God, and, not being able to come to any decision, where reasons for and against the question seemed to hold such an even balance, we determined to commit our case to Him, who has promised, that "_if two of His people shall agree on earth, as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them_," (Matth. 18, 19.) and, kneeling down, entreated Him to hear our prayers and supplications in this our distressed and embarrassing situation, and to make known to us His will concerning our future proceedings, whether we should persevere in fulfilling the whole aim of our voyage, or, prevented by circumstances, give up a part, and return home from this place. The peace of God which filled our hearts on this memorable occasion, and the strong conviction wrought in us both, that we should persevere, in His name, to fulfil the whole of our commission, relying without fear on His help and preservation, no words can describe; but those who believe in the fulfilment of the gracious promises of Jesus, given to His poor followers and disciples, will understand us, when we declare, that we were assured, that it was the will of God our Saviour, that we should not now return and leave our work unfinished, but proceed to the end of our proposed voyage. Each of us communicated to his brother the conviction of his heart, all fears and doubts vanished, and we were filled anew with courage and willingness to act in obedience to it, in the strength of the Lord. O that all men knew the comfort and happiness of a mind devoted unto, and firmly trusting in God in all things! When we made known our determination to Jonathan and his son Jonas, and told them, that we had maturely considered the subject committed by them to us, and that, in answer to our prayers, the Lord had convinced us, that, not having obtained the aim of our voyage, we should proceed, Jonas, at first, seemed not quite satisfied, but our excellent captain, Jonathan, without hesitation replied: "Yes, that is also my conviction! We will go whither Jesus directs us. He will bring us safe to our journey's end, and safe home again." We were, indeed, glad and thankful that the Lord had inclined the heart of this man, who but yesterday seemed to be quite dispirited, to take this resolution, for much depended upon him, and the rest followed him without difficulty. Indeed they all submitted to our determination with a willing mind, and their expressions of resignation affected us much. During the day, the men had been out a-hunting, when Uttakiyok killed three reindeer, which occasioned great rejoicing, and helped to make our people forget the frightful scenes of yesterday. The country is full of black looking rocks, between which reindeer-moss and berries grow in plenty. The shore exhibited still many marks of the violence of the storm. 20th. We proceeded with a favourable wind at N.E. Our course lay S.W. across a broad bay, then, after doubling a point, across another bay of about the same breadth, to an island _Allukpaluk_, which we passed on the right, and on the left, another island, _Nipkotok_. At a considerable distance a-head lay the islands _Pitsiolak_, opposite a headland of the continent called _Tuktutok_. The sky had been from the morning cloudy, the wind became unfavourable and violent, and about noon heavy rain came on. Not being well able to proceed, on account of the violence of the wind, we cast anchor on the west side of _Pitsiolak_, about 2 P.M. but perceiving a thunderstorm rising from the western horizon, with very black clouds, threatening to drive us on shore if we remained at this anchorage, we weighed as quickly as possible, and endeavoured to get to the other side of the island. Meanwhile a most tremendous storm of thunder, lightning, and rain overtook us. The claps of thunder followed the flashes without interval, and the lightning seemed to strike into the water close to our boat, while the wind carried the spray into the air like smoke. Providentially we had doubled the northern point before the worst came on, and got to an anchor under shelter of the land. The storm passed by swiftly, it grew calm, the sun broke out, and the weather became uncommonly fine with us, though at a distance we saw the black clouds, and heard the hollow murmuring of the thunder for a long time. We now expected to have a comfortable night's rest, but it grew intensely cold, and again began to blow violently from the west. The strong current and heavy swell brought us into some danger, and the poor people, who were obliged to remain on deck all night, suffered much from cold and wet. When the tide was full, about midnight, the island we had seen to the west nearly vanished, the greater part being covered with water. 21st. In the morning we again saw the skin-boat lying upon a pretty high rock, and a tent pitched close to it. The weather was calm, but the wind contrary. Our Esquimaux made good use of this respite to refresh themselves after the fatigues of the night with a hearty meal and a sound nap. In the afternoon we landed. The island Pitsiolak, which forms two at high water, is low and flat, overgrown with Empetrum and Rubus Chamoemorus, (_Akpik_-berries). Quantities of driftwood float about the shores. The jasper occurred here again. This island may be about four or five miles long, and, at low water, is connected with other islands to the north. By the help of our glasses we could perceive woods on the continent, and the Esquimaux thought they discovered the smoke of Indian fires. They are much afraid of meeting these people. Bloody encounters occasionally occur between them. The Indians come from the interior, and from Hudson's Bay, and are frequently seen near the two principal rivers, George river and South river, towards which we were going; but we met with none. Brother Kohlmeister rather wished for it, as some of them are said to understand English, and he was desirous of endeavouring to bring them to a more peaceable disposition towards the Esquimaux, by friendly conversation. 22d. We found the skin-boat a great hindrance to us. Without being obliged to take that in tow, we might have kept at a greater distance from the shore, which would have enabled us to get on more rapidly, and with greater safety. On shore we found a great quantity of cubical pyrites in a grey matrix. The Esquimaux are attentive to this mineral, and have before now brought it to Okkak. 23d. We proceeded at 6 A.M. and steered for the island of _Saeglorsoak_. The islands called _Nocharutsit_ lay on our left. They are a group of numerous small islands, many of which are overflowed at high water, extending W. and E. towards the entrance of South river. Between these islands and Akpatok, the sea is said to be clear of rocks, and the water of sufficient depth for any ship entering from Hudson's Straits, and bound to the Koksoak, or South river; but no ship durst, in our opinion, venture to approach the coast of Ungava within twenty or thirty miles. In the afternoon, the tide turning against us, and the wind unfavourable, we were obliged to come to an anchor among the islands. We had left the skin-boat behind, with Thukkekina, Uttakiyok's brother Annoray, and one of his wives, to whom he had given his baggage in charge. The Esquimaux wives are very punctilious, the first always maintains the highest dignity, regulates the housekeeping, distributes the provisions, and directs everything, as mistress of the family. Jonas went out in his kayak, and shot a seal. We saw many, and fired at them, but got none. Whitefish were likewise seen at a distance. Uttakiyok and David were out in their kayaks, and joined us in the evening loaded with geese. On the turn of the tide we proceeded, and at ten P.M. cast anchor among the Nocharutsits, under a pretty high island, about three or four miles in circumference. All our people remained on board during the night, which was calm and pleasant. 24th. David roused us about five o'clock, by firing at a seal, which he killed. The women went on shore to cook it with some geese. When they returned, we all breakfasted on the contents of their pot. The Esquimaux want no books of cookery to manage their kitchen affairs. The meat is boiled with the blood in it, and the addition of some water. When it is sufficiently done, that is, according the Ungava custom, when half warm, the women take it out of the pot, and serve it up on a piece of stone, if on shore, and on a piece of board, if at sea. Then the person, who has caught the seal or game, proclaims with great vociferation, that the _men_ may come and sit down to eat. Such exertion of voice, however, seems hardly necessary, as the Esquimaux are very acute at hearing, when they are invited to dinner. When the men have done, the women sit down, having taken good care, beforehand, that their share is secured. The Esquimaux customs never permit men and women to sit down together at a meal. It sometimes happens among the heathen Esquimaux, that several having had good success, one huntsman's feast is hardly over, before another proclaims the invitation to his banquet. This is never suffered to pass unnoticed, while the power of cramming down another morsel remains. Thus they will continue eating, till they are scarcely able to breathe, and then lie down to sleep off the effects of their gluttony. Indeed their excessive voraciousness on such occasions produces, especially after long fasting, all the symptoms of drunkenness. They forget, under its sensual influence, all moderation, and abandon themselves to the most disgusting abominations. In the afternoon we steered W. by N. (wind N.E.), for the cape of _Kernerauyak_, at the east side of the entrance of the river _Koksoak_, (Sand river). Before we arrived at the cape, we left some islands to the South, the largest of which is again called _Kikkertarsoak. Saeglorsoak_, is a large flat island, about eight or ten miles long, and its neighbourhood very dangerous, on account of many sunken rocks. The continent hereabouts is well wooded, and Indians are said to be frequently seen in the interior. The mouth of the Koksoak is seven or eight English miles broad: its shores steep, but the rocks in general low, and covered with moss. The Esquimaux say, that in the middle there is water enough for any large ship, though the tides prevent any near approach to the land. At sunset we came to an anchor at the mouth of the river. CHAPTER XII. _Sail up the river Koksoak. Transactions in that region. Dangerous eddy. Meet Esquimaux. Address to them. Their joy and eagerness to have Missionaries, resident among them. Find a suitable situation for a settlement. Description of the country._ August 25th.--This was the joyful day on which at last we saw our hopes realized, and the principal aim of our journey obtained. The sun rose beautifully, and announced a delightful day. We were obliged to wait till seven A.M. for the turn of the tide, before we could proceed up the river. The estuary of the _Koksoak_ lies, according to an observation taken, in 58° 36' N. latitude, nearly the same as Okkak. To the west the country is called by the Esquimaux _Assokak_, the coast turning again W.N.W. This river, therefore, seems to be at the most southern point of the coast, George's river entering the sea at 58° 52', consequently more North. The Koksoak appeared to us to be about as broad as the Thames at Gravesend, or the Elbe near Hamburg, and the whole river, with its various windings, much resembles the Thames for twenty-four miles upwards. Its depth is sufficient for a ship thus far. Its general direction is from the South. We reckoned it to be about 600 or 700 miles from Okkak, and Killinek or Cape Chudleigh half way. Having proceeded five or six miles up the river, we came to a small island, which we left on our right. We saw several sacks of blubber, a sledge, and some other, articles lying on the beach, and Jonathan and Brother Kmoch went in the small boat to discover the proprietors, but found nobody there, to guard the goods. A little farther on is a point of land running out into nearly the middle of the stream. The current sets very rapidly round it, so as to form a dangerous eddy. Our boat was seized, and twice turned quite round; the small boat was whirled about several times, as she pushed through it. The women on board our boat, on seeing this, set up a loud scream; but Jonathan only laughed at their fears, and we afterwards saw kayaks passing the eddy in perfect safety. Having doubled the point, we perceived several kayaks approaching. The people in them shouted aloud for joy, exclaiming, _Innuit, Innuit_! Men, Men! Some guns were also fired in the boat, which were soon answered by some fowling-pieces from the shore. We now saw three tents pitched on the bank, and hoisted our colours, when we were incessantly hailed by the inhabitants. There was a general cry of _Kuvè, Kuvè, Kablunaet, Kablunaet!_ Europeans, Europeans! from the men in the kayaks, who, by all manner of gesticulations, expressed their pleasure, brandishing their pautiks, (oars), and shouting continually as they rowed alongside the boat. The women on shore answered with loud acclamations. About one P.M. we cast anchor close to their habitations. Fourteen families were here, among whom were some from a distant district, called _Eivektok_. These had pitched their tents farther up the river. _Arnauyak_ was with them, a man, with whom Brother Kohlmeister had become acquainted some years ago, exceedingly regretted, that he had but a few days ago left the place, to hunt reindeer on George's river. The children expressed their joy by running to and fro on the strand, like wild creatures. At first, the people in the tents appeared rather shy, but after accepting of some trifling presents, they became quite communicative, and gave us some of their toys in exchange; then walking round us, surveyed us narrowly, as if we were a new species of animals. Most of them had never before seen an European. Uttakiyok's brother had joined them, and already informed them of our arrival, without which they would probably have been yet more alarmed at seeing strangers, and hearing the report of fire-arms. They now invited all our people to dine with them, and having heard that Brother Kohlmeister would like to taste the flesh of a whitefish, a kettle was immediately placed on the fire, and a large piece put in to boil. Brother Kmoch meanwhile cooked a savoury soup of birds, and reindeer-flesh, more fit for an European stomach. While dinner was preparing, Brother Kohlmeister took a walk up the bank of the river, and across some hills. As the families belonging to _Eivektok_ had their summer dwelling in that neighbourhood, the Esquimaux, on perceiving that he had walked in that direction, and fearing that the Eivektok people, seeing him alone, might mistake him for an Indian, and shoot at him, dispatched two men to bring him back. They missed him, and he returned before them. He found our people very pleasantly conversing with the heathen concerning the aim of our journey, and the way of salvation. Even Uttakiyok was thus engaged, explaining, as well as he could, the cause of our living in Labrador: he exclaimed, "let us, my friends, all be converted to Jesus." He was heard with peculiar attention, being considered as a captain among them. In the evening we sang hymns in Jonathan's tent. The people all came and listened with much seriousness. 26th. To-day the Eivektok families came in a skin-boat down the river, to see us. They were full of astonishment, but soon took courage, and handled us, to discover whether we were made of the same materials with themselves. An old man, _Netsiak_, addressed Brother Kohlmeister: "Are you Benjamin? I have never seen you with my eyes, but at Eivektok have heard your name often mentioned." He seemed to be a sensible man, and a captain among his tribe. We could not help remarking the difference between these Esquimaux and their countrymen living on the same coasts with our settlements. The former are very poor, and miserably equipped, whereas the latter, by their intercourse with us and other Europeans, have acquired many conveniences, and are, by barter, well provided with what they want. 27th. We proceeded farther up the river, accompanied by most of the men, and some women, in their skin-boat, and arrived at a bay, which, by the winding of the stream, appears like a lake, surrounded on all sides with gently rising grounds, well planted with wood of moderate size, chiefly larch. Behind the wood are some low hills. We named this place _Unity's Bay_. There is here a very good place for a Missionary settlement. A fine slope extends for about half an English mile, bounded on each extremity by a hill, on each of which we erected high signals. The land is even and dry. Juniper, currants, and other berries, grow here in abundance, and rivulets run out of the wood at a distance of a few hundred paces from each other. The slope faces the S.S.E. and we named it _Pilgerruh_, (Pilgrim's rest). Brother Kohlmeister made drawings of the situation. From our first arrival we had improved every opportunity of making the Esquimaux acquainted with the chief aim of our visit to this country, and addressed them both singly and in companies. Nor were Jonathan and Jonas remiss in conversing with them about the concerns of their immortal souls, declaring to them the love of God our Saviour towards them. We once met with Sybilla, Jonathan's wife, seated with a company of women, under the shadow of a skin-boat, set on edge, exhorting them, with great simplicity and fervour, to hear and believe the gospel. 28th. Brother Kmoch landed with Jonathan, and spent some hours in examining the banks of the river. On ascending the first eminence, the view of the interior is in general flat, with a few low hills, and ponds in some places, full of wild geese. The timber in the woods hereabouts is not large: we found none fit for masts. The largest trees were not more than eight inches in diameter, and fifteen or twenty feet high. They are chiefly larch and pines. In some places we found them burnt or withered, and were informed by the Esquimaux, that it was the effect of the Indian's fires. Indeed we saw several places where the Indians had put up huts, and left sufficient vestiges of their abode. Berries grow everywhere, and between the river and the wood, the plain is chiefly covered with willows, high grass growing between them, but these and the various shrubs are so low, that a man can easily look over them. In all directions we saw the tracks of reindeer, and there is every appearance of its being a place much frequented by these animals. Deeper in the wood, we found great quantities of sorrel and other European plants. The woods appeared very thick, and extended as far as the eye could reach, often coming down to the edge of the river. The Esquimaux say, that higher up, large timber is found. On our return to the skin-boat we found ourselves pretty much fatigued, and ready to partake of a supper, cooked by the Esquimaux, consisting of ship's biscuit, dried fish, and raw whitefish blubber. The Esquimaux prevailed upon Brother Kmoch to taste the latter, and he reported, that having once overcome his aversion to it, its taste was sweet, like the kernel of a nut, but heated his stomach like a hot posset. 29th. Changeable and rainy weather prevented us from going out much. 30th. Our people, and with them the strange Esquimaux, met for public worship. Brother Kohlmeister once more explained to them our intention in coming thus far to visit them. He addressed them to the following effect: "That already, many years ago, many excellent people in the country beyond the great ocean, had thought of them with much love, and felt desirous that the inhabitants of the Ungava country also might hear the comfortable word of God, and be instructed in it: for they had heard that the Esquimaux here were heathen, who, through ignorance, served the Torngak, or evil spirit, and were led by him into the commission of all manner of sin, that they might hereafter be lost, and go to the place of eternal darkness and misery. Out of love, therefore," continued the missionary, "they have sent us to you, and out of love we have come to you, to tell you how you may be saved, and become happy, peaceful children of God, being delivered from the fear of death, which is now upon you all, and have the prospect of everlasting joy and peace hereafter, even by receiving the gospel, and turning to Jesus, who is the only Creator and Saviour of all men. He died for _your_ sins, for _our_ sins, and for the sins of all mankind, as our surety, suffering the punishment we deserved, that _you_, by receiving Him, and believing on Him, might be saved, and not go to the place of eternal darkness and pain, but to the place of bliss and eternal rest. You cannot yet understand these comfortable words of the gospel, but if it is your sincere wish to know the truth of them, Jesus will open your ears and hearts, to hear and understand them. These my companions were as ignorant as you, but they now thank God, that they know Jesus as their Saviour, and are assured that through His death they shall inherit everlasting life." During this address all were silent and very attentive. Some exclaimed: "O we desire to hear more about it!" Old Netsiak, from Eivektok, said: "I am indeed old, but if you come to live here, I will certainly remove hither also; and live with you and be converted." When we put the question to them, whether they were willing, that we should come and dwell with them, and instruct them, they all answered with a loud and cheerful voice. "_Kaititse tok, Kaititse tok!_ O do come soon, and live with us, we will all gladly be converted, and live with you." Jonathan and Jonas also bore ample testimony to the truth of what we had spoken, and their words seemed to make a deep impression on all their countrymen. Uttakiyok was above others eager to express his wish that we might soon make a settlement in the Ungava country. Five of the fourteen families who mean to reside here next winter, are from Eivektok. Farther inland, the river Koksoak widens considerably, but consequently grows more shallow. The country is pleasant, with wood, grassy plains, and gentle hills. 31st. Having finished all our observations here, we dropped down the stream to the place, where we had discovered the first tents. In descending, as well as ascending the river, we saw a great number of whitefish, and many seals. Reindeer are numerous on both shores, both in summer and winter. All the Esquimaux declared, that this was the best provision-place in the whole country, and they consequently flock to it from all parts every summer, frequently protracting their stay during the winter. The greater number of those we found here, purposed spending next winter in this neighbourhood. The Esquimaux are prevented from making this place their constant residence by their fear of the land-Indians, which cause them to quit it sooner than they otherwise would wish to do. We spared no pains to collect all the information we possibly could obtain, on every subject relating to this situation, both as to itself, and in reference to the possibility of approaching it with a ship, as likewise respecting the inhabitants of the Ungava country in general. It appeared evident, that the place above described is the most eligible for forming a missionary-settlement. We found it unnecessary to proceed to the Westward, by the account given us by our worthy conductor Uttakiyok, whose information hitherto we had always found correct, and confidently to be relied on. He reported: 1. That farther West no wood is to be found on the coast. 2. That besides the two rivers Kangertlualuksoak and Koksoak, they knew of no place where a ship might with safety approach the land. 3. That at this time we should probably find no inhabitants, as they had all gone into the interior to hunt reindeer. We therefore now considered the business committed to us to be accomplished, and determined to return to Okkak, thankful to God our Saviour for the many proofs of His favour, and protection, experienced in the execution of our commission. CHAPTER XIII. _Return to Okkak._ September 1st.--At ten A.M. we fell down the river with the ebb-tide, and about noon anchored near its mouth. The Esquimaux showed great attachment to us, and could hardly resolve to take a final leave. They called after us, "Come soon again, we shall always be wishing for you." Several of them, and among them our friend Uttakiyok, followed us in their kayaks to the mouth of the river. We erected here, on the promontory Kernerauyak, a board with an inscription similar to that put up at George river, but with the day of our departure inserted, viz. Sept. 1st, instead of the day of our arrival, Aug. 7th. The same solemnities took place as on the former occasion. Our faithful pilot Uttakiyok, who had rendered us such important and essential services, now took leave of us, as he intends to spend the winter in this neighbourhood. He repeated his assurance, that if we settled here, he would be the first to join us, and to turn with his whole heart to God. Not willing to be any longer incumbered with the skin-boat, we added it to other useful articles given to Uttakiyok, as a reward for his faithful attention to us. He was very highly gratified, and thankful for this species of remuneration. 2d. Left the Koksoak, called by us, _South river_, and steered to the N. of _Kernerauyak_ and _Kikkertorsoak_. In the evening we cast anchor in an open road, among the _Nachorutsit_ islands, with fine weather. 3d. Set sail at sun-rise, wind and tide in our favour, and proceeded rapidly. About noon, however, a fog came on, which obliged us to come to an anchor at _Pitsiolak_. When it cleared up, we proceeded, steering between _Allukpalak_ and _Nipkotok_, and cast anchor in the open sea, near _Kernertut_, where, on our first arrival, we encountered such a tremendous storm. The night proved quite calm and fair. 4th. A gentle breeze brought us pleasantly as far as the island _Nauyet_, at the mouth of the _Kangertlualuksoak_, where we cast anchor, having performed the same voyage in three days, which took us twelve on our former passage. The distance may be about 100 English miles. 5th. Landed, and erected a species of landmark, on the highest point of _Nauyet_, as a ship entering the river must keep near this island, the shore on the other side being very foul. Contrary winds now obliged us to enter the bay, and cast anchor in the same place where we had lain on the 9th of August. 6th. Storm and rain prevented our proceeding. The Esquimaux went on shore, and pitched their tent. Of late they generally spent the night on board the boat. 7th. Wind at W. but a heavy swell from the sea prevented our sailing. Our men went out to hunt, and Paul returned in the evening with a deer. 8th. Snow had fallen during the night, and the whole country had the appearance of the middle of winter. We dropped down with the ebb-tide, but were obliged to anchor again near the entrance of the bay. When the tide turned we proceeded, and, leaving _Kikkertorsoak_ to the right, made for cape _Kattaktok_, where we spent the night at anchor among some low islands. The night was clear, and a comet appeared N. by W. 9th. Wind favourable and strong. We set sail at sun-rise, and steered for _Uibvaksoak_, and so rapidly did our boat make way through the waves, that we arrived there already at four in the afternoon, passing swiftly by the Dragon's dwelling, (_Torngets_). A thunder-storm was approaching. The wind, which felt quite warm, was in our rear, and violent gusts assailed us now and then, which made us shorten sail; yet the boat seemed to fly from island to island. We were unable to find a safe anchorage till 8 P.M. when it was already dark. We had sailed, in fourteen hours, about 100 English miles, and were all completely wet with the spray of the sea and frequent showers. Our Esquimaux were obliged, in this condition, to lie down either on deck or on shore. 10th. Reached _Omanek_, about 40 or 50 miles sail. 11th. Wind contrary, with much rain. We were confined to our narrow cabin, and shut in all day, with a lamp burning. 12th. Clear weather: set sail at noon. In the afternoon we were saluted by some shots from _Killinek_ Esquimaux, who were halting not far from the Ikkerasak, or straits, at the entrance of which we cast anchor about 7 P.M. 13th. Though we wished to have some conversation with the _Killinek_ people, as they cannot often come to Okkak, yet we thought it adviseable to lose no time, and, with the ebb-tide, passed through the _Ikkerasak_ in perfect safety. When, about 1 P.M. the tide turned, we ran into a cove on the south side, and at 5 P.M. anchored in the lagoon above described, (See page 43), the entrance to which will only admit a boat. 14th. Reached _Oppernavik_, where we first met Uttakiyok. 15th. Set sail with a gentle breeze, which permitted us to have our Sunday's service on deck. The wind, however, soon turning against us, we were compelled to return to our former anchorage. 16th and 17th. We were unpleasantly detained by wind and rain, and on the latter day much snow fell. 18th. Reached _Kikkertarsoak_ about 1 P.M. Our men went out in their kayaks, and returned in the evening with three seals. The night was fair, with beautiful appearances of the Aurora Borealis. 19th. The morning was calm: some indications of approaching storm made us anxious to proceed. We set out early; but a fog coming on, we came again to an anchor off a barren island. After staying here two hours, hoping for a favourable change, Jonathan proposed to proceed, and steered S.W. not knowing rightly where we were. On this occasion, we could not help admiring the composure of the Esquimaux. But having last night made a hearty meal of the provisions they had acquired, they seemed to take things easy, and thought it would all be right in the end. So it turned out; for by and by we saw the continent, and kept along shore, till we got to the promontory _Kakkeviak_, where, on our passage, we had nearly suffered shipwreck. (See page 38). Here we cast anchor in a wide shallow bay, and spent a quiet night. 20th. The fog had dispersed, and the wind was favourable, though shifting from W. to N.W.N. and N.E. At 7 P.M. we reached _Kumaktorvik_ and found good anchorage close to the Esquimaux winter-houses; but we were disappointed by finding them empty, the people being probably out on the reindeer-hunt. There were four houses standing, apparently not old, and the traces of eight others, situated on a low point of land, well covered with grass, and surrounded by high mountains. 21st. Wind N.W. set sail by break of day; reached _Nennoktok_ about noon, and steered across _Sangmiyok_ bay, for the northern promontory in _Nachvak_ bay. Sangmiyok bay is full of breakers, and the sea running pretty high, they appeared very distinctly. The wind dying away in the afternoon, we got no farther than the steep rocks under which we had spent the night of July the 18th, where we came to an anchor. A heavy swell from the sea, and violent gusts of wind assailing us in all directions from the mountains gave us much uneasiness; but, by the protecting care of God, we suffered no harm. 22d. It blew hard from the N.W. and prevented our running into Nachvak bay. Our situation being highly dangerous, and the wind favouring our proceeding, we determined to pass by Nachvak. But having sailed across the bay, our captain found it impossible to proceed, and thought proper to come to an anchor. The truth was, that he had left some articles here in a cove, which he wished to secure. We therefore went on shore, and found many fragments of the bones of whales, whence we inferred that whales are sometimes cast on shore in this place. 23d. A heavy storm came on from the N.W. To-day we caught the first cod-fish, which proved a very acceptable change of diet for us and our people. 24th. The morning was calm. Wind E. left the cove and steered for Nachvak, and came, _accidentally_, to the very place where Jonathan's goods were deposited. Not perceiving any Esquimaux on shore, Jonathan and Thukkekina went up the bay in their kayaks in search of them. Meanwhile _we_ landed, and on the declivity of a hill found a great quantity of green soapstone. In the evening Jonathan and Thukkekina returned with ten other Equimaux, who rejoiced to see us again. 25th. Brother Kohlmeister was engaged all day with the Esquimaux. Brother Kmoch went up the mountain, and brought some fine specimens of steatite. 26th. Wind strong at N.W. we set sail; but the wind failing, we could not reach _Saeglek_, as proposed, but spent the night in the open sea. It passed, however, without any unpleasant occurrences. 27th. The want of wind prevented our getting to-day as far as the Saeglek islands. Having passed through a very narrow Ikkerasak, with hardly sufficient depth of water for so large a boat, we cast anchor near our former station at _Kikkertarsoak_. 28th. Wind cold and changeable, and towards evening stormy. 29th. Set sail about 6 A.M. with a strong wind at W. and in the evening had reached _Kangertluksoak_ islands. 30th. It blew hard, with snow, and we were obliged to spend the day shut up in our small cabin by lamp-light. The land was covered with snow. We were detained here very unpleasantly for three days, by the violence of the wind and weather. _October_ 3d. We steered for the promontory of _Kaumayok_; but the wind dying away, and at length turning to the South, we could not gain any safe harbour, and were obliged to tack about all night in the open sea. The weather, however, was mild, and we had the advantage of moon-light. 4th. At 7 A.M. we succeeded in passing the Northern Ikkerasak near cape _Mugford_ with the tide, and the wind becoming fair, soon brought us among the Okkak islands. About noon we doubled cape _Uivak_, and perceived Esquimaux on shore, who ran up the hills, shouted for joy, and gave us by signs to understand, that the ship (the brig Jemima, sent annually with provisions to the settlements) was still at Okkak. We cannot describe the inexpressible pleasure and gratitude to God our Saviour which we felt, when we again beheld the neighbourhood of Okkak, after an absence of fifteen weeks. As soon as the captain descried our boat approaching, he hoisted his colours, and fired some guns to give notice of our arrival. As we were obliged to tack, to gain the entrance to the harbour, he came to meet us in the ship's boat, and about one o'clock we landed. The Missionaries and the Esquimaux met us with tears of joy and thankfulness, when we all joined in praise to God, who had so wonderfully kept His protecting hand over us during this perilous voyage, and granted us to return home in safety. Our voyage lasted from the 24th of June to the 4th of October, and we calculated it to be a distance of from 1200 to 1300 miles. BENJAMIN GOTTLIEB KOHLMEISTER. GEORGE KMOCH. [Illustration: _The Northern Extremity of_ LABRADOR with UNGAVA BAY Explored by the MISSIONARIES _of the Unitas Fratrum_ in 1811.] 
39130	----	Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net _DR. GRENFELL'S PARISH_ [Illustration: "A DOCTOR ... THE PROPHET AND CHAMPION OF A PEOPLE"] _Dr. Grenfell's Parish_ _The Deep Sea Fishermen_ _By_ _NORMAN DUNCAN_ _Author of_ _"Doctor Luke of the Labrador"_ _New York Chicago Toronto_ _Fleming H. Revell Company_ _London and Edinburgh_ Copyright, 1905, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY THIRD EDITION New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 63 Washington Street Toronto: 27 Richmond Street, W London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street _TO_ _THE CREW OF THE "STRATHCONA"_ Henry Bartlett, _Skipper_ Munden Clark, _Second Hand_ William Percy, _First Engineer_ John Scott, _Second Engineer_ Archie Butler, _Hospital Hand_ James Hiscock, _Cook_ Alec Sims, _Ship's Boy_ _TO THE READER_ This book pretends to no literary excellence; it has a far better reason for existence--a larger justification. Its purpose is to spread the knowledge of the work of Dr. Wilfred T. Grenfell, of the Royal National Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, at work on the coasts of Newfoundland and Labrador; and to describe the character and condition of the folk whom he seeks to help. The man and the mission are worthy of sympathetic interest; worthy, too, of unqualified approbation, of support of every sort. Dr. Grenfell is indefatigable, devoted, heroic; he is more and even better than that--he is a sane and efficient worker. Frankly, the author believes that the reader would do a good deed by contributing to the maintenance and development of the doctor's beneficent undertakings; and regrets that the man and his work are presented in this inadequate way and by so incapable a hand. The author is under obligation to the editors of _Harper's Magazine_, of _The World's Work_, and of _Outing_ for permission to reprint the contributed papers which, in some part, go to make up the volume. He wishes also to protest that Dr. Grenfell is not the hero of a certain work of fiction dealing with life on the Labrador coast. Some unhappy misunderstanding has arisen on this point. The author wishes to make it plain that "Doctor Luke" was _not_ drawn from Dr. Grenfell. N. D. _College Campus,_ _Washington, Pennsylvania, January 25, 1905._ _CONTENTS_ I. The Doctor 11 II. A Round of Bleak Coasts 18 III. Ships in Peril 26 IV. Desperate Need 37 V. A Helping Hand 48 VI. Faith and Duty 55 VII. The Liveyere 67 VIII. With the Fleet 83 IX. On the French Shore 103 X. Some Outport Folk 110 XI. Winter Practice 132 XII. The Champion 146 _LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS_ "A Doctor ... the Prophet and Champion of a People" _Title_ "It is an Evil Coast" 20 "Bound North" 30 "A Turf Hut" 44 "Set Sail from Great Yarmouth Harbour for Labrador" 50 "Appeared with a Little Steam-launch, the Princess May" 55 "The Hospital Ship, Strathcona" 65 "The Labrador 'Liveyere'" 73 "At Indian Harbour" 86 "Set the Traps in the Open Sea" 93 "The Bully-boat Becomes a Home" 101 "The Whitewashed Cottages on the Hills" 111 "Toil" 122 "The Hospital at Battle Harbour" 133 "The Doctor on a Winter's Journey" 144 "A Crew Quite Capable of Taking You into It" 150 _Dr. Grenfell's Parish_ I _THE DOCTOR_ Doctor Wilfred T. Grenfell is the young Englishman who, for the love of God, practices medicine on the coasts of Newfoundland and Labrador. Other men have been moved to heroic deeds by the same high motive, but the professional round, I fancy, is quite out of the common; indeed, it may be that in all the world there is not another of the sort. It extends from Cape John of Newfoundland around Cape Norman and into the Strait of Belle Isle, and from Ungava Bay and Cape Chidley of the Labrador southward far into the Gulf of St. Lawrence--two thousand miles of bitterly inhospitable shore: which a man in haste must sail with his life in his hands. The folk are for the most part isolated and desperately wretched--the shore fishermen of the remoter Newfoundland coasts, the Labrador "liveyeres," the Indians of the forbidding interior, the Esquimaux of the far north. It is to such as these that the man gives devoted and heroic service--not for gain; there is no gain to be got in those impoverished places: merely for the love of God. * * * * * I once went ashore in a little harbour of the northeast coast of Newfoundland. It was a place most unimportant--and it was just beyond the doctor's round. The sea sullenly confronted it, hills overhung it, and a scrawny wilderness flanked the hills; the ten white cottages of the place gripped the dripping rocks as for dear life. And down the path there came an old fisherman to meet the stranger. "Good-even, zur," said he. "Good-evening." He waited for a long time. Then, "Be you a doctor, zur?" he asked. "No, sir." "Noa? Isn't you? Now, I was thinkin' maybe you might be. But you isn't, you says?" "Sorry--but, no; really, I'm not." "Well, zur," he persisted, "I was thinkin' you might be, when I seed you comin' ashore. They _is_ a doctor on this coast," he added, "but he's sixty mile along shore. 'Tis a wonderful expense t' have un up. This here harbour isn't able. An' you isn't a doctor, you says? Is you sure, zur?" There was unhappily no doubt about it. "I was thinkin' you might be," he went on, wistfully, "when I seed you comin' ashore. But perhaps you might know something about doctorin'? Noa?" "Nothing." "I was thinkin', now, that you might. 'Tis my little girl that's sick. Sure, none of us knows what's the matter with she. Woan't you come up an' see she, zur? Perhaps you might do something--though you isn't--a doctor." The little girl was lying on the floor--on a ragged quilt, in a corner. She was a fair child--a little maid of seven. Her eyes were deep blue, wide, and fringed with long, heavy lashes. Her hair was flaxen, abundant, all tangled and curly. Indeed, she was a winsome little thing! "I'm thinkin' she'll be dyin' soon," said the mother. "Sure, she's wonderful swelled in the legs. We been waitin' for a doctor t' come, an' we kind o' thought you was one." "How long have you waited?" "'Twas in April she was took. She've been lyin' there ever since. 'Tis near August, now, I'm thinkin'." "They was a doctor here two year ago," said the man. "He come by chance," he added, "like you." "Think they'll be one comin' soon?" the woman asked. I took the little girl's hand. It was dry and hot. She did not smile--nor was she afraid. Her fingers closed upon the hand she held. She was a blue-eyed, winsome little maid; but pain had driven all the sweet roguery out of her face. "Does you think she'll die, zur?" asked the woman, anxiously. I did not know. "Sure, zur," said the man, trying to smile, "'tis wonderful queer, but I _sure_ thought you was a doctor, when I seed you comin' ashore." "But you isn't?" the woman pursued, still hopefully. "Is you sure you couldn't do nothin'? Is you noa kind of a doctor, at all? We doan't--we doan't--want she t' die!" In the silence--so long and deep a silence--melancholy shadows crept in from the desolation without. "I wisht you _was_ a doctor," said the man. "I--_wisht--you--was_!" He was crying. "They need," thought I, "a mission-doctor in these parts." And the next day--in the harbour beyond--I first heard of Grenfell. In that place they said they would send _him_ to the little maid who lay dying; they assured me, indeed, that he would make haste, when he came that way: which would be, perhaps, they thought, in "'long about a month." Whether or not the doctor succoured the child I do not know; but I have never forgotten this first impression of his work--the conviction that it was a good work for a man to be about. * * * * * Subsequently I learned that Dr. Grenfell was the superintendent of the Newfoundland and Labrador activities of the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, an English organization, with a religious and medical work already well-established on the North Sea, and a medical mission then in process of development on the North Atlantic coast. Two years later he discovered himself to be a robust, hearty Saxon, strong, indefatigable, devoted, jolly; a doctor, a parson by times, something of a sportsman when occasion permitted, a master-mariner, a magistrate, the director of certain commercial enterprises designed to "help the folk help themselves"--the prophet and champion, indeed, of a people: and a man very much in love with life. II _A ROUND of BLEAK COASTS_ The coast of Labrador, which, in number of miles, forms the larger half of the doctor's round, is forbidding, indeed--naked, rugged, desolate, lying sombre in a mist. It is of weather-worn gray rock, broken at intervals by long ribs of black. In part it is low and ragged, slowly rising, by way of bare slopes and starved forest, to broken mountain ranges, which lie blue and bold in the inland waste. Elsewhere it rears from the edge of the sea in stupendous cliffs and lofty, rugged hills. There is no inviting stretch of shore the length of it--no sandy beach, no line of shingle, no grassy bank; the sea washes a thousand miles of jagged rock. Were it not for the harbours--innumerable and snugly sheltered from the winds and ground swell of the open--there would be no navigating the waters of that region. The Strait Shore is buoyed, lighted, minutely charted. The reefs and currents and tickles[1] and harbours are all known. A northeast gale, to be sure, raises a commotion, and fog and drift-ice add something to the chance of disaster; but, as they say, from one peril there are two ways of escape to three sheltered places. To the north, however, where the doctor makes his way, the coast is best sailed on the plan of the skipper of the old _Twelve Brothers_. "You don't cotch _me_ meddlin' with no land!" said he. Past the Dead Islands, Snug Harbour, Domino Run, Devil's Lookout and the Quaker's Hat--beyond Johnny Paul's Rock and the Wolves, Sandwich Bay, Tumbledown Dick, Indian Harbour, and the White Cockade--past Cape Harrigan, the Farmyard Islands and the Hen and Chickens--far north to the great, craggy hills and strange peoples of Kikkertadsoak, Scoralik, Tunnulusoak, Nain, Okak, and, at last, to Cape Chidley itself--northward, every crooked mile of the way, bold headlands, low outlying islands, sunken reefs, tides, fogs, great winds and snow make hard sailing of it. It is an evil coast, ill-charted where charted at all; some part of the present-day map is based upon the guess-work of the eighteenth century navigators. The doctor, like the skippers of the fishing-craft, must sometimes sail by guess and hearsay, by recollection, and old rhymes. * * * * * The gusts and great waves of open water--of the free, wide sea, I mean, over which a ship may safely drive while the weather exhausts its evil mood--are menace enough for the stoutest heart. But the Labrador voyage is inshore--a winding course among the islands, or a straight one from headland to headland, of a coast off which reefs lie thick: low-lying, jagged ledges, washed by the sea in heavy weather; barren hills, rising abruptly--and all isolated--from safe water; sunken rocks, disclosed, upon approach, only by the green swirl above them. They are countless--scattered everywhere, hidden and disclosed. They lie in the mouths of harbours, they lie close to the coast, they lie offshore; they run twenty miles out to sea. Here is no plain sailing; the skipper must be sure of the way--or choose it gingerly: else the hidden rock will inevitably "pick him up." [Illustration: "IT IS AN EVIL COAST"] Recently the doctor _was_ "picked up." "Oh, yes," says he, with interest. "An uncharted rock. It took two of the three blades of the propeller. But, really, you'd be surprised to know how well the ship got along with one!" * * * * * To know the submerged rocks of one harbour and the neighbouring coast, however evil the place, is small accomplishment. The Newfoundland lad of seven years would count himself his father's shame if he failed in so little. High tide and low tide, quiet sea and heavy swell, he will know where he can take the punt--the depth of water, to an inch, which overlies the danger spots. But here are a hundred harbours--a thousand miles of coast--with reefs and islands scattered like dust the length of it. The man who sails the Labrador must know it all like his own back yard--not in sunny weather alone, but in the night, when the headlands are like black clouds ahead, and in the mist, when the noise of breakers tells him all that he may know of his whereabouts. A flash of white in the gray distance, a thud and swish from a hidden place: the one is his beacon, the other his fog-horn. It is thus, often, that the doctor gets along. * * * * * You may chart rocks, and beware of them; but--it is a proverb on the coast--"there's no chart for icebergs." The Labrador current is charged with them--hard, dead-white glacier ice from the Arctic: massive bergs, innumerable, all the while shifting with tide and current and wind. What with floes and bergs--vast fields of drift-ice--the way north in the spring is most perilous. The same bergs--widely scattered, diminished in number, dwarfed by the milder climate--give the transatlantic passenger evil dreams: somewhere in the night, somewhere in the mist, thinks he, they may lie; and he shudders. The skipper of the Labrador craft _knows_ that they lie thick around him: there is no surmise; when the night fell, when the fog closed in, there were a hundred to be counted from the masthead. * * * * * Violent winds are always to be feared--swift, overwhelming hurricanes: winds that catch the unwary. They are not frequent; but they _do_ blow--will again blow, no man can tell when. In such a gale, forty vessels were driven on a lee shore; in another, eighty were wrecked overnight--two thousand fishermen cast away, the coast littered with splinters of ships--and, once (it is but an incident), a schooner was torn from her anchors and flung on the rocks forty feet above the high-water mark. These are exceptional storms; the common Labrador gale is not so violent, but evil enough in its own way. It is a northeaster, of which the barometer more often than not gives fair warning; day after day it blows, cold, wet, foggy, dispiriting, increasing in violence, subsiding, returning again, until courage and strength are both worn out. * * * * * Reefs, drift-ice, wind and sea--and over all the fog: thick, wide-spread, persistent, swift in coming, mysterious in movement; it compounds the dangers. It blinds men--they curse it, while they grope along: a desperate business, indeed, thus to run by guess where positive knowledge of the way merely mitigates the peril. There are days when the fog lies like a thick blanket on the face of the sea, hiding the head-sails from the man at the wheel; it is night on deck, and broad day--with the sun in a blue sky--at the masthead; the schooners are sometimes steered by a man aloft. The _Always Loaded_, sixty tons and bound home with a cargo that did honour to her name, struck one of the outlying islands so suddenly, so violently, that the lookout in the bow, who had been peering into the mist, was pitched headlong into the surf. The _Daughter_, running blind with a fair, light wind--she had been lost for a day--ran full tilt into a cliff; the men ran forward from the soggy gloom of the after-deck into--bright sunshine at the bow! It is the fog that wrecks ships. "Oh, I runned her ashore," says the castaway skipper. "Thick? Why, _sure_, 'twas thick!" So the men who sail that coast hate fog, fear it, avoid it when they can, which is seldom; they are not afraid of wind and sea, but there are times when they shake in their sea-boots, if the black fog catches them out of harbour. [Footnote 1: A "tickle" is a narrow passage to a harbour or between two islands.] III _SHIPS in PERIL_ It is to be remarked that a wreck on the Labrador coast excites no wide surprise. Never a season passes but some craft are cast away. But that is merely the fortune of sailing those waters--a fortune which the mission-doctor accepts with a glad heart: it provides him with an interesting succession of adventures; life is not tame. Most men--I hesitate to say all--have been wrecked; every man, woman, and child who has sailed the Labrador has narrowly escaped, at least. And the fashion of that escape is sometimes almost incredible. * * * * * The schooner _All's Well_ (which is a fictitious name) was helpless in the wind and sea and whirling snow of a great blizzard. At dusk she was driven inshore--no man knew where. Strange cliffs loomed in the snow ahead; breakers--they were within stone's throw--flashed and thundered to port and starboard; the ship was driving swiftly into the surf. When she was fairly upon the rocks, Skipper John, then a hand aboard (it was he who told me the story), ran below and tumbled into his bunk, believing it to be the better place to drown in. "Well, lads," said he to the men in the forecastle, "we got t' go this time. 'Tis no use goin' on deck." But the ship drove through a tickle no wider than twice her beam and came suddenly into the quiet water of a harbour! * * * * * The sealing-schooner _Right and Tight_ struck on the Fish Rocks off Cape Charles in the dusk of a northeast gale. It is a jagged, black reef, outlying and isolated; the seas wash over it in heavy weather. It was a bitter gale; there was ice in the sea, and the wind was wild and thick with snow; she was driving before it--wrecked, blind, utterly lost. The breakers flung her on the reef, broke her back, crunched her, swept the splinters on. Forty-two men were of a sudden drowned in the sea beyond; but the skipper was left clinging to the rock in a swirl of receding water. "Us seed un there in the marnin'," said the old man of Cape Charles who told me the story. "He were stickin' to it like a mussel, with the sea breakin' right over un! 'Cod! he were!" He laughed and shook his head; that was a tribute to the strength and courage with which the man on the reef had withstood the icy breakers through the night. "Look! us couldn't get near un," he went on. "'Twas clear enough t' see, but the wind was blowin' wonderful, an' the seas was too big for the skiff. Sure, I _knows_ that; for us tried it. "'Leave us build a fire!' says my woman. 'Leave us build a fire on the head!' says she. ''Twill let un know they's folk lookin' on.' "'Twas a wonderful big fire us set; an' it kep' us warm, so us set there all day watchin' the skipper o' the _Right an' Tight_ on Fish Rocks. The big seas jerked un loose an' flung un about, an' many a one washed right over un; but nar a sea could carry un off. 'Twas a wonderful sight t' see un knocked off his feet, an' scramble round an' cotch hold somewheres else. 'Cod! it were--the way that man stuck t' them slippery rocks all day long!" He laughed again--not heartlessly; it was the only way in which he could express his admiration. "We tried the skiff again afore dark," he continued; "but 'twasn't no use. The seas was too big. Sure, _he_ knowed that so well as we. So us had t' leave un there all night. "'He'll never be there in the marnin',' says my woman. "'You wait,' says I, 'an' you'll see. I'm thinkin' he will.' "An' he was, zur--right there on Fish Rocks, same as ever; still stickin' on like the toughest ol' mussel ever you tasted. Sure, I had t' rub me eyes when I looked; but 'twas he, never fear--'twas he, stickin' there like a mussel. But there was no gettin' un then. Us watched un all that day. 'Twas dark afore us got un ashore. "'You come nigh it _that_ time,' says I. "'I'll have t' come a sight nigher,' says he, 'afore _I_ goes!'" The man had been on the reef more than forty-eight hours! * * * * * The _Army Lass_, bound north, was lost in the fog. They hove her to. All hands knew that she lay somewhere near the coast. The skipper needed a sight of the rocks--just a glimpse of some headland or island--to pick the course. It was important that he should have it. There was an iceberg floating near; it was massive; it appeared to be steady--and the sea was quiet. From the top of it, he thought (the fog was dense and seemed to be lying low), he might see far and near. His crew put him on the ice with the quarter-boat and then hung off a bit. He clambered up the side of the berg. Near the summit be had to cut his foothold with an axe. This was unfortunate; for he gave the great white mass one blow too many. It split under his feet. He fell headlong into the widening crevice. But he was apparently not a whit the worse for it when his boat's crew picked him up. [Illustration: "BOUND NORTH"] * * * * * A schooner--let her be called the _Good Fortune_--running through dense fog, with a fair, high wind and all sail set, struck a "twin" iceberg bow on. She was wrecked in a flash: her jib-boom was rammed into her forecastle; her bows were stove in; her topmast snapped and came crashing to the deck. Then she fell away from the ice; whereupon the wind caught her, turned her about, and drove her, stern foremost, into a narrow passage which lay between the two towering sections of the "twin." She scraped along, striking the ice on either side; and with every blow, down came fragments from above. "It rained chunks," said the old skipper who told me the story. "You couldn't tell, look! what minute you'd get knocked on the head." The falling ice made great havoc with the deck-works; the boats were crushed; the "house" was stove in; the deck was littered with ice. But the _Good Fortune_ drove safely through, was rigged with makeshift sails, made harbour, was refitted by all hands--the Labradormen can build a ship with an axe--and continued her voyage. * * * * * I have said that the Newfoundlanders occasionally navigate by means of old rhymes; and this brings me to the case of Zachariah, the skipper of the _Heavenly Rest_. He was a Newf'un'lander. Neither wind, fog nor a loppy sea could turn his blood to water. He was a Newf'un'lander of the hardshell breed. So he sailed the _Heavenly Rest_ without a chart. To be sure, he favoured the day for getting along, but he ran through the night when he was crowding south, and blithely took his chance with islands of ice and rock alike. He had some faith in a "telltale," had Zachariah, but he scorned charts. It was his boast that if he could not carry the harbours and headlands and shallows of five hundred miles of hungry coast in his head he should give up the _Heavenly Rest_ and sail a paddle-punt for a living. It was well that he could--well for the ship and the crew and the folk at home. For, at the time of which I write, the _Rest_, too light in ballast to withstand a gusty breeze, was groping through the fog for harbour from a gale which threatened a swift descent. It was "thick as bags," with a rising wind running in from the sea, and the surf breaking and hissing within hearing to leeward. "We be handy t' Hollow Harbour," said Zachariah. "Is you sure, skipper?" asked the cook. "Sure," said Zachariah. The _Heavenly Rest_ was in desperate case. She was running in--pursuing an unfaltering course for an unfamiliar, rocky shore. The warning of the surf sounded in every man's ears. It was imperative that her true position should soon be determined. The skipper was perched far forward, peering through the fog for a sight of the coast. "Sure, an' I hopes," said the man at the wheel, "that she woan't break her nose on a rock afore the ol' man sees un." "Joe Bett's P'int!" exclaimed the skipper. Dead ahead, and high in the air, a mass of rock loomed through the mist. The skipper had recognized it in a flash. He ran aft and took the wheel. The _Heavenly Rest_ sheered off and ran to sea. "We'll run in t' Hollow Harbour," said the skipper. "Has you ever been there?" said the man who had surrendered the wheel. "Noa, b'y," the skipper answered, "but I'll get there, whatever." The nose of the _Heavenly Rest_ was turned shoreward. Sang the skipper, humming it to himself in a rasping sing-song: "When Joe Bett's P'int you is abreast, Dane's Rock bears due west. West-nor'west you must steer, 'Til Brimstone Head do appear. "The tickle's narrow, not very wide; The deepest water's on the starboard side When in the harbour you is shot, Four fathoms you has got." The old song was chart enough for Skipper Zachariah. Three times the _Heavenly Rest_ ran in and out. Then she sighted Dane's Rock, which bore due west, true enough. West-nor'west was the course she followed, running blindly through the fog and heeling to the wind. Brimstone Head appeared in due time; and in due time the rocks of the tickle--that narrow entrance to the harbour--appeared in vague, forbidding form to port and starboard. The schooner ran to the starboard for the deeper water. Into the harbour she shot; and there they dropped anchor, caring not at all whether the water was four or forty fathoms, for it was deep enough. Through the night the gale tickled the topmasts, but the ship rode smoothly at her anchors, and Skipper Zachariah's stentorian sleep was not disturbed by any sudden call to duty. And the doctor of the Deep Sea Mission has had many a similar experience. IV _DESPERATE NEED_ It was to these rough waters that Dr. Grenfell came when the need of the folk reached his ears and touched his heart. Before that, in the remoter parts of Newfoundland and on the coast of Labrador there were no doctors. The folk depended for healing upon traditional cures, upon old women who worked charms, upon remedies ingeniously devised to meet the need of the moment, upon deluded persons who prescribed medicines of the most curious description, upon a rough-and-ready surgery of their own, in which the implements of the kitchen and of the splitting-stage served a useful purpose. For example, there was a misled old fellow who set himself up as a healer in a lonely cove of the Newfoundland coast, where he lived a hermit, verily believing, it may be, in the glory of his call and in the blessed efficacy of his ministrations; his cure for consumption--it was a tragic failure, in one case, at least--was a bull's heart, dried and powdered and administered with faith and regularity. Elsewhere there was a man, stricken with a mortal ailment, who, upon the recommendation of a kindly neighbour, regularly dosed himself with an ill-flavoured liquid obtained by boiling cast-off pulley-blocks in water. There was also a father who most hopefully attempted to cure his little lad of diphtheria by wrapping his throat with a split herring; but, unhappily, as he has said, "the wee feller choked hisself t' death," notwithstanding. There was another father--a man of grim, heroic disposition--whose little daughter chanced to freeze her feet to the very bone in midwinter; when he perceived that a surgical operation could no longer be delayed, he cut them off with an axe. An original preventative of sea-boils--with which the fishermen are cruelly afflicted upon the hands and wrists in raw weather--was evolved by a frowsy-headed old Labradorman of serious parts. "_I_ never has none," said he, in the fashion of superior fellows. "No?" "Nar a one. No, _zur_! Not _me_!" A glance of interested inquiry elicited no response. It but prolonged a large silence. "Have you never _had_ a sea-boil?" with the note and sharp glance of incredulity. "Not me. Not since I got my cure." "And what might that cure be?" "Well, zur," was the amazing reply, "I cuts my nails on a Monday." * * * * * It must be said, however, that the Newfoundland government did provide a physician--of a sort. Every summer he was sent north with the mail-boat, which made not more than six trips, touching here and there at long intervals, and, of a hard season, failing altogether to reach the farthest ports. While the boat waited--an hour, or a half, as might be--the doctor went ashore to cure the sick, if he chanced to be in the humour; otherwise the folk brought the sick aboard, where they were painstakingly treated or not, as the doctor's humour went. The government seemed never to inquire too minutely into the qualifications and character of its appointee. The incumbent for many years--the folk thank God that he is dead--was an inefficient, ill-tempered, cruel man; if not the very man himself, he was of a kind with the Newfoundland physician who ran a flag of warning to his masthead when he set out to get very drunk. The mail-boat dropped anchor one night in a far-away harbour of the Labrador, where there was desperate need of a doctor to ease a man's pain. They had waited a long time, patiently, day after day. I am told; and when at last the mail-boat came, the man's skipper put out in glad haste to fetch the government physician. "He've turned in," they told him aboard. What did _that_ matter? The skipper roused the doctor. "We've a sick man ashore, zur," said he, "an' he wants you t' come----" "What!" roared the doctor. "Think I'm going to turn out this time of night?" "Sure, zur," stammered the astounded skipper. "I--I--s'pose so. He's very sick, zur. He's coughin'----" "Let him cough himself to death!" said the doctor. Turn out? Not he! Rather, he turned over in his warm berth. It is to be assumed that the sick man died in pain; it is to be assumed, too, that the physician continued a tranquil slumber, for the experience was not exceptional. "Let 'em die!" he had said more than once. The government had provided for the transportation of sick fishermen from the Labrador coast to their homes in Newfoundland; these men were of the great Newfoundland fleet of cod-fishing schooners, which fish the Labrador seas in the summer. It needed only the doctor's word to get the boon. Once a fisherman brought his consumptive son aboard--a young lad, with but a few weeks of life left. The boy wanted his mother, who was at home in Newfoundland. "Ay, he's fair _sick_ for his mother," said the father to the doctor. "I'm askin' you, zur, t' take un home on the mail-boat." The doctor was in a perverse mood that day. He would not take the boy. "Sure, zur," said the fisherman, "the schooner's not goin' 'til fall, an' I've no money, an' the lad's dyin'." But still the doctor would not. "I'm thinkin', zur," said the fisherman, steadily, "that you're not quite knowin' that the lad wants t' see his mother afore he dies." The doctor laughed. "We'll have a laugh at _you_," cried the indignant fisherman, "when _you_ comes t' die!" Then he cursed the doctor most heartily and took his son ashore. He was right--they did have a laugh at the doctor; the whole coast might have laughed when he came to die. Being drunk on a stormy night, he fell down the companion way and broke his neck. * * * * * Deep in the bays and up the rivers south of Hamilton Inlet, which is itself rather heavily timbered, there is wood to be had for the cutting; but "down t' Chidley"--which is the northernmost point of the Labrador coast--the whole world is bare; there is neither tree nor shrub, shore nor inland, to grace the naked rock; the land lies bleak and desolate. But, once, a man lived there the year round. I don't know why; it is inexplicable; but I am sure that the shiftless fellow and his wife had never an inkling that the circumstance was otherwise than commonplace and reasonable; and the child, had he lived, would have continued to dwell there, boy and man, in faith that the earth was good to live in. One hard winter the man burnt all his wood long before the schooners came up from the lower coast. It was a desperate strait to come to; but I am sure that he regarded his situation with surprising phlegm; doubtless he slept as sound, if not as warm, as before. There was no more wood to be had; so he burnt the furniture, every stick of it, and when that was gone, began on the frame of his house--a turf hut, builded under a kindly cliff, sheltered somewhat from the winds from the frozen sea. As, rafter by rafter, the frame was withdrawn, he cut off the roof and folded in the turf walls; thus, day by day, the space within dwindled; his last fire was to consume the last of his shelter--which, no doubt, troubled him not at all; for the day was not yet come. It is an ugly story. When they were found in the spring, the woman lay dying on a heap of straw in a muddy corner--she was afflicted with hip-disease--and the house was tumbling about her ears; the child, new born, had long ago frozen on its mother's breast. [Illustration: "A TURF HUT"] * * * * * A doctor of the Newfoundland outports was once called to a little white cottage where three children lay sick of diphtheria. He was the family physician; that is to say, the fisherman paid him so much by the year for medical attendance. But the injection of antitoxin is a "surgical operation" and therefore not provided for by the annual fee. "This," said the doctor, "will cost you two dollars an injection, John." "Oh, ay, zur," was the ready reply. "I'll pay you, zur. Go on, zur!" "But you know my rule, John--no pay, no work. I can't break it for you, you know, or I'd have to break it for half the coast." "Oh, ay! 'Tis all right. I wants un cured. I'll pay you when I sells me fish." "But you know my rule, John--cash down." The fisherman had but four dollars--no more; nor could he obtain any more, though the doctor gave him ample time. I am sure that he loved his children dearly, but, unfortunately, he had no more than four dollars; and there was no other doctor for fifty miles up and down the coast. "Four dollars," said the doctor, "two children. Which ones shall it be, John?" Which ones? Why, of course, after all, the doctor had himself to make the choice. John couldn't. So the doctor chose the "handiest" ones. The other one died. "Well," said John, unresentfully, the day after the funeral, "I s'pose a doctor haves a right t' be paid for what he does. But," much puzzled, "'tis kind o' queer!" * * * * * This is not a work of fiction. These incidents are true. I set them down here for the purpose of adequately showing the need of such a practitioner as Wilfred T. Grenfell in the sphere in which he now labours. My point is--that if in the more settled places, where physicians might be summoned, such neglect and brutality could exist, in what a lamentable condition were the folk of the remoter parts, where even money could not purchase healing! Nor are these true stories designed to reflect upon the regular practitioners of Newfoundland; nor should they create a false impression concerning them. I have known many noble physicians in practice there; indeed, I am persuaded that heroism and devotion are, perhaps, their distinguishing characteristics. God knows, there is little enough gain to be had! God knows, too, that that little is hard earned! These men do their work well and courageously, and as adequately as may be; it is on the coasts beyond that the mission-doctor labours. V _A HELPING HAND_ While the poor "liveyeres" and Newfoundland fishermen thus depended upon the mail-boat doctor and their own strange inventions for relief, Wilfred Grenfell, this well-born, Oxford-bred young Englishman, was walking the London hospitals. He was athletic, adventurous, dogged, unsentimental, merry, kind; moreover--and most happily--he was used to the sea, and he loved it. It chanced one night that he strayed into the Tabernacle in East London, where D. L. Moody, the American evangelist, was preaching. When he came out he had resolved to make his religion "practical." There was nothing violent in this--no fevered, ill-judged determination to martyr himself at all costs. It was a quiet resolve to make the best of his life--which he would have done at any rate, I think, for he was a young Englishman of good breeding and the finest impulses. At once he cast about for "some way in which he could satisfy the aspirations of a young medical man, and combine with this a desire for adventure and definite Christian work." I had never before met a missionary of that frank type. "Why," I exclaimed to him, off the coast of Labrador, not long ago, "you seem to _like_ this sort of life!" We were aboard the mission steamer, bound north under full steam and all sail. He had been in feverish haste to reach the northern harbours, where, as he knew, the sick were watching for his coming. The fair wind, the rush of the little steamer on her way, pleased him. "Oh," said he, somewhat impatiently, "_I'm_ not a martyr." So he found what he sought. After applying certain revolutionary ideas to Sunday-school work in the London slums, in which a horizontal bar and a set of boxing-gloves for a time held equal place with the Bible and the hymn-book, he joined the staff of the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, and established the medical mission to the fishermen of the North Sea. When that work was organized--when the fight was gone out of it--he sought a harder task; he is of that type, then extraordinary but now familiar, which finds no delight where there is no difficulty. In the spring of 1892 he set sail from Great Yarmouth Harbour for Labrador in a ninety-ton schooner. Since then, in the face of hardship, peril, and prejudice, he has, with a light heart and strong purpose, healed the sick, preached the Word, clothed the naked, fed the starving, given shelter to them that had no roof, championed the wronged--in all, devotedly fought evil, poverty, oppression, and disease; for he is bitterly intolerant of those things. And---- "It's been jolly good fun!" says he. [Illustration: "SET SAIL FROM GREAT YARMOUTH HARBOR FOR LABRADOR"] The immediate inspiration of this work was the sermon preached in East London by D. L. Moody. Later in life--indeed, soon before the great evangelist's death--Dr. Grenfell thanked him for that sermon. "And what have you been doing since?" was Mr. Moody's prompt and searching question. "_What have you been doing since?_" Dr. Grenfell might with propriety and effect have placed in Mr. Moody's hands such letters as those which I reprint, saying: "What have I been doing since? I have been kept busy, sir, responding to such calls as these." Such calls as these: Docter plase I whant to see you. Doeher sir have you got a leg if you have Will you plase send him Down Praps he may fet and you would oblig. * * * * * Reverance dr. Grandfell. Dear sir we are expecting you hup and we would like for you to come so quick as you can for my dater is very sick with a very large sore under her left harm we emenangin that the old is two enchis deep and tow enches wide plase com as quick as you can to save life I remains yours truely. * * * * * Docker,--Please wel you send me somting for the pain in my feet and what you proismed to send my little boy. Docker I am almost cripple, it is up my hips, I can hardly walk. This is my housban is gaining you this note from * * * * * To Dr. Gransfield Dear honrabel Sir, I would wish to ask you Sir, if you would Be pleased to give me and my wife a littel poor close. I was going in the Bay to cut some wood. But I am all amost blind and cant Do much so if you would spear me some Sir I should Be very thankfull to you Sir. * * * * * I got Bad splotches all over my Body and i dont know what the cause of it is. Please Have you got anything for it. i Have'nt got any money to Pay you now for anything But i wont forget to Pay you when i gets the money. * * * * * doctor--i have a compleant i ham weak with wind on the chest, weaknes all all over me up in my harm. * * * * * Dear Dr. Grenfell. I would like for you to Have time to come Down to my House Before you leaves to go to St. Anthony. My little Girl is very Bad. it seems all in Her neck. Cant Ply her Neck forward if do she nearly goes in the fits, i dont know what it is the matter with Her myself. But if you see Her you would know what the matter with Her. Please send a Word By the Bearer what gives you this note and let me know where you will have time to come down to my House. i lives down the Bay a Place called Berry Head. "What have you been doing since?" Dr. Grenfell has not been idle. There is now a mission hospital at St. Anthony, near the extreme northeast point of the Newfoundland coast. There is another, well-equipped and commodious, at Battle Harbour--a rocky island lying out from the Labrador coast near the Strait of Belle Isle--which is open the year round; when the writer was last on the coast, it was in charge of Dr. Cluny McPherson, a courageous young physician, Newfoundland-born, who went six hundred miles up the coast by dog-team in the dead of winter, finding shelter where he might, curing whom he could--everywhere seeking out those who needed him, caring not a whit, it appears, for the peril and hardship of the long white road. There is a third at Indian Harbour, half-way up the coast, which is open through the fishing season. It is conducted with the care and precision of a London hospital--admirably kept, well-ordered, efficient. The physician in charge is Dr. George H. Simpson--a wiry, keen, brave little Englishman, who goes about in an open boat, whatever the distance, whatever the weather; he is a man of splendid courage and sympathy: the fishing-folk love him for his kind heart and for the courage with which he responds to their every call. There is also the little hospital steamer _Strathcona_, in which Dr. Grenfell makes the round of all the coast, from the time of the break-up until the fall gales have driven the fishing-schooners home to harbour. [Illustration: "APPEARED WITH A LITTLE STEAM-LAUNCH, THE PRINCESS MAY"] VI _FAITH and DUTY_ When Dr. Grenfell first appeared on the coast, I am told, the folk thought him a madman of some benign description. He knew nothing of the reefs, the tides, the currents, cared nothing, apparently, for the winds; he sailed with the confidence and reckless courage of a Labrador skipper. Fearing at times to trust his schooner in unknown waters, he went about in a whale-boat, and so hard did he drive her that he wore her out in a single season. She was capsized with all hands, once driven out to sea, many times nearly swamped, once blown on the rocks; never before was a boat put to such tasks on that coast, and at the end of it she was wrecked beyond repair. Next season he appeared with a little steam-launch, the _Princess May_--her beam was eight feet!--in which he not only journeyed from St. Johns to Labrador, to the astonishment of the whole colony, but sailed the length of that bitter coast, passing into the gulf and safely out again, and pushing to the very farthest settlements in the north. Late in the fall, upon, the return journey to St. Johns in stormy weather, she was reported lost, and many a skipper, I suppose, wondered that she had lived so long; but she weathered a gale that bothered the mail-boat, and triumphantly made St. Johns, after as adventurous a voyage, no doubt, as ever a boat of her measure survived. "Sure," said a skipper, "I don't know how she done it. The Lord," he added, piously, "must kape an eye on that man." * * * * * There is a new proverb on the coast. The folk say, when a great wind blows, "This'll bring Grenfell!" Often it does. He is impatient of delay, fretted by inaction; a gale is the wind for him--a wind to take him swiftly towards the place ahead. Had he been a weakling, he would long ago have died on the coast; had he been a coward, a multitude of terrors would long ago have driven him to a life ashore; had he been anything but a true man and tender, indeed, he would long ago have retreated under the suspicion and laughter of the folk. But he has outsailed the Labrador skippers--out-dared them--done deeds of courage under their very eyes that they would shiver to contemplate,--never in a foolhardy spirit; always with the object of kindly service. So he has the heart and willing hand of every honest man on the Labrador--and of none more than of the men of his crew, who take the chances with him; they are wholly devoted. One of his engineers, for example, once developed the unhappy habit of knocking the cook down. "You must keep your temper," said the doctor. "This won't do, you know." But there came an unfortunate day when, being out of temper, the engineer again knocked the cook down. "This is positively disgraceful!" said the doctor. "I can't keep a quarrelsome fellow aboard the mission-ship. Remember that, if you will, when next you feel tempted to strike the cook." The engineer protested that he would never again lay hands on the cook, whatever the provocation. But again he lost his temper, and down went the poor cook, flat on his back. "I'll discharge you," said the doctor, angrily, "at the end of the cruise!" The engineer pleaded for another chance. He was denied. From day to day he renewed his plea, but to no purpose, and at last the crew came to the conclusion that something really ought to be done for the engineer, who was visibly fretting himself thin. "Very well," said the doctor to the engineer; "I'll make this agreement with you. If ever again you knock down the cook, I'll put you ashore at the first land we come to, and you may get back to St. Johns as best you can." It was a hard alternative. The doctor is not a man to give or take when the bargain has been struck; the engineer knew that he would surely go ashore somewhere on that desolate coast, whether the land was a barren island or a frequented harbour, if ever again the cook tempted him beyond endurance. "I'll stand by it, sir," he said, nevertheless; "for I don't want to leave you." * * * * * In the course of time the _Princess May_ was wrecked or worn out. Then came the _Julia Sheridan_, thirty-five feet long, which the mission doctor bought while she yet lay under water from her last wreck; he raised her, refitted her with what money he had, and pursued his venturesome and beneficent career, until she, too, got beyond so hard a service. Many a gale she weathered, off "the worst coast in the world"--often, indeed, in thick, wild weather, the doctor himself thought the little craft would go down; but she is now happily superannuated, carrying the mail in the quieter waters of Hamilton Inlet. Next came the _Sir Donald_--a stout ship, which in turn disappeared, crushed in the ice. The _Strathcona_, with a hospital amidships, is now doing duty; and she will continue to go up and down the coast, in and out of the inlets, until she in her turn finds the ice and the wind and the rocks too much for her. "'Tis bound t' come, soon or late," said a cautious friend of the mission. "He drives her too hard. He've a right t' do what he likes with his own life, I s'pose, but he've a call t' remember that the crew has folks t' home." * * * * * But the mission doctor is not inconsiderate; he is in a hurry--the coast is long, the season short, the need such as to wring a man's heart. Every new day holds an opportunity for doing a good deed--not if he dawdles in the harbours when a gale is abroad, but only if he passes swiftly from place to place, with a brave heart meeting the dangers as they come. He is the only doctor to visit the Labrador shore of the Gulf, the Strait shore of Newfoundland, the populous east coast of the northern peninsula of Newfoundland, the only doctor known to the Esquimaux and poor "liveyeres" of the northern coast of Labrador, the only doctor most of the "liveyeres" and green-fish catchers of the middle coast can reach, save the hospital physician at Indian Harbour. He has a round of three thousand miles to make. It is no wonder that he "drives" the little steamer--even at full steam, with all sail spread (as I have known him to do), when the fog is thick and the sea is spread with great bergs. "I'm in a hurry," he said, with an impatient sigh. "The season's late. We must get along." * * * * * We fell in with him at Red Ray in the Strait, in the thick of a heavy gale from the northeast. The wind had blown for two days; the sea was running high, and still fast rising; the schooners were huddled in the harbours, with all anchors out, many of them hanging on for dear life, though they lay in shelter. The sturdy little coastal boat, with four times the strength of the _Strathcona_, had made hard work of it that day--there was a time when she but held her own off a lee shore in the teeth of the big wind. It was drawing on towards night when the doctor came aboard for a surgeon from Boston, a specialist, for whom he had been waiting. "I see you've steam up," said the captain of the coastal boat. "I hope you're not going out in _this_, doctor!" "I have some patients at the Battle Harbour Hospital, waiting for our good friend from Boston," said the doctor, briskly. "I'm in a hurry. Oh, yes, I'm going out!" "For God's sake, don't!" said the captain earnestly. The doctor's eye chanced to fall on the gentleman from Boston, who was bending over his bag--a fine, fearless fellow, whom the prospect of putting out in that chip of a steamer would not have perturbed, though the doctor may then not have known it. At any rate, as though bethinking himself of something half forgotten, he changed his mind of a sudden. "Oh, very well," he said. "I'll wait until the gale blows out." He managed to wait a day--no longer; and the wind was still wild, the sea higher than ever; there was ice in the road, and the fog was dense. Then out he went into the thick of it. He bumped an iceberg, scraped a rock, fairly smothered the steamer with broken water; and at midnight--the most marvellous feat of all--he crept into Battle Harbour through a narrow, difficult passage, and dropped anchor off the mission wharf. Doubtless he enjoyed the experience while it lasted--and promptly forgot it, as being commonplace. I have heard of him, caught in the night in a winter's gale of wind and snow, threading a tumultuous, reef-strewn sea, his skipper at the wheel, himself on the bowsprit, guiding the ship by the flash and roar of breakers, while the sea tumbled over him. If the chance passenger who told me the story is to be believed, upon that trying occasion the doctor had the "time of his life." "All that man wanted," I told the doctor subsequently, "was, as he says, 'to bore a hole in the bottom of the ship and crawl out.'" "Why!" exclaimed the doctor, with a laugh of surprise. "He wasn't _frightened_, was he?" [Illustration: "THE HOSPITAL SHIP, STRATHCONA"] Fear of the sea is quite incomprehensible to this man. The passenger was very much frightened; he vowed never to sail with "that devil" again. But the doctor is very far from being a dare-devil; though he is, to be sure, a man altogether unafraid; it seems to me that his heart can never have known the throb of fear. Perhaps that is in part because he has a blessed lack of imagination, in part, perhaps, because he has a body as sound as ever God gave to a man, and has used it as a man should; but it is chiefly because of his simple and splendid faith that he is an instrument in God's hands--God's to do with as He will, as he would say. His faith is exceptional, I am sure--childlike, steady, overmastering, and withal, if I may so characterize it, healthy. It takes something such as the faith he has to move a man to run a little steamer at full speed in the fog when there is ice on every hand. It is hardly credible, but quite true, and short of the truth: neither wind nor ice nor fog, nor all combined, can keep the _Strathcona_ in harbour when there comes a call for help from beyond. The doctor clambers cheerfully out on the bowsprit and keeps both eyes open. "As the Lord wills," says he, "whether for wreck or service. I am about His business." It is a sublime expression of the old faith. VII _THE LIVEYERE_ Doctor Grenfell's patients are of three classes. There is first the "liveyere"--the inhabitant of the Labrador coast--the most ignorant and wretched of them all. There is the Newfoundland "outporter"--the small fisherman of the remoter coast, who must depend wholly upon his hook and line for subsistence. There is the Labradorman--the Newfoundland fisherman of the better class, who fishes the Labrador coast in the summer season and returns to his home port when the snow begins to fly in the fall. Some description of these three classes is here offered, that the reader may understand the character and condition of the folk among whom Dr. Grenfell labours. "As a permanent abode of civilized man," it is written in a very learned if somewhat old-fashioned work, "Labrador is, on the whole, one of the most uninviting spots on the face of the earth." That is putting it altogether too delicately; there should be no qualification; the place is a brutal desolation. The weather has scoured the coast--a thousand miles of it--as clean as an old bone: it is utterly sterile, save for a tuft or two of hardy grass and wide patches of crisp moss; bare gray rocks, low in the south, towering and craggy in the north, everywhere blasted by frost, lie in billowy hills between the froth and clammy mist of the sea and the starved forest at the edge of the inland wilderness. The interior is forbidding; few explorers have essayed adventure there; but the Indians--an expiring tribe--and trappers who have caught sight of the "height of land" say that it is for the most part a vast table-land, barren, strewn with enormous boulders, scarce in game, swarming with flies, with vegetation surviving only in the hollows and ravines--a sullen, forsaken waste. Those who dwell on the coast are called "liveyeres" because they say, "Oh, ay, zur, I lives yere!" in answer to the question. These are not to be confounded with the Newfoundland fishermen who sail the Labrador seas in the fishing season--an adventurous, thrifty folk, bright-eyed, hearty in laughter--twenty-five thousand hale men and boys, with many a wife and maid, who come and return again. Less than four thousand poor folk have on the long coast the "permanent abode" of which the learned work speaks--much less, I should think, from the Strait of Belle Isle to Cape Chidley. It is an evil fate to be born there: the Newfoundlanders who went north from their better country, the Hudson Bay Company's servants who took wives from the natives, all the chance comers who procrastinated their escape, desperately wronged their posterity; the saving circumstance is the very isolation of the dwelling-place--no man knows, no man really _knows_, that elsewhere the earth is kinder to her children and fairer far than the wind-swept, barren coast to which he is used. They live content, bearing many children, in inclemency, in squalor, and, from time to time, in uttermost poverty--such poverty as clothes a child in a trouser leg and feeds babies and strong men alike on nothing but flour and water. They were born there: that is where they came from; that is why they live there. "'Tis a short feast and a long famine," said a northern "liveyere," quite cheerfully; to him it was just a commonplace fact of life. * * * * * There are degrees of wretchedness: a frame cottage is the habitation of the rich and great where the poor live in turf huts; and the poor subsist on roots and a paste of flour and water when the rich feast on salt junk. The folk who live near the Strait of Belle Isle and on the gulf shore may be in happier circumstances. To be sure, they know the pinch of famine; but some--the really well-to-do--are clear of the over-shadowing dread of it. The "liveyeres" of the north dwell in huts, in lonely coves of the bays, remote even from neighbours as ill-cased as themselves; there they live and laugh and love and suffer and die and bury their dead--alone. To the south, however, there are little settlements in the more sheltered harbours--the largest of not more than a hundred souls--where there is a degree of prosperity and of comfort; potatoes are a luxury, but the flour-barrel is always full, the pork-barrel not always empty, and there are raisins in the duff on feast-days; moreover, there are stoves in the whitewashed houses (the northern "liveyere's" stove is more often than not a flat rock), beds to sleep in, muslin curtains in the little windows, and a flower, it may be, sprouting desperately in a red pot on the sill. That is the extreme of luxury--rare to be met with; and it is at all times open to dissolution by famine. "Sure, zur, _last_ winter," a stout young fellow boasted, "we had all the grease us wanted!" [Illustration: "THE LABRADOR 'LIVEYERE'"] It is related of a thrifty settler named Olliver, however, who lived with his wife and five children at Big Bight,--he was a man of superior qualities, as the event makes manifest,--that, having come close to the pass of starvation at the end of a long winter, he set out afoot over the hills to seek relief from his nearest neighbour, forty miles away. But there was no relief to be had; the good neighbour had already given away all that he dared spare, and something more. Twelve miles farther on he was again denied; it is said that the second neighbour mutely pointed to his flour-barrel and his family--which was quite sufficient for Olliver, who thereupon departed to a third house, where his fortune was no better. Perceiving then that he must depend upon the store of food in his own house, which was insufficient to support the lives of all, he returned home, sent his wife and eldest son and eldest daughter away on a pretext, despatched his three youngest children with an axe, and shot himself. As he had foreseen, wife, daughter, and son survived until the "break-up" brought food within their reach; and the son was a well-grown boy, and made a capable head of the house thereafter. * * * * * The "liveyere" is a fisherman and trapper. In the summer he catches cod; in the winter he traps the fox, otter, mink, lynx, and marten, and sometimes he shoots a bear, white or black, and kills a wolf. The "planter," who advances the salt to cure the fish, takes the catch at the end of the season, giving in exchange provisions at an incredible profit; the Hudson Bay Company takes the fur, giving in exchange provisions at an even larger profit; for obvious reasons, both aim (there are exceptions, of course) to keep the "liveyere" in debt--which is not by any means a difficult matter, for the "liveyere" is both shiftless and (what is more to the point) illiterate. So it comes about that what he may have to eat and wear depends upon the will of the "planter" and of the company; and when for his ill-luck or his ill-will both cast him off--which sometimes happens--he looks starvation in the very face. A silver fox, of good fur and acceptable colour, is the "liveyere's" great catch; no doubt his most ecstatic nightmare has to do with finding one fast in his trap; but when, "more by chance than good conduct," as they say, he has that heavenly fortune (the event is of the rarest), the company pays sixty or eighty dollars for that which it sells abroad for $600. Of late, however, the free-traders seem to have established a footing on the coast; their stay may not be long, but for the moment, at any rate, the "liveyere" may dispose of his fur to greater advantage--if he dare. The earth yields the "liveyere" nothing but berries, which are abundant, and, in midsummer, "turnip tops"; and as numerous dogs are needed for winter travelling--wolfish creatures, savage, big, famished--no domestic animals can be kept. There was once a man who somehow managed for a season to possess a pig and a sheep; he marooned his dogs on an island half a mile off the coast; unhappily, however, there blew an off-shore wind in the night, and next morning neither the pig nor the sheep was to be found; the dogs were engaged in innocent diversions on the island, but there was evidence sufficient on their persons, so to speak, to convict them of the depredation in any court of justice. There are no cows on the coast, no goats,--consequently no additional milk-supply for babies,--who manage from the beginning, however, to thrive on bread and salt beef, if put to the necessity. There are no pigs--there is one pig, I believe,--no sheep, no chickens; and the first horses to be taken to the sawmill on Hamilton Inlet so frightened the natives that they scampered in every direction for their lives whenever the team came near, crying: "Look out! The harses is comin'!" The caribou are too far inland for most of the settlers; but at various seasons (excluding such times as there is no game at all) there are to be had grouse, partridge, geese, eider-duck, puffin, gulls, loon and petrel, bear, arctic hare, and bay seal, which are shot with marvellously long and old guns--some of them ancient flintlocks. Notwithstanding all, the folk are large and hardy--capable of withstanding cruel hardship and deprivation. In summer-time the weather is blistering hot inland; and on the coast it is more often than not wet, foggy, blustering--bitter enough for the man from the south, who shivers as he goes about. Innumerable icebergs drift southward, scraping the coast as they go, and patches of snow lie in the hollows of the coast hills--midway between Battle Harbour and Cape Chidley there is a low headland called Snowy Point because the snow forever lies upon it. But warm, sunny days are to be counted upon in August--days when the sea is quiet, the sky deep blue, the rocks bathed in yellow sunlight, the air clear and bracing; at such times it is good to lie on the high heads and look away out to sea, dreaming the while. In winter, storm and intense cold make most of the coast uninhabitable; the "liveyeres" retire up the bays and rivers, bag and baggage, not only to escape the winds and bitter cold, but to be nearer the supply of game and fire-wood. They live in little "tilts"--log huts of one large square room, with "bunks" at each end for the women-folk, and a "cockloft" above for the men and lads. It is very cold; frost forms on the walls, icicles under the "bunks"; the thermometer frequently falls to fifty degrees below zero, which, as you may be sure, is exceedingly cold near the sea. Nor can a man do much heavy work in the woods, for the perspiration freezes under his clothing. Impoverished families have no stoves--merely an arrangement of flat stones, with an opening in the roof for the escape of the smoke, with which they are quite content if only they have enough flour to make hard bread for all. It goes without saying that there is neither butcher, baker, nor candlestick-maker on the coast. Every man is his own bootmaker, tailor, and what not; there is not a trade or profession practiced anywhere. There is no resident doctor, save the mission doctors, one of whom is established at Battle Harbour, and with a dog-team makes a toilsome journey up the coast in the dead of winter, relieving whom he can. There is no public building, no municipal government, no road. There is no lawyer, no constable; and I very much doubt that there is a parson regularly stationed among the whites beyond Battle Harbour, with the exception of the Moravian missionaries. They are scarce enough, at any rate, for the folk in a certain practical way to feel the hardship of their absence. Dr. Grenfell tells of landing late one night in a lonely harbour where three "couples wanted marrying." They had waited many years for the opportunity. It chanced that the doctor was entertaining a minister on the cruise; so one couple determined at once to return to the ship with him. "The minister," says the doctor, "decided that pronouncing the banns might be dispensed with in this case. He went ahead with the ceremony, for the couple had three children already!" * * * * * The "liveyere" is of a sombrely religious turn of mind--his creed as harsh and gloomy as the land he lives in; he is superstitious as a savage as well, and an incorrigible fatalist, all of which is not hard to account for: he is forever in the midst of vast space and silence, face to face with dread and mysterious forces, and in conflict with wind and sea and the changing season, which are irresistible and indifferent. Jared was young, lusty, light-hearted; but he lived in the fear and dread of hell. I had known that for two days. "The flies, zur," said he to the sportsman, whose hospitality I was enjoying, "was wonderful bad the day." We were twelve miles inland, fishing a small stream; and we were now in the "tilt," at the end of the day, safe from the swarming, vicious black-flies. "Yes," the sportsman replied, emphatically. "I've suffered the tortures of the damned this day!" Jared burst into a roar of laughter--as sudden and violent as a thunderclap. "What you laughing at?" the sportsman demanded, as he tenderly stroked his swollen neck. "Tartures o' the damned!" Jared gasped. "Sure, if _that's_ all 'tis, I'll jack 'asy about it!" He laughed louder--reckless levity; but I knew that deep in his heart he would be infinitely relieved could he believe--could he only make sure--that the punishment of the wicked was no worse than an eternity of fighting with poisonous insects. "Ay," he repeated, ruefully, "if that's all 'twas, 'twould not trouble me much." The graveyard at Battle Harbour is in a sheltered hollow near the sea. It is a green spot--the one, perhaps, on the island--and they have enclosed it with a high board fence. Men have fished from that harbour for a hundred years and more--but there are not many graves; why, I do not know. The crumbling stones, the weather-beaten boards, the sprawling ill-worded inscriptions, are all, in their way, eloquent: [Illustration: "Sarah Combe died the fourth of August, 1881, aged 31 years."] There is another, better carved, somewhat better spelled, but quite as interesting and luminous: In Memory of John Hill who Died December 30 1890 Aged 34 Weep not dear Parents For your lost tis my Etarnel gain May May Crist you all take up The crost that we Shuld meat again These things are, indeed, eloquent--of ignorance, of poverty; but no less eloquent of sorrow and of love. The Labrador "liveyere" is kin with the whole wide world. VIII _WITH The FLEET_ In the early spring--when the sunlight is yellow and the warm winds blow and the melting snow drips over the cliffs and runs in little rivulets from the barren hills--in the thousand harbours of Newfoundland the great fleet is made ready for the long adventure upon the Labrador coast. The rocks echo the noise of hammer and saw and mallet and the song and shout of the workers. The new schooners--building the winter long at the harbour side--are hurried to completion. The old craft--the weather-beaten, ragged old craft, which, it may be, have dodged the reefs and out-lived the gales of forty seasons--are fitted with new spars, patched with new canvas and rope, calked anew, daubed anew and, thus refitted, float brave enough on the quiet harbour water. There is no end to the bustle of labour on ships and nets--no end to the clatter of planning. From the skipper of the ten-ton _First Venture_, who sails with a crew of sons bred for the purpose, to the powerful dealer who supplies on shares a fleet of seventeen fore-and-afters manned from the harbours of a great bay, there is hope in the hearts of all. Whatever the last season, every man is to make a good "voyage" now. This season--_this_ season--there is to be fish a-plenty on the Labrador! The future is bright as the new spring days. Aunt Matilda is to have a bonnet with feathers--when Skipper Thomas gets home from the Labrador. Little Johnny Tatt, he of the crooked back, is to know again the virtue of Pike's Pain Compound, at a dollar a bottle, warranted to cure--when daddy gets home from the Labrador. Skipper Bill's Lizzie, plump, blushing, merry-eyed, is to wed Jack Lute o' Burnt Arm--when Jack comes back from the Labrador. Every man's heart, and, indeed, most men's fortunes, are in the venture. The man who has nothing has yet the labour of his hands. Be he skipper, there is one to back his skill and honesty; be he hand, there is no lack of berths to choose from. Skippers stand upon their record and schooners upon their reputation; it's take your choice, for the hands are not too many: the skippers are timid or bold, as God made them; the schooners are lucky or not, as Fate determines. Every man has his chance. John Smith o' Twillingate provisions the _Lucky Queen_ and gives her to the penniless Skipper Jim o' Yellow Tickle on shares. Old Tom Tatter o' Salmon Cove, with plea and argument, persuades the Four Arms trader to trust him once again with the _Busy Bee_. He'll get the fish _this_ time. Nar a doubt of it! _He'll_ be home in August--this year--loaded to the gunwale. God knows who pays the cash when the fish fail! God knows how the folk survive the disappointment! It is a great lottery of hope and fortune. When, at last, word comes south that the ice is clearing from the coast, the vessels spread their little wings to the first favouring winds; and in a week--two weeks or three--the last of the Labradormen have gone "down north." Dr. Grenfell and his workers find much to do among these men and women and children. * * * * * At Indian Harbour where the _Strathcona_ lay at anchor, I went aboard the schooner _Jolly Crew_. It was a raw, foggy day, with a fresh northeast gale blowing, and a high sea running outside the harbour. They were splitting fish on deck; the skiff was just in from the trap--she was still wet with spray. "I sails with me sons an' gran'sons, zur," said the skipper, smiling. "Sure, I be a old feller t' be down the Labrador, isn't I, zur?" He did not mean that. He was proud of his age and strength--glad that he was still able "t' be at the fishin'." [Illustration: "AT INDIAN HARBOR"] "'Tis a wonder you've lived through it all," said I. He laughed. "An' why, zur?" he asked. "Many's the ship wrecked on this coast," I answered. "Oh no, zur," said he; "not so many, zur, as you might think. Down this way, zur, _we knows how t' sail_!" That was a succinct explanation of very much that had puzzled me. "Ah, well," said I, "'tis a hard life." "Hard?" he asked, doubtfully. "Yes," I answered; "'tis a hard life--the fishin'." "Oh no, zur," said he, quietly, looking up from his work. "'Tis just--just _life_!" * * * * * They do, indeed, know how "t' sail." The Newfoundland government, niggardly and utterly independable when the good of the fisherfolk is concerned, of whatever complexion the government may chance to be, but prodigal to an extraordinary degree when individual self-interests are at stake--this is a delicate way of putting an unpleasant truth,--keeps no light burning beyond the Strait of Belle Isle; the best it does, I believe, is to give wrecked seamen free passage home. Under these difficult circumstances, no seamen save Newfoundlanders, who are the most skillful and courageous of all, could sail that coast: and they only because they are born to follow the sea--there is no escape for them--and are bred to sailing from their earliest years. "What you going to be when you grow up?" I once asked a lad on the far northeast coast. He looked at me in vast astonishment. "What you going to _be_, what you going to _do_," I repeated, "when you grow up?" Still he did not comprehend. "Eh?" he said. "What you going to work at," said I, in desperation, "when you're a man?" "Oh, zur," he answered, understanding at last, "I isn't clever enough t' be a parson!" And so it went without saying that he was to fish for a living! It is no wonder, then, that the skippers of the fleet know "how t' sail." The remarkable quality of the sea-captains who come from among them impressively attests the fact--not only their quality as sailors, but as men of spirit and proud courage. There is one--now a captain of a coastal boat on the Newfoundland shore--who takes his steamer into a ticklish harbour of a thick, dark night, when everything is black ahead and roundabout, steering only by the echo of the ship's whistle! There is another, a confident seaman, a bluff, high-spirited fellow, who was once delayed by bitter winter weather--an inky night, with ice about, the snow flying, the seas heavy with frost, the wind blowing a gale. "Where have you been?" they asked him, sarcastically, from the head office. The captain had been on the bridge all night. "Berry-picking," was his laconic despatch in reply. There is another--also the captain of a coastal steamer--who thought it wise to lie in harbour through a stormy night in the early winter. "What detains you?" came a message from the head office. "It is not a fit night for a vessel to be at sea," the captain replied; and thereupon he turned in, believing the matter to be at an end. The captain had been concerned for his vessel--not for his life; nor yet for his comfort. But the underling at the head office misinterpreted the message. "What do we pay you for?" he telegraphed. So the captain took the ship out to sea. Men say that she went out of commission the next day, and that it cost the company a thousand dollars to refit her. * * * * * "A dunderhead," say the folk, "can _cotch_ fish; but it takes a _man_ t' find un." It is a chase; and, as the coast proverb has it, "the fish have no bells." It is estimated that there are 7,000 square miles of fishing-banks off the Labrador coast. There will be fish somewhere--not everywhere; not every man will "use his salt" (the schooners go north loaded with salt for curing) or "get his load." In the beginning--this is when the ice first clears away--there is a race for berths. It takes clever, reckless sailing and alert action to secure the best. I am reminded of a skipper who by hard driving to windward and good luck came first of all to a favourable harbour. It was then night, and his crew was weary, so he put off running out his trap-leader until morning; but in the night the wind changed, and when he awoke at dawn there were two other schooners lying quietly at anchor near by and the berths had been "staked." When the traps are down, there follows a period of anxious waiting. Where are the fish? There are no telegraph-lines on that coast. The news must be spread by word of mouth. When, at last, it comes, there is a sudden change of plan--a wild rush to the more favoured grounds. It is in this scramble that many a skipper makes his great mistake. I was talking with a disconsolate young fellow in a northern harbour where the fish were running thick. The schooners were fast loading; but he had no berth, and was doing but poorly with the passing days. "If I hadn't--if I _only_ hadn't--took up me trap when I did," said he, "I'd been loaded an' off home. Sure, zur, would you believe it? but I had the berth off the point. Off the point--the berth off the point!" he repeated, earnestly, his eyes wide. "An', look! I hears they's a great run o' fish t' Cutthroat Tickle. So I up with me trap, for I'd been gettin' nothin'; an'--an'--would you believe it? but the man that put his down where I took mine up took a hundred quintal[2] out o' that berth next marnin'! An' he'll load," he groaned, "afore the week's out!" [Illustration: "SET THE TRAPS IN THE OPEN SEA"] When the fish are running, the work is mercilessly hard; it is kept up night and day; there is no sleep for man or child, save, it may be, an hour's slumber where they toil, just before dawn. The schooner lies at anchor in the harbour, safe enough from wind and sea; the rocks, surrounding the basin in which she lies, keep the harbour water placid forever. But the men set the traps in the open sea, somewhere off the heads, or near one of the outlying islands; it may be miles from the anchorage of the schooner. They put out at dawn--before dawn, rather; for they aim to be at the trap just when the light is strong enough for the hauling. When the skiff is loaded, they put back to harbour in haste, throw the fish on deck, split them, salt them, lay them neatly in the hold, and put out to the trap again. I have seen the harbours--then crowded with fishing-craft--fairly ablaze with light at midnight. Torches were flaring on the decks and in the turf hut on the rocks ashore. The night was quiet; there was not a sound from the tired workers; but the flaring lights made known that the wild, bleak, far-away place--a basin in the midst of barren, uninhabited hills--was still astir with the day's work. At such times, the toil at the oars, and at the splitting-table,[3] whether on deck or in the stages--and the lack of sleep, and the icy winds and cold salt spray--is all bitter cruel to suffer. The Labrador fisherman will not readily admit that he lives a hard life; but if you suggest that when the fish are running it may be somewhat more toilsome than lives lived elsewhere, he will grant you something. "Oh, ay," he'll drawl, "when the fish is runnin', _'tis_ a bit hard." I learned from a child--he was merry, brave, fond of the adventure--that fishing is a pleasant business in the sunny midsummer months; but that when, late in the fall, the skiff puts out to the trap at dawn, it is wise to plunge one's hands deep in the water before taking the oars, no matter how much it hurts, for one's wrists are then covered with salt-water sores and one's palms are cracked, even though one take the precaution of wearing a brass chain--that, oh, yes! it is wise to plunge one's hands in the cold water, as quick as may be; for thus one may "limber 'em up" before the trap is reached. "'Tis not hard, now," said he. "But, oh--oo--oo! when the big nor'easters blow! Oo--oo!" he repeated, with a shrug and a sage shake of the head; "'tis won-der-ful hard those times!" The return is small. The crews are comprised of from five to ten men, with, occasionally, a sturdy maid for cook, to whom is given thirty dollars for her season's work; some old hands will sail on no ship with a male cook, for, as one of them said, "Sure, some o' thim min can't boil water without burnin' it!" A good season's catch is one hundred quintals of dry fish a man. A simple calculation--with some knowledge of certain factors which I need not state--makes it plain that a man must himself catch, as his share of the trap, 30,000 fish if he is to net a living wage. If his return is $250 he is in the happiest fortune--richly rewarded, beyond his dreams, for his summer's work. One-half of that is sufficient to give any modest man a warm glow of content and pride. Often--it depends largely upon chance and the skill of his skipper--the catch is so poor that he must make the best of twenty-five or thirty dollars. It must not be supposed that the return is always in cash; it is usually in trade, which is quite a different thing--in Newfoundland. * * * * * The schooners take many passengers north in the spring. Such are called "freighters" on the coast; they are put ashore at such harbours as they elect, and, for passage for themselves, families, and gear, pay upon the return voyage twenty-five cents for every hundredweight of fish caught. As a matter of course, the vessels are preposterously overcrowded. Dr. Grenfell tells of counting thirty-four men and sixteen women (no mention was made of children) aboard a nineteen-ton schooner, then on the long, rough voyage to the north. The men fish from the coast in small boats just as the more prosperous "green-fish catchers" put out from the schooners. Meantime, they live in mud huts, which are inviting or otherwise, as the women-folk go; some are damp, cave-like, ill-savoured, crowded; others are airy, cozy, the floors spread deep with powdered shell, the whole immaculately kept. When the party is landed, the women sweep out the last of the winter's snow, the men build great fires on the floors; indeed, the huts are soon ready for occupancy. At best, they are tiny places--much like children's playhouses. There was once a tall man who did not quite fit the sleeping place assigned to him; but with great good nature he cut a hole in the wall, built a miniature addition for his feet, and slept the summer through at comfortable full length. It is a great outing for the children; they romp on the rocks, toddle over the nearer hills, sleep in the sunshine; but if they are eight years old, as one said--or well grown at five or seven--they must do their little share of work. * * * * * Withal, the Labradormen are of a simple, God-fearing, clean-lived, hardy race of men. There was once a woman who made boast of her high connection in England, as women will the wide world over; and when she was questioned concerning the position the boasted relative occupied, replied, "Oh, _he's_ Superintendent o' Foreign Governments!" There was an austere old Christian who on a Sunday morning left his trap--his whole fortune--lie in the path of a destroying iceberg rather than desecrate the Lord's day by taking it out of the water. Both political parties in Newfoundland shamelessly deceive the credulous fisherfolk; there was a childlike old fellow who, when asked, "And what will you do if there _is_ no fish?" confidently answered: "Oh, they's goin' t' be a new Gov'ment. _He'll_ take care o' we!" There was a sturdy son of the coast who deserted his schooner at sea and swam ashore. But he had mistaken a barren island for the mainland, which was yet far off; and there he lived, without food, for twenty-seven days! When he was picked up, his condition was such as may not be described (the Labrador fly is a vicious insect); he was unconscious, but he survived to fish many another season. * * * * * The mail-boat picked up Skipper Thomas of Carbonear--then master of a loaded schooner--at a small harbour near the Straits. His crew carried him aboard; for he was desperately ill, and wanted to die at home, where his children were. "He's wonderful bad," said one of the men. "He've consumption." "I'm just wantin' t' die at home," he said, again and again. "Just that--just where my children be!" All hearts were with him in that last struggle--but no man dared hope; for the old skipper had already beaten off death longer than death is wont to wait, and his strength was near spent. "Were you sick when you sailed for the Labrador in the spring?" they asked him. "Oh, ay," said he; "I were terrible bad then." "Then why," they said--"why did you come at all?" They say he looked up in mild surprise. "I had t' make me livin'," he answered, simply. [Illustration: "THE BULLY-BOAT BECOMES A HOME"] His coffin was knocked together on the forward deck next morning--with Carbonear a day's sail beyond. * * * * * The fleet goes home in the early fall. The schooners are loaded--some so low with the catch that the water washes into the scuppers. "You could wash your hands on her deck," is the skipper's proudest boast. The feat of seamanship, I do not doubt, is not elsewhere equalled. It is an inspiring sight to see the doughty little craft beating into the wind on a gray day. The harvesting of a field of grain is good to look upon; but I think that there can be no more stirring sight in all the world, no sight more quickly to melt a man's heart, more deeply to move him to love men and bless God, than the sight of the Labrador fleet beating home loaded--toil done, dangers past; the home port at the end of a run with a fair wind. The home-coming, I fancy, is much like the return of the viking ships to the old Norwegian harbours must have been. The lucky skippers strut the village roads with swelling chests, heroes in the sight of all; the old men, long past their labour, listen to new tales and spin old yarns; the maids and the lads renew their interrupted love-makings. There is great rejoicing--feasting, merrymaking, hearty thanksgiving. Thanks be to God, the fleet's home! [Footnote 2: A "clever hand" can split--that is, clean--thirty fish in a minute.] [Footnote 3: A quintal is, roughly, a hundred pounds. One hundred quintals of green fish are equal, roughly, to thirty of dry, which, at $3, would amount to $90.] IX _On The FRENCH SHORE_ Doctor Grenfell appears to have a peculiar affection for the outporters of what is locally known as the "French Shore"--that stretch of coast lying between Cape John and the northernmost point of Newfoundland: it is one section of the shore upon which the French have fishing rights. This is the real Newfoundland; to the writer there is no Newfoundland apart from that long strip of rock against which the sea forever breaks: none that is not of punt, of wave, of fish, of low sky and of a stalwart, briny folk. Indeed, though he has joyously lived weeks of blue weather in the outports, with the sea all a-ripple and flashing and the breeze blowing warm, in retrospect land and people resolve themselves into a rocky harbour and a sturdy little lad with a question--the harbour, gray and dripping wet, a cluster of whitewashed cottages perched on the rocks, towards which a tiny, red-sailed punt is beating from the frothy open, with the white of breakers on either hand, while a raw wind lifts the fog from the black inland hills, upon which ragged patches of snow lie melting; the lad, stout, frank-eyed, tow-headed, browned by the wind, bending over the splitting-table with a knife in his toil-worn young hand and the blood of cod dripping from his fingers, and looking wistfully up, at last, to ask a question or two concerning certain old, disquieting mysteries. "Where do the tide go, zur, when 'e runs out?" he plainted. "Where do 'e go, zur? Sure, zur, _you_ is able t' tell me that, isn't you?" * * * * * So, in such a land--where, on some bleak stretches of coast, the potatoes are grown in imported English soil, where most gardens, and some graveyards, are made of earth scraped from the hollows of the hills, where four hundred and nineteen bushels of lean wheat are grown in a single year, and the production of beef-cattle is insignificant as compared with the production of babies--in such a land there is nothing for the young man to do but choose his rock, build his little cottage and his flake and his stage, marry a maid of the harbour when the spring winds stir his blood, gather his potato patch, get a pig and a goat, and go fishing in his punt. And they do fish, have always fished since many generations ago the island was first settled by adventurous Devon men, and must continue to fish to the end of time. Out of a total male population of one hundred thousand, which includes the city-folk of St. Johns and an amazing proportion of babies and tender lads, about fifty-five thousand men and grown boys catch fish for a living. "Still an' all, they's no country in the world like this!" said the old skipper. "Sure, a man's set up in life when he haves a pig an' a punt an' a potato patch." "But have you ever seen another?" I asked. "I've been so far as Saint Johns, zur, an' once t' the waterside o' Boston," was the surprising reply, "an' I'm thinkin' I knows what the world's like." So it is with most Newfoundlanders: they love their land with an intolerant prejudice; and most are content with the life they lead. "The Newfoundlander comes back," is a significant proverb of the outports; and, "White Bay's good enough for me," said a fishwife to me once, when I asked her why she still remained in a place so bleak and barren, "for I've heered tell 'tis wonderful smoky an' n'isy 't Saint Johns." The life they live, and strangely love, is exceeding toilsome. Toil began for a gray-haired, bony-handed old woman whom I know when she was so young that she had to stand on a tub to reach the splitting-table; when, too, to keep her awake and busy, late o' nights, her father would make believe to throw a bloody cod's head at her. It began for that woman's son when, at five or six years old, he was just able to spread the fish to dry on the flake, and continued in earnest, a year or two later, when first he was strong enough to keep the head of his father's punt up to the wind. But they seem not to know that fishing is a hard or dangerous employment: for instance, a mild-eyed, crooked old fellow--he was a cheerful Methodist, too, and subject to "glory-fits"--who had fished from one harbour for sixty years, computed for me that he had put out to sea in his punt at least twenty thousand times, that he had been frozen to the seat of his punt many times, that he had been swept to sea with the ice-packs, six times, that he had weathered six hundred gales, great and small, and that he had been wrecked more times than he could "just mind" at the moment; yet he was the only old man ever I met who seemed honestly to wish that he might live his life over again! The hook-and-line man has a lonely time of it. From earliest dawn, while the night yet lies thick on the sea, until in storm or calm or favouring breeze he makes harbour in the dusk, he lies off shore, fishing--tossing in the lop of the grounds, with the waves to balk and the wind to watch warily, while he tends his lines. There is no jolly companionship of the forecastle and turf hut for him--no new scene, no hilarious adventure; nor has he the expectation of a proud return to lighten his toil. In the little punt he has made with his own hands he is forever riding an infinite expanse, which, in "fish weather," is melancholy, or threatening, or deeply solemn, as it may chance--all the while and all alone confronting the mystery and terrible immensity of the sea. It may be that he gives himself over to aimless musing, or, even less happily, to pondering certain dark mysteries of the soul; and so it comes about that the "mad-house 't Saint Johns" is inadequate to accommodate the poor fellows whom lonely toil has bereft of their senses--melancholiacs, idiots and maniacs "along o' religion." Notwithstanding all, optimism persists everywhere on the coast. One old fisherman counted himself favoured above most men because he had for years been able to afford the luxury of cream of tartar; and another, a brawny giant, confessed to having a disposition so pertinaciously happy that he had come to regard a merry heart as his besetting sin. Sometimes an off-shore gale puts an end to all the fishing; sometimes it is a sudden gust, sometimes a big wave, sometimes a confusing mist, more often long exposure to spray and shipped water and soggy winds. It was a sleety off-shore gale, coming at the end of a sunny, windless day, that froze or drowned thirty men off Trinity Bay in a single night; and it was a mere puff on a "civil" evening--but a swift, wicked little puff, sweeping round Breakheart Head--that made a widow of Elizabeth Rideout o' Duck Cove and took her young son away. Often, however, the hook-and-line man fishes his eighty years of life, and dies in his bed as cheerfully as he has lived and as poor as he was born. X _SOME OUTPORT FOLK_ It had been a race against the peril of fog and the discomfort of a wet night all the way from Hooping Harbour. We escaped the scowl of the northeast, the gray, bitter wind and the sea it was fast fretting to a fury, when the boat rounded Canada Head and ran into the shelter of the bluffs at Englee--into the damp shadows sombrely gathered there. When the punt was moored to the stage-head, the fog had thickened the dusk into deep night, and the rain had soaked us to the skin. There was a light, a warm, yellow light, shining from a window, up along shore and to the west. We stumbled over an erratic footpath, which the folk of the place call "the roaad"--feeling for direction, chancing the steps, splashing through pools of water, tripping over sharp rocks. The whitewashed cottages of the village, set on the hills, were like the ghosts of houses. They started into sight, hung suspended in the night, vanished as we trudged on. The folk were all abed--all save Elisha Duckworthy, that pious giant, who had been late beating in from the fishing grounds off the Head. It was Elisha who opened the door to our knock, and sent a growling, bristling dog back to his place with a gentle word. [Illustration: "THE WHITEWASHED COTTAGES ON THE HILLS"] "Will you not----" "Sure, sir," said Elisha, a smile spreading from his eyes to the very tip of his great beard, "'twould be a hard man an' a bad Christian that would turn strangers away. Come in, sir! 'Tis a full belly you'll have when you leaves the table, an' 'tis a warm bed you'll sleep in, this night." After family prayers, in which we, the strangers he had taken in, were commended to the care and mercy of God in such simple, feeling phrases as proved the fine quality of this man's hospitality and touched our hearts in their innermost parts, Elisha invited us to sit by the kitchen fire with him "for a spell." While the dogs snored in chorus with a young kid and a pig by the roaring stove, and the chickens rustled and clucked in their coop under the bare spruce sofa which Elisha had made, and the wind flung the rain against the window-panes, we three talked of weather and fish and toil and peril and death. It may be that a cruel coast and a sea quick to wrath engender a certain dread curiosity concerning the "taking off" in a man who fights day by day to survive the enmity of both. Elisha talked for a long time of death and heaven and hell. Then, solemnly, his voice fallen to a whisper, he told of his father, Skipper George, a man of weakling faith, who had been reduced to idiocy by wondering what came after death--by wondering, wondering, wondering, in sunlight and mist and night, off shore in the punt, labouring at the splitting-table, at work on the flake, everywhere, wondering all the time where souls took their flight. "'Twere wonderin' whether hell do be underground or not," said Elisha, "that turned un over at last. Sure, sir," with a sigh, "'twere doubt, you sees. 'Tis faith us must have." Elisha stroked the nearest dog with a gentle hand--a mighty hand, toil-worn and misshapen, like the man himself. "Do your besettin' sin get the best o' you, sir?" he said, looking up. It may be that he craved to hear a confession of failure that he might afterwards sustain himself with the thought that no man is invulnerable. "Sure, we've all besettin' sins. When we do be snatched from the burnin' brands, b'y, a little spark burns on, an' on, an' on; an' he do be wonderful hard t' douse out. 'Tis like the eye us must pluck out by command o' the Lard. With some men 'tis a taste for baccy. With some 'tis a scarcity o' salt in the fish. With some 'tis too much water in the lobster cans. With some 'tis a cravin' for sweetness. With me 'tis worse nor all. Sure, sir," he went on, "I've knowed some men so fond, so wonderful fond, o' baccy that um smoked the shoes off their children's feet. 'Tis their besettin' sin, sir--'tis their besettin' sin. But 'tis not baccy that worries me. The taste fell away when I were took from sin. 'Tis not that. 'Tis worse. Sure, with me, sir," he said, brushing his hand over his forehead in a weary, despairing way, "'tis laughin'. 'Tis the sin of jokin' that puts my soul in danger o' bein' hove overboard into the burnin' lake. I were a wonderful joker when I were a sinful man. 'Twas all I lived for--not t' praise God an' prepare my soul for death. When I gets up in the marnin', now, sir, I feels like jokin' like what I used t' do, particular if it do be a fine day. Ah, sir," with a long sigh, "'tis a great temptation, I tells you--'tis a wonderful temptation. But 'tis not set down in the Book that Jesus Christ smiled an' laughed, an' with the Lard's help I'll beat the devil yet. I'll beat un," he cried, as if inspired to some supreme struggle. "I'll beat un," he repeated, clinching his great hands. "I will!" Elisha bade us good-night with a solemn face. A little smile--a poor, frightened little smile of tender feeling for us--flickered in his eyes for the space of a breath. But he snuffed it out relentlessly, expressed his triumph with a flash of his eye, and went away to bed. In the morning, when the sun called us up, he had come back from the early morning's fishing, and was singing a most doleful hymn of death and judgment over the splitting-table in the stage. The sunlight was streaming into the room, and the motes were all dancing merrily in the beam. The breeze was rustling the leaves of a sickly bush under the window--coaxing them to hopeful whisperings. I fancied that the sea was all blue and rippling, and that the birds were flitting through the sunlight, chirping their sympathy with the smiling day. But Elisha, his brave heart steeled against the whole earth's frivolous mood, continued heroically to pour forth his dismal song. Twilight was filling the kitchen with strange shadows. "We had disposed of Aunt Ruth's watered fish and soaked hard-bread with hunger for a relish. Uncle Simon's glance was mournfully intent upon the bare platter. "But," said Aunt Ruth, with obstinate emphasis, "I knows they be. 'Tis not what we hears we believe, sir. No, 'tis not what we hears. 'Tis what we sees. An' I've seed un." "'Tis true, sir," said Uncle Simon, looking up. "They be nar a doubt about it." "But where," said I, "did she get her looking-glass?" "They be many a trader wrecked on this coast, sir," said Uncle Simon. "'Twere not a mermaid I seed," said Aunt Ruth. "'Twere a mer_man_." "Sure," said Uncle Simon, mysteriously, "they do be in the sea the shape o' all that's on the land--shape for shape, sir. They be sea-horses an' sea-cows an' sea-dogs, Why not the shape o' humans?" "Well," said Aunt Ruth, "'twas when I were a little maid. An' 'twas in a gale o' wind. I goes down t' Billy Cove t' watch me father bring the punt in, an' I couldn't see un anywhere. So I thought he were drownded. 'Twere handy t' dark when I seed the merman rise from the water. He were big an' black--so black as the stove. I could see the eyes of un so plain as I can see yours. He were not good lookin'--no, I'll say that much--he were not good lookin'. He waved his arms, an' beckoned an' beckoned an' beckoned. But, sure, sir, I wouldn't go, for I were feared. ''Tis the soul o' me father,' thinks I. 'Sure, the sea's cotched un.' So I runs home an' tells me mother; an' she says 'twere a merman. I _knows_ they be mermans an' mermaids, 'cause I'se seed un. 'Tis what we sees we believes." "'Tis said," said Uncle Simon, "that if you finds un on the rocks an' puts un in the water they gives you three wishes; an' all you has t' do is wish, an'----" "'Tis said," said Aunt Ruth, with a prodigious frown across the table, "that the mermaids trick the fishermen t' the edge o' the sea an' steals un away. Uncle Simon Ride," she went on, severely, "if ever you----" Uncle Simon looked sheepish. "Sure, woman," said he, the evidences of guilt plain on his face, "they be no danger t' me. 'Twould take a clever mermaid t'----" "Uncle Simon Ride," said Aunt Ruth, "nar another word. An' if you don't put my spinnin' wheel t' rights this night I'll give you your tea in a mug[4] t'-morrow--an' mind that, sir, mind that!" After we had left the table Uncle Simon took me aside. "She do be a wonderful woman," said he, meaning Aunt Ruth. Then, earnestly, "She've no cause t' be jealous o' the mermaids. No, sir--sure, no." * * * * * It is difficult to convey an adequate conception of the barrenness of this coast. If you were to ask a fisherman of some remote outport what his flour was made of he would stare at you and be mute. "Wheat" would be a new, meaningless word to many a man of those places. It may be that the words of the Old Skipper of Black Harbour will help the reader to an understanding of the high value set upon the soil and all it produces. "Come with me," said the Old Skipper, "an' I'll show you so fine a garden as ever you seed." The garden was on an island two miles off the mainland. Like many another patch of ground it had to be cultivated from a distant place. It was an acre, or thereabouts, which had been "won from the wilderness" by the labour of several generations; and it was owned by eleven families. This was not a garden made by gathering soil and dumping it in a hollow, as most gardens are; it was a real "meadow." "Look at them potatoes, sir," said the skipper. He radiated pride in the soil's achievement as he waited for my outburst of congratulation. The potatoes, owing to painstaking fertilization with small fish, had attained admirable size--in tops. But the hay! "'Tis fine grass," said the skipper. "Fine as ever you seed!" It was thin, and nearer gray than yellow; and every stalk was weak in the knees. I do it more than justice when I write that it rose above my shoe tops. "'Tis sizable hay," said the skipper. "'Tis time I had un cut." On the way back the skipper caught sight of a skiff-load of hay, which old John Burns was sculling from Duck Island. He was careful to point it out as good evidence of the fertility of that part of the world. By and by we came to a whisp of hay which had fallen from the skiff. It was a mere handful floating on the quiet water. "The wastefulness of that dunderhead!" exclaimed the skipper. He took the boat towards the whisp of hay, puffing his wrath all the while. "Pass the gaff, b'y," he said. With the utmost care he hooked the whisp of hay--to the last straw--and drew it over the side. "'Tis a sin," said he, "t' waste good hay like that." Broad fields, hay and wheat and corn, all yellow, waving to the breeze--the sun flooding all--were far, far beyond this man's imagination. He did not know that in other lands the earth yields generously to the men who sow seed. How little did the harvest mean to him! The world is a world of rock and sea--of sea and naked rock. Soil is gathered in buckets. Gardens are made by hand. The return is precious in the sight of men. * * * * * Uncle Zeb Gale--Daddy Gale, who had long ago lost count of his grandchildren, they were so many--Ol' Zeb tottered up from the sea, gasping and coughing, but broadly smiling in the intervals. He had a great cod in one hand, and his old cloth cap was in the other. His head was bald, and his snowy beard covered his chest. Toil and the weight of years had bowed his back, spun a film over his eyes and cracked his voice. But neither toil nor age nor hunger nor cold had broken his cheery interest in all the things of life. Ol' Zeb smiled in a sweetly winning way. He stopped to pass a word with the stranger, who was far away from home, and therefore, no doubt, needed a heartening word or two. "Fine even, zur," said he. "Tis that, Uncle Zeb. How have the fish been to-day?" "Oh, they be a scattered fish off the Mull, zur. But 'tis only a scattered one. They don't run in, zur, like what they used to when I were young, sure." "How many years ago, sir?" [Illustration: "TOIL"] "'Tis many year, zur," said Uncle Zeb, smiling indulgence with my youth. "They was fish a-plenty when--when--when I were young. 'Tis not what it used t' be--no, no, zur; not at all. Sure, zur, I been goin' t' the grounds off the Mull since I were seven years old. Since I were seven! I be eighty-three now, zur. Seventy-six year, zur, I has fished out o' this here harbour." Uncle Zeb stopped to wheeze a bit. He was out of breath with this long speech. And when he had wheezed a bit, a spasm of hard coughing took him. He was on the verge of the last stage of consumption, was Uncle Zeb. "'Tis a fine harbour t' fish from, zur," he gasped. "They be none better. Least-ways, so they tells me--them that's cruised about a deal. Sure, I've never seen another. 'Tis t' Conch[5] I've wanted t' go since I were a young feller. I'll see un yet, zur--sure, an' I will." "You are eighty-three?" said I. "I be the oldest man t' the harbour, zur. I marries the maids an' the young fellers when they's no parson about." "You have fished out of this harbour for seventy-six years?" said I, in vain trying to comprehend the deprivation and dull toil of that long life--trying to account for the childlike smile which had continued to the end of it. "Ay, zur," said Uncle Zeb. "But, sure, they be plenty o' time t' see Conch yet. Me father were ninety when he died. I be only eighty-three." Uncle Zeb tottered up the hill. Soon the dusk swallowed his old hulk. I never saw him again. * * * * * We were seated on the Head, high above the sea, watching the fleet of punts come from the Mad Mull grounds and from the nets along shore, for it was evening. Jack had told me much of the lore of lobster-catching and squid-jigging. Of winds and tides and long breakers he had given me solemn warnings--and especially of that little valley down which the gusts came, no man knew from where. He had imparted certain secrets concerning the whereabouts of gulls' nests and juniper-berry patches, for I had won his confidence. I had been informed that Uncle Tom Bull's punt was in hourly danger of turning over because her spread of canvas was "scandalous" great, that Bill Bludgell kept the "surliest dog t' the harbour," that the "goaats was wonderful hard t' find" in the fog, that a brass bracelet would cure salt-water sores on the wrists, that--I cannot recall it all. He had "mocked" a goat, a squid, a lamb, old George Walker at prayer, and "Uncle" Ruth berating "Aunt" Simon for leaving the splitting-table unclean. Then he sang this song, in a thin, sweet treble, which was good to hear: "'Way down on Pigeon Pond Island, When daddy comes home from swilin',[6] (Maggoty fish hung up in the air, Fried in maggoty butter)! Cakes and tea for breakfast, Pork and duff for dinner, Cakes and tea for supper, When daddy comes home from swilin'." He asked me riddles, thence he passed to other questions, for he was a boy who wondered, and wondered, what lay beyond those places which he could see from the highest hill. I described a street and a pavement, told him that the earth was round, defined a team of horses, corrected his impression that a church organ was played with the mouth, and denied the report that the flakes and stages of New York were the largest in the world. The boys of the outports do not play games--there is no time, and at any rate, the old West Country games have not come down to this generation with the dialect, so I told him how to play tag, hide-and-go-seek and blind man's buff, and proved to him that they might be interesting, though I had to admit that they might not be profitable in certain cases. "Some men," said I, at last, "have never seen the sea." He looked at me and laughed his unbelief. "Sure," said he, "not a hundred haven't?" "Many more than that." "'Tis hard t' believe, zur," he said. "Terrible hard." "We were silent while he thought it over. "What's the last harbour in the world?" he asked. I hesitated. "The very last, zur! They do say 'tis St. Johns. But, sure, zur, they must be something beyond. What do it be?" After a silence, he continued, speaking wistfully, "What's the last harbour in all the whole world, zur? Doesn't you know?" * * * * * It had been a raw day--gray and gusty, with the wind breaking over the island from a foggy sea: a sullen day. All day long there had been no rest from the deep harsh growl of the breakers. We were at tea in Aunt Amanda's cottage; the table was spread with dried caplin, bread and butter, and tea, for Aunt Amanda, the Scotsman who was of the harbour, and me. The harbour water was fretting under the windows as the swift gusts whipped over it; and beyond the narrows, where the sea was tumbling, the dusk was closing over the frothy waves. Out there a punt was reeling in from the Mad Mull fishing grounds; its brown sail was like a leaf driven by the wind. I saw the boat dart through the narrows to the sheltered water, and I sighed in sympathy with the man who was then furling his wet and fluttering sail, for I, too, had experienced the relief of sweeping from that waste of grasping waves to the sanctuary of the harbour. "Do you think of the sea as a friend?" I asked Aunt Amanda. She was a gray, stern woman, over whose face, however, a tender smile was used to flitting, the light lingered last in her faded eyes--the daughter, wife, and mother of punt fishermen. So she had dealt hand to hand with the sea since that night, long ago, when, as a wee maid, she first could reach the splitting-table by standing on a bucket. As a child she had tripped up the path to Lookout Head, to watch her father beat in from the grounds; as a maiden, she had courted when the moonlight was falling upon the ripples of Lower Harbour, and the punt was heaving to the spent swell of the open; as a woman she had kept watch on the moods of the sea, which had possessed itself of her hours of toil and leisure. In the end--may the day be long in coming--she will be taken to the little graveyard under the Lookout in a skiff. Now, at my suggestion, she dropped her eyes to her apron, which she smoothed in an absent way. She seemed to search her life--all the terror, toil, and glory of it--for the answer. She was not of a kind to make light replies, and I knew that the word to come would be of vast significance. "It do seem to me," she said, turning her eyes to the darkening water, "that the say is hungry for the lives o' men." "Tut, woman!" cried the old Scotsman, his eyes all a-sparkle. "'Tis a libel on the sea. Why wull ye speak such trash to a stranger? Have ye never heard, sir, what the poet says?" "Well," I began to stammer. "Aye, man," said he, "they all babble about it. But have ye never read, "'O, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense, the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?'" With that, the sentimental old fellow struck an attitude. His head was thrown back; his eyes were flashing; his arm was rigid, and pointing straight through the window to that patch of white, far off in the gathering dark, where the sea lay raging. It ever took a poet to carry that old Scotsman off his feet--to sweep him to some high, cloudy place, where the things of life rearranged and decked themselves out to please his fancy. I confess, too, that his enthusiasm rekindled, for a moment, my third-reader interest in "a wet sheet and a flowing sea" and "a wind that follows fast." We have all loved well the sea of our fancy. "Grand, woman!" he exclaimed, turning to Aunt Amanda, and still a-tremble. "Splendid!" Aunt Amanda fixed him with her gray eye. "I don't know," she said, softly. "But I know that the say took me father from me when I was a wee maid." The Scotsman bent his head over his plate, lower and lower still. His fervour departed, and his face, when he looked up, was full of sympathy. Of a sudden my ears hearkened again to the growling breakers, and to the wind, as it ran past, leaping from sea to wilderness; and my spirit felt the coming of the dark. [Footnote 4: A scolding.] [Footnote 5: Some miles distant.] [Footnote 6: Sealing.] XI _WINTER PRACTICE_ It is, then, to the outporter, to the men of the fleet and to the Labrador liveyere that Doctor Grenfell devotes himself. The hospital at Indian Harbour is the centre of the Labrador activity; the hospital at St. Anthony is designed to care for the needs of the French shore folk; the hospital at Battle Harbour--the first established, and, possibly, the best equipped of all--receives patients from all directions, but especially from the harbours of the Strait and the Gulf. In the little hospital-ship, _Strathcona_, the doctor himself darts here and there and everywhere, all summer long, responding to calls, searching out the sick, gathering patients for the various hospitals. She is known to every harbour of the coast; and she is often overcrowded with sick bound to the hospitals for treatment or operation. Often, indeed, in cases of emergency, operations are performed aboard, while she tosses in the rough seas. She is never a moment idle while the waters are open. But in the fall, when navigation closes, she must go into winter quarters; and then the sick and starving are sought out by dog-team and komatik. There is no cessation of beneficent activity; there is merely a change in the manner of getting about. Summer journeys are hard enough, God knows! But winter travel is a matter of much greater difficulty and hardship. Not that the difficulty and hardship seem ever to be perceived by the mission-doctor; quite the contrary: there is if anything greater delight to be found in a wild, swift race over rotten or heaving ice, or in a night in the driving snow, than in running the _Strathcona_ through a nor'east gale. The Indian Harbour hospital is closed in the fall; so intense is the cold, so exposed the situation, so scarce the wood, so few the liveyeres, that it has been found unprofitable to keep it open. There is another way of meeting the needs of the situation; and that is by despatching the Battle Harbour doctor northward in midwinter. The folk know that he is bound towards them--know the points of call--can determine within a month the time of his arrival. So they bring the sick to these places--and patiently wait. This is a hard journey--made alone with the dogs. Many a night the doctor must get into his sleeping bag and make himself as comfortable as possible in the snow, snuggled close to his dogs, for the sake of the warmth of their bodies. Six hundred miles north in the dead of winter, six hundred miles back again; it takes a man of unchangeable devotion to undertake it! [Illustration: "THE HOSPITAL AT BATTLE HARBOR"] * * * * * The Labrador dogs--pure and half-breed "huskies," with so much of the wolf yet in them that they never bark--are for the most part used by the doctor on his journeys. There would be no getting anywhere without them; and it must be said that they are magnificent animals, capable of heroic deeds. Every prosperous householder has at least six or eight full-grown sled-dogs and more puppies than he can keep track of. In summer they lie everywhere under foot by day, and by night howl in a demoniacal fashion far and near; but they fish for themselves in shallow water, and are fat, and may safely be stepped over. In winter they are lean, desperately hungry, savage, and treacherous--in particular, a menace to the lives of children, whom they have been known to devour. There was once a father, just returned from a day's hunt on the ice, who sent his son to fetch a seal from the waterside; the man had forgotten for the moment that the dogs were roaming the night and very hungry--and so he lost both his seal and his son. The four-year-old son of the Hudson Bay Company's agent at Cartwright chanced last winter to fall down in the snow. He was at once set upon by the pack; and when he was rescued (his mother told me the story) he had forty-two ugly wounds on his little body. For many nights afterwards the dogs howled under the window where he lay moaning. Eventually those concerned in the attack were hanged by the neck, which is the custom in such cases. * * * * * Once, when Dr. Grenfell was wintering at St. Anthony, on the French shore, there came in great haste from Conch, a point sixty miles distant, a komatik with an urgent summons to the bedside of a man who lay dying of hemorrhage. And while the doctor was preparing for this journey, a second komatik, despatched from another place, arrived with a similar message. "Come at once," it was. "My little boy has broken his thigh." The doctor chose first to visit the lad. At ten o'clock that night he was at the bedside. It had been a dark night--black dark: with the road precipitous, the dogs uncontrollable, the physician in great haste. The doctor thought, many a time, that there would be "more than one broken limb" by the time of his arrival. But there was no misadventure; and he found the lad lying on a settle, in great pain, wondering why he must suffer so. "Every minute or two," says the doctor, "there would be a jerk, a flash of pain, and a cry to his father, who was holding him all the time." The doctor was glad "to get the chloroform mask over the boy's face"--he is a sympathetic man, the doctor; glad, always, to ease pain. And at one o'clock in the morning the broken bone was set and the doctor had had a cup of tea; whereupon, he retired to a bed on the floor and a few hours' "watch below." At daylight, when he was up and about to depart, the little patient had awakened and was merrily calling to the doctor's little retriever. "He was as merry as a cricket," says the doctor, "when I bade him good-bye." * * * * * About twelve hours on the way to Conch, where the man lay dying of hemorrhage--a two days' journey--the doctor fell in with a dog-train bearing the mail. And the mail-man had a letter--a hasty summons to a man in great pain some sixty miles in another direction. It was impossible to respond. "That call," says the doctor, sadly, "owing to sheer impossibility, was not answered." It was haste away to Conch, over the ice and snow--for the most of the time on the ice of the sea--in order that the man who lay dying there might be succoured. But there was another interruption. When the dog-train reached the coast, there was a man waiting to intercept it: the news of the doctor's probable coming had spread. "I've a fresh team o' dogs," sir, said he, "t' take you t' the island. There's a man there, an' he's wonderful sick." Would the doctor go? Yes--he would go! But he had no sooner reached that point of the mainland whence he was bound across a fine stretch of ice to the island than he was again intercepted. It was a young man, this time, whose mother lay ill, with no other Protestant family living within fifty miles. Would the doctor help her? Yes--the doctor would; and did. And when he was about to be on his way again---- "Could you bear word," said the woman, "t' Mister Elliot t' come bury my boy? He said he'd come, sir; but now my little lad has been lying dead, here, since January." It was then early in March. Mr. Elliot was a Protestant fisherman who was accustomed to bury the Protestant dead of that district. Yes--the doctor would bear word to him. Having promised this, he set out to visit the sick man on the island; for whom, also, he did what he could. * * * * * Off again towards Conch--now with fresh teams, which had been provided by the friends of the man who lay there dying. And by the way a man brought his little son for examination and treatment--"a lad of three years," says the doctor; "a bright, healthy, embryo fisherman, light-haired and blue-eyed, a veritable celt." "And what's the matter with him?" was the physician's question. "He've a club foot, sir," was the answer. And so it turned out: the lad had a club foot. He was fond of telling his mother that he had a right foot and a wrong one. "The wrong one, mama," said he, "is no good." He was to be a cripple for life--utterly incapacitated: the fishing does not admit of club feet. But the doctor made arrangements for the child's transportation to the St. Anthony hospital, where he could, without doubt be cured; and then hurried on. * * * * * The way now led through a district desperately impoverished--as much by ignorance and indolence as by anything else. At one settlement of tilts there were forty souls, "without a scrap of food or money," who depended upon their neighbours--and the opening of navigation was still three months distant! In one tilt there lay what seemed to be a bundle of rags. "And who is this?" the doctor asked. It was a child. "The fair hair of a blue-eyed boy of about ten years disclosed itself," says the doctor. "Stooping over him I attempted to turn his face towards me. It was drawn, with pain, and a moan escaped the poor little fellow's lips. He had disease of the spine, with open sores in three places. He was stark naked, and he was starved to a skeleton. He gave me a bright smile before I left, but I confess to a shudder of horror at the thought that his lot might have been mine. Of course the 'fear of pauperizing' had to disappear before the claims of humanity. Yet, there, in the depth of winter," the doctor asks, with infinite compassion, "would not a lethal draught be the kindest friend of that little one of Him that loved the children?" * * * * * For five days the doctor laboured in Conch, healing many of the folk, helping more; and at the end of that period the man who has suffered the hemorrhage was so far restored that with new dogs the doctor set out for Canada Bay, still travelling southward. There, as he says, "we had many interesting cases." One of these involved an operation: that of "opening a knee-joint and removing a loose body," with the result that a fisherman who had long been crippled was made quite well again. Then there came a second call from Conch. Seventeen men had come for the physician, willing to haul the komatik themselves, if no dogs were to be had. To this call the doctor immediately responded; and having treated patients at Conch and by the way, he set out upon the return journey to St. Anthony, fearing that his absence had already been unduly prolonged. And he had not gone far on the way before he fell in with another komatik, provided with a box, in which lay an old woman bound to St. Anthony hospital, in the care of her sons, to have her foot amputated. Crossing Hare Bay, the doctor had a slight mishap--rather amusing, too, he thinks. "One of my dogs fell through the ice," says he. "There was a biting nor'west wind blowing, and the temperature was ten degrees below zero. When we were one mile from the land, I got off to run and try the ice. It suddenly gave way, and in I fell. It did not take me long to get out, for I have had some little experience, and the best advice sounds odd: it is 'keep cool.' But the nearest house being at least ten miles, it meant, then, almost one's life to have no dry clothing. Fortunately, I had. The driver at once galloped the dogs back to the woods we had left, and I had as hard a mile's running as ever I had; for my clothing was growing to resemble the armour of an ancient knight more and more, every yard, and though in my youth I was accustomed to break the ice to bathe if necessary, I never tried running a race in a coat of mail. By the time I arrived at the trees and got out of the wind, my driver had a rubber poncho spread on the snow under a snug spruce thicket; and I was soon as dry and a great deal warmer than before." At St. Anthony, the woman's foot was amputated; and in two days the patient was talking of "getting up." Meantime, a komatik had arrived in haste from a point on the northwest coast--a settlement one hundred and twenty miles distant. The doctor was needed there--and the doctor went! * * * * * [Illustration: "THE DOCTOR ON A WINTER'S JOURNEY"] This brief and inadequate description of a winter's journey may not serve to indicate the hardship of the life the doctor leads: he has small regard for that; but it may faintly apprise the reader of the character of the work done, and of the will with which the doctor does it. One brief journey! The visitation of but sixty miles of coast! Add to this the numerous journeys of that winter, the various summer voyages of the _Strathcona_; conceive that the folk of two thousand miles are visited every year, often twice a year: then multiply by ten--for the mission has been in efficient existence for ten years--and the reader may reach some faint conception of the sum of good wrought by this man. But without knowing the desolate land--without observing the emaciated bodies of the children--without hearing the cries of distress--it is impossible adequately to realize the blessing his devotion has brought to the coast. XII _THE CHAMPION_ The Deep-sea Mission is not concerned chiefly with the souls of the folk, nor yet exclusively with their bodies: it endeavours to provide them with religious instruction, to heal their ailments; but it is quite as much interested, apparently, in improving their material condition. To the starving it gives food, to the naked clothing; but it must not be supposed that charity is indiscriminately distributed. That is not the case. Far from it. When a man can cut wood for the steamer or hospitals in return for the food he is given, for example, he is required to do so; but the unhappy truth is that a man can cut very little wood "on a winter's diet" exclusively of flour. "You gets weak all of a suddent, zur," one expressed it to me. In his effort to "help the people help themselves" the doctor has established cooperative stores and various small industries. The result has been twofold: the regeneration of several communities, and an outbreak of hatred and dishonest abuse on the part of the traders, who have too long fattened on the isolation and miseries of the people. The cooperative stores, I believe, are thriving, and the small industries promise well. Thus the mission is at once the hope and comfort of the coast. The man on the _Strathcona_ is the only man, in all the long history of that wretched land, to offer a helping hand to the whole people from year to year without ill temper and without hope of gain. "But I can't do everything," says he. And that is true. There is much that the mission-doctor cannot do--delicate operations, for which the more skilled hand of a specialist is needed. For a time, one season, an eminent surgeon, of Boston, the first of many, it is hoped, cruised on the _Strathcona_, and most generously operated at Battle Harbour. The mission gathered the patients to the hospital from far and near before the surgeon arrived. Folk who had looked forward in dread to a painful death, fast approaching, were of a sudden promised life. There was a man coming, they were told, above the skill of the mission surgeons, who could surely cure them. The deed was as good as the promise: many operations were performed; all the sick who came for healing were healed; the hope of not one was disappointed. Folk who had suffered years of pain were restored. Never had such a thing been known on the Labrador. Men marvelled. The surgeon was like a man raising the dead. But there was a woman who is now, perhaps, dead; she lacked the courage. Day after day for two weeks she waited for the Boston surgeon; but when he came she fled in terror of the knife. Her ailment was mortal in that land; but she might easily have been cured; and she fled home when she knew that the healer had come. No doubt her children now know what it is to want a mother. Dr. Grenfell will let no man oppress his people when his arm is strong enough to champion them. There was once a rich man (so I was told before I met the doctor)--a man of influence and wide acquaintance--whose business was in a remote harbour of Newfoundland. He did a great wrong; and when the news of it came to the ears of the mission-doctor, the anchor of the _Strathcona_ came up in a hurry, and off she steamed to that place. "Now," said the doctor to this man, "you must make what amends you can, and you must confess your sin." The man laughed aloud. It seemed to him, no doubt, a joke that the mission-doctor should interfere in the affairs of one so rich who knew the politicians at St. Johns. But the mission-doctor was also a magistrate. "I say," said he, deliberately, "that you must pay one thousand dollars and confess your sin." The man cursed the doctor with great laughter, and dared him to do his worst. The joke still had point. "I warn you," said the doctor, "that I will arrest you if you do not do precisely as I say." The man pointed out to the doctor that his magisterial district lay elsewhere, and again defied him. "Very true," said the doctor; "but I warn you that I have a crew quite capable of taking you into it." The joke was losing its point. But the man blustered that he, too, had a crew. "You must make sure," said the doctor, "that they love you well enough to fight for you. On Sunday evening," he continued, "you will appear at the church at seven o'clock and confess your sin before the congregation; and next week you will pay the money as I have said." "I'll see you in h--ll first!" replied the man, defiantly. [Illustration: "A CREW QUITE CAPABLE OF TAKING YOU INTO IT"] At the morning service the doctor announced that a sinful man would confess his sin before them all that night. There was great excitement. Other men might be prevailed upon to make so humiliating a confession, the folk said, but not this one--not this rich man, whom they hated and feared, because he had so long pitilessly oppressed them. So they were not surprised when at the evening service the sinful man did not show his face. "Will you please to keep your seats," said the doctor, "while I go fetch that man." He found the man in a neighbour's house, on his knees in prayer, with his friends. They were praying fervently, it is said; but whether or not that the heart of the doctor might be softened I do not know. "Prayer," said the doctor, "is a good thing in its place, but it doesn't 'go' here. Come with me." The man meekly went with the doctor; he was led up the aisle of the church, was placed where all the people could see him; and then he was asked many questions, after the doctor had described the great sin of which he was guilty. "Did you do this thing?" "I did." "You are an evil man, of whom the people should beware?" "I am." "You deserve the punishment of man and God?" "I do." There was much more, and at the end of it all the doctor told the man that the good God would forgive him if he should ask in true faith and repentance, but that the people, being human, could not. For a whole year, he charged the people, they must not speak to that man; but if at the end of that time he had shown an honest disposition to mend his ways, they might take him to their hearts. The end of the story is that the man paid the money and left the place. This relentless judge, on a stormy day of last July, carried many bundles ashore at Cartwright, in Sandwich Bay of the Labrador. The wife of the Hudson Bay Company's agent exclaimed with delight when she opened them. They were Christmas gifts from the children of the "States" to the lads and little maids of that coast. With almost all there came a little letter addressed to the unknown child who was to receive the toy; they were filled with loving words--with good wishes, coming in childish sincerity from the warm little hearts. The doctor never forgets the Christmas gifts. He is the St. Nicholas of that coast. If he ever weeps at all, I should think it would be when he hears that despite his care some child has been neglected. The wife of the agent stowed away the gifts against the time to come. "It makes them _very_ happy," said the agent's wife. "Not long ago," I chanced to say, "I saw a little girl with a stick of wood for a dolly. Are they not afraid to play with these pretty things?" "They _are_," she laughed. "They use them for ornaments. But _that_ doesn't matter. It makes them happy just to look at them." We all laughed. "And yet," she continued, "they _do_ play with them, sometimes, after all. There is a little girl up the bay who _has kissed the paint off her dolly_!" * * * * * Thus and all the time, in storm and sunshine, summer and winter weather, Grenfell of the Deep-sea Mission goes about doing good; if it's not in a boat, it's in a dog-sled. He is what he likes to call "a Christian man." But he is also a hero--at once the bravest and the most beneficently useful man I know. If he regrets his isolation, if the hardship of the life sometimes oppresses him, no man knows it. He does much, but there is much more to do. If the good people of the world would but give a little more of what they have so abundantly--and if they could but know the need, they would surely do that--joy might be multiplied on that coast; nor would any man be wronged by misguided charity. "What a man does for the love of God," the doctor once said, "he does differently." _Decorated Cloth, $1.50_ _Doctor Luke of The Labrador_ BY NORMAN DUNCAN "Mr. Duncan is deserving of much praise for this, his first novel.... In his descriptive passages Mr. Duncan is sincere to the smallest detail. His characters are painted in with bold, wide strokes.... Unlike most first novels, 'Doctor Luke' waxes stronger as it progresses."--_N. Y. Evening Post_. _James MacArthur, of Harper's Weekly, says_: "I am delighted with 'Doctor Luke.' So fine and noble a work deserves great success." "A masterpiece of sentiment and humorous characterization. Nothing more individual, and in its own way more powerful, has been done in American fiction.... The story is a work of art."--_The Congregationalist_. _Joseph B. Gilder, of The Critic, says_: "I look to see it take its place promptly among the best selling books of the season." "It fulfills its promise of being one of the best stories of the season. Mr. Duncan evidently is destined to make a name for himself among the foremost novelists of his day.... Doctor Luke is a magnetic character, and the love story in which he plays his part is a sweet and pleasant idyl.... The triumph of the book is its character delineation."--_Chicago Record-Herald_. _Miss Bacon, Literary Editor of The Booklover's Library, says_: "Of all the stories I have read this Autumn there is none that I would rather own." "Norman Duncan's novel is a great enterprise, and will probably prove to be the greatest book yet produced by a native of Canada."--_Toronto Globe_. _8vo, Cloth Price, $1.75 net_ _Denizens of the Deep_ _By_ FRANK. T. BULLEN There is a new world of life and intelligence opened to our knowledge in Mr. Bullen's stories of the inhabitants of the sea. He finds the same fascinating interest in the lives of the dwellers in the deep as Thompson Seton found in the lives of the hunted ashore, and with the keenness and vigor which characterized his famous book "The Cruise of The Cachalot" he has made a book which, being based upon personal observation, buttressed by scientific facts and decorated by imagination, is a storehouse of information--an ideal romance of deep sea folk and, as _The Saturday Times-Review_ has said, worth a dozen novels. Not the least attractive feature of an unusually attractive volume is the series of illustrations by Livingston Bull and others. [Illustration: DENIZENS OF THE DEEP, FRANK T. BULLEN] _By_ MARGARET SANGSTER _Cloth, each, $1.50_ _Janet Ward_ _Eleanor Lee_ Without exaggeration and with perfectly consistent naturalness Mrs. Sangster has produced two pieces of realism of a most healthy sort, demonstrating conclusively that novels may be at once clean and wholesome yet most thoroughly alive and natural. As with all her work, Mrs. Sangster exhibits her splendid skill and excellent taste, and succeeds in winning and holding her readers in these two books which treat of the life of today. "If ever there was an author whose personality shone through her work, Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster is that author. Mrs. Sangster has written a novel with a moral purpose. That was to be expected, but it was also to be expected that the story would be free from hysteria and intolerance, filled with gentle humor, sane common sense and warm human sympathy, and saturated with cheerful optimism. The book fulfills the expectation."--_The Lamp_. [Illustration: JANET WARD by Margaret E. Sangster] _Essays--Fiction_ _By_ JAMES M. LUDLOW Incentives for Life. Personal and Public. 12mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.25 net. "Dr. Ludlow shows versatility and rare culture in this book of essays. From the first page one is impressed with the beautifully clear style, the brilliant thought which flashes through every sentence, and the marvelous storehouse of illustration from which the author draws. The vital importance of will power in the formation of character, and the incentives which lie back of it as motives to action, are set forth with vigor and power."--_Christian Observer_. Deborah. A Tale of the Times of Judas Maccabaeus. By the author of "The Captain of the Janizaries." 12mo, cloth, illustrated ... $1.50 "Deborah is a genuine Jewess, noble, brilliant, loving and lovely."--_Congregationalist_. "Nothing in the class of fiction to which 'Deborah' belongs, the class of which 'Ben Hur' and 'Captain of the Janizaries' are familiar examples, exceeds the early chapters of this story in vividness and rapidity of action. The book as a whole has vigor and color."--_The Outlook_. [Illustration: DEBORAH, JAMES M. LUDLOW] _Tales of the West--Virile, true, tender_ _By_ RALPH CONNOR The Sky Pilot; A Tale of the Foothills. 12mo, cloth, illustrated ... Price, $1.25 "Ralph Connor's 'Black Rock' was good, but 'The Sky Pilot' is better. The matter which he gives us is real life; virile, true, tender, humorous, pathetic, spiritual, wholesome. His style, fresh, crisp and terse, accords with the Western life, which he understands. Henceforth the foothills of the Canadian Rockies will probably be associated in many a mind with the name of 'Ralph Connor.'"--_The Outlook_. The Man From Glengarry; A Tale of the Ottawa. 12mo, cloth ... Price, $1.50 "As straight as a pine, as sweet as a balsam, as sound as a white oak."--_The Interview_. Glengarry School Days; A Tale of the Indian Lands. 12mo, cloth ... Price, $1.25 In pathos it reaches the high level of "The Sky Pilot." In atmosphere it is "The Man from Glengarry." In action it rivals "Black Rock." Black Rock; A Tale of the Selkirks. 12mo, cloth ... Price, $1.25 12mo, cloth, cheaper edition ... .25 "'Ralph Connor' is some man's nom de plume. The world would insist on knowing whose. He has gone into the Northwest Canadian mountains and painted for us a picture of life in the mining camps of surpassing merit. With perfect wholesomeness, with exquisite delicacy, with entire fidelity, with truest pathos, with freshest humor, he has delineated character, has analyzed motives and emotions, and has portrayed life. Some of his characters deserve immortality, so faithfully are they created."--_St. Louis Globe-Democrat_. The world _has_ known and today Ralph Connor has been accorded the signal honor of seeing his books, by virtue of their sterling worth, attain a sale of over one and one-half million copies. 
16864	----	+-----------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's note: Special characters | | are encoded thusly: [=a], [=e], and | | [=o] represent "a", "e", and "o" with | | superior macron. | +-----------------------------------------+ NOTES OF A TWENTY-FIVE YEARS' SERVICE IN THE HUDSON'S BAY TERRITORY. BY JOHN M'LEAN. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, PUBLISHER IN ORDINARY TO HER MAJESTY. 1849. * * * * * CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME. CHAPTER I. Journey to Norway House 9 CHAPTER II. Arrival at York Factory--Its Situation--Climate--Natives--Rein-Deer--Voyage to Ungava--Incidents of the Voyage--Arrival at Ungava--Situation and Aspect 16 CHAPTER III. Exploring Expedition through the Interior of Labrador--Difficulties--Deer Hunt--Indian Gluttony--Description of the Country--Provisions run short--Influenza 32 CHAPTER IV. Distressing Bereavement--Exploring Party--their Report--Arrival at Esquimaux--Establish Posts--Pounding Rein-Deer--Expedition up George's River--Its Difficulties--Hamilton River--Discover a stupendous Cataract--Return by George's River to the Sea--Sudden Storm and miraculous Escape 60 CHAPTER V. Esquimaux arrive from the North Shore of Hudson's Strait on a Raft--Despatch from the Governor--Distress of the Esquimaux--Forward Provisions to Mr. E----. Return of the Party--Their deplorable Condition 81 CHAPTER VI. Trip to Esquimaux Bay--Governor's Instructions--My Report to the Committee--Recommend the Abandonment of Ungava Settlement--Success of the Arctic Expedition conducted by Messrs. Dease and Simpson--Return by Sea to Fort Chimo--Narrowly escape Shipwreck in the Ungava River--Impolitic Measure of the Governor--Consequent Distress at the Post 88 CHAPTER VII. Another exploring Expedition--My Promotion--Winter at Chimo--Obtain permission to visit Britain--Ungava abandoned 98 CHAPTER VIII. GENERAL REMARKS. Climate of Ungava--Aurora Borealis--Soil--Vegetable Productions--Animals--Birds--Fish--Geological Features 102 CHAPTER IX. The Nascopies--Their Religion--Manners and Customs--Clothing--Marriage--Community of Goods 118 CHAPTER X. The Esquimaux--Probable Origin--Identity of Language from Labrador to Behring's Straits--Their Amours--Marriages--Religion--Treatment of Parents--Anecdote--Mode of Preserving Meat--Amusements--Dress--The Igloe, or Snow-House--Their Cuisine--Dogs--The Sledge--Caiak, or Canoe--Ouimiàk, or Boat--Implements--Stature 131 CHAPTER XI. Labrador--Esquimaux Half-Breeds--Moravian Brethren--European Inhabitants--Their Virtues--Climate--Anecdote 155 CHAPTER XII. Voyage to England--Arrival at Plymouth--Reflections--Arrive at the place of my Nativity--Changes--Depopulation--London--The Thames--Liverpool--Embark for New York--Arrival--The Americans--English and American Tourists--England and America--New York 167 CHAPTER XIII. Passage from New York to Albany by Steamer--The Passengers--Arrival at Albany--Journey to Montreal 187 CHAPTER XIV. Embark for the North--Passengers--Arrive at Fort William--Despatch from Governor--Appointed to McKenzie's River District--Portage La Loche--Adventure on Great Slave Lake--Arrive at Fort Simpson--Productions of the Post 193 CHAPTER XV. Statements in the Edinburgh Cabinet Library--Alleged Kindness of the Hudson's Bay Company to the Indians--And Generosity--Support of Missionaries--Support withdrawn--Preference of Roman Catholics--The North-West Company--Conduct of a British Peer--Rivalry of the Companies--Coalition--Charges against the North-West Company refuted 207 CHAPTER XVI. Arrival of Mr. Lefroy--Voyage to the Lower Posts of the McKenzie--Avalanche--Incidents of the Voyage--Voyage to Portage La Loche--Arbitrary and unjust Conduct of the Governor--Despotism--My Reply to the Governor 228 CHAPTER XVII. Situation of Fort Simpson--Climate--The Liard--Effects of the Spring Floods--Tribes inhabiting McKenzie's River District--Peculiarities--Distress through Famine--Cannibalism--Anecdote--Fort Good Hope saved by the Intrepidity of M. Dechambault--Discoveries of Mr. Campbell 241 CHAPTER XVIII. Mr. McPherson assumes the Command--I am appointed to Fort Liard, but exchange for Great Slave Lake--The Indians--Resolve to quit the Service--Phenomena of the Lake 255 CHAPTER XIX. Reflections--Prospects in the Service--Decrease of the Game--Company's Policy in consequence--Appeal of the Indians--Means of Preserving them, and improving their Condition--Abolition of the Charter--Objections answered 260 CHAPTER XX. Wesleyan Mission--Mr. Evans--Encouragement given by the Company--Mr. Evans' Exertions among the Indians--Causes of the Withdrawal of the Company's Support--Calumnious Charges against Mr. E.--Mr. E. goes to England--His sudden Death 278 CHAPTER XXI. SKETCH OF RED RIVER SETTLEMENT. Red River--Soils--Climate--Productions--Settlement of Red River through Lord Selkirk by Highlanders--Collision between the North-West and Hudson's Bay Companies--Inundation--Its Effects--French Half-Breeds--Buffalo Hunting--English Half-Breeds--Indians--Churches--Schools--Stores--Market for Produce--Communication by Lakes 289 CHAPTER XXII. Sir G. Simpson--His Administration 311 * * * * * VOCABULARY of the PRINCIPAL INDIAN DIALECTS in use among the Tribes in the Hudson's Bay Territory 323 * * * * * NOTES OF A TWENTY-FIVE YEARS' SERVICE IN THE HUDSON'S BAY TERRITORY. * * * * * CHAPTER I. JOURNEY TO NORWAY HOUSE. I started from Stuart's Lake on the 22d of February, and arrived at Fort Alexandria on the 8th of March. Although the upper parts of the district were yet buried in snow, it had disappeared in the immediate neighbourhood of the establishment, and everything wore the pleasing aspect of spring. Mr. F---- was about to remove to a new post he had erected on the west bank of the river. Horses were provided for us to perform the journey overland to Okanagan. We left on the 13th; on the 15th we encamped on the borders of Lac Vert, having experienced a violent snow-storm in the early part of the day. The lake and circumjacent country presented a beautiful scene; the spurs of the Rocky Mountains bounding the horizon and presenting a rugged outline enveloped in snow--the intervening space of wooded hill and dale clothed in the fresh verdure of the season; and the innumerable low points and islands in the lake contributing to the variety of the landscape. Hitherto we had found much snow on the ground, and our progress in consequence was very slow. Our tardy horses subsisting on whatever they could pick during the night, or when we halted for our meals, began to falter, so that we were under the necessity of stopping to allow them to feed wherever any bare ground appeared. On the evening of the 18th we came in sight of Kamloops' Lake, which, to my great surprise, was not only clear of ice, but the valley in which it is situated appeared clothed with verdure, while the heights on the other side were still covered with snow. The valley looks to the south, and is protected from the cold winds by the neighbouring high grounds. On arriving at Kamloops' post we found two Canadians in charge, Mr. B---- having set off a few days before for the dépôt at Fort Vancouver. We met with a cordial reception from his men, who entertained us with horse-flesh and potatoes for supper; and next day we bountifully partook of the same delicacies, my prejudice against this fare having completely vanished. Fort Kamloops is situated at the confluence of Thompson's River and its north branch; the Indians attached to it are a tribe of the Atnahs. Their lands are now destitute of fur-bearing animals, nor are there many animals of the larger kind to be found; they however find subsistence in the variety of edible roots which the country affords. They have the character of being honest, quiet, and well-disposed towards the whites. As soon as the young women attain the age of puberty, they paint their faces after a fashion which the young men understand without explanation. They also dig holes in the ground, which they inlay with grass or branches, as a proof of their industry; and when they are in a certain state they separate from the community and live in small huts, which they build for themselves. Should any one unwittingly touch them, or an article belonging to them, during their indisposition, he is considered unclean; and must purify himself by fasting for a day, and then jumping over a fire prepared by _pure_ hands. We left Kamloops on the 20th, and after travelling about twenty miles found the ground covered with snow, which increased in depth as we advanced. The track left by Mr. B----'s party was of great service to us. We encamped at the extremity of Okanagan Lake, where we found a small camp of natives nearly starved to death; the unfortunate creatures passed the night in our encampment, and we distributed as much of our provisions amongst them as we could possibly spare. This encampment afforded me as miserable a night's lodging as I had ever met with; a snow-storm raged without intermission till daylight, when we set out so completely benumbed that we could not mount our horses till we had put the blood in circulation by walking. We overtook Mr. B---- on the 25th, his horses completely jaded and worn out by the fatigues of the journey; the great depth of the snow indeed would have utterly precluded travelling had he not adopted the precaution of driving a number of young horses before the loaded horses to make a track. The country through which we have travelled for the last few days is exceedingly rugged, and possesses few features to interest the traveller. We arrived at the post of Okanagan on the 28th, situated on the left bank of the Columbia River. The ground was still covered with snow to the depth of two feet, and had been five feet deep in the course of the winter--an extraordinary circumstance, as there generally falls so little snow in this quarter, that the cattle graze in the plain nearly all winter. The Indians are designated Okanagans, and speak a dialect of the Atnah. Their lands are very poor, yielding only cats, foxes, &c.; they subsist on salmon and roots. Messrs. F---- and D---- arrived from Fort Vancouver on the 7th of April, and we embarked on the 8th in three boats manned by retiring servants. Mr. B---- accompanied us, having obtained permission to cross the Rocky Mountains. We arrived at Colville on the 12th, where we met with a most friendly reception from a warmhearted Gael, (Mr. McD.) The gentlemen proceeding to the dépôt in charge of the accounts of the Columbia department generally remain here a few days to put a finishing hand to these accounts--an operation which occupied us till the 22d, when we re-embarked, leaving Messrs. D---- and B---- behind; the former being remanded to Fort Vancouver; and the latter, having changed his mind, in an evil hour for himself, returned to his old quarters; where he was murdered sometime afterwards by an Indian who had lost his father, and thought that the company of his old trader would solace him for the absence of his children. CHAPTER II. ARRIVAL AT YORK FACTORY--ITS SITUATION--CLIMATE--NATIVES--REIN-DEER--VOYAGE TO UNGAVA--INCIDENTS OF THE VOYAGE--ARRIVAL AT UNGAVA--SITUATION AND ASPECT. I arrived at York Factory, the dépôt of the Northern department, early in July. This establishment presents a more respectable appearance than any other that I have seen in Rupert's Land, and reflects no small credit on the talents and taste of him who planned, and partly executed, the existing improvements, all which have been effected since the coalition. When Mr. McT. first assumed the command, the buildings were of the most wretched description--the apartments had more the appearance of cells for criminals, than of rooms for gentlemen. The yielding nature of the swampy ground on which the buildings were to be erected rendering it necessary to lay a solid foundation, the object was accomplished in the face of every difficulty, and at a great expense; and the present commodious buildings were commenced, but not finished by the projector. Other improvements have been made since then, so that they afford every comfort and convenience that could be expected in so unfavourable a situation. The dépôt is at present under the charge of a chief factor, assisted by a chief trader, a surgeon, and two clerks. Here there is always a sufficient supply of goods and provisions on hand to meet the demand of the trade for two years--a wise precaution, as in the event of any accident happening to prevent the vessel from reaching her destination, the trade would not be interrupted. The very emergency thus provided for occurred last autumn; the ship, after dropping anchor in her usual mooring ground, was compelled by stress of weather to bear away for England, after loosing her anchors, and sustaining other serious damages. Yet notwithstanding this untoward event, the gentlemen in charge of the different districts set off for the interior with their outfits complete. The climate, although extremely disagreeable, is not considered unhealthy. In summer the extremes of heat and cold are experienced in the course of a few hours; in the morning you may be wearing nankeen, and before noon, duffle. Were the heat to continue for a sufficient length of time to thaw the ground thoroughly, the establishment could not be kept up save at a great sacrifice of life, through the mephitic exhalations from the surrounding swamps. The ground, however, seldom thaws more than eighteen inches, and the climate therefore is never affected by them to such a degree as to become unhealthy. One of Mr. McT----'s most beneficial improvements was to clear the swamps surrounding the factory of the brushwood with which they were thickly covered; and the inmates are now in a great measure relieved from the torture to which they were formerly exposed from the mosquitoes. These vampires are not so troublesome in the cleared ground, but whoever dares to intrude on their domain pays dearly for his temerity. Every exposed part of the body is immediately covered with them; defence is out of the question; the death of one is avenged by the stings of a thousand equally bloodthirsty; and the unequal contest is soon ended by the flight of the tormented party to his quarters, whither he is pursued to his very door. There seems to be no foundation for the opinion generally entertained that the natives do not suffer from the stings of these insects. The incrustation of filth with which their bodies are covered undoubtedly affords some protection, the skin not being so easily pierced; but no incrustation, however thick, can be a defence against the attacks of myriads; and in fact, the natives complain as loudly of the mosquitoes as the whites. The Indians of this quarter are denominated Swampies, a tribe of the Cree nation, whose language they speak with but little variation, and in their manners and customs there is a great similarity. But the Swampies are a degenerate race, reduced by famine and disease to a few families; and these have been still farther reduced by an epidemic which raged among them this summer. They were attacked by it immediately on their return from the interior with the produce of their winter hunts, and remained in hopes of being benefited by medical advice and attendance. Their hopes, however, were not realized; they were left entirely in charge of a young man without experience and without humanity; and the disease was unchecked. Every day the death of some poor wretch was made known to us by the firing of guns, by which the survivors fancied the evil spirit was frightened away from the souls of their departed friends. Not many years ago this part of the country was periodically visited by immense herds of rein-deer; at present there is scarcely one to be found. Whether their disappearance is owing to their having changed the course of their migrations, or to their destruction by the natives, who waylaid them on their passage, and killed them by hundreds, is a question not easily determined. It may be they have only forsaken this part of the country for a time, and may yet return in as great numbers as ever: be that as it may, the present want to which the Indians are subject, arises from the extreme scarcity of those animals, whose flesh and skins afforded them food and clothing. Their subsistence is now very precarious; derived principally from snaring rabbits and fishing; and rabbits also fail periodically. Their fare during summer, however, soon obliterates the remembrance of the privations of winter: fish is then found in every lake, and wild-fowl during the moulting season become an easy prey; while young ducks and geese are approached in canoes, and are destroyed with arrows in great numbers, ere they have acquired the use of their wings. The white man similarly situated would undoubtedly think of the long winter he had passed in want, and would provide for the next while he could;--so much foresight, however, does not belong to the Indian character. Fishing and hunting for the establishment affords employment to a few Indians during summer, and is an object of competition among them, on account of the incomparable gratification it affords--grog drinking--to which no earthly bliss can be compared in the Indian's estimation. To find the Company serving out rum to the natives as payment for their services in this remote quarter, created the utmost surprise in my mind: no excuse can be advanced which can justify the unhallowed practice, when the management of the native population is left entirely to themselves. Why then is it continued? Strange to say, while Indians were to be seen rolling drunk about the establishment, an order of Council appeared, prohibiting the sale of ardent spirits in any quantity exceeding two gallons to the Company's officers of whatever rank, with the view of preventing the demoralization of the natives! Most of the natives have a smattering of English, and are said to be a quiet, harmless race, addicted to few bad habits. Their remote situation, and impoverished country protect them from the hostile inroads of neighbouring tribes; hence the tame and pacific demeanour by which they are distinguished. The poor Swampy often retires to rest without a morsel to eat for himself or family, and that for days together; yet he is under no apprehension from his enemies, and enjoys his night's rest undisturbed; whereas, the warrior of the plain, while he revels in abundance, seldom retires to rest without apprehension; the hostile yell may, in fact, rouse him from his midnight slumber, either to be butchered himself, or to hear the dying groans of his family while he escapes. Thus chequered is the life of man with good and evil in every condition, whether civilized or savage. Every preparation for our departure being now completed, I took leave of Fort York, its fogs, and bogs, and mosquitoes, with little regret. We embarked on the 22d of August, in a brig that had fortunately escaped the mishaps of the other vessels last autumn; and after being delayed in port by adverse winds till the 26th, we finally stood out to sea, having spoken the Prince Rupert just come in. The fields of ice, that had been observed a few days previously, having now entirely disappeared, the captain concluded that the passage was clear for him, and accordingly steered for the south. He had not proceeded far in this direction, however, when we fell in with such quantities of ice as to interrupt our passage; but we still continued to force our way through. Convinced at length of the futility of the attempt, we altered our course to a directly opposite point, standing to the north, until we came abreast of Churchill, and then bore away for the strait, making Mansfield Island on the 7th of September. We encountered much stream ice on our passage, from which no material injury was sustained; although the continual knocking of our rather frail vessel against the ice created a good deal of alarm, from the effect the collision produced, shaking her violently from stem to stern. We were thus passing rapidly through the straits without experiencing any accident worthy of notice, when I inquired of our captain, one evening, how soon he expected to make the Island of Akpatok. He replied, "To-morrow morning about nine o'clock." We retired to rest about ten, P.M., and I had not yet fallen asleep, when I heard an unusual bustle on deck, and one of the men rushing down to the captain's room to call him up. I instantly dressed and went on deck, where I soon learned the cause;--a dark object, scarcely distinguishable through the fog and gloom of night, was pointed out to me on our lee beam, two cable-lengths distant, on which we had been rushing, propelled by wind and current, at the rate of thirteen knots an hour, when it was observed. A few moments more, and we had been launched into eternity. Had the vigilance of the look-out been relaxed for a minute, or had the slightest accident occurred to prevent the vessel from wearing at the very instant, our doom was certain. The western extremity of the Island of Akpatok, terminating in a high promontory seemingly cut down perpendicular to the water's edge, formed the danger we had so providentially escaped. Next day we saw the dismal spot in all its horrors. The island was still partially covered with snow, and no traces of vegetation were discernible; but a fresh breeze springing up we soon lost sight of this desolate spot, and made the mouth of the Ungava, or South River, about an hour after sunset. The captain was a perfect stranger on the coast, and had but a very imperfect chart to guide him; he nevertheless stood boldly in for the land, and fortunately discovered the mouth of the river, which we entered as darkness closed in upon us. By this time the breeze, that had carried us on so rapidly, increased to a gale, so that if we had not entered the river so opportunely, the consequences might have been serious. We were utterly unacquainted with the coast, which presented a thousand dangers in the shape of rocks and breakers, that were observable in every direction, as far as the eye could reach to seaward; we therefore congratulated ourselves on our fancied security--for it was only fancied, as will presently appear. We kept firing as we approached the land, with the view of apprizing the people of the post, who were directed to await us at the mouth of the river. No sound was heard in reply until we had advanced a few miles up the river, when we were gratified with hearing the report of muskets, and presently several torches were visible blazing a little ahead. The night was uncommonly dark, the banks of the river being scarcely perceptible; and although it appeared to me we were much nearer then than prudence would warrant, we still drew nearer, when our progress was suddenly arrested. The vessel struck violently on a sunken rock, and heeled over so much that she was nearly thrown on her beam-ends. Swinging round, however, with the force of the current, she soon got off again; and our captain, taking the hint, instantly dropped anchor. Soon after a couple of Esquimaux came alongside in their canoes, who gave us to understand by signs that they were sent to pilot us to the post. Next day, as soon as the tide proved favourable, our Esquimaux made signs to weigh anchor, which being done, one of them took his station by the side of the helmsman, and never moved a moment from the spot, pointing out the deep channel, with which he appeared well acquainted; although the utmost anxiety appeared depicted in his countenance, lest any accident should happen. Once or twice we touched slightly, when he expressed his dissatisfaction by a deep groan; he managed so well, however, that he brought us to good anchoring ground ere nightfall. From 10 A.M. until late in the evening we had only advanced twenty-five miles, although we pressed against the current with top-gallant sails set and a strong wind in our favour. Immediately we anchored, Captain Humphrey and myself determined on rowing up to the post, where we arrived about four, P.M. I need scarcely say with what joy our arrival was hailed by people so seldom visited by strangers, in a situation which had no regular communication as yet with any other part of the world. I was much gratified by the appearance of every thing about the establishment. The buildings had just been finished with materials sent out from England, through the considerate and kindly feeling of the Committee, whose compassion had been excited by the accounts they had heard of the miserable hovels in which the people were lodged when the place was first settled. After passing an hour or two examining the fort, (as it is called _par excellence_,) we returned to the ship, and weighing anchor at an early hour the next morning, (11th September,) we were soon brought up to the establishment, and landed without loss of time amid a violent snow-storm. It afforded us no small consolation, however, to reflect that we had no further cause to apprehend danger from icebergs or rocks, and that the post afforded us greater comfort as to living and accommodation than we had been led to expect. The vessel, having discharged cargo, dropped down with the stream on the 15th, leaving us to reflect in undisturbed solitude on the dreary prospects before us. The clank of the capstan, while the operation of weighing was being executed, echoing from the surrounding hills, suggested the question, "When shall that sound be heard again?" From the melancholy reverie which this idea suggested I was roused by the voice of my fellow exile, "the companion of my joys and sorrows," in whose society such gloomy thoughts could not long dwell. This post is situated in lat. 59° 28', standing on the east bank of South River, about thirty miles distant from the sea, surrounded by a country that presents as complete a picture of desolation as can be imagined; moss-covered rocks without vegetation and without verdure, constitute the cheerless landscape that greets the eye in every direction. A few stunted pines growing in the villages form the only exception; and at this season of the year, when they shed their leaves, contribute but little to the improvement of the scene. CHAPTER III. EXPLORING EXPEDITION THROUGH THE INTERIOR OF LABRADOR--DIFFICULTIES--DEER-HUNT--INDIAN GLUTTONY--DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY--PROVISIONS RUN SHORT--INFLUENZA. The Company having learned, through a pamphlet published by the Moravian missionaries of Labrador, that the country produced excellent furs, were induced by the laudable desire of "ameliorating the condition of the natives," to settle it; and a party was accordingly sent overland from Moose Factory to take possession in the summer of 1831. The Moravians, finding their intention thus anticipated, left both the cure of souls and trade of furs to the Company. Whatever may have been the Company's real motives in forming a settlement in this quarter, the profits derived from it added but little to the dividends; the substance that glittered at a distance like gold proved to be but base metal. Beavers were nowhere to be found; and although the martens brought an extraordinary high price, they were far from plentiful; while the enormous expense of supplying the district by sea, and supporting it on imported provisions, rendered the "Ungava adventure" a subject of rather unpleasant discussion among the partners, most of whom were opposed to the measure from the first. Mr. Simpson was, in fact, the prime mover of the project, and aware of the discontent caused by its failure, determined on making every effort to reduce the expense, and, if possible, to increase the returns. Accordingly, I was directed to push outposts into the interior, to support my people on the resources of the country, and at the same time to open a communication with Esquimaux Bay, on the coast of Labrador, with the view of obtaining in future my supplies from thence by inland route; "there being no question of the practicability of the rivers." So said not he who had seen those rivers. Mr. Erlandson had traversed the country in the spring of 1834, and represented to me the utter impossibility of carrying my instructions into effect. Meantime, the Committee, having learned by despatches from York Factory that the vessel intended for the business of the district had been lost, and the other, in which I made my passage, placed in so critical a situation as to render her safety in spring a very doubtful matter, considered it advisable to provide for the worst by freighting a small schooner to carry us out our supplies. This vessel very unexpectedly made her appearance on the 22d of September, and we thus found ourselves supplied with goods and provisions for two years' consumption. Having, as above mentioned, learned from Mr. Erlandson the difficulties of the inland route, and also that a great number of the natives had gone to Esquimaux Bay, with the intention of remaining there, I considered it incumbent upon me to visit that quarter at an early period of the winter, and I accordingly set out from Fort Chimo on the 2d of January. I submit the following narrative of my journey to the reader. "_Tuesday, the 2d of January_, 1838.--I left Fort Chimo at eleven A.M., accompanied by the following men, _viz._:-- "Donald Henderson, Henry Hay, and two Indian guides, who are to accompany me throughout the journey; Pierre Neven and M. Ferguson go part of the way, each driving a sled of two dogs, loaded with provisions, the other men having sleds drawn by themselves. "_Wednesday, the 3d._--Left our encampment before dawn of day. Excessively cold--some of us got frost-bitten, but not severely. Our principal guide, finding his companion unable to keep up with us, set off to his lodge in quest of a substitute. Encamped early, having proceeded about nine miles. "_Thursday, the 4th._--Started at seven A.M. Reached High Fall Creek at nine A.M. Halted to wait for our guide, who soon joined us, alone, finding no person willing to accompany him. Resumed our march at half-past nine; had not proceeded far, when we perceived that our young guide, Pellican, was left considerably in the rear. We waited till he overtook us, and the miserable creature appearing completely exhausted with fatigue, we encamped at an early hour. Eight miles. "_Friday, the 5th._--Lightened Pellican's sled, and set off at five A.M.; fine weather, though sharp. Advanced sixteen miles. "_Saturday, the 6th._--As the ice was covered with water close to our encampment, it was deemed advisable to await the light of day. Set off at eight A.M., but found it impossible to move forward in consequence of the immense quantity of snow that had fallen during the night. It continuing still to snow, and blowing a violent gale at same time, I gave up the struggle. Advanced about a mile. "_Sunday, the 7th._--Got up about three A.M., literally buried in snow. Our blankets being wet, we waited in our encampment drying them till eight o'clock, when we started with only half loads, with which we intended to proceed to the first lake, and then return for the remainder; but to our great satisfaction we soon discovered that the tempest which had incommoded us so much last night had cleared the ice of snow; we therefore returned for the property we had left; then proceeding at a fine rate, having beautiful weather, we soon reached the lake; when my guides, discovering a herd of deer on an adjacent hill, immediately set off at a bound, followed by Pellican and my two _brules_. I saw at once my day's journey was at an end, and accordingly directed my encampment to be made. Our hunters joined us in the evening with the choice parts of three deer they had killed. Proceeded eight miles. "_Monday, the 8th._--Very cold, tempestuous weather. Our progress was much retarded by the great depth of snow in the woods through which our route lay. Thirteen miles. "_Tuesday, the 9th._--Blowing a hurricane; the cold being also intense, we could not venture out on the ice without incurring the risk of being frost-bitten; we therefore remained in our quarters, such as they were, until the weather should moderate. "_Wednesday, the 10th._--My guides appeared very unwilling to quit their encampment this morning, pretending indisposition. They might have been really ill; but the beastly manner in which they had been gorging themselves for the past two days being well known to be the cause of their illness, no one felt disposed to pity them. I therefore sprang into their encampment, and pitching the remainder of their choice morsels into the snow, drove them out before me. Travelled through woods the whole day. Encamped at half-past three. Eighteen miles. "_Thursday, the 11th._--Started at five, A.M. Soon fell on a large lake, on which we travelled till three, P.M., when we encamped. Thus far the lake extends S.E. and N.W., being about two miles in width. As Mr. Erlandson was the first European who had traversed these inhospitable wilds, I had the gratification of giving his name to the lake. It is reported by the natives to abound in fish of the best quality; rein-deer are also said to be numerous at certain seasons of the year. Proceeded fifteen miles. "_Friday, the 12th._--Being immoderately cold, and the wind blowing direct in our faces, we could not attempt travelling on the lake. "_Saturday, the 13th._--Weather fine. Left Erlandson's Lake about one, A.M.; it still stretched out before us as far as the eye could reach, and cannot be less than forty miles in length; its medium breadth, however, does not exceed two miles and a half. The circumjacent country is remarkably well wooded, even to the tops of the highest hills, and is reported by the natives to abound in martens. A few industrious Indians would not fail to turn such advantages to good account; but they can avail the Company very little, while the natives alone are in possession of them. Went on twenty-four miles. "_Sunday, the 14th._--Set off at five, A.M. Passed over several small lakes; the country well wooded. Entered upon a small river about noon, the banks covered with large pine. Encamped at three, P.M. Advanced sixteen miles. "_Monday, the 15th._--Took our departure at seven, A.M. Travelled without halting the whole day. Eighteen miles. "_Tuesday, the 16th._--Decamped at five, A.M.; the snow very deep in the woods. Fell on Whale River at ten, A.M. The face of the country presents scarcely any variety; from Erlandson's Lake to this river it is generally well wooded, but afterwards becomes extremely barren, nothing to be seen on both sides of the river but bare rocks. Proceeded sixteen miles. "_Wednesday, the 17th._--Started at five, A.M. Our route in the morning led us through a chain of small lakes, and brought us out again on Whale River, on which we travelled till four, P.M. The appearance of the country much the same as described yesterday. Proceeded eighteen miles. "_Thursday, the 18th._--P. Neven being unable to travel from indisposition, I resolved on passing the day to await the issue, deeming his malady to be of no very serious nature. In the meantime I took an exact account of my provisions which I found to be so far reduced, that no further assistance was required for its conveyance. I accordingly made the necessary arrangements to send the men back. "_Friday, the 19th._--Early in the morning, P. Neven (being now convalescent) and Mordoch Ferguson set off on their return, whilst I and my party proceeded on our onward route. I retained a sled of dogs, intending to drive them myself. We travelled eleven miles on Whale River, then struck across the country to the eastward. Encamped at four, P.M. Fourteen miles. "_Saturday, the 20th._--The moon affording no longer light to find our way in the night, we must now wait till daylight. Started at seven A.M.; crossed a point of wood, chiefly larch, of a miserably small growth; then came out on a large lake (comparatively speaking), on which we travelled till four, P.M. Thirteen miles. "_Sunday, the 21st._--Set off at seven A.M. About eleven, we fell on the fresh tracks of a large herd of deer, which my guides carefully examined; their experience not only enabling them to determine the precise time they had passed, but the very spot where they were likely to be found, which they affirmed was close to us. My dogs being very much reduced, and not having the means of increasing their present modicum of food, I determined on availing myself of an opportunity which might not again occur of procuring a supply. The Indians accordingly set off in quest of them, desiring us at their departure to make no fire until the sun had reached a certain position in the heavens which they pointed out to us. We made our encampment at the time appointed, and were soon joined by our hunters, dragging after them a fine doe; they had got only one shot at the herd, which immediately took to the bare hills, where pursuit was in vain. Our guides being encamped by themselves, I was curious to ascertain by ocular evidence the manner in which the first kettle would be disposed of, nor did I wait long till my curiosity was gratified. The cannibals fell upon the half-cooked flesh with a voracity which I could not have believed even savages capable of; and in an incredibly short space of time the kettle was disposed of;--and this, too, after their usual daily allowance, which is equal to, and sometimes exceeds, that of the other men, who say they have enough. Proceeded seven miles. "_Monday, the 22nd._--On examining the remains of the deer this morning, I found my quadrupeds would benefit but little by my good intentions and loss of time, our guides having applied themselves so sedulously to the doe during the night, as to leave but little for their canine brethren. We started at seven, A.M., the travelling very heavy in the woods. About noon we came upon a large lake, where we made better speed. Thirteen miles. "_Tuesday, the 23rd._--Travelled through woods the greater part of the day; encamped at four o'clock. Sixteen miles. "_Wednesday, the 24th._--Decamped at seven, A.M. Our route lay through swamps and small lakes, with strips of wood intervening. Martens appear to be numerous, but beavers must be extremely rare, for we have discovered no traces whatever of their existence anywhere along our route, though innumerable small lakes and rivers, such as beavers frequent, are to be met with in every direction; but the country produces no food for them. At ten A.M. we arrived at a considerable lake, where my guides told me we had reached the highest land. On asking them if this were the lake where we intended to build, they pointed to the south-west, saying it was four days' journey off in that direction!--so far had I been led from the route I intended to have followed, notwithstanding the perfect understanding I had with my perfidious guides prior to our departure from the establishment. Encamped at three, P.M. Twelve miles. "_Thursday, the 25th._--Immediately on leaving our encampment, we fell on a large river flowing to the north-east, which I took to be George's River. We followed it for a short distance, and then directed our course over bare hills. Encamped at three, P.M. Eleven miles. "_Friday, the 26th._--Having passed the night in a clump of small pines, which sheltered us from the inclemency of the weather, we were not aware of the violence of the storm which was raging round us, until, pursuing our route over a ridge of bare hills, we were completely exposed to its fury. We found the cold intense, the wind blowing in our faces, so that it was impossible to proceed. Observing a hummock of wood close to us, we shaped our course for it, where we were no sooner arrived, than it began to snow and drift. The few trees to which we had retreated being far apart, and the wind blowing with the utmost violence, we experienced the greatest difficulty in clearing an encampment. The storm continuing unabated, we passed a miserable day in our snow burrow. Two miles. "_Saturday, the 27th._--Arose from our comfortless _couché_ at half-past four. The snow having drifted over us, and being melted by the heat of the fire in the early part of the night, we found our blankets and capotes hard frozen in the morning. Thawing and drying them occupied us till nine A.M., when we set off. Snow very deep. Proceeded nine miles. "_Sunday, the 28th._--Set off at seven, A.M. Snow still increasing in depth, and our progress decreasing in proportion. At one, P.M., we came upon a large river flowing to the north, on which we travelled a short distance; then followed the course of a small stream running in an easterly direction. Leaving this stream, our route lay over marshes and small lakes; the country flat, yielding dwarf pine intermixed with larch. Encamped at half-past four; advanced eight miles. "_Monday, the 29th._--Started at seven. Appearance of the country much the same as yesterday. Fifteen miles. "_Tuesday, the 30th._--Decamped at seven. Weather mild, and walking heavy. Our principal guide appears rapidly declining in strength, which does not surprise me, considering the laborious duty he has had to perform; always beating the track a-head, without being once relieved by his worthless associate. Fourteen miles. "_Wednesday, the 31st._--Started at seven. Still very mild. Observed a few small birch trees. Encamped at four, P.M. Fifteen miles. "_Thursday, the 1st of February._--Started at the usual hour. We have been travelling through a very rough country for these two days past. The fact is, that our guides, having only passed here in summer, are unacquainted with the winter track. We are, therefore, evidently pursuing a circuitous course, which, with every other disadvantage, subjects us to the risk of running short of provisions,--a contingency which our reduced stock warns us to prepare for ere long. We can afford no more food to the dogs; their load is now transferred to the men's sleds. Fifteen miles. "_Friday, the 2d._--Decamped at seven, A.M. Pursued our route over extensive swamps and small lakes, where there is scarcely any wood to be seen. The face of the surrounding country being level, the least elevation commands a most extensive view; but the eye turns away in disgust from the cheerless prospect which the desolate flats present. I deemed it expedient to curtail our allowance of provisions this evening. Eighteen miles. "_Saturday, the 3d._--Set off at seven, A.M. Reached Michigama Lake at one, P.M.; on which we travelled till five o'clock, when we encamped on an island. Proceeded twenty miles. "_Sunday, the 4th._--Left our encampment at the usual hour. Halted for our scanty meal at ten, A.M. After an hour's delay we resumed our march, and encamped at four, P.M., on an island near the mainland on the east side of the lake, having performed about twenty miles. I here repeated to the Indians my earnest wish to proceed to Esquimaux Bay, by North River, which takes its rise in this lake. They replied that nothing could induce them to comply with my wishes, as inevitable starvation would be the consequence; no game could be found by the way, and we would have, therefore, to depend solely on our own provisions, which were barely sufficient for the shortest route. I had thus the mortification to find, that I should entirely fail in accomplishing the main object I had in view in crossing the country. "_Monday, the 5th._--Decamped at seven, A.M. Reached the mainland at half-past eight; then ascended a river flowing from the north-east, which discharges itself into Michigama Lake, Pellican taking the lead, being the only one acquainted with this part of the country. The Indians shot an otter. No wood to be seen, but miserably small pine, thinly scattered over the country. Encamped at Gull Lake. Fifteen miles. "_Tuesday, the 6th._--Left our encampment at seven. Our guide lost his way about noon, which after an hour's search, he succeeded in finding; when we resumed our slow march, Pellican proceeding at a snail's pace, which neither threats nor entreaties could in the least accelerate. Encamped at five, P.M. Eleven miles. "_Wednesday, the 7th._--Started at half-past six, A.M. Arrived at the site of an extensive Indian camp, which appeared to have been recently occupied. Our guides knowing the Indians to be their friends from Ungava, and their trail leading in the direction of our route, required no longer to be urged on. An immediate impulse was given to Pellican's sluggish motions, increasing his speed to such a degree, that it required our utmost exertions to keep up with him. Encamped near a high fall on North-West River, which is here walled in by inaccessible precipices on both sides. The view above the fall is interrupted by stupendous rocks; the natives say that the appearance of the river and surrounding country is the same from this fall to Michigama Lake; the river is deemed to be impracticable for any kind of craft. Eighteen miles. "_Thursday, the 8th._--Set off at seven, A.M. Fine travelling on the river. We passed two portages and rapids. Encamped at forty-five minutes past five. Twenty miles. "_Friday, the 9th._--Decamped at seven. Travelling good; the banks of the river high and precipitous, and almost destitute of wood. We observed, however, a few birches. Encamped at six, P.M. Twenty miles. "_Saturday, the 10th._--Started at eight, A.M. About noon we arrived at a wide expansion of the river, where it suddenly bends to the west. Here we again quitted the river, directing our course to the eastward. The navigation of this part of the river is represented by the natives to be impracticable, and similar to the upper part. Our snow-shoes being the worse for wear, we encamped at an early hour for the purpose of repairing them. Advanced fifteen miles. "_Sunday, the 11th._--Decamped at seven, A.M. Pursued our course through the roughest country I ever travelled. The appearance of it struck me as resembling the ocean when agitated by a storm, supposing its billows transformed into solid rock. We commenced ascending and descending in the morning, and kept at it till night. The men complained much of fatigue. Proceeded fourteen miles. "_Monday, the 12th._--The weather being so much overcast that we could not find our way, we remained in our encampment till eight, A.M. Encamped at a quarter past five. Fifteen miles. "_Tuesday, the 13th._--Set off at half-past seven, amidst a tremendous snow-storm, which continued without intermission the whole day; we sunk knee-deep in the snow, and found it not the most pleasant recreation in the world. About noon we passed a hut, which my guide told me had been the residence of a trader, two years ago. Late in the evening we arrived at another hut, on North West River, where we found two of Mr. McGillivray's people, who were stationed there for the purpose of trapping martens. Nine miles. "_Wednesday, the 14th._--The weather being unpropitious, and finding ourselves very snug in our present quarters, we passed the day enjoying the comfort of a roof. "_Thursday, the 15th._--Left our Canadian hosts at early dawn; the snow very deep on the river. Proceeded till ten, A.M., when D. Henderson was suddenly seized by a violent fit, which completely incapacitated him from travelling. Discovering a hut close by, a fire was immediately kindled in it, and a place prepared for our invalid to lie down; in our present circumstances nothing more could be done. I waited by him till two, P.M., then pursued my route, accompanied by the Indians, leaving H. Hay to take care of him. Accomplished fourteen miles. "_Friday, the 16th._--Set off at four, A.M. Arrived at dusk at Port Smith, where, although I was well known, my Esquimaux dress and long beard defied recognition, until I announced myself by name. "_Saturday, the 17th._--An Indian was despatched early in the morning, to meet my men with a supply of the north-west panacea, Turlington Balsam; and I was glad to see them arrive in the evening, more in want of food than medicine." Two days after our arrival, all the Nascopie or Ungava Indians, at present residing in this part of the country, numbering seventy or eighty souls, came to the establishment, with the produce of their winter hunts. Mr. McGillivray and myself having come to an understanding regarding them, we both addressed them, representing to them the advantages they would derive from having posts so conveniently situated on their lands, &c. After some deliberation among themselves, they expressed their intention to be guided by our advice, and to return forthwith to their lands. Having sent off my despatches by Indian couriers, for Mashquaro, on the 3d of March, to be forwarded thence to Canada, _via_ the Company's posts along the Gulf and River St. Lawrence, I sent H. Hay for my guides (who had gone to pay the _kettles_ of their friends a visit), preparatory to my departure hence, which has been deferred to a much later period than I had calculated upon, from the prevalence of excessively bad weather for a fortnight. Hay, having met the Indians on the way, returned the same evening; but they were so emaciated that I could scarcely recognise them, looking like so many spectres--a metamorphosis caused by the influenza, at that time prevalent in the country. My principal guide, however, declared himself able to proceed on the journey, with a light load; and it was arranged that Pellican should accompany his relative. Two young men, who came in with my guide, appearing not quite so much reduced as the others, I proposed to them to accompany me as far as Michigama Lake, to assist in hauling our provisions, which they consented to do; and they accordingly took their departure along with my guide, on the 4th of March. Myself and two men, along with my "husky" interpreter, followed next morning; but as we are to retrace our steps by the same way we came, it will be unnecessary to narrate the occurrences of each day. We arrived in the evening at the first Indian camp, where I found one of the young men I had hired, relapsed into his former malady, and unable to proceed further. This, although a disappointment, did not much affect me, as I had hopes my guide would be able to continue his route, from the circumstance of his having passed on to the farthest camp. When we arrived, about noon next day, and found, not only our guide, but every individual in the camp, suffering under the fatal malady,--this was the climax to my disappointment. I determined on returning to Fort Smith with my guide, where, by proper treatment, I hoped he might yet recover in time to admit of my returning before the end of the season. I accordingly returned, accompanied by H. Hay, who conducted the dog-sledge, on which I had placed my sick Indian, leaving D. Henderson in charge of the provisions, along with the Esquimaux. On the morning of the 9th, I despatched H. Hay to join Henderson, with directions to haul the provisions on to McGillivray's hut, there to await further orders. My guide, for a few days, appeared to be in a hopeless state, refusing sustenance of any kind, and became delirious. This was the crisis of the malady; for he soon began to take some food, and recovered strength daily. He at length proposed to attempt the journey, to which I joyfully assented; and once more took leave of Fort Smith, on the 19th of March, and joined my men next day. Remaining two days, to give the guide time to recruit his strength, I started on the morning of the 23d; the Indians had recovered strength enough to enable them to proceed towards their winter deposit of provisions, near Michigama Lake, leaving us an excellent track. We overtook them on the 26th. I found it impossible to separate my guide from his relatives while we pursued the same route. We arrived on the 30th at their last stage, and encamped together. Next morning as we were about to start, a message arrived from my guide, announcing his determination to proceed no farther, unless Pellican were permitted to accompany us. I sent for him immediately, and endeavoured to impress on his mind the unreasonableness of such a proposition, our provisions being scarcely sufficient for ourselves--that it would expose the whole party to the risk of starvation; but I addressed a thing without reason and without understanding, and was accordingly obliged, once more, to yield. We reached the highest land on the 2d of April, where, on examining our remaining stock of provisions, the alarming fact that it was altogether insufficient to carry us to the establishment, was but too apparent. It was therefore necessary to take immediate measures to avert, if possible, an evil that threatened so fearful consequences; and the only course that presented itself was to divide into two parties,--the one to proceed with all possible despatch to the fort, by the shortest route, and to send forward a supply to the other, which it was anticipated would reach them ere they were reduced to absolute want. Pursuant to this resolution I set off, accompanied by the guide and H. Hay; leaving D. Henderson to make the best of his way, with the Esquimaux and Pellican. Having taken but a very small share of the provisions with us, and meeting with no game on the way, we were soon reduced to the utmost extremity. One of our dogs being starved to death, we were ultimately obliged to knock the surviving one on the head, to supply ourselves with what we considered, in present circumstances, "food for the gods." Such as it was, it enabled us to keep soul and body together till we reached Fort Chimo, on the 20th of April, where we found all the Nascopies of this part of the country assembled to greet the arrival of their long-expected friends--our guides. I immediately selected a couple of smart-looking lads to go to meet my rear-guard,--the other servants about the establishment, who were accustomed to snow-shoes, being absent, watching the deer. On the third day after their departure the couriers returned, with Pellican. On inquiring of the latter what had become of my men, he replied that he had left them encamped at a lake about sixty miles distant, where the Esquimaux, abandoning himself to despair, could not be prevailed upon to go a step farther; and that he (Pellican) had been sent forward by Henderson to urge on the party whom they expected. They were within a day's journey of them; and yet the wretches returned immediately on meeting Pellican, leaving the others to their fate. No Indians I had ever known would have acted so basely; yet these are an "unsophisticated race" of aborigines, who have but little intercourse with the whites, and must, of course, be free from the contamination of their manners. Our hunters being now arrived, were sent off, without delay, in quest of the missing; and I had the satisfaction to see my famished _compagnons de voyage_ arrive, on the 26th of April. CHAPTER IV. DISTRESSING BEREAVEMENT--EXPLORING PARTY--THEIR REPORT--ARRIVAL OF ESQUIMAUX--ESTABLISH POSTS--POUNDING REIN-DEER--EXPEDITION UP GEORGE'S RIVER--ITS DIFFICULTIES--HAMILTON RIVER--DISCOVER A STUPENDOUS CATARACT--RETURN BY GEORGE'S RIVER TO THE SEA--SUDDEN STORM, AND MIRACULOUS ESCAPE. Having thus ascertained the impracticability of the inland communication, I transmitted the result of my observations to the Governor--a report which, I doubt not, proved rather unpalatable to his Excellency, unaccustomed as he is to have any of his movements checked by that impudent and uncompromising word--impossible. I was much gratified to find that the deer-hunt had proved uncommonly successful; so that I had now the means of carrying into effect the Governor's instructions on this point. On the approach of spring, preparations were made for establishing a post inland; guides were hired for the purpose, and every precaution taken to insure success. At this time I was visited by a very grievous affliction, in the loss of my beloved wife, whose untimely death left me in a more wretched condition than words can express. This was truly an eventful year for me;--within that space I became a husband, a father, and a widower;--I traversed the continent of America, performing a voyage of some 1,500 miles by sea, and a journey by land of fully 1,200 miles, on snow-shoes. As soon as the navigation became practicable (June 18), Mr. Erlandson set off for the interior, with his outfit, in three small canoes, and after much toil reached his destination on the 10th of July. On the return of the men who had assisted in the transport, I fitted out an expedition to explore the coast to the westward, with the view of ascertaining the capabilities of that quarter, for the extension of the business. The party was absent about a month; and their report was entirely unfavourable to the project of carrying our "ameliorating system" so far. The navigation of the coast is exceedingly dangerous, from the continual presence of ice, and the extraordinary force of the currents. While the coast proved so inaccessible, the interior of the country wears a still more dreary and sterile aspect; not a tree, nor shrub, nor plant of any land, is to be seen, save the lichens that cover the rocks, and a few willows. The native Esquimaux, whom our people had seen, evinced the same amicable disposition by which their whole race is distinguished. They received our people with open arms, and some of the young damsels seemed disposed to cultivate a closer intimacy with them than their ideas of propriety, or at least their olfactory nerves, would sanction. The effluvia that proceeds from their persons in the summer season is quite insufferable; it is as if you applied your nose to a cask of rancid oil. In the course of the summer, several Esquimaux arrived from the westward, with a considerable quantity of fox-skins,--the only fur this barren country yields. Some of these poor creatures had passed nearly two years on their journey hither, being obliged to hunt or fish for their living as they travelled. They set off on their return with a little tobacco, or a few strings of beads;--very few having the means of procuring guns and ammunition. Nothing worthy of notice occurred till the month of September, when I was gratified by the arrival of despatches from Canada, by a junior clerk appointed to the district. By him we received the first intelligence of the stirring events that had taken place in the colonies during the preceding year. The accounts of the triumphs of my countrymen's arms over French treachery and Yankee hatred, diverted my thoughts, for the first time, from the melancholy subject of my late bereavement; the thoughts of which my solitude served rather to cherish than dispel. Having learned from the natives that a river fell into the bay, about eighty miles to the eastward, that offered greater facilities for carrying on the business in the interior than our present communication, I ordered the men who had assisted Mr. Erlandson, to descend by this river,--an enterprise which was successfully accomplished. Their report confirming that of the natives, I forthwith determined on establishing a post there; and the season being now far advanced, I had no sooner decided on the step than I set about carrying it into execution. A party was despatched with every requisite for the purpose, about the 15th of September; and I received a communication from them in October, informing me that they had discovered a convenient situation for erecting the buildings. The materials being found on the spot, and the men aware of the approach of winter, and straining every nerve to secure themselves against its rigours, the buildings, such as they were, were raised and already occupied. In the early part of winter, being, I may say, entirely alone,--for there remained only one man and an interpreter with me,--I amused myself by shooting partridges, which abounded in the neighbourhood that season; but the cold became so excessive as the winter advanced, that I was compelled to forego that amusement, and confine myself to the four walls of my prison, with the few books I possessed as my only companions. My despatches for the civilized world being completed, I was altogether at a loss how to forward them, as none of the natives could be induced, even by a high reward, to undertake the journey. At length one was found who consented to accompany one of my men to Mr. Erlandson's post, but no farther. My couriers were absent six weeks, and I had the mortification to learn on their return that the packet remained at the outpost, owing to an accident that befel one of the Indian guides, and which incapacitated him for the trip. Our friends would thus remain in ignorance of our fate for nearly two years. The report received regarding the inland adventure proved very satisfactory as far as the trade was concerned; but the privations suffered by those engaged in it, it was painful to learn; their sole subsistence consisted of fish, rendered extremely unpalatable from the damage it had sustained from the heat of the sun, and a few rabbits and partridges. Who would not be an Indian trader? Early in the month of March the rein-deer made their appearance again, and every countenance brightened up at the thoughts of the approaching pastime. I fell on a plan, however, that divested the sport of much of its attractions, although calculated to ensure greater success. A favourable position being selected, a certain extent of ground was fenced in so as to form a "pound" of nearly a circular shape, a gap being left in it to admit the game from the river side. This done, I caused branches to be placed on the ice above and below the deer pass, which the animals observing, became alarmed, and running from side to side of the open space between the lines of branches, at length made a dash at the opposite side of the river, and entered the trap prepared for them at a gallop, continuing at the top of their speed until stopped by the upper part of the "pound," when they wheeled round, and making for the entrance, were received with a volley of balls from the huntsmen; a continual fire being kept up upon them in this manner until they all dropped. The scene presented by the slaughter was anything but agreeable, yet stern necessity compelled me to continue the butchery; and the success that attended my scheme far exceeded my expectations. The first herd that entered, in number about fifty, burst through the fence; but our works were immediately strengthened, so as to defy their efforts in future to escape. A herd of 300 was soon after entrapped, and in the course of two hours all were killed. Having thus obtained an ample stock of provisions, the different parties employed at the fishing and hunting stations were recalled, and preparations were begun for our summer campaign, in which I determined to take an active part. The favourable report of last summer respecting the East or George's River, combined with reports that had reached me since of another large river flowing a short distance to the south of Esquimaux Bay, suggested the possibility of carrying on our business on this line of communication. With the view, therefore, of carrying this design into effect, I had a boat built in the course of the winter, in which I embarked with a strong crew on the 25th of June, the river not being clear of ice at an earlier period; and sweeping down on the top of the current at railroad speed, reached the sea in about three hours. It being still early in the day, and no ice to be seen, we pulled for the opposite side of the bay, in the hope of reaching it ere dark. The weather being perfectly calm we advanced rapidly, and had proceeded about seven miles with every prospect of effecting our purpose, when lo! the tide was observed to be making against us; and the ice returning with it, apparently in a compact body, we were placed in rather a critical situation. The sun was declining, while the coast presented a solid wall of ice, which precluded the possibility of landing anywhere nearer than the mouth of South River. Towards that point, therefore, the head of the boat was directed, and the crew, seeing the imminence of the danger, rowed with all their might; and by dint of strenuous exertions, we made good our landing ere the ice closed in around us. A few minutes after not a speck of water could be descried. Next morning, the ice still covered the bay, leaving only a narrow strip of open water along the shore; into this channel we pushed our boat, and for some time made but little progress, being continually interrupted by pieces of ice, which the high tide detached from the shore. Our channel, however, soon widened, and in a short time not a particle of ice could be seen, disappearing as if by magic; for in a few minutes after it began to move, no traces of it could be discovered as far as the eye could reach to seaward. We reached East or George's River, without further interruption, on the 3d of July, where we were detained by unfavourable weather until the 5th. The post established here last autumn is situated in a still more cheerless spot than Fort Chimo, being surrounded by rugged hills, whose sides are covered with the _débris_ of rock, which appears to have been detached from the hills by the process of decay. The post stands at the foot of one of those frightful hills, while another rises immediately in front; the intervening valleys, or cavities, present nothing to enliven the scene, save a few stunted pines, and here and there a patch of snow. The few Esquimaux who inhabit this region of sterility and desolation, at first appeared delighted with the idea of having whites among them: finding, however, that our presence yielded them no advantage, they soon became indifferent about us, and proceeded to the Moravian settlement with the produce of their hunts, where they obtained their little wants at a far cheaper rate than our tariff allowed. My crew, leaving Fort Siviright, consisted of ten able men; and an Indian guide accompanied us in his canoe. As we ascended, our difficulties increased at every step, the water being much lower than last year. I found myself engaged in a more laborious work than I had ever yet undertaken--towing the boat day after day against a current flowing in a continuous rapid, so as to admit of not one moment's relaxation, unless during the short interval allowed for rest to such as could take it--no easy matter when myriads of sand-flies and mosquitoes filled the air and tortured us incessantly. We continued to advance in this manner, hauling, pulling, carrying, and even launching the boat for about fifteen days, when we reached an expansion of the river, without any perceptible current, and sufficiently deep to admit of the use of the oar. Our labour was now supposed to be at an end by those who had explored the river; no further doubts were entertained as to our soon reaching Esquimaux Bay, where letters from our friends and news from all quarters would reward us for all our toils. Let not him who knows not what it is to be shut out from his friends, society, and the great world, year after year, think lightly of the reward which the solitary trader, in his remote seclusion, values so highly. Our hopes, however, were soon dissipated. Having reached the upper extremity of the still water, we encountered difficulties that defied every attempt to surmount. The lake just referred to proved to be the source of the lower stream; the rivulet that flowed into it from above being so shallow as scarcely to admit of the passage of a small canoe. It was therefore impossible to proceed with the boat, a circumstance that placed me in a rather perplexing position; for I had the outfit for the interior in charge, without which the business, so lately established with every prospect of success, would fail. There was, however, no time to be lost in vain regrets; the advanced period of the season required instant decision, and our stock of provisions was diminishing rapidly. I therefore determined on proceeding to the outpost in the small canoe belonging to our guide, taking two of the men with me, and leaving the rest of the crew to erect a temporary post; and in the mean time sent my guide to apprize the Indians in the vicinity of the steps I had taken to supply their wants next winter. These arrangements completed, I embarked in an eggshell of a canoe, so small as not to admit of anything save the smallest possible supply of provisions,--tent, basket, &c. remaining behind. Soon after leaving our encampment, we came to a portage some ten miles in length, and struck the river again, where, from the report of the men, I expected no further difficulties would impede our progress. But the event did not answer my expectations; from the continual drought of the season the water proved so low that we had to drag along our canoe, wading in the water, where a boat would have passed with ease last year. In this manner we continued our toilsome voyage without relaxation for several days, carrying our canoe and baggage overland, or wading in the water from early dawn until late at night, when we threw ourselves down on the ground to pass the night without shelter from the weather or protection from the stings of our merciless persecutors the mosquitoes, who pursued their avocation with unwearied assiduity, so that our rest was small, and that little afforded us but scanty refreshment. Our progress, but slow, from the difficulties of the route, was rendered still slower by our frequent deviations from our course; my guides having paid but little attention to their instructions last year. We at length reached the post on the 16th of August, half starved, half naked, and half devoured. A friendly reception, and the good cheer the place afforded, soon restored our spirits, if not our "inexpressibles;" and although much annoyed that no Indians could be induced to guide us to Esquimaux Bay, I determined on making the attempt with such assistance as Mr. Erlandson could give me, who was well acquainted with the upper part of the river. After one day's rest, we embarked in a canoe sufficiently large to contain several conveniences, to which I had been for some time a stranger,--a tent to shelter us by night, and tea to cheer us by day; we fared, too, like princes, on the produce of "sea and land," procured by the net and the gun. We thus proceeded gaily on our downward course without meeting any interruption, or experiencing any difficulty in finding our way; when, one evening, the roar of a mighty cataract burst upon our ears, warning us that danger was at hand. We soon reached the spot, which presented to us one of the grandest spectacles in the world, but put an end to all hopes of success in our enterprise. About six miles above the fall the river suddenly contracts, from a width of from four hundred to six hundred yards, to about one hundred yards; then rushing along in a continuous foaming rapid, finally contracts to a breadth of about fifty yards, ere it precipitates itself over the rock which forms the fall; when, still roaring and foaming, it continues its maddened course for about a distance of thirty miles, pent up between walls of rock that rise sometimes to the height of three hundred feet on either side. This stupendous fall exceeds in height the Falls of Niagara, but bears no comparison to that sublime object in any other respect, being nearly hidden from the view by the abrupt angle which the rocks form immediately beneath it. If not seen, however, it is felt; such is the extraordinary force with which it tumbles into the abyss underneath, that we felt the solid rock shake under our feet, as we stood two hundred feet above the gulf. A dense cloud of vapour, which can be seen at a great distance in clear weather, hangs over the spot. From the fall to the foot of the rapid--a distance of thirty miles--the zigzag course of the river presents such sharp angles, that you see nothing of it until within a few yards of its banks. Might not this circumstance lead the geologist to the conclusion that the fall had receded this distance? The mind shrinks from the contemplation of a subject that carries it back to a period of time so very remote; for if the rock,--syenite, always possessed its present solidity and hardness, the action of the water alone might require millions of years to produce such a result! After carrying our canoe and baggage for a whole day through bogs, and swamps, and windfalls, in the hope of finding the river accessible, we at length gave up the attempt; and with heavy hearts and weary limbs retracing our steps, we reached the outpost, without accident, after an absence of fifteen days. Finding it impossible to remove either the returns, or the small quantity of goods remaining on hand, I determined on leaving a couple of the men to pass the winter here; and Mr. Erlandson accompanied me to assume the charge of the temporary post, where I had left his outfit. Here we arrived on the 1st of September, and I was delighted at finding my men living in the midst of abundance;--the surrounding country apparently abounding with rein-deer, and the lake affording fish of the best quality. I remained with the men two days to expedite the buildings which were yet unfinished; and in the meantime a party of Indians arrived, whom we persuaded to carry our despatches to Esquimaux Bay. After seeing my couriers off, I left Mr. Erlandson with two men to share his solitude, and reached the sea without experiencing any adventure worth notice. Proceeding along the coast, I was induced, one evening, by the flattering appearance of the weather, to attempt the passage of a deep bay; which being accomplished, there was little danger of being delayed afterwards by stress of weather. This step I soon had cause to repent. The sea hitherto presented a smooth surface; not a breath of wind was felt, and the stars shone out brightly. A few clouds began to appear on the horizon; and the boat began to rise and fall with the heaving of the sea. Understanding what these signs portended, we immediately pulled for the shore; but had scarcely altered our course when the stars disappeared, a tremendous noise struck upon our ears from seaward, and the storm was upon us. In the impenetrable obscurity of the night, not a trace of land could be discovered; but we continued to ply our oars, while each succeeding billow threatened immediate destruction. The horrors of our situation increased; the man on the out-look called out that he saw breakers a-head in every direction, and escape appeared to be next to impossible. My crew of Scottish Islanders, however, continued their painful exertions without evincing the apprehensions they must have felt, by a murmur. The crisis was now at hand. We approached so near to the breakers that it was impossible to avoid them; and the men lay on their oars, expecting the next moment would be their last. In such a situation the thoughts of even the most depraved naturally carry them beyond the limits of time; and by these thoughts, I believe, the soul of every one was absorbed; yet the men lost not their presence of mind. Suddenly, the voice of the look-out was heard amid the roar of the breakers, calling our attention to a dark breach in the line of foam that stretched out before us, which he fancied to be a channel between the rocks. A few desperate strokes brought us to the spot, when, to our unspeakable joy, we found it to answer the man's conjecture; but, so narrow was the passage, that the oars on both sides of the boat struck the rocks; a minute afterwards we found ourselves becalmed and in safety. The boat being moored, and the men ordered to watch by turns, we lay down to sleep, as we best could, supperless, and without having tasted food since early dawn. The wind still blew fresh on the ensuing morning; but we found, to our great satisfaction, that we had entered a kind of channel that lay along the shore, where we were protected from the storm by the innumerable rocky islets that stretched along the mainland. Regarding the labyrinth of islands through which we had effected a passage in the darkness, we were struck with wonder at our escape; and felt convinced that the hand of Providence alone could have guided us through such perils in safety. CHAPTER V. ESQUIMAUX ARRIVE FROM THE NORTH SHORE OF HUDSON'S STRAIT, ON A RAFT--DESPATCH FROM THE GOVERNOR--DISTRESS OF THE ESQUIMAUX--FORWARD PROVISIONS TO MR. E----. RETURN OF THE PARTY--THEIR DEPLORABLE CONDITION. We reached Fort Chimo on the 20th September. A greater number of Esquimaux were assembled about the post than I had yet seen; and among them I was astonished to find a family from the north side of the Strait, and still more astonished when I learned the way they had crossed--a raft formed of pieces of drift wood picked up along the shore, afforded the means of effecting the hazardous enterprise. On questioning them what was their object in risking their lives in so extraordinary an adventure, they replied, that they wanted wood to make canoes, and visit the Esquimaux on the south side of the Strait. "And what if you had been overtaken by a storm?" said I. "We should all have gone to the bottom," was the cool reply. In fact, they had made a very narrow escape, a storm having come on just as they landed on the first island. The fact of these people having crossed Hudson's Strait on so rude and frail a conveyance, strongly corroborates, I think, the opinion that America was originally peopled from Asia. The Asiatic side of Behring's Strait affording timber sufficiently large for the purpose of building boats or canoes, there seems nothing improbable in supposing that, when once in possession of that wonderful and useful invention--a boat, they might be induced, even by curiosity--that powerful stimulus to adventure--to visit the nearest island, and from thence proceed to the continent of America; and finding it, perhaps, possessed of superior advantages to the shores they had left, settle there. My voyageur was evidently induced as much by curiosity as by the desire of procuring a canoe, to visit the south side of Hudson's Strait, where the passage is as wide as between the island in Behring's Strait and the two continents. At an early period of the winter I was gratified by the arrival of despatches from the civilized world. The packet was found by the Indians at Esquimaux Bay, whither I had sent them, and forwarded to me by Mr. Erlandson's two men. By his letters I was grieved to learn that starvation stared him in the face; the fishing, that promised so well when I passed, having entirely failed, and no deer were to be found. He wrote me, however, that he would maintain his post while a piece of parchment remained to gnaw! The Governor's letters conveyed the thanks of the Governor and Committee for my "laudable exertions;" while his Excellency intimated, in language not to be misunderstood, that my promotion depended on my successful management of the affairs of Ungava, "which he regretted to find were still in an unpromising state." What effect this announcement had on my feelings need not be mentioned--after a painful servitude of eighteen years thus to be compelled to make renewed, and even impossible exertions ere I obtained the reward of my toil, while many others had reached the goal in a much shorter time without experiencing either hardship or privation,--the injustice I had suffered, or the deceit that had been practised on _me_. As a balm to my wounded feelings, my correspondents in the north informed me that seven clerks had been promoted since I left Norway House. Many of the Esquimaux referred to in a preceding page passed the winter in this quarter, not daring to return in consequence of an hostile rencontre they had had with some of their own tribes on their way hither. The quarrel, like most Indian quarrels, originated in an attempt to carry off women: both parties had recourse to arms, and a desperate struggle ensued, in which our visitors were completely defeated, with the loss of several lives. They remained about the post for a short time, admiring its wonderful novelties--wonderful to them--and then proceeded some distance up the river to waylay the deer that had already crossed unobserved by them. The poor creatures, unaware of this fact, remained on the ground until every article that afforded any kind of sustenance was consumed; when they started for the post, leaving the weaker of the party to follow as they best could. They all arrived the same day except two widows, who had lost their husbands in the fray. I sent off two young men with a supply of provisions to meet them, but the wretches, having devoured the food, returned without the women, although I had previously supplied their own wants. Next morning I sent off one of my own men, accompanied by an Esquimaux; but, as might have been expected, the women were found lying dead on the ice near each other. Although Mr. Erlandson did not particularly request any assistance from me, the report he communicated as to the failure of provisions was sufficient to induce me to use my best endeavours to relieve his wants. With this view I hired an Indian lad to act as guide to a party whom I despatched overland with the necessary supplies. The guide assured me they would perform the journey, going and coming, in a month. The appointed period passed, and no accounts of them; and week after week, until I at last despaired of ever seeing them in life. At the end of about two months they made their appearance, but in so deplorable a state of emaciation that we could scarcely recognise them. The roads proved so bad that they were nearly a month on their way going, and consequently they had consumed almost all the provisions they had for the whole trip. Mr. Erlandson's scanty supply not allowing him to afford them any assistance for their return, they commenced their journey homeward with one meal a day, which they continued until all was gone, when they fed on their dogs; and they finally arrived at the house without having tasted any kind of food for three days. Their spectre-like forms excited the greatest pity; the interpreter, who came to tell me of their arrival, was in tears. No time was lost in administering relief; but the greatest caution was necessary in administering it, or the consequences might have been fatal. I was mortified to find, on the approach of spring, that my stock of goods did not admit of supplying the interior; and I was consequently compelled to relinquish the advantages that had cost us so much to acquire. Without goods we could not, of course, maintain our position in that quarter. CHAPTER VI. TRIP TO ESQUIMAUX BAY--GOVERNOR'S INSTRUCTIONS--MY REPORT TO THE COMMITTEE--RECOMMEND THE ABANDONMENT OF UNGAVA SETTLEMENT--SUCCESS OF THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION, CONDUCTED BY MESSRS. DEASE AND SIMPSON--RETURN BY SEA TO FORT CHIMO--NARROWLY ESCAPE SHIPWRECK IN THE UNGAVA RIVER--INHUMAN AND IMPOLITIC MEASURE OF THE GOVERNOR--CONSEQUENT DISTRESS AT THE POST. Immediately on the opening of the navigation I started for Esquimaux Bay, with two Indians, in a small canoe, and without any of the usual conveniences. Mr. Erlandson having been ordered to the southern department, followed in another canoe. Arrived at the post, we were gratified by the receipt of despatches just come to hand by the ship. The Governor's letter apprized me that a vessel would be sent round to Ungava every alternate year; and strictly enjoined me to have no further communication with Esquimaux Bay _overland_, "as much unnecessary expense was incurred by these journeys." Thus were we consigned to our fate for a period of two years with as little feeling as if we had been so many cattle, and debarred from all communication with our friends, by word or letter, merely to save a trifling expense! Could the Honourable Company be swayed by so paltry a consideration in subjecting us to so grievous an inconvenience? Surely not; a body of men so respectable could neither have authorized nor sanctioned such sordid parsimony. The generous proposition originated with Mr. Simpson alone, and to him be the honour ascribed. Being fully persuaded in my own mind of the utter hopelessness of the Ungava adventure, I transmitted a report to the Governor and Committee on the subject; recommending the abandonment of the settlement altogether, as the enormous expense of supplying us by sea precluded the idea of any profit being ever realised; while it was quite evident the Company's benevolent views toward the Esquimaux could not be carried into effect. The extreme poverty and barrenness of their country, and their pertinacious adherence to their seal-skin dresses, which no argument of ours could induce them to exchange for the less comfortable articles of European clothing, were insurmountable obstacles. The Honourable Company, while they wished to supply the wants of the Esquimaux, still urged the expediency of securing the trade of the interior. A circumstance that came to my knowledge in the course of the winter promised the attainment of that object. I learned from an old Indian, that the fall and rapid I met with on my way to the sea the preceding season, could be avoided, by following a chain of small lakes. My informant had never seen those falls himself, and could, from the oral report he had heard, give but a very imperfect description of the route. Still, I determined on making another attempt to explore the whole river, knowing well, that if I succeeded in discovering the new route, there could be no further difficulty in supplying the interior. Meantime, I was gratified to learn, by letters from my friend Mr. Dease, that the expedition in which he had been engaged was crowned with success;--the long sought-after north-west passage being at length laid open to the _knowledge_ of mankind, and a question, that at one time excited the enterprise of the merchant and the curiosity of the learned, settled beyond a doubt. While on this subject, I cannot help expressing my surprise at the manner Mr. Dease's name is mentioned in the published narrative of the expedition, where he is represented as being employed merely as purveyor. It might have been said with equal propriety that Mr. Simpson was employed merely as astronomer. The fact is, the services of both gentlemen were equally necessary; and to the prudence, judgment, and experience of Mr. Dease, the successful issue of the enterprise may undoubtedly be ascribed, no less than to the astronomical science of Mr. Simpson. Having finished my correspondence, I embarked for Fort Chimo, on board a brig that had been recently built for the trade of this district and that of Esquimaux Bay. Our passage afforded no adventure worthy of notice; icebergs we saw in abundance, whose dimensions astonished us, but having no desire to form a close acquaintance with them, we kept at a respectful distance; and finally entered the Ungava River, on the 24th of August, at so early an hour of the day, that we expected to reach the post ere night-fall. We were doomed to disappointment. As we ascended the river, the breeze fell, and darkness set in upon us; yet we still pressed on. Presently, however, so dense a fog arose, that nothing could be seen a yard off. In this dilemma our safest course would have been to anchor, but unfortunately that part of the river was the most unfavourable possible for our purpose, from the extraordinary strength of the current, and the rocky nature of the bottom. Our skipper seemed quite at a loss, but accident decided. The vessel struck, altered her course a little, struck again, put about, and struck again and again. The anchor was dropped as the only chance of escaping the dangers in which we were involved. The anchor dragged a short time, and finally caught apparently in a cleft of the rocks. Soon after the tide began to flow, and we fancied our dangers over; but the crisis was not yet come. The ebb-tide returned, rushing down with the current of the river with such overwhelming velocity, that we expected the vessel would be torn from her moorings. Two men were placed at the helm to keep her steady, but, in spite of their utmost exertions, she was dashed from side to side like a feather, while the current pitched into her till the water entered the hawse-holes. Pitching, and swinging, and dashed about in this fearful manner for some time, the anchor was at length disengaged, and dragged along the bottom with a grating noise, which, with the roaring of the rapid, and the whistling of the wind through the rigging, formed a combination of sounds that would have appalled the most resolute. The fog having cleared away, we discovered a point projecting far into the river, some two hundred yards below, towards which we were drifting broadside, and rapidly nearing. The boats were got ready, to escape, if possible, the impending catastrophe, when the vessel was suddenly brought to with a tremendous jerk, and instantly swung round to the tide. By this time, however, its strength was considerably abated, and daylight soon appearing, I sent on an Esquimaux who had come on board, with a note to the post, requesting that a pilot should be sent us with the utmost despatch. Meantime, seeing our way clear before us, we weighed anchor, and advanced to within three miles of the establishment, when a boat was seen approaching, rowed by six stout islanders. On coming along-side, a rope was thrown to them, and made fast to the fore-stem. Four of the men had scrambled on board, when a sudden blast swelled our sails, and propelled us through the water with such force, that the fore-part of the boat was torn away, leaving one of the men floundering in the water, and the other clinging to the rope. The latter was dragged on board, severely bruised; but the former remained in the water for at least two hours, and would have perished before our eyes, had he not got hold of a couple of oars, by which he managed to keep himself afloat. We soon anchored opposite the post, and every exertion being made to expedite the departure of the vessel, we were in the course of a few days left to vegetate in quiet. On examining the quantity of provisions I had received, I was not a little alarmed to find it scarcely sufficient for the consumption of one year, his Excellency's communication having acquainted me that it was a supply for two years! Thus we were thrown on the precarious resources of the country for life or for death; for if those resources should fail us, we must either remain and starve on the spot, or, abandoning the settlement, endeavour to escape to Esquimaux Bay and run the risk of starving by the way. Economy so ill-timed argued as little in favour of the Governor's judgment as of his humanity. Admitting our lives were of so trifling a value, the abandonment of the settlement, with all the goods and furs in it, would have subjected the Company to a very serious loss. Every precaution, however, was taken to provide against a contingency which involved such serious consequences; the men were dispersed in every direction to shift for themselves, some being supplied with guns and ammunition, others with nets, a lake of considerable extent having been lately discovered, which the natives reported to abound with fish. Early in the month of December my fishermen came in with the mortifying intelligence of the entire failure of the fishery; and soon after a messenger arrived from the hunting party to beg a supply of provisions, which my limited means, alas! compelled me to deny. Not a deer had been seen, and the partridges had become so scarce of late that they barely afforded the means of sustaining life. All I could therefore do for my poor men was to supply them with more ammunition and send them off again. While their lot was thus wretched, mine was not enviable; one solitary meal a day was all I allowed myself and those who remained with me; and I must do them the justice to say, that they submitted to these privations without a murmur, being aware that it was only by exercising the most rigid economy that our provisions could hold out the allotted time; the arrival of the ship being an event too uncertain to be calculated upon. By stinting ourselves in this manner, we managed to eke out a miserable subsistence, without expending much of our imported provisions, until the arrival of the deer in the month of March, when we fared plentifully if not sumptuously. CHAPTER VII. ANOTHER EXPLORING EXPEDITION--MY PROMOTION--WINTER AT CHIMO--OBTAIN PERMISSION TO VISIT BRITAIN--UNGAVA ABANDONED. 1841.--On the opening of the navigation I set out on another exploring expedition. Without entering into particulars so devoid of interest, I would merely observe that, with patience and perseverance, we ultimately succeeded in making good our passage by the Hamilton, or Grand River, and found it to answer our expectations in every respect. On arriving at Esquimaux Bay, we found the vessel from Quebec riding at anchor--a joyful sight, since it gave assurance that we should hear from friends and relatives, and receive intelligence of the events that had occurred in the world for the last twelve months. The Governor's communication acquainted me with my promotion, and _sincerely_ congratulated me on the event. Whether I had reason or not to doubt his sincerity, let the reader judge who knows the treatment I had experienced at his hands. Fifteen years ago I was assured of being in the "direct road to preferment,"--twenty years of toil and misery have I served to obtain it. Considering myself, therefore, under no obligation to his Excellency, I addressed a letter to the Directors, expressing my thanks for the benefit they had conferred upon me, and requesting permission to visit the land of my nativity next year. I was fortunate enough to find a couple of canoes at Esquimaux Bay, sufficiently large to admit of conveying an outfit to the interior, and equally fortunate to find Mr. Davis, the gentleman in charge of the district, possessed the will and ability to promote my views. All my arrangements at this place being completed, I set off on my return, and was happy to find, on my arrival at the outpost, that the outfit was rendered in safety, not the slightest accident having occurred on the way. I arrived at Fort Chimo in the beginning of October. The dreary winter setting in immediately, we commenced the usual course of vegetative existence; and I consider it as unnecessary as it would be uninteresting to say anything further concerning it than that this season passed without our being subjected to such grievous privation as during the last. The greater part of the people being distributed among the outposts, reduced our expenditure of provisions so much, that I felt I had nothing now to fear on the score of starvation; and the precautions I had taken the preceding winter enabled us not only to indulge occasionally in the _luxuries_ of bread-and-butter, but also to contemplate the possibility of the non-arrival of the ship without much anxiety. 1842.--On the opening of the navigation I again set out for Esquimaux Bay, where I found letters from the Secretary, conveying the welcome intelligence that my request for permission to visit Britain had been granted, and that the Directors, agreeably to my recommendation, had determined on abandoning Ungava, the ship being ordered round this season to convey the people and property to Esquimaux Bay. CHAPTER VIII. GENERAL REMARKS. CLIMATE OF UNGAVA--AURORA BOREALIS--SOIL--VEGETABLE PRODUCTIONS--ANIMALS--BIRDS--FISH--GEOLOGICAL FEATURES. It need scarcely be observed that, in so high a latitude as that of Ungava, the climate presents the extremes of heat and cold; the moderate temperature of spring and autumn is unknown, the rigour of winter being immediately succeeded by the intense heat of summer, and _vice versá_. On the 12th of June, 1840, the thermometer was observed to rise from 10° below zero to 76° in the shade, the sky clear and the weather calm; this was, in fact, the first day of summer. For ten days previously the thermometer ranged from 15° below zero to 32° above, and the weather was as boisterous as in the month of January, snowing and blowing furiously all the time. The heat continued to increase, till the thermometer frequently exhibited from 85° to 100° in the shade. This intense heat may, no doubt, be owing in a considerable degree to the reflection of the solar rays from the rocky surface of the country, a great part of which is destitute of vegetation. When the wind blows from the sea the atmosphere is so much cooled as to become disagreeable. These vicissitudes are frequently experienced during summer, and are probably caused by the sea's being always encumbered by ice. It is remarkable that the severest cold in this quarter is invariably accompanied by stormy weather; whereas, in the interior of the continent, severe cold always produces calm. The winter may be said to commence in October; by the end of this month the ground is covered with snow, and the rivers and smaller lakes are frozen over; the actions of the tide, however, and the strength of the current, often keep Ungava River open till the month of January. At this period I have neither seen, read, nor heard of any locality under heaven that can offer a more cheerless abode to civilized man than Ungava. The rumbling noise created by the ice, when driven to and fro by the force of the tide, continually stuns the ear; while the light of heaven is hidden by the fog that hangs in the air, shrouding everything in the gloom of a dark twilight. If Pluto should leave his own gloomy mansion _in tenebris tartari_, he might take up his abode here, and gain or lose but little by the exchange. "The parched ground burns frore, and cold performs The effect of fire."--MILTON. When the river sets fast, the beauties of the winter scene are disclosed--one continuous surface of glaring snow, with here and there a clump of dwarf pine, of the bald summits of barren hills, from which the violence of the winter storms sweep away even the tenacious lichens. The winter storms are the most violent I ever experienced, sweeping every thing before them; and often prove fatal to the Indians when overtaken by them in places where no shelter can be found. The year previous to my arrival, a party of Indians ventured out to a barren island in the bay in quest of deer, taking their women along with them. While engaged in the chase, a sudden storm compelled them to make for the mainland with all possible speed. The women were soon exhausted by their exertions, and, unable to proceed farther, were at length covered by the snow, and left to their fate. As soon as the fury of the storm abated, the men went in search of them; but in vain; they were never found. During winter the sky is frequently illuminated by the Aurora Borealis even in the day-time; and I have observed that when the south wind, the coldest in this quarter, (traversing, as it does, the frost-bound regions of Canada and Labrador,) blows for any length of time, the sky becomes clear, and the aurora disappears. No sooner, however, does the east wind blow, which, being charged with the vapours of the Atlantic, induces mild weather even in midwinter, than they again dart forth their coruscations--more brightly at first, afterwards more faintly, till, if the wind continue, they again disappear. These phenomena seem to warrant the conclusion that the aurora is produced by the evolving of the electric fluid, through the collision of bodies of cold and warm air. The same phenomena are observable in New Caledonia; the east wind, passing over the glaciers of the Rocky Mountains, cools the atmosphere to such a degree as to cause frost every month in summer; the west wind, on the contrary, causes heat; and there, as in Ungava, the change of winds is followed by what may be termed the Mountain Aurora (_Aurora Montium_?) During my residence of five years at Ungava, the thermometer fell twice to 53° below zero; and frequently ranged from 38° to 48° for several days together; the extreme heat rose to 100° at noon in the shade. The soil of Ungava consists principally of decayed lichens, which form a substance resembling the peat moss of the Scottish moors. In this soil the lily-white "Cana" grows, a plant which I have not seen in any other part of the continent, although it may elsewhere be found in similar situations. In the low grounds along the banks of rivers, the soil is generally deep and fertile enough to produce timber of a large size; in the valleys are found clumps of wood, which become more and more stunted as they creep up the sides of the sterile hills, till at length they degenerate into lowly shrubs. The woods bordering on the sea-coast consist entirely of larch; which also predominates in the interior, intermixed with white pine, and a few poplars and birches. The hardy willow vegetates wherever it can find a particle of soil to take root in; and the plant denominated Labrador tea, flourishes luxuriantly in its native soil. In favourable seasons the country is covered with every variety of berries--blueberry, cranberry, gooseberry, red currant, strawberry, raspberry, ground raspberry (_rubus arcticus_), and the billberry (_rubus chamæmorus_), a delicious fruit produced in the swamps, and bearing some resemblance to the strawberry in shape, but different in flavour and colour, being yellow when ripe. Liquorice root is found on the banks of South River. To enumerate the varieties of animals is an easy task; the extremely barren nature of the country, and the severity of the climate, prove so unfavourable to the animal kingdom, that only a few of the more hardy species are to be found here: viz.-- Black, brown, grisly, and polar bears. Black, silver, cross, blue, red, and white foxes. Wolves, wolverines, martens, and the beaver (but extremely rare). Otters, minks, musk-rats, ermine. Arctic hares, rabbits, rein-deer; and the lemming, in some parts of the interior. When we consider the great extent of country that intervenes between Ungava and the plains of the "far west," it seems quite inexplicable that the grisly bear should be found in so insulated a situation, and none in the intermediate country: the fact of their being here, however, does not admit of a doubt, for I have traded and sent to England several of their skins. The information I have received from the natives induces me to think that the varieties of colour in bears mark them as distinct species, and not the produce of the same litter, as some writers affirm. Why, otherwise, do we not find the different varieties in Canada, where the grisly bear has never been seen? The sagacious animals seem to be well aware of their generic affinity, since they are often seen together, sharing the same carcass, and apparently on terms of the most intimate fellowship. It is a singular circumstance, that she-bears with young are seldom or never killed; at least it is so extraordinary a circumstance, that when it does happen, it is spoken of for years afterwards. She must, therefore, retire to her den immediately after impregnation; and cannot go above three months with young; as instances have occurred of their being found suckling their young in the month of January, at which period they are not larger than the common house-rat, presenting the appearance of animals in embryo, yet perfect in all their parts. Bruin prepares his hybernal dormitory with great care, lining it with hay, and stopping up the entrance with the same material; he enters it in October, and comes out in the month of April. He passes the winter alone, in a state of morbid drowsiness, from which he is roused with difficulty; and neither eats nor drinks, but seems to derive nourishment from sucking his paws. He makes his exit in spring apparently in as good condition as when he entered; but a few days' exposure to the air reduces him to skin and bone. The natives pay particular attention to the appearance presented by the unoccupied dens they may discover in summer: if bruin has removed his litter of the preceding winter, he intends to reoccupy the same quarters; if he allows it to remain, he never returns; and the hunter takes his measures accordingly. The black bear shuns the presence of man, and is by no means a dangerous animal; the grisly bear, on the contrary, commands considerable respect from the "lord of the creation," whom he attacks without hesitation. By the natives, the paw of a grisly bear is considered as honourable a trophy as the scalp of a human enemy. The reports I have had, both from natives and white trappers, confirm the opinion that certain varieties of the fox belong to the same species,--such as the black, silver, cross, and red; all of which have been found in the same nest, but never any of the white or blue. The former, too, are distinguished for their cunning and sagacity; while the latter are very stupid, and fall an easy prey to the trapper; a circumstance of itself sufficient to prove a difference of species. There are two varieties of the rein-deer,--the migratory, and the stationary or wood-deer: the latter is a much larger animal, but not abundant; the former are extremely numerous, migrating in herds at particular seasons, and observing certain laws on their march, from which they seldom deviate. The does make their appearance at Ungava River generally in the beginning of March, coming from the west, and directing their course over the barren grounds near the coast, until they reach George's River, where they halt to bring forth their young, in the month of June. Meantime the bucks, being divided into separate herds, pursue a direct course through the interior, for the same river, and remain scattered about on the upper parts of it until the month of September, when they assemble, and proceed slowly towards the coast. By this time the does move onward towards the interior, the fawns having now sufficient strength to accompany them, and follow the banks of George's River until they meet the bucks, when the rutting season commences, in the month of October; the whole then proceed together, through the interior, to the place whence they came. In the same manner, I have been informed, the deer perform their migratory circuits everywhere; observing the same order on their march, following nearly the same route unless prevented by accidental circumstances, and observing much the same periods of arrival and departure. The colour of the rein-deer is uniformly the same, presenting no variety of "spotted black and red." In summer it is a very dark grey, approaching to black, and light grey in winter. The colour of the doe is of a darker shade than that of the buck, whose breast is perfectly white in winter. Individuals are seen of a white colour at all seasons of the year. The bucks shed their antlers in the month of December; the does in the month of January. A few bucks are sometimes to be met with who roam about apart from the larger herds, and are in prime condition both in summer and winter. These _solitaires_ are said to be unsuccessful candidates for the favours of the does, who, having been worsted by their more powerful rivals in _contentione amoris_, withdraw from the community, and assuming the cowl, ever after eschew female society; an opinion which their good condition at all seasons seems to corroborate. The rein-deer is subject to greater annoyance from flies than any other animal in the creation; neither change of season nor situation exempts them from this torture. Their great persecutor is a species of gad-fly, (_oestries tarandi_,) that hovers around them in clouds during summer, and makes them the instruments of their own torture throughout the year. The fly, after piercing the skin of the deer, deposits its eggs between the outer and inner skin, where they are hatched by the heat of the animal's body. In the month of March, the chrysalides burst through the skin, and drop on the ground, when they may be seen crawling in immense numbers along the deer paths as they pass from west to east. The only birds observed in winter are grouse, ptarmigan, a small species of wood-pecker, butcher-bird, and the diminutive tomtit. We are visited in summer by swans, geese, ducks, eagles, hawks, ravens, owls, robins, and swallows. The eider-duck, so much prized for its down, is found in considerable numbers. The geese are of a most inferior kind, owing, I suppose, to the poor feeding the country affords; when they arrive in summer the ice is often still solid, when they betake themselves to the hills, and feed on berries. The lakes produce only white fish, trout and carp. We took now and then a few salmon in the river, and there is no doubt that this fish abounds on the coast. In the sea are found the black whale, porpoise, sea-horse, seal, and the narwal or sea unicorn; the horn of the latter, solid ivory, is a beautiful object. The largest I procured measured six feet and a half in length, four inches in diameter at the root, and a quarter of an inch at the point. It is of a spiral form, and projects from near the extremity of the snout; it presents a most singular appearance when seen moving along above the surface of the water, while the animal is concealed beneath. The geological features of the country present so little variety, that one versed in that interesting science would experience but little difficulty in describing them; a mere outline, however, is all I can venture to present. Along the sea-coast the formation is granitic syenite; then, proceeding about forty miles in the direction of South River, syenite occurs, which, about sixty miles higher up, runs into green stone: very fine slate succeeds. At the height of land dividing the waters that flow in different directions, into Esquimaux and Ungava Bays, the formation becomes syenitic schist, and continues so to within a short distance of the great fall on Hamilton River; when syenite succeeds; then gneiss; and along the shores of Esquimaux Bay syenitic gneiss, and pure quartz: lumps of black and red hornblend are met with everywhere. The country is covered with boulders rounded off by the action of water, most of which are different from the rocks _in situ_, and must have been transported from a great distance, some being of granite--a rock not to be found in this quarter. The rugged and precipitous banks of George's River are occasionally surmounted by hills; at the base of all these elevations, deep horizontal indentures appear running in parallel lines opposite each other on either side of the river,--a circumstance which indicates the action of tides and waves at a time when the other parts of the land were submerged, and the tops of those hills formed islands. Along certain parts of the coast of Labrador rows of boulders are perceived lying in horizontal lines; the lowest about two hundred yards distant from high-water mark, while the farthest extend to near the crest of the adjacent hills. Several deep cavities and embankments of sand are observed in the interior, bearing unequivocal marks of having been, at one time, subject to the influence of the sea. I shall conclude these few remarks by observing that, whatever conclusions the geologist may arrive at as to the remote or recent elevation of this country, the tops of the higher hills appear to have been formerly islands in the sea; and I doubt not but the same may be said of the higher lands on every part of the Arctic regions. Admitting this to have been the case, it contributes to confirm the theory of that distinguished philosopher, Sir Charles Lyell, as to the cause of the changes that have taken place in the climate of the northern regions. CHAPTER IX. THE NASCOPIES--THEIR RELIGION--MANNERS AND CUSTOMS--CLOTHING--MARRIAGE--COMMUNITY OF GOODS. The Indians inhabiting the interior of Ungava, or, it may be said with equal propriety, the interior of Labrador, are a tribe of the Cree nation designated Nascopies, and numbering about one hundred men able to bear arms. Their language, a dialect of the Cree or Cristeneau, exhibits a considerable mixture of Sauteux words, with a few peculiar to themselves. The Nascopies have the same religious belief as their kindred tribes in every other part of the continent. They believe in the existence of a Supreme Being, the Ruler of the universe, and the Author of all good. They believe, also, in the existence of a bad spirit, the author of all evil. Each is believed to be served by a number of subordinate spirits. Sacrifices are offered to each; to the good, by way of supplication and gratitude; to the evil, by way of conciliation and deprecation. Their local genii are also supposed to be possessed of the power of doing good, or inflicting evil, and are likewise propitiated by sacrifices; the "men of medicine" are viewed in nearly the same light. A few of them who visit the king's posts, have been baptized, and taught to mutter something they call prayers, and on this account are esteemed good Christians by their tutors; while every action of their lives proves them to be as much Pagans as ever; at least, to those who look for some _fruit_ of faith, and who may be ignorant of the miraculous efficacy of holy water, and can form no idea of its operation on the soul, they appear so. Of all the Indians I have seen, the Nascopies seem most averse to locomotion; many of them grow up to man's estate without once visiting a trading post. Previously to the establishment of this post they were wont to assemble at a certain rendezvous in the interior, and deliver their furs to some elderly man of the party, who proceeded with them to the King's posts, or Esquimaux Bay, and traded them for such articles as they required. So little intercourse have this people had with the whites, that they may be still considered as unsophisticated "children of nature," and possessed, of course, of all the virtues ascribed to such; yet I must say, that my acquaintance with them disclosed nothing that impressed me with a higher opinion of them than of my own race, corrupted as they are by the arts of civilized life. The Nascopie freely indulges all the grosser passions of his nature; he has no term in his language to express the sensation of shame; the feeling and the word are alike unknown. Many circumstances might be adduced in proof of this, but I have no desire to disgust the reader. Previously to our arrival here, there was not such an article of domestic utility known among them as a spoon; the unclean hand performed every office. They take their meals sitting in a circle round a kettle, and commence operations by skimming off the fat with their hands, and lapping it up like dogs; then every one helps himself to the solids, cutting, gnawing, and tearing until the whole is devoured, or until repletion precludes further exertions, when, like the gorged beast of prey, they lie down to sleep. The Nascopies practise polygamy more from motives of convenience than any other--the more wives, the more slaves. The poor creatures, in fact, are in a state of relentless slavery; every species of drudgery devolves upon them. When they remove from camp to camp in winter, the women set out first, dragging sledges loaded with their effects, and such of the children as are incapable of walking; meantime the men remain in the abandoned encampment smoking their pipes, until they suppose the women are sufficiently far advanced on the route to reach the new encampment ere they overtake them. Arrived at the spot, the women clear the ground of snow, erect the tents, and collect fuel; and when their arrangements are completed, their lords step in to enjoy themselves. The sole occupation of the men is hunting, and, in winter, fishing. They do not even carry home the game; that duty also falls to the lot of the female, unless when the family has been starving for some time, when the men condescend to carry home enough for immediate use. The horrid practice still obtains among the Nascopies of destroying their parents and relatives, when old age incapacitates them for further exertion. I must, however, do them the justice to say, that the parent himself expresses a wish to depart, otherwise the unnatural deed would probably never be committed; for they in general treat their old people with much care and tenderness. The son or nearest relative performs the office of executioner,--the self-devoted victim being disposed of by strangulation.[1] When any one dies in winter, the body is placed on a scaffold till summer, when it is interred. [Footnote 1: "Quidam parentes et propinquos, priusquam annis et macie conficiantur, velut hostias cædunt, _eorumque visceribus epulantur_." The Nascopies do not feast on the "viscera" of their victims, nor do I believe the inhabitants of India, or of any other country under heaven, ever did. Yet the coincidence is singular, in other respects, at such a distance of time and place.] The Nascopies depend principally on the rein-deer for subsistence,--a dependence which the erratic habits of these animals render extremely precarious. Should they happen to miss the deer on their passage through the country in autumn, they experience the most grievous inconvenience, and often privations, the succeeding winter; as they must then draw their living from the lakes, with unremitting toil,--boring the ice, which is sometimes from eight to nine feet thick, for the purpose of setting their hooks, and perhaps not taking a single fish after a day's hard work. Nevertheless, they must still continue their exertions till they succeed, shifting their hooks from one part of the lake to another, until every spot is searched. They understand the art of setting nets under the ice perfectly. Towards the latter end of December, however, the fish gain the deep water, and remain still to the latter end of March. Not a fish enters the net during this period. Partridges are very numerous in certain localities, but cannot be trusted to as a means of living, as every part of the country affords them food, and when much annoyed at one place they move off to another. It will be seen from the foregoing remarks, that the Nascopies, like all other erratic tribes, are subject to the vicissitudes their mode of life necessarily involves; at one time wallowing in abundance, at another dying of want. Fortunately for themselves, they are at present the most independent of the whites of any other Indians on this continent, the Esquimaux excepted. The few fur-bearing animals their barren country affords are so highly prized, that the least exertion enables them to procure their very limited wants; and the skin of the rein-deer affords them the most comfortable clothing they could possess. They have a particular art, too, of dressing this skin, so as to render it as soft and pliable as chamois, in which state it becomes a valuable article of trade. As trading posts, however, are now established on their lands, I doubt not but artificial wants will, in time, be created, that may become as indispensable to their comfort as their present real wants. All the arts of the trader are exercised to produce such a result, and those arts never fail of ultimate success. Even during the last two years of my management, the demand for certain articles of European manufacture had greatly increased. The winter dress of the Nascopie consists of a jacket of deer-skin, close all round, worn with the hair next the skin, and an over-coat of the same material reaching to his knees, the hair outside. This coat overlaps in front, and is secured by a belt, from which depends his knife and smoking-bag. A pair of leather breeches, and leggings, or stockings of cloth, protect his legs, though but imperfectly, from the cold; his hands, however, are well defended by a pair of gauntlets that reach his elbows; and on his head he wears a cap richly ornamented with bear's and eagle's claws. His long thick hair, however, renders the head-gear an article of superfluity,--but it is the fashion. The dress of the women consists of a square piece of dressed deer-skin, girt round them by a cloth or worsted belt, and fastened over their shoulders by leather straps; a jacket of leather, and cloth leggings. I have also observed some of them wearing a garment in imitation of a gown. The leather dresses, both of men and women, are generally painted; and often display more taste than one would be disposed to give them credit for. The travelling equipage of the Nascopies consists of a small leather tent, a deer-skin robe with the hair on, a leather bag with some down in it, and a kettle. When he lies down he divests himself of his upper garment, which he spreads under him; then, thrusting his limbs into the down bag, and rolling himself up in his robe, he draws his knees up close to his chin; and thus defended, the severest cold does not affect him. Considering the manner in which their women are treated, it can scarcely be supposed that their courtships are much influenced by sentiments of love; in fact, the tender passion seems unknown to the savage breast. When a young man attains a certain age, and considers himself able to provide for a wife--if the term may be so debased--he acquaints his parents with his wish, and gives himself no further concern about the matter, until they have concluded the matrimonial negotiations with the parents of _their_, not _his_ intended, whose sentiments are never consulted on the occasion. The youth then proceeds to his father-in-law's tent, and remains there for a twelvemonth; at the end of this period he may remain longer or depart, and he is considered ever after as an independent member of the community, subject to no control. Marriages are allowed between near relatives; cousins are considered as brothers and sisters, and are addressed by the same terms. It is not considered improper to marry two sisters, either in succession or both at the same time. The Nascopies have certain customs in hunting peculiar to themselves. If a wounded animal escape, even a short distance, ere he drops, he becomes the property of the person who first reaches him, and not of the person who shot him; or if the animal be mortally wounded and do not fall immediately, and another Indian fire and bring him down, the last shot gains the prize. In their intercourse with us the Nascopies evince a very different disposition from the other branches of the Cree family, being selfish and inhospitable in the extreme; exacting rigid payment for the smallest portion of food. Yet I do not know that we have any right to blame a practice in them, which they have undoubtedly learned from us. What do they obtain from us without payment? Nothing:--not a shot of powder,--not a ball,--not a flint. But whatever may be said of their conduct towards the whites, no people can exercise the laws of hospitality with greater generosity, or show less selfishness, towards each other, than the Nascopies. The only part of an animal the huntsman retains for himself is the head; every other part is given up for the common benefit. Fish, flesh, and fowl are distributed in the same liberal and impartial manner; and he who contributes most seems as contented with his share, however small it may be, as if he had had no share in procuring it. In fact, a community of goods seems almost established among them; the few articles they purchase from us shift from hand to hand, and seldom remain more than two or three days in the hands of the original purchaser. The Nascopies, surrounded by kindred tribes, are strangers to the calamities of war, and are consequently a peaceful, harmless people; yet they cherish the unprovoked enmity of their race towards the poor Esquimaux, whom they never fail to attack, when an opportunity offers of doing so with impunity. Our presence, however, has had the effect of establishing a more friendly intercourse between them; and to the fact that many of the Esquimaux have of late acquired fire-arms, and are not to be attacked without some risk, may be ascribed, in no small degree, the present forbearance of their enemies. CHAPTER X. THE ESQUIMAUX--PROBABLE ORIGIN--IDENTITY OF LANGUAGE FROM LABRADOR TO BEHRING'S STRAITS--THEIR AMOURS--MARRIAGES--RELIGION--TREATMENT OF PARENTS--ANECDOTE--MODE OF PRESERVING MEAT--AMUSEMENTS--DRESS--THE IGLOE, OR SNOW-HOUSE--THEIR CUISINE--DOGS--THE SLEDGE--CAIAK, OR CANOE--OUIMIAK, OR BOAT--IMPLEMENTS--STATURE. The Esquimaux are so totally different in physiognomy and person, in language, manners, and customs, from all the other natives of America, that there can be no doubt that they belong to a different branch of the human race. The conformation of their features, their stature, form, and complexion, approximate so closely to those of the northern inhabitants of Europe, as to indicate, with some degree of certainty, their identity of origin. In the accounts I have read of the maritime Laplanders, I find many characteristics common to both tribes: the Laplander is of a swarthy complexion,--so is the Esquimaux; the Laplander is distinguished by high cheek-bones, hollow cheeks, pointed chin, and large mouth,--so is the Esquimaux; the Laplander wears a thick beard,--so does the Esquimaux; the Laplander's hair is long and black,--so is that of the Esquimaux; the Laplanders are, for the most part, short of stature,--so are the Esquimaux; and the dress, food, and lodging of both peoples are nearly the same. The last coincidence may possibly arise from similarity of location and climate; and, taken by itself, would afford no certain proof of identity of origin; but taken in connexion with the aforementioned characteristics, I think the conclusion is irresistible that the Laplanders and Esquimaux are of the same race. That the Esquimaux and the natives of Greenland are also of a kindred race, is a fact ascertained beyond a doubt, from the reports of the Moravian Missionaries, who have settlements among both. The way in which they must have passed from the one continent to the other, must now be left to conjecture. There is nothing improbable in the supposition that some of them might have been drifted out to sea by stress of weather, and wafted to the shores of Greenland; whence some might, in course of time, remove to the opposite coast of America. From the southern extremity of Labrador to Behring's Straits, the Esquimaux language is the same, differing only in the pronunciation of a few words. We had a native of Hudson's Bay with us, who had accompanied Captain Franklin to the McKenzie and Coppermine Rivers, and who assured us that he understood the Esquimaux of that quarter, and those of Ungava, although some thousands of miles apart, as well as his own tribe. In manners, customs, and dress, there is a like similarity. The Esquimaux have ever remained a distinct people; the other natives of America seeming to consider them more as brutes than human beings, and never approaching them unless for the purpose of knocking them on the head. Every one's hand is against them. I have seen Esquimaux scalps, even among the timid _têtes des boules_ of Temiscamingue; yet no people seem more disposed to live at peace with their neighbours, if only they were allowed. Circumstanced as they are, however, they are likely to suffer hostile aggression for a long time. Even a coward, with a musket in his hand, is generally an overmatch for a brave man with only a bow or a sling; but once possessed of fire-arms, they will teach their enemies to respect them, for they will undoubtedly have the advantage of superior courage and resolution. The Esquimaux is not easily excited to anger; but his wrath once roused, he becomes furious: he foams like a wild boar, rolls his eyes, gnashes his teeth, and rushes on his antagonist with the fury of a beast of prey. In the winter of 1840, a quarrel arose between two individuals about the sex, which led to a fight; the struggle was continued for a time with tooth and nail; when one of the parties at length got hold of his knife, and stabbed his adversary in the belly. The bowels protruded, yet the wounded man never desisted, until loss of blood and repeated stabs compelled him to yield the contest and his life. Gallantry seems to be the main cause of quarrels among them. Strange! that this passion should exercise such an influence in a climate, and, as one would be led to suppose, on constitutions so cold; yet nothing is more certain than that the enamoured Esquimaux will risk life and limb in the pursuit of his object. With unmarried women there is no risk, as they are entirely free from control; not so with the married, who are under strict surveillance; but the husband's consent asked and obtained--which not seldom happens--saves the gallant's head, and the lady's reputation. Their courtships are conducted in much the same manner as among the inland Indians, the choice of partners being entirely left to the parents. Some are affianced in childhood, and become man and wife in early youth: I have seen a boy of fourteen living with his wife who was two years younger. There are no marriage festivals, and no ceremonies of any kind are observed at their nuptials. Polygamy is allowed, _ad libitum_; and the husband exercises his authority as husband, judge, or executioner; no one having any right to interfere. Should, however, the woman consider herself ill-treated, she flees to her parents, with whom she remains till an explanation takes place. If it lead to a reconciliation, the parties are reunited; if not, the woman may form a new connexion whenever she pleases. I know not whether the Esquimaux can be said to have any idea of religion, as the term is generally understood. The earth, say they, was in the beginning covered with water, which having subsided, man appeared--a spontaneous creation. Aglooktook is the name of the man who first created fish and animals: chopping a tree which overhung the sea, the chips that fell into that element became fish; those that fell on the land, animals. Their paradise is beneath the great deep; those who have lived a good life, proceed to a part of the sea abounding with whales and seals, where, free from care and toil, they fare sumptuously on raw flesh and blubber, _in secula_ _seculorum_. The wicked, on the contrary, are condemned to take up their abode in a "sea of troubles," where none of the delicacies enjoyed by the blessed are to be found; and even the commonest necessaries are procured with endless toil, and pain, and disappointment. Although the "tomakhs," or dead men, become the inhabitants of the sea, they indulge in the pleasures of the chase on their old element, whenever they please; and are often heard calling to each other while in pursuit of the deer. The Esquimaux have their "men of medicine," in whose preternatural powers they place the most implicit confidence; by working on the superstitious fears of the people, these impostors obtain much authority. They are allowed to take the lead in every affair of importance; and, in short, all their movements are, in a great measure, regulated by these harlequins, who appear to be the only chiefs among them. They dispose of their dead by placing them on the rocks, and covering them over with ice or stones; these tombs prove but feeble barriers against the wolves and other beasts of prey, who soon carry off the bodies. The property belonging to the deceased is placed by the side of his grave;--his caiak, or skin canoe, his bows, arrows, and spears. Thus equipped, the _emigrant_ spirit cannot find itself at a loss on arriving at a better country! It is said by some that the Esquimaux abandon their aged parents: from inquiry, as well as observation, I am led to believe there is no foundation for the charge. It is not reasonable to expect that the more refined feelings of humanity should be found in the breast of a savage, or that he should honour his father and mother in the same degree as he whose principles are moulded by the precepts of Christianity; yet I must do them the justice to say, that they appeared to me to treat their parents with as much kindness, at least, as any other savage nation I have met with. They do not deny, however, that old people no longer able to provide for themselves, and without any relative to care for them, are sometimes left to perish. No people suffer more from hunger than the Esquimaux who inhabit the shores of Ungava Bay; seals being extremely scarce in the winter season, and no fish to be found; so that the poor creatures are often reduced to the most revolting expedients to preserve life. An Esquimaux, who had been about the post for two years, proceeded, in the winter of 1839, to join some of his relatives along the coast. When he returned in the ensuing spring, I observed that his mother and one of his children were missing. On inquiring what had become of them, he replied, that they had been starved to death, and that he and the rest of his family would have shared their fate, had it not been for the sustenance the bodies afforded. The Esquimaux always pass the winter near the element that yields them their principal subsistence; and as they are unacquainted with the use of snow-shoes, they cannot follow the deer any distance from the coast. As soon as the rivers are free from ice in summer, they proceed inland and find abundance of food. Their manner of preserving their meat is quite characteristic. When an animal is killed the bowels are extracted, then the fore and hind quarters are cut off, and being placed inside the carcass, are secured by skewers of wood run through the flesh. The whole is then deposited under the nearest cleft of rock, and stones are built round so as to secure it from the depredations of wild animals until the hunters return to the coast; when the meat is in high flavour, and considered fit for the palate of an Esquimaux epicure. The Esquimaux do not share their provisions as the Nascopies do, although they relieve each other's wants when their means can afford it: each individual engaged in the chase retains his own game, his claim being ascertained by distinctive marks on the arrows. When a whale is killed a rigid fast is observed for twenty-four hours, not in gratitude to Providence, but in honour of the whale, which is highly displeased when this is neglected, studiously avoiding the harpoon afterwards, and even visiting the offender with sickness and other misfortunes. Should the summer and fall hunt prove successful, the Esquimaux is one of the happiest animals in the creation. He passes his dreary winter without one careful or anxious thought; he eats his fill and lies down to sleep, and then rises to eat again. In this manner they pass the greater part of their time; night and day are the same, eating and sleeping their chief enjoyments. When, however, they do rouse their dormant faculties to exertion, they seem to engage with great good-will in the few amusements they have, the principal of which is playing ball, men and women joining in the game. Two parties are opposed, the one driving the ball with sticks towards the goal, the other driving it in the opposite direction; in short, a game of shinty. They have dancing too,--ye gods! such dancing! Two rows of men and women, sometimes only of one sex, stand opposite to each other, exhibiting no other motion in their dancing than raising their shoulders with a peculiar jerk, bending their knees so as to give their whole bodies, from the knee upwards, the same motion, and grinning horribly at each other, while not a foot stirs. As to the music to which this _dance_ is performed, I know not well how to describe it. By inflating and depressing the lungs so as to create a convulsive heaving of the breast, a sound is produced, somewhat similar to the groans of a person suffering from suffocation; and it is to this sound they grin, and jerk their shoulders. The whole performance is quite in keeping; the music worthy of the dancing, the dancing worthy of the music. They have boxing too, but do not practise the art after the fashion of the Cribs and Coopers; they disdain to parry off the blow; each strikes in turn with clenched fist; the blow is given behind the ear, and, as soon as one of the parties acknowledges himself defeated, the combat ceases. They are also adepts at wrestling; I have witnessed frequent contests between them and the inland Indians, when the latter were invariably floored. No one enjoys a joke better than an Esquimaux, and when his risibility is excited he laughs with right good will, evincing in this, as in every other respect, the difference of disposition between them and the Indians, whose rigid features seldom betray their feelings. Much the same diversity of character and disposition is to be observed among the Esquimaux as among other barbarous tribes. Some instances of disinterested kindness and generosity fell under my notice while residing among them, that would have done honour to civilized man. An Esquimaux who had attached himself to the establishment from the time of our first arrival at Ungava, kept a poor widow and her three orphans with him for several years, and seemed to make no difference between them and the members of his own family. It must be acknowledged, however, that the unhappy widows seldom fall into so good hands; their fate is the most wretched that can be imagined, unless they have children that can provide for them. In years of scarcity they are rejected from the community, and hover about the encampments like starving wolves, picking up whatever chance may throw in their way, until hunger and cold terminate their wretched existence. Whatever may be said of the awkwardness of the Esquimaux dress, it must be allowed to be the best adapted to the climate that could be used: a pair of boots so skilfully sewed as to exclude the water, and lined with down, or the fine hair of the rein-deer, protects the feet from wet and cold; two pairs of trousers, the inner having the hair next the skin; and two coats or tunics of deer or seal skin, the outer having a large hood that is drawn over the head in stormy weather, and a pair of large mits, complete the dress. The women also "wear the breeks," their dress being similar to that of the men in every respect, with this difference, that the female has a long flap attached to the hind part of her coat, and falling down to her heels; a most extraordinary ornament, giving her the appearance of an enormous tadpole. This tail, however, has its use; when she has occasion to sit down on the cold rocks she folds it up and makes a seat of it. In the winter season the Esquimaux live in huts built of snow; and we may imagine what must have been the necessity and distress that could first have suggested to a human being the idea of using such a material as a means of protecting himself from cold. Be that as it may, the snow _igloe_ affords not only security from the inclemency of the weather, but more comfort than either stone or wooden building without fire. The operation requires considerable tact and experience, and is always performed by the men, two being required for it, one outside and the other inside. Blocks of snow are first cut out with some sharp instrument from the spot that is intended to form the floor of the dwelling, and raised on edge, inclining a little inward around the cavity. These blocks are generally about two feet in length, two feet in breadth, and eight inches thick, and are joined close together. In this manner the edifice is erected, contracting at each successive tier, until there only remains a small aperture at the top, which is filled by a slab of clear ice, that serves both as a keystone to the arch, and a window to light the dwelling. An embankment of snow is raised around the wall, and covered with skins, which answers the double purpose of beds and seats. The inside of the hut presents the figure of an arch or dome; the usual dimensions are ten or twelve feet in diameter, and about eight feet in height at the centre. Sometimes two or three families congregate under the same roof, having separate apartments communicating with the main building, that are used as bedrooms. The entrance to the igloe is effected through a winding covered passage, which stands open by day, but is closed up at night by placing slabs of ice at the angle of each bend, and thus the inmates are perfectly secured against the severest cold. The Esquimaux use no fuel in winter; their stone lamps afford sufficient heat to dry their boots and clothes, or warm their blubber and raw meat when they are so inclined. They are inured to cold by early habit; the children are carried about in the hoods of their mothers' jackets until three years of age; during this period they remain without a stitch of clothing, and the little things may be sometimes seen standing up in their nests, exposing themselves in the coldest weather, without appearing to suffer any inconvenience from it. The Esquimaux never sleep with their clothes on, not even when without any other shelter than the cleft of a rock. It is well known that they eat their food, whether fish or flesh, generally in a raw state; hence their appellation, "Ashkimai," in the Cree and Sauteux, means, eater of raw meat, and is doubtless the origin of the name Esquimaux first applied by the earlier French discoverers, and since then passed into general use. They sometimes, indeed, warm their food in a stone kettle over a stone lamp, but they seem to relish it equally well when cut warm from the carcase of an animal recently killed, which they may be seen devouring while yet quivering with life. In winter they prefer raw meat, especially fish, which is considered a great delicacy in a frozen state; the Esquimaux stomach, in fact, rejects nothing, raw or boiled, that affords sustenance. Like the inland Indians, they can bear hunger for an amazing length of time, and afterwards gorge themselves with more than brutal voracity without suffering inconvenience by it. The Esquimaux breed of dogs are wolves in a domesticated state, the same in every characteristic, save such differences as may be expected to result from their relative conditions; the dog howls, never barks. These animals are of the most essential service to their masters, and are maintained at no expense. How they manage to subsist appears inexplicable to me; not a morsel of food is ever offered to them at the camp, and when employed hauling sledges on a journey, a small piece of blubber given them in the evening enables them to perform the laborious work of the ensuing day. From ten to fifteen dogs are employed on a long journey. They are harnessed separately by a collar and a single trace passing over their back, and fastened to the fore-part of the sledge. The traces are so arranged that the dogs generally follow in a line, conducted by a leader, who is trained to obey the word of command in an instant; the least hesitation on his part brings the merciless whip about his ears. The lash is about fifteen feet in length, the handle eighteen inches; continual practice enables the Esquimaux to wield this instrument of torture with great dexterity. The sledges are about five feet in length and two in breadth; the runners generally shod with whalebone or ivory, and coated over with a plaster of earth and water, which becomes very smooth, and is renewed as often as it is worn out. The Esquimaux _caiak_, or canoe, is about twelve feet in length, and two feet in breadth, and tapers off from the centre to the bow and stern, almost to a mere point. The frame is of wood covered with seal-skin, having an aperture in the centre which barely admits of the stowage of the nether man. These canoes are calculated for the accommodation of one person only; yet it is possible for a passenger to embark upon them, if he can submit to the inconvenience--and risk--of lying at full length on his belly, without ever stirring hand or foot, as the least motion would upset the canoe. Instances, however, have been known of persons conveyed hundreds of miles in this manner. These canoes are used solely for hunting; and, by means of the double paddle, are propelled through the water with the velocity of the dolphin; no land animal can possibly escape when seen in the water; the least exertion is sufficient to keep up with the rein-deer when swimming at its utmost speed. When the animal is overtaken, it is driven towards the spot where the huntsman wishes to land, and there despatched by a thrust of the spear. The Esquimaux of this quarter have not the art of recovering their position, when they upset. An accident of this kind is, therefore, sure to prove fatal, unless aid be at hand. It is seldom, however, that aid is wanting, for these accidents never happen except in the excitement of the sport, especially harpooning whales, when there are always a number present. The _ouimiack_, or skin-boat, is a clumsy-looking contrivance, but not to be despised on that account; from the buoyancy of the materials of which it is built, the ouimiack stands a much heavier sea than our best sea-boat. This kind of craft is rowed by women, and used for the purpose of conveying families along the coast. The few implements these people use for hunting or fishing, display much taste and ingenuity. Their caiaks are proportioned with mathematical exactness, the paddles often tastefully inlaid with ivory; their spears are neatly carved, and their bows are far superior to any I have seen among the interior tribes, combining strength and elasticity in an eminent degree. Their mode of capturing the white whale is extremely ingenious. A large _dan_, or seal-skin inflated with wind, is attached to the harpoon by a thong some twenty feet in length. The moment the fish is struck the _dan_ is thrown overboard, and being dragged through the water, offers so great a resistance to the movement of the fish that it soon becomes exhausted by the exertion, and when it emerges lies exposed on the water, to take rest ere it dive again. The Esquimaux then approaches from behind, and often secures his game with one thrust of the spear. The Esquimaux also uses a javelin with considerable skill, and some are so dexterous in the use of the sling as to bring down wild fowl on the wing. The complexion of the Esquimaux is swarthy; I have seen some of their children, however, as fair as the children of the fairest people in Europe, yet these become as dark as their parents when advanced in years. This circumstance cannot be accounted for by filthiness or exposure to the weather; for I have observed, on the coast of Labrador, the descendants of an Esquimaux mother and a European father of the third generation as dark as the pure Esquimaux; and these, too, enjoyed the comforts of civilized life, were cleanly in their persons, and not more exposed to the weather than others. The Esquimaux are low of stature, but I do not think the epithet "dwarfish" applies to them with propriety. With the view of ascertaining this point, I once took five men promiscuously from a party of twenty, and found their average height to be 5 feet 5 inches. Some individuals of the remainder measured 5 feet 7 or 8 inches, and one exceeded 6 feet. The fact is, the Esquimaux are generally thicker than Europeans; their peculiar dress also adds greatly to their bulk, so that they appear shorter than they really are. They are so bound up in their seal-skin garments that their movements are necessarily much impeded by them, we can, therefore, form no idea of their agility; but I do not hesitate to say that their strength exceeds that of any other nation on the continent. The Esquimaux features are far from being disagreeable; some females I observed among them whose expression of countenance was extremely prepossessing, and who would pass for "bonnie lasses" even among the whites, if divested of their filth and uncouth dress, and rigged out in European habiliments. The women fasten their hair in a knot on the crown of the head, and anoint it with rancid oil in lieu of pomatum; they also tattoo their faces, with the view, no doubt, of enhancing their charms in the estimation of their blubber-eating lovers. Their teeth are remarkably white and regular; the eyes are black, and partake more of the circular than the oval form; the cheek-bones are prominent, forehead low, mouth large, and chin pointed. The Esquimaux generally enjoy good health, and no epidemic diseases, as far as I could learn, are known among them. CHAPTER XI. LABRADOR--ESQUIMAUX HALF-BREEDS--MORAVIAN BRETHREN--EUROPEAN INHABITANTS--THEIR VIRTUES--CLIMATE--ANECDOTE. The country denominated Labrador, extends from Esquimaux Bay, on the Straits of Belleisle, to the extremity of the continent, Cape Chudleigh, at the entrance of Hudson's Strait. The interior is inhabited by two tribes of Indians, Mountaineers and Nascopies, members of the Cree family. The coast was inhabited at one time by Esquimaux only, but the southern part is now peopled by a mongrel race of Esquimaux half-breeds, a few vagabond Esquimaux, and some English and Canadian fishermen and trappers, who are assimilated to the natives in manners and in mode of life. While the European inhabitants adopt from necessity some of the native customs, the natives have adopted so much of the European customs that their primitive characteristics are no longer distinguishable; they cook their victuals, drink rum, smoke and chew tobacco, and generally dress after the European manner, especially the females, who always wear gowns. They have also a smattering of French and English, and are great proficients in swearing in both languages; nor do they seem ignorant of the more refined arts of cheating, lying, and deceiving. Taking everything into account, however, we may be surprised that their manners are not more corrupt than they are. A number of small trading vessels from the United States hover about the coast during summer; the accursed "fire-water" constitutes a primary article in their outfit, and is bartered freely for such commodities as the natives may possess. These adventurers are generally men of loose principles, and are ever ready to take the advantage of their customers. The natives, however, are now so well instructed that they are more likely to cheat than be cheated. The Esquimaux inhabiting the northern parts of the coast differ in every respect from their neighbours of the south. They have acquired a knowledge of the Christian religion, together with some of the more useful arts of civilized life, without losing much of their primitive simplicity. The Moravian Brethren, those faithful "successors of the Apostles," after enduring inconceivable hardships and privations for many years, without the least prospect of success, at length succeeded in converting the heathens, collecting them in villages around them, and at the same time not only instructing them in things pertaining to their eternal salvation, but in everything else that could contribute to their comfort and happiness in the present life. There are four different stations of the Brethren; Hopedale, Nain, O'Kok, and Hebron. At each station there is a church, store, dwelling-house for the Missionaries, and workshops for native tradesmen. The natives are lodged in houses built after the model of their _igloes_, being the best adapted to the climate and circumstances of the country, where scarcely any fuel is to be had: the Missionaries warm their houses by means of stoves. The Brethren have much the same influence with their flocks as a father among his children. Whatever provisions the natives collect are placed at their disposal, and by them afterwards distributed in such a manner as to be of the most general benefit; by thus taking the management of this important matter into their own hands, the consequences of waste and improvidence are guarded against, and the means of subsistence secured. In years of great scarcity the Brethren open their own stores, having always an ample supply of provisions on hand, so that through their fostering care the natives never suffer absolute want. The Brethren have also goods for trading, which they dispose of at a moderate profit; the profits accruing from the business are thrown into the general funds of the institution. It is said they carry on trade in every part of the world where they have missions. Their object is not to acquire wealth for selfish purposes, but to extend the kingdom of Christ on earth; to enlighten the nations; and by instructing them in the knowledge of Divine truth, to "ameliorate their condition" in this life, and secure their eternal happiness in the life to come. From the paternal anxiety with which these good people watch over the morals of their flocks, they discourage as much as possible the visits of strangers; fearing that intercourse with them might open their eyes to the allurements of vice. In spite of all their vigilance, however, they have sometimes to deplore the loss of a stray sheep. It is an established rule, moreover, with them, never to allow a stranger to sleep within their gates; he is hospitably received and treated with kindness and attention, but on the approach of evening he is apprised that he must shift for himself: care is taken, however, to provide him with lodgings in one of the native huts, where he can pass the night in tolerable comfort. Should he not be pleased with his treatment, he is at liberty to depart when he pleases. The European inhabitants of Labrador are for the most part British sailors, who, preferring the freedom of a semi-barbarous life and the society of a brown squaw, to the severity of maritime discipline and the endearments of the civilized fair, take up their abode for life in this land of desolation. In course of time the gay frolicksome sailor settles down into the regular grave father of a family; and by sobriety and good conduct, may ultimately secure a comfortable home for his old age. Jack's characteristic thoughtlessness, however, sometimes adheres to him even when moored on dry land; and when this is the case, his situation is truly miserable. They pass the summer in situations favourable for catching salmon, which they barter on the spot with the stationary traders for such commodities as they are in want of. When the salmon fishing is at an end, they proceed to the coast for the purpose of fishing cod for their own consumption, and return late in autumn to the interior, where they pass the winter trapping fur animals. The planters, as they are designated, live in houses which they call "tilts," varying in shape and size according to the taste or circumstances of the owner. These buildings are generally formed of stakes driven into the ground, chinked with moss, and covered with bark; they are always warmed with stoves, otherwise the _igloe_ would afford more comfort. The half-breeds live in much the same way as their European progenitors; they are generally sober and industrious; and although unacquainted with any particular form of religious worship, they evince, in their general deportment, a greater regard to the precepts of Christianity than many who call themselves Christians. They are entirely free from the crimes that disgrace civilized life, and are guilty of few of its vices; should a frail fair, however, make a _faux pas_, it is no bar to her forming a matrimonial connexion afterwards. The women are much fewer than the men, and on this account a greater indulgence may be extended to their faults than otherwise would be. I was surprised to find them all able to read and write, although without schools or schoolmasters. The task of teaching devolves upon the mother; should she (what seldom happens) be unqualified, a neighbour is always ready to impart the desired instruction. The Esquimaux half-breeds are both industrious and ingenious; they are at a loss for nothing. The men make their own boats, and the women prepare everything required for domestic convenience; almost every man is his own blacksmith and carpenter, and every woman a tailor and shoemaker. They seem to possess all the virtues of the different races from which they are sprung--except courage; they are generally allowed to be more timid than the natives. But if not courageous, they possess virtues that render courage less necessary; they avoid giving offence, and are seldom, therefore, injured by others. The Hudson's Bay Company obtained a footing here a few years ago, by buying out some of the petty traders, whose operations extended to the interior, and consequently interfered with the hopeful Ungava scheme; independently, however, of this consideration, expectations were entertained that Labrador might become the seat of a profitable branch of the business, from its various resources in fish, oil, and furs. These expectations were not realized, owing to the strong competition the Company met with; while their interference in the trade subjected them to the charge of "grasping ambition," a charge which appears but too well founded, considering the monopoly they possess of the whole fur trade of the continent. "Plus le D----e a, plus il voudrait avoir," is an old adage; nor have we any reason to believe that any other mercantile body would be less ambitious of increasing their gains, than their _honours_ of Fenchurch-street. There are several establishments along the coast, belonging chiefly to merchants from Plymouth and Dartmouth, who carry on the salmon and cod fisheries on an extensive scale, and traffic also with the planters. This business was at one time considered very lucrative; of late years, however, competition has increased from all quarters, and prices in the European market have diminished, so that the profits are now greatly reduced. The climate of the southern section of Labrador is by no means severe; the thermometer, even in the coldest months of the year, seldom falling lower than 30° below zero. Along the shores of Esquimaux Bay, a few spots have been found favourable for agriculture, and potatoes and other culinary vegetables have been raised in abundance. Grain, especially oats and barley, would doubtless also thrive; it so happens, however, that the inhabitants are under the necessity of devoting their attention to other pursuits during the season of husbandry; so that the few that attempt "gardening," derive small benefit from it. They sow their seed before starting for the coast, and leave nature to do the rest. I shall close my description of Labrador by narrating a rather tragical event that occurred a few years ago. An old fisherman, formerly a sailor, and his only son by an Esquimaux squaw, lived together in the greatest amity and concord. The son, after the death of his mother, attended to domestic affairs, and also assisted his father at out-door's work. As the fishing season approached, however, it was considered expedient to hire a female, so that they might give their undivided attention to the fishing. The girl had not remained long with them, when her charms began to make an impression on Jack's still sensitive heart; the son also became enamoured; both paid their addresses, and, as a matter of course, the young man was preferred. The demon of jealousy now took possession of the father's breast; and his conduct became so violent and cruel, that his son determined on parting company with him and carrying off the girl. Seizing the only boat that belonged to his father, he slipped away under cover of night with his companion, and put ashore on the first island they found. A violent storm arose in the course of the night, and either dashed the boat to pieces on the rocks, or carried her out to sea; and thus the unfortunate lovers were left to their fate. This event happened late in autumn. The winter passed without any word being heard of the lovers; in the ensuing spring their bodies were found clasped in each other's arms, and the young man's gun close by with fifteen notches cut in the stock, supposed to mark the number of days they suffered ere relieved by death. CHAPTER XII. VOYAGE TO ENGLAND--ARRIVAL AT PLYMOUTH--REFLECTIONS--ARRIVE AT THE PLACE OF MY NATIVITY--CHANGES--DEPOPULATION--LONDON--THE THAMES--LIVERPOOL--EMBARK FOR NEW YORK--ARRIVAL--THE AMERICANS--ENGLISH AND AMERICAN TOURISTS--ENGLAND AND AMERICA--NEW YORK. 1842.--I embarked for England on the 18th of August, on board a small schooner of sixty tons, deeply laden with fish and oil. It is scarcely necessary to observe, that the accommodations the craft afforded were of the meanest kind; but the inconveniences weighed lightly in the scales, when compared with the anticipated delight of visiting one's native land. We had a very fine passage; a steady fair breeze carried us across the broad Atlantic in a fortnight. The green hills of Cornwall came in view on the 1st of September, and I had the satisfaction of treading the soil of England early on the 3d. I remained a few days at Plymouth, to feast my eyes on scenery such as I had long been a stranger to;--scenery, I may say, unrivalled by any I had ever beheld at home or abroad. What spot in the world, in fact, can present such varied charms, as the summit of Mount Edgecumb? where the most refined taste, aided by the amplest means, has been employed for a thousand years in beautifying the glorious landscape. To me, just arrived from _Ungava_, the beauties of the scene were undoubtedly heightened by the contrast; and one short visit to Mount Edgecumb effaced from my mind the dreary prospect of bleak rocks, snow banks, and icebergs, with which it had been so long and so sadly familiar, and inspired it with a rapture and delight to which it had long been a stranger. Yet this terrestrial paradise, I am informed, belongs to a noble lord, who is a miserable invalid. Alas, for poor humanity! neither wealth nor grandeur preserve their possessors from the ills that flesh is heir to: and this nobleman may, perhaps, envy the lot of the humblest individual that visits his enchanting domain. Bidding adieu to Plymouth, and its delightful environs, I set out for London on the 11th of September. The desire of home, however, now urged me forward; so that even the wonders of this wonderful city could not detain me. Passing over the uninteresting incidents of steamboat and railroad travelling, I arrived on the 20th of September at the spot from which I had started twenty-three years before. The meeting of a mother with an only son, after so long an absence, need not be described, nor the feelings the well-known scenes of youthful sports and youthful joys gave rise to. These scenes were still the same, as far as the hand of Nature was concerned:--there stood the lofty Benmore, casting his sombre shades over the glassy surface of Lochba, as in the days of yore; there were also the same heath-covered hills and wooded dells, well stocked with sheep and cattle; but the human inhabitants of the woods and dells--where were they?--far distant from their much-loved native land in the wilds of America, or toiling for a miserable existence in the crowded cities of the Lowlands,--a sad change! The bleating of sheep, and lowing of cattle, for the glad voices of a numerous population, happy and contented with their lot, loyal to their sovereign, and devotedly attached to their chiefs! But loyalty and attachment are but fancies, which, in these utilitarian and trading days, are flat and unprofitable; yet the aristocratical manufacturers of beef and mutton may live to feel the truth of the lines of Goldsmith:-- "But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied." I remained about six weeks in my native country, and set out for London, where I arrived early in November,--"the beginning of the gay season;" but it appeared to me the reverse. The city was shrouded in a cloud of condensed smoke and fog, that shut out the light of heaven. During three whole days the obscurity was so great that the steamboats were prevented from plying on the Thames, and the gas-lights were seen glimmering through the windows at noon-day. How applicable is the description of the Roman historian to the Rome of our day:--"Caput orbis terrarum, urbis magnificentiam augebant fora, templa, porticas, aquæductus, theatra, horti denique, et ejus generis alia, ad quæ vel lecta animus stupet." My time was too limited, however, and the weather too unfavourable, to admit of my seeing all the "lions;" but who would think of leaving London without visiting that wonderful work--the Tunnel,--that lasting monument of the genius of a Brunell, and of the wealth and enterprise of British merchants! A Cockney may well boast of his great city, its wealth, its vast population, and its magnificent buildings; but with regard to the Thames, of which he is equally proud,--he that has seen the St. Lawrence, the Hudson, the McKenzie, and many others, compared to which the Thames is but a rivulet, may be excused if he cannot view its not very limpid waters with the same extravagant admiration as the Londoner, who calls the Serpentine a river, and dignifies a pond of a few roods in extent with the name of a lake. Yet there is one feature about the Thames, of which he can scarcely be too proud, and which is unparalleled perhaps in the world,--the often-noticed "forest of masts," extending farther than the eye can reach, and suggesting,--not the silence and solitude of the forests with which I have been familiar,--but the countless population, the wealth, and the grandeur of Britain; and the might and the majesty of civilized and industrious man. I took leave of London on the 12th of September, and set out for Liverpool by railroad, and reached it in six hours. I had sufficient time to visit its docks, crowded by the ships of every nation; its warehouses containing the produce of every clime; and, though last, not least in my estimation, the splendid monument erected to the memory of Nelson. No monument of stone or brass is necessary to perpetuate our hero's fame; he lives in the heart of every true Briton, and will ever live, till British oak and British prowess shall cease to "rule the waves." I embarked on the 15th of December on board a sailing-packet bound for New York. These vessels are so punctual to the hour of sailing advertised, that, if the wind proves contrary, and blows fresh, they are towed out to sea by steamboats. This proved to be our case, and we kept tacking about in the "chops" of the Channel for six days, when a fair wind sprung up that soon carried us out of sight of England. England! great and glorious country, adieu! I shall probably never see thee more; but in quitting thy white-cliffed shores, I quit not my ardent attachment and veneration for thee;--and now for _thy_ eldest daughter beyond the ocean! To me, who had spent so much of my lifetime in solitude, the tedium of the voyage so much complained of was gaiety itself; with three fellow-passengers besides the captain, the time passed very agreeably. On board these floating palaces a passenger, in fact, finds everything that can contribute to his comfort; the best of accommodation, the best of fare, and the best of attendance; so that there is nothing wanting but _stability_, to make him fancy himself in a first-class hotel on shore. The weather proved extremely favourable throughout the passage; not an incident occurred worthy of notice; and on the 17th of January, 1843, I landed safely at New York, and thus found myself for the first time in a foreign land; and, since fate has so decreed, among a foreign people. Yes! they are foreigners, if being called by another name, and living under a different form of government can make them so; yet in language, in laws, in religion, and in blood, we are the same. Their ancestors brought abroad with them the same sentiments of regard and attachment to their native land as we feel; they rejoiced in the prosperity of Britain; felt proud of her victories, and grieved at her misfortunes. Alas, how different the feelings of the present race! Britain may, in fact, reckon the Americans of the present day her most inveterate foes; those who are of our own kindred, and whom therefore we might expect to stand by us in our hour of need, regard us with more envy and hatred than the "hereditary foes" with whom we have been for centuries engaged in mortal strife. In resisting the arbitrary acts of a misguided government, the American people only proved themselves possessed of the same noble spirit that procured for their English progenitors the confirmation of Magna Charta, and that hurled a tyrant from his throne. The heroes of the American revolution nobly fought and conquered; they entered the arena with fearful odds against them; they continued the struggle under every disadvantage, save the sacredness of their cause; and finally won the prize for which they contended. Of that prize the Americans of the present day have undisputed possession; and nothing can be more certain than that the Britons of the present day have no wish to deprive them of it--even if they could. What cause, then, can there be for still cherishing those feelings of animosity which the unhappy disruption gave rise to? If our fathers quarrelled, cannot we be friends? But are not the British themselves to blame, in some measure, for the continuance of these irritated feelings? The mercenary pens of prejudiced, narrow-minded individuals contribute daily to add fuel to the flame. Our "Diaries," and our "Notes," replete with offensive remarks, are, from the cheapness of publication, disseminated through the length and breadth of the Union, and are in everybody's hands; and those foolish remarks are supposed to be the sentiments of the British nation; when they are in fact only the sentiments of individuals whose opinions are little valued at home, and ought to be less valued abroad. Circumstances taken into consideration, I think it very unfair to draw comparisons between the social condition of young America, just become a distinct nation, and of old England, whose empire has lasted a thousand years. The American people are still too much occupied with the necessaries of life to devote much of their time to its elegancies; they are still engaged in the pursuits that ultimately ensure wealth and real independence. Those results attained, what is there to prevent the American gentleman from becoming as polished and accomplished as his cousin in Britain? Can it be supposed, with the least shadow of reason, that the short period that has elapsed since the Revolution can have been sufficient to produce that alteration in the character and manners of the Americans, which our travellers love to exercise their wit upon? It is impossible. The Americans "guessed," and "calculated," and "speculated," while they were British subjects, just as they do now; nor have they learned to chew, and spit, and smoke tobacco since the 4th of July, 1782. As to the peculiar phrases the Americans use in conversation, I am convinced that their forefathers brought the greater part of them from Britain, as many of those phrases are to be found in the works of old English authors still extant. The English language as spoken in America, is elegance itself, compared to the provincial dialects of Britain, or even to the vile slang one hears in the streets of London. This is a fact that every unprejudiced person who has travelled in America must admit. It appears Americans find leisure, of late years, to travel and take notes, as well as their transatlantic brethren; and, in return for the polite attentions of our travellers, describe England and Englishmen in the bitter language of recrimination and retort; and thus the enmity between the mother and daughter is kept alive and perpetuated. A publication of this kind fell lately into my hands, entitled, "The Glory and Shame of England." The writer, said to be a _Christian minister_, with the malignity of baser minds, sinks and keeps in the background her "glories," and brings into relief and dwells upon her shameful parts; representing in the most sombre colours the misery of the "squalid" population of our cities. Would to God there were not so much truth in the picture! His reverence, however, seems to have lost sight of the clergyman; and in gratifying his resentment against England, and in his zeal to kindle the same unchristian feeling in the breasts of his countrymen, has not hesitated to sacrifice the truth;--and he a clergyman, whose office it is to "proclaim peace on earth, and good-will to men!" That there is much misery and wretchedness in England, none can deny; but will not the well-informed philanthropist consider it rather as our misfortune than our reproach?--consisting mainly, as that mass of wretchedness does, of those ills which neither "kings nor laws can cause or cure." What plan would this philanthropic divine recommend to remove those evils, which, while he affects to deplore, he yet glories over? Strip the nobility and land-owners of their possessions--convert our monarchy into a republic--and the church into a "meetin ouse?" These _reforms_ effected, would the people of England be permanently benefited by them? Supposing the whole arable soil of England were divided in equal portions among its crowded inhabitants, (passing by the injustice of robbing the present proprietors of their lawful possessions--many of them acquired by the same hard labour or skill by which an artisan gains his weekly wages,) would the equality of property long continue? Would not the sloth, improvidence, and imprudence, that ever distinguish a great proportion of mankind; and the industry, foresight, and ambition that characterise others, soon bring many of the equal lots into one, thus forming a great estate, the property of an individual,--when matters would just be at the point where his reverence found them? And then, of course, would follow another "equitable adjustment," to relieve the wants of the poor, whose progenitors had squandered their patrimony. Or, admitting that the lots remained in possession of the families to whom they were originally granted, would the produce be equal to the maintenance of their numerous descendants, when the property became divided and subdivided into fifty or a hundred shares? The present proprietors of the soil of England have, undoubtedly, large incomes; but what becomes of those incomes? Do they not flow back into the hands of the merchants, tradesmen, servants, &c.?--the greater proportion, at least; for the sums expended by our tourists on the continent form so inconsiderable a portion of those incomes, as not to be worth mentioning. The same may be said of the _alleged_ wealth of the clergy; for (admitting the allegation) it all flows back into the channels whence it issued; and, although neither belonging to the Church of England, nor approving of her forms of government, I do not think that her downfall would improve the _temporal_ condition of the people. If we wish to remain a Christian nation, we cannot dispense with the services of the clergy; and in order that those services may be efficient, they must be maintained in independence and respectability. As to a republican form of government, that experiment has been already tried in England, and failed; it may be tried again with no better success. The circumstances in which the American people found themselves after the Revolution, rendered the adoption of republican institutions both safe and beneficial. They had learned by experience that the remote position of their country secured their independence from the ambitious projects of any power in Europe; while they had nothing to fear from any power in America. Thus situated, any form of government, consistent with the due maintenance of good order at home, answered their purpose. The nascent republic might, at the period in question, have adopted as its motto, "Liberty and Equality," with the utmost propriety; for all enjoyed equal liberty, and nearly equal fortunes. Experience, however, shows that liberty and equality cannot long exist under any form of government; industry procures wealth, wealth induces ambition, and ambition sighs after distinction and power. While America feels secure from the aggression of her neighbours, Great Britain is surrounded by powerful states, some of whom afford her daily proofs of their envy of her greatness and their hatred of her power; and only want the ability, not the will, to annihilate both. Those states are, for the most part, ruled by absolute or despotic governments, who can call fleets and armies into action without losing a moment in debating the justice or injustice, policy or impolicy, of their movements. With such neighbours as these, would the Messenger of Peace recommend the "Britishers" to adopt a form of government which would necessitate them to debate and consult while their enemies were acting; and to remit to the people to discuss the question of peace or war, when they should be enlisting and drilling them? Columbia, happy land! the broad Atlantic intervenes between thee and the envy or hatred of Europe; thy wide domain, presenting millions of acres of untenanted land, stands open to the industry and enterprise of thy citizens. How thankful, then, ought they to be for the blessings they enjoy, compared with the condition of their brethren "beyond the water," confined as they are to the narrow limits of their sea-girt isle, whose soil is no longer sufficient for the support of its over-crowded inhabitants, and surrounded by hostile nations, who have long since pronounced the sentence, "_Delenda est Britannia!_" "Boz" has already told his countrymen all that is worth telling about New York, and something more. What the "Dickens" brought him to the "Five Points?" Did he never visit Wapping with the same views, whatever they might be? If he did, did he observe nothing in that sink of filth and wickedness equal to the scenes that shocked him so much in the outskirts of New York? One just arrived from England finds little in this city to excite wonder or admiration, unless it be the extraordinary width of some of the streets. Were those streets kept clean, and the liberty of the pigs a little restrained, the citizens might well boast of their superiority to most of the streets of our British cities; and as their taste improves, everything unsightly will be removed. Nature has done much for New York: she possesses one of the finest harbours in the world; her climate is pleasant and salubrious; and one of the noblest rivers of America gives her the command of the commercial resources of a country which equals in extent nearly all Europe. New York will undoubtedly become one of the first cities in the world; in commerce, in wealth, in population, she has advanced at a prodigious rate within the last fifty years, and her progress is not likely to be arrested. The aqueduct that supplies the town with water, pure, wholesome, and abundant, is well worth the notice of a stranger. This stupendous work was executed at a cost of nine millions of dollars, and conveys the water from a distance of forty miles!--the genius of the engineer and the power of money overcoming every obstacle. The two great reservoirs, near the city, present splendid specimens of that kind of architecture. Happening in company to express my opinion of this work, as reflecting the highest credit on the enterprise of the citizens, a gentleman present, evidently an American, in reply to the compliment, observed, "It is very much to their advantage, no doubt, and it will also be much to their credit, if they pay the debt they incurred in constructing it." The fact is, that this and many other public works in the United States, have been executed by British capital. Would to heaven that our _sympathising_ friends, who are so jealous in regard to the honour of America, where a few thousand acres of worthless land are concerned, were equally jealous in regard to it when, under the newly-invented name of _repudiation_, the honour of their country is tarnished by a vast system of unblushing robbery! Would to heaven that their _sympathies_ were extended to the thousands who are involved in misery and ruin by this audacious system of national perfidy! If the art or ingenuity of the good citizens of New York has not produced very many objects worthy of admiration, the faces of their lovely fair make ample amends for it. Among the crowds of charmers who throng the fashionable promenade of Broadway, scarcely an ordinary face is to be seen. I, in fact, saw more pretty faces there in one hour than in all my tour in Britain. I landed in New York without any prejudice against the Americans, and I now take leave of their commercial capital with feelings of esteem and regret. In the society I frequented I neither saw nor heard anything unworthy of, or unbecoming the descendants of Britons. Some little peculiarities, the natural result of circumstances, I certainly noticed; some differences also in their social life; but I shall leave it to those who are disposed to find fault to criticise these matters. CHAPTER XIII. PASSAGE FROM NEW YORK TO ALBANY BY STEAMER--THE PASSENGERS--ARRIVAL AT ALBANY--JOURNEY TO MONTREAL. The navigation of the Hudson not being yet interrupted by ice, I determined on proceeding to Albany by steamboat, in preference to the railroad, with the view of seeing the far-famed scenery of the country through which the river flows. I accordingly embarked on the 5th of February. We had not proceeded far, however, when we found the face of the country covered with snow; and thus the pleasure I had anticipated from my aquatic trip was in a great measure lost. Winter had set in in earnest, and the cold became so severe as we ascended, that the deck was abandoned, and the nearest seat to the stove was considered the best. The passengers being now all crowded below, the group presented a complete epitome of American society: here were members of the legislature proceeding to the capital on parliamentary duty; here also were congregated in the same cabin, merchants, mechanics, and farmers, messing at the same board, and at first mixed up promiscuously together. They did not, however, long continue so; the more respectable part, separating from the crowd, occupied one end of the cabin, the plebeians occupied the other. Thus the homogeneous ingredients of the mass having united, no further mixture took place during the passage. It is true, one of patrician rank might occasionally be observed stepping beyond the ideal boundary, and sitting down among the plebeians, probably some of his constituents,--would call for a pipe, and, stretching out his legs, commence to puff, spit, and debate, like one of themselves; and having by these means convinced them that he still considered them as his _equals_, would retire again _ad suos_. The Americans are accused by Europeans of being cold and reserved towards strangers; for my part, I found them sociable and communicative in the extreme. A few hours after I had embarked on board the steamboat I found myself quite at home. I was much pleased to observe the rational manner in which the passengers amused themselves. Little groups were formed, where religion, politics and business matters were discussed with excellent sense and judgment. These seemed to be the common topics of discourse in both ends of the cabin. I frequented both, and saw nothing indecorous or improper in either, save the spitting and the outrageous rush to the table; such a scene as the latter is only to be seen in America. The servants bawl out at the top of their lungs:-- "Time enough, gentlemen! time enough! No hurry, no hurry!" Onward they rush, however, crowding, pushing, elbowing, until they take their seats. I was, however, particularly struck with the attention shown to the ladies, the great sobriety of all classes, and the total absence of impure or profane expressions in conversation. How unlike the scenes one witnesses on board our steamboats in Britain, where the meaner sort of passengers seem to travel on purpose to indulge in drinking! I arrived at Albany late on the 7th, our progress having been much retarded by the quantity of ice drifting in the river. Finding that the mail was to start for Canada in the course of the night, I decided on going with it, without seeing the capital of New York. Owing to the mildness of the season up to the present time, the roads were in the worst possible condition, and the motion of the carriage passing rapidly over the rugged surface of the muddy roads recently frozen solid, was not only disagreeable, but even painful. We continued, however, to jolt on night and day, without rest, save during the short time necessary for changing or baiting cattle. The roads became worse, if possible, as we proceeded. A considerable quantity of snow had fallen lately, which rendered travelling in a wheeled carriage not only disagreeable in the extreme, but also dangerous. We broke down several times, but without serious inconvenience. On one of these occasions we picked ourselves up opposite a farm house, in which we took shelter while the driver was putting matters to rights. It being yet early, the inmates were still in bed; we nevertheless found a rousing fire blazing on the hearth, and seated ourselves around it. All of a sudden the door of a small apartment flew open, and a large black cat sprang in amongst us. "Ha! what do you think of that, now?" said one of the passengers, addressing himself to me. "What do you think of the ingenuity of our Yankee cats? Had Boz witnessed that feat, we should have had a page or two more to his notes; and I am sure it would have proved at least as interesting to the reader as the nigger driver's conversation with his cattle." "That's a fact," said I. After being jolted and pitched about until every bone in my body ached again, I reached St. John's on the 12th; and the snow being now sufficiently deep to admit of travelling with sleighs, the remainder of the journey to Montreal was accomplished in comparative comfort. CHAPTER XIV. EMBARK FOR THE NORTH--PASSENGERS ARRIVE AT FORT WILLIAM--DESPATCH FROM GOVERNOR--APPOINTED TO MACKENZIE'S RIVER DISTRICT--PORTAGE LA LOCHE--ADVENTURE ON GREAT SLAVE LAKE--ARRIVE AT FORT SIMPSON--PRODUCTIONS OF THE POST. I spent the remainder of the winter enjoying the good things of this life, and on the 28th of April received orders to proceed to Lachine, preparatory to embarking for the north. I embarked on the 29th, but the crews were so intoxicated that we were compelled to land on an island near by, to allow them to recover from the effects of their carousals. I was joined here by Captain Stalk of the 71st, and Lieutenant Lefroy of the Artillery; the former accompanying us on a jaunt of pleasure, the latter on a scientific expedition. There were also four junior clerks in the Company's service. Our brigade consisted of three large canoes manned by about fifty Canadians, and Iroquois Indians. We were detained in our insular encampment by stress of weather until the 2d of May, when we set out. Our crews being now perfectly sober, plied their paddles with the utmost good-will, singing and whooping, apparently delighted with their situation. Ignorance here was bliss; they little dreamed of the life that awaited them. I may here premise, that as I have already narrated the particulars of a similar voyage, I shall pass on to the different stages of our route without noticing the uninteresting incidents of our daily progress. We arrived at Fort William on the 28th of May, where we exchanged our large Montreal canoes for smaller. Here Captain S. remained to await his passage back to Canada; not much disposed to try such a jaunt of pleasure again, I suspect,--and Lieutenant L., taking a canoe for himself with a view of prosecuting his scientific researches more at leisure than our go-a-head mode of travelling admitted, left us also. We were detained a day at Fort William, repairing canoes, arranging crews, &c., and on the 30th, I took leave of my excellent _compagnons de voyage_ with sincere regret. On descending Lac la Pluie River, we landed at an extensive Sauteux camp, where we found a Protestant (Methodist) Missionary, with a native interpreter as his only companion. I learned with much regret, that this gentleman's exertions in his vocation had been attended with little or no success, although he had been two years engaged in it; while the Romish priests, in the same space of time, had converted numbers. The natives were occupied with the sturgeon fishing, and had apparently been tolerably successful. Having procured a supply for the use of our crews by barter, we set off, and without experiencing any accident, reached Bas de la Rivière on the 13th of June, where I found letters from the Governor, directing me to proceed with all possible speed to York Factory. Having learned on my way coming up, that one of the gentlemen in McKenzie's River district had resigned, and would quit the country this year,--I felt convinced I should be appointed his successor; that being one of the most wretched parts of the Indian country, it was quite a matter of course that I should be sent thither. Knowing from dear-bought experience, however, that my constitution could no longer bear the hardships and privations to which I had been so long subjected, I wrote the Governor on the subject, and requested that he would grant me an appointment where I might enjoy some degree of comfort--a favour which I humbly conceived my former services entitled me to--otherwise I should retire from the service. We had a fine passage across Lake Winnipeg, and I landed at Norway House with all my party safe and sound, on the 18th of June. I remained there till the 21st, and then set out for York Factory, where I had been about ten days, when an express arrived from Norway House with the Governor's final orders to me, and also his reply to my last communication, which I here insert at full length. "Red River Settlement, "_June_ 22, 1843. "DEAR SIR, "My eyes are so completely worn out, that I cannot give you a single private line under my own hand. I have perused with attention your private letter of the 14th instant, and should have been glad had it been in my power to have met your wishes in regard to an appointment; but from the few commissioned gentlemen disposable this season, it was quite impossible to consult wishes. You were, therefore, long before receipt of your letter, appointed to McKenzie's River. That is now one of the finest fields we have for extension of trade, and I count much on your activity for promoting our views in that quarter. But while directing your attention to the extension of _your district_, you must likewise use your best endeavours to curtail the indents, as they have of late been on a most alarming scale, comprehending nearly as many articles as appear in our Columbia requisition; if you look on my notes on the last requisition, you will find that I have been under the necessity of making some further curtailments. I am sorry the idea of retiring has entered your mind, as I was in hopes we could count upon some efficient services out of you while still young and vigorous. "The Company have of late declined making any purchases of retired interests; it would be therefore quite unnecessary to make any application on that head, as they have lost money by all the recent purchases they have made in that way. "I am at the Lower Fort, where Mr. Ross came in on me very unexpectedly, just as we were preparing to get on horseback for the upper part of the settlement, so that I am much pressed for time, which will account for the brevity of this communication. "Pray let me hear from you in Canada by the last canoes, as I shall not then have taken my departure from Montreal. "I remain, &c. &c. (Signed) "GEORGE SIMPSON." Judging, from the instructions contained in the above communication, that I was appointed to the charge of the district, I made up my mind to try how far my health could endure the hardships of which I already had had more than my share; and without a moment's delay, set out for Norway House in a light canoe, where I arrived on the 16th of July. My friend Mr. C---- arrived with his returns from Athabasca a few days afterwards, and his arrangements being completed on the 24th, I embarked as a passenger with him. We reached the small river Mithai on the 4th of September, when we found the water so low as barely to admit of the passage of the light boats. It happened most fortunately that there were a number of Chippewayan Indians encamped on the spot at the time, else we should have been completely at a nonplus. The crews, good souls! hired those Indians at their own expense, to carry the greater part of the property in their small canoes to the upper part of the river. At the portage we found a number of half-breeds, with their horses, from the Saskatchewan, awaiting our arrival, in the expectation of being employed to transport the goods. Nor were they disappointed; sooner than undergo the harassing toil of carrying the outfit across a portage of twelve miles, the men hired the half-breeds, parting with their most valuable articles in payment. Several propositions have been made, of late years, to the Governor, for sparing the men the inhuman labour of this portage, which they must either perform, or sacrifice a considerable part of their paltry wages to avoid it. It was suggested, for instance, that a sufficient number of horses should be stationed at a certain locality, with the requisite conveniences, near the portage, and a couple of men hired on purpose to take care of them, whose wages the winterers should pay out of their own pockets, which they readily assented to; as the transport, by this arrangement, would only cost them one-third of what it cost them to employ the half-breeds. His Excellency, however, was quite "sick" of the Portage La Loche subject; he knew as much about it as anybody, and felt quite assured that it was the easiest part of the men's duties throughout the voyage! While canoes were used, the duty at Portage la Loche was not nearly so severe as at present; a canoe carried only twenty-five pieces, and was manned by six men; a boat's crew consists only of seven men, while the cargo consists of from sixty to seventy pieces. The descent of the Clear Water and Athabasca rivers was effected without any accident, and we arrived at Athabasca on the 16th of September; whence I set out again, after a few days' delay, for Fort Resolution, on Great Slave Lake, where I was detained by stress of weather until the 29th. I left the post late in the evening, and intended to encamp on an island at a convenient distance; but the season being far advanced, I felt anxious to proceed, and inquired of my pilot whether he thought there would be any risk in travelling all night? "Not the least," was the reply; and we rowed on accordingly till morning; when lo! the only objects to be seen were sea and sky. In vain we strained the organs of vision to discover land; there we were, as if in the midst of the ocean, surrounded on all sides by the unbroken circle of the horizon. I do not know that I ever felt more seriously alarmed than at this moment, thus to find myself exposed on an unknown sea, as it might well be termed, in an open boat, and at such an advanced period of the season, without any means of ascertaining what course to steer for land. It would appear our steersman had been napping at the helm in the course of the night, and thus allowed the boat to deviate from her course without noticing it; hence the awkwardness and even the danger of our present situation. While considering with myself what was best to be done, a fine breeze sprang up; I ordered the sail to be hoisted immediately, determined on going before it until we made land, no matter where. Fortunately the wind continued steady all day, and we at length reached the land a little after sunset, having run at least forty miles. We put ashore at the first convenient landing we could find, and encamped for the night. Having consulted a map I had with me, and observing by the sun the direction in which we had crossed the lake, (for we had actually crossed it at its greatest width,) I could make out pretty clearly that we had turned our backs to our true course! We had, however, a good supply of provisions, and a voyageur is never discouraged while he has the provender before him. Having now learned, to my cost, what confidence my pilot was entitled to, I determined on keeping land in view for the future. We embarked early next morning, and, after a tedious and laborious passage of seven days, arrived at Big Island fishery at the outlet of the Lake on the 8th of October, where I found a boat ready to start with a cargo of fish, in which I embarked; and landing finally at Fort Simpson on the 16th, my long trip of five months _per mare et terram_, was brought to a close; and high time it should, for the weather was become excessively cold, and the ice was forming along the beach. I was much grieved to find Mr. Lewis confined to bed in consequence of a shocking accident he had lately met with, his right hand being blown off by the accidental discharge of his fowling-piece. Having perused the governor's official letter to Mr. Lewis, I found the following paragraph in it relating to myself:--"On retiring from the district next season, you will be pleased to invest Mr. McLean with the management, handing to that gentleman all correspondence, papers, &c., connected with the public business." This paragraph, taken in conjunction with the instructions I had previously received, confirmed both Mr. L. and myself in the opinion that I was to succeed him in the charge; and we took our measures accordingly. I was very agreeably surprised to find that the high latitude of this locality (61° north) did not prevent agricultural operations from being carried on with success. Although the season had been rather unfavourable, the farm yielded four hundred bushels of potatoes, and upwards of one hundred bushels of barley; the barnyard, with its stacks of barley and hay, and the number of horned cattle around it, had quite the air of a farm standing in the "old country." It is to be regretted that the gentlemen here should have paid so little attention to the cultivation of the soil in former times, as the produce would, ere now, not only have contributed to the support of the establishment, but have afforded assistance to the natives in years of scarcity. For these three years past the distress of the natives in this quarter has been without parallel; several hundreds having perished of want--in some instances, even at the gates of the trading post, whose inmates, far from having it in their power to relieve others, required relief themselves. Here, as in most other parts of the wooded country, rabbits form the principal subsistence of the natives, and when they fail, starvation is the sure and inevitable result; but no former period has been so productive of distress, to so fearful an extent, as the present. With the produce of the farm, Mr. L. was enabled to save the lives of all those who resorted to his own post; but at Forts Good Hope, Norman, and De Liard, no assistance could be given; as those posts, like most others in the Indian country, depend entirely on the means the country affords in fish, flesh, and fowl, for their subsistence. CHAPTER XV. STATEMENTS IN THE EDINBURGH CABINET LIBRARY--ALLEGED KINDNESS OF THE HUDSON'S BAY COMPANY TO THE INDIANS--AND GENEROSITY--SUPPORT OF MISSIONARIES--SUPPORT WITHDRAWN--PREFERENCE OF ROMAN CATHOLICS--THE NORTH-WEST COMPANY--CONDUCT OF A BRITISH PEER--RIVALRY OF THE COMPANIES--COALITION--CHARGES AGAINST THE NORTH-WEST COMPANY REFUTED. A volume of the Edinburgh Cabinet Library, in which the Company's territories are described, came lately into my hands. It is there remarked, that "the Company's posts serve as hospitals, to which the Indians resort during sickness, and are supplied with food and medicine; that when winter arrives, the diseased and infirm are frequently left there; that the Company have made the most laudable efforts to instruct and civilize them, employing, at a great expense, Missionaries and Teachers," &c. I am well aware that the author of this valuable production took it for granted that the information he had obtained, relative to our treatment of the Indians, and other matters, was correct, or he would not have permitted it to go forth to the world under the authority and sanction of his name. But without intending any disrespect to the author, I take leave to state that the above quotations have not the slightest foundation in fact. Our posts serve as hospitals! I have now passed twenty-four years of my life-time in the country; I have served in every quarter of it; and I own that I have never yet known a single instance of an Indian being retained at any inland post for medical treatment. The knowledge the natives possess of the medicinal virtues of roots and herbs, is generally equal to the cure of all their ailments; and we are, in fact, more frequently indebted to them, than they to us, for medical advice. I may mention, however, by way of exception to the general rule, that the dépôts along the coast are well supplied with medicines, and that there are medical men there who administer them to the natives when they apply for them. In the interior we are allowed to doctor ourselves as we best can. What with the salubrity of the climate, and our abstemious fare, we are enabled, with the aid of a little Turlington balsam, and a dose of salts, perhaps, to overcome all our ailments. Most of us also use the lancet, and can even "spread a plaster, or give a glister," when necessary; but the Indians seldom trouble us. As to the instruction the natives receive from us, I am at a loss to know what it is, where imparted, and by whom given. "A tale I could, unfold!" But let it pass: certain it is, that neither our example nor our precept has had the effect of improving the morals or principles of the natives;--they are neither more enlightened, nor more civilized, by our endeavours, than if we had never appeared among them. The native interpreters even grow old in our service as ignorant of Christianity as the rudest savages who have never seen the face of a white man. The Church Missionary Society has had two Missionaries stationed at Red River settlement for some years past, one of whom is designated the Company's Chaplain, and is allowed 100l. per annum; the Roman Catholic bishop, too, receives his 100l., and doubtless understands, without any inspiration, the Company's policy in granting the annuity. The gentleman who conducts the academy has also 100l. a-year; thus we have 300l., forming the sum total of the "great expenses" the Company are at. It is quite true there are thirteen schools at Red River; there are also eighteen windmills, and the Company furnishes just as much wind for the mills as funds for the support of the schools or teachers. Other teachers than those above specified I have neither seen nor heard of. Some years ago five Missionaries were sent out to the Hudson's Bay territory by the Wesleyan Missionary Society. After having laboured for some time in the territory, by a decision of the Council the rank of commissioned gentleman, together with the usual allowances attached to that rank, was conferred on them. The Missionaries had every reason to be grateful for these acts of kindness, and they both felt and expressed their gratitude. Their object, however, in coming to the country was to serve God, not the Hudson's Bay Company; and they proceeded to discharge their duty in the manner their conscience approved, instructing and enlightening the natives with the zeal and perseverance for which their sect is so eminently distinguished. The good fruits were soon apparent; in some parts of the country successful attempts were made to collect the natives: they were taught to cultivate the soil, to husband their produce, so as to render them less dependent on fortuitous circumstances for a living; they were taught to read and write, and to worship God "in spirit and in truth," and numbers "were daily added to the Church;" when, lo! it was discovered that the time devoted to religious exercises, and other duties arising out of the altered circumstances of the converts, was so much time lost to the fur-hunt; and from the moment this discovery was made, no further encouragement was given to the innovators. Their labours were strictly confined to the stations they originally occupied, and every obstacle was thrown in the way of extending their missions. Even after some of them had travelled into the remotest parts, and opened up an amicable intercourse with the natives, they were told that collecting the Indians into villages was a measure not to be thought of, as the habitual indolence of the natives precluded the idea of their being induced to cultivate the soil; that even if they were so inclined, the country presented few localities fit for the purpose, &c. Notwithstanding the high authority whence these allegations emanated, I think I can show the reader that they are in a great measure without foundation. Here (in lat. 61° north)[2] we raise crops of barley and potatoes--the former in abundance every year,--the latter, however, are sometimes cut off by the frosts; but this is no more than happens in Canada, and many parts of the United States. The fact is, that there are many favourable situations for agriculture to be found in every district of the Company's territories, except perhaps one or two on the shores of Hudson's Bay. The banks of the Athabasca, Peace, Slave, and McKenzie rivers present many localities fit for farming operations; and in the more southern districts they are, of course, far more frequent. [Footnote 2: On the banks of the McKenzie River.] Had the Protestant ministers been allowed a free scope, and the encouragement they at first received been continued, they would ere now have had Missions established in many districts; and there can hardly be a doubt that they would have succeeded here, as elsewhere, in overcoming the natural sloth of the natives. Their good intentions, however, have been frustrated, and they have now the additional mortification of finding themselves supplanted by Romish priests, who, no later than last year, were allowed a free passage in the Company's craft, even to a district where a Protestant Missionary had been settled for several years previously, and had made considerable progress in converting the natives. Not only was he allowed a passage to the district, but he was lodged and entertained in the Company's establishment. The consequences of this strange procedure are obvious: the poor ignorant natives, hearing such conflicting doctrines, are at a loss what to think or what to believe; and, naturally enough, conclude that both are alike impostors, and therefore in many cases decline their instructions. It must be acknowledged, however, that the Romish priest is often more successful than the Protestant missionary, and that for obvious reasons. With the former, the Indian needs only profess a desire to become a Christian, and he is forthwith baptized; whereas with the latter, a probationary course--a trial of the proselyte's sincerity--is deemed indispensable. The peculiar dress, moreover, of the Romish ministers, and their imposing ritual, make a great impression on the senses of a barbarous people. "_He_ indeed," say the Indians, when speaking of the priest, "he indeed looks like a great 'man of medicine;' but these others are just like our traders; we can see no difference." The fact, too, need not be disguised, that we ourselves find the priests far more accommodating than these meddling parsons. The priests, for instance, allow us to amuse ourselves in any manner we think fit, week-day or Sunday; and far from finding fault, ten to one if they don't join in the sport; the Protestant minister, on the contrary, never allows a violation of the sacred day to pass unnoticed, nor fails to warn the delinquent of the consequences. The priest connives at the Indian's hunting on Sunday--the minister strictly forbids it: the priests are single--the ministers are generally married, and their maintenance of course involves a far heavier expense. Considering these things, no reasonable person can surely find fault with us for preferring those who allow us to put what construction we please on the moral law, and at the same time oppose no obstacles to the advancement of our temporal interests. And here I cannot but express my regret that our Protestant churches should have so long neglected the cultivation of a field that promised such rich harvests as the interior of America. The superstitions of the aborigines scattered through the Hudson's Bay Company's territories are so gross, and so inconsistent with unsophisticated common sense; and their prejudices in favour of them have been so much shaken by their intercourse with the gentlemen of the trading posts and the other Europeans, whom they are accustomed to look up to as beings of a superior race, that there could be but little difficulty in removing what _remains_ of these prejudices; and thus one of the greatest obstacles to the success of a Missionary in other parts of the heathen world, can scarcely be said to exist among them. The Church of England, it is true, has done a little, but she might have done more--much more. Had the Missionaries at Red River exerted themselves, from the time of their first arrival in the country, in educating _natives_ as Missionaries, and sent them forth to preach the Word, the pure doctrines of Christianity would, ere now, have been widely disseminated through the land. But nothing of this kind has been attempted: nor could it be attempted--now that I think of it--the laying on of "the hands of a Bishop" being indispensable. As to the diseased and infirm being frequently left at our posts in winter, all I can say is, that I have never seen any such at any of the posts I wintered at, or at any of the posts I visited; nor is it likely that, when we ourselves depend on the natives for a considerable part of our subsistence, we can do much to support them. We support neither old nor young, diseased nor infirm--that is the truth. In the work above quoted I find the following paragraph relating to the North-West Company. "Although the rivalry of the North-West Company had the effect of inspiriting and extending the trade; it was carried by them in many respects beyond the legitimate limits, not scrupling at open violence and bloodshed, in which Europeans and natives were alike sufferers." The controversy between those rival companies has long since been forgotten; but the subject being again obtruded on the public notice, evidently in the spirit of prejudice, there can be nothing improper, I presume, in representing matters in their true and proper light. Many of the individuals thus calumniated are still alive and settled in the civilized world, where they are esteemed for qualities diametrically opposite to those ascribed to them by their slanderer. It is well known that the chief advantages the Hudson's Bay Company now possess, they owe to the adventurous North-West traders; by these traders the whole interior of the savage wilds was first explored; by them the water communications were first discovered and opened up to commercial enterprise; by them the first trading posts were established in the interior; by them the natives were first reconciled to the whites; and by them the trade was first reduced to the regular system which the Hudson's Bay Company still follows. When all this had been done by the North-West Company, and they had begun to reap the reward of their toils, and hardships, and dangers, and expenditure--then did the Honourable Hudson's Bay Company, led on by a British peer, step forward and claim, as British subjects, an equal right to share the trade. Their _noble_ leader appeared first in Montreal in the guise of a traveller, where he was received by the North-Westers with open arms, was kindly and hospitably entertained by them, his minutest inquiries regarding their system of trade were candidly and freely answered; and the information thus obtained in the character of a traveller, a guest, and a friend, he forthwith proceeded to use to effect their ruin. Had, however, the North-West Company continued true to themselves, all his arts and attempts would have failed. Had not dissension arisen in the ranks, it is clear that _they_--not the Hudson's Bay Company--would have granted the capitulation. Unfortunately for themselves, however, the partners in the interior, seeing the contest continue so long, and the expenses swallow up all the profits, despaired of the success that was almost within their grasp, and commencing a correspondence among themselves, finally determined on opening a negotiation with their rivals. Two of their number were accordingly sent home, invested with full powers to act for the general interest. Those gentlemen arrived just as the Directors of the North-West Company in London were about to conclude a most advantageous treaty--a few days more, and the articles had been ratified by the signatures of both parties. At this conjuncture the Delegates arrived, and instead of first communicating with their own Directors, went straight to the Hudson's Bay House, and presented their credentials. The Hudson's Bay Company saw their advantage, and instead of receiving, now dictated the terms; and thus the name of the North-West Company was merged in that of its rival, and the Canadian people were deprived of all interest in that trade which owed its origin to the courage and enterprise of their forefathers. Such were the relative circumstances of the Hudson's Bay and North-West Companies. From 1674 to 1813 the Hudson's Bay Company slumbered at its posts along the shores of Hudson's Bay, never attempting to penetrate beyond the banks of the Saskatchewan, until the North-Westers had led and cleared the way; and in this manner began their rivalry. That collisions should follow, marked by violence and outrage, need not be wondered at. But violence and outrage were not confined to one side; both parties exceeded the limits prescribed by law. Yet while stern justice alike condemns both, which is the more guilty party? or which has the greater claims on our sympathy? As to the North-West Company being guilty of the blood of innocent Indians,--the charge is as false as it is invidious. When the blood of their servants was shed without cause or provocation, as frequently happened when they first encountered the fierce savage, they punished the aggressors as the law of God allows, demanding "blood for blood." But while the author (or rather his informant, whose _ribbon_ I can plainly distinguish, although he strikes in the dark) so freely censures the North-West Company for avenging the murder of their people, does he mean to insinuate that nothing of the kind is done under the _humane_ and _gentle_ rule of the Hudson's Bay Company? What became of the Hannah Bay murderers? They were conveyed to Moose Factory, bound hand and foot, and there shot down by the orders of the Chief Factor. Did the murders committed by the natives at New Caledonia, Thompson's River, and the Columbia, pass unavenged? No! the penalty was fully paid in blood for blood. But since the author's informant seems disposed to "rake up the smouldering embers" of days bygone, I shall take the liberty of telling him of a tragedy that was enacted at the ancient date of 1836-7. In that winter, a party of men, led by two clerks, was sent to look for some horses that were grazing at a considerable distance from the post. As they approached the spot they perceived a band of Assineboine Indians, eight in number (if I remember aright), on an adjacent hill, who immediately joined them, and, delivering up their arms, encamped with them for the night. Next morning a _court martial_ was held by the two clerks and some of the men, to determine the punishment due to the Indians for having been found near the company's horses, with the _supposed_ intention of carrying them off. What was the decision of this mock court martial? I shudder to relate, that the whole band, after having given up their arms, and partaken of their hospitality, were condemned to death, and the sentence carried into execution on the spot,--all were butchered in cold blood! With the exception of the massacre of the Indians in McKenzie's River district in 1835, no such deed of blood had been heard of in the country. Yet our author's _impartial_ informant, perfectly acquainted as he was with all the circumstances of the case, and ready enough as he is to trumpet to the world the alleged crimes of the North-West Company, takes no notice of it! It may be said that the Company are not answerable for crimes committed by their servants without their knowledge. True; but when they are made fully acquainted with those misdeeds, and allow the perpetrators to escape with impunity, the guilt is transferred to their own head; "invitat culpam qui peccatum præterit." The proceedings of this court-martial were reported at head-quarters, and the punishment awarded to these murderers was--a reprimand! After this, what protection, or generosity, or justice, can the Indians he said to receive from the Hudson's Bay Company? The Indians to this day talk of their Northwest "fathers" with regret. "Our old traders, our fathers, did not serve us so," is a remark I have frequently heard in every part of the country where the North-West Company had established posts. Had their rule been distinguished by oppression or injustice, the natives would rather have expressed their satisfaction at its suppression; had it been tyrannical or oppressive, it would not have been long tolerated. The natives in those times were numerous and warlike; the trading-posts were isolated and far apart; and in the summer season, when the managers proceeded to the dépôts, with the greater part of their people, were entirely at the mercy of the natives, who would not have failed to take advantage of such opportunities to avenge their wrongs, had they suffered any. The posts, in fact, were left entirely to their protection, and depended on them for support during the absence of the traders, who, on their return in autumn, found themselves surrounded by hundreds of rejoicing Indians, greeting their "fathers" with every manifestation of delight;--he who had not a gun to fire strained his lungs with shouting. The native population has decreased at an extraordinary rate since those times. I do not mean to affirm that this decrease arises from the Hudson's Bay Company's treatment of them; but, from whatever cause arising, it is quite certain they have greatly decreased. Neither can it be denied, that the natives are no longer the manly, independent race they formerly were. On the contrary, we now find them gloomy and dispirited, unhappy and discontented. As to our vaunted "generosity" to the natives, I am at a loss to know in what it consists. When a band of Indians arrive at a trading post, each individual is presented with a few inches of tobacco; here (at Fort Simpson) in winter we add a fish to each. After their furs are traded, a few flints, awls, and hooks, and a trifle of ammunition is given them, in proportion to their hunts, and then--"Va-t-en." This is about the average amount of "generosity" they receive throughout the country; varied, however, by the differences of disposition observable in the Hudson's Bay Company's traders, as among all other mortals. Some of us would even withhold the awls and hooks, if we could; others, at the risk of being "hauled up" for extravagance, would add another hook to the number. Were the Company's standing rules and regulations acted upon, we might perhaps have some title to the generosity we boast of. In these rules we are directed to supply _poor_ Indians with ammunition and fishing tackle, gratis. This looks very well on paper; but are we allowed the means of bestowing these gratuities? Certainly not.[3] Our outfits, in many cases, are barely sufficient to meet the exigencies of the trade; they are continually reduced in proportion to the decrease in the returns; and the strictest economy is not only recommended, but enforced. On the due fulfilment of these commands our prospects in the service depend; and few indeed will think of violating them, or of sacrificing their own interests to benefit Indians. I repeat that, far from having it in our power to bestow anything gratuitously, we are happy when allowed sufficient means to barter for the furs the Indians bring us. [Footnote 3: When the Israelites were ordered to provide straw for their bricks, the material _could_ be procured in Egypt, although at the expense of great additional toil;--not so the supplies for the Indian trade; in the event of a deficiency, neither money nor labour can procure them.] The Company also make it appear by their standing rules, that we are directed to instruct the children, to teach the servants, &c.; but where are the means of doing so? A few books, I have been told, were sent out for this purpose, after the coalition; what became of them I know not. I never saw any. The history of commercial rule is well known to the world; the object of that rule, wherever established, or by whomsoever exercised, is gain. In our intercourse with the natives of America no other object is discernible, no other object is thought of, no other object is allowed. CHAPTER XVI. ARRIVAL OF MR. LEFROY--VOYAGE TO THE LOWER POSTS OF THE MACKENZIE--AVALANCHE--INCIDENTS OF THE VOYAGE--VOYAGE TO PORTAGE LA LOCHE--ARBITRARY AND UNJUST CONDUCT OF THE GOVERNOR--DESPOTISM--MY REPLY TO THE GOVERNOR. In the early part of this winter several Indians came in, complaining that they were starving for want of food; and their emaciated forms proved that they did not complain without cause. Our means, however, were too limited to afford them any effectual relief. We were glad to learn afterwards, that although many suffered, none died from actual want; and the rabbits soon afterwards appearing in greater numbers than had been seen for years past, relief was obtained. Towards the latter end of March, I was gratified by the arrival of Mr. Lefroy. This gentleman seems equal to all the hardships and privations of a voyageur's life, having performed the journey from Athabasca hither, a distance of at least six hundred miles, on snow-shoes, without appearing to have suffered any inconvenience from it; thus proving himself the ablest _mangeur de lard_ we have had in the country for a number of years: there are many of our old winterers who would have been glad to excuse themselves if required to undertake such a journey. The winter passed without any remarkable occurrence; and on the breaking up of the river, I set off for the lower posts, on the 23d of May, accompanied by Mr. Lefroy, whose zeal for scientific discovery neither cold, nor hunger, nor fatigue, seems to depress. We arrived at Fort Norman on the 27th of May; and after a few hours' delay, embarked, proceeding down stream, night and day. We reached Fort Good Hope on the 29th, late in the evening; but evening, morning, midnight, and noon-day, are much the same here: I wrote at midnight by the clear light of heaven. The scientific reader need not be informed, that within the arctic circle the sun is but a very short time beneath the horizon, during the summer solstice. The people of Fort Good Hope see him rising and setting behind the same hill; and in clear weather his rays shed a light above the horizon even after he is set; while during the winter solstice the same hill nearly conceals him from view. Yet the gentleman in charge of this post has passed two years without an inch of candle to light himself to bed; and his predecessor did the same; so that he has no reason to complain. On our way down we observed a land-slip, or avalanche of earth, that had just tumbled into the river. Mr. Lefroy examined the bank whence it had been detached, and found, by measurement, that the frozen ground was forty-six feet in depth! Our short sojourn at Fort Good Hope was rendered very unpleasant by the dismal weather; it continued snowing the whole time we remained. The storm abating, we embarked at an early hour, on the 31st of May, and had not proceeded above a few leagues, when a fair breeze sprang up, greatly to the satisfaction of all, but especially of the poor fellows whose toil it relieved. It continued increasing; reef after reef was taken in, till our sheet was finally reduced to a few feet in depth; yet so furious was the gale that we ascended the strongest current with nearly the same velocity we had descended; while the snow fell so thick, and the spray from the river was driven about so violently by the wind, that we could scarce see our way, and only escaped being dashed against the beach by keeping in the centre of the stream. It was also extremely cold; so that our situation in an open boat was not the most enviable. We arrived at Fort Norman on the 2d of June, about five, A.M., and remained until eleven, A.M., when we embarked, the gale still continuing with unabated violence. Immediately after leaving the Fort the gale carried away our mast; fortunate it was for us that it gave way, else the boat must have capsized. We soon got another mast from the Fort, and sped on our way night and day, if it can be said there is any night here, when the light is so powerful as to throw the stars into the shade. Without experiencing much change in wind or weather, we arrived at Fort Simpson on the 8th of June; having thus performed a voyage of about 1,400 miles (going and coming) in eleven days, including stoppages. I found Mr. Lewis so far recovered from the effects of his wound as to be able to take the same active part in the management of affairs as formerly. The returns from the different posts being now received, we found them to amount to upwards of 15,000l. in value, according to the tariff of last year. Everything being ready for our departure, we left Fort Simpson on the 15th of June, Mr. Lefroy embarking with us. We proceeded to Great Slave Lake without interruption, the weather extremely fine. Within a day's rowing of Fort Resolution we encountered a field of ice that arrested our progress, till a change of wind carried it out to sea. The moment a passage opened we observed a large canoe making for our encampment. It proved to be Mr. Lefroy's, which he had left with the most of his people at Athabasca. Mr. Lefroy embarked in his own craft, and we proceeded to Fort Resolution in company; and as he had determined on following a different route to Athabasca, we parted here, most probably never to meet again in this life. Few gentlemen ever visited this country who acquired so general esteem as Mr. Lefroy; his gentlemanly bearing and affable manners endeared him to us all. We arrived at Athabasca on the 5th of July, and at Portage La Loche on the 25th, where we found an increased number of half-breeds waiting our arrival. The brigade from York Factory arrived with the outfit on the 2d of August, and we exchanged cargoes with the utmost expedition, they receiving the returns of the district, and we the outfit brought by them. By this conveyance I received letters from the Governor, acquainting me "that another gentleman was appointed to the charge of McKenzie's River District, and that he (the Governor) could not conceive on what grounds I fancied myself to be the person so appointed, as he was certain I could not have arrived at such a conclusion from perusing the instructions I had received from him last year!" Until now I thought I understood the English language as well as most people; but the Governor makes it appear plainly enough that I ought still to confine myself to the old Celtic. The instructions above referred to being given in the foregoing pages, I shall leave the reader to form his own opinion of one who, in the high and honourable position of a Governor, could treat so ungenerously one whom he admitted to be a faithful and meritorious servant, and whom he had acknowledged to be deserving of preferment: and that not on the present only, but on several former occasions. This last insult I consider the climax to the wrongs I have so long suffered. First I am appointed in the usual terms to the charge of a district. I am allowed to continue in that opinion for a twelvemonth; I enter into correspondence with the gentlemen of the district as their future superintendent, and make my arrangements with them as such; and, _au bout du compte_, am ordered back to the same district to mix with the crowd, and submit to another master. I leave it to the reader to judge whether such a Governor could possibly have the interests of the Company at heart; even supposing for a moment there were no _injustice_ in the case; I leave it to him to consider what effect a conduct and measures so vacillating, unsteady and arbitrary, are likely to have on the service and interests of the Company. This last act of the Governor made me completely disgusted with a service where such acts could be tolerated. In no colony subject to the British Crown is there to be found an authority so despotic as is at this day exercised in the mercantile Colony of Rupert's Land; an authority combining the despotism of military rule with the strict surveillance and mean parsimony of the avaricious trader. From Labrador to Nootka Sound the unchecked, uncontrolled will of a single individual gives law to the land. As to the nominal Council which is yearly convoked for form's sake, the few individuals who compose it know better than to offer advice where none would be accepted; they know full well that the Governor has already determined on his own measures before one of them appears in his presence. Their assent is all that is expected of them, and that they never hesitate to give. Many years pass without such a thing as a legally constituted Council being held. A legal Council ought to consist of seven members besides the Governor; three chief factors and four chief traders. The Council, however, seldom consists of more than five members and the Governor. Some years ago, I happened to be at an establishment where a "Council" was about to be held. On inquiring of his Excellency's Secretary what subject of moment he thought would first engage their attention-- "Engage their attention!" he replied; "bless your heart, man! the minutes of Council were all drawn out before we arrived here; I have them in my pocket." Clothed with a power so unlimited, it is not to be wondered at that a man who rose from a humble situation should in the end forget what he was and play the tyrant. Let others, if they will, submit to be so ruled with a rod of iron. I at least shall not. In reply to his favour, I addressed the following letter to his Excellency, a transcript of which I transmitted to the Committee. "Portage La Loche, "_August_ 3, 1844. "To SIR GEORGE SIMPSON, Governor of Rupert's Land:-- "SIR--I have the honour to acknowledge your several favours from Lachine and Red River, and am mortified to learn by them you should think me so stupid as not to understand your letters on the subject of my appointment to the charge of the district; your language being so clear, in fact, as to admit of no other construction than the one I put upon it. By referring to the minutes of Council for 1843, I find myself appointed to Fort Good Hope for that year; but you wrote me subsequently to the breaking up of the Council, and used these words: 'That is now the finest field we have for the extension of trade, and I count much on your activity for promoting our views in that quarter. But while directing your attention to the extension of _your district_, you must also use your best endeavours to curtail the indents.' "Your letter to Mr. C.F. Lewis states, in nearly these words, that I 'am appointed to succeed him;' and you beg of him 'to deliver into my hands all the documents that refer to the affairs of the district.' Mr. Lewis understood your letters in the same sense as myself, and so did every other person who perused them. What your object may have been in altering this arrangement afterwards, is best known to yourself; and whether such conduct can be reconciled with the principles of honour and integrity which you so strongly recommend in others, and which are so necessary to the well-being of society, is a question which I shall leave for the present to your own decision; while I cannot avoid remarking, that the treatment I have experienced from you on this and on many other occasions, is as unworthy of yourself and as unworthy of the high station you fill, as I am undeserving of it. "When in 1837, I was congratulated by every member of Council then present at Norway House on the prospect of my immediate promotion, (having all voted for me,) your authority was interposed, and I was, as a matter of course, rejected. You were then candid enough to tell me that I should not have your interest until the two candidates you then had in view were provided for, and that it would then be my turn. With this assurance from you I cheerfully prepared for my _exile_ to _Ungava_. _My turn_ only came, however, after _seven_ other promotions had been made, and I found myself the last on the list of three gentlemen who were promoted at the same time. "You are pleased to jest with the hardships I experienced while battling the watch with opposition in the Montreal department, and the privations I afterwards endured in New Caledonia. Surely, Sir, you ought to have considered it sufficient to have made me your dupe, and not add insult to oppression. While in the Montreal department I have your handwriting to show your approval of my 'meritorious conduct,' the course I was pursuing being 'the direct road to preferment;' and your intention, even then, 'to recommend me to the favourable notice of the Governor and Committee;'--promises in which I placed implicit confidence at the time, being as yet a stranger to the ways of the world.--The result of these promises, however, was that the moment opposition had ceased, I was ordered to resign my situation to another, and march to enjoy the 'delectable scenery' of New Caledonia; from thence you sent me to Ungava, where you say you are not aware I experienced any particular hardship or privation. "You are aware of the circumstances in which I found myself when I arrived there: that consideration was not allowed to interpose between me and my duty, however; and I accordingly traversed that desolate country in the depth of winter,--a journey that nearly cost myself and my companions our lives. I then continued to explore the country during the entire period of my command, and finally succeeded in discovering a practicable communication with Esquimaux Bay, and in determining the question so long involved in uncertainty as to the riches the interior possessed, and by so doing saved an enormous expense to the concern. The Hon. Committee are aware of my exertions in that quarter, themselves, as I had the honour of being in direct communication with them while there. "I have the honour, &c. (Signed) "JOHN MCLEAN." CHAPTER XVII. SITUATION OF FORT SIMPSON--CLIMATE--THE LIARD--EFFECTS OF THE SPRING FLOODS--TRIBES INHABITING MACKENZIE'S RIVER DISTRICT--PECULIARITIES--DISTRESS THROUGH FAMINE--CANNIBALISM--ANECDOTE--FORT GOOD HOPE SAVED BY THE INTREPIDITY OF M. DECHAMBAULT--DISCOVERIES OF MR. CAMPBELL. Mr. Lewis embarked for York Factory on the 4th of August. I set out on my return on the 6th, and arrived at Fort Simpson on the 22d. Having prepared and sent off the outfit for the different posts with all possible expedition, I found myself afterwards at leisure to note down whatever I thought worthy of being recorded with reference to this section of the country. There are seven posts in this district; three on the River Liard and its tributaries; three on the banks of McKenzie's River, and one on Peel's River. About two degrees to the north of Good Hope, Fort Simpson, the dépôt of the district, is situated at the confluence of the Liard and McKenzie, in lat. 61° north. Heat and cold are here felt in the extremes; the thermometer frequently falls to 50° minus in winter, and rises sometimes to 100° in the shade in summer. The River Liard has its source in the south among the Rocky Mountains: its current is remarkably strong; and in the early part of summer, when swollen by the melting of the snow, it rushes down in a foaming torrent, and pours into the McKenzie, still covered with solid ice, when a scene ensues terrific and grand:--the ice, resisting for some time the force of the flood, ultimately gives way with the noise of thunder, and clashing, roaring and tumbling, it rolls furiously along until it accumulates to such an extent as to dam the river across. This again presents, for a time, a solid barrier to the flood, which is stopped in its course; it then rises sometimes to the height of thirty and forty feet, overflowing the adjacent country for miles, and levelling the largest trees with the ground. The effects of this frightful conflict are visible in all the lower grounds along the river. The trading posts are situated on the higher grounds, yet they are not secure from danger. Fort Good Hope was swept clean away some years ago, and its inmates only saved themselves by getting into a boat that happened fortunately to be at hand. The McKenzie opens about the end of May, and is ice-bound in November. The tribes who inhabit the banks of the McKenzie, and the interior parts of the district, are members of the powerful and numerous Chippewayan family, and are known by the names of Slaves, Dogribs, Rabbitskins, and Gens des Montagnes. The Loucheux, or Squint-Eyes, frequent the post on Peel's River, and speak a different language; their hunting-grounds are within the Russian boundary, and are supposed to be rich in fur-bearing animals. The Loucheux have no affinity with the Chippewayan tribes, nor with their neighbours, the Esquimaux, with whom, however, they maintain constant intercourse, though not always of the most friendly kind, violent quarrels frequently occurring between them. The various dialects spoken by the other tribes are intelligible to all; in manners, customs, and personal appearance, there is also the closest similarity. In one point, however, these tribes differ, not only from the parent tribe, but from all the other tribes of America;--they treat their women with the utmost kindness, the men performing all the drudgery that usually falls to the women. Here the men are the hewers of wood and drawers of water; they even clear away the snow for the encampment; and, in short, perform every laborious service. This is indeed passing strange;--the Chippewayans, and all other Indians, treat their women with harshness and cruelty; while the women on the banks of the McKenzie--Scotticé--"wear the breeks!" The Rabbitskins and Slaves are in truth a mild, harmless, and even a timid race; could it be this softness of disposition that induced the weaker sex first to dispute, and finally to assume the supremacy?--or what cause can be assigned for a trait so peculiar in this remotely situated portion of the Indian race? These tribes clothe themselves with the skins of rabbits, and feed on their flesh; when the rabbits fail, they are reduced to the greatest distress both for food and raiment. I saw a child that remained naked for several days after its birth, its parents having devoured every inch of their miserable dress that could be spared from their bodies: it was at last swaddled in crow's skins! These two tribes generally live near the banks of the great rivers, and seem disposed to pass their pilgrimage on earth with as little toil, and as little regard to comfort, as any people in being. They pass summer and winter in the open air; they huddle together in an encampment, without any other shelter from the inclemency of the weather than what is afforded by the spreading branches of some friendly pine, and use no more fire than what is barely sufficient to keep them from freezing. Their wants are few, and easily provided for; when they have killed a few deer to afford them sinews for making rabbit-snares, they may be said to be independent for the remainder of the season. Their work consists in setting those snares, carrying home the game caught in them, eating them when cooked, and then lying down to sleep. A taste, however, for articles of European manufacture is gaining ground among them, and to obtain those articles a more active life is necessary, so that some tolerable fur-hunters are now to be found among them. The Dogribs occupy the barren grounds that are around Great Bear Lake, and extend to the Copper-mine River. That part of the country abounds in rein-deer, whose skin and flesh afford food and raiment to the natives. They are a strong, athletic, well-formed race of Indians, and are considered more warlike than their neighbours, who evidently dread them. None of the Indians who frequent the posts on McKenzie's River have hereditary chiefs; the dignity is conferred by the gentlemen in charge of posts on the best hunters. On these occasions a suit of clothes is bestowed, the most valued article of which is a coat of coarse red cloth, decorated with lace; and, as the reward of extraordinary merit, a felt hat is added, ornamented in the same manner, with a feather stuck in the side of it. Thus equipped, the new-made chief sallies forth to receive the gratulations of his admiring friends and relatives, among whom the coat is ultimately divided, and probably finishes its course in the shape of a tobacco-pouch. In course of time, the individuals thus distinguished obtain some weight in the councils of their people, but their influence is very limited; the whole of the Chippewayan tribes seem averse to superior rule. Like the Esquimaux and Carriers, they seem to have had no idea of religion prior to the settlement of Europeans among them; all the terms they at present use in reference to the subject seem of recent origin, and invented by the interpreters. They name the Deity, "Ya ga ta-that-hee-hee,"--"The Man who reclines on the sky;" angels are called "the birds of the Deity,"--"ya gat he-be e Yadzé;" the devil, "Ha is linee," or, "the sorcerer." The Slaves and Rabbitskins have also their magicians, whom alone they fear and reverence. Polygamy is not common, yet there are instances of one man having two _female masters_. In times of famine the cravings of hunger often drive these poor Indians to desperation, when the feelings of humanity and of nature seem utterly eradicated. During the fearful distress of the two past years, a band of Slaves came to Fort Simpson in a condition not to be described. Many of them had perished by the way; but the history of one family is the most shocking I ever heard. The husband first destroyed the wife, and packed her up as provision for the journey. The supply proving insufficient, one of the children was next sacrificed. The cannibal was finally left by the party he accompanied with only one child remaining--a boy of seven or eight years of age. Mr. Lewis immediately despatched two men with some pemmican, to meet him; the aid came too late,--they found the monster roasting a part of his last child at the fire. Horrified at the sight, they uttered not a word, but threw the provisions into the encampment, and retreated as fast as they could. A few days afterwards this brute arrived strong and hearty, and appeared as unconcerned as if all had gone on well with him and his family. Cannibalism is more frequently known among the Slaves and Rabbitskins than any other of the kindred tribes; and it is said that women are generally the perpetrators of the crime; it is also said, that when once they have tasted of this unhallowed food they prefer it to every other. All the Chippewayan tribes dispose of their dead by placing them in tombs made of wood, and sufficiently strong to resist the attacks of wild beasts. The body is laid in the tomb at full length, without any particular direction being observed as to the head or feet. Neither they, nor any other Indians I am acquainted with, place their dead in a sitting posture. It is affirmed by some writers that the Indians have a tradition among them of the migration of their progenitors from east to west. I have had every opportunity of investigating the question, and able interpreters wherever I wintered; but I never could learn that any such tradition existed. Even in their tales and legends there is never any reference to a distant land; when questioned in regard to this, their invariable answer is, "Our fathers and our fathers' fathers have hunted on these lands ever since the flood, and we never heard of any other country till the whites came among us." These tribes have the same tradition in regard to the flood, that I heard among the Algonquins at the gates of Montreal, some trifling incidents excepted. Unlike most other Indians, the Slaves have no fixed bounds to their hunting-grounds, but roam at large, and kill whatever game comes in their way, without fear of their neighbours. The hunter who first finds a beaver-lodge claims it as his property, but his claim is not always respected. Besides the Indians enumerated in the preceding pages, a number of stragglers, but little known to us, occasionally resort to the post. A band of these--nine in number--made their appearance at Fort Norman this summer; and, after trading their furs, set out for Fort Good Hope, with the avowed intention of plundering the establishment, and carrying off all the women they could find. On arriving at the post they rushed in, their naked bodies blackened and painted after the manner of warriors bent on shedding blood; each carrying a gun and dirk in his hands. The chief, on being presented with the usual gratuity--a piece of tobacco, rudely refused it; and commenced a violent harangue against the whites, charging them with the death of all the Indians who had perished by hunger during the last three years; and finally challenged M. Dechambault, the gentleman in charge of the post, to single combat. M. Dechambault, _dicto citius_, instantly sprung upon him, and twisting his arm into his long hair, laid him at his feet; and pointing his dagger at his throat, dared him to utter another word. So sudden and unexpected was this intrepid act, that the rest of the party looked on in silent astonishment, without power to assist their fallen chief, or revenge his disgrace. M. Dechambault was too generous to strike a prostrate foe, even although a savage, but allowed the crest-fallen chief to get on his legs again; and thus the affair ended. The Company owe the safety of the establishment to Mr. D.'s intrepidity: had he hesitated to act at the decisive moment, the game was up with him, for he had only two lads with him, on whose aid he could place but little reliance. Mr. D. has been thirty years in the Company's service, and is still a _clerk_; but he is himself to blame for his want of promotion, having been so inconsiderate as to allow himself to be born in Canada, a crime which admits of no expiation. This district is at present by far the richest in furs of any in the country; this is owing partly to the indolence of the natives, and partly to the circumstance of the beaver in some localities being, through the barrenness of the surrounding country, inaccessible to the hunter. When the haunts of the animal become overcrowded, they send forth colonies to other quarters. At the first arrival of the Europeans, large animals, especially moose and wood rein-deer, were abundant everywhere. In those times the resources of the district were adequate to the supply of provisions for every purpose; whereas, of late years, we have been under the necessity of applying for assistance to other districts. A new field has lately been laid open for the extension of the trade of this district. An enterprising individual--Mr. R. Campbell--having been for several years employed in exploring the interior, last summer succeeded in finding his way to the west side of the Rocky Mountain chain. The defile he followed led him to the banks of a very large river, on which he embarked with his party of hardy pioneers; and following its course for several days through a charming country, rich in game of every description--elk, rein-deer, and beaver, he eventually fell in with Indians, who received them kindly, although they had never seen Europeans before. From them he learned that a party of whites, Russians of course, had ascended the river in the course of the summer, had quarrelled with the natives, and killed several of them; and that the whites had returned forthwith to the coast. These friendly Indians entreated Mr. C. to proceed no farther, representing that he and his party were sure to fall victims to their revenge. This, however, could not shake his resolution; he had set out with the determination of proceeding to the sea at all hazards, and no prospect of danger could turn him from it; till his party refused to proceed farther on any conditions, when he was compelled to return. The returns of this district have, for years past, averaged 12,000l. per annum; the outfit, including supplies for officers and servants, has not exceeded as many hundreds. The affairs of the different posts are managed by seven or eight clerks and postmasters; and there are about forty hired servants--Europeans, Canadians, and half-breeds; Indians are hired for the trip to the portage. The living for some years past has not been such as Gil Blas describes, as "fit to tickle the palate of a bishop;" at Fort Simpson we had, for the most part of the season, fish and potatoes for breakfast, potatoes and fish for dinner, and cakes made of flour and grease for supper. The fish procured in this quarter is of a very inferior quality. CHAPTER XVIII. MR. MACPHERSON ASSUMES THE COMMAND--I AM APPOINTED TO FORT LIARD, BUT EXCHANGE FOR GREAT SLAVE LAKE--THE INDIANS--RESOLVE TO QUIT THE SERVICE--PHENOMENA OF THE LAKE. On the 2d of October Mr. McPherson arrived from Canada, and I forthwith demitted the charge. I was now appointed to Fort Liard, but the season being far advanced, it had been found necessary to appoint another previously, whose arrangements for the season being completed, it was deemed expedient that I should pass the winter at Great Slave Lake; and I embarked for that station accordingly on the 4th, and arrived on the 16th. This post formerly belonged to Athabasca, but is now transferred to McKenzie's River district. The natives consist of Chippewayans, properly so called, and Yellow Knives, a kindred tribe; the former inhabit the wooded parts of the country, extending along the northern and eastern shores of the lake; and the latter, the opposite side extending towards the Arctic regions, where there is no wood to be found; it abounds, however, in rein-deer and musk oxen. The Yellow Knives were at one time a powerful and numerous tribe; but their number has been greatly diminished by a certain disease that lately prevailed among them, and proved peculiarly fatal. They also waged a short but bloody war with the Dogribs, that cost many lives. They muster at present between sixty and eighty men able to bear arms. The Chippewayans in this quarter are a shrewd sensible people, and evince an eager readiness to imitate the whites. Some years ago a Methodist Missionary visited Athabasca; and although he remained but a short time, his instructions seemed to have made a deep impression. They observe the Sabbath with great strictness, never stirring from their lodges to hunt, nor even to fetch home the game when killed, on that day; and they carefully abstain from all the grosser vices to which they formerly were addicted. What might not be expected of a people so docile, if they possessed the advantages of regular instruction! Having fortunately a supply of books with me, and other means of amusement, I found the winter glide away without suffering much from ennui; my health, however, proved very indifferent; and that circumstance alone would have been sufficient to induce me to quit this wretched country, even if my earlier prospects had been realized, as they have not been. From the accompt current, I find my income as chief trader for 1841 amounts to no more than 120l.: "Sic vos non vobis mellificatis apes;" and since things are come to this pass, it is high time I should endeavour to make honey for myself, in some other sphere of life. I therefore transmitted my resignation to head-quarters. I cannot close this chapter without mentioning a singular phenomenon which the lake presents in the winter season. The ice is never less than five feet in thickness, frequently from eight to nine; yet the water under this enormous crust not only feels the changes in the atmosphere, but anticipates them. An approaching change of wind or weather is known twenty-four hours before it occurs. For instance, while the weather is perfectly calm, if a storm be at hand, the lake becomes violently agitated the day before; when calm weather is to succeed, it is indicated in like manner by the previous stillness of the lake, even when the gale is still raging in the air. In summer there is no perceptible current in the lake; in winter, however, a current always sets in the direction of the wind, and indicates a change of wind by running in a different direction. These curious points have been ascertained by the long observation of our fishermen, who, in the beginning of winter, bore holes in the ice for the purpose of setting their lines, and visit them every day, both in order to keep them open, and to take up what fish may be caught. In consequence of the frequent shifting of the current, they experience no little difficulty in adjusting their lines, the current being occasionally so strong as to raise them to an angle of forty degrees. Thus, if the lines were too long, and the current not very strong, they would drag on the bottom; if too short, and the current strong, they would be driven up upon the ice. The approach of a storm is indicated, not by any heaving of the ice, but by the strength of the current, and the roaring of the waves under the ice, which is distinctly heard at a considerable distance, and is occasionally increased by the collision of detached masses of broken ice, which, in the earlier part of the season, have been driven under the main crust. CHAPTER XIX. REFLECTIONS--PROSPECTS IN THE SERVICE--DECREASE OF THE GAME--COMPANY'S POLICY IN CONSEQUENCE--APPEAL OF THE INDIANS--MEANS OF PRESERVING THEM, AND IMPROVING THEIR CONDITION--ABOLITION OF THE CHARTER--OBJECTIONS ANSWERED. The history of my career may serve as a warning to those who may be disposed to enter the Hudson's Bay Company's service. They may learn that, from the moment they embark in the Company's canoes at Lachine, or in their ships at Gravesend, they bid adieu to all that civilized man most values on earth. They bid adieu to their family and friends, probably for ever; for if they should remain long enough to attain the promotion that allows them the privilege of revisiting their native land--a period of from twenty to twenty-five years--what changes does not this life exhibit in a much shorter time? They bid adieu to all the comforts and conveniences of civilized life, to vegetate at some desolate, solitary post, hundreds of miles, perhaps, from any other human habitation, save the wig-wam of the savage; without any other society than that of their own thoughts, or of the two or three humble individuals who share their exile. They bid adieu to all the refinement and cultivation of civilized life, not unfrequently becoming semi-barbarians,--so altered in habits and sentiments, that they not only become attached to savage life, but eventually lose all relish for any other. I can give good authority for this. The Governor, writing me last year regarding some of my acquaintances who had recently retired, observes--"They are comfortably settled, but apparently at a loss what to do with themselves; and sigh for the Indian country, the squaws, and skins, and savages." Such are the rewards the Indian trader may expect;--add to these, in a few cases, the acquisition of some thousands, which, after forty years' exile, he has neither health, nor strength, nor taste to enjoy. Few instances have occurred of gentlemen retiring with a competency under thirty-five or forty years' servitude, even in the best days of the trade; what period may be required to attain that object in these times, is a question not easily solved. Up to 1840, one eighty-fifth share had averaged 400l. per annum; since then, however, the dividends have been on the decline, nor are they ever likely to reach the same amount, for several reasons,--the chief of which is the destruction of the fur-bearing animals. In certain parts of the country, it is the Company's policy to destroy them along the whole frontier; and our general instructions recommend that every effort be made to lay waste the country, so as to offer no inducement to petty traders to encroach on the Company's limits. Those instructions have indeed had the effect of ruining the country, but not of protecting the Company's domains. Along the Canadian frontier, the Indians, finding no more game on their own lands, push beyond the boundary, and not only hunt on the Company's territory, but carry a supply of goods with them, which they trade with the natives. Their Honours' fiat has also nearly swept away the fur animals on the west side of the Rocky Mountains; yet I doubt whether all this precaution will ensure the integrity of their domains. The Americans have taken possession of the Columbia, and will speedily multiply and increase: ere many years their trappers will be found scouring the interior, from the banks of the Columbia to New Caledonia, and probably penetrating to the east side of the Rocky Mountains. Should they do so, that valuable part of the country embraced by the Peace and McKenzie Rivers would soon be ruined; for the white trapper makes a clean sweep wherever he goes. Taking all these circumstances into consideration, I do not see any great probability--to say the least--that the trade will ever attain the prosperity of days bygone. Even in such parts of the country as the Company endeavour to preserve, both the fur-bearing and larger animals have of late become so scarce, that some tribes are under the necessity of quitting their usual hunting-grounds. A certain gentleman, in charge of a district to which some of those Indians withdrew, on being censured for harbouring them in his vicinity, writes thus:--"Pray, is it surprising, that poor Indians, whose lives are in jeopardy, should relish a taste of buffalo meat? It is not the Chippewayans alone that leave their lands to go in search of food to preserve their lives; the Strongwood Crees and Assineboines are all out in the plains, because, as they affirm, their usual hunting-grounds are so exhausted that they cannot live upon them. It is no wish of mine that those Indians should visit us--we have trouble enough with our own,--but to turn a poor Indian out of doors, who arrives at the Company's establishment nearly dead with hunger, is what I am not able to do." In the work already quoted I find it stated "that the Company have carefully nursed the various animals, removing their stations from the various districts where they had become scarce, and taking particular care to preserve the female while pregnant! instead, therefore, of being in a state of diminution, as generally supposed, the produce is increasing throughout their domains." Fudge! It is unnecessary to say, that if this statement were correct, we should not hear such distressing accounts of starvation throughout the country. No people can be more attached to their native soil than the Indians; and it is only the most pressing necessity that ever compels them to remove. In 1842 the Governor and Committee issued positive orders that the beavers should be preserved, and every effort made to prevent the Indians from killing them for a period of three years. This was, in a great measure, "shutting the stable door after the steed was stolen." The beavers had already been exterminated in many parts of the country; and even where some were yet to be found, our injunctions to the natives to preserve them had but little weight. To appease their hunger they killed whatever game came in their way, and as we were not permitted to buy the beaver skins, they either converted them into articles of clothing for themselves or threw them away. Now (1845) the restriction is removed, and the beavers have sensibly increased; but mark the result: the natives are not only encouraged but strenuously urged to hunt, in order that the parties interested may indemnify themselves for their lost time; and ere three years more shall have elapsed, the beaver will be found scarcer than ever. It is thus evident that whatever steps their Honours may take to preserve the game, the attainment of that object, in the present exhausted state of the country, is no longer practicable. As to the Company's having ever issued orders, or recommended any particular measures for the preservation of the larger animals, male or female, the statement is positively untrue. The minutes of the Council are considered the statutes of the land, and in them the provision districts are directed to furnish so many bags of pemmican, so many bales of dry meat, and so many cwt. of grease, every year; and no reference whatever is made to restrictions of any kind in killing the animals. The fact is, the provisions must be forthcoming whatever be the consequence; our business cannot be carried on without them. That the natives wantonly destroy the game in years of deep snow is true enough; but the snow fell to as great a depth before the advent of the whites as after, and the Indians were as prone to slaughter the animals then as now; yet game of every description abounded and want was unknown. To what cause then are we to ascribe the present scarcity? There can be but one answer--to the destruction of the animals which the prosecution of the fur-trade involves. As the country becomes impoverished, the Company reduce their outfits so as to ensure the same amount of profit,--an object utterly beyond their reach, although economy is pushed to the extreme of parsimony; and thus, while the game becomes scarcer, and the poor natives require more ammunition to procure their living, their means of obtaining it, instead of being increased, are lessened. As an instance of the effects of this policy, I shall mention what recently occurred in the Athabasca district. Up to 1842 the transport of the outfit required four boats, when it was reduced to three. The reduction in the article of ammunition was felt so severely by the Chippewayans, that the poor creatures, in absolute despair, planned a conspiracy to carry off the gentleman at the head of affairs, and retain him until the Company should restore the usual outfit. Despair alone could have suggested such an idea to the Chippewayans, for they have ever been the friends of the white man. Mr. Campbell, however, who had passed his life among them, conducted himself with so much firmness and judgment, that, although the natives had assembled in his hall with the intention of carrying their design into execution, the affair passed over without any violence being attempted. The general outfit for the whole northern department amounted in 1835, to 31,000l.; now (1845) it is reduced to 15,000l., of which one-third at least is absorbed by the stores at Red River settlement, and a considerable portion of the remainder by the officers and servants of the Company throughout the country. I do not believe that more than one half of the outfit goes to the Indians. While the resources of the country are thus becoming yearly more and more exhausted, the question naturally suggests itself, What is to become of the natives when their lands can no longer furnish the means of subsistence? This is indeed a serious question, and well worthy of the earnest attention of the philanthropist. While Britain makes such strenuous exertions in favour of the sable bondsmen of Africa, and lavishes her millions to free them from the yoke, can nothing be done for the once noble, but now degraded, aborigines of America? Are they to be left to the tender mercies of the trader until famine and disease sweep them from the earth? People of Britain! the Red Men of America thus appeal to you;--from the depths of their forest they send forth their cry-- "Brethren! beyond the Great Salt Lake, we, the Red Men of America salute you:-- "Brethren! "We hear that you are a great and a generous people; that you are as valiant as generous; and that you freely shed your blood and scatter your gold in defence of the weak and oppressed; if it be so, you will open your ears to our plaints. "Brethren! Our ancients still remember when the Red Men were numerous and happy; they remember the time when our lands abounded with game; when the young men went forth to the chase with glad hearts and vigorous limbs, and never returned empty; in those days our camps resounded with mirth and merriment; our youth danced and enjoyed themselves; they anointed their bodies with fat; the sun never set on a foodless wigwam, and want was unknown. "Brethren! When your kinsmen came first to us with guns, and ammunition, and other good things the work of your hands, we were glad and received them joyfully; our lands were then rich, and yielded with little toil both furs and provisions to exchange for the good things they brought us. "Brethren! Your kinsmen are still amongst us; they still bring us goods, and now we cannot want them; without guns and ammunition we must die. Brethren! our fathers were urged by the white men to hunt; our fathers listened to them; they ranged wood and plain to gratify their wishes; and now our lands are ruined, our children perish with hunger. "Brethren! We hear that you have another Great Chief who rules over you, to whom even our great trading Chief must bow; we hear that this great and good Chief desires the welfare of all his children; we hear that to him the white man and the red are alike, and, wonderful to be told! that he asks neither furs nor game in return for his bounty. Brethren! we feel that we can no longer exist as once we did; we implore your Great Chief to shield us in our present distress; we desire to be placed under his immediate care, and to be delivered from the rule of the trading Chief who only wants our furs, and cares nothing for our welfare. "Brethren! Some of your kinsmen visited us lately; they asked neither our furs nor our flesh; their sojourn was short; but we could see they were good men; they advised us for our good, and we listened to them. Brethren! We humbly beseech your Great Chief that he would send some of those good men to live amongst us: we desire to be taught to worship the Great Spirit in the way most pleasing to him: without teachers among us we cannot learn. We wish to be taught to till the ground, to sow and plant, and to perform whatever the good white people counsel us to do to preserve the lives of our children. "Brethren! We could say much more, but we have said enough,--we wish not to weary you. "Brethren! We are all the children of the Great Spirit; the red man and the white man were formed by him. And although we are still in darkness and misery, we know that all good flows from him. May he turn your hearts to pity the distress of your Red Brethren! Thus have we spoken to you." Such are the groans of the Indians. Would to Heaven they were heard by my countrymen as I have heard them! Would to Heaven that the misery I have witnessed were seen by them! The poor Indians then would not appeal to them in vain. I can scarcely hope that the voice of a humble, unknown individual, can reach the ears, or make any impression on the minds of those who have the supreme rule in Britain; but if there are there men of rank, and fortune, and influence, whose hearts sympathise with the misery and distress of their fellow-men, whatever be their country or hue--and, thank God! there are not a few--it is to those true Britons that I would appeal in behalf of the much-wronged Indians; the true and rightful owners of the American soil. If I am asked what I would suggest as the most effective means for saving the Indians, I answer: Let the Company's charter be abolished, and the portals of the territory be thrown wide open to every individual of capital and enterprise, under certain restrictions; let the British Government take into its hands the executive power of the territory, and appoint a governor, judges, and magistrates; let Missionaries be sent forth among the Indians;--already the whole of the Chippewayan tribes, from English River to New Caledonia, are disposed to adopt our religion as well as our customs, so that the Missionaries' work is half done. Let those of them who manifest a disposition to steady industry be encouraged to cultivate the ground: let such as evince any aptitude for mechanics be taught some handicraft, and congregated in villages, wherever favourable situations can be found--and there is no want of them. Let schools be established and supported by Government--not mere _common_ schools, where reading, writing, arithmetic, and perhaps some of the higher branches may be taught; but _training_ and _industrial_ schools. Where the soil or climate is unfit for husbandry, other means of improving their condition might be resorted to. In the barren grounds, bordering on the Arctic regions, rein-deer still abound. Why should not the Indians succeed in domesticating these animals, and rendering them subservient to their wants, as the Laplanders do? I have been informed that the Yellow Knives, and some of the other tribes inhabiting these desert tracts, have the art of taming the fawns, which they take in great numbers while swimming after their dams, so that they follow them like dogs till they see fit to kill them. Such, in brief, are the measures which, after much experience, and long and serious consideration, I would venture to propose in behalf of the Indians; and most happy shall I be if anything I have said shall have the effect of awakening the public interest to their condition; or form the groundwork of any plan which, by the blessing of God, may have the effect of preserving and christianizing the remnants of these unhappy tribes. It may be objected, that the Company have had their charter renewed for a period of twenty-one years, which does not expire till 1863; and that Government is bound in honour to sustain the validity of the deed. But if Government is bound to protect the _interests_ of the Hudson's Bay Company, is it less bound to protect the _property_ and _lives_ of their weak, ignorant, and wronged subjects? The validity of the original charter, the foundation of the present, is, however, more than questioned: nay, it has been declared by high authority to be null and void. Admitting its validity, and admitting that the dictates of honour call for the fulfilment of the charter in guarding the _profits_ of the few individuals (and their dependants) who assemble weekly in the old house in Fenchurch Street; are we to turn a deaf ear to the still small voice of justice and humanity pleading in behalf of the numerous tribes of perishing Indians? Now, now is the time to apply the remedy; in 1863, where will the Indian be? If it is urged that the measures I propose violate the charter, deprive the Company of their sovereignty, and reduce them to the situation of subjects; still, I say, they will have vast advantages over every other competitor. Their ample resources, their long exclusive possession of the trade, their experience, the skill and activity of their agents, will long, perhaps permanently, secure to them the greatest portion of the trade; while the Indians will be greatly benefited by a free competition. If it be urged that the profits will be so much reduced by competition, that the trade will not be worth pursuing; I answer, that competition has certainly a natural tendency to reduce profits; but experience proves that it has also a tendency to reduce costs. A monopolist company never goes very economically to work; and, although much economy, or rather parsimony, of a very questionable and impolitic kind, has been of late years attempted to be introduced into the management of the Hudson's Bay Company's affairs, a free and fair competition will suggest economy of a sounder kind--the facilitating of transport, the improvement of portages, and the saving of labour. Where are the evils which interested alarmists predicted would follow the modification of the East India Company's charter? I have spoken of restrictions to be imposed on those who engage in the trade. These are;--that no one be allowed to engage in it without a licence from Government;--that these licensed traders should be confined to a certain locality, beyond which they should not move, on any pretext;--and that no spirituous liquors should be sold or given to the Indians under the severest penalties--such as the forfeiture of the offender's licence, and of their right to participate in the trade in all time coming. CHAPTER XX. WESLEYAN MISSION--MR. EVANS--ENCOURAGEMENT GIVEN BY THE COMPANY--MR. EVANS'S EXERTIONS AMONG THE INDIANS--CAUSES OF THE WITHDRAWAL OF THE COMPANY'S SUPPORT--CALUMNIOUS CHARGES AGAINST MR. EVANS--MR. E. GOES TO ENGLAND--HIS SUDDEN DEATH. Allusion has been made in a former chapter to the Company's encouragement of Missionaries; I shall now add a few facts by way of illustration. The Rev. Mr. Evans, a man no less remarkable for genuine piety than for energy and decision of character, had been present at several of the annual meetings of the Indians at Manitoulin Island, and had felt his sympathy deeply awakened by the sight of their degradation and spiritual destitution. While thus affected, he received an invitation from the American Episcopal Methodists to go as a Missionary among the Indians resident in the Union. Feeling, however, that his services were rather due to his fellow-subjects, he resolved to devote his labours and his life to the tribes residing in the Hudson's Bay territory. Having made known his intentions to this Canada Conference, he, together with Messrs. Thomas Hurlburt, and Peter Jacobs, was by them appointed a Missionary, and at their charges sent to that territory. No application was made to the Company, and neither encouragement nor support was expected from them. Mr. E. and his brother Missionaries began their operations by raising with their own hands, unassisted, a house at the Pic; themselves cutting and hauling the timber on the ice. They obtained, indeed, a temporary lodging at Fort Michipicoton, but they not only found their own provisions, but the comforts of the establishment were materially increased by Mr. E.'s and his interpreter's success in fishing and hunting. Late in the fall, accompanied by two Indian boys in a small canoe, Mr. E. made a voyage to Sault Ste. Marie for provisions: and on this expedition, rendered doubly hazardous by the lateness of the season, and the inexperience of his companions, he more than once narrowly escaped being lost. Returning next season to Canada for his family, he met Sir G. Simpson, on Lake Superior. Having learned that the Mission was already established, and likely to succeed, Sir George received him with the utmost urbanity, treating him not only with kindness but with distinction; he expressed the highest satisfaction at the establishment of the Mission, promised him his utmost support, and at length proposed that arrangement, which, however apparently auspicious for the infant Mission, was ultimately found to be very prejudicial to it. The caution of Mr. E. was completely lulled asleep by the apparent kindness of the Governor, and the hearty warmth with which he seemed to enter into his views. Sir George proposed that the Missionaries should hold the same rank and receive the same allowance as the wintering partners, or commissioned officers; and that canoes, or other means of conveyance, should be furnished to the Missionaries for their expeditions; nor did it seem unreasonable to stipulate that in return for these substantial benefits, they should say or do nothing prejudicial to the Company's interests either among the natives, or in their Reports to the Conference in England, to whose jurisdiction the Mission was transferred. The great evil of this arrangement was, that the Missionaries, from being the servants of God, accountable to Him alone, became the servants of the Hudson's Bay Company, dependent on, and amenable to them; and the Committee were of course to be the sole judges of what was, or was not, prejudicial to their interests. Still, it is impossible to blame very severely either Mr. E. or the Conference for accepting offers apparently so advantageous, or even for consenting to certain restrictions in publishing their Reports:--with the assistance and co-operation of the Company great good might be effected;--with the hostility of a Corporation all but omnipotent within its own domain, and among the Indians, the post might not be tenable. For some time matters went on smoothly: by the indefatigable exertions of Mr. E. and his fellow-workers, aided also by Mrs. E., who devoted much of her time and labour to the instruction of the females, a great reformation was effected in the habits and morals of the Indians. But Mr. Evans soon perceived that without books printed in the Indian language, little permanent good would be realized: he therefore wrote to the London Conference to send him a printing press and types, with characters of a simple phonetic kind, which he himself had invented, and of which he gave them a copy. The press was procured without delay, but was detained in London by the Governor and Committee; and though they were again and again petitioned to forward it, they flatly refused. Mr. E., however, was not a man to be turned aside from his purpose. With his characteristic energy he set to work, and having invented an alphabet of a more simple kind, he with his penknife cut the types, and formed the letters from musket bullets; he constructed a rude sort of press; and aided by Mrs. E. as compositor, he at length succeeded in printing prayers, and hymns, and passages of Scripture for the use of the Indians. Finding their object in detaining the press thus baffled, the Governor and Committee deemed it expedient to forward it; but with the express stipulation, that every thing printed should be sent to the commander of the post as _censor_, before it was published among the Indians. This was among the first causes of distrust and dissatisfaction. Another source of dissatisfaction was Mr. E.'s faithfulness in regard to the observance of the sabbath. As the Indians became more enlightened they ceased to hunt and fish, and even to carry home game on the sabbath day; and, as a matter of course, they would no longer work for the Company on that day. But Mr. E. was guilty of equal faithfulness in remonstrating with those gentlemen in the service with whom he was on terms of intimacy in regard to this point of the Divine law; and several gentlemen, convinced by his arguments, determined to cease from working and travelling on the sabbath. One of them, Mr. C----l, while on a distant expedition, acted in accordance with his convictions, and rested on the sabbath. The voyage turned out unusually stormy, and the water in the rivers was low, so that it occupied several days longer than it had formerly done; and the loss of time, which was really owing to the adverse weather, was charged on his keeping of the sabbath. From that day forth, the encouragement given to the Missionaries began to be withdrawn; obstacles were thrown in their way, and although nothing was openly done to injure the Missions already in operation, it would seem that it was determined that, if the Company could prevent it, no new stations should be occupied--at least by _Protestant_ Missionaries. Not long after, Mr. E., finding that the Missions he had hitherto superintended were in such a state of progress that he might safely leave them to the care of his fellow-labourers, resolved to proceed to Athabasca and establish a mission there. Having gone, as usual, to the Commander of the post to obtain the necessary provisions, and a canoe and boatmen, he was received with unusual coldness. He asked provisions,--none could be given; he offered to purchase them,--the commander refused to sell him any. He begged a canoe,--it was denied him; and finally, when he intreated that, if he should be able to procure those necessaries elsewhere, he might at least be allowed a couple of men to assist him on the voyage, he was answered that none would be allowed to go on that service. Deeply grieved, but nothing daunted, Mr. E. procured those necessaries from private resources, and proceeded on his voyage. But a sad calamity put a stop to it; in handing his gun to the interpreter it accidentally went off, and the charge lodging in his breast killed him instantaneously. He was thus compelled to return, in a state of mind bordering on distraction. Mr. E.'s zeal and piety promised the best results to the spiritual and eternal interests of his Indian brethren. His talents, energy, and fertility of resource, which seemed to rise with every obstacle, had the happiest effects on their temporal well-being; and his mild and winning manners greatly endeared him to all the Indians. But his useful and honourable career was drawing to a close. The mournful accident already alluded to had affected his health, and he now received his deathblow. Yet, obnoxious as he had become to the Company, and formidable to their interests as they might deem one of his talents and indomitable resolution to be, the blow was not struck by them. It was dealt by a _false_ brother; by one who had eaten of his bread: by a "familiar friend, with whom he had taken sweet counsel." Charges affecting his character, both as a man and a minister, of the foulest and blackest kind, were transmitted to the Conference by a brother Missionary. To answer these charges, as false as they were foul, he was compelled to leave the churches he had planted and watered, to bid adieu to the people whose salvation had been for years the sole object of his life, and to undertake a voyage of 5,000 miles to appear before his brethren as a _criminal_. As a criminal, indeed, he was received; yet after an investigation, begun and carried on in no very friendly spirit to him, truth prevailed. He was declared innocent, and the right hand of fellowship was again extended to him. He made a short tour through England, and was everywhere received with respect, and affection, and sympathy. But anxiety, and grief, and shame had done their work. Scarce three weeks had elapsed, when, having spent the evening along with Mrs. E. in the family of a friend, whose guest he was, with some of his wonted cheerfulness, Mrs. E. having retired but a few minutes, she was summoned to the room where she had left him in time to see him pass into that land where "the wicked cease from troubling." The cause of his death was an _affection of the heart_. And that man--the slanderer--the murderer of this martyred Missionary--what punishment was inflicted on him? He is to this day unpunished! and yet lives in the Hudson's Bay territory, the disgrace and opprobrium of his profession and his church. Such are a few facts connected with the establishment of the Wesleyan Mission in the Hudson's Bay territory, and illustrative of the sort of encouragement given by the Committee to Protestant Missionaries. By way of rider to these, I may just remind the reader that Roman Catholic Missionaries have since been freely permitted to plant churches wherever they pleased, even in districts where Protestant Missions were already established. After all, this is not much to be wondered at, since Sir G. Simpson openly avowed to Mr. Evans his preference of Roman Catholic Missionaries; one reason for this preference being, that these never interfered with the Company's servants, nor troubled them with any precise or puritanical notions about the moral law. CHAPTER XXI. SKETCH OF RED RIVER SETTLEMENT. RED RIVER--SOILS--CLIMATE--PRODUCTIONS--SETTLEMENT OF RED RIVER, THROUGH LORD SELKIRK, BY HIGHLANDERS--COLLISION BETWEEN THE NORTH-WEST AND HUDSON'S BAY COMPANIES--INUNDATION--ITS EFFECTS--FRENCH HALF-BREEDS--BUFFALO-HUNTING--ENGLISH HALF-BREEDS--INDIANS--CHURCHES--SCHOOLS--STORES--MARKET FOR PRODUCE--COMMUNICATION BY LAKES. Red River rises in swamps and small lakes in the distant plains of the south; and after receiving a number of tributary streams that serve to fertilize and beautify as fine a tract of land as the world possesses, discharges itself into the eastern extremity of Lake Winnipeg in lat. 50°. The climate is much the same as in the midland districts of Canada; the river is generally frozen across about the beginning of November, and open about the beginning of April. The soil along the banks of the river is of the richest vegetable mould, and of so great a depth that crops of wheat are produced for several years without the application of manure. The banks produce oak, elm, maple, and ash; the woods extend rather more than a mile inland. The farms of the first settlers are now nearly clear of wood; an open plain succeeds of from four to six miles in breadth, affording excellent pasture. Woods and plains alternate afterwards until you reach the boundless prairie. The woods produce a variety of delicious fruits, delighting the eye and gratifying the taste of the inhabitants; cherries, plums, gooseberries, currants, grapes, and sasgatum berries in great abundance. Coal has been discovered in several places, and also salt springs. Lord Selkirk having been made acquainted with the natural advantages of this favoured country by his North-West hosts in Montreal, determined forthwith on adopting such measures as might ensure to himself and heirs the possession of it for ever. Accordingly, on his return to England, he purchased Hudson's Bay Company's stock to an amount that enabled him to control the decisions of the Committee; and thus, covered by the shield of the charter, he could carry on his premeditated schemes of aggression against the North-West Company, with some appearance of justice on his side. With the view of carrying out these schemes, he proceeded to the North of Scotland, and prevailed on a body of Highlanders to emigrate to Red River. To induce them to quit their native land, the most flattering prospects were held out to them; the moment they set their foot in this land of promise, the hardships and privations to which they had hitherto been subject, would disappear; the poor man would exchange his "potato patch" for a fine estate; the gentleman would become a ruler and a judge in--Assineboine! Who could doubt the fulfilment of the promises of a British peer? His Lordship, therefore, soon collected the required number of emigrants--for the Highlander of the present day gladly embraces any opportunity of quitting a country that no longer affords him bread. At the period in question, Red River district furnished the principal part of the provisions required by the North-West Company, and was a wilderness, inhabited only by wandering Indians, and abounding in the larger animals--elk and rein-deer in the woods, and buffalo in the plains. As Red River flows into Lake Winnipeg, which discharges itself by Neilson's river into Hudson's Bay, and could therefore be included within the territory granted by the charter, our noble trader concluded that, by taking formal possession of the country, he would obtain the right of expelling other adventurers, merely by warning them off the Company's grounds; and that, if the warning were disregarded, he could claim the aid of Government to enforce his rights, and thus ruin the North-West Company at a blow. His Lordship's Governor was therefore instructed to issue a proclamation, prohibiting the North-West Company by name, and all others, from carrying on any species of trade within Red River district, and ordering such establishments as had been formed to be abandoned. The North-Westers read the proclamation, and--prosecuted their business as before. In such circumstances quarrels were unavoidable, but they were generally settled with _ink_; a collision ultimately took place that led to the shedding of blood. The North-Westers had collected a large supply of provisions at their dépôt, and were about to forward it to the place of embarkation, when they were informed--falsely, as it afterwards appeared,--that the Governor intended to waylay and seize the provisions. A report, equally false, was brought to the Governor, that the North-Westers had assembled a strong force of half-breeds to attack the fort. These lying rumours led to an unhappy catastrophe. The Governor sent out scouts to watch the North-West party; and ascertaining that they were on their march with an unusual force,--which they had brought in order to repel the attack which they supposed was to be made upon them,--he seized his arms, and marched with his whole party to meet them. The North-Westers seeing them approach, halted, and standing to their arms, sent forward one of their number to demand whether Mr. Semple and his party were for peace or war. During the interview a shot was fired--it is a matter in dispute to this day who fired it--the half-breeds immediately poured a volley into the ranks of their opponents, and brought down nearly all the gentlemen of the party, including the unfortunate Governor; the remainder fled to the fort, so closely pursued, that friend and foe entered together. Thus the poor settlers found themselves suddenly surrounded by all the horrors of war; their anticipated paradise converted into a field of blood; husbands and brothers killed; their little property pillaged, and their persons in the power of their enemies. An arrangement, however, was entered into by the rival Companies, that allowed the emigrants to take possession of the lands allotted to them, and in the course of a few years their labour had made a sensible impression on the forest. Cattle were sent out from England; pigs and poultry followed, and honest Donald was beginning to find himself at his ease, when, lo! all his dreams of future wealth and happiness vanished in a moment. Red River overflowed its banks, and inundated the whole settlement. This extraordinary flood caused immense loss; it overthrew houses, swept away the cattle, and utterly ruined the crops of the season. The buffaloes, however, proved abundant, and afforded a supply of provisions enough to prevent starvation, and the settlers soon recovered from the effects of this misfortune. Another calamity followed--the caterpillar appeared--at first in small numbers, afterwards in myriads, covering the whole land, and eating up "every green thing," and thus the crops were destroyed a second time; but the consequences were not so severely felt as formerly; the preceding season had proved extremely abundant, and a sufficient quantity remained to supply the failure of this year. Since that time the colony has advanced rapidly, enjoying undisturbed peace; industry has its sure reward in the abundance of all the necessaries of life which it procures. Since the coalition took place, Red River has become the favourite retreat of the Company's servants, especially of those who have families; here they obtain lands almost at a nominal price. A lot of one mile in length and six chains in breadth, costs only 18l.; and they find themselves surrounded by people of congenial habits with themselves, the companions of their youth, and fellow-adventurers; those with whom they tugged at the oar, and shared the toil of the winter march; and when they meet together to smoke the social pipe, and talk of the scenes of earlier days, "nor prince nor prelate" can enjoy more happiness. The last census, taken in 1836, gave the population at 5,000 souls; it may now (1845) amount to 7,000. Of this number a very small proportion is Scotch, about forty families, and perhaps 300 souls. The Scotch carried with them the frugal and industrious habits of their country; the same qualities characterise their children, who are far in advance of their neighbours in all that constitutes the comforts of life. These advantages they owe, under the blessing of Providence, to their own good management; yet, notwithstanding this, and notwithstanding that they are a quiet and a moral people, they are objects of envy and hatred to their hybrid neighbours; and thus my industrious and worthy countrymen, in the possession of almost every other blessing which they could desire, are still unhappy from the malice and ill-will they meet with on every side; and being so inferior in numbers, they must submit to the insults and abuse they are daily exposed to, while the blood boils in their veins to resent them. Thus situated, many of them have abandoned the settlement and gone to the United States, where they enjoy the fruits of their industry in peace. The French half-breeds and retired Canadian voyageurs occupy the upper part of the settlement. The half-breeds are strongly attached to the roving life of the hunter; the greater part of them depend entirely on the chase for a living, and even the few who attend to farming take a trip to the plains, to feast on buffalo humps and marrow fat. They sow their little patches of ground early in spring, and then set out for the chase, taking wives and children along with them, and leaving only the aged and infirm at home to attend to the crops. When they set out for the plains, they observe all the order and regularity of a military march; officers being chosen for the enforcement of discipline, who are subject to the orders of a chief, whom they style "M. le Commandant." They take their departure from the settlement about the latter end of June, to the number of from 1,200 to 1,500 souls; each hunter possesses at least six carts, and some twelve; the whole number may amount to 5,000 carts. Besides his riding nag and cart horses, he has also at least one buffalo runner, which he never mounts until he is about to charge the buffalo. The "runner" is tended with all the care which the cavalier of old bestowed on his war steed; his housing and trappings are garnished with beads and porcupine quills, exhibiting all the skill which the hunter's wife or belle can exercise; while head and tail display all the colours of the rainbow in the variety of ribbon attached to them. The "Commandant" directs the movements of the whole cavalcade: at a signal given in the morning by sound of trumpet--_alias_, by blowing a horn,--the hunters start together for their horses; while the women and servants strike the tents, and pack up and load the baggage. The horses being all collected, a second blast forms the order of march; the carts fall in, four abreast; the hunters mount; and dividing into their different bodies, one precedes the baggage, another closes the line, and a third divides in both flanks. The third blast is the signal for marching. They halt about two hours at noon, for the purpose of allowing their cattle time to feed; and the same order is observed as in starting in the morning. When they encamp at night, the carts are placed in a circle; and the tents are pitched within the enclosed space, so as to form regular streets; the horses are "hobbled" and turned loose to graze. All the arrangements for the night being completed, guards are appointed to watch over the safety of the camp, who are relieved at fixed hours. In this manner they proceed until they approach the buffalo grounds, when scouts are sent out to ascertain the spot where the herd may be found. The joyful discovery being made, the scouts apprise the main body by galloping backwards and forwards, when a halt is immediately ordered. The camp is pitched; the hunters mount their runners; and the whole being formed into an extended line, with the utmost regularity, they set forward at a hand gallop; not a soul advances an inch in front of the line, until within gun-shot of the herd, when they rein up for a moment. The whole body then, as if with one voice, shout the war whoop, and rush on the herd at full gallop; each hunter, singling out an animal, pursues it until he finds an opportunity of taking sure aim; the animal being dispatched, some article is dropped upon it that can be afterwards recognised. The hunter immediately sets off in chase of another, priming, loading, and taking aim at full speed. A first-rate runner not unfrequently secures ten buffaloes at a "course;" from four to eight is the usual number. He who draws the first blood claims the animal, and each individual hunter is allowed whatever he kills. The moment the firing commences, the women set out with the carts, and cut up and convey the meat to the camp; where it is dried by means of bones and fat. Two or three days are required for the operation, when they set out again; and the same herd, perhaps, yields a sufficient quantity to load all the carts, each carrying about one thousand pounds,--an enormous quantity in the aggregate; yet the herd is sometimes so numerous that all this slaughter does not seem to diminish it. The buffalo hunt affords much of the excitement, and some of the dangers, of the battle-field. The horses are often gored by the infuriated bulls, to the great peril--sometimes to the loss--of the rider's life; serious accidents too happen from falls. There are no better horsemen in the world than the Red River "brulés;" and so long as the horse keeps on his legs, the rider sticks to him. The falls are chiefly occasioned by the deep holes the badger digs all over the prairies; if the horse plunges into one of these, both horse and man roll on the ground. Fatal accidents, also, occasionally happen from gun shots in the _melée_; and it is said, I know not with what truth, that a wronged husband, or a supplanted lover, sometimes avails himself of the opportunity presented by the _melée_ to miss the buffalo, and hit a friend--by _accident_. A priest generally accompanies the camp, and mass is celebrated with becoming solemnity on Sundays. The "brulés" attend, looking very serious and grave until a herd of buffaloes appear; when the cry of "La vache! la vache!" scatters the congregation in an instant; away they scamper, old and young, leaving the priest to preach to the winds, or perhaps to a few women and children. Two trips in the year are generally made to the prairie; the latter in August. The buffalo hunter's life assimilates more to that of the savage than of the civilized man; it is a life of alternate plenty and want--a life also of danger and inquietude. The Indians of the plain view the encroachment of the strange race on their hunting grounds, with feelings of jealousy and enmity. They are, accordingly, continually on the alert; they attack detached parties and stragglers; they also set fire to the prairies about the time the "brulés" set out for the hunt, and by this means drive the game beyond their reach. Owing to this circumstance, the "brulés" have returned with empty carts for these two years past; and their only resource has been to betake themselves to the woods, and live after the manner of the Indians. Could they find a sure market for the produce of the soil, so as to remunerate their labour, there can be little doubt but that they might be gradually detached from the half-savage life they lead, and become as steady and industrious as their neighbours. The English half-breeds, as the mixed progeny of the British are designated, possess many of the characteristics of their fathers; they generally prefer the more certain pursuit of husbandry to the chase, and follow close on the heels of the Scotch in the path of industry and moral rectitude. Very few of them resort to the plains, unless for the purpose of trafficking the produce of their farms for the produce of the chase; and it is said that they frequently return home better supplied with meat than the hunters themselves. The Indians who have been converted to the Protestant religion, are settled around their respected pastor at the lower extremity of the settlement, within twenty miles of the mouth of the river. The Sauteux, of all other tribes, are the most tenacious of their own superstitions; and it would require all the zeal and patience and perseverance of the primitive teachers of Christianity to wean them from them. But when convinced of his errors, the Sauteux convert is the more steadfast in his faith; and his steadfastness and sincerity prove an ample reward to his spiritual father for his pains and anxiety on his behalf. The Indian converts are entirely guided by their Missionary in temporal as well as in spiritual things. When he first came among them, he found their habits of indolence so deep-rooted, that something more than advice was necessary to produce the desired change. Like Oberlin, therefore, he set before them the example of a laborious and industrious life; he tilled, he sowed, he planted, he reaped with his own hands, and afterwards shared his produce with them. By persevering in this, he succeeded in finally gaining them to his views; and, at the present moment, their settlement is in as forward a state of improvement as any of the neighbouring settlements. They have their mills, and barns, and dwelling-houses; their horses, and cattle, and well-cultivated fields:--a happy change! A few years ago, these same Indians were a wretched, vagabond race; "hewers of wood and drawers of water" for the other settlers, as their pagan brethren still are; they wandered about from house to house, half-starved, and half-naked; and even in this state of abject misery, preferring a glass of "fire-water" to food and raiment for themselves or their children. There are at present three ministers of the episcopal communion at Red River. The Scotch inhabitants attend the church regularly, although they sigh after the form of worship to which they had been accustomed in early youth; they, however, assemble afterwards in their own houses to read the Scriptures, and worship God after the manner of their fathers. There are also three Roman Catholic clergymen, including a bishop;--good, exemplary men, whose "constant care" is not "to increase their store," but to guide and direct their flocks in the paths of piety and virtue. But, alas! they have a stiff-necked people to deal with;--the French half-breed, who follows the hunter's life, possesses all the worst vices of his European and Indian progenitors, and is indifferent alike to the laws of God and man. There are, in all, seven places of worship, three Roman Catholic, and four Protestant, including two for the Indians. The education of the more respectable families, particularly those of the Company's officers, is well provided for at an institution of great merit; the gentleman who presides over it being every way qualified for the important trust. The different branches of mathematical and classical learning are taught in it; and the school has already produced some excellent scholars. In addition to the more useful branches of female education, the young ladies are taught music and drawing by a respectable person of their own sex. Thus we have, in the midst of this remote wilderness of the North-West, all the elements of civilized life; and there are there many young persons of both sexes, well educated and accomplished, who have never seen the civilized world. There are also thirteen schools for the children of the lower class, supported entirely by the parents themselves. The Company have here two shops (or stores), well supplied with every description of goods the inhabitants can require; there are besides several merchants scattered through the settlement, some of whom are said to be in easy circumstances. The Company's bills constitute the circulating medium, and are issued for the value of from one to twenty shillings. Of late years, a considerable amount of American specie has found its way into the settlement, probably in exchange for furs clandestinely disposed of by the merchants beyond the line. The petty merchants import their goods from England by the Company's ships; an _ad valorem_ duty is imposed on these goods, the proceeds of which are applied to the payment of the constabulary force of the colony. The Company's charter invests it with the entire jurisdiction, executive and judicial, of the colony. The local Governor and Council enact such simple statutes as the primitive condition of the settlement requires; and those enactments have hitherto proved equal to the maintenance of good order. A court of quarter sessions is regularly held for the administration of justice, and the Company have lately appointed a Recorder to preside over it. It is gratifying to learn, that this functionary has had occasion to pass judgment on no very flagitious crime since his appointment. In the work to which I have so frequently referred, it is mentioned, that a "certain market is secured to the inhabitants by the demand for provisions for the other settlements." If by "settlements" the miserable trading posts be meant, as it must be, I know not on what grounds such an affirmation is made. A sure market, forsooth! A single Scotch farmer could be found in the colony, able alone to supply the greater part of the produce the Company require; there is one, in fact, who offered to do it. If a sure market were secured to the colonists of Red River, they would speedily become the wealthiest yeomanry in the world. Their barns and granaries are always full to overflowing; so abundant are the crops, that many of the farmers could subsist for a period of two or even three years, without putting a grain of seed in the ground. The Company purchase from six to eight bushels of wheat from each farmer, at the rate of three shillings per bushel; and the sum total of their yearly purchases from the whole settlement amounts to-- 600 cwt. flour, first and second quality. 35 bushels rough barley. 10 half-firkins butter, 28 lbs. each. 10 bushels Indian corn. 200 cwt. best kiln-dried flour. 60 firkins butter, 56 lbs. each. 240 lbs. cheese. 60 hams. Thus it happens that the Red River farmer finds a "sure market" for six or eight bushels of wheat--and no more. Where he finds a sure market for the remainder of his produce, Heaven only knows--I do not. This much, however, I do know,--that the incomparable advantages this delightful country possesses are not only in a great measure lost to the inhabitants, but also to the world, so long as it remains under the domination of its fur-trading rulers. In the possession of, and subject to the immediate jurisdiction of the Crown, Assineboine would become a great and a flourishing colony--the centre of civilization and Christianity to the surrounding tribes, who would be converted from hostile barbarians into a civilized and loyal people;--and thus Great Britain would extend and establish her dominion in a portion of her empire that may be said to have been hitherto unknown to her, while she would open a new field for the enterprise and industry of her sons. In describing the advantages of this country, candour requires that I should also point out its disadvantages. The chief disadvantage is the difficulty of the communication with the sea, interrupted as it is by shoals, rapids, and falls, which in their present state can only be surmounted with incredible toil and labour. Yet there cannot be a doubt that the skill of the engineer could effect such improvements as would obviate the most, if not the whole, of this labour, and that at no very great cost. The distance from the mouth of Red River to York Factory is about 550 miles; 300 miles of this distance is formed of lakes--(Lake Winnipeg, 250 miles in length, is navigable for vessels of forty and fifty tons burden). The greater part of the river communication might be rendered passable by Durham boats, merely by damming up the rivers. Along the line of communication, many situations may be found suitable for farming operations. CHAPTER XXII. SIR G. SIMPSON--HIS ADMINISTRATION. Sir George Simpson commenced his career as a clerk in a respectable counting-house in London, where his talents soon advanced him to the first seat at the desk. He was in this situation when first introduced to the notice of a member of the Committee of the Hudson's Bay Company, who were at that time engaged in the ruinous competition with the North-West Company already referred to. While the contest was at its height, the Company sent out Mr. Simpson as Governor of the Northern department;--an appointment for which, by his abilities natural and acquired, he was well qualified. Mr. Simpson combined with the prepossessing manners of a gentleman all the craft and subtlety of an intriguing courtier; while his cold and callous heart was incapable of sympathising with the woes and pains of his fellow-men. On his first arrival, he carefully concealed from those whom he was about to supersede, the powers with which he was invested; he studied the characters of individuals, scrutinized in secret their mode of managing affairs, and when he had made himself fully acquainted with every particular he desired to know, he produced his commission;--a circumstance that proved as unexpected as it was unsatisfactory to those whose interests it affected. Making every allowance for Sir George's abilities, he is evidently one of those men whom the blind goddess "delighteth to honour." Soon after assuming the supreme command, the North-West wintering partners undertook the mission to England, already mentioned, which led to the coalition; and thus Sir George found himself, by a concurrence of circumstances quite independent of his merits, placed at the head of both parties; from being Governor of Rupert's Land his jurisdiction now included the whole of the Indian territory from Hudson's Bay to the shores of the Pacific Ocean; and the Southern department, at that time a separate command, was soon after added to his government. Here, then, was a field worthy of his talents; and that he did every manner of justice to it, no one can deny. Yet he owes much of his success to the valuable assistance rendered him by Mr. McTavish; at his suggestion, the whole business was re-organized, a thousand abuses in the management of affairs were reformed, and a strict system of economy was introduced where formerly boundless extravagance prevailed. To effect these salutary measures, however, much tact was required: and here Sir George's abilities shone conspicuous. The long-continued strife between the two companies had engendered feelings of envy and animosity, which could not subside in a day; and the steps that had been taken to bring about the coalition, created much ill-will even among the North-West partners themselves. Nor were the officers of the Hudson's Bay Company without their dissensions also. To harmonize these elements of discord, to reconcile the different parties thus brought so suddenly and unexpectedly together into one fold, was a task of the utmost difficulty to accomplish; but Sir George was equal to it. He soon discovered that the North-West partners possessed both the will and the ability to thwart and defeat such of his plans as were not satisfactory to themselves; that they were by far the most numerous in the Council--at that time an independent body--and the best acquainted with the trade of the Northern department, the most important in the territory; and finding, after some experience, that while those gentlemen continued united, their power was beyond his control, and that to resist them openly would only bring ruin on himself, without any benefit to the concern, he prudently gave way to their influence; and instead of forcing himself against the stream, allowed himself apparently to be carried along with it. For a time, he seemed to promote all the views of his late adversaries; he yielded a ready and gracious acquiescence in their wishes; he lavished his bows, and smiles, and honied words on them all; and played his part so well, that the North-Westers thought they had actually gained him over to their own side; while the gentlemen of the Hudson's Bay Company branded him as a traitor, who had abandoned his own party and gone over to the enemy. The Committee received several hints of the Governor's "strange management," but they only smiled at the insinuations, as they perfectly understood the policy. His well-digested schemes had, in due time, all the success he anticipated. Having thus completely gained the confidence of the North-West partners, his policy began gradually to unfold itself. One obstreperous North-Wester was sent to the Columbia; another to the Montreal department, where "their able services could not be dispensed with;" and thus in the course of a few years he got rid of all those refractory spirits who dared to tell him their minds. The North-West nonconformists being in this manner disposed of, Sir George deemed it no longer necessary to wear the mask. His old friends of the Hudson's Bay, or "sky-blue" party, were gradually received into favour; his power daily gained the ascendant, and at this moment Sir George Simpson's rule is more absolute than that of any governor under the British crown, as his influence with the Committee enables him to carry into effect any measure he may recommend. That one possessed of an authority so unbounded should often abuse his power is not to be wondered at; and that the abuse of power thus tolerated should degenerate into tyranny is but the natural consequence of human weakness and depravity. The question is--Is it consistent with prudence to allow an _individual_ to assume and retain such power? Most of the Company's officers enter the service while yet very young; none are so young, however, as not to be aware of the privileges to which they are entitled as British subjects, and that they have a right to enjoy those privileges while they tread on British soil. The oft repeated acts of tyranny of which the autocrat of "all Prince Rupert's Land and its dependencies" has lately been guilty, have accordingly created a feeling of discontent which, if it could be freely expressed, would be heard from the shores of the Pacific to Labrador. Unfortunately, the Company's servants are so situated, that they dare not express their sentiments freely. The clerk knows that if he is heard to utter a word of disapprobation, it is carried to the ears of his sovereign lord, and his prospects of advancement are marred for ever; he therefore submits to his grievances in silence. The chief trader has probably a large family to support, has been thirty or forty years in the service, and is daily looking forward to the other step: he too is silent. The chief factor has a situation of importance in which his vanity is gratified and his comfort secured; to express his opinion freely might risk the sacrifice of some of these advantages; so he also swallows the pill without daring to complain of its bitterness, and is silent. A very valuable piece of plate was, some years ago, presented to Sir George by the commissioned gentlemen in the service, as a mark of respect and esteem; and this circumstance may be adduced by Sir George's friends, with every appearance of reason, as a proof of his popularity; but the matter is easily explained. Some two or three persons who share Sir George's favour, determine among themselves to present him with some token of their gratitude. They address a circular on the subject to all the Company's officers, well knowing that none dare refuse in the face of the whole country to subscribe their name. The same cogent reasons that suppress the utterance of discontent compelled the Company's servants to subscribe to this testimonial; and the subscription list accordingly exhibits, with few exceptions, the names of every commissioned gentleman in the service; while two-thirds of them would much rather have withheld their signatures. Sir George owes his ribbon to the successful issue of the Arctic expedition conducted by Messrs. Dease and Simpson. His share of the merit consisted in drawing out instructions for those gentlemen, which occupied about half-an-hour of his time at the desk. It is quite certain that the expedition owed none of its success to those instructions. The chief of the party, Mr. Dease, was at least as well qualified to give as to receive instructions; and Sir George is well aware of the fact. He knows, too, that Mr. Dease was engaged in the Arctic expedition under Sir J. Franklin, where he acquired that experience which brought this important yet hazardous undertaking to a successful issue; he knows also that in an enterprise of this kind a thousand contingencies may arise, which must be left entirely to the judgment of those engaged in it to provide against. Sir George, nevertheless, obtained the chief honours; but the bauble perishes with him; while the courage, the energy and the perseverance of Mr. Dease and his colleague will ever be a subject of admiration to those who peruse the narrative of their adventures. Sir George's administration, it is granted, has been a successful one; yet his own friends will admit that much of this success must be ascribed to his good fortune rather than to his talents. The North-West Company had previously reduced the business to a perfect system, which he had only to follow. It is true he introduced great economy into every department; but the North-West Company had done so before him, and the wasteful extravagance which preceded his appointment was entirely the result of the rivalry between the two companies, and under any governor whatever would have ceased when the coalition was effected. Not a little, too, of Sir George's economy was of "the penny-wise and pound-foolish" kind. Thus it has been already observed, that the lives of the Company's servants, and the property of an entire district, were placed in extreme jeopardy by his false economy; and a contingency, which no prudent man would have calculated upon, alone prevented a catastrophe which involved the destruction of the Company's property to a large amount, as well as of the lives of its servants. But independently of this, he has committed several errors of a most serious kind. Of these the chief is the Ungava adventure, an enterprise which was begun in opposition to the opinion of every gentleman in the country whose experience enabled him to form a correct judgment in the matter; and this undertaking was persisted in, year after year, at an enormous loss to the Company. Finally, he has not even the merit of correcting his own blunders. It was not till after a mass of evidence of the strongest kind was laid before the Committee, that they, in his absence, gave orders for the abandonment of the hopeless project. His caprice, his favouritism, his disregard of merit in granting promotion, it will be allowed, could not have a favourable effect on the Company's interests. His want of feeling has been mentioned: a single example of this will close these remarks. A gentleman of high rank in the service, whose wife was dangerously ill, received orders to proceed on a journey of nearly 5,000 miles. Aware that his duty required a prompt obedience to these orders, he set off, taking her along with him. On arriving at the end of the first stage, she became worse; and medical assistance being procured, the physicians were of opinion that in all probability death would be the consequence if he continued his journey. A certificate to this effect was forwarded to Sir George. The answer was, that Madame's health must not interfere with the Company's service; and that he must continue his journey, or abide the consequences. In consequence of this delay, he only reached Montreal on the day when the boats were to leave Lachine for the interior. He hurried to the office, where he met Sir George, and was received by him with the cool remark-- "You are late, Sir; but if you use expedition you may yet be in time for the boats." He earnestly begged for some delay, but in vain. No regard was paid to his entreaties; and he was obliged to hurry his wife off to Lachine, and put her on board a common canoe, where there is no accommodation for a sick person, and where no assistance could be procured, even in the last extremity. VOCABULARY OF THE PRINCIPAL INDIAN DIALECTS IN USE AMONG THE TRIBES IN THE HUDSON'S BAY TERRITORY. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- | | SAUTEU, or | | BEAVER | | | ENGLISH. | OGIBOIS. | CREE. | INDIAN. | CHIPPEWAYAN. | |-----------|---------------|-------------|--------------|--------------| | One | Pejik | Pay ak | It la day | Ittla h[=e] | | Two | Neesh | Neesho | Onk shay day | Nank hay | | Three | Nisway | Nisto | Ta day | Ta he | | Four | Neowin | Neo | Dini day | Dunk he | | Five | N[=a] nan | Nay n[=a] | Tlat zoon e | Sa soot | | | | nan | de ay | la he | | Six | Ni got as way | Nigotwassik | Int zud ha | L'goot ha hé | | Seven | Nish was | Tay pa | Ta e wayt | Tluz ud | | | way | goop | zay | dunk he | | Eight | Shwas way | Ea naneo | Etzud een | L'goot dung | | | | | tay | he | | Nine | Sang | Kay gat me | Kala gay ne | Itla ud ha | | | | t[=a] tat | ad ay | | | Ten | Quaitch | Me ta tat | Kay nay day | Hona | | Eleven | Aji pay jik | Payak ai | Tlad ay | Itla, ja | | | | wak | may day | idel | | Twelve | Aji neesh | Neesh way | Ong shay day | Nank hay, | | | | ai wok | may day | ja idel | | Twenty | Neej ta na | Neesh | Ong ka gay | Ta he, ja | | | | tan ao | nay day | idel | | Thirty | Nisway | Neo | Tao gay | | | | mittana | meatanao | nay day | | | Forty | Neo mittana | &c. | Deo gay | | | | | | nay day | | | Fifty | Nanan mittana | &c. | | | | Sixty | Nigot asway | | | | | | mittana | | | | | Seventy | Nish was way | | | | | | mittana | | | | | Eighty | Shwas way | | | | | | mittana | | | | | Ninety | Sang mittana | | | | | One | Ni goot wack | Me ta tin | Kay nay tay | Itla honan | | hundred | | mittanao | | nanana. | | How often | Anin. tas | Tan mat | Tan ay tien | Itla hon | | | ink | ta to | | eeltay. | | How many | Anin ain | Tan ay | Tan ay | Itla elday. | | | tas ink | ta tik | tien | | | How long | Anapé apin | Ta ispi | A shay | Itla hon | | since | aijo | aspin | doo yay | il tao. | | When | Anapé | Ta is pi | Dee ad | Itlao. | | | | | doo yay | | | To-day | Nongum | Anootch kee | Doo jay | Deerd sin | | | kajigack | je gak | nee ay | o gay. | | To-morrow | Wabunk | Wa bakay | Ghad ay zay | Campay. | | Yesterday | Chen[=a]ngo | Ta goosh | Ghagh ganno | Hozud | | | | ick | | singay. | | This year | Nongum egee | Anootch | Doo la | Do uz sin e | | | wang | egee | | gay. | | | | kee wang | | | | This | Wà á. | Awa pee | Teeay tee | Dirius | | month | Ke[=e]sis | shum | za | a gay. | | A man | Ininé | N[=a] bay o | Taz eu | Dinnay you. | | A woman | Ikway | Isk way o | Iay quay | Tzay quay. | | A girl | Ikway says | Isk way | Id az oo | Ed dinna | | | | shish | | gay. | | A boy | Quee we says | Na bay | Taz yuz é | Dinnay yoo | | | | shish | | azay. | | Inter- | Oten way ta | On tway ta | Nao day ay | Dinnay tee | | preter | ma gay | ma gay o | | ghaltay. | | Trader | Ata way | Ataway | Meeoo tay | Ma kad ray. | | | ini niu | ininiu | | | | Moose- | Moze | Mozwa | Tlay tchin | Tunnehee | | Deer | | | tay | hee. | | Rein-Deer | Attick | Attick | May tzee | Ed hun. | | Beaver | Amick | Amisk | Tza | Tza. | | Dog | Ani moosh | Attim | Tlee | Tlee. | | Rabbit | Waboose | Waboose | Kagh | Kagh. | | Bear | Maqua | Masqua | Zus | Zus. | | Wolf | Ma ing an | Mahigan | Tshee o nay | Noo nee yay. | | Fox | Wa goosh | Ma kay | E. yay thay | Nag hee | | | | shish | | dthay. | | I hunt | Ni ge oz | Ni m[=a] | Na o zed | Naz uz ay. | | | ay | tchin | | | | Thou | Ki ge oz | Ki ma tchin | Nodzed | Nan ul zay. | | huntest | ay | | | | | He hunts | Ge oz ay | Ma tchio | Nazin zed | Nal zay. | | We hunt | Ni ge oz | Ni ma | Naze zedeo | Na il zay. | | | ay min | tchinan | | | | Ye hunt | Ki ge | Ki ma | Nazin zedeo | Nal zin | | | oz aim | tchinawao | | al day. | | They hunt | Ge oz ay | Matchiwog | Owadié tzed | Na hal zay. | | | wok | | | | | I kill | Ni ne ta | Ni mi na | Uz éay gha | Zil tir. | | | gay | hon | | | | Thou | Ki ne ta | Ki mi na | Uz éay ghan | Zil nil tir. | | killest | gay | hon | | | | He kills | Ne ta gay | Minaho | Ud zeay gha | Tla in il | | | | | | tir. | | We kill | Ni ne ta | Ni mina | Uz ugho-ghay | Tla in il | | | gay min | honan | uzin | dir. | | Ye kill | Ki ne ta | Kim in a | Uz ugho ghay | Zee ool dir. | | | gaim | honawa | uzin | | | They kill | Ne ta | Minahowog | Utza ghay | Tla in | | | gay wok | | agho | il tay. | | I laugh | Ni baap | Ni baap in | Utzay rad | Naz-lo. | | | | | lotsh | | | Thou | Ki baap | Ki baap in | Utlint lotsh | Na-id-lo. | | laughest | | | | | | He laughs | Baapé | Baapio | Utroz lotsh | Nad-lo. | | We laugh | Ni baap | Ni baap | Utlo wod | Tlo | | | imin | in an | lotshay | a-ee-el-tee.| | Ye laugh | Ki baapim | Ki baapin | Tlodzud | Tlo gha | | | | a wao | udzee | ee-ol-tee. | | They | Baap ewog | Baapiwog | Tlodzud | Tlo-gha- | | laugh | | | udzee | ee-el-tee. | | I trade | Ni da ta | Ni da d[=a] | Mata oz lay | Naz nee. | | | way | wan | | | | Thou | Ki da ta | Ki da d[=a] | Mata an | Na el nee. | | tradest | way | wan | eelay | | | He trades | Ataway | Atawayo | Kita od | Na el nee. | | | | | eenla | | | We trade | Ni da ta | Nin da t[=a]| Mata ad oz | Na-da-ell | | | way min | wan an | id la | nee. | | Ye trade | Ki da ta | Ki da t[=a] | Mata a la | Na ool nee. | | | way min | wan o wa | ozayo | | | They trade| A ta way | Ata way wok | Ma t[=a] a | Eghon a el | | | wok | | leeay la | nee. | | I fight | Ni me gaz | Ni no ti | Magad ay a | Din[=i] gun | | | | ni gan | | as tir. | | Thou | Ki me gaz | Ki no ti | Magad osee | Dini gun a | | fightest | | ni gan | ya la | ee dthir | | He fights | Mi gazo | No ti ni | -- | -- | | | | gay o | | | | We fight | Ni me | Nino ti ni | -- | -- | | | gazomin | g[=a]n an | | | | Ye fight | Ki me gazom | Ki no ti ni | -- | -- | | | | gan a wao | | | | They | Mi guz | Notini gay | -- | -- | | fight | o wog | wok | | | | I set | Ni bug-é | Ni bug-e | Zoo meet la | Tloo e | | a net | ta wa | ta wan | uz loo | kanistan. | | Thou | Ki bug-e | Ki bug-e | Too meet | Tloo é kan | | settest | ta wa | ta wan | lan itlo | e than. | | a net | | | | | | He sets | Bug-e ta wa | Bug-e ta | Ta eet loon | Tloo e kan | | a net | | wao | | ethan loay.| | We set | Ni bug-e ta | Ni bug-e ta | Ta ghoo loo | Tloo e kan | | a net | wa min | w[=a]nan | hoon | oodthan. | | Ye set | Ni bug-é | Ki bug-e | Ta ghoo loo | Tloo e kan | | a net | ta wam | ta-wan a | uz éo | eehtan. | | | | wao | | | | They set | Bug-e ta | Bug-e-ta-wa | Too milt at | -- | | a net | w[=a] wog | wog | la oozoon | | | I sail | Ni be mash | Ni be | -- | -- | | | | mashin | | | | Thou | Ki be mash | Ki be | -- | -- | | sailest | | mashin | | | | He sails | Bi mash é | Be mash eo | -- | -- | | We sail | Ni bi | Ni bi | -- | -- | | | mishimin | mashinan | | | | Ye sail | Ki bi | Ki bi mashin| -- | -- | | | mash im | a wao | | | | They sail | Bi mash | Be mash | -- | -- | | | i wog | i wog | | | | I sleep | Ni ni b[=a] | Ni ni ban | Zus tee ay | Thee id ghee.| | Thou | Ki ni ba | Ki ni ban | Zin tee ay | Theend ghee. | | sleepest| | | | | | He sleeps | Ni ba | Ni ba o | Na gho tee | Thad ghee. | | | | | azay | | | We sleep | Ni ni b[=a] | Ni ni b[=a]n| Zut ié tsho | Theed | | | min | an | | gh[=a]z | | Ye sleep | Ki ni bam | Ki ni ban | Tsuz ié | Thood ghaz | | | | [=a] wao | tsho | | | They | Ni ba wog | Ni ba wog | Tsugh ien | Hay ud | | sleep | | | tiez | ghaz | | I drink | Ni minik way | Ni minik wan| Uzto | Haysta | | Thou | Ki minik way | Ki minik | Nadho | Nad-ha | | drinkest | | wan | | | | He drinks | Minik way | Minik way o | Ughiehedo | Ee ed ha | | We drink | Ni minik | Ni minik | May ee ta | Heel tell | | | way min | w[=a]nan | | | | Ye drink | Ki mink waim | Ki minik | May lee | Hool tell | | | | wan[=a]wao| ta la | | | They | Minikway wog | Minikway wok| May atta | He el tell | | drink | | | | | | I want to | Ni we | Ni we | O ghoz to | Oz ta in | | drink | miniquay | miniquan | | is tan | | Drink | Minik quaine | Minik quay | Llhad ho | Ned ha | | Eat | Wiss in | Mee tisso | In tzits | Zinhud hee | | Sleep | Ni b[=a]n | Ni ba | Njuz ti ay | Dthin ghee | | Go away | Eko k[=a]n | Awiss tay | E yow é | E you | | | | | tshay | issay | | Come here | Undass is | Ass-tum | Tee ad zay | E youk | | | han | | | uz ay | | Tell him | Win da ma o | Wi da ma o | Tee ay tin | Hal in nee | | | | | day | | | Trade | At[=a]waine | Ataway | Tee ay gho | Na il nee | | | | | tsho | | | Whence | Andé | Tanté way | Tee ay ghay | Ed luzeet | | do you | wentchipai | to tay | dzin aghon | gho adzee | | come? | an | | dee ay | an adee | | Where | Andé aish | Tanté ay to | Tee ay ghay | Ed luzeet | | are you | [=a]e an | tay an | de [=a]za | hee hee | | going? | | | | ya | | Be quick | Wee weep é | Kee-ee pee | Dzag ghay | Ee-gha | | | tan | | | | | I shoot | Ni bas giss | Ni bas giss | A jes tee o | A yous | | | é gay | é gan | | kay | | Thou | Ki bas giss | Ki bas giss | A tee tshe | Ahil kay | | shootest| é gay | é gan | etsh | | | He shoots | B[=a]s giss | Bas giss | Agha tee et | Ahil guth | | | e gay | e gay-o | yetsh | | | We shoot | Ni bas gisse | Ni bas gisse| Ateed yetsh | Ahel keeth | | | gay min | g[=a]n an | | | | Ye | Ki bas gisse | Ki bas giss | Atad yetsh | Er. ool | | shoot | game | é gan [=a]| | keeth. | | | | wao | | | | They | B[=a]s gisse | Bas giss é | Aza du ghad | Tay ar el | | shoot | gay wog | gay wog | yetsh | keeth. | | A Gun | B[=a]s gisse | Bas giss é | Tié yaz o o | Tel git | | | gan | gan | | hay. | | Powder | Makatay | Kas. ki tay | Al aizay | Tel ge | | | | o | | gonna. | | Shot | She shep ass | Nisk ass in | Noo tay | Telt hay. | | | nin | ee a | ad-o o | | | Give me | Meesh ish in | Mee an | Tes yay | Daz ee. | | I give | Ki mee nin | Ki mee | Nan uz lay | Na gha on | | you | | ni tin | | in in nee. | | Look | In [=a] bin | Et[=a] bi | Ag gan eetha | Ghon el lee. | | Wait | Pee ton | Pay ho | Ad oog-a. | Gad day. | | Tobacco | Na say ma | Na stay mao | Aday ka yazé | Sel tooe. | | Pipe | Poagan | Os poagan | Tsee ay | Dthay. | | Net | Assup | A he apee | Too me | Dtka bill. | | Fish | Kee k[=o] | Kee no | Tloo | Tloo-ay. | | | | shay o | | | | Flesh | Wee-ass | Wee ass | Ad zun | Berr. | | River | See pé | See pé | Za ghay | D[=a]z. | | Lake | Sa ka i gan | Sa ka i gan | Meet hay | Nad koo al | | | | | | ta. | | Water | Nee pee | Nee pee | Too | Too. | | Summer | Nee been | Nee been |Ad o lay | Seen nay. | | Winter | Pay poon | Pay pun | Ealk hay ay | Gh[=a] e | | | | | | yay. | | Spring | See goan | Me as gamin | Do o | Tloo guth. | | Autumn | Tag w[=a] gin | Tag w[=a] | Edoo | Ghao ud | | | | gin | aidlosin | azay. | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE END. 
16596	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 16596-h.htm or 16596-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/6/5/9/16596/16596-h/16596-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/6/5/9/16596/16596-h.zip) Much of the dialogue is dialect. The few spelling mistakes have been retained, including St. Johns for St. John's (Newfoundland). Every Boy's Library--Boy Scout Edition UNGAVA BOB A Winter's Tale by DILLON WALLACE Author of _The Lure of the Labrador Wild_ Illustrated by Samuel M. Palmer New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers 1907 Third Edition [Illustration: Three of the men hauled, the other with a pole, kept it clear of the rocks (_See page 45_)] _To My Sisters Annie and Jessie_ CONTENTS I. HOW BOB GOT HIS "TRAIL" 9 II. OFF TO THE BUSH 26 III. AN ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR 37 IV. SWEPT AWAY IN THE RAPIDS 50 V. THE TRAILS ARE REACHED 56 VI. ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS 68 VII. A STREAK OF GOOD LUCK 76 VIII. MICMAC JOHN'S REVENGE 87 IX. LOST IN THE SNOW 96 X. THE PENALTY 108 XI. THE TRAGEDY OF THE TRAIL 115 XII. IN THE HANDS OF THE NASCAUPEES 129 XIII. A FOREBODING OF EVIL 140 XIV. THE SHADOW OF DEATH 153 XV. IN THE WIGWAM OF SISHETAKUSHIN 171 XVI. ONE OF THE TRIBE 187 XVII. STILL FARTHER NORTH 199 XVIII. A MISSION OF TRUST 206 XIX. AT THE MERCY OF THE WIND 226 XX. PRISONERS OF THE SEA 240 XXI. ADRIFT ON THE ICE 254 XXII. THE MAID OF THE NORTH 269 XXIII. THE HAND OF PROVIDENCE 280 XXIV. THE ESCAPE 290 XXV. THE BREAK-UP 304 XXVI. BACK AT WOLF BIGHT 315 XXVII. THE CRUISE TO ST. JOHN'S 333 XXVIII. IN AFTER YEARS 341 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE THREE OF THE MEN HAULED, THE OTHER WITH A POLE, KEPT IT CLEAR OF THE ROCKS Title "BOB JUMPED OUT WITH THE PAINTER IN HIS HAND." 21 CHART OF THE TRAILS. 64 "MICMAC JOHN KNEW HIS END HAD COME." 114 "IT WAS DANGEROUS WORK." 173 "SAW HER STANDING IN THE BRIGHT MOONLIGHT." 197 "HE HELD THE VESSEL STEADILY TO HER COURSE." 298 UNGAVA BOB I HOW BOB GOT HIS "TRAIL" It was an evening in early September twenty years ago. The sun was just setting in a radiance of glory behind the dark spruce forest that hid the great unknown, unexplored Labrador wilderness which stretched away a thousand miles to the rocky shores of Hudson's Bay and the bleak desolation of Ungava. With their back to the forest and the setting sun, drawn up in martial line stood the eight or ten whitewashed log buildings of the Hudson's Bay Company Post, just as they had stood for a hundred years, and just as they stand to-day, looking out upon the wide waters of Eskimo Bay, which now, reflecting the glow of the setting sun, shone red and sparkling like a sea of rubies. On a clearing to the eastward of the post between the woods and water was an irregular cluster of deerskin wigwams, around which loitered dark-hued Indians puffing quietly at their pipes, while Indian women bent over kettles steaming at open fires, cooking the evening meal, and little Indian boys with bows shot harmless arrows at soaring gulls overhead, and laughed joyously at their sport as each arrow fell short of its mark. Big wolf dogs skulked here and there, looking for bits of refuse, snapping and snarling ill-temperedly at each other. A group of stalwart, swarthy-faced men, dressed in the garb of northern hunters--light-coloured moleskin trousers tucked into the tops of long-legged sealskin moccasins, short jackets and peakless caps--stood before the post kitchen or lounged upon the rough board walk which extended the full length of the reservation in front of the servants' quarters and storehouses. They were watching a small sailboat that, half a mile out upon the red flood, was bowling in before a smart breeze, and trying to make out its single occupant. Finally some one spoke. "'Tis Bob Gray from Wolf Bight, for that's sure Bob's punt." "Yes," said another, "'tis sure Bob." Their curiosity satisfied, all but two strolled into the kitchen, where supper had been announced. Douglas Campbell, the older of the two that remained, was a short, stockily built man with a heavy, full, silver-white beard, and skin tanned dark as an Indian's by the winds and storms of more than sixty years. A pair of kindly blue eyes beneath shaggy white eyebrows gave his face an appearance at once of strength and gentleness, and an erect bearing and well-poised head stamped him a leader and a man of importance. The other was a tall, wiry, half-breed Indian, with high cheek bones and small, black, shifting eyes that were set very close together and imparted to the man a look of craftiness and cunning. He was known as "Micmac John," but said his real name was John Sharp. He had drifted to the coast a couple of years before on a fishing schooner from Newfoundland, whence he had come from Nova Scotia. From the coast he had made his way the hundred and fifty miles to the head of Eskimo Bay, and there took up the life of a trapper. Rumour had it that he had committed murder at home and had run away to escape the penalty; but this rumour was unverified, and there was no means of learning the truth of it. Since his arrival here the hunters had lost, now and again, martens and foxes from their traps, and it was whispered that Micmac John was responsible for their disappearance. Nevertheless, without any tangible evidence that he had stolen them, he was treated with kindness, though he had made no real friends amongst the natives. When the last of the men had closed the kitchen door behind him, Micmac John approached Douglas, who had been standing somewhat apart, evidently lost in his thoughts as he watched the approaching boat, and asked: "Have ye decided about the Big Hill trail, sir?" "Yes, John." "And am I to hunt it this year, sir?" "No, John, I can't let ye have un. I told Bob Gray th' day I'd let him hunt un. Bob's a smart lad, and I wants t' give he th' chance." Micmac John cast a malicious glance at old Douglas. Then with an assumed indifference, and shrug of his shoulders as he started to walk away, remarked: "All right if you've made yer mind up, but you'll be sorry fer it." Douglas turned fiercely upon him. "What mean you, man? Be that a threat? Speak now!" "I make no threats, but boys can't hunt, and he'll bring ye no fur. Ye'll get nothin' fer yer pains. Ye'll be sorry fer it." "Well," said Douglas as Micmac John walked away to join the others in the kitchen, "I've promised th' lad, an' what I promises I does, an' I'll stand by it." Bob Gray, sitting at the tiller of his little punt, _The Rover_, was very happy--happy because the world was so beautiful, happy because he lived, and especially happy because of the great good fortune that had come to him this day when Douglas Campbell granted his request to let him hunt the Big Hill trail, with its two hundred good marten and fox traps. It had been a year of misfortune for the Grays. The previous winter when Bob's father started out upon his trapping trail a wolverine persistently and systematically followed him, destroying almost every fox and marten that he had caught. All known methods to catch or kill the animal were resorted to, but with the cunning that its prehistoric ancestors had handed down to it, it avoided every pitfall. The fox is a poor bungler compared with the wolverine. The result of all this was that Richard Gray had no fur in the spring with which to pay his debt at the trading store. Then came the greatest misfortune of all. Emily, Bob's little sister, ventured too far out upon a cliff one day to pluck a vagrant wild flower that had found lodgment in a crevice, and in reaching for it, slipped to the rocks below. Bob heard her scream as she fell, and ran to her assistance. He found her lying there, quite still and white, clutching the precious blossom, and at first he thought she was dead. He took her in his arms and carried her tenderly to the cabin. After a while she opened her eyes and came back to consciousness, but she had never walked since. Everything was done for the child that could be done. Every man and woman in the Bay offered assistance and suggestions, and every one of them tried a remedy; but no relief came. All the time things kept going from bad to worse with Richard Gray. Few seals came in the bay that year and he had no fat to trade at the post. The salmon fishing was a flat failure. As the weeks went on and Emily showed no improvement Douglas Campbell came over to Wolf Bight with the suggestion, "Take th' maid t' th' mail boat doctor. He'll sure fix she up." And then they took her--Bob and his mother--ninety miles down the bay to the nearest port of call of the coastal mail boat, while the father remained at home to watch his salmon nets. Here they waited until finally the steamer came and the doctor examined Emily. "There's nothing I can do for her," he said. "You'll have to send her to St. Johns to the hospital. They'll fix her all right there with a little operation." "An' how much will that cost?" asked Mrs. Gray. "Oh," he replied, "not over fifty dollars--fifty dollars will cover it." "An' if she don't go?" "She'll never get well." Then, as a dismissal of the subject, the doctor, turning to Bob, asked: "Well, youngster, what's the outlook for fur next season?" "We hopes there'll be some, sir." "Get some silver foxes. Good silvers are worth five hundred dollars cash in St. Johns." The mail boat steamed away with the doctor, and Bob and his mother, with Emily made as comfortable as possible in the bottom of the boat, turned homeward. It was hard to realize that Emily would never be well again, that she would never romp over the rocks with Bob in the summer or ride with him on the sledge when he took the dogs to haul wood in the winter. There would be no more merry laughter as she played about the cabin. This was before the days when the mission doctors with their ships and hospitals came to the Labrador to give back life to the sick and dying of the coast. Fifty dollars was more money than any man of the bay save Douglas Campbell had ever seen, and to expect to get such a sum was quite hopeless, for in those days the hunters were always in debt to the company, and all they ever received for their labours were the actual necessities of life, and not always these. Emily was the only cheerful one now of the three. When she saw her mother crying, she took her hand and stroked it, and said: "Mother, dear, don't be cryin' now. 'Tis not so bad. If God wants that I get well He'll make me well. An' I wants to stay home with you an' see you an' father an' Bob, an' I'd be _dreadful_ homesick to go off so far." Emily and Bob had always been great chums and the blow to him seemed almost more than he could bear. His heart lay in his bosom like a stone. At first he could not think, but finally he found himself repeating what the doctor had said about silver foxes,--"five hundred dollars cash." This was more money than he could imagine, but he knew it was a great deal. The company gave sixty dollars _in trade_ for the finest silver foxes. That was supposed a liberal price--but five hundred dollars in _cash_! He looked longingly towards the blue hills that held their heads against the distant sky line. Behind those hills was a great wilderness rich in foxes and martens--but no man of the coast had ever dared to venture far within it. It was the land of the dreaded Nascaupees, the savage red men of the North, who it was said would torture to a horrible death any who came upon their domain. The Mountaineer Indians who visited the bay regularly and camped in summer near the post, told many tales of the treachery of their northern neighbours, and warned the trappers that they had already blazed their trails as far inland as it was safe for them to go. Any hunter encroaching upon the Nascaupee territory, they insisted, would surely be slaughtered. Bob had often heard this warning, and did not forget it now; but in spite of it he felt that circumstances demanded risks, and for Emily's sake he was willing to take them. If he could only get traps, _he_ would make the venture, with his parents' consent, and blaze a new trail there, for it would be sure to yield a rich reward. But to get traps needed money or credit, and he had neither. Then he remembered that Douglas Campbell had said one day that he would not go to the hills again if he could get a hunter to take the Big Hill trail to hunt on shares. That was an inspiration. He would ask Douglas to let him hunt it on the usual basis--two-thirds of the fur caught to belong to the hunter and one-third to the owner. With this thought Bob's spirits rose. "'Twill be fine--'twill be a grand chance," said he to himself, "an Douglas lets me hunt un, an father lets me go." He decided to speak to Douglas first, for if Douglas was agreeable to the plan his parents would give their consent more readily. Otherwise they might withhold it, for the trail was dangerously close to the forbidden grounds of the Nascaupees, and anyway it was a risky undertaking for a boy--one that many of the experienced trappers would shrink from. The more Bob considered his plan with all its great possibilities, the more eager he became. He found himself calculating the number of pelts he would secure, and amongst them perhaps a silver fox. He would let the mail boat doctor sell them for him, and then they would be rich, and Emily would go to the hospital, and be his merry, laughing little chum again. How happy they would all be! Bob was young and an optimist, and no thought of failure entered his head. It was too late the night they reached home to see Douglas but the next morning he hurried through his breakfast, which was eaten by candle-light, and at break of day was off for Kenemish, where Douglas Campbell lived. He found the old man at home, and, with some fear of refusal, but still bravely, for he knew the kind-hearted old trapper would grant the request if he thought it were wise, explained his plan. "You're a stalwart lad, Bob," said Douglas, looking at the boy critically from under his shaggy eyebrows. "An' how old may you be now? I 'most forgets--young folks grows up so fast." "Just turned sixteen, sir." "An' that's a young age for a lad to be so far in th' bush alone. But you'll be havin' somethin' happen t' you." "I'll be rare careful, sir, an' you lets me ha' th' trail." "An' what says your father?" "I's said nothin' to he, sir, about it yet." "Well, go ask he, an' he says yes, meet me at the post th' evenin' an' I'll speak wi' Mr. MacDonald t' give ye debt for your grub. Micmac John's wantin' th' trail, but I'm not thinkin' t' let he have un." At first Bob's parents both opposed the project. The dangers were so great that his mother asserted that if he were to go she would not have an easy hour until she saw her boy again. But he put forth such strong arguments and plead so vigorously, and his disappointment was so manifest, that finally she withdrew her objections and his father said: "Well, you may go, my son, an Douglas lets you have th' trail." [Illustration: "Bob jumped out with the painter in his hand"] So Bob, scarcely sixteen years of age, was to do a man's work and shoulder a man's burden, and he was glad that God had given him stature beyond his years, that he might do it. He could not remember when he had not driven dogs and cut wood and used a gun. He had done these things always. But now he was to rise to the higher plane of a full-fledged trapper and the spruce forest and the distant hills beyond the post seemed a great empire over which he was to rule. Those trackless fastnesses, with their wealth of fur, were to pay tribute to him, and he was happy in the thought that he had found a way to save little Emily from the lifelong existence of a poor crippled invalid. His buoyant spirit had stepped out of the old world of darkness and despair into a new world filled with light and love and beauty, in which the present troubles were but a passing cloud. "Ho, lad! so your father let ye come. I's glad t' see ye, lad. An' now we're t' make a great hunt," greeted Douglas when the punt ground its nose upon the sandy beach, and Bob jumped out with the painter in his hand to make it fast. "Aye, sir," said Bob, "he an' mother says I may go." "Well, come, b'y, an' we'll ha' supper an' bide here th' night an' in th' mornin' you'll get your fit out," said Douglas when they had pulled the punt up well away from the tide. Entering the kitchen they found the others still at table. Greetings were exchanged, and a place was made for Douglas and Bob. It was a good-sized room, furnished in the simple, primitive style of the country: an uncarpeted floor, benches and chests in lieu of chairs, a home-made table, a few shelves for the dishes, two or three bunks like ship bunks built in the end opposite the door to serve the post servant and his family for beds, and a big box stove, capable of taking huge billets of wood, crackling cheerily, for the nights were already frosty. Resting upon crosspieces nailed to the rough beams overhead were half a dozen muzzle loading guns, and some dog harness hung on the wall at one side. Everything was spotlessly clean. The floor, the table--innocent of a cloth--the shelves, benches and chests were scoured to immaculate whiteness with sand and soap, and, despite its meagre furnishings the room was very snug and cozy and possessed an atmosphere of homeliness and comfort. A single window admitted the fading evening light and a candle was brought, though Douglas said to the young girl who placed it in the centre of the table: "So long as there's plenty a' grub, Bessie, I thinks we can find a way t' get he t' our mouths without ere a light." The meal was a simple one--boiled fresh trout with pork grease to pour over it for sauce, bread, tea, and molasses for "sweetening." Butter and sugar were luxuries to be used only upon rare festal occasions. After the men had eaten they sat on the floor with their backs against the rough board wall and their knees drawn up, and smoked and chatted about the fishing season just closed and the furring season soon to open, while Margaret Black, wife of Tom Black, the post servant, their daughter Bessie and a couple of young girl visitors of Bessie's from down the bay, ate and afterwards cleared the table. Then some one proposed a dance, as it was their last gathering before going to their winter trails, which would hold them prisoners for months to come in the interior wilderness. A fiddle was brought out, and Dick Blake tuned up its squeaky strings, and, keeping time with one foot, struck up the Virginia reel. The men discarded their jackets, displaying their rough flannel shirts and belts, in which were carried sheath knives, chose their partners and went at it with a will, to Dick's music, while he fiddled and shouted such directions as "Sashay down th' middle,--swing yer pardners,--promenade." Bob led out Bessie, for whom he had always shown a decided preference, and danced like any man of them. Douglas did not dance--not because he was too old, for no man is too old to dance in Labrador, nor because it was beneath his dignity--but because, as he said: "There's not enough maids for all th' lads, an' I's had my turn a many a time. I'll smoke an' look on." Neither did Micmac John dance, for he seemed in ill humour, and was silent and morose, nursing his discontent that a mere boy should have been given the Big Hill trail in preference to him, and he sat moody and silent, taking no apparent interest in the fun. The dance was nearly finished when Bob, wheeling around the end, warm with the excitement and pleasure of it all, inadvertently stepped on one of the half-breed's feet. Micmac John rose like a flash and struck Bob a stinging blow on the face. Bob turned upon him full of the quick anger of the moment, then, remembering his surroundings, restrained the hand that was about to return the blow, simply saying: "'Twas an accident, John, an' you has no right to strike me." The half-breed, vicious, sinister and alert, stood glowering for a moment, then deliberately hit Bob again. The others fell back, Bob faced his opponent, and, goaded now beyond the power of self-restraint, struck with all the power of his young arm at Micmac John. The latter was on his guard, however, and warded the blow. Quick as a flash he drew his knife, and before the others realized what he was about to do, made a vicious lunge at Bob's breast. II OFF TO THE BUSH On the left breast of Bob's woollen shirt there was a pocket, and in this pocket was a small metal box of gun caps, which Bob always carried there when he was away from home, for he seldom left home without his gun. It was fortunate for him that it was there now, for the point of the knife struck squarely over the place where the box lay. It was driven with such force by the half-breed's strong arm that it passed clear through the metal, which, however, so broke the blow that the steel scarcely scratched the skin beneath. Before another plunge could be made with the knife the men sprang in and seized Micmac John, who submitted at once without a struggle to the overpowering force, and permitted himself to be disarmed. Then he was released and stood back, sullen and defiant. For several moments not a word was spoken. Finally Dick Blake took a threatening step towards the Indian, and shaking his fist in the latter's face exclaimed: "Ye dirty coward! Ye'd do murder, would ye? Ye'd kill un, would ye?" "Hold on," said Douglas, "'bide a bit. 'Twill do no good t' beat un, though he's deservin' of it." Then to the half-breed: "An' what's ailin' of ye th' evenin', John? 'Twas handy t' doin' murder ye were." John saw the angry look in the men's eyes, and the cool judgment of Douglas standing between him and bodily harm, and deciding that tact was the better part of valour, changed his attitude of defiance to one of reconciliation. He could not take revenge now for his fancied wrong. His Indian cunning told him to wait for a better time. So he extended his hand to Bob, who, dazed by the suddenness of the unexpected attack, had not moved. "Shake hands, Bob, an' call it square. I was hot with anger an' didn't know what I was doin'. We won't quarrel." Bob, acting upon the motto his mother had taught him--"Be slow to anger and quick to forgive," took the outstretched hand with the remark, "'Twere a mighty kick I gave ye, John, an' enough t' anger ye, an' no harm's done." Big Dick Blake would not have it so at first, and invited the half-breed outside to take a "licking" at his hands. But the others soon pacified him, the trouble was forgotten and dancing resumed as though nothing had happened to disturb it. As soon as attention was drawn from him Micmac John, unobserved, slipped out of the door and a few moments later placed some things in a canoe that had been turned over on the beach, launched it and paddled away in the ghostly light of the rising moon. The dancing continued until eleven o'clock, then the men lit their pipes, and after a short smoke and chat rolled into their blankets upon the floor, Mrs. Black and the girls retired to the bunks, and, save for a long, weird howl that now and again came from the wolf dogs outside, and the cheery crackling of the stove within, not a sound disturbed the silence of the night. As has been intimated, Douglas Campbell was a man of importance in Eskimo Bay. When a young fellow he had come here from the Orkney Islands as a servant of the Hudson's Bay Company. A few years later he married a native girl, and then left the company's service to become a hunter. He had been careful of his wages, and as he blazed new hunting trails into the wilderness, used his savings to purchase steel traps with which to stock the trails. Other trappers, too poor to buy traps for themselves, were glad to hunt on shares the trails Douglas made, and now he was reaping a good income from them. He was in fact the richest man in the Bay. He was kind, generous and fatherly. The people of the Bay looked up to him and came to him when they were in trouble, for his advice and help. Many a poor family had Douglas Campbell's flour barrel saved from starvation in a bad winter, and God knows bad winters come often enough on the Labrador. Many an ambitious youngster had he started in life, as he was starting Bob Gray now. The Big Hill trail, far up the Grand River, was the newest and deepest in the wilderness of all the trails Douglas owned--deeper in the wilderness than that of any other hunter. Just below it and adjoining it was William Campbell's--a son of Douglas--a young man of nineteen who had made his first winter's hunt the year before our story begins; below that, Dick Blake's, and below Dick's was Ed Matheson's. In preparing for the winter hunt it was more convenient for these men to take their supplies to their tilts by boat up the Grand River than to haul them in on toboggans on the spring ice, as nearly every other hunter, whose trapping ground was not upon so good a waterway, was compelled to do, and so it was that they were now at the trading post selecting their outfits preparatory to starting inland before the very cold winter should bind the river in its icy shackles. The men were up early in the morning, and Douglas went with Bob to the office of Mr. Charles McDonald, the factor, where it was arranged that Bob should be given on credit such provisions and goods as he needed for his winter's hunt, to be paid for with fur when he returned in the spring. Douglas gave his verbal promise to assume the debt should Bob's catch of fur be insufficient to enable him to pay it, but Bob's reputation for energy and honesty was so good that Mr. McDonald said he had no fear as to the payment by the lad himself. The provisions that Bob selected in the store, or shop, as they called it, were chiefly flour, a small bag of hardtack, fat pork, tea, molasses, baking soda and a little coarse salt, while powder, shot, bullets, gun caps, matches, a small axe and clothing completed the outfit. He already had a gray cotton wedge-tent. When these things were selected and put aside, Douglas bought a pipe and some plugs of black tobacco, and presented them to Bob as a gift from himself. "But I never smokes, sir, an' I 'lows he'd be makin' me sick," said Bob, as he fingered the pipe. "Just a wee bit when you tries t' get acquainted," answered Douglas with a chuckle, "just a wee bit; but ye'll come t' he soon enough an' right good company ye'll find he of a long evenin'. Take un along, an' there's no harm done if ye don't smoke un--but ye'll be makin' good friends wi' un soon enough." So Bob pocketed the pipe and packed the tobacco carefully away with his purchases. After a consultation it was decided that the men should all meet the next evening, which would be Sunday, at Bob's home at Wolf Bight, near the mouth of the Grand River, and from there make an early start on Monday morning for their trapping grounds. "I'll have William over wi' one o' my boats that's big enough for all hands," said Douglas. "No use takin' more'n one boat. It's easier workin' one than two over the portages an' up the rapids." When Bob's punt was loaded and he was ready to start for home, he ran to the kitchen to say good-bye to Mrs. Black and the girls, for he was not to see them again for many months. "Bide in th' tilt when it storms, Bob, an' have a care for the wolves, an' keep clear o' th' Nascaupees," warned Bessie as she shook Bob's hand. "Aye," said he. "I'll bide in th' tilt o' stormy days, an' not go handy t' th' Nascaupees. I'm not fearful o' th' wolves, for they's always so afraid they never gives un a chance for a shot." "But _do_ have a care, Bob. An'--an'--I wants to tell you how glad I is o' your good luck, an' I hopes you'll make a grand hunt--I _knows_ you will. An'--Bob, we'll miss you th' winter." "Thank you, Bessie. An' I'll think o' th' fine time I'm missin' at Christmas an' th' New Year. Good-bye, Bessie." "Good-bye, Bob." The fifteen miles across the Bay to Wolf Bight with a fair wind was soon run. Bob ate a late dinner, and then made everything snug for the journey. His flour was put into small, convenient sacks, his cooking utensils consisting of a frying pan, a tin pail in which to make tea, a tin cup and a spoon were placed in a canvas bag by themselves, and in another bag was packed a Hudson's Bay Company four-point blanket, two suits of underwear, a pair of buckskin mittens with a pair of duffel ones inside them, and an extra piece of the duffel for an emergency, six pairs of knit woollen socks, four pairs of duffel socks or slippers (which his mother had made for him out of heavy blanket-like woollen cloth), three pairs of buckskin moccasins for the winter and an extra pair of sealskin boots (long legged moccasins) for wet weather in the spring. He also laid aside, for daily use on the journey, an adikey made of heavy white woollen cloth, with a fur trimmed hood, and a lighter one, to be worn outside of the other, and made of gray cotton. The adikey or "dikey," as Bob called it, was a seamless garment to be drawn on over the head and worn instead of a coat. The underclothing and knit socks had been purchased at the trading post, but every other article of clothing, including boots, moccasins and mitts, his mother had made. A pair of snow-shoes, a file for sharpening axes, a "wedge" tent of gray cotton cloth and a sheet iron tent stove about twelve inches square and eighteen inches long with a few lengths of pipe placed inside of it were likewise put in readiness. The stove and pipe Bob's father had manufactured. No packing was left to be done Sunday, for though there was no church to go to, the Grays, and for that matter all of the Bay people, were close observers of the Sabbath, and left no work to be done on that day that could be done at any other time. Early on Sunday evening, Dick and Ed and Bill Campbell came over in their boat from Kenemish, where they had spent the previous night. It had been a short day for Bob, the shortest it seemed to him he had ever known, for though he was anxious to be away and try his mettle with the wilderness, these were the last hours for many long weary months that he should have at home with his father and mother and Emily. How the child clung to him! She kept him by her side the livelong day, and held his hand as though she were afraid that he would slip away from her. She stroked his cheek and told him how proud she was of her big brother, and warned him over and over again, "Now, Bob, do be wonderful careful an' not go handy t' th' Nascaupees for they be dreadful men, fierce an' murderous." Over and over again they planned the great things they would do when he came back with a big lot of fur--as they were both quite sure he would--and how she would go away to the doctor's to be made well and strong again as she used to be and the romps they were to have when that happy time came. "An' Bob," said Emily, "every night before I goes to sleep when I says my 'Now I lay me down to sleep' prayer, I'll say to God 'an' keep Bob out o' danger an' bring he home safe.'" "Aye, Emily," answered Bob, "an' I'll say to God, 'Make Emily fine an' strong again.'" Before daybreak on Monday morning breakfast was eaten, and the boat loaded for a start at dawn. Emily was not yet awake when the time came to say farewell and Bob kissed her as she slept. Poor Mrs. Gray could not restrain the tears, and Bob felt a great choking in his throat--but he swallowed it bravely. "Don't be feelin' bad, mother. I'm t' be rare careful in th' bush, and you'll see me well and hearty wi' a fine hunt, wi' th' open water," said he, as he kissed her. "I knows you'll be careful, an' I'll try not t' worry, but I has a forebodin' o' somethin' t' happen--somethin' that's t' happen t' you, Bob--oh, I feels that somethin's t' happen. Emily'll be missin' you dreadful, Bob. An'--'twill be sore lonesome for your father an' me without our boy." "Ready, Bob!" shouted Dick from the boat. "Don't forget your prayers, lad, an' remember that your mother's prayin' for you every mornin' an' every night." "Yes, mother, I'll remember all you said." She watched him from the door as he walked down to the shore with his father, and the boat, heavily laden, pushed out into the Bay, and she watched still, until it disappeared around the point, above. Then she turned back into the room and had a good cry before she went about her work again. If she had known what those distant hills held for her boy--if her intuition had been knowledge--she would never have let him go. III AN ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR The boat turned out into the broad channel and into Goose Bay. There was little or no wind, and when the sun broke gloriously over the white-capped peaks of the Mealy Mountains it shone upon a sea as smooth as a mill pond, with scarcely a ripple to disturb it. The men worked laboriously and silently at their oars. A harbour seal pushed its head above the water, looked at the toiling men curiously for a moment, then disappeared below the surface, leaving an eddy where it had been. Gulls soared overhead, their white wings and bodies looking very pure and beautiful in the sunlight. High in the air a flock of ducks passed to the southward. From somewhere in the distance came the honk of a wild goose. The air was laden with the scent of the great forest of spruce and balsam fir, whose dark green barrier came down from the rock-bound, hazy hills in the distance to the very water's edge, where tamarack groves, turned yellow by the early frosts, reflected the sunlight like settings of rich gold. "'Tis fine! 'tis grand!" exclaimed Bob at last, as he rested a moment on his oars to drink in the scene and breathe deeply the rare, fragrant atmosphere. "'Tis sure a fine world we're in." "Aye, 'tis fine enough now," remarked Ed, stopping to cut pieces from a plug of tobacco, and then cramming them into his pipe. "But," he continued, prophetically, as he struck a match and held it between his hands for the sulphur to burn off, "bide a bit, an' you'll find it ugly enough when th' snows blow t' smother ye, an' yer racquets sink with ye t' yer knees, and th' frost freezes yer face and the ice sticks t' yer very eyelashes until ye can't see--then," continued he, puffing vigorously at his pipe, "then 'tis a sorry world--aye, a sorry an' a hard world for folks t' make a livin' in." It was mid-forenoon when they reached Rabbit Island--a small wooded island where the passing dog drivers always stop in winter to make tea and snatch a mouthful of hard biscuit while the dogs have a half hour's rest. "An' here we'll boil th' kettle," suggested Dick. "I'm fair starved with an early breakfast and the pull at the oars." "We're ready enough for that," assented Bill. "Th' wind's prickin' up a bit from th' east'rd, an' when we starts I thinks we may hoist the sails." "Yes, th' wind's prickin' up an' we'll have a fair breeze t' help us past th' Traverspine, I hopes." The landing was made. Bob and Ed each took an axe to cut into suitable lengths some of the plentiful dead wood lying right to hand, while Dick whittled some shavings and started the fire. Bill brought a kettle (a tin pail) of water. Then he cut a green sapling about five feet in length, sharpened one end of it, and stuck it firmly into the earth, slanting the upper end into position over the fire. On this he hung the kettle of water, so that the blaze shot up around it. In a little while the water boiled, and with a stick for a lifter he set it on the ground and threw in a handful of tea. This they sweetened with molasses and drank out of tin cups while they munched hardtack. Bill's prophecy as to the wind proved a true one, and in the half hour while they were at their luncheon so good a breeze had sprang up that when they left Rabbit Island both sails were hoisted. Early in the afternoon they passed the Traverspine River, and now with some current to oppose made slower, though with the fair wind, good progress, and when the sun dipped behind the western hills and they halted to make their night camp they were ten miles above the Traverspine. To men accustomed to travelling in the bush, camp is quickly made. The country here was well wooded, and the forest beneath covered with a thick carpet of white moss. Bob and Bill selected two trees between which they stretched the ridge pole of a tent, and a few moments sufficed to cut pegs and pin down the canvas. Then spruce boughs were broken and spread over the damp moss and their shelter was ready for occupancy. Meanwhile Ed had cut fire-wood while Dick started the fire, using for kindlings a handful of dry, dead sprigs from the branches of a spruce tree, and by the time Bob and Bill had the tent pitched it was blazing cheerily, and the appetizing smell of fried pork and hot tea was in the air. When supper was cooked Ed threw on some more sticks, for the evening was frosty, and then they sat down to luxuriate in its genial warmth and eat their simple meal. For an hour they chatted, while the fire burned low, casting a narrowing circle of light upon the black wilderness surrounding the little camp. Some wild thing of the forest stole noiselessly to the edge of the outer darkness, its eyes shining like two balls of fire, then it quietly slunk away unobserved. Above the fir tops the blue dome of heaven seemed very near and the million stars that glittered there almost close enough to pluck from their azure setting. With a weird, uncanny light the aurora flashed its changing colours restlessly across the sky. No sound save the low voices of the men as they talked, disturbed the great silence of the wilderness. Many a time had Bob camped and hunted with his father near the coast, in the forest to the south of Wolf Bight, but he had never been far from home and with this his first long journey into the interior, a new world and new life were opening to him. The solitude had never impressed him before as it did now. The smoke of the camp-fire and the perfume of the forest had never smelled so sweet. The romance of the trail was working its way into his soul, and to him the land seemed filled with wonderful things that he was to search out and uncover for himself. The harrowing tales that the men were telling of winter storms and narrow escapes from wild animals had no terror for him. He only looked forward to meeting and conquering these obstacles for himself. Young blood loves adventure, and Bob's blood was strong and red and active. When the fire died away and only a heap of glowing red coals remained, Dick knocked the ashes from his pipe, and rising with a yawn, suggested: "I 'lows it's time t' turn in. We'll have t' be movin' early in th' mornin' an' we makes th' Muskrat Portage." Then they went to the tent and rolled into their blankets and were soon sleeping as only men can sleep who breathe the pure, free air of God's great out-of-doors. Before noon the next day they reached the Muskrat Falls, where the torrent, with a great roar, pours down seventy feet over the solid rocks. An Indian portage trail leads around the falls and meets the river again half a mile farther up. At its beginning it ascends a steep incline two hundred feet, then it runs away, comparatively level, to its upper end where it drops abruptly to the water's edge. To pull a heavy boat up this incline and over the half mile to the launching place above, was no small undertaking. Everything was unloaded, the craft brought ashore, and ropes which were carried for the purpose attached to the bow. Then round sticks of wood, for rollers, were placed under it, and while Dick and Ed hauled, Bob and Bill pushed and lifted and kept the rollers straight. In this manner, with infinite labour, it was worked to the top of the hill and step by step hauled over the portage to the place where it was to enter the water again. It was nearly sunset when they completed their task and turned back to bring up their things from below. They had retraced their steps but a few yards when Dick, who was ahead, darted off to the left of the trail with the exclamation: "An' here's some fresh meat for supper." It was a porcupine lumbering awkwardly away. He easily killed it with a stick, and picking it up by its tail, was about to turn back into the trail when a fresh axe cutting caught his eye. "Now who's been here, lads?" said he, looking at it closely. "None o' th' planters has been inside of th' Traverspine, an' no Mountaineers has left th' post yet." The others joined him and scrutinized the cutting, then looked for other human signs. Near by they found the charred wood of a recent fire and some spruce boughs that had served for a bed within a day or two, which was proved by their freshly broken ends. It had been the couch of a single man. "Micmac John, sure!" said Ed. "An' what's he doin' here?" asked Bill. "He has no traps or huntin' grounds handy t' this." "I'm thinkin' 'tis no good he's after," said Dick. "'Tis sure he, an' he'll be givin' us trouble, stealin' our fur an' maybe worse. But if _I_ gets hold o' he, he'll be sorry for his meddlin', if meddlin' he's after, an' it's sure all he's here for." They hurried back to pitch camp, and when the fire was made the porcupine was thrown upon the blaze, and allowed to remain there until its quills and hair were scorched to a cinder. Then Dick, who superintended the cooking, pulled it out, scraped it and dressed it. On either side of the fire he drove a stake and across the tops of these stakes tied a cross pole. From the centre of this pole the porcupine was suspended by a string, so that it hung low and near enough to the fire to roast nicely, while it was twirled around on the string. It was soon sending out a delicious odour, and in an hour was quite done, and ready to be served. A dainty morsel it was to the hungry voyageurs, resembling in some respects roast pig, and every scrap of it they devoured. The next morning all the goods were carried over the portage, and a wearisome fight began against the current of the river, which was so swift above this point as to preclude sailing or even rowing. A rope was tied to the bow of the boat and on this three of the men hauled, while the other stood in the craft and with a pole kept it clear of rocks and other obstructions. For several days this method of travel continued--tracking it is called. Sometimes the men were forced along the sides of almost perpendicular banks, often they waded in the water and frequently met obstacles like projecting cliffs, around which they passed with the greatest difficulty. At the Porcupine Rapids everything was lashed securely into the boat, as a precaution in case of accident, but they overcame the rapid without mishap, and finally they reached Gull Island Lake, a broadening of the river in safety, and were able to resume their oars again. It was a great relief after the long siege of tracking, and Ed voiced the feelings of all in the remark: "Pullin' at th' oars is hard when ye has nothin' harder t' do, but trackin's so much harder, pullin' seems easy alongside un." "Aye," said Dick, "th' thing a man's doin's always the hardest work un ever done. 'Tis because ye forgets how hard th' things is that ye've done afore." "An' it's just the same in winter. When a frosty spell comes folks thinks 'tis th' frostiest time they ever knew. If '_twere_, th' winters, I 'lows'd be gettin' so cold folks couldn't stand un. I recollects one frosty spell----" "Now none o' yer yarns, Ed. Th' Lord'll be strikin' ye dead in His anger _some day_ when ye're tellin' what ain't so." "I tells no yarns as ain't so, an' I can prove un all--leastways I could a proved this un, only it so happens as I were alone. As I was sayin', 'twere so cold one night last winter that when I was boilin' o' my kettle an' left th' door o' th' tilt open for a bit while I steps outside, th' wind blowin' in on th' kettle all th' time hits th' steam at th' spout--an' what does ye think I sees when I comes in?" "Ye sees steam, o' course, an' what else could ye see, now?" "'Twere so cold--that wind--blowin' right on th' spout where th' steam comes out, when I comes in I looks an' I can't believe what I sees myself. Well, now, I sees th' steam froze solid, an' a string o' ice hangin' from th' spout right down t' th' floor o' th' tilt, an' th' kettle boilin' merry all th' time. That's what I sees, an'----" "Now stop yer lyin', Ed. Ye knows no un----" "A bear! A bear!" interrupted Bob, excitedly. "See un! See un there comin' straight to that rock!" Sure enough, a couple Of hundred yards away a big black bear was lumbering right down towards them, and if it kept its course would pass a large boulder standing some fifty yards back from the river bank. The animal had not seen the boat nor scented the men, for the wind was blowing from it towards them. "Run her in here," said Bob, indicating a bit of bank out of the bear's range of vision, "an' let me ashore t' have a chance at un." The instant the boat touched land he grabbed his gun--a single-barrelled, muzzle loader--bounded noiselessly ashore, and stooping low gained the shelter of the boulder unobserved. The unsuspecting bear came leisurely on, bent, no doubt, upon securing a drink of water to wash down a feast of blueberries of which it had just partaken, and seemingly occupied by the pleasant reveries that follow a good meal and go with a full stomach. Bob could hear it coming now, and raised his gun ready to give it the load the moment it passed the rock. Then, suddenly, he remembered that he had loaded the gun that morning with shot, when hunting a flock of partridges, and had failed to reload with ball. To kill a bear with a partridge load of shot was out of the question, and to wound the bear at close quarters was dangerous, for a wounded bear with its enemy within reach is pretty sure to retaliate. Just at the instant this thought flashed through Bob's mind the big black side of the bear appeared not ten feet from the muzzle of his gun, and before the lad realized it he had pulled the trigger. Bob did not stop to see the result of the shot, but ran at full speed towards the boat. The bear gave an angry growl, and for a moment bit at the wound in its side, then in a rage took after him. It was not over fifty yards to the boat, and though Bob had a few seconds the start, the bear seemed likely to catch him before he could reach it, for clumsy though they are in appearance, they are fast travellers when occasion demands. Half the distance was covered in a jiffy, but the bear was almost at his heels. A few more leaps and he would be within reach of safety. He could fairly feel the bear's breath. Then his foot caught a projecting branch and he fell at full length directly in front of the infuriated animal. IV SWEPT AWAY IN THE RAPIDS When Bob went ashore Dick followed as far as a clump of bushes at the top of the bank below which the boat was concealed, and crouching there witnessed Bob's flight from the bear, and was very close to him when he fell. Dick had already drawn a bead on the animal's head, and just at the moment Bob stumbled fired. The bear made one blind strike with his paw and then fell forward, its momentum sending it upon Bob's sprawling legs, Dick laughed uproariously at the boy as he extricated himself. "Well, now," he roared, "'twere as fine a race as I ever see--as I _ever_ see--an' ye were handy t' winnin' but for th' tumble. A rare fine race." Bob was rather shamefaced, for an old hunter would scarcely have forgotten himself to such an extent as to go bear hunting with a partridge load in his gun, and he did not like to be laughed at. "Anyhow," said he, "I let un have un first. An' I led un down where you could shoot un. An' he's a good fat un," he commented kicking the carcass. Ed and Bill had arrived now and all hands went to work at once skinning the bear. "Speakin' o' bein' chased by bears," remarked Ed as they worked, "onct I were chased pretty hard myself an' that time I come handy t' bein' done for sure enough." "An' how were that?" asked Bob. "'Twere one winter an' I were tendin' my trail. I stops at noon t' boil th' kettle, an' just has th' fire goin' fine an' th' water over when all t' a sudden I hears a noise behind me and turnin' sees a black bear right handy t' me--th' biggest black bear I ever seen--an' makin' fer me. I jumps up an' grabs my gun an' lets un have it, but wi' th' suddenness on it I misses, an' away I starts an' 'twere lucky I has my racquets on." "Were this in _winter_?" asked Dick. "It _were_ in winter." "Th' bears as _I_ knows don't travel in winter. They sleeps then, leastways all but white bears." "Well, this were in winter an' this bear weren't sleepin' much. As I was sayin'----" "An' he took after ye without bein' provoked?" "An' he did an' right smart." "Well he _were_ a queer bear--a _queer_ un--th' _queerest_ I ever hear tell about. Awake in _winter_ an' takin' after folks without bein' _provoked_. 'Tis th' first black bear _I_ ever heard tell about that done that. I knows bears pretty well an' they alus takes tother way about as fast as their legs 'll carry un." "Now, if you wants me t' tell about this bear ye'll ha' t' stop interruptin'." "No one said as they wanted ye to." "Now I'm goin' t' tell un whatever." "As I were sayin', th' bear he takes after me wi' his best licks an' I takes off an' tries t' load my gun as I runs. I drops in a han'ful o' powder an' then finds I gone an' left my ball pouch at th' fire. It were pretty hard runnin' wi' my racquets sinkin' in th' snow, which were new an' soft an' I were losin' ground an' gettin' winded an' 'twere lookin' like un's goin' t' cotch me sure. All t' onct I see a place where the snow's drifted up three fathoms deep agin a ledge an' even wi' th' top of un. I makes for un an' runs right over th' upper side an' th' bear he comes too, but he has no racquets and th' snow's soft, bein' fresh drift an' down he goes sinkin' most out o' sight an' th' more un wallers th' worse off un is." "An' what does you do?" asks Bob. "What does I do? I stops an' laughs at un a bit. Then I lashes my sheath knife on th' end o' a pole spear-like, an' sticks th' bear back o' th' fore leg an' kills un, an' then I has bear's meat wi' my tea, an' in th' spring gets four dollars from th' company for the skin." In twenty minutes they had the pelt removed from the bear and Dick generously insisted upon Bob taking it as the first-fruits of his inland hunt, saying: "Ye earned he wi' yer runnin'." The best of the meat was cut from the carcass, and that night thick, luscious steaks were broiled for supper, and the remainder packed for future use on the journey. Fine weather had attended the voyageurs thus far but that night the sky clouded heavily and when they emerged from the tent the next morning a thick blanket of snow covered the earth and weighted down the branches of the spruce trees. The storm had spent itself in the night, however, and the day was clear and sparkling. Very beautiful the white world looked when the sun came to light it up; but the snow made tracking less easy, and warned the travellers that no time must be lost in reaching their destination, for it was a harbinger of the winter blasts and blizzards soon to blow. Early that afternoon they came in view of the rushing waters of the Gull Island Rapids, with their big foam crested waves angrily assailing the rocks that here and there raised their ominous heads above the torrent. The greater length of these rapids can be tracked, with some short portages around the worst places. Before entering them everything was lashed securely into the boat, as at the Porcupine Rapids, and the tracking line fastened a few inches back of the bow leaving enough loose end to run to the stern and this was tied securely there to relieve the unusual strain on the bow fastening. Ed took the position of steersman in the boat, while the other three were to haul upon the line. When all was made ready and secure, they started forward, bringing the craft into the heavy water, which opposed its progress so vigorously that it seemed as though the rope must surely snap. Stronger and stronger became the strain and harder and harder pulled the men. All of Ed's skill was required to keep the boat straight in the treacherous cross current eddies where the water swept down past the half-hidden rocks in the river bed. They were pushing on tediously but surely when suddenly and without warning the fastening at the bow broke loose, the boat swung away into the foam, and in a moment was swallowed up beneath the waves. The rear fastening held however and the boat was thrown in against the bank. But Ed had disappeared in the fearful flood of rushing white water. The other three stood appalled. It seemed to them that no power on earth could save him. He must certainly be dashed to death upon the rocks or smothered beneath the onrushing foam. For a moment all were inert, paralyzed. Then Dick, accustomed to act quickly in every emergency, slung the line around a boulder, took a half hitch to secure it and, without stopping to see whether it would hold or not, ran down stream at top speed with Bob and Bill at his heels. V THE TRAILS ARE REACHED Ed had been cast away in rapids before, and when he found himself in the water, with the wilderness traveller's quick appreciation of the conditions, he lay limp, without a struggle. If he permitted the current to carry him in its own way on its course, he might be swept past the rocks uninjured to the still water below. If one struggle was made it might throw him out of the current's course against a boulder, where he would be pounded to death or rendered unconscious and surely drowned. He was swept on much more rapidly than his companions could run and quite hidden from them by the big foam-crested waves. It seemed ages to the helpless man before he felt his speed slacken and finally found himself in the eddy where they had begun to track. Here he struck out for the river bank only a few yards distant, and, half drowned, succeeded in pulling himself ashore. A few minutes later, when the others came running down, they found him, to their great relief, sitting on the bank quite safe, wringing the water from his clothing, and their fear that he was injured was quickly dispelled by his looking up as they approached and remarking, as though nothing unusual had occurred, "Bathin's chilly this time o' year. Let's put on a fire an' boil th'kettle." "I don't know as we got a kettle or anythin' else," said Dick, laughing at Ed's bedraggled appearance and matter-of-fact manner. "We better go back an' see. I hitched th' trackin' line to a rock, but I don't know's she's held." "Well, let's look. I'm a bit damp, an' thinkin' _I_ wants a fire, whatever." A cold northwest wind had sprung up in the afternoon and the snow was drifting unpleasantly and before the boat was reached Ed's wet garments were frozen stiff as a coat of mail and he was so chilled through that he could scarcely walk. The line had held and they found the boat in an eddy below a high big boulder. It was submerged, but quite safe, with everything, thanks to the careful lashings, in its place, save a shoulder of bear's meat that had loosened and washed away. "I thinks, lads, we'll be makin' camp here. Whilst I puts a fire on an' boils th' kettle t' warm Ed up, you pitch camp. 'Twill be nigh sun-down afore Ed gets dried out, an' too late t' go any farther," suggested Dick. In a few minutes the fire was roaring and Ed thawing out and drinking hot tea as he basked in the blaze, while Dick chopped fire-wood and Bob and Bill unloaded the boat and put up the tent and made it snug for the night. Heretofore they had found the outside camp-fire quite sufficient for their needs, and had not gone to the trouble of setting up the stove, but it was yet some time before dark, and as the wet clothing and outfit could be much more easily and quickly dried under the shelter of the heated tent than in the drifting snow by the open fire, it was decided to put the stove in use on this occasion. Bob selected a flat stone upon which to rest it, for without this protection the moss beneath, coming into contact with the hot metal, would have dried quickly and taken fire. When everything was brought in and distributed in the best place to dry, Bob took some birch bark, thrust it into the stove and lighted it. Instantly it flared up as though it had been oil soaked. This made excellent kindling for the wood that was piled on top, and in an incredibly short time the tent was warm and snug as any house. Ed left the open fire and joined Bob and Bill, and in a few minutes Dick came in with an armful of wood. "Well, un had a good wettin' an' a cold souse," said he, as he piled the wood neatly behind the stove, addressing himself to Ed, who, now quite recovered from his chill, stood with his back to the stove, puffing contentedly at his pipe, with the steam pouring out of his wet clothes. "'Twere just a fine time wi' th' dip I had ten year ago th' winter comin'," said Ed, ruminatively. "'Twere _nothin'_ to that un." "An' where were that?" asked Dick. "I were out o' tea in March, an' handy to havin' no tobaccy, an' I says t' myself, 'Ed, ye can't stay in th' bush till th' break up wi' nary a bit o' tea, and ye'd die wi'out tobaccy. Now ye got t' make th' cruise t' th' Post.' Well, I fixes up my traps, an' packs grub for a week on my flat sled (toboggan) an' off I goes. 'Twere fair goin' wi' good hard footin' an' I makes fine time. Below th' Gull Rapids, just above where I come ashore th' day, I takes t' th' ice thinkin' un good, an' 'twere lucky I has my racquets lashed on th' flat sled an' not walkin' wi' un, for I never could a swum wi' un on. Two fathoms from th' shore I steps on bad ice an' in I goes, head an' all, an' th' current snatches me off'n my feet an' carries me under th' ice, an' afore I knows un I finds th' water carryin' me along as fast as a deer when he gets th' wind." "An' how did un get out?" asked Bob in open-mouthed wonder. "'Twere sure a hard fix _under_ th' ice," remarked Bill, equally interested. "A wonderful hard fix, a _wonderful_ hard fix, _under_ th' ice, an' I were handy t' stayin' under un," said Ed, taking evident delight in keeping his auditors in suspense. "Aye, a _wonderful_ hard fix," continued he, while he hacked pieces from his tobacco plug and filled his pipe. "An' where were I?" asked Dick, making a quick calculation of past events. "I were huntin' wi' un ten year ago, an' I don't mind ye're gettin' in th' ice." "'Twere th' winter un were laid up wi' th' lame leg, an' poor Frank Morgan were huntin' along wi' me. Frank were lost th' same spring in th' Bay. Does un mind that?" "'Twere only _nine_ year ago I were laid up an' Frank were huntin' my trail," said Dick. "Well, maybe 'twere only nine year; 'twere _nine_ or _ten_ year ago," Ed continued, with some show of impatience at Dick's questioning. "Leastways 'twere thereabouts. Well, I finds myself away off from th' hole I'd dropped into, an' no way o' findin' he. The river were low an' had settled a foot below th' ice, which were four or five feet thick over my head, an' no way o' cuttin' out. So what does I do?" "An' what does un do?" asked Dick. "What does I do? I keeps shallow water near th' shore an' holdin' my head betwixt ice an' water makes down t' th' Porcupine Rapids. 'Twere a long an' wearisome pull, an' thinks I, 'Tis too much--un's done for now.' After a time I sees light an' I goes for un. 'Twere a place near a rock where th' water swingin' around had kept th' ice thin. I gets t' un an' makes a footin' on th' rock. I gets out my knife an' finds th' ice breaks easy, an' cuts a hole an' crawls out. By th' time I gets on th' ice I were pretty handy t' givin' up wi' th' cold." "'Twere a close call," assented Dick, as he puffed at his pipe meditatively. "How far did un go under th' ice?" asked Bill, who had been much interested in the narrative. "Handy t' two mile." For several days after this the men worked very hard from early dawn until the evening darkness drove them into camp. The current was swift and the rapids great surging torrents of angry water that seemed bent upon driving them back. One after another the Horseshoe, the Ninipi, and finally, after much toil, the Mouni Rapids were met and conquered. The weather was stormy and disagreeable. Nearly every day the air was filled with driving snow or beating cold rain that kept them wet to the skin and would have sapped the courage and broken the spirit of less determined men. But they did not mind it. It was the sort of thing they had been accustomed to all their life. With each morning, Bob, full of the wilderness spirit, took up the work with as much enthusiasm as on the day he left Wolf Bight. At night when he was very tired and just a bit homesick, he would try to picture to himself the little cabin that now seemed far, far away, and he would say to himself, "If I could spend th' night there now, an' be back here in th' mornin', 'twould be fine. But when I _does_ go back, the goin' home'll be fine, an' pay for all th' bein' away. An' the Lard lets me, I'll have th' fur t' send Emily t' th' doctors an' make she well." One day the clouds grew tired of sending forth snow and rain, and the wind forgot to blow, and the waters became weary of their rushing. The morning broke clear and beautiful, and the sun, in a blaze of red and orange grandeur, displayed the world in all its rugged primeval beauty. The travellers had reached Lake Wonakapow, a widening of the river, where the waters were smooth and no current opposed their progress. For the first time in many days the sails were hoisted, and, released from the hard work, the men sat back to enjoy the rest, while a fair breeze sent them up the lake. "'Tis fine t' have a spell from th' trackin'," remarked Ed as he lighted his pipe. "Aye, 'tis that," assented Dick, "an' we been makin' rare good time wi' this bad weather. We're three days ahead o' my reckonin'." How beautiful it was! The water, deep and dark, leading far away, every rugged hill capped with snow, and the white peaks sparkling in the sunshine. A loon laughed at them as they passed, and an invisible wolf on a mountainside sent forth its long weird cry of defiance. They sailed quietly on for an hour or two. Finally Ed pointed out to Bob a small log shack standing a few yards back from the shore, saying: "An' there's my tilt. Here I leaves un." Bill Campbell was at the tiller, and the boat was headed to a strip of sandy beach near the tilt. Presently they landed. Ed's things were separated from the others and taken ashore, and all hands helped him carry them up to the tilt. There was no window in the shack and the doorway was not over four feet high. Within was a single room about six by eight feet in size, with a rude couch built of saplings, running along two sides, upon which spruce boughs, used the previous year and now dry and dead, were strewn for a bed. The floor was of earth. The tilt contained a sheet iron stove similar to the one Bob had brought, but no other furniture save a few cooking utensils. The round logs of which the rough building was constructed, were well chinked between them with moss, making it snug and warm. [Illustration] This was where Ed kept his base of supplies. His trail began here and ran inland and nearly northward for some distance to a lake whose shores it skirted, and then, taking a swing to the southwest, came back to the river again and ended where Dick's began, and the two trappers had a tilt there which they used in common. Between these tilts were four others at intervals of twelve to fifteen miles, for night shelters, the distance between them constituting a day's work, the trail from end to end being about seventy miles long. The trails which the other three were to hunt led off, one from the other--Dick's, Bill's and then the Big Hill trail, with tilts at the juncture points and along them in a similar manner to the arrangement of Ed's, and each trail covering about the same number of miles as his. Each man could therefore walk the length of his trail in five days, if the weather were good, and, starting from one end on Monday morning have a tilt to sleep in each night and reach his last tilt on the other end Friday night. This gave him Saturday in which to do odd jobs like mending, and Sunday for rest, before taking up the round again on Monday. It was yet too early by three weeks to begin the actual trapping, but much in the way of preparation had to be done in the meantime. This was Tuesday, and it was agreed that two weeks from the following Saturday Ed and Dick should be at the tilt where their trails met and Bill and Bob at the junction of their trails, ready to start their work on the next Monday. This would bring Dick and Bill together on the following Friday night and Bob and Ed would each be alone, one at either end of the series of trails and more than a hundred miles from his nearest neighbour. "I hopes your first cruise'll be a good un, an' you'll be doin' fine th' winter, Bob. Have a care now for th' Nascaupees," said Ed as they shook hands at parting. "Thanks," answered Bob, "an' I hopes you'll be havin' a fine hunt too." Then they were off, and Ed's long winter's work began. The next afternoon Dick's first tilt was reached, and a part of his provisions and some of Ed's that they had brought on for him, were unloaded there. Dick, however, decided to go with the young men to the tilt at the beginning of the Big Hill trail, to help them haul the boat up and make it snug for the winter, saying, "I'm thinkin' you might find her too heavy, an' I'll go on an' give a hand, an' cut across to my trail, which I can do handy enough in a day, havin' no pack." An hour before dark on Friday evening they reached the tilt. Dick was the first to enter it, and as he pushed open the door he stopped with the exclamation: "That rascal Micmac!" VI ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS The stove and stovepipe were gone, and fresh, warm ashes on the floor gave conclusive proof that the theft had been perpetrated that very day. Some one had been occupying the tilt, too, as new boughs spread for a bed made evident. "More o' Micmac John's work," commented Dick as he kicked the ashes. "He's been takin' th' stove an' he'll be takin' th' fur too, an' he gets a chance." "Maybe 'twere Mountaineers," suggested Bill. "No, 'twere no Mountaineers--_them_ don't steal. No un ever heard o' a Mountaineer takin' things as belongs to _other_ folks. _Injuns_ be honest--leastways all but half-breeds." "Nascaupees might a been here," offered Bob, having in mind the stories he had heard of them, and feeling now that he was almost amongst them. "No, Nascaupees 'd have no use for a _stove_. They'd ha' burned th' tilt. 'Tis Micmac John, an' he be here t' steal fur. 'Tis t' steal fur's what _he_ be after. But let me ketch un, an' he won't steal much more fur," insisted Dick, worked up to a very wrathful pitch. They looked outside for indications of the course the marauder had taken, and discovered that he had returned to the river, where his canoe had been launched a little way above the tilt, and had either crossed to the opposite side or gone higher up stream. In either case it was useless to attempt to follow him, as, if they caught him at all, it would be after a chase of several days, and they could not well afford the time. There was nothing to do, therefore, but make the best of it. Bob's tent stove was set up in place of the one that had been stolen. Then everything was stowed away in the tilt. The next morning came cold and gray, with heavy, low-hanging clouds, threatening an early storm. The boat was hauled well up on the shore, and a log protection built over it to prevent the heavy snows that were soon to come from breaking it down. Before noon the first flakes of the promised storm fell lazily to the earth and in half an hour it was coming so thickly that the river twenty yards away could not be seen, and the wind was rising. The three cut a supply of dry wood and piled what they could in the tilt, placing the rest within reach of the door. Then armfuls of boughs were broken for their bed. All the time the storm was increasing in power and by nightfall a gale was blowing and a veritable blizzard raging. When all was made secure, a good fire was started in the stove, a candle lighted, and some partridges that had been killed in the morning put over with a bit of pork to boil for supper. While these were cooking Bill mixed some flour with water, using baking soda for leaven--"risin'" he called it--into a dough which he formed into cakes as large in circumference as the pan would accommodate and a quarter of an inch thick. These cakes he fried in pork grease. This was the sort of bread that they were to eat through the winter. The meal was a cozy one. Outside the wind shrieked angrily and swirled the snow in smothering clouds around the tilt, and rattled the stovepipe, threatening to shake it down. It was very pleasant to be out of it all in the snug, warm shack with the stove crackling contentedly and the place filled with the mingled odours of the steaming kettle of partridges and tea and spruce boughs. To the hunters it seemed luxurious after their tedious fight against the swift river. Times like this bring ample recompense to the wilderness traveller for the most strenuous hardships that he is called upon to endure. The memory of one such night will make men forget a month of suffering. Herein lies one of the secret charms of the wilds. When supper was finished Dick and Bill filled their pipes, and with coals from the stove lighted them. Then they lounged back and puffed with an air of such perfect, speechless bliss that for the first time in his life Bob felt a desire to smoke. He drew from his pocket the pipe Douglas had given him and filled it from a plug of the tobacco. When he reached for a firebrand to light it Dick noticed what he was doing and asked good naturedly,-- "Think t' smoke with us, eh?" "Yes, thinks I'll try un." "An' be gettin' sick before un knows it," volunteered Bill. Disregarding the suggestion Bob fired his pipe and lay back with the air of an old veteran. He soon found that he did not like it very much, and in a little while he felt a queer sensation in his stomach, but it was not in Bob's nature to acknowledge himself beaten so easily, and he puffed on doggedly. Pretty soon beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead and he grew white. Then he quietly laid aside the pipe and groped his way unsteadily out of doors, for he was very dizzy and faint. When he finally returned he was too sick to pay any attention to the banter of his companions, who unsympathetically made fun of him, and he lay down with the inward belief that smoking was not the pleasure it was said to be, and as for himself he would never touch a pipe again. All day Sunday and Monday the storm blew with unabated fury and the three were held close prisoners in the tilt. On Monday night it cleared, and Tuesday morning came clear and rasping cold. Long before daylight breakfast was eaten and preparations made for travelling. Bob lashed his tent, cooking utensils, some traps and a supply of provisions upon one of two toboggans that leaned against the tilt outside. The other one was for Bill when he should need it. Dick did up his blanket and a few provisions into a light pack, new slings were adjusted to their snow-shoes and finally they were ready to strike the trails. The steel-gray dawn was just showing when Dick shouldered his pack, took his axe and gun and shook hands with the boys. "Good-bye Bob. Have a care o' nasty weather an' don't be losin' yourself. I'll see you in a fortnight, Bill. Good-bye." With long strides he turned down the river bend and in a few moments the immeasurable white wilderness had swallowed him up. The Big Hill trail was so called from a high, barren hill around whose base it swung to follow a series of lakes leading to the northwest. Of course as Bob had never been over the trail he did not know its course, or where to find the traps that Douglas had left hanging in the trees or lying on rocks the previous spring at the end of the hunting season. Bill was to go with him to the farthest tilt on this first journey to point these out to him and show him the way, then leave him and hurry back to his own path, while Bob set the traps and worked his way back to the junction tilt. Shortly after Dick left them they started, Bill going ahead and breaking the trail with his snow-shoes while Bob behind hauled the loaded toboggan. On they pushed through trees heavily laden with snow, out upon wide, frozen marshes, skirting lakes deep hidden beneath the ice and snow which covered them like a great white blanket. The only halts were for a moment now and again to note the location of traps as they passed, which Bob with his keen memory of the woods could easily find again when he returned to set them. Once they came upon some ptarmigans, white as the snow upon which they stood. Their "grub bag" received several of the birds, which were very tame and easily shot. A hurried march brought them to the first tilt at noon, where they had dinner, and that night, shortly after dark, they reached the second tilt, thirty miles from their starting point. At midday on Thursday they came to the end of the trail. When they had had dinner of fried ptarmigan and tea, Bill announced: "I'll be leavin' ye now, Bob. In two weeks from Friday we'll be meetin' in th' river tilt." "All right, an' I'll be there." "An' don't be gettin' lonesome, now I leaves un." "I'll be no gettin' lonesome. There be some traps t' mend before I starts back an' a chance bit o' other work as'll keep me busy." Then Bill turned down the trail, and Bob for the first time in his life was quite alone in the heart of the great wilderness. VII A STREAK OF GOOD LUCK When Bill was gone Bob went to work at once getting some traps that were hanging in the tilt in good working order. He set them and sprang them one after another, testing every one critically. They were practically all new ones, and Douglas, after his careful, painstaking manner, had left them in thorough repair. These were some additional traps that no place had been found for on the trail. There were only about twenty of them and Bob decided that he would set them along the shores of a lake beyond the tilt, where there were none, and look after them on the Saturday mornings that he would be lying up there. The next morning he put them on his toboggan, and shouldering his gun he started out. Not far away he saw the first marten track in the edge of the spruce woods near the lake. Farther on there were more. This was very satisfactory indeed, and he observed to himself, "The's a wonderful lot o' footin', and 'tis sure a' fine place for martens." He went to work at once, and one after another the traps were set, some of them in a little circular enclosure made by sticking spruce boughs in the snow, to which a narrow entrance was left, and in this entrance the trap placed and carefully concealed under loose snow and the chain fastened to a near-by sapling. In the centre of each of the enclosures a bit of fresh partridge was placed for bait, to reach which the animal would have to pass over the trap. Where a tree of sufficient size was found in a promising place he chopped it down, a few feet above the snow, cut a notch in the top, and placed the trap in the notch, and arranged the bait over it in such a way that the animal climbing the stump would be compelled to stand upon the trap to secure the meat. All the marten traps were soon set, but there still remained two fox traps. These he took to a marsh some distance beyond the lake, as the most likely place for foxes to be, for while the marten stays amongst the trees, the fox prefers marshes or barrens. Here, in a place where the snow was hard, he carefully cut out a cube, making a hole deep enough for the trap to set below the surface. A square covering of crust was trimmed thin with his sheath knife, and fitted over the trap in such a way as to completely conceal it. The chain was fastened to a stump and also carefully concealed. Then over and around the trap pieces of ptarmigan were scattered. This he knew was not good fox bait, but it was the best he had. "Now if I were only havin' a bit o' scent 'twould help me," he commented as he surveyed his work. Foxes prefer meat or fish that is tainted and smells bad, and the more decomposed it is, the better it suits them. Bob had no tainted meat now, so he used what he had, in the hope that it might prove effective. A few drops of perfumery, or "scent," as he called it, would have made the fresh meat that he used more attractive to the animals, but unfortunately he had none of that either. As he left the marsh and crossed from a neck of woods to the lake shore he saw two moving objects far out upon the ice. He dropped behind a clump of bushes. They were caribou. His gun would not reach them at that distance, and he picked up a dried stick and broke it. They heard the noise and looked towards him. He stood up, exposing himself for the fraction of a second, then concealed himself behind the bushes again. Caribou are very inquisitive animals, and these walked towards him, for they wanted to ascertain what the strange object was that they had seen. When they had come within easy range he selected the smaller one, a young buck, aimed carefully at a spot behind the shoulders, and fired. The animal fell and its mate stood stupidly still and looked at it, and then advanced and smelled of it. Even the report of the gun had not satisfied its curiosity. It would have been an easy matter for Bob to shoot this second caribou, but the one he had killed was quite sufficient for his needs, and to kill the other would have been ruthless slaughter, little short of murder, and something that Bob, who was a true sportsman, would not stoop to. He therefore stepped out from his cover and revealed himself. Then when the animal saw him clearly, a living enemy, it turned and fled. Bob removed the skin and quartered the carcass. These he loaded upon his toboggan and hauled to his tilt. The meat was suspended from the limb of a tree outside, where animals could not reach it and where it would freeze and keep sweet until needed. A small piece was taken into the tilt for immediate use, and some portions of the neck placed in the corner of the tilt where they would decompose somewhat and thus be rendered into desirable fox bait. The skin was stretched against the logs of the side of the shack farthest from the stove, to dry. This would make an excellent cover for Bob's couch and be warm and comfortable to sleep upon. The sinew, taken from the back of the animal, was scraped and hung from the roof to season, for he would need it later to use as thread with which to repair moccasins. Now there was little to do for two or three days, and Bob began for the first time to understand the true loneliness of his new life. The wilderness was working its mysterious influence upon him. It seemed a long, long while since Bill had left him, and he recalled his last Sunday at Wolf Bight as one recalls an event years after it has happened. Sometimes he longed passionately for home and human companionship. At other times he was quite content with his day to day existence, and almost forgot that the world contained any one else. Early the next week he visited the traps. In one he found a Canada jay that had tried to filch the bait. In another a big white rabbit which had been caught while nibbling the young tops of the spruce boughs with which the trap was enclosed. A single marten rewarded him. The pelt was not prime, as it was yet early in the season, but still it was fairly good and Bob was delighted with it. The fox traps had not been disturbed, but a fox had been feeding upon the caribou head and entrails, where they had been left upon the ice, and one of the traps was taken up and reset here. The others he also put in order, and returned to the tilt with the rabbit and marten. The former, boiled with small bits of pork, made a splendid stew, and the skin was hung to dry, for, with others it could be fashioned into warm, light slippers to wear inside his moccasins when the colder weather came. The marten pelt was removed from the body by splitting it down the inside of the hind legs to the trunk, and then pulling it down over the head, turning it inside out in the process. In the tilt were a number of stretching boards, that Douglas had provided, tapered down from several inches wide at one end until they were narrow enough at the other end to slip snugly into the nose of the pelt. Over one of these, with the flesh side out, the skin was tightly drawn and fastened. Then with his knife Bob scraped it carefully, removing such fat and flesh as had adhered to it, after which he placed it in a convenient place to dry. Bob felt very much elated over this first catch of fur, and was anxious to get at the real trapping. It was only Tuesday, and Bill would not be at the river tilt until Friday of the following week, but he decided to start back the next morning and set all his traps. So on Wednesday morning, with a quarter of venison on his flat sled, he turned down over the trail. Everything went well. Signs of fur were good and Bob was brimming over with anticipation when a week later he reached the river. Bill did not arrive until after dark the next evening, and when he pushed the tilt door open he found Bob frying venison steak and a kettle of tea ready for supper. "Ho, Bob, back ahead o' me, be un? Where'd ye get th' deer's meat?" "Knocked un over after you left me. 'Tis fine t' be back an' see you, Bill. I've been wonderful lonesome, and wantin' t' see you wonderful bad." "An' I was thinkin' ye'd be gettin' lonesome by now. You'll not be mindin' bein' alone when you gets used to un. It's all gettin' used t' un." "An' what's th' signs o' fur? Be there much marten signs?" "Aye, some. Looks like un goin' t' be some. An' be there much signs on th' Big Hill trail? Dick says there's a lot o' footin' his way." "I _has_ one marten," said Bob proudly, "an' finds good signs." "Un _has_ one a'ready! An' be un a good un?" "Not so bad." "Well, you be startin' fine, gettin' th' first marten an' th' first deer." Bill had taken off his adikey and disposed of his things, and they sat down to eat and enjoy a long evening's chat. With every week the cold grew in intensity, and with every storm the snow grew deeper, hiding the smaller trees entirely and reaching up towards the lower limbs of the larger ones. The little tilts were covered to the roof, and only a hole in the white mass showed where the door was. The sun now described a daily narrowing arc in the heavens, and the hours of light were so few that the hunters found it difficult to cover the distance between their tilts in the little while from dawn to dark. On moonlight mornings Bob started long before day, and on starlight evenings finished his day's work after night. His cheeks and nose were frost-bitten and black, but he did not mind that for he was doing well. Two weeks before Christmas he brought to the river tilt the fur that he had accumulated. There were twenty-eight martens, one mink, two red foxes, one cross fox, a lynx and a wolf. These last two animals he had shot. Bill was already in the tilt when he arrived, and complimented him on his good showing. Christmas fell on Wednesday that year, and Bill brought word that Dick and Ed were coming up to spend the day with him and Bob. They would reach the tilt on Tuesday night and use the remainder of the week in a caribou hunt, as there were good signs of the animals a little way back in the marshes and they were in need of fresh meat. "An' I'll not try t' be gettin' here on Friday," said Bill. "I'll be waitin' till Tuesday." "I'll be doin' th' same, but I'll be here sure on a Tuesday, an' maybe Monday," answered Bob. So it was arranged that they should have a holiday, and all be together again. It gave Bob a thrill of pleasure when he thought of meeting Dick and Ed and proudly exhibiting his fur to have them examine and criticise the skins and compliment him. It would make a break in the monotonous life. The day after Bob left the river tilt on his return round, the great dream with which he had started out from Wolf Bight became a reality. He caught a silver fox. It was almost evening when he turned into a marsh where the trap was set. He had caught nothing in it before, and he was thinking seriously of taking it up and placing it farther along the trail. But now in the half dusk, as he approached, something moved. "Sure 'tis a cross," said he. When he came closer and saw that it was really a silver he could not for a moment believe his good fortune. It was too good to be true. When he had killed it and taken it out of the trap he hurried to the tilt hugging it closely to his breast as though afraid it would get away. In the tilt he lighted a candle and examined it. It was a beauty! It was worth a lot of money! He patted it and turned it over. Then--there was no one to see him and question his manhood or jibe at his weakness--he cried--cried for pure joy. "Tis th' savin' o' Emily an' makin' she well--an' makin' she well!" He had prayed that he would get a silver, but his faith had been weak and he had never really believed he should. Now he had it and his cup of joy was full. "Sure th' Lard be good," he repeated to himself. It was starlight two evenings later when he neared his last tilt. Clear and beautiful and intensely cold was the silent white wilderness and Bob's heart was as clear and light as the frosty air. When the black spot that marked the roof of the almost hidden shack met his view he stopped. A thin curl of smoke was rising from the stovepipe. Some one was in the tilt! He hesitated for only a moment, then hurried forward and pushed the door open. There, smoking his pipe sat Micmac John. VIII MICMAC JOHN'S REVENGE "Evenin', Bob," said Micmac. "Evenin', John. An' where'd you be comin' from now?" "Been huntin' t' th' suth'ard. Thought I'd drop in an' see ye." "Glad t' see ye, John." After an awkward pause Bob asked: "What un do wi' th' stove, John?" "What stove?" "From th' river tilt. Ye took un, didn't ye?" "No, I didn't take no stove. I weren't in th' river tilt, an' don't know what yer talkin' about," lied the half-breed. "Some one took un an' we was layin' it t' you. Now I wonders who 'twere." "Well, _I_ wouldn't take it. Ye ought t' known _I_ wouldn't do a thing like that," insisted Micmac, with an air of injured innocence. "Maybe th' Mingen Injuns took it. There's been some around an' they says they'll take anything they find, an' fur too, if they find any in th' tilts. These are their huntin' grounds an' outsiders has no right on 'em. They gave me right t' hunt down t' th' suth'ard." "Who may th' Mingen Injuns be, now?" "Mountaineers as belong Mingen way up south, an' hunts between this an' th' Straits." "I were thinkin' 'twere th' Nascaupees took th' stove if you didn't take un." "Th' Nascaupees are back here a bit t' th' west'ard. I saw some of 'em one day when I was cruisin' that way an' I made tracks back fer I didn't want t' die so quick. They'll kill anybody they see in here, an' burn th' tilts if they happen over this way an' see 'em. Ye have t' be on th' watch fer 'em all th' time." "I'll be watchin' out fer un an' keep clear if I sees their footin'," said Bob as he went out to bring in his things. What Micmac said about the Nascaupees disturbed him not a little. Bob was brave, but every man, no matter how brave he may be, fears an unseen danger when he believes that danger is real and is apt to come upon him unexpectedly and at a time when no opportunity will be offered for defense. It was evident that these Indians were close at hand, and that he was in daily and imminent danger of being captured, which meant, he was sure, being killed. But he was here for a purpose--to catch all the fur he could--and he must not lose his courage now, before that purpose was accomplished. He must remain on his trail until the hunting season closed. He must be constantly upon his guard, he thought, and perhaps after all would not be discovered. No, he would _not_ let himself be afraid. When he returned to the tilt Micmac John asked: "Gettin' much fur?" "Not so bad," he replied. "I has one silver, an' a fine un, too." The half-breed showed marked interest at once. "Let's see him. Got him here?" "No, I left un in th' third tilt. That's where I caught un." "Where's yer other fur?" "I took un all down t' th' river tilt There's a cross among un an' twenty-eight martens." "Um-m." Micmac John knew well enough the fur had been taken to some other tilt, for when he arrived here early in the afternoon his first care was to look for it, but not a skin had he found, and he was disappointed, for it was the purpose of his visit. Bob, absolutely honest and guileless himself, in spite of Dick's constant assertion that Micmac was a thief and worse, was easily deceived by the half-breed's bland manner. Unfortunately he had not learned that every one else was not as honest and straightforward as himself. Micmac's attempt upon his life he had ascribed to a sudden burst of anger, and it was forgiven and forgotten. The selfish enmity, the blackness of heart, the sinister nature that will never overlook and will go to any length to avenge a real or fancied wrong--the characteristics of a half-breed Indian--were wholly beyond his comprehension. He had never dissembled himself, and he did not know that the smiling face and smooth tongue are often screens of deception. "We'll be havin' supper now," suggested Bob, lifting the boiling kettle off the stove and throwing in some tea. "I'm fair starved." After they had eaten Micmac filled his pipe and lounged back, smoking in silence for some time, apparently deep in thought. Finally he asked, "When ye goin' back t' th' river, Bob?" "I'm not thinkin t' start back till Wednesday an' maybe Thursday, an' reach un Monday or Tuesday after. Bill won't be gettin' there till Tuesday, an' Dick an' Ed expects t' be there then t' spend Christmas an' hunt deer." "Hunt deer?" "They're needin' fresh meat, an' deer footin's good in th' meshes." "The's fine signs to th' nuth'ard from th' second lake in, 'bout twenty mile from here. You could get some there. If ye ain't goin' back till Wednesday why don't ye try 'em? Ye'd get as many as ye wanted," volunteered Micmac. "Where now be that?" "Why just 'cross th' first mesh up here, an' through th' bush straight over ye'll come to a lake. Cross that t' where a dead tree hangs out over th' ice. Cut in there an' ye'll see my footin'; foller it over t' th' next lake, then turn right t' th' nuth'ard. The's some meshes in there where th' deer's feedin'. I seen fifteen or twenty, but I didn't want 'em so I let 'em be." "An' could I make un now in a day?" "If ye walk sharp an' start early." "I thinks I'll be startin' in th' mornin' an' campin' over there Sunday, an' Monday I'll be there t' hunt. Can't un come 'long, John?" "No, I'd like t' go but I got t' see my traps. I'll have t' be leavin' ye now," said Micmac, rising. "Not t'-night?" "Yes, it's fine moonlight an' I can make it all right." "Ye better stay th' night wi' me, John. There'll be no difference in a day." "No. I planned t' be goin' right back I seen ye. Good evenin'." "Good evenin', John." Micmac John started directly south, but when well out of sight of the tilt suddenly swung around to the eastward and, with the long half-running stride of the Indian, made a straight line for the tilt where Bob had left his silver fox. The moon was full, and the frost that clung to the trees and bushes sparkled like flakes of silver. The aurora faintly searched the northern sky. A rabbit, white and spectre-like, scurried across the half-breed's path, but he did not notice it. Hour after hour his never tiring feet swung the wide snow-shoes in and out with a rhythmic chug-chug as he ran on. It was nearly morning when at length he slackened his pace, and with the caution of the lifelong hunter approached the tilt as he would have stalked an animal. He made quite certain that the shack was untenanted, then entered boldly. He struck a match and found a candle, which he lighted. There was the silver fox, where Bob had left it. It was dry enough to remove from the board and he loosened it and pulled it off. He examined it critically and gloated over it. "As black an' fine a one as I ever seen!" he exclaimed. "It'll bring a big price at Mingen. That boy'll never see it again, an' I'll clean out th' rest o' th' fur too, at th' river. Old Campbell'll be sorry when I get through with 'em, he let that feller hunt th' path. He's a fool, an' if he gives me th' slip he'll go back an' say th' Mingen Injuns took his fur. I fixed that wi' my story all right. I'll take th' lot t' Mingen an' get cash fer 'em, an' be back t' th' Bay with open water with 'nuff martens so's they won't suspect me." He started a fire and slept until shortly after daylight. Then had breakfast and started down the trail towards the river at the same rapid pace that he had held before. It was not quite dark when he glimpsed the tilt, and approached it with even more caution than he had observed above. "He don't know enough to lie," said he to himself, referring to Bob, "but it's best t' take care, fer one o' th' others might be here." When he was satisfied that the tilt was unoccupied he entered boldly and appropriated every skin of fur he found--not only all of Bob's, but also a few martens Bill had left there. No time was lost, for any accident might send Bill or one of the others here at an unexpected moment. The pelts were packed quickly but carefully into his hunting bag and within twenty minutes after his arrival he was retreating up the trail at a half run. Some time after dark he reached the first tilt above the river, where he spent the night. Short cuts and fast travelling brought him on Sunday night to the tilt at the end of the trail where he had left Bob. He made quite certain that the lad had really gone on his caribou hunt, and then went boldly in and made himself as comfortable as he could for the night without a stove, for Bob had taken the stove with him, to heat his tent. "If he comes back t'-night and finds me here," he said, "I'll just tell him I changed my mind an' came back t' go on th' deer hunt. I'll lie t' him about what I got in my bag an' he'll never suspicion; he don't know enough." Micmac John's work was not yet finished. He had arranged a full and complete revenge. Bob's hunt for caribou would carry him far away from the tilt and into a section where no searching party would be likely to go. The half-breed's plan was now to follow and shoot the lad from ambush. If by chance any one ever should find the body--which seemed a quite improbable happening--Bob's death would no doubt be laid at the door of the Nascaupee Indians. Micmac John deposited the bag of stolen pelts in a safe place in the tilt, intending to return for them after his bloody mission was accomplished, and several hours before daylight on Monday morning started out in the ghostly moonlight to trail Bob to his death. IX LOST IN THE SNOW The trail that Bob had made lay open and well-defined in the snow, and hour after hour the half-breed followed it, like a hound follows its prey. Early in the morning the sky clouded heavily and towards noon snow began to fall. It was a bitterly cold day. Micmac John increased his pace for the trail would soon be hidden and he was not quite sure when he should find the camp. From the lakes the trail turned directly north and for several miles ran through a flat, wooded country. After a while there were wide open marshes, with narrow timbered strips between. An hour after noon he crossed a two mile stretch of this marsh and in a little clump of trees on the farther side of it came so suddenly upon the tent that he almost ran against it. The snow was by this time falling thickly and a rising westerly wind was sweeping the marsh making travelling exceedingly difficult, and completely hiding the trail beyond the trees. The tent flaps were fastened on the outside, and Bob was away, as Micmac John expected he would be, searching for caribou. "There's no use tryin' t' foller him in this snow," said he to himself, "I'd be sure t' miss him. But I'll take the tent an' outfit away on his flat sled an' if he don't have cover th' cold'll fix him before mornin'. There'll be no livin' in it over night with th' wind blowin' a gale as it's goin' to do with dark. My footin' 'll soon be hid an' he can't foller me. I can shoot him easy enough if he does." It was the work of only a few minutes to strike the tent and pack it and the other things, which included the stove, an axe, blanket and food, on the toboggan. The half-breed was highly elated when he started off with his booty. The storm had come at just the right time. The elements would work a slower but just as sure a revenge as his gun and at the same time cover every trace of his villainy. He laughed as he pictured to himself Bob's look of mystification and alarm when he returned and failed to find the tent, and how the lad would think he had made a mistake in the location and the desperate search for the camp that would follow, only to end finally in the snow and cold conquering him, as they were sure to do, and the wolves perhaps scattering his bones. "That's a fine end t' him an' he'll never be takin' trails away from _me_ again," he chuckled. The whole picture as he imagined it was food for his black heart and he forgot his own uncomfortable position in the delight that he felt at the horrible death that he had so cleverly and cruelly arranged for Bob. Micmac John retraced his steps some eight miles to the wide stretch of timber land. There he halted and pitched camp. The wind shrieked through the tree tops and swept the marshes in its untamed fury, but he was quite warm and contented in the tent. The storm was working his revenge for him, and he was quite satisfied that it would do the work well. The men that Bob Gray had come in contact with and associated with all his life were the honest, upright people of the Bay. He had never known a man that would dishonestly take a farthing's worth of another's property or that would knowingly harm a fellow being. The Bay folk were constantly helping their more needy neighbours and lived almost as intimately as brothers. When any one was in trouble the others came to offer sympathy and frequently deprived themselves of the actual necessaries of life that their neighbours might not suffer. Sometimes they had their misunderstandings and quarrels, but these were all of a momentary character and quickly forgotten. There was little wonder then that Bob had failed to read Micmac John's true character, and it could hardly be expected that he would suspect the half-breed of trying to injure him. Children of these far-off, thinly populated lands in many respects develop judgment and mature in thought at a much younger age than in more thickly settled and more favoured countries. One reason for this is the constant fight for existence that is being waged and the necessity for them to take up their share of the burden of life early. Another reason is doubtless the fact that their isolated homes cut them off from the companionship of children of their own age and their associates are almost wholly men and women grown. This was the case with Bob and in courage, thoughtfulness of the comfort of others and physical endurance he was a man, while in guile he was a mere baby. He believed that Micmac John was like every other man he knew and was a good neighbour. When men have lived long in the wilderness without fresh meat they have a tremendous longing for it. Bob knew that neither Dick nor Ed had tasted venison since they reached their hunting grounds, for they had not been as fortunate as he, and that some of the fresh-killed meat would be a great treat to them and one they would appreciate. Therefore when Micmac John told him how easily caribou could be killed a day's journey to the northward, he thought that it would make a nice Christmas surprise for his friends if he hauled a toboggan load of venison down to the river tilt with him. True they had planned a hunt, but that would take place after Christmas and he wanted to make them happy on that day. So after Micmac John left him on Friday night he prepared for an early start to the caribou feeding grounds on Saturday morning. We have seen the route he took across the lakes and timbered flats and marshes to the place where he pitched his camp in the little clump of diminutive fir trees almost twenty miles from his tilt. It was evening when he reached there and up to this time, to his astonishment, he had seen no signs of caribou. A few miles beyond the marsh he saw a ridge of low hills running east and west and decided that the feeding grounds of the animals must lie the other side of them. He banked the snow around the tent to keep out the wind, broke an abundant supply of green boughs for a bed, and cut a good stock of wood for the day of rest. Two logs were placed in a parallel position in the tent upon which to rest the stove that it might not sink in the deep snow with the heat. Then it was put up, and a fire started, and he was very comfortably settled for the night. The unfamiliar and unusually bleak character of the country gave him a feeling of restlessness and dissatisfaction when he arose on Sunday morning and viewed his surroundings. It was quite different from anything he had ever experienced before and he had a strong desire to go out at once and look for the caribou, and if no signs of them were found to turn back on Monday to the tilt. But then he asked himself, would his mother approve of this? He decided that she would not, and, said he: "'Twould be huntin' just as much as t' go shootin' and th' Lard would be gettin' angry wi' me too." That kept him from going, and he spent the day in the tent drawing mind pictures of the little cabin home that he longed so much to see and the loved ones that were there. The thought of little Emily, lying helpless but still so patient, brought tears to his eyes. But all would be well in the end, he told himself, for God was good and had given him the silver fox he had prayed for that Emily might go and be cured. What a proud and happy day it would be for him when with his greatest hopes fulfilled, the boat ground her nose again upon the beach below the cabin from which he had started so full of ambition that long ago morning in September. How his father would come down to shake his hand and say: "My stalwart lad has done bravely, an' I'm proud o' un." His mother, all smiles, would run out to meet him and take him in her arms and praise and pet him, and then he would hurry in to see dear, patient little Emily on her couch, and her face would light up at sight of him and she would hold out her hands to him in an ecstasy of delight and call: "Oh, Bob! Bob! my fine big brother has come back to me at last!" Then he would bring in his furs and proudly exhibit the silver fox and hear their praises, and perhaps he would have another silver fox by that time. After a while Douglas Campbell would come over and tell him how wonderfully well he had done. With his share of the martens he would pay his debt to the company, and he and Douglas would let the mail boat doctor sell the silver fox and other skins for them, and Emily would go to the hospital and after a little while come back her old gay little self again, to romp and play and laugh and tease him as she used to do. With fancy making for him these dreams of happiness, the day passed after all much less tediously than he had expected. On Monday morning, as soon as it was light enough to see, Bob started out to look for the caribou, leaving the tent as Micmac John found it. He made the great mistake of not taking with him his axe, for an axe is often a life saver in the northern wilderness, and a hunter should never be without one. He crossed the marsh and then the ridge of low hills to the northward, finally coming out upon a large lake. It was now midday, the snow had commenced falling, and to continue the hunt further was useless. "'Tis goin' t' be nasty weather an' I'll have t' be gettin' back t' th' tent," said he regretfully as he realized that a severe storm was upon him. Reluctantly he retraced his steps. In a little while his tracks were all covered, and not a landmark that he had noted on his inward journey was visible through the blinding snow. He reached the ridge in safety, however, and crossed it and then took the direction that he believed would carry him to the camp, using the wind, which had been blowing from the westward all day, as his guide. Towards dark he came to what he supposed was the clump of trees where he had left his tent in the morning, but no tent was there. "'Tis wonderful strange!" he exclaimed as he stood for a moment in uncertainty. He was quite positive it was the right place, and he looked for axe cuttings, where he had chopped down trees for fire-wood, and found them. So, this was the place, but where was the tent? He was mystified. He searched up and down every corner of the grove, but found no clue. Could the Nascaupees have found his camp and carried his things away? There was no other solution. "'Th' Nascaupees has took un. The Nascaupees has sure took un," he said dejectedly, when he realized that the tent was really gone. His situation was now desperate. He had no axe with which to build a temporary shelter or cut wood for a fire. The nearest cover was his tilt, and to reach it in the blinding, smothering snow-storm seemed hopeless. Already the cold was eating to his bones and he knew he must keep moving or freeze to death. With the wind on his right he turned towards the south in the gathering darkness. He could not see two yards ahead. Blindly he plodded along hour after hour. As the time dragged on it seemed to him that he had been walking for ages. His motion became mechanical. He was faint from hunger and his mouth parched with thirst. The bitter wind was reaching to his very vitals in spite of the exertion, and at last he did not feel it much. He stumbled and fell now and again and each time it was more difficult to rise. There was always a strong inclination to lie a little where he fell and rest, but his benumbed brain told him that to stop walking meant death, and urged him up again to further action. Finally the snow ceased but he did not notice it. With his head held back and staring straight before him at nothing he stalked on throwing his feet ahead like an automaton. The stars came out one after another and looked down pitilessly upon the tragedy that was being enacted before their very eyes. Many hours had passed; morning was close at hand. The cold grew more intensely bitter but Bob did not know it. He was quite insensible to sensations now. Vaguely he imagined himself going home to Wolf Bight. It was not far--he was almost there. In a little while he would see his father and mother and Emily--Emily--Emily was sick. He had something to make her her well--make her well--a silver fox--that would do it--yes, that would do it--a silver fox would make her well--dear little Emily. From the distance there came over the frozen world a wolf's howl, followed by another and another. The wolves were giving the cry of pursuit. There must be many of them and they were after caribou or game of some sort. This was the only impression the sound made upon his numbed senses. Daylight was coming. He was very sleepy--very, very sleepy. Why not go to sleep? There was no reason for walking when it was so nice and warm here--and he was so weary and sleepy. There were trees all around and a nice white bed spread under them. He stumbled and fell and did not try to get up. Why should he? There was plenty of time to go home. It was so comfortable and soft here and he was so sleepy. Then he imagined that he was in the warm tilt with the fire crackling in the stove. He cuddled down in the snow, and said the little prayer that he never forgot at night. "Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep, I-pray-thee-Lard-my-soul-to-keep, If-I-should-die-before-I-wake I-pray-thee-Lard-my-soul-to-take. An'-God-make-Emily-well." The wolves were clamouring in the distance. They had caught the game that they were chasing. He could just hear them as he fell asleep. The sun broke with the glory of a new world over the white wilderness. The wolf howls ceased--and all was still. X THE PENALTY For some reason Micmac John could not sleep. A little while he lay awake voluntarily, trying to contrive a plan to follow should he be found out. If, after he returned to the tilt for the pelts, there should not be sufficient snow to cover his trail, for instance, before the searching party came to look for Bob--and it surely would come, headed by Dick Blake--he would be in grave danger of being discovered. Why had he not thought of all this before? He was afraid of Dick Blake, and Dick was the one man in the world, perhaps, that he was afraid of. Would Dick shoot him? he asked himself. Probably. If he were found he would have to die. Life is sweet to a strong, healthy man brought face to face with the reality of death. In his more than half savage existence Micmac John had faced death frequently, and sometimes daily, and had never shrunk from it or felt a tremour of fear. He had held neither his own nor the life of other men as a thing of much value. The fact was that never before had he given one serious thought to what it meant to die. Like the foxes and the wolves, he had been an animal of prey and had looked upon life and death with hardly more consideration than they, and with the stoical indifference of his savage Indian ancestors. But for some inexplicable reason this night the white half of his nature had been awakened and he found himself thinking of what it meant to die--to cease to be, with the world going on and on afterwards just as though nothing had happened. Then the teachings of a missionary whom he had heard preach in Nova Scotia came to him. He remembered what had been said of eternal happiness or eternal torment--that one or the other state awaited the soul of every one after death. Then a great terror took possession of him. If Bob Gray died, as he certainly must in this storm, _he_ would be responsible for it, and _his_ soul would be consigned to eternal torment--the terrible torment to last forever and forever, depicted by the missionary. He had committed many sins in his life, but they were of the past and forgotten. This was of the present. He could already, in his frenzied imagination see Dick Blake, the avenger. Dick would shoot him. That was certain--and then--eternal torment. The wind moaned outside, and then rose to a shriek. He sprang up and looked wildly about him. It was the shriek of a damned soul! No, he had been dozing and it was only a dream, and he lay back trembling. For a long while he could not go to sleep again. Fear had taken absolute and complete possession of him--the fear of the eternal damnation that the missionary had so vividly pictured. It was a picture that had been received at the time without being seen and through all these years had remained in his brain, covered and hidden. This day's work had suddenly and for the first time drawn aside the screen and left it bare before his eyes displaying to him every fearful minute outline. He was a murderer and he would be punished. There was no thought of repentance for sins committed--only fear of a fate that he shrunk from but which confronted him as a reality and a certainty--as great a certainty as his rising in the morning and so near at hand. He got up and looked out. The wind blew clouds of snow into his face. He could not see the tree that he knew was ten feet away. It was an awful night for a man to be out without shelter. Micmac John lay down again and after a time the tired brain and body yielded to nature and he slept. The instincts of the half-breed, keen even in slumber, felt rather than heard the diminishing of wind and snow as the storm subsided with the approach of morning, and he arose at once. The rest had quieted his nerves, and he was the stolid, revengeful Indian again. After a meagre breakfast of tea and jerked venison he took down the tent and lashed the things securely upon the toboggan and ere the first stars began to glimmer through the cloud rifts he was hurrying away in the stillness of the night. When the sky finally cleared and the moon came out, cold and brilliant, there was something uncanny and weird in its light lying upon earth's white shroud rent here and there by long, dark shadows across the trail. There was an indefinable mystery in the atmosphere. Micmac John, accustomed as he was to the wilderness, felt an uneasiness in his soul, the reflex perhaps of the previous night's awakening, that he could not quite throw off--a sense of impending danger--of a calamity about to happen. The trees became mighty men ready to strike at him as he approached and behind every bush crouched a waiting enemy. His guilty conscience was at work. The little spirit that God had placed within his bosom, to tell him when he was doing wrong, was not quite dead. He increased his speed as daylight approached travelling almost at a run. Suddenly he stopped to listen. From somewhere in the distance behind him a wolf cry broke the morning silence. In a little while there were more wolf cries, and they were coming nearer and nearer. The animals were doubtless following some quarry. Was it Bob they were after? A momentary qualm at the thought was quickly replaced by a feeling of satisfaction. That, he tried to argue with himself, would cover every clue to what had happened and was what he had hoped for. He hurried on. All at once a spasm of fear brought him to a halt. Could it be himself the wolves were trailing! The old horror of the night came back with all its reality and force. A clammy sweat broke out upon his body. He looked wildly about him for a retreat, but there was none. The wolves were gaining upon him rapidly and were very close now. There was no longer any doubt that _he_ was their quarry. They were trailing _him_. Micmac John was in a narrow, open marsh, and the wolves were already at the edge of the woods that skirted it a hundred yards behind. A little distance ahead of him was a big boulder, and he ran for it. At that moment the pack came into view. He stopped and stood paralyzed until they were within thirty yards of him, then he turned mechanically, from force of habit, and fired at the leader, which fell. This held them in check for an instant and roused him to action. He grabbed an axe from the toboggan and had time to gain the rock and take a stand with his back against it. As the animals rushed upon the half breed he swung the axe and split the head of one. This temporarily repulsed them. He held them at bay for a time, swinging his axe at every attempted approach. They formed themselves into a half circle just beyond his reach, snapping and snarling at him and showing their ugly fangs. Another big gray creature, bolder than the rest, made a rush, but the swinging axe split its head, just as it had the others. They retreated a few paces, but they were not to be kept back for long. Micmac John knew that his end had come. His face was drawn and terrified, and in spite of the fearful cold and biting frost, perspiration stood out upon his forehead. It was broad daylight now. Another wolf attacked from the front and fell under the axe. A little longer they parleyed. They were gradually growing more bold and narrowing the circle--coming so close that they were almost within reach of the swinging weapon. Finally a wolf on the right, and one on the left, charged at the same time, and in an instant those in front, as though acting upon a prearranged signal, closed in, and the pack became one snarling, fighting, clamouring mass. When the sun broke over the eastern horizon a little later it looked upon a circle of flat-tramped, blood-stained snow, over which were scattered bare picked human bones and pieces of torn clothing. A pack of wolves trotted leisurely away over the marsh. In the woods not a mile distant two Indian hunters were following the trail that led to Bob's unconscious body. [Illustration: "Micmac John knew his end had come"] XI THE TRAGEDY OF THE TRAIL A week passed and Christmas eve came. The weather continued clear and surpassingly fine. It was ideal weather for trapping, with no new snow to clog the traps and interfere with the hunters in their work. The atmosphere was transparent and crisp, and as it entered the lungs stimulated the body like a tonic, giving new life and buoyancy and action to the limbs. The sun never ventured far from the horizon now and the cold grew steadily more intense and penetrating. The river had long ago been chained by the mighty Frost King and over the earth the snow lay fully six feet deep where the wind had not drifted it away. A full hour before sunset Dick and Ed, in high good humour at the prospect of the holiday they had planned, arrived at the river tilt. They came together expecting to find Bob and Bill awaiting them there, but the shack was empty. "We'll be havin' th' tilt snug an' warm for th' lads when they comes," said Dick, as he went briskly to work to build a fire in the stove "You get some ice t' melt for th' tea, Ed. Th' lads'll be handy t' gettin' in now, an' when they comes supper'll be pipin' hot for un." Ed took an axe and a pail to the river where he chopped out pieces of fine, clear ice with which to fill the kettle. When he came back Dick had a roaring fire and was busy preparing partridges to boil. Pretty soon Bill arrived, and they gave him an uproarious greeting. It was the first time Bill and Ed had met since they came to their trails in the fall, and the two friends were as glad to see each other as though they had been separated for years. "An' how be un now, Bill, an' how's th' fur?" asked Ed when they were seated. "Fine," replied Bill. "Fur's been fine th' year. I has more by now 'an I gets all o' last season, an' one silver too." "A silver? An' be he a good un?" "Not so bad. He's a little gray on th' rump, but not enough t' hurt un much." "Well, now, you be doin' fine. I finds un not so bad, too--about th' best year I ever has, but one. That were twelve year ago, an' I gets a rare lot o' fur that year--a rare lot--but I'm not catchin' all of un myself. I gets most of un from th' Injuns." "An' how were un doin' that now?" asked Bill. "Now don't be tellin' that yarn agin," broke in Dick. "Sure Bill's heard un--leastways he must 'a' heard un." "No, I never heard un," said Bill. "An' ain't been missin' much then. 'Tis just one o' Ed's yarns, an' no truth in un." "'Tis no yarn. 'Tis true, an' I could prove un by th' Injuns. Leastways I could if I knew where un were, but none o' that crowd o' Injuns comes this way these days." "What were the yarn, now?" asked Bill. "I says 'tis no yarn. 'Tis what happened t' me," asserted Ed, assuming a much injured air. "As I were sayin', 'twere a frosty evenin' twelve year ago. I were comin' t' my lower tilt, an' when I gets handy t' un what does I see but a big band o' mountaineers around th' tilt. Th' mountaineers was not always friendly in those times as they be now, an' I makes up my mind for trouble. I comes up t' un an' speaks t' un pleasant, an' goes right in th' tilt t' see if un be takin' things. I finds a whole barrel o' flour missin' an' comes out at un. They owns up t' eatin' th' flour, an' they had eat th' hull barrel t' _one_ meal--now ye mind, _one_ meal. When un eats a _barrel_ o' flour t' _one_ meal there be a big band o' un. They was so many o' un I never counted. They was like t' be ugly at first, but I looks fierce like, an' tells un they must gi' me fur t' pay for un. I was so fierce like I scares un--scares un bad. I were _one_ man alone, an' wi' a bold face I had th' whole band so scared they each gives me a marten, an' I has a flat sled load o' martens from un--handy t' a hundred an' fifty--an' if I hadn't 'a' been bold an' scared un I'd 'a' had none. Injuns be easy scared if un knows how t' go about it." Bill laughed and remarked, "'Tis sure a fine yarn, Ed. How does un look t' be fierce an' scare folk?" "A fine yarn! An' I tells un 'tis a gospel truth, an' no yarn," asserted Ed, apparently very indignant at the insinuation. "Bob's late comin'," remarked Dick. "'Tis gettin' dark." "He be, now," said Bill, "an' he were sayin' he'd be gettin' here th' night an' maybe o' Monday night. 'Tis strange." They ate supper and the evening wore on, and no Bob. Bill went out several times to listen for the click of snow-shoes, but always came back to say, "No sign o' un yet." Finally it became quite certain that Bob was not coming that night. "'Tis wonderful queer now, an' he promised," Bill remarked, at length. "An' he brought down his fur last trip--a fine lot." "Where be un?" asked Dick. Bill looked for the fur. It was nowhere to be found, and, mystified and astounded, he exclaimed: "Sure th' fur be gone! Bob's an' mine too!" "Gone!" Dick and Ed both spoke together. "An' where now?" "Gone! His an' mine! 'Twere here when we leaves th' tilt, an' 'tis gone now!" The three had risen to their feet and stood looking at each other for awhile in silence. Finally Dick spoke: "'Tis what I was fearin'. 'Tis some o' Micmac John's work. Now where be Bob? Somethin's been happenin' t' th' lad. Micmac John's been doin' somethin' wi' un, an' we must find un." "We must find un an' run that devil Injun down," exclaimed Ed, reaching for his adikey. "We mustn't be losin' time about un, neither." "'Twill be no use goin' now," said Dick, with better judgment. "Th' moon's down an' we'd be missin' th' trail in th' dark, but wi' daylight we must be goin'." Ed hung his adikey up again. "I were forgettin' th' moon were down. We'll have t' bide here for daylight," he assented. Then he gritted his teeth. "That Injun'll have t' suffer for un if he's done foul wi' Bob." The remainder of the evening was spent in putting forth conjectures as to what had possibly befallen Bob. They were much concerned but tried to reassure themselves with the thought that he might have been delayed one tilt back for the night, and that Micmac John had done nothing worse than steal the fur. Nevertheless their evening was spoiled--the evening they had looked forward to with so much pleasure and their minds were filled with anxious thoughts when finally they rolled into their blankets for the night. Christmas morning came with a dead, searching cold that made the three men shiver as they stepped out of the warm tilt long before dawn and strode off in single file into the silent, dark forest. After a while daylight came, and then the sun, beautiful but cheerless, appeared above the eastern hills to reveal the white splendour of the world and make the frost-hung fir trees and bushes scintillate and sparkle like a gem-hung fairy-land. But the three men saw none of this. Before them lay a black, unknown horror that they dreaded, yet hurried on to meet. The air breathed a mystery that they could not fathom. Their hearts were weighted with a nameless dread. Their pace never once slackened and not a word was spoken until after several hours the first tilt came suddenly into view, when Dick said laconically: "No smoke. He's not here." "An' no signs o' his bein' on th' trail since th' storm," added Ed. "No footin' t' mark un at all," assented Dick. "What's happened has happened before th' last snow." "Aye, before th' last snow. 'Twas before th' storm it happened." Here they took a brief half hour to rest and boil the kettle, and the remainder of that day and all the next day kept up their tireless, silent march. Not a track in the unbroken white was there to give them a ray of hope, and every step they took made more certain the tragedy they dreaded. At noon on the third day they reached the last tilt. Bill was ahead, and when he pushed the door open he exclaimed: "Th' stove's gone!" Then they found the bag that Micmac John had left there with the fur in it. "Now that's Micmac John's bag," said Ed. "What devilment has th' Injun been doin'? Now why did he _leave_ th' fur? 'Tis strange--wonderful strange." Dick noted the evidences of an open fire having been kindled upon the earthen floor. "That fire were made since th' stove were taken," he said. "Micmac John left th' fur an' made th' fire. He's been stoppin' here a night after Bob left wi' th' stove. But why were Bob leavin' wi' th' stove? An' where has he gone? An' why has th' Injun been leavin' th' fur here an' not comin' for un again? We'll have t' be findin' out." They started immediately to search for some clue of the missing lad, each taking a different direction and agreeing to meet at night in the tilt. Everywhere they looked, but nothing was discovered, and, weary and disheartened, they turned back with dusk. Dick returned across the first lake above the tilt. As he strode along one of his snow-shoes pressed upon something hard, and he stopped to kick the snow away from it. It was a deer's antler. He uncovered it farther and found a chain, which he pulled up, disclosing a trap and in it a silver fox, dead and frozen stiff. He straightened up and looked at it. "A Christmas present for Bob an' he never got un," he said aloud. "Th' lad's sure perished not t' be findin' his silver." Here was a discovery that meant something. Bob had been setting traps in that direction, and might have a string of traps farther on. Possibly he had gone to put them in order when the storm came, and had been caught in it farther up, and perished. Anyway it was worth investigation. When Dick returned with the fox and the trap to the tilt he told the others of his theory and it was decided to concentrate their efforts in that direction in the morning. Accordingly the next day they pushed farther to the westward across the second lake, and at a point where a dead tree hung out over the ice found fresh axe cuttings. A little farther on they saw one or two sapling tops chopped off. These were in a line to the northward, and they took that direction. Finally they came upon a marsh, and heading in the same northerly course across it, came upon the tracks of a pack of wolves. Looking in the direction from which these led, Dick stopped and pointed towards a high boulder half a mile to the eastward. "Now what be that black on th' snow handy t' th' rock?" he asked. "'Tis lookin' t' me like a flat sled," said Ed. "We'll have a look at un," suggested Dick, who hurried forward with the others at his heels. Suddenly he stopped, and pointed at the beaten snow and scattered bones and torn clothing, where Micmac John had fought so desperately for his life. The three men stood horror stricken, their faces drawn and tense. This, then, was the solution of the mystery! This was what had happened to Bob! Pretty soon Dick spoke: "Th' poor lad! Th' poor lad! An' th' wolves got un!" "An' his poor mother," said Ed, choking. "'Twill break her heart, she were countin' so on Bob. An' th' little maid as is sick--'twill kill she." "Yes," said Bill, "Emily'll be mournin' herself t' death wi'out Bob." These big, soft-hearted trappers were all crying now like women. No other thought occurred to them than that these ghastly remains were Bob's, for the toboggan and things on it were his. After a while they tenderly gathered up the human remains and placed them upon the toboggan. Then they picked up the gun and blood spattered axe. "Now here be another axe on th' flat sled," said Dick. "What were Bob havin' two axes for?" "'Tis strange," said Ed. "He must ha' had one cached in here, an' were bringin' un back," suggested Bill, and this seemed a satisfactory explanation. "I'll take some pieces o' th' clothes. His mother'll be wantin' somethin' that he wore when it happened," said Dick, as he gathered some of the larger fragments of cloth from the snow. Then with bowed heads and heavy hearts they silently retraced their steps to the tilt, hauling the toboggan after them. At the tilt they halted to arrange their future course of action. "Now," said Dick, "what's t' be done? 'Twill only give pain th' sooner t' th' family t' go out an' tell un, an' 'twill do no good. I'm thinkin' 'tis best t' take th' remains t' th' river tilt an' not go out with un till we goes home wi' open water." "No, I'm not thinkin' that way," dissented Ed. "Bob's mother 'll be wantin' t' know right off. 'Tis not right t' keep it from she, an' she'll never be forgivin' us if we're doin' it." "They's trouble enough down there that they _knows_ of," argued Dick. "They'll be thinkin' Bob safe 'an not expectin' he till th' open water an' we don't tell un, an' between now an' then have so much less t' worry un, and be so much happier 'an if they were knowin'. Folks lives only so long anyways an' troubles they has an' don't know about is troubles they don't have, or th' same as not havin' un, an' their lives is that much happier." "I'm still thinkin' they'll be wantin' t' know," insisted Ed. "They'll be plannin' th' whole winter for Bob's comin' an' when they's expectin' him an' hears he's dead, 'twill be worse'n hearin' before they expects un. Leastways, they'll be gettin' over un th' sooner they hears, for trouble always wears off some wi' passin' time. 'Tis our duty t' go an' tell un _now_, I'm thinkin'." "What's un think, Bill?" asked Dick. "I'm thinkin with Ed, 'tis best t' go," said Bill, positively. "Well, maybe 'tis--maybe 'tis," Dick finally assented. "Now, who'll be goin'? 'Twill be a wonderful hard task t' break th' news. I'm thinkin' my heart'd be failin' me when I gets there. Ed, would un _mind_ goin'?" Ed hesitated a moment, then he said: "I'm fearin' t' tell th' mother, but 'tis for some one t' do. 'Tis my duty t' do un--an' I'll be goin'." It was finally arranged that Ed should begin his journey the following morning, drawing the remains on a toboggan, and taking otherwise only the tent, a tent stove, and enough food to see him through, leaving the remainder of Bob's things to be carried out in the boat in the spring. Dick undertook the charge of them as well as Bob's fur. Ed was to take the short cut to the river tilt and thence follow the river ice while Dick and Bill sprang Bob's traps on the upper end of his path. "But," said Bill, after this arrangement was made, "Bob's folks be in sore need o' th' fur he'd be gettin' an' when Ed comes back, I'm thinkin' 'twould be fine for us not t' be takin' rest o' Saturdays but turnin' right back in th' trails. Ed can be doin' one tilt o' your trail, Dick, an' so shortenin' your trail one tilt so you can do two o' mine an' I'll shorten Ed two tilts an' do _three_ o' Bob's. I'd be willin' t' work _Sundays_ an' I'm thinkin' th' Lard wouldn't be findin' fault o' me for doin' un seem' Emily's needin' th' fur t' go t' th' doctor. 'Tis sure th' Lard wouldn't be gettin' angry wi' me for _that_, for He knows how bad off Emily is." This generous proposal met with the approval of all, and details were arranged accordingly that evening as to just what each was to do until the furring season closed in the spring. This was Saturday, December the twenty-eighth. On Sunday morning Ed bade good-bye to his companions and began the long and lonely journey to Wolf Bight with his ghastly charge in tow. XII IN THE HANDS OF THE NASCAUPEES Late on the afternoon of the day that Bob fell asleep in the snow, he awoke to new and strange surroundings. His first conscious moments brought with them a sense of comfortable security. His mind had thrown off every feeling of responsibility and he knew only that he was warm and snugly tucked into bed and that the odour of spruce forest and wood smoke that he breathed was very pleasant. He lay quiet for a time, with his eyes closed, in a state of blissful, half consciousness, vaguely realizing these things, but not possessing sufficient energy to open his eyes and investigate them or question where he was. Slowly his mind awoke from its lethargy and then he began to remember as a dim, uncertain dream, his experience of the night before. Gradually it became more real but he recalled his failure to find the tent, the fearful groping in the snow, and his struggle for life against the storm as something that had happened in the long distant past. "But how could all this ha' been happenin' t' me now?" he asked himself, for here he was snug in the tent--or perhaps he had reached the tilt and did not remember. He opened his eyes now for the first time to see and satisfy himself as to whether it was the tent or the tilt he was in, and what he saw astonished and brought him to his senses very quickly. He recognized at once the interior of an Indian wigwam. In the centre a fire was burning and an Indian woman was leaning over it stirring the contents of a kettle. On the opposite side of the fire from her sat a young Indian maiden of about Bob's own age netting the babiche in a snow-shoe, her fingers plying deftly in and out. The woman and girl wore deerskin garments of peculiar design. The former was fat and ugly, the latter slender, and very comely, he thought, from her sleek black hair to her feet encased in daintily worked little moccasins. At that moment she glanced towards him and said something to her companion, who turned in his direction also. "Where am I?" he asked wonderingly and with some alarm. They both laughed and jabbered then in their Indian tongue but he could not understand a word they said. The girl lay aside the snow-shoe and babiche and, taking up a tin cup, dipped some hot broth from the kettle and offered it to him. He accepted it gladly for he was thirsty and felt unaccountably weak. The broth contained no salt or flavouring of any kind, but was very refreshing. When he had finished it he put the cup down and attempted to rise but this movement brought forth a flood of Indian expostulations and he was forced to lie quiet again. It was very evident that he was either considered an invalid too ill to move or was held in bondage. He had never heard that Indian captives were tucked into soft deerskin robes and fed broth by comely Indian maidens, however, and if he were a prisoner it did not promise to be so very disagreeable a captivity. On the whole it was very pleasant and restful lying there on the soft skins of which his bed was composed, for he still felt tired and weak. He took in every detail of his surroundings. The wigwam was circular in form and of good size. It was made of reindeer skins stretched over poles very dingy and black, with an opening at the top to permit the smoke from the fire in the centre to escape. Flat stones raised slightly above the ground served as a fireplace, and around it were thickly laid spruce boughs. Some strips of jerked venison hung from the poles above, and near his feet he glimpsed his own gun and powder horn. Bob could see at once that these Indians were much more primitive than those he knew at the Bay and, unfamiliar as he was with the Indian language, he noticed a marked difference in the intonation and inflection when the woman spoke. "Now," said Bob to himself, "th' Nascaupees must ha' found me an' these be Nascaupees. But Mountaineers an' every one says Nascaupees be savage an' cruel, an' I'm not knowin' what un be. 'Tis queer--most wonderful queer." He had no recollection of lying down in the snow. The last he could definitely recall was his fearful battling with the storm. There was a sort of hazy remembrance of something that he could not quite grasp--of having gone to sleep somewhere in a snug, warm bed spread with white sheets. Try as he would he could not explain his presence in this Indian wigwam, nor could he tell how long he had been here. It seemed to him years since the morning he left the tilt to go on the caribou hunt. So he lay for a good while trying to account for his strange surroundings until at last he became drowsy and was on the point of going to sleep when suddenly the entrance flap of the wigwam opened and two Indians entered--the most savage looking men Bob had ever seen--and he felt a thrill of fear as he beheld them. They were very tall, slender, sinewy fellows, dressed in snug fitting deerskin coats reaching half way to the knees and decorated with elaborately painted designs in many colours. Their heads were covered with hairy hoods, and the ears of the animal from which they were made gave a grotesque and savage appearance to the wearers. Light fitting buckskin leggings, fringed on the outer side, encased their legs, and a pair of deerskin mittens dangled from the ends of a string which was slung around the neck. One of the men was past middle age, the other a young fellow of perhaps twenty. The older woman said something to them and they began to jabber in so high a tone of voice that Bob would have thought they were quarrelling but for the fact that they laughed good-naturedly all the time and came right over to where he lay to shake his hand. They had a good deal to say to him, but he could not understand one word of their language. After greeting him both men removed their outer coats and hoods, and Bob could not but admire the graceful, muscular forms that the buckskin undergarments displayed. Their hair was long, black and straight and around their foreheads was tied a thong of buckskin to keep it from falling over their faces. They laughed at Bob's inability to understand them, and were much amused when he tried to talk with them. Every effort was made to put him at ease. When the men were finally seated, the girl dipped out a cup of broth and a dish of venison stew from the kettle which she handed to Bob; then the others helped themselves from what remained. There was no bread nor tea, and nothing to eat but the unflavoured meat. It was quite dark now and the fire cast weird, uncanny shadows on the dimly-lighted interior walls of the wigwam. The Indians sitting around it in their peculiar dress seemed like unreal inhabitants of some spirit world. Bob's coming to himself in this place and amongst these people appealed to him as miraculous--supernatural. He could not understand it at all. He began to plan an escape. When they were all asleep he could steal quietly out and make his way back to the tilt. But, then, he reasoned, if they wished to detain him they could easily track him in the snow in the morning; and, besides, he did not know where his snow-shoes were and without them he could not go far. Neither did he know how far he was from the tilt. After the Indians had found him they may have carried him several days' journey to their camp and whether they had gone west or north he had no way of finding out. It was, therefore, he realized, an unquestionably hopeless undertaking for him to attempt to reach his tilt alone, and he finally dismissed the idea as impracticable. Perhaps in the morning he could induce them to take him there. That, he concluded, was the only plan for him to follow. So far they had been very kind and he could see no reason why they should wish to detain him against his will. The Indians were indeed Nascaupee Indians, but instead of being the ruthless cut-throats that the Mountaineers and the legends of the coast had painted them, they were human and hospitable, as all our eastern Indians were before white men taught them to be thieves and drove and goaded them--by the white man's own treachery--to acts of reprisal and revenge. These Nascaupees, living as they did in a country inaccessible to the white ravishers, had none but kindly motives in their treatment of Bob and had no desire to do him harm. On the morning that Bob fell in the snow Shish-e-tá-ku-shin--Loud-voice--and his son Moó-koo-mahn--Big Knife--had left their wigwam early to hunt. Not far away they crossed Bob's trail. Their practiced eye told them that the traveller was not an Indian, for the snow-shoes he wore were not of Indian make, and also, from the uncertain, wobbly trail, they decided that he was far spent. So they followed the tracks and within a few minutes after Bob had fallen found him. They carried him to the wigwam and rubbed his frosted limbs and face until it was quite safe to wrap him in the deerskins in the warm wigwam. They did not know who he was nor where he came from, but they did know that he needed care and several days of quiet. He was a stranger and they took him in. These poor heathens had never heard of Christ or His teachings, but their hearts were human. And so it was that Bob found himself amongst friends and was rescued from what seemed certain death. When morning came Bob tried in every conceivable way to make them understand that he wished to be taken back, but he found it a quite hopeless task. No signs or pantomime could make them comprehend his meaning, and it appeared that he was doomed to remain with them. The shock of exposure had been so great that he was still very weak and not able to walk, as he quickly realized when he tried to move about, and he was compelled to remain within in the company of the women, in spite of his desire to go out and reconnoitre. Ma-ni-ka-wan, the maiden, took it upon herself to be his nurse. She brought him water to bathe his face, which was very sore from frostbite, and gave him the choicest morsels from the kettle, and made him as comfortable as possible. At first he held a faint hope that when Bill missed him at the tilt, a search would be made for him and his friends would find the wigwam. But as the days slipped by he realized that he would probably never be discovered. There came a fear that the news of his disappearance would be carried to Wolf Bight and he dreaded the effect upon his mother and Emily. But there was one consolation. Emily could go to the hospital now and be cured. Bill would find the silver fox skin and his share of that and the other furs would pay not only his own but his father's debts, he felt sure, as well as all the expense of Emily's treatment by the doctor--and a good surplus of cash--how much he could not imagine and did not try to calculate--for the doctor had said that silver foxes were worth five hundred dollars in cash. This thought gave him a degree of satisfaction that towered so far above his troubles that he almost forgot them. In a little while he was quite strong and active again. Finally a day came when the Indians made preparations to move. The wigwam was taken down and with all their belongings packed upon toboggans, and under the cold stars of a January morning, they turned to the northward, and Bob had no other course than to go with them even farther from the loved ones and the home that his heart so longed to see. XIII A FOREBODING OF EVIL Never before had Bob been away from home for more than a week at a time, and his mother and Emily were very lonely after his departure in September. They missed his rough good-natured presence with the noise and confusion that always followed him no less than his little thoughtful attentions. They forgot the pranks that the overflow of his young blood sometimes led him into, remembering only his gentler side. He had helped Emily to pass the time less wearily, often sitting for hours at a time by her couch, telling her stories or joking with her, or making plans for the future, and she felt his absence now perhaps more than even his mother. Many times during the first week or so after his going she found herself turning wistfully towards the door half expecting to see him enter, at the hours when he used to come back from the fishing, and then she would realize that he was really gone away, and would turn her face to the wall, that her mother might not see her, and cry quietly in her loneliness. Without Bob's help, Richard Gray was very busy now. The fishing season was ended, but there was wood to be cut and much to be done in preparation for the long winter close at hand. He went early each morning to his work, and only returned to the cabin with the dusk of evening. This home-coming of the father was the one bright period of the day for Emily, and during the dreary hours that preceded it, she looked forward with pleasure and longing to the moment when he should open the door, and call out to her, "An' how's my little maid been th'day? Has she been lonesome without her daddy?" And she would always answer, "I's been fine, but dreadful lonesome without daddy." Then he would kiss her, and sit down for a little while by her couch, before he ate his supper, to tell her of the trivial happenings out of doors, while he caressed her by stroking her hair gently back from her forehead. After the meal the three would chat for an hour or so while he smoked his pipe and Mrs. Gray washed the dishes. Then before they went to their rest he would laboriously read a selection from the Bible, and afterwards, on his knees by Emily's couch, thank God for His goodness to them and ask for His protection, always ending with the petition, "An', Lard, look after th' lad an' keep he safe from th' Nascaupees an' all harm; an' heal th' maid an' make she well, for, Lard, you must be knowin' what a good little maid she is." Emily never heard this prayer without feeling an absolute confidence that it would be answered literally, for God was very real to her, and she had the complete, unshattered faith of childhood. Late in October the father went to his trapping trail, and after that was only home for a couple of days each fortnight. There was no pleasant evening hour now for Emily and her mother to look forward to. The men of the bay were all away at their hunting trails, and no callers ever came to break the monotony of their life, save once in a while Douglas Campbell would tramp over the ice the eight miles from Kenemish to spend an afternoon and cheer them up. Emily missed Bob more than ever, since her father had gone, but she was usually very patient and cheerful. For hours at a time she would think of his home-coming, and thrill with the joy of it. In her fancy she would see him as he would look when he came in after his long absence, and in her imagination picture the days and days of happiness that would follow while he sat by her couch and told her of his adventures in the far off wilderness. Once, late in November, she called her mother to her and asked: "Mother, how long will it be now an' Bob comes home?" "'Tis many months till th' open water, but I were hopin', dear, that mayhap he'd be comin' at th' New Year." "An' how long may it be to th' New Year, mother?" "A bit more than a month, but 'tis not certain he'll be comin' then." "'Tis a long while t' wait--a _terrible_ long while t' be waitin'--t' th' New Year." "Not so long, Emily. Th' time'll be slippin' by before we knows. But don't be countin' on his comin' th' New Year, for 'tis a rare long cruise t' th' Big Hill trail an' he may be waitin' till th' break-up. But I'm thinkin' my lad'll be wantin' t' see how th' little maid is,--an' see his mother--an' mayhap be takin' th' cruise." "An Bob knew how lonesome we were--how _wonderful_ lonesome we were--he'd be comin' at th' New Year sure. An' he'll be gettin' lonesome hisself. He must be gettin' _dreadful_ lonesome away off in th' bush this long time! He'll _sure_ be comin' at th' New Year!" After this Emily began to keep account of the days as they passed. She had her mother reckon for her the actual number until New Year's Eve, and each morning she would say, "only so many days now an' Bob'll be comin' home." Her mother warned her that it was not at all certain he would come then--only a hope. But it grew to be a settled fact for Emily, and a part of her daily life, to expect and plan for the happy time when she should see him. Mrs. Gray had not been able to throw off entirely the foreboding of calamity that she had voiced at the time Bob left home. Every morning she awoke with a heavy heart, like one bearing a great weight of sorrow. Before going about her daily duties she would pray for the preservation of her son and the healing of her daughter, and it would relieve her burden somewhat, but never wholly. The strange Presence was always with her. One day when Douglas Campbell came over he found her very despondent, and he asked: "Now what's troublin' you, Mary? There's some trouble on yer mind. Don't be worryin' about th' lad. He's as safe as you be. He'll be comin' home as fine an' hearty as ever you see him, an' with a fine hunt." "I knows the's no call for th' worry," she answered, "but someways I has a forebodin' o' somethin' evil t' happen an' I can't shake un off. I can't tell what an be. Mayhap 'tis th' maid. She's no better, an' th' Lard's not answerin' my prayer yet t' give back strength t' she an' make she walk." "'Twill be all right wi' th' maid, now. Th' doctor said they'd be makin' she well at th' hospital." "But the's no money t' send she t' th' hospital--an' if she don't go--th' doctor said she'd never be gettin' well." "Now don't be lettin' _that_ worry ye, Mary. Th' Lard'll be findin' a way t' send she t' St. Johns when th' mail boat comes back in th' spring, if that be His way o' curin she--I _knows_ He will. Th' Lard always does things right an' He'll be fixin' it right for th' maid. He'd not be lettin' a pretty maid like Emily go all her life wi'out walkin'--He _never_ would do that. I'm thinkin' He'd a' found a way afore _now_ if th' mail boat had been makin' another trip before th' freeze up." "I'm lackin' in faith, I'm fearin'. I'm always forgettin' that th' Lard does what's best for us an' don't always do un th' way we wants He to. He's bidin' His own time I'm thinkin', an' answerin' my prayers th' way as is best." This talk with Douglas made her feel better, but still there was that burden on her heart--a burden that would not be shaken off. All the Bay was frozen now, and white, like the rest of the world, with drifted snow. The great box stove in the cabin was kept well filled with wood night and day to keep out the searching cold. An inch-thick coat of frost covered the inner side of the glass panes of the two windows and shut out the morning sunbeams that used to steal across the floor to brighten the little room. December was fast drawing to a close. Richard Gray's luck had changed. Fur was plentiful--more plentiful than it had been for years--and he was hopeful that by spring he would have enough to pay all his back debt at the company store and be on his feet again. Two days before Christmas he reached home in high good humour, with the pelts he had caught, and displayed them with satisfaction to Mrs. Gray and Emily--beautiful black otters, martens, minks and beavers with a few lynx and a couple of red foxes. "I'll be stayin' home for a fortnight t' get some more wood cut," he announced. "How'll that suit th' maid?" "Oh! Tis fine!" cried the child, clapping her hands with delight. "An' Bob'll be home for the New Year an' we'll all be havin' a fine time together before you an' Bob goes away again." "In th' mornin' I'll have t' be goin' t' th' Post wi' th' dogs an' komatik t' get some things. Is there anything yer wantin', Mary?" he asked his wife. "We has plenty o' flour an' molasses an' tea; but," she suggested, "th' next day's Christmas, Richard." "Aye, I'm thinkin' o' un an' I may be seein' Santa Claus t' tell un what a rare fine maid Emily's been an' ask un not t' be forgettin' she. He's been wonderful forgetful not t' be comin' round last Christmas an' th' Christmas before I'll have t' be remindin' he." Emily looked up wistfully. "An' you are thinkin' he'll have _time_ t' come here wi' all th' places t' go to? Oh, I'm wishin' he would!" "I'll just make un--I'll just _make_ un," said her father. "I'll not let un pass my maid _every_ time." Emily was awake early the next morning--before daybreak. Her father was about to start for the Post, and the dogs were straining and jumping in the traces. She knew this because she could hear their expectant howls,--and the dogs never howled just like that under any other circumstances. Then she heard "hoo-ett--hoo-ett" as he gave them the word to be off and, in the distance, as he turned them down the brook to the right his shouts of "ouk! ouk! ouk!--ouk! ouk! ouk!" It was a day of delightful expectancy. Tomorrow would be Christmas and perhaps--perhaps--Santa Claus would come! She chattered all day to her mother about it, wondering if he would really come and what he would bring her. Finally, just at nightfall she heard her father shouting at the dogs outside and presently he came in carrying his komatik box, his beard weighted with ice and his clothing white with hoar frost. "Well," announced he, as he put down the box and pulled his adikey over his head, "I were seein' Santa Claus th' day an' givin' he a rare scoldin' for passin' my maid by these two year--a _rare_ scoldin'--an' I'm thinkin' he'll not be passin' un by _this_ Christmas. He'll not be wantin' _another_ such scoldin'." "Oh!" said Emily, "'twere too bad t' scold un. He must be havin' a wonderful lot o' places t' go to an' he's not deservin' t' be scolded now. He's sure doin' th' best he can--I _knows_ he's doin' th' best he can." "He were deservin' of un, an' more. He were passin' my maid _two_ year runnin' an' I can't be havin' that," insisted the father as he hung up his adikey and stooped to open the komatik box, from which he extracted a small package which he handed to Emily saying, "Somethin' Bessie were sendin'." "Look! Look, mother!" Emily cried excitedly as she undid the package and discovered a bit of red ribbon; "a hair ribbon an'--an' a paper with some writin'!" Mrs. Gray duly examined and admired the gift while Emily spelled out the message. [Illustration (handwriting): to dear emily Wishin mery Crismus from Bessie] "Oh, an' Bessie's fine t' be rememberin' me!" said she, adding regretfully, "I'm wishin' I'd been sendin' she somethin' but I hasn't a thing t' send." "Aye, Bessie's a fine lass," said her father. "She sees me comin' an' runs down t' meet me, an' asks how un be, an' if we're hearin' e'er a word from Bob. An' I tells she Emily's fine an' we're not hearin' from Bob, but are thinkin' un may be comin' home for th' New Year. An' then Bessie says as she's wantin' t' come over at th' New Year t' visit Emily." "An' why weren't you askin' she t' come back with un th' day?" asked Mrs. Gray. "Oh, I wish she had!" exclaimed Emily. "I were askin' she," he explained, "but she were thinkin' she'd wait till th' New Year. Her mother's rare busy th' week wi' th' men all in from th' bush, an' needin' Bessie's help." "An' how's th' folk findin' th' fur?" asked Mrs. Gray as she poured the tea. "Wonderful fine. Wonderful fine with all un as be in." "An' I'm glad t' hear un. 'Twill be givin' th' folk a chance t' pay th' debts. Th' two bad seasons must ha' put most of un in a bad way for debt." "Aye, 'twill that. An' now we're like t' have two fine seasons. 'Tis th' way un always runs." "'Tis th' Lard's way," said Mrs. Gray reverently. "The's a band o' Injuns come th' day," added Richard Gray, "an' they reports fur rare plenty inside, as 'tis about here. An' I'm thinkin' Bob'll be doin' fine his first year in th' bush." "Oh, I'm hopin'--I'm hopin' so--for th' lad's sake an' Emily's. 'Tis how th' Lard's makin' a way for th' brave lad t' send Emily t' th' doctor--an' he comes back safe." "I were askin' th' Mountaineers had they seen Nascaupee footin', an' they seen none. They're sayin' th' Nascaupees has been keepin' t' th' nuth'ard th' winter, an' we're not t' fear for th' lad." "Thank th' Lard!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray. "Thank th' Lard! An' now that's relievin' my mind wonderful--relievin'--it--wonderful." There was an added earnestness to Richard Gray's expressions of thanksgiving when he knelt with his wife by their child's couch for family worship that Christmas eve, and there was an unwonted happiness in their hearts when they went to their night's rest. XIV THE SHADOW OF DEATH The kettle was singing merrily on the stove, and Mrs. Gray was setting the breakfast table, when Emily awoke on Christmas morning. Her father was just coming in from out-of-doors bringing a breath of the fresh winter air with him. "A Merry Christmas," he called to her. "A Merry Christmas t' my maid!" "And did Santa Claus come?" she asked, looking around expectantly. "Santa Claus? There now!" he exclaimed, "an' has th' old rascal been forgettin' t' come again? Has you seen any signs o' Santa Claus bein' here?" he asked of Mrs. Gray, as though thinking of it for the first time. Then, turning towards the wall back of the stove, he exclaimed, "Ah! Ah! an' what's _this_?" Emily looked, and there, sitting upon the shelf, was a doll! "Oh! Oh, th' dear little thing!" she cried. "Oh, let me have un!" Mrs. Gray took it down and handed it to her, and she hugged it to her in an ecstasy of delight. Then she held it off and looked at it, and hugged again, and for very joy she wept. It was only a poor little rag doll with face and hair grotesquely painted upon the cloth, and dressed in printed calico--but it was a doll--a _real_ one--the first that Emily had ever owned. It had been the dream of her life that some day she might have one, and now the dream was a blessed reality. Her happiness was quite beyond expression as she lay there on her bed that Christmas morning pressing the doll to her breast and crying. Poverty has its seasons of recompense that more than counterbalance all the pleasures that wealth can buy, and this was one of those seasons for the family of Richard Gray. Presently Emily stopped crying, and through the tears came laughter, and she held the toy out for her father and mother to take and examine and admire. A little later Mrs. Gray came from the closet holding a mysterious package in her hand. "Now what be _this_? 'Twere in th' closet an' looks like somethin' more Santa Claus were leavin'." "Well now!" exclaimed Richard, "what may _that_ be? Open un an' we'll see." An investigation of its contents revealed a couple of pounds of sugar, some currants, raisins and a small can of butter. "Santa Claus were wantin' us t' have a plum puddin' _I'm_ thinkin'," said Mrs. Gray, as she examined each article and showed it to Emily. "An' we're t' have sugar for th' tea and butter for th' bread. But th' puddin's not t' get _all_ th' raisins. Emily's t' have some t' eat after we has breakfast." Dinner was a great success. There were roast ptarmigans stuffed with fine-chopped pork and bread, and the unwonted luxuries of butter and sugar--and then the plum pudding served with molasses for sauce. That was fine, and Emily had to have two helpings of it. If Bob had been with them their cup of happiness would have been filled quite to the brim, and more than once Emily exclaimed: "Now if _Bob_ was only here!" And several times during the day she said, "I'm just _wishin'_ t' show Bob my pretty doll--an' won't he be glad t' see un!" The report from the Mountaineer Indians that no Nascaupees had been seen had set at rest their fears for the lad's safety. The apprehension that he might get into the hands of the Nascaupees had been the chief cause of worry, for they felt full confidence in Bob's ability to cope with the wilderness itself. The day was so full of surprises and new sensations that when bedtime came Emily was quite tired out with the excitement of it all, and was hardly able to keep awake until the family worship was closed. Then she went to sleep with the doll in her arms. The week from Christmas till New Year passed quickly. Richard Gray was at home, and this was a great treat for Mrs. Gray and Emily, and with several of their neighbours who lived within ten to twenty miles of Wolf Bight driving over with dogs to spend a few hours--for most of the men were home from their traps for the holidays--the time was pretty well filled up. Emily's doll was a never failing source of amusement to her, and she always slept with it in her arms. Over at the Post it was a busy week for Mr. MacDonald and his people, for all the Bay hunters and Indians had trading to do, and most of them remained at least one night to gossip and discuss their various prospects and enjoy the hospitality of the kitchen; and then there was a dance nearly every night, for this was their season of amusement and relaxation in the midst of the months of bitter hardships on the trail. Bessie and her mother had not a moment to themselves, with all the extra cooking and cleaning to be done, for it fell upon them to provide for every one; and it became quite evident to Bessie that she could not get away for her proposed visit to Wolf Bight until the last of the hunters was gone. This would not be until the day after New Year's, so she postponed her request to her father, to take her over, until New Year's day. Then she watched for a favourable opportunity when she was alone with him and her mother. Finally it came late in the afternoon, when he stepped into the house for something, and she asked him timidly: "Father, I'm wantin' t' go on a cruise t' Wolf Bight--t' see Emily--can't you take me over with th dogs an' komatik?" "When you wantin' t' go, lass?" he asked. "I'm wishin' t' be goin' to-morrow." "I'm t' be wonderful busy for a few days. Can't un wait a week or two?" "I'm wantin' t' go now, father, if I goes. I'm not wantin' t' wait." "Bob's t' be home," suggested Mrs. Blake. "Oh, ho! I see!" he exclaimed. "'Tisn't Bob instead o' Emily you're wantin' so wonderful bad t' see now, is un?" "'Tis--Emily--I'm wantin'--t'--see," faltered Bessie, blushing prettily and fingering the hem of her apron in which she was suddenly very much interested. "Bob's a fine lad--a fine lad--an' I'm not wonderin'," said her father teasingly. "Now, Tom," interceded Mrs. Black, "don't be tormentin' Bessie. O' course 'tis just Emily she's wantin' t' see. She's not thinkin' o' th' lads yet." "Oh, aye," said he, looking slyly out of the corner of his eye at Bessie, who was blushing now to the very roots of her hair, "I'm not blamin' she for likin' Bob. I likes he myself." "Well, Tom, be tellin' th' lass you'll take she over. She's been kept wonderful close th' winter, an' the cruise'll be doin' she good," urged Mrs. Black. "I wants t' go _so_ much," Bessie pleaded. "Well, I'll ask Mr. MacDonald can he spare me th' day. I'm thinkin' 'twill be all right," he finally assented. And it was all right. When the last hunter had disappeared the next morning, the komatik was got ready. A box made for the purpose was lashed on the back end of it, and warm reindeer skins spread upon the bottom for Bessie to sit upon. Then the nine big dogs were called by shouting "Ho! Ho! Ho!" to them, and were caught and harnessed, after which Tom cracked a long walrus-hide whip over their heads, and made them lie quiet until Bessie was tucked snugly in the box, and wrapped well in deerskin robes. When at last all was ready the father stepped aside with his whip, and immediately the dogs were up jumping and straining in their harness and giving short impatient howls, over eager to be away. Tom grasped the front end of the komatik runners, pulled them sharply to one side to break them loose from the snow to which they were frozen, and instantly the dogs were off at a gallop running like mad over the ice with the trailing komatik in imminent danger of turning over when it struck the ice hummocks that the tide had scattered for some distance out from the shore. Presently they calmed down, however, to a jog trot, and Tom got off the komatik and ran by its side, guiding the team by calling out "ouk" when he wanted to turn to the right and "rudder" to turn to the left, repeating the words many times in rapid succession as though trying to see how fast he could say them. The head dog, or leader, always turned quickly at the word of command, and the others followed. It was a very cold day--fifty degrees below zero Mr. MacDonald had said before they started--and Bessie's father looked frequently to see that her nose and cheeks were not freezing, for a traveller in the northern country when not exercising violently will often have these parts of the face frozen without knowing it or even feeling cold, and if the wind is blowing in the face is pretty sure to have them frosted anyway. Most of the snow had drifted off the ice, and the dogs had a good hard surface to travel upon, and were able to keep up a steady trot. They made such good time that in two hours they turned into Wolf Bight, and as they approached the Grays' cabin broke into a gallop, for dogs always like to begin a journey and end it with a flourish of speed just to show how fast they _can_ go, no matter how slowly they may jog along between places. The dogs at Wolf Bight were out to howl defiance at them as they approached and to indulge in a free fight with the newcomers when they arrived, until the opposing ones were beaten apart with clubs and whips. It is a part of a husky dog's religion to fight whenever an excuse offers, and often when there is no excuse. Richard and Mrs. Gray came running out to meet Tom and Bessie, and Bessie was hurried into the cabin where Emily was waiting in excited expectancy to greet her. Mrs. Gray bustled about at once and brewed some hot tea for the visitors and set out a luncheon of bread for them. "Now set in an' have a hot drink t' warm un up," said she when it was ready. "You must be most froze, Bessie, this frosty day." "I were warm wrapped in th' deerskins, an' not so cold," Bessie answered. "We were lookin' for Bob these three days," remarked Mrs. Gray as she poured the tea. "We were thinkin' he'd sure be gettin' lonesome by now, an' be makin' a cruise out." "'Tis a long cruise from th' Big Hill trail unless he were needing somethin'," suggested Tom, taking his seat at the table. "Aye," assented Richard, "an' I'm thinkin' th' lad'll not be wantin' t' lose th' time 'twill take t' come out. He'll be biding inside t' make th' most o' th' huntin', an' th' fur be plenty." "That un will," agreed Tom, "an' 'twould not be wise for un t' be losin' a good three weeks o' huntin'. Bob's a workin' lad, an' I'm not thinkin' you'll see he till open water comes." "Oh," broke in Emily, "an' don't un _really_ think Bob's t' come? I been wishin' _so_ for un, an' 'twould be grand t' have he come while Bessie's here." "Bessie's thinkin' 'twould too," said Tom, who could not let pass an opportunity to tease his daughter. They all looked at Bessie, who blushed furiously, but said nothing, realizing that silence was the best means of diverting her father's attention from the subject, and preventing his further remarks. "Well I'll have t' be goin'," said Tom presently, pushing back from the table. "Oh, sit down, man, an' bide a bit. There's nothin' t' take un back so soon. Bide here th' night, can't un?" urged Richard. "I were sayin' t' Mr. MacDonald as I'd be back t' th' post th' day, so promisin' I has t' go." "Aye, an' un promised, though I were hopin' t' have un bide th' night." "When'll I be comin' for un, Bessie?" asked Tom. "Oh, Bessie must be bidin' a _long_ time," plead Emily. "I've been wishin' t' have she _so_ much. Please be leavin' she a _long_ time." "Mother'll be needin' me I'm thinkin' in a week," said Bessie, "though I'd like t' bide longer." "Your mother'll not be needin' un, now th' men's gone. Bide wi' Emily a fortnight," her father suggested. "I'll take th' lass over when she's wantin' t' go," said Richard. "'Tis a rare treat t' Emily t' have she here, an' th' change'll be doin' your lass good." So it was agreed, and Tom drove away. It was a terrible disappointment to Emily and her mother that Bob did not come, but Bessie's visit served to mitigate it to some extent, and her presence brightened the cabin very much. No one knew whether or not Bob's failure to appear was regretted by Bessie. That was her secret. However it may have been, she had a splendid visit with Mrs. Gray and Emily, and the days rolled by very pleasantly, and when Richard Gray left for his trail again on the Monday morning following her arrival the thought that Bessie was with "th' little maid" gave him a sense of quiet satisfaction and security that he had not felt when he was away from them earlier in the winter. When Douglas Campbell came over one morning a week after Bessie's arrival he found the atmosphere of gloom that he had noticed on his earlier visits had quite disappeared. Mrs. Gray seemed contented now, and Emily was as happy as could be. Douglas remained to have dinner with them. They had just finished eating and he had settled back to have a smoke before going home, admiring a new dress that Bessie had made for Emily's doll, and talking to the child, while Mrs. Gray and Bessie cleared away the dishes, when the door opened and Ed Matheson appeared on the threshold. Ed stood in the open door speechless, his face haggard and drawn, and his tall thin form bent slightly forward like a man carrying a heavy burden upon his shoulders. It was not necessary for Ed to speak. The moment Mrs. Gray saw him she knew that he was the bearer of evil news. She tottered as though she would fall, then recovering herself she extended her arms towards him and cried in agony: "Oh, my lad! My lad! What has happened to my lad!" "Bob--Bob"--faltered Ed, "th'--wolves--got--un." He had nerved himself for this moment, and now the spell was broken he sat down upon a bench, and with his elbows upon his knees and his face in his big weather-browned hands, cried like a child. Emily lay white and wild-eyed. She could not realize it all or understand it. It seemed for a moment as though Mrs. Gray would faint, and Bessie, pale but self-possessed, supported her to a seat and tried gently to soothe her. Douglas, too, did what he could to comfort, though there was little that he could do or say to relieve the mother's grief. At first Mrs. Gray simply moaned, "My lad--my lad--my lad----" upbraiding herself for ever letting him go away from home; but finally tears--the blessed safety-valve of grief--came and washed away the first effects of the shock. Then she became quite calm, and insisted upon hearing every smallest detail of Ed's story, and he related what had happened step by step, beginning with the arrival of himself and Dick at the river tilt on Christmas eve and the discovery that Bob's furs had been removed, and passed on to the finding of the remains by the big boulder in the marsh, Mrs. Gray interrupting now and again to ask a fuller explanation here and there. When Ed told of gathering up the fragments of torn clothing, she asked to see them at once. Ed hesitated, and Douglas suggested that she wait until a later time when her nerves were steadier; but she was determined, and insisted upon seeing them without delay, and there was nothing to do but produce them. Contrary to their expectations, she made no scene when they were placed before her, and though her hand trembled a little was quite collected as she took up the blood-stained pieces of cloth and examined them critically one by one. Finally she raised her head and announced: "None o' _them_ were ever a part o' Bob's clothes." "Whose now may un be if not Bob's?" asked Ed, sceptical of her decision. "None of un were _Bob's_. I were makin' all o' Bob's clothes, an'--I--_knows_: I _knows_," she insisted. "But th' flat sled were Bob's, an' th' tent an' other things," said Ed. "Th' _clothes_ were not Bob's--an' Bob were not killed by wolves--my lad is livin'--somewheres--I _feels_ my lad is livin'," she asserted. Then Ed told of the two axes found--one on the toboggan and the other on the snow--and Mrs. Gray raised another question. "Why," she asked, "had he two axes?" It was explained that he had probably taken one in on a previous trip and cached it. But she argued that if he needed an axe going in on the previous trip he must have needed it coming out too, and it was not likely that he would have cached it. Besides, she was quite sure that he had but one axe with him in the bush, as there was no extra axe for him to take when he was leaving home; and Douglas said that when he left the trail at the close of the previous season he had left no axe in any of the tilts. "Richard 'll know un when he comes," said she. "Richard'll know Bob's axe." The mother was still more positive now that the remains they had found were not Bob's remains, and Ed and Douglas, though equally positive that she was mistaken, let her hold the hope--or rather belief--that Bob still lived. She asserted that he was alive as one states a fact that one knows is beyond question. The circumstantial evidence against her theory was strong, but a woman's intuition stands not for reason, and her conclusions she will hold against the world. "I must be takin' th' word in t' Richard though 'tis a sore trial t' do it," said Douglas, preparing at once to go. "I'll be findin' un on th' trail. Keep courage, Mary, until we comes. 'Twill be but four days at furthest," he added as he was going out of the door. Ed left immediately after for his home, to spend a day or two before returning to his inland trail, and Mrs. Gray and Emily and Bessie were left alone again in a gloom of sorrow that approached despair. That night long after the light was out and they had gone to bed, Mrs. Gray, who was still lying awake with her trouble, heard Emily softly speak: "Mother." She stole over to Emily's couch and kissed the child's cheek. "Mother, an' th' wolves killed Bob, won't he be an angel now?" "Bob's livin'--somewheres--child, an' I'm prayin' th' Lard in His mercy t' care of th' lad. Th' Lard knows where un is, lass, an' th' Lard'll sure not be forgettin' he." "But," she insisted, "he's an angel now _if_ th' wolves killed un?" "Yes, dear." "An' th' Lard lets angels come sometimes t' see th' ones they loves, don't He, mother?" "Be quiet now, lass." "But He does?" persisted the child. "Aye, He does." "Then if Bob were killed, mother, he'll sure be comin' t' see us. His angel'd never be restin' easy in heaven wi'out comin' t' see us, for he knows how sore we longs t' see un." The mother drew the child to her heart and sobbed. XV IN THE WIGWAM OF SISHETAKUSHIN Day after day the Indians travelled to the northward, drawing their goods after them on toboggans, over frozen rivers and lakes, or through an ever scantier growth of trees. With every mile they traversed Bob's heart grew heavier in his bosom, for he was constantly going farther from home, and the prospect of return was fading away with each sunset. He knew that they were moving northward, for always the North Star lay before them when they halted for the night, and always a wilder, more unnatural country surrounded them. Finally a westerly turn was taken, and he wondered what their goal might be. Cold and bitter was the weather. The great limitless wilderness was frozen into a deathlike silence, and solemn and awful was the vast expanse of white that lay everywhere around them. They, they alone, it seemed, lived in all the dreary world. The icy hand of January had crushed all other creatures into oblivion. No deer, no animals of any kind crossed their trail. Their food was going rapidly, and they were now reduced to a scanty ration of jerked venison. At last they halted one day by the side of a brook and pitched their wigwam. Then leaving the women to cut wood and put the camp in order, the two Indians shouldered their guns and axes, and made signs to Bob to follow them, which he gladly did. They ascended the frozen stream for several miles, when suddenly they came upon a beaver dam and the dome-shaped house of the animals themselves, nearly hidden under the deep covering of snow. The house had apparently been located earlier in the season, for now the Indians went directly to it as a place they were familiar with. Here they began at once to clear away the snow from the ice at one side of the house, using their snow-shoes as shovels. When this was done, a pole was cut, and to the end of the pole a long iron spike was fastened. With this improvised implement Sishetakushin began to pick away the ice where the snow had been cleared from it, while Mookoomahn cut more poles. [Illustration: "It was dangerous work"] Though the ice was fully four feet thick Sishetakushin soon reached the water. Then the other poles that Mookoomahn had cut were driven in close to the house. Bob understood that this was done to prevent the escape of the animals, and that they were closing the door, which was situated so far down that it would always be below the point where ice would form, so that the beavers could go in and out at will. After these preparations were completed the Indians cleared the snow from the top of the beaver house, and then broke an opening into the house itself. Into this aperture Sishetakushin peered for a moment, then his hand shot down, and like a flash reappeared holding a beaver by the hind legs, and before the animal had recovered sufficiently from its surprise to bring its sharp teeth into action in self-defense, the Indian struck it a stinging blow over the head and killed it. Then in like manner another animal was captured and killed. It was dangerous work and called for agility and self-possession, for had the Indian made a miscalculation or been one second too slow the beaver's teeth, which crush as well as cut, would have severed his wrist or arm. There were two more beavers--a male and a female--in the house, but these were left undisturbed to raise a new family, and the stakes that had closed the door were removed. This method of catching beavers was quite new to Bob, who had always seen his father and the other hunters of the Bay capture them in steel traps. It was his first lesson in the Indian method of hunting. That evening the flesh of the beavers went into the kettle, and their oily tails--the greatest tidbit of all--were fried in a pan. The Indians made a feast time of it, and never ceased eating the livelong night. This day of plenty came in cheerful contrast to the cheerless nights with scanty suppers following the weary days of plodding that had preceded. The glowing fire in the centre, the appetizing smell of the kettle and sizzling fat in the pan, and the relaxation and mellow warmth as they reclined upon the boughs brought a sense of real comfort and content. The next day they remained in camp and rested, but the following morning resumed the dreary march to the westward. After many more days of travelling--Bob had lost all measure of time--they reached the shores of a great lake that stretched away until in the far distance its smooth white surface and the sky were joined. The Indians pointed at the expanse of snow-covered ice, and repeated many times, "Petitsikapau--Petitsikapau," and Bob decided that this must be what they called the lake; but the name was wholly unfamiliar to him. In like manner they had indicated that a river they had travelled upon for some distance farther back, after crossing a smaller lake, was called "Ashuanipi," but he had never heard of it before. The wigwam was pitched upon the shores of Petitsikapau Lake, where there was a thick growth of willows upon the tender tops of which hundreds of ptarmigans--the snow-white grouse of the arctic--were feeding; and rabbits had the snow tramped flat amongst the underbrush, offering an abundance of fresh food to the hunters, a welcome change from the unvaried fare of dried venison. Bob drew from the elaborate preparations that were made that they were to stop here for a considerable time. Snow was banked high against the skin covering of the wigwam to keep out the wind more effectually, an unusually thick bed of spruce boughs was spread within, and a good supply of wood was cut and neatly piled outside. The women did all the heavy work and drudgery about camp, and it troubled Bob not a little to see them working while the men were idle. Several times he attempted to help them, but his efforts were met with such a storm of protestations and disapproval, not only from the men, but the women also, that he finally refrained. "'Tis strange now th' women isn't wantin' t' be helped," Bob remarked to himself. "Mother's always likin' t' have me help she." It was quite evident that the men considered this camp work beneath their dignity as hunters, and neither did they wish Bob, to whom they had apparently taken a great fancy, to do the work of a squaw. They had, to all appearances, accepted him as one of the family and treated him in all respects as such, and, he noted this with growing apprehension, as though he were always to remain with them. They began now to initiate him into the mysteries of their trapping methods, which were quite different from those with which he was accustomed. Instead of the steel trap they used the deadfall--wa-neé-gan--and the snare--nug-wah-gun--and Bob won the quick commendation and plainly shown admiration of the Indians by the facility with which he learned to make and use them, and his prompt success in capturing his fair share of martens, which were fairly numerous in the woods back of the lake. But when he took his gun and shot some ptarmigans one day, they gave him to understand that this was a wasteful use of ammunition, and showed him how they killed the birds with bow and arrow. To shoot the arrows straight, however, was an art that he could not acquire readily, and his efforts afforded Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn much amusement. "The's no shootin' straight wi' them things," Bob declared to himself, after several unsuccessful attempts to hit a ptarmigan. "Leastways I'm not knowin' how. But th' Injuns is shootin' un fine, an' I'm wonderin' now how they does un." With no one that could understand him Bob had unconsciously dropped into the habit of talking a great deal to himself. It was not very satisfactory, however, and there were always questions arising that he wished to ask. He had, therefore, devoted himself since his advent amongst the Indians to learning their language, and every day he acquired new words and phrases. Manikawan would pronounce the names of objects for him and have him repeat them after her until he could speak them correctly, laughing merrily at his blunders. It does not require a large vocabulary to make oneself understood, and in an indescribably short time Bob had picked up enough Indian to converse brokenly, and one day, shortly after the arrival at Petitsikapau he found he was able to explain to Sishetakushin where he came from and his desire to return to the Big Hill trail and the Grand River country. "It is not good to dwell on the great river of the evil spirits" (the Grand River), said the Indian. "Be contented in the wigwam of your brothers." Bob parleyed and plead with them, and when he finally insisted that they take him back to the place where they had found him, he was met with the objection that it was "many sleeps towards the rising sun," that the deer had left the land as he had seen for himself, and if they turned back their kettle would have no flesh and their stomachs would be empty. "We are going," said Sishetakushin, "where the deer shall be found like the trees of the forest, and there our brother shall feast and be happy." So Bob's last hope of reaching home vanished. Manikawan's kindness towards him grew, and she was most attentive to his comfort. She gave him the first helping of "nab-wi"--stew--from the kettle, and kept his clothing in good repair. His old moccasins she replaced with new ones fancifully decorated with beads, and his much-worn duffel socks with warm ones made of rabbit skins. Everything that the wilderness provided he had from her hand. But still he was not happy. There was an always present longing for the loved ones in the little cabin at Wolf Bight. He never could get out of his mind his mother's sad face on the morning he left her, dear patient little Emily on her couch, and his father, who needed his help so much, working alone about the house or on the trail. And sometimes he wondered if Bessie ever thought of him, and if she would be sorry when she heard he was lost. "Manikawan an' all th' Injuns be wonderful kind, but 'tis not like bein' home," he would often say sadly to himself when he lay very lonely at night upon his bed of boughs and skins. At first Manikawan's attentions were rather agreeable to Bob, but he was not accustomed to being waited upon, and in a little while they began to annoy him and make him feel ill at ease, and finally to escape from them he rarely ever remained in the wigwam during daylight hours. "I'm wishin' she'd not be troublin' wi' me so--I'm not wantin' un," he declared almost petulantly at times when the girl did something for him that he preferred to do himself. Mornings he would wander down through the valley attending to his deadfalls and snares, and afternoons tramp over the hills in the hope of seeing caribou. One afternoon two weeks after the arrival at Petitsikapau he was skirting a precipitous hill not far from camp, when suddenly the snow gave way under his feet and he slipped over a low ledge. He did not fall far, and struck a soft drift below, and though startled at the unexpected descent was not injured. When he got upon his feet again he noticed what seemed a rather peculiar opening in the rock near the foot of the ledge, where his fall had broken away the snow, and upon examining it found that the crevice extended back some eight or ten feet and then broadened into a sort of cavern. "'Tis a strange place t' be in th' rocks," he commented. "I'm thinkin' I'll have a look at un." Kicking off his snow-shoes and standing his gun outside he proceeded to crawl in on all fours. When he reached the point of broadening he found the cavern within so dark that he could see nothing of its interior, and he advanced cautiously, extending one arm in front of him that he might not strike his head against protruding rocks. All at once his hand came in contact with something soft and warm. He drew it back with a jerk, and his heart stood still. He had touched the shaggy coat of a bear. He was in a bear's den and within two feet of the sleeping animal. He expected the next moment to be crushed under the paws of the angry beast, and was quite astonished when he found that it had not been aroused. Cautiously and noiselessly Bob backed quickly out of the dangerous place. The moment he was out and found himself on his feet again with his gun in his hands his courage returned, and he began to make plans for the capture of the animal. "'Twould be fine now t' kill un an' 'twould please th' Injuns wonderful t' get th' meat," he said. "I'm wonderin' could I get un--if 'tis a bear." He stooped and looked into the cave again, but it was as dark as night in there, and he could see nothing of the bear. Then he cut a long pole with his knife and reached in with it until he felt the soft body. A strong prod brought forth a protesting growl. Bruin did not like to have his slumbers disturbed. "Sure '_tis_ a bear an' that's wakenin' un," he commented. Bob prodded harder and the growls grew louder and angrier. "He's not wantin' t' get out o' bed," said Bob prodding vigorously. Finally there was a movement within the den, and Bob sprang back and made ready with his gun. He had barely time to get into position when the head of an enormous black bear appeared in the cave entrance, its eyes flashing fire and showing fight. Bob's heart beat excitedly, but he kept his nerve and took a steady aim. The animal was not six feet away from him when he fired. Then he turned and ran down the hill, never looking behind until he was fully two hundred yards from the den and realized that there was no sound in the rear. The bear was not in sight and he cautiously retraced his steps until he saw the animal lying where it had fallen. The bullet had taken it squarely between the eyes and killed it instantly. This was the first bear that Bob had ever killed unaided and he was highly elated at his success. It was not an easy task to get the carcass out of the rock crevice, but he finally accomplished it and outside quickly skinned the bear and cut the meat into pieces of convenient size to haul away on a toboggan when he should return for it. Then, with the skin as a trophy, he triumphantly turned towards camp. Night had fallen when he reached the wigwam and Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn had already arrived after their day's hunt. It was a proud moment for Bob when he entered the lodge and threw down the bear skin for their inspection. They spread it out and examined it, and a great deal of talking ensued. Bob, in the best Indian he could command, explained where he had found the "mushku" and how he had killed it, and his story was listened to with intense interest. When he was through Sishetakushin said that the "Snow Brother," as they called Bob, was a great hunter, and should be an Indian; for only an Indian would have the courage to attack a bear in its den single handed. Bob had risen very perceptibly in their estimation. All doubt of his skill and prowess as a hunter had been removed. He had won a new place, and was now to be considered as their equal in the chase. The following morning the two Indians assisted Bob to haul the bear's meat to camp. No part of it was allowed to waste. In the wigwam it was thawed and then the flesh stripped from the bones, and that not required for immediate use was permitted to freeze again that it might keep sweet until needed. The skull was thoroughly cleaned and fastened to a high branch of a tree as an offering to the Manitou. Sishetakushin explained to Bob that unless this was done the Great Spirit would punish them by driving all other bears beyond the reach of their guns and traps in future. For several days a storm had been threatening, and that night it broke with all the terrifying fury of the north. The wind shrieked through the forest and shook the wigwam as though it would tear it away. The air was filled with a swirling, blinding mass of snow and any one venturing a dozen paces from the lodge could hardly have found his way back to it again. For three days the storm lasted, and the Indians turned these three days into a period of feasting. A big kettle of bear's meat always hung over the fire, and surrounding it pieces of the meat were impaled upon sticks to roast. It seemed to Bob as though the Indians would never have enough to eat. Finally the storm cleared, and then it was discovered that the ptarmigans and rabbits, which had been so plentiful and constituted their chief source of food supply, had disappeared as if by magic. Not a ptarmigan fluttered before the hunter, and no rabbit tracks broke the smooth white snow beneath the bushes. The jerked venison was gone and the only food remaining was the bear meat. A hurried consultation was held, and it was decided to push on still farther to the northward in the hope of meeting the invisible herds of caribou that somewhere in those limitless, frozen barrens were wandering unmolested. XVI ONE OF THE TRIBE If Bob Gray had held any secret hope that the Indians would eventually listen to his plea to guide him back to the Big Hill trail it was mercilessly swept away by the next move, for again they faced steadily towards the north. Whenever he thought of home a lump came into his throat, but he always swallowed it bravely and said to himself: "'Tis wrong now t' be grievin' when I has so much t' be thankful for. Bill'll be takin' th' silver fox an' other fur out, and when father sells un 'twill pay for Emily's goin' t' th' doctor. Th' Lard saved me from freezin', an' I'm well an' th' Injuns be wonderful good t' me. Maybe some time they'll be goin' back th' Big Hill way--maybe 'twill be next winter--an' then I'll be gettin' home." In this manner the hope of youth always conquered, and his desperate situation was to some extent forgotten in the pictures he drew for himself of his reunion with the loved ones in the uncertain "Sometime" of the future. On and on they travelled through the endless, boundless white, over wind-swept rocky hills so inhospitably barren that even the snow could not find a lodgment on them, or over wide plains where the few trees that grew had been stunted and gnarled into mere shrubs by winter blasts. On every hand the mountains began to raise their ragged austere heads like grim giant sentinels placed there to guard the way. Finally they turned into a pass, which brought them, on the other side of the ridge it led through, to a comparatively well-wooded valley down which a wide river wound its way northward. The trees were larger than any Bob had seen since leaving the Big Hill trail, and this new valley seemed almost familiar to him. As they emerged from the pass a wolf cry, long and weird, came from a distant mountainside and broke the wilderness stillness, which had become almost insufferable, and to the lad even this wild cry held a note of companionship that was pleasant to hear after the long and deathlike quiet that had prevailed. They took to the river ice and travelled on it for several miles when, rounding a bend, they suddenly came upon a cluster of half a dozen deerskin wigwams standing in the spruce trees just above the river bank. An Indian from one of the lodges discovered their approach, and gave a shout. Instantly men, women and children sprang into view and came running out to welcome them. It was a curious, medley crowd. The men were clad in long, decorated deerskin coats such as Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn wore, and the women in deerskin skirts reaching a little way below the knees, and all wearing the fringed buckskin leggings. The greeting was cordial and noisy, everybody shaking hands with the new arrivals, talking in the high key characteristic of them, and laughing a great deal. Two of the men embraced Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn and shed copious tears of joy over them. These two men it appeared were Mookoomahn's brothers. The women were not so demonstrative, but showed their delight in a ceaseless flow of words. When the first greetings were over Sishetakushin told the assembled Indians how Bob had been found sleeping in the snow, and that the Great Spirit had sent the White Snow Brother to dwell in their lodges as one of them. After this introduction and a rather magnified description of his accomplishments as a hunter they all shook Bob's hand and welcomed him as one of the tribe. A few caribou had been killed, and the travellers received gifts of the frozen meat with a good proportion of fat, and that night a great feast was held in their behalf. With plenty to eat there was no occasion to hunt and the Indians were living in idleness during the intensely cold months of January and February, rarely venturing out of the wigwams. This was not only for their comfort, but because the fur bearing animals lie quiet during this cold period of the winter and the hunt would therefore yield small reward for the exposure and suffering it would entail. They had an abundance of tobacco and tea. Sishetakushin and his family had been without these luxuries, and it seemed to Bob that he had never tasted anything half so delicious as the first cup of tea he drank. His Indian friends could not understand at first his refusal of their proffered gifts of "stemmo"--tobacco--but he told them finally that it would make him sick, and then they accepted his excuse and laughed at him good naturedly. Manikawan had never ceased her attentions to Bob, and the others of her family seemed to have come to an understanding that it was her especial duty to look after his comfort. From the first she had been much troubled that he had only his cloth adikey instead of a deerskin coat such as her father and Mookoomahn wore, and she often expressed her regret that there was no deerskin with which to make him one. He insisted at these times that his adikey was quite warm enough, but she always shook her head in dissent, for she could not believe it, and would say, "No, the Snow Brother is cold. Manikawan will make him warm clothes when the deer are found." On the very night of their arrival at the camp she went amongst the wigwams and begged from the women some skins of the fall killing, tanned with the hair on, with the flesh side as fine and white and soft as chamois. In two days she had manufactured these into a coat and had it ready for decoration. It was a very handsome garment, sewn with sinew instead of thread, and having a hood attached to it similar to the hoods worn by Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn. With brushes made from pointed sticks she painted around the bottom of the coat a foot-wide border in intricate design, introducing red, blue, brown and yellow colours that she had compounded herself the previous summer from fish roe, minerals and oil. Other decorations and ornamentations were drawn upon the front and arms of the garment before she considered it quite complete. Then she surveyed her work with commendable pride, and with a great show of satisfaction presented it and a pair of the regulation buckskin leggings to Bob. She was quite delighted when he put his new clothes on, and made no secret of her admiration of his improved appearance. "Now," she said, "the brother is dressed as becomes him and looks very fine and brave." "'Tis fine an' warm," Bob assented, "an' I'm thinkin' I'm lookin' like an Injun sure enough." Bob's aversion to Manikawan's attentions was wearing off, and he was taking a new interest in her. He very often found himself looking at her and admiring her dark, pretty face and tall, supple form. Sometimes she would glance up quickly and catch him at it, and smile, for it pleased her. Then he would feel a bit foolish and blush through the tan on his face; for he knew that she read his thoughts. But neither he nor Manikawan ever voiced the admiration that they felt for each other. Bob was lounging in the wigwam one day a week or so after the arrival at the camp when he heard some one excitedly shouting, "Atuk! Atuk!" He grabbed his gun and ran outside where he met Sishetakushin rushing in from an adjoining wigwam. The Indian called to him to leave his gun behind and get a spear and follow. He could see that something of great moment had occurred and he obeyed. The Indians from the lodges, all armed with spears, were running towards a knoll just below the camp, and Bob and Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn joined them. When they reached the top of the knoll Bob halted for a moment in astonishment. Never before had he beheld anything to compare with what he saw below. A herd of caribou containing hundreds--yes thousands--like a great living sea, was moving to the eastward. Some of the Indians were already running ahead on their snow-shoes to turn the animals into the deep snowdrifts of a ravine, while the other attacked the herd with their spears from the side. The caribou changed their course when they saw their enemies, and plunged into the ravine, those behind crowding those in front, which sank into the drifts until they were quite helpless. From every side the Indians rushed upon the deer and the slaughter began. Bob was carried away with the excitement of the hunt, and many of the deer fell beneath his spear thrusts. The killing went on blindly, indiscriminately, without regard to the age or sex or number killed, until finally the main herd extricated itself and ran in wild panic over the river ice and out of reach of the pursuers. In the brief interval between the discovery of the deer and the escape of the herd over four hundred animals had fallen under the ruthless spears. When Bob realized the extent of the wicked slaughter he was disgusted with himself for having taken part in it. "'Twas wicked t' kill so many of un when we're not needin' un, an' I hopes th' Lard'll forgive me for helpin'," he said contritely. [Illustration: "Saw her standing in the bright moonlight"] Aside from the inhumanity of the thing, it was a terrible waste of food, for it would only be possible to utilize a comparatively small proportion of the meat of the slaughtered animals. Perhaps seventy-five of the carcasses were skinned, after which the flesh was stripped from the bones and hung in thin slabs from the poles inside the wigwams to dry. The tongues were removed from all the slaughtered animals, for they are considered a great delicacy by the Indians; and some of the leg bones were taken for the marrow they contained. The great bulk of the meat, however, was left for the wolves and foxes, or to rot in the sun when summer came. The deer killing was followed by a season of feasting, as is always the case amongst the Indians after a successful hunt. In every wigwam a kettle of stewing venison was constantly hanging, night and day over the fire, and marrow bones roasting in the coals, and for several days the men did nothing but eat and smoke and drink tea. It was, however, a busy time for the women. Besides curing the meat and tongues, they rendered marrow grease from the bones and put it up neatly in bladders for future use; and it fell to their lot, also, to dress and tan the hides into buckskin. The passing deer herds brought in their wake packs of big gray and black timber wolves, and the country was soon infested with these animals. At night their howls were heard, and they came boldly to the scene of the caribou slaughter and fattened upon the discarded carcasses of the animals. Now and again one was shot. With plenty to eat, they were, however, comparatively harmless, and never molested the camp. February was drawing to a close when one day Sishetakushin, Mookoomahn and two other Indians packed their toboggans preparatory to going on an excursion. Bob noticed the preparations with interest, and inquired the meaning of them. "The tea and tobacco are nearly gone, and we are in need of powder and ball," Sishetakushin answered. To get these things Bob knew they must go to a trading post, and here, he decided, was a possible opportunity for him to find a means of reaching home. He asked the Indians at once for permission to accompany them. There was no objection to this from any of them, though they told him it would be a tiresome journey, that they would travel fast, and be back in a few days. But Bob did not propose to let any chance of meeting white men pass him, and he hurriedly got his things together for the expedition. He had no intimation of the name or location of the post they were going to further than that the Indians told him they were going to Mr. MacPherson, who was, he felt sure, a Hudson's Bay Company Factor, and he believed that if he could once reach one of the company's forts a way would be shown him to get to Eskimo Bay. That night was one of excitement and anticipation for Bob. Manikawan seemed to read his thoughts, for the whole evening she looked troubled, and her eyes were wet when Bob said good-bye to her in the morning. As the little party turned down upon the river ice, he looked back once and saw her standing near the wigwam, in the bright moonlight, her slender figure outlined against the snow, and he waved his hand to her. He never knew that for many days afterwards, when the dusk of evening came, she stole alone out of the wigwam and down the trail where he had disappeared to watch for his return, nor how lonely she was and how she brooded over his loss when she knew that she should never see her White Brother of the Snow again. XVII STILL FARTHER NORTH Bob and the Indians travelled in single file, with Mookoomahn leading, and kept to the wide, smooth pathway that marked the place where the river lay imprisoned beneath ice a fathom thick. The wind had swept away the loose snow and beaten down that which remained into a hard and compact mass upon the frozen river bed, making snow-shoeing here much easier than in the spruce forest that lay behind the willow brush along the banks. The Indians walked with the long rapid stride that is peculiar to them, and which the white man finds hard to simulate, and good traveller though he was Bob had to adopt a half run to keep their pace. They drew but two lightly loaded toboggans, and unencumbered by the wigwam and other heavy camp equipment, and with no trailing squaws to hamper their speed, an even, unbroken gait was maintained as mile after mile slipped behind them. Not a breath of air was stirring, and the absolute quiet that prevailed was broken only by the moving men and the rhythmic creak, creak of the snow-shoes as they came in contact with the hard packed snow. The very atmosphere seemed frozen, so intense was the cold. The moon like a disk of burnished silver set in a steel blue sky cast a weird, metallic light over the congealed wilderness. The hoar frost that lay upon the bushes along the river bank sparkled like filmy draperies of spun silver, and transformed the bushes into an unearthly multitude of shining spirits that had gathered there from the dark, mysterious forest which lay behind them, to watch the passing strangers. Presently the light of dawn began to diffuse itself upon the world, and the spirit creations were replaced by substantial banks of frost-encrusted willows. In a little while the sun peeped timorously over the eastern hills, but, half obscured by a haze of frost flakes which hung suspended in the air, gave out no warmth to the frozen earth. No halt was made until noon. Then a fire was built and a kettle of ice was melted and tea brewed. Bob was hungry, and the jerked venison, with its delicate nutty flavour, and the hot tea, were delicious. The latter, poured boiling from the kettle, left a sediment of ice in the bottom of the tin cup before it was drained, so great was the cold. After an hour's rest they hit the trail again and never relaxed their speed for a moment until sunset. Then they sought the shelter of the spruce woods behind the river bank, and in a convenient spot for a fire cleared a circular space, several feet in circumference, by shovelling the snow back with their snow-shoes, forming a high bank around their bivouac as a protection from the wind, should it rise. At one side a fire was built, and in front of the fire a thick bed of boughs spread. While the others were engaged in these preparations Bob and Sishetakushin cut a supply of wood for the night. It was quite dark before they all settled themselves around the fire for supper. Two frying pans were now produced, and from a haunch of venison, frozen as hard as a block of wood, thin chips were cut with an axe, and with ample pieces of fat were soon sizzling in the pans and filling the air with an appetizing odour, and in spite of the bleak surroundings the place assumed a degree of comfort and hospitality. After supper the Indians squatted around the fire on deerskins spread upon the boughs, smoking their pipes and telling stories, while Bob reclined upon the soft robes that Manikawan had thoughtfully provided him with, watching the light play over their dark faces framed in long black hair, and thought of the Indian girl and wondered if he was always to live amongst them, and if he would ever become accustomed to their wild, rude life. Finally they lay down close together, with their feet towards the fire, and wrapped their heads and shoulders closely in the skins, leaving their moccasined feet uncovered, to be warmed by the blaze, and the lad was soon lost in dreams of the snug cabin at Wolf Bight. Once during the night he awoke and arose to replenish the fire. The stars were looking down upon them, cold and distant, and the wilderness seemed very solemn and quiet when he resumed his place amongst the sleeping Indians. They were on their way again by moonlight the following morning. Shortly after daybreak they turned out of the river bed and towards noon came upon some snow-shoe tracks. A little later they passed a steel trap, in which a white arctic fox straggled for freedom. They halted a moment for Sishetakushin to press his knee upon its side to kill it and then went on. The fox he left in the trap, however, for the hunter to whom it belonged. This was the first steel trap that Bob had seen since coming amongst the Indians and he drew from its presence here that they must be approaching a trading station where traps were obtainable and in use by the hunters. In the middle of the afternoon they turned into a komatik track, and Bob's heart gave a bound of joy. "Sure we're gettin' handy t' th' coast!" he exclaimed. They would soon find white men, he was sure. The track led them on for a mile or so, and then they heard a dog's howl and a moment later came out upon two snow igloos. Eskimo men, women, and children emerged on their hands and knees from the low, snow-tunnel entrance of the igloos at their approach, but when they saw that the travellers were a party of Indians, gave no invitation to them to enter, and said nothing until Bob called "Oksunie" to them--a word of greeting that he had learned from the Bay folk. Then they called to him "Oksunie, oksunie," and began to talk amongst themselves. "They're rare wild lookin' huskies," thought Bob. As much as Bob would have liked to stop, he did not do so, for the Indians stalked past at a rapid pace, never by word or look showing that they had seen the igloos or the Eskimos. These new people, particularly the women, who wore trousers and carried babies in large hoods hanging on their backs, did not dress like any Eskimos that Bob had ever seen before. Nor had he ever before seen the snow houses, though he had heard of them and knew what they were. The dogs, too, were large, and more like wolves in appearance than those the Bay folk used, and the komatik was narrower but much longer and heavier than those he was accustomed to. He was surely in a new and strange land. More igloos were seen during the afternoon, but they were passed as the first had been, and at night the party bivouacked in the open as they had done the night before. On the morning of the third day they passed into a stretch of barren, treeless, rolling country, and before midday turned upon a well-beaten komatik trail, which they followed for a couple of miles, when it swung sharply to the left towards the river, and as they turned around a ledge of rocks at the top of a low ridge a view met Bob that made him shout with joy, and hasten his pace. At his feet, in the field of snow, lay a post of the Hudson's Bay Company. XVIII A MISSION OF TRUST As Bob looked down upon the whitewashed buildings of the Post, his sensation was very much like that of a shipwrecked sailor who has for a long time been drifting hopelessly about upon a trackless sea in a rudderless boat, and suddenly finds himself safe in harbour. The lad had never seen anything in his whole life that looked so comfortable as that little cluster of log buildings with the smoke curling from the chimney tops, and the general air of civilization that surrounded them. He did not know where he was, nor how far from home; but he did know that this was the habitation of white men, and the cloud of utter helplessness that had hung over him for so long was suddenly swept away and his sky was clear and bright again. A man clad in a white adikey and white moleskin trousers emerged from one of the buildings, paused for a moment to gaze at Bob and his companions as they approached, and then reentered the building. As they descended the hill the Indians turned to an isolated cabin which stood somewhat apart from the main group of buildings and to the eastward of them, but Bob ran down to the one into which the man had disappeared. His heart was all aflutter with excitement and expectancy. As he approached the door, it suddenly opened, and there appeared before him a tall, middle-aged man with full, sandy beard and a kindly face. Bob felt intuitively that this was the factor of the Post, and he said very respectfully, "Good day, sir." "Good day, good day," said the man. "I thought at first you were an Indian. Come in." Bob entered and found himself in the trader's office. At one side were two tables that served as desks, and on a shelf against the wall behind them rested a row of musty ledgers and account books. Benches in lieu of chairs surrounded a large stove in the centre. "Take off your skin coat and sit down," invited the trader, who was, indeed, Mr. MacPherson of whom the Indians had told. "Thank you, sir," said Bob. When he was finally seated Mr. McPherson asked: "That was Sishetakushin's crowd you came with, wasn't it?" "Yes, sir," Bob answered. "Where did you hail from? It's something new to see a white man come out of the bush with the Indians." "From Eskimo Bay, sir, an' what place may this be?" "Eskimo Bay! Eskimo Bay! Why, this is Ungava! How in the world did you ever get across the country? What's your name?" "My name's Bob Gray, sir, an' I lives at Wolf Bight." Then Bob went on, prompted now and again by the factor's questions, to tell the story of his adventures. "Well," said Mr. MacPherson, "you've had a wonderful escape from freezing and death and a remarkable experience. You'd better go over to the men's house and they'll put you up there. Come back after you've had dinner and we'll talk your case over. The dinner bell is ringing now," he added, as the big bell began to clang. "Perhaps I'd better go over with you and show you the way." The men's house, as the servants' quarters were called, was a one-story log house but a few steps from the office. As Bob and Mr. MacPherson entered it, a big man with a bushy red beard, and a tall brawny man with clean shaven face, both perhaps twenty-five or thirty years of age, and both with "Scot" written all over their countenances, were in the act of sitting down to an uncovered table, while an ugly old Indian hag was dishing up a savory stew of ptarmigan. Bob's eye took in a plate heaped high with white bread in the centre of the table and he mentally resolved that it should not be there when he had finished dinner. "Here's some company for you," announced the factor. "Ungava Bob just ran over from Eskimo Bay to pay us a visit. Take care of him. This," continued he by way of introduction, indicating the red-headed man, "is Eric the Red, our carpenter, and this," turning to the other, "is the Duke of Wellington, our blacksmith. Fill up, Ungava Bob, and come over to the office and have a talk when you've finished dinner." "Sit doon, sit doon," said the red-whiskered man, adding, as Mr. MacPherson closed the door behind him, "my true name's Sandy Craig and th' blacksmith here is Jamie Lunan. Th' boss ha' a way o' namin' every mon t' suit hisself. Now, what's your true name, lad? 'Tis not Ungava Bob." "Bob Gray, an' I comes from Wolf Bight." "Now, where can Wolf Bight be?" asked Sandy. "In Eskimo Bay, sir." "Aye, aye, Eskimo Bay. 'Tis a lang way ye are from Eskimo Bay! Th' ship folk tell o' Eskimo Bay a many hundred miles t' th' suthard. An' Jamie an' me be a lang way fra' Petherhead. Be helpin' yesel' now, lad. Ha' some partridge an' ye maun be starvin' for bread, eatin' only th' grub o' th' heathen Injuns this lang while," said he, passing the plate, and adding in apology, "'Tis na' such bread as we ha' in auld Scotland. Injun women canna make bread wi' th' Scotch lassies an' we ne'er ha' a bit o' oatmeal or oat-cake. 'Tis bread, though. An' how could ye live wi' th' Injuns? 'Tis bad enough t' bide here wi' na' neighbours but th' greasy huskies an' durty Injuns comin' now an' again, but we has some civilized grub t' eat--sugar an' molasses an' butter, such as 'tis." Sandy and Jamie plied Bob with all sorts of questions about Eskimo Bay and his life with the Indians, and they did not fail to tell him a good deal about Peterhead, their Scotland home, and both bewailed loudly the foolish desire for adventure that had induced them to leave it to be exiled in Ungava amongst the heathen Eskimos and Indians in a land where "nine minths o' th' year be winter an' th' ither three remainin' minths infested wi' th' worst plagues o' Egypt, referrin' t' th' flies an' nippers (mosquitoes)." Strange and new it all was, and while he ate and talked, Bob took in his surroundings. The room was not unlike the Post kitchen at Eskimo Bay, though not so spotlessly clean. Besides the table there were two benches, four rough, home-made chairs and a big box stove that crackled cheerily. At one side three bunks were built against the wall and were spread with heavy woollen blankets. Two chests stood near the bunks and several guns rested upon pegs against the wall. Upon ropes stretched above the stove numerous duffel socks and mittens hung to dry. The Indian woman passed in and out through a passageway that led from the side of the room opposite the door at which he had entered and her kitchen was evidently on the other side of the passageway. Bob did not forget his resolution as to the bread, to which was added the luxury of butter, and more than once the Indian woman had to replenish the plate. When they arose from the table Jamie pointed out to Bob the bunk that he was to occupy. Then, while they smoked their pipes, they gossiped about the Post doings until the bell warned them that it was time to return to their work. In accordance with Mr. MacPherson's instructions Bob walked over to the factor's office where he found a young man of eighteen or nineteen years of age writing at one of the desks. "Sit down," said he, looking up. "Mr. MacPherson will be in shortly. You're the young fellow just arrived, I suppose?" "Yes, sir," said Bob. "You've had a long journey, I hear, and must be glad to get out. When did you leave home?" "In September, sir, when I goes t' my trail." "I came here on the _Eric_ in September, and if you want to see home as badly as I do you're pretty anxious to get back there. But there isn't any chance of getting away from here till the ship comes. This is the last place God ever made and the loneliest. What did you say your name is?" "Bob Gray, sir." "Well, Mr. MacPherson will call you something else, but don't mind that. He has a new name for every one. He calls Sishetakushin, one of the Indians you came in with, Abraham Lincoln because he's so tall, and one of the stout Eskimos is Grover Cleveland. That's the name of an American president. Mr. MacPherson gets the papers every year and keeps posted. He received, on the ship, all last year's issues of a New York paper called the _Sun_ besides a great packet of Scotch and English papers. But this _Sun_ he thinks more of than any of them and every morning he picks out the paper for that date the year before and reads it as though it had just been delivered. One year behind, but just as fresh here. He finds a lot of new names in 'em to give the Eskimos and Indians and the rest of us that way. I'm Secretary Bayard, whoever he may be. I don't read the American papers much. The chief clerk is Lord Salisbury, the new premier. You know the Conservatives downed the Liberals, and Gladstone is out. Good enough for him, too, for meddling in the Irish question. I'm a conservative, or I would be if I was home. We don't have a chance to be anything here. Now, I suppose you----" Here Mr. MacPherson entered and the loquacious Secretary Bayard became suddenly engrossed in his work. The factor opened a door leading into a small room to the right. "Come in here, Ungava Bob," said he, "and we'll have a talk. Now," he continued when they were seated, "what do you think you'll do?" "I don't know, sir. I wants t' get home wonderful bad," said Bob. "Yes, yes, I suppose you do. But you're a long way from home. It looks as though you'll have to stay here till the ship comes next summer. I can send you back with it." "'Tis a long while t' be bidin' here, sir, an' I'm fearin' as mother'll be worryin'." "There's no way out of it that I can see, though. I'll give you work to do to pay for your keep, and I'm afraid that's the best we can do unless," continued the factor, thoughtfully "unless you go with the mail. I find I've got to send some letters to Fort Pelican. How far is that from Eskimo Bay,--a hundred miles?" "Ninety, sir." "Do you speak Eskimo?" "No, sir." "Well, the dog drivers will be Eskimos. The men that leave here will go east to the coast. They will meet other Eskimos there who will go to Pelican. It's a hard and dangerous journey. Are you a good traveller?" "Not so bad, sir, an' I drives dogs." Mr. MacPherson was silent for a few moments, then he spoke. "These Eskimos are careless scallawags with letters and they lose them sometimes. The letters I am sending are very important ones or I wouldn't be sending them. I think you would take better care of them than they. Will you keep them safe if I let you go with the Eskimos?" "Yes, sir, I'd be rare careful." "Well, we'll see. I think I'll let you take the letters. I can't say yet just when I'll have you start but within the month." "Thank you, sir." "In the meantime make yourself useful about the place here. There'll be nothing for you to do to-day. Look around and get acquainted. You may go now. Come to the office in the morning and one of the clerks will tell you what to do." "All right, sir." When Bob passed out of doors he was fairly treading upon air. A way was opening up for him to return home and in all probability he should reach there by the time Dick and Ed and Bill came out from the trails in the spring and if they had not, in the meantime, taken the news of his disappearance to Wolf Bight, the folks at home would know nothing of it until he told them himself and would have no unusual cause for worry in the meantime. He felt a considerable sense of importance, too, at the confidence Mr. MacPherson reposed in him in suggesting that he might place him in charge of an important mail. And what a tale he would have to tell! Bessie would think him quite a hero. After all it had turned out well. He had caught a silver fox and all the other fur--quite enough, he was sure, to send Emily to the hospital. God had been very good to him and he cast his eyes to heaven and breathed a little prayer of thanksgiving. Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn had been quite forgotten by Bob in the excitement of the arrival at the Fort. Now he saw them and the two other Indians coming over from the cabin to which they had gone when he left them to meet Mr. MacPherson, and he hurried down to meet them and tell them that he had found a way to reach home. It was plain that they did not approve of the turn matters had taken, for they only grunted and said nothing. They turned to a building where the door stood open and Bob accompanied them and entered with them. This was the Post shop, and a young man, whom Bob had not seen before, presumably "Lord Salisbury," the chief clerk of whom the talkative "Secretary Bayard" had spoken, was behind the counter attending to the wants of an Eskimo and his wife, the latter with a black-eyed, round-faced baby which sat contentedly in her hood sucking a stick of black tobacco. The clerk spoke to the Indians in their language, said "good day" to Bob in English, and then continued his dickering in the Eskimo language with his customers, who had deposited before them on the counter a number of arctic fox pelts. When the clerk had finished with the Eskimos he turned to the Indians in a very businesslike way and asked to see the furs they had brought. They produced some marten skins which, after a great deal of wrangling, were bartered for tobacco, tea, powder, shot, bullets, gun caps, beads, three-cornered needles and a few trinkets. Much time was consumed in this, for the Indians insisted upon handling and discussing at length each individual article purchased. Bob had brought with him the marten skins that he had trapped during his stay with the Indians and he exchanged them for a red shawl and a little box of beads for Manikawan, a trinket for the old woman, Manikawan's mother, and a small gift each for Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn, besides some much needed clothing for himself. These tokens of his gratitude he presented to the two Indians, who had indicated their intention of returning to the interior camp the next morning. They had not fully realized until now that Bob was actually going to leave them and attempt to reach home with the Eskimos, and they protested vigorously against the plan. Sishetakushin told him the Eskimos were bad people and would never guide him safely to his friends. Indeed, he asserted, they might kill him when they had him alone with them. On the other hand, the Indians were kind and true. They had recognized his worth and had adopted him into the tribe. With them he had been happy and with them he would be safe. He could have his own wigwam and take Manikawan for his wife; and sometimes, if he wished, he could go to visit his people. The failure of their arguments to impress Bob was a great disappointment to the Indians, and Bob, on his part, felt a keen sense of sorrow when, the following morning, he saw his benefactors go. They had saved his life and had done all they could in their rude, primitive way for his comfort, and he appreciated their kindness and hospitality. Ungava Bob, as every one at the Post called him, made himself generally useful about the fort and was soon quite at home in his new surroundings. He cut wood and helped the Eskimo servants feed the dogs, and did any jobs that presented themselves and soon became a general favourite, not only with Mr. MacPherson but with the clerks and servants also. His quarters with Sandy and Jamie seemed luxurious in contrast with the rough life of the interior to which he had so long been accustomed, and when the three gathered around the red hot stove those cold evenings after the day's work was done and supper eaten, the Scotchmen held him enthralled with stories they told of their native land and the wonderful and magnificent things they had seen there. Besides the factor and the two clerks these were the only white people at the Fort, and naturally they grew to be close companions. The white men, too, were the only ones of the Post folk that could speak English, for the few Eskimos and Indians that lived on the reservation knew only their respective native tongue. And so the time passed until, at last, the middle of March came, with its lengthening days and stormy weather, and Bob was beginning to fear that Mr. MacPherson had abandoned the project of sending him out with a mail, for nothing further had been said about his going since the conversation on the day of his arrival. For two or three days he had been upon the lookout for a favourable opportunity to ask whether or not he was to go, and was thinking about it one Friday morning as he worked at the wood-pile, when "Secretary Bayard" hailed him: "Hey, there, Bob! The boss wants you." This was auspicious, and Bob hurried over to the factor's inner office, where he found Mr. MacPherson waiting for him. "Well, Ungava Bob," the factor greeted, "are you getting tired of Ungava and anxious to get away?" "I'm likin' un fine, sir, but wantin' t' be goin' home wonderful bad," answered Bob. "I suppose you are. I suppose you are. I remember when I was young and first left home, how badly I wanted to go back," he said, reminiscently. "That was a long while ago and there's no one for me to go home to now--they're all dead--all dead--and it's too late." He was silent for a little in meditation, and seemed to have quite forgotten Bob. Then suddenly bringing himself from the past to the present again, he continued: "Yes, yes, you want to go home, and I'm going to start you on Monday morning. I'll give you a packet of very important letters that you will deliver to Mr. Forbes, the factor at Fort Pelican, and I shall hold you responsible for their safe delivery. Akonuk and Matuk will go with you as far as Kangeva, where they will try to get two other Eskimos with a good team of dogs to take you on to Rigolet. But it may be they'll have to go farther, to find drivers that know the way, and that will delay you some. You'll have time to reach Rigolet, however, before the break-up if you push on. The Eskimos will lose some time visiting with their friends when they meet them on the way, and I've allowed for that. Now, be ready to start on Monday. The clerks will fix you up with what supplies you will need for the journey." "Yes, sir. I'll be ready, an' thank you, sir." "Hold on," said the factor as Bob turned to go. "Here's a rifle that I'm going to let you take with you, for you may need it." He picked up a gun that had been leaning against the wall beside him. "It's a 44 repeating Winchester that I've used for three or four years, and it's a good one. I've got a heavier one now for seals and white whales, and I'll give you this if you take the letters through safely. Is that a bargain?" Bob's eyes bulged and his pleasure was manifest. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'll not be losin' th' letters." It was the first repeating rifle--the first rifle, in fact, of any kind--that he had ever seen, and as Mr. MacPherson explained and illustrated to him its manipulation, he thought it the most marvellous piece of mechanism in the world. "Now be careful how you handle it," cautioned the factor after the arm had been thoroughly described. "You see that when you throw a cartridge into the barrel by the lever action it cocks the gun, and if you're not going to discharge it again immediately you must let the hammer down. It shoots a good many times farther, too, than your old gun, so be sure there are no Eskimos within half a mile of its muzzle or you'll be killing some of them, and I don't want that to happen, for I need them all to hunt. Besides, if you killed one of them his friends would be putting you out of the way so you'd kill no more, and then my packet of letters wouldn't be delivered. Now look out." "I'll be rare careful of un, sir." "Very well, see that you are. Be ready to start, now, at daylight, Monday." "I'll be ready, sir." Bob's delight was little short of ecstatic as he strode out of the office with his rifle. The next day (Saturday) "Secretary Bayard," with voluminous comments and cautions in reference to the undertaking, the Eskimos and things in general, helped him and the two Eskimos that were to accompany him put in readiness his supplies, which consisted of hardtack, jerked venison, fat pork--the only provisions they had which would not freeze--tea, two kettles, sulphur matches, ammunition, and a reindeer skin sleeping bag. The Eskimos possessed sleeping bags of their own. Blubber and white whale meat, frozen very hard, were packed for dog food. An axe, a small jack plane and two snow knives were the only tools to be carried. This knife had a blade about two feet in length and resembled a small, broad-bladed sword. It was to be used in the construction of snow igloos. The jack plane was needed to keep the komatik runners smooth. Instead of the runners being shod with whale-bone, as in many places in the North, the Eskimos of Ungava apply a turf--which is stored for the purpose in the short summer season--and mixed with water to the consistency of mud. This is moulded on the runners with the hands in a thick, broad, semicircular shape, and freezes as hard as glass. Then its irregularities are planed smooth, and it slips easily over the snow and ice. Finally, all the preparations were completed, and Bob looked forward in a high state of excited anticipation to the great journey of new experiences and adventures that lay before him to be crowned by the joy of his home-coming. But a thousand miles separated Bob from his home and danger and death lurked by the way. Human plans and day-dreams are not considered by the Providence that moulds man's fortune, and it is a blessed thing that human eyes cannot look into the future. XIX AT THE MERCY OF THE WIND In the starlight of Monday morning Akonuk and Matuk harnessed their twelve big dogs. Fierce creatures these animals were, scarcely less wild than the wolves that prowled over the hills behind the Fort, of which they were the counterpart, and more than once the Eskimos had to beat them with the butt end of a whip to stop their fighting and bring them to submission. The load had already been lashed upon the komatik and the mud on the runners rubbed over with lukewarm water which had frozen into a thin glaze of ice that would slip easily over the snow. Mr. MacPherson gave Bob the package of letters, with a final injunction not to lose them when at length the dogs were harnessed and all was ready. Good-byes were said and Bob and his two Eskimo companions were off. The snow was packed hard and firm, so that neither the dogs nor the komatik broke through, and the animals, fresh and eager, started at a fast pace and maintained an even, steady trot throughout the day. Occasionally there were hills to climb, and some of these were so steep that it was necessary for Bob and the Eskimos to haul upon the traces with the dogs, and now and then they had to lift the komatik over rocky places, and on one river that they crossed they were forced to cut in several places a passage around ice hills, where the tide had piled the ice blocks thirty or forty feet high. But for the most part the route lay over a rolling country near the coast. Only at long intervals were trees to be seen, and these were very small and stunted, and grew in sheltered hollows. At noon they halted in one of these hollows to build a fire, over which they melted snow in one of the kettles and made tea, with which they washed down some hardtack and jerked venison. That night when they stopped to make their camp, sixty miles lay behind them. The going had been good and they had done a splendid day's work. Before unharnessing the dogs, which would have immediately attacked and destroyed the goods upon the sledge had they been released, the Eskimos went about building an igloo. A good bank of snow was selected and out of this Akonuk cut blocks as large as he could lift and placed them on edge in a circle about seven feet in diameter in the interior. As each block was placed it was trimmed and fitted closely to its neighbour. Then while Matuk cut more blocks and handed them to Akonuk as they were needed, the latter standing in the centre of the structure placed them upon edge upon the other blocks, building them up in spiral form, and narrowing in each upper round until the igloo assumed the form of a dome. When it was nearly as high as his head, the upper tier of blocks was so close together that a single large block was sufficient to close the aperture at the top. This block was like the keystone in an arch, and held the others firmly in place. Akonuk now cut a round hole through the side of the igloo close to the bottom, and large enough for him to crawl through on his hands and knees. When the Eskimos began building the snow house Bob commenced unloading the komatik, but Matuk called "Chuly, chuly,"--wait a little--to him, and said "tamaany,"--here--a suggestion that he would be more useful in helping to chink up the crevices between the blocks of snow on the igloo after Akonuk placed them This he did, and in half an hour from the time they halted the igloo was completed and was so strongly built a man could have stood on its top without fear of breaking it down. The tops of spruce boughs were now cut and spread within, after which they unlashed the komatik, and, covering the bed of boughs with deerskins, stored everything that the dogs would be likely to destroy safely inside the igloo. This done the dogs were unharnessed and fed, the men standing over the animals with stout sticks to prevent their fighting while they ravenously gulped down the chunks of frozen whale meat. This function completed, a fire was made outside the igloo and tea brewed. With the kettle of hot tea the three crawled into the igloo, dragging after them a block of snow which Akonuk fitted neatly into the entrance and chinked the edges with loose snow. Matuk now brought forth an Eskimo lamp into which he squeezed the oil from a piece of seal blubber, first pounding the blubber with the axe head, and with moss to serve the purpose of a wick, the lamp was lighted. This lamp, which was made of stone cut in the shape of a half moon, was about ten inches long, four inches wide and an inch deep. The moss that served as a wick was arranged along the straight side, and gave out a strong, fishy odour as it burned. Besides the tea, hardtack and jerked venison, Bob ate pieces of the frozen fat pork which had been boiled before starting, and found it very delicious, as fat always is to a traveller in the far North. The Eskimos each accepted a small piece of it from him, but when he offered them a second portion they both said "Taemet,"--Thank you, enough--and instead helped themselves liberally to raw seal blubber, which they ate with an evident relish and gusto along with the jerked venison and hardtack. Akonuk, the older of these men, was perhaps thirty-five years of age, nearly six feet in height and well proportioned. Matuk was not so tall, but like Akonuk was well formed. Both were muscular and powerful men physically, and both had round, fat faces that were full of good nature. Intense as was the cold out of doors, the stone lamp soon made the igloo so warm within that all were compelled to remove their outer skin garments. The snow, however, was not melted, but remained quite hard and firm. The Eskimos talked and smoked for a whole hour after supper, before stretching in their sleeping bags, but Bob crawled into his almost immediately, for he was very weary after his long day's travel. His knowledge of their language was not sufficient for him to take part in the conversation, or, indeed, to understand much they said, and the constant talk soon became tiresome to him, though he kept his ears open with a view to adding to his Eskimo vocabulary whenever an opportunity offered. "'Tis a strange language an' I'm wonderin' how they understands un," he observed as he turned over to go to sleep. Very early the next morning he heard Akonuk calling to Matuk to wake up. Then for a little while the two Eskimos conversed together and finally the lamp was lighted. Over this a snow knife was stuck into the side of the igloo and the kettle hung upon the knife in such a position that it was directly over the flame, and snow, cut from the side of the igloo near the bottom, was melted for tea, and thus the simple breakfast was prepared without going out of doors. When Bob came out of his bag to eat he realized that a storm was raging outside, for he could hear the wind roaring around the igloo, and Akonuk made him understand that a heavy snow-storm was in progress and a continuation of the journey that day quite out of the question. When daylight finally filtered dimly through the igloo roof, he removed the snow block that closed the entrance, and crawled to the outer world, where he verified Akonuk's statement. The air was so filled with snow that it would be quite useless to attempt to move in it. The previous night the dogs had dug holes for themselves in the bank and were now completely covered with the drift, and invisible, and the komatik, too, was quite hidden. The aspect was dreary in the extreme, and he returned to spend the day dozing in his sleeping bag. For two days they were held prisoners by the storm, and when finally the third morning dawned clear and cold, a deep covering of soft snow had spoiled the good going and they found travelling much slower and more difficult than the day they started. Akonuk and Bob ran ahead on their snow-shoes to break the way for the dogs, which Matuk drove, and found it necessary to constantly urge the animals on with shouts of "Oo-isht! Oo-isht! Ok-suit! Ok-suit!" and sometimes with stinging cuts of his long whip. This whip was made of braided strands of walrus hide, and tapered from a thickness of two inches at the butt to one long single strand at the tip. Its handle was a piece of wood about a foot long and the whole whip was perhaps thirty-five feet in length. When not in use a loop on the handle was dropped over the end of one of the forward crosspieces of the komatik, and its lash trailed behind in the snow. Here it could be readily reached and brought into instant service. Matuk was an expert in the manipulation of this cruel instrument, and the dogs were in deadly fear of it. When he cracked it over their heads they would plunge madly forward and whine piteously for mercy. When he wished to punish a dog he could cut it with the lash tip even to the extent of breaking the skin, if he desired, and he never missed the animal he aimed at. Each dog had an individual trace which was fastened to a long, single thong of sealskin attached to the front of the komatik. These traces were of varying length, the leader, or dog trained to the Eskimos' calls, having the longest trace, which permitted it to go well in advance of the others. For several days the journey was monotonous and uneventful. Gradually as they advanced the travelling improved again, as the March winds drifted away the soft, loose snow and left the bottom solid and firm for the dogs. Ptarmigans were plentiful, as were also arctic hares, and a white fox and one or two white owls were killed. The flesh of all these they ate, and were thus enabled to keep in reserve the provisions they had brought with them. Bob was rather disgusted than amused to see the Eskimos eat the flesh of animals and birds raw. They appeared to esteem as a particular delicacy the freshly killed ptarmigans, still warm with the life blood, eating even the entrails uncooked. One afternoon they turned the komatik from the land to the far stretching ice of a wide bay directing their course towards a cove on the farther side, where the Eskimos said they expected to find igloos. All day a stiff wind had been blowing from the southwest and as the day grew old it increased in velocity. The komatik was taking an almost easterly course and therefore the wind did not seriously hamper their progress, though it was bitter cold and searching and made travelling extremely uncomfortable. Less than half-way across the bay, which was some twelve miles wide, a crack in the ice was passed over. Presently cracks became numerous, and glancing behind him Bob noticed a wide black space along the shore at the point where they had taken to the ice, and could see in the distance farther to the northwest, as it reflected the light, a white streak of foam where the angry sea was assailing the ice barrier. He realized at once that the wind and sea were smashing the ice. They were far from land and in grave peril. The Eskimos urged the dogs to renewed efforts, and the poor brutes themselves, seeming to realize the danger, pulled desperately at the traces. After a time the ice beneath them began to undulate, moving up and down in waves and giving an uncertain footing. Between them and the cove they were heading for, but a little outside of their course, was a bare, rocky island and the Eskimos suddenly turned the dogs towards it. The whole body of ice was now separated from the mainland and this island was the only visible refuge open to them. Behind them the sea was booming and thundering in a terrifying manner as it drove gigantic ice blocks like mighty battering rams against the main mass, which crumbled steadily away before the onslaught. It had become a race for life now, and it was a question whether the sea or the men would win. Once a crack was reached that they could not cross and they had to make a considerable detour to find a passage around it, and it looked for a little while as though this sealed their fate, but with a desperate effort they presently found themselves within a few yards of the island. Here a new danger awaited them. The ice upon the shore was rising and falling and crumbling against the rocks with each incoming and receding sea. To successfully land it would be necessary to make a dash at the very instant that the ice came in contact with the shore. A moment too soon or a moment too late and they would inevitably be crushed to death. It was their only way of escape, however. The howling dogs were held in leash until the proper moment, and all prepared for the run. Akonuk gave the word. The dogs leaped forward, the men jumped, and they found themselves ashore. The three grabbed the traces and helped the dogs jerk the komatik clear of the next sea, and all were at last safe. Five minutes later a landing would have been impossible, and two hours later the entire bay surrounding their island was swept clear of ice by the gale and outgoing tide. During the whole adventure the Eskimos had conducted themselves with the utmost coolness and gave Bob confidence and courage. Dangers of this kind had no terrors for them for they had met them all their lives. They had landed upon the windward side of the island at a point where they were exposed to the full sweep of the gale. "Peungeatuk"--very bad--said Akonuk. Then he told Bob to remain by the dogs while he and Matuk looked for a sheltered camping place. In half an hour Matuk returned, his face wreathed in smiles, with the information, "Innuit, igloo." Then he and Bob drove the dogs to the lee side of the island, where they found four large snow igloos and several men, women and children, standing outside waiting to see the white traveller. The Eskimos received Bob kindly, and they asked him inside while some of the men helped Akonuk and Matuk erect an igloo and fix up their camp. The several igloos were all connected by snow tunnels, which permitted of an easy passage from one to the other without the necessity of going out of doors. A piece of clear ice, like glass, was set into the roof of each to answer for a window. They were all filled with a stench so sickening that Bob soon made an excuse to go outside and lend a hand in unpacking and helping Akonuk and Matuk make their own snow house ready. There were no boughs here for a bed, as the island sustained no growth whatever, and in place of the boughs the dog harness was spread about before the deerskins were put down. In a little while the place was made quite comfortable. It was not until they sat down to supper that Bob realized fully the serious position they were in. Akonuk and Matuk, after much difficulty, for he could understand their Eskimo tongue so imperfectly, explained to him that there was no means of reaching the mainland as there were no boats on the island, and that after the food they had was eaten there would be no means of procuring more, as the island had no game upon it. They also told him that no one would be passing the island until summer and that there was therefore no hope of outside rescue. But one chance of escape was possible. If the wind were to shift to the northward and hold there long enough it would probably drive the ice back into the bay and then it would quickly freeze and they could reach the mainland. This their only hope, at this season of the year, for March was nearly spent, was a scant one. XX PRISONERS OF THE SEA The party of Eskimos that Bob and his companions found encamped upon the island had come from the Kangeva mainland to spear seals through the animals' breathing holes in the ice, which in this part of the bay were more numerous than on the mainland side. In the few days since they had established themselves here they had met with some success, and had accumulated a sufficient store of meat and blubber to keep them and their dogs for a month or so, but further seal hunting, or hunting of any kind, was now out of the question, as no animal life existed on the island itself, and without boats with which to go upon the water the people were quite helpless in this respect. Limited as was their supply of provisions, however, they unselfishly offered to share with Bob and his two companions the little they had, as is the custom with people who have not learned the harder ways of civilization and therefore live pretty closely to the Golden Rule. This hospitality was a considerable strain upon their resources, for the twelve dogs in addition to their own would require no small amount of flesh and fat to keep them even half-way fed; and the whale meat that had been brought for the dogs from Ungava Post was nearly all gone. Akonuk had been instructed by Mr. MacPherson to discover the whereabouts of these very Eskimos and arrange with two of them to go on with Bob, after which he and Matuk were to secure from them food for themselves and their team and return to Ungava. A good part of the hardtack, boiled pork and venison still remained, for, as we have seen, the game they had killed on the way had pretty nearly been enough for their wants. It was fortunate for Bob that they had these provisions, which required no cooking, for otherwise he would have had to eat the raw seal as the Eskimos did. They understood his aversion to doing this, and generously, and at the same time preferably, perhaps, ate the uncooked meat themselves, and left the other for him. March passed into April, and daily the situation grew more desperate, as the provisions diminished with each sunset. Bob was worried. It began to look as though he and the Eskimos were doomed to perish on this miserable island. He was sorry now that he had not waited at Ungava for the ship, and been more patient, for then he would have reached Eskimo Bay in safety. At first the Eskimos were very cheerful and apparently quite unconcerned, and this consoled him somewhat and made him more confident; but finally even they were showing signs of restlessness. Every day he was becoming more familiar with their language and could understand more and more of their conversation, and he drew from it and their actions that they considered the situation most critical. Back of the igloos was a hill a couple of hundred feet high, and many times each day the men of the camp would climb it and look long and earnestly to the north, where the heaving billows of Hudson Straits and the sky line met, broken only here and there by huge icebergs that towered like great crystal mountains above the water. They were watching for the ice field that they hoped would drift down with each tide to bridge the sea that separated them from the distant mainland. The early April days were growing long and the sun's rays shining more directly upon the world were gaining power, though not yet enough to bring the temperature up to zero even at high noon, but enough to remind the men that winter was aging, and the ice hourly less likely to come back. One of the Eskimos, Tuavituk by name, was an Angakok, or conjurer, and claimed to possess special powers which permitted him to communicate with Torngak, the Great Spirit who ruled their fortunes just as the Manitou rules the fortunes of the Indians. Tuavituk one day announced to the assembled Eskimos that something had been done to displease Torngak, and to punish them he had caused the storm to come that had so suddenly carried away the ice and left them marooned upon this desolate island, and here they would all perish eventually of starvation unless Torngak were appeased. This announcement occasioned a long discussion as to what the cause of their trouble could have been. One old Eskimo suggested that the ice had broken up at the very moment that the kablunok--stranger--arrived, and that his presence was undoubtedly the disturbing influence. White men, he said, showed no respect for Torngak, and it was quite reasonable, therefore, that Torngak should resent it and wish not only to destroy the white men, but punish the innuit who gave the kablunok shelter or assistance. If this were the case they could only hope for relief after first driving Bob from their camp. When once purged of his presence Torngak would be satisfied, he would send the ice back into the bay and they would be enabled to return to the mainland and to renew their hunting. A long discussion followed this harangue in which all the men took part with the exception of Tuavituk, who as Angakok reserved his opinion until it should be called for in a professional way; and all agreed with the first speaker save Akonuk and Matuk, who, being visitors, spoke last. Akonuk asserted that he and Matuk had travelled with the kablunok all the way from Ungava and had enjoyed during that time not only perfect safety and comfort, but had made an unusually quick and lucky journey, killing all the ptarmigans and small game they wanted, and experiencing with the exception of one snow-storm excellent weather until they approached Kangeva. Then the ill wind blew upon them and brought disaster as they came to the camp on the island; therefore it seemed quite certain that not the kablunok but some of the innuit in the camp had offended the great Torngak, and amongst themselves they must look for the cause of their misfortune. Matuk followed this speech with an address in which he bore out Akonuk's statements, and, doubtless having in mind Bob's plentiful supply of tea, of which beverage Matuk was passionately fond and partook freely, he stated it as his opinion that the presence of the kablunok had actually been the source of the good luck they had had previous to their arrival at Kangeva. Then he wound up with the startling announcement that he believed he knew the cause of Torngak's anger: that on the very day of their arrival he had seen Chealuk--one of the old women--sewing a netsek--sealskin adikey--_with the sinew of the tukto_--reindeer. Every one turned to Chealuk for confirmation and she said simply, "It is true." The Eskimos were struck dumb with horror. This, then, was the cause of their trouble. For the women to work with any part of the reindeer while the men were hunting seals was one of the greatest affronts that could be offered the Great Spirit. Torngak had been insulted and angered. He must be appeased and mollified at any cost. Tuavituk, the Angakok, it was decided, must do some conjuring. He must get into immediate communication with Torngak and learn the spirit's wishes and demands and what must be done to dispel the evil charm that Chealuk had worked by her thoughtlessness. Tauvituk was quite willing--indeed anxious--to do this, but he demanded to be well paid for it, and every man had to contribute some valuable pelt or article of clothing. When all preparations for the seance had been made the Angakok's head was covered and in a few moments he began to utter untelligible exclamations, which were shortly punctuated by shouts and screams and ravings. He fell to the floor and seemed stricken with a fit, and Bob thought the man had gone stark mad. He struck out and grasped those within his reach, and they were glad to escape from his iron clutch. For several minutes this wild frenzy lasted before he said an intelligible word. "The deer! The deer! The deer's sinew! Chealuk! Chealuk! Chealuk! Torngak! The evil spirit is in Chealuk! She must go! Must go! Send Chealuk away! Send her away! Send her away! Send her away!" Finally from sheer exhaustion he quieted down and came out of his trance. He probably thought that he had given them their value's worth and what they had wanted, and that they should be satisfied. It was now decreed that, this being the direct command of Torngak, Chealuk must be expelled from the camp. Some even asserted that she should be killed, but the majority decided that as Torngak had said merely that "Chealuk must go" that meant only that she must be sent away. If this did not prove sufficient to counteract their ill luck, why she could, after a reasonable time, be sought out and dispatched, if she had not in the meantime perished. The feeble old woman heard it all with outward stoic indifference. It was a part of her religion and she probably thought the punishment quite just, and whatever shrinking of spirit she felt, she hid it heroically from the others. To have been killed immediately would have been more humane than banishment, for the latter only meant a slower but just as sure a death, from exposure and starvation. To Bob, who had listened intently and was able to grasp the situation in a general way, it seemed heartless in the extreme; but his protests would not only have been powerless to move the Eskimos from their purpose, but in all probability would have worked harm for himself and to no avail. These people that at first had seemed so amiable and hospitable, and almost childlike in their nature, had been by their heathen superstitions suddenly transformed into cruel, unsympathetic savages. "Oh," thought Bob, "if I had but heeded Sishetakushin's warning!" But it was too late now to repent of the course he had taken and he had only to abide by it. It seemed to him that his own life hung by a mere thread and that at any moment some fancy might strike them to sacrifice him too. He had indeed but barely escaped Chealuk's fate, and the next time he might not be so fortunate. In this disturbed state of mind he withdrew from the igloos and climbed the hill, where he stood and gazed longingly at the mainland hills to the southward, wondering where, beyond those cold, white ranges, lay Wolf Bight and his little cabin home, warm and clean and tidy, and whether his mother and father and Emily thought him safe or had heard of his disappearance and were mourning him as dead. And here he was far, far away in the north and hopelessly--apparently--stranded upon a desolate island from which he would probably never escape and never see them again. Oh, how lonely and disconsolate he felt. Every day since he left home he had prayed God to keep the loved ones safe and to take him back to them. "I hopes they're safe an' Emily's better, but th' Lard's been losin' track o' me," he said to himself with a wavering faith. "But th' Lard took me safe t' Ungava, an' He must be watchin' me," he exclaimed after further thought. "An' He's been rare good t' me." Then like a bulwark to lean against there came to him the words of his mother as they parted that beautiful September morning: "Don't forget your prayers, lad, an' remember your mother's prayin' for you every night an' every mornin'." And Emily had said, too, that she would ask God every night to keep him safe. This brought him a renewal of his faith and he argued, "Th' Lard'll sure not be denyin' mother an' Emily, an' they askin' He every day t' bring me back. He sure would not be denyin' they for He knows how bad 'twould be makin' they feel if I were not comin' home. An' He wouldn't be wantin' _that_, for they never does nothin' t' make He cross with un." This thought comforted him and he said confidently to himself, "Th' Lard'll be showin' th' way when th' right time comes an' I'll try t' bide content till then." But there was little in the surroundings to warrant Bob's faith. Looking about him from the hilltop he could see nothing but open sea around the island with an expanse of desolation beyond--snow, snow everywhere, from the water's edge to where the rugged mountains to the south and east held their cold heads into the gray clouds that hid the sky and sun. The sea was sombre and black. Not a breath of air stirred, not a sound broke the silence, and it seemed almost as though Nature in anxious suspense watched the outcome of it all. But Bob's faith was renewed--the simple, childlike faith of his people--and he felt better and more content with himself and his fortune. It was growing dusk when he returned to the igloos. As he descended the hill a flake of snow struck his face and it was followed by others. A breath of wind like a blast from a bellows swirled the flakes abroad. The elements were awakening. In the igloos Akonuk and Matuk were brewing tea for supper and the three ate in silence. Bob asked once, "What's to be done with Chealuk?" "Nothing," they answered laconically. This relieved the anxiety he felt for her, and he crawled into his sleeping bag and went to sleep, thinking that after all the judgment of the Angakok was a mere form, not to be executed literally. After some hours Bob awoke. The wind was blowing a gale outside. He could hear it quite distinctly. From what direction it came he could not tell, and after lying awake for a long while he decided to arise and see. When he removed the block of snow from the igloo entrance and crawled outside he was all but smothered by the swirling snow of a terrific, raging blizzard. He turned his back to the blast, and realized that it came from the north-east. The cold was piercing and awful. The elements which had been held in subjection for so long were unleashed and were venting themselves with all the untamed fury of the North upon the world. As he turned to reënter the igloo an apparition brushed past him rushing off into the night. "Who is it?" he shouted. But the wind brought back no answer and overcome with a feeling of trepidation and a sense of impending tragedy, half believing that he had seen a ghost, he crawled back to his cover and warm sleeping bag to wonder. There was no cessation in the storm or change in the conditions the next day. In the morning while they were drinking their hot tea Bob told Akonuk and Matuk of the apparition he had seen in the night. "That," they said in awe, "was the spirit of Torngak," and Bob was duly impressed. Upon a visit later to the other igloos he missed Chealuk. She had always sat in one corner plying her needle, and had always had a word for him when he came in to pay a visit. Her absence was therefore noticeable and Bob asked one of the Eskimos where she was. "Gone," said the Eskimo. And this was all he could learn from them. Poor old Chealuk had been sent away, and it must have been she, then, that he had seen in the darkness. That night Bob was aroused again, and he immediately realized that something of moment had occurred. Akonuk and Matuk were awake and talking excitedly, and through the shrieking of the gale outside came a distinct and unusual sound. It was like the roar of distant thunder, but still it was not thunder. He sat up sharply to learn the meaning of it all. XXI ADRIFT ON THE ICE The unusual sound that Bob heard was the pounding of ice driven by the mighty force of wind and tide against the island rocks. This the Eskimos verified with many exclamations of delight. The hoped for had happened and release from their imprisonment was at hand. Bob thanked God for remembering them. "I were thinkin' th' Lard would not be losin' sight o' me now He's been so watchful in all th' other times I were needin' help," said he as he lay down. To the Eskimos it was a proof of the efficacy of the appeal to the Angakok. During the next day the high wind and snow continued until dusk. Then the weather began to calm and before morning the sky was clear and the stars shining cold and brilliant, and the sun rose clear and beautiful. Kangeva Bay, a solid held of ice again, as it was when Bob first saw it, stretched away unbroken and white to the northward. No time was lost in making preparations for their escape. The komatiks were packed at once with the camp goods and the little food that still remained, the dogs were harnessed and a quick march took them safely to the mainland. Here the Eskimos had an ample cache of seal and walrus meat killed earlier in the season. New igloos were built, as the old ones in use before they transferred to the island were not considered comfortable, the previous occupancy having softened the interior snow, which was now encrusted with a thin glaze of ice and this glaze prevented a free circulation of air. Bob wanted to go on without delay but Akonuk and Matuk had found none of the Eskimos willing to proceed with him. It was therefore necessary for them to go with him until another camp was reached, and they insisted upon delaying the start a day in order as they said to give the dogs a good feed and get them in better shape for the journey, as they for some time had been fed only each alternate day instead of every day as was customary, and even then had received but half their usual portion. This seemed quite reasonable, but when Bob saw his friends a little later consuming raw seal meat themselves in enormous quantities, he concluded that the dogs were not the only object of their consideration. They were still busily engaged arranging their new quarters when one of the Eskimos called the attention of the others to a black object far out upon the ice in the direction from which they had come. Slowly it tottered towards them and in a little while it was made out to be old Chealuk, who had been in hiding somewhere on the island. The poor old woman, nearly starved and with frozen hands and feet, was barely able to drag herself into camp. Some of the men protested against receiving her but she was finally permitted to enter the igloos and take up her old place, though with the understanding that she should leave again immediately at the first indication of Torngak's displeasure. It was a great relief to Bob to know that she had not perished. The old woman had only been able to keep from freezing to death, as he learned, by hollowing out a place in a snow-bank in which to lie and letting the snow drift thickly over her and remaining there until the storm had spent itself. "Sure I'm glad t' see she back again," thought Bob, and he voiced the sentiment to Matuk. "Atsuk"--I don't know--said the Eskimo with a shrug of the shoulders. While, as we have seen, none of the Eskimos would take the place of Akonuk and Matuk, they gave them sufficient seal meat and blubber for a two weeks' journey, and early the next morning the march eastward was resumed. Bob was now driven to eating seal meat, as all his other provisions were exhausted, though, fortunately, he still had an abundance of tea. He had often eaten seal meat at home and was rather fond of it when it was properly cooked, but now no wood with which to make a fire was to be had. The land was absolutely barren, and even the moss was so deeply hidden beneath the snow it could not be resorted to for this purpose. Evenings in the igloo he boiled some meat over the stone lamp--enough to last him through the following day--but at best he could get it but partially cooked. However, he soon learned not to mind this much, for hunger is the best imaginable sauce, and in the cold of the Arctic north one can eat with a relish what could not be endured in a milder climate. For several days they traversed mountain passes where they were shut in by towering, rugged peaks which seemed to reach to the very heavens. Bleak and desolate as the landscape was it possessed a magnificence and grandeur that demanded admiration and called forth Bob's constant wonder. He would gaze up at the mysterious white summits and ejaculate, "'Tis grand! 'Tis wonderful grand!" Such mountains he had never seen before, and like all wilderness dwellers he was a lover of Nature's beauties and a close observer of her wonders. It was near the middle of April now and the sun's rays, reflected by the snow, were growing dazzlingly bright and beginning to affect their eyes. Goggles should have been worn as a protection against this glare but they had none and did not trouble to make them until one night Matuk found that he was overtaken by a slight attack of snow-blindness. This is an extremely painful affliction which does not permit the sufferer to approach the light or, in fact, so much as open his eyes without experiencing agony. The sensation is that of having innumerable splinters driven into the eyeballs with the lids when opened and closed grating over the splinters. While they were waiting for Matuk to recover his eyesight Akonuk and Bob removed one of the wooden cross-bars from the komatik and with their knives cut from it three pieces each long enough to fit over the eyes for a pair of goggles. These were rounded to fit the face and a place whittled out for the nose to fit into. Then hollow places were cut large enough to permit the eyelids to open and close in them, and opposite each eye hollow a narrow slit for the wearer to look through. Then the interior of the eye places were blackened with smoke from the stone lamp, and a thong of sealskin was fastened to each end of the goggles with which to tie them in place upon the head. Thus a pair of goggles was ready for each when, after a three days' rest Matuk's eyes were well enough for him to continue the journey, and by constantly wearing them on days when the sun shone, further danger of snow-blindness was averted. Two days later, upon emerging from a mountain pass, they suddenly saw stretching far away to the eastward the great ocean ice. The sight sent the blood tingling through Bob's veins. Nearly half the journey from Ungava to Eskimo Bay had been accomplished! "Th' coast! Th' coast!" shouted Bob. "Now I'll be gettin' home inside a month!" He began at once to plan the surprise he had in store for the folk and an early trip that he would make over to the Post, when he would tell Bessie about his great "cruise" and hear her say that she was glad to see him back again. But Fortune does not wait upon human plans and Bob's fortitude was yet to be tried as it never had been tried before. That afternoon an Eskimo village of snow igloos was reached. The Eskimos swarmed out to meet the visitors and gave them a whole-souled welcome, and in an hour they were quite settled for a brief stay in the new quarters. Akonuk told Bob that now after the dogs, which were very badly spent, had a few days in which to rest, he and Matuk would turn back to Ungava. They would try to arrange for two more Eskimos with a fresh team to go on with him, but as for themselves, even were the dogs in condition to travel, they did not know the trail beyond this point. The Eskimos here, like those they had met on the island at Kangeva, were engaged in seal hunting, and none of the men seemed to care to leave their work for a long, hard journey south. They did not say, however, that they would not go. When they were asked their answer was: "In a little while--perhaps." This was very unsatisfactory to Bob in his anxious frame of mind. But he had learned that Eskimos must be left to bide their time, and that no amount of coaxing would hurry them, so he tried to await their moods in patience. He understood the reluctance of the men to go away during one of the best hunting seasons of the year and could not find fault with them for it. The seals were the mainstay of their living and to lose the hunt might mean privation. They were in need of the skins for clothing, kayaks and summer tents, and the flesh and blubber for food for themselves and their dogs, and the oil for their stone lamps. Later in the season they would harpoon the animals from their kayaks, but this was the great harvest time when they killed them by spearing through holes in the ice where the seals came at intervals to breathe, for a seal will die unless it can get fresh air occasionally. Early in the morning each Eskimo would take up his position near one of these breathing holes, and there, with spear poised, not moving so much as a foot, sometimes for hours at a time, await patiently the appearance of a seal, which, having many similar holes, might not chance to come to this particular one the whole day. The spear used had a long, wooden handle, with a barbed point made of metal or ivory, and so arranged that the barbed point came off the handle after it had been driven into the animal. To the point was fastened one end of a long sealskin line, the other end of which the hunter tied about his waist. The moment a seal's nose made its appearance at the breathing hole the watchful Eskimo drove the spear into its body. Then began a tug of war between man and seal, and sometimes the Eskimos had narrow escapes from being pulled into the holes. The seals of Labrador, it should be explained, are the hair, and not the fur seals such as are found in the Alaskan waters and the South Sea. There are five varieties of them, the largest of which is the hood seal and the smallest the doter or harbour seal. The square flipper also grows to a very large size. The other two kinds are the jar and the harp. These all have different names applied to them according to their age. Thus a new-born harp is a "puppy," then a "white coat"; when it is old enough to take to the water, which is within a fortnight after birth, it becomes a "paddler," a little later a "bedlamer," then a "young harp" and finally a harp. The handsomest of them all is the "ranger," as the young doter is called. Finally, one evening when all the men were assembled in the igloos after their day's hunt, Akonuk announced that he and Matuk were to return home the next morning. This renewed the discussion as to who should go on with Bob, and the upshot of it was that two young fellows--Netseksoak and Aluktook--with the promise that Mr. Forbes would reward them for aiding to bring the letters which Bob carried, volunteered to make the journey. This settled the matter to Bob's satisfaction and it was agreed that, as the season was far advanced, it would be necessary to start at once in order to give the two men time to reach home again before the spring break-up of the ice. Long before daylight the next morning the Eskimos were lashing the load on the komatik and at dawn the dogs were harnessed and everything ready. Bob said good-bye to Akonuk and Matuk and the two teams took different directions and were soon lost to each other's view. "'Twill not be long now," said Bob to himself, "an' we gets t' th' Bay." The sun at midday was now so warm that it softened the snow, which, freezing towards evening, made a hard ice crust over which the komatik slipped easily and permitted of very fast travelling until the snow began to soften again towards noon. Therefore the early part of the day was to be taken advantage of. The new team, containing eleven dogs, was really made up of two small teams, one of six dogs belonging to Netseksoak and the other of five dogs the property of Aluktook. At first the two sets of dogs were inclined to be quarrelsome and did not work well together. At the very start they had a pitched battle which resulted in the crippling of Aluktook's leader to such an extent that for two days it was almost useless. However, with the good going fast time was made. Usually they kept to the sea ice, but sometimes took short cuts across necks of land where, as had been the case near Ungava, the men had to haul on the traces with the dogs. The new drivers were much younger men than Akonuk and Matuk and they were in many respects more companionable. But Bob missed a sort of fatherly interest that the others had shown in him and did not rely so implicitly upon their judgment. Able now as he was to understand very much of their conversation, he took part in the discussion of various routes and expressed his opinion as to them; and the Eskimos, who at first had looked upon him as a more or less inexperienced kablunok, soon began to feel that he knew nearly as much about dog and komatik travelling as they did themselves. Thus a sort of good fellowship developed at once. One evening after a hard day's travelling as they came over the crest of a hill the first grove of trees that Bob had seen since shortly after leaving Ungava came in sight. It was the most welcome thing that had met his view in weeks, and when the dogs were turned to its edge and he saw a small shack, he knew that he was nearing again the white man's country. The shack was found to have no occupants, but it contained a sheet iron stove such as he had used in his tilts, and that night he revelled in the warmth of a fire and a feast of boiled ptarmigan and tea. "'Tis like gettin' back t' th' Bay," said Bob, and he asked the Eskimos, "Will there be igloosoaks (shacks) all the way?" "Igloosoaks every night," answered Aluktook. The following morning a westerly breeze was blowing and the Eskimos were uncertain whether to keep to the land or follow the sea ice along the shore. The former route, they explained to Bob, passed over high hills and was much the harder and longer one of the two, but safer. The ice route along the shore was smooth and could be accomplished much more quickly, but at this season of the year was fraught with more or less danger. For many miles the shore rose in precipitous rocks, and should a westerly gale arise while they were passing this point, the ice was likely to break away and no escape could be made to the shore. The wind blowing then from the West was not strong enough yet, they said, to cause any trouble, and they did not think it would rise, but still it was uncertain. "Which way should they go?" Bob's experience at Kangeva made him hesitate for a moment, but his impatience to reach home quickly got the better of his judgment; and, especially as the Eskimos seemed inclined to prefer the outside route, he joined them in their preference and answered, "We'll be goin' outside." And the outside route they took. All went well for a time, but hourly the wind increased. The dogs were urged on, but the wind kept blowing them to leeward and they began to show signs of giving out. Finally a veritable gale was blowing and the Eskimos' faces grew serious. They were now opposite that part of the shore where it rose a perpendicular wall of rock towering a hundred feet above the sea, and offered no place of refuge. So they hurried on as best they could in the hope of rounding the walls and making land before the inevitable break came. Presently Aluktook shouted, "Emuk! Emuk!"--the water! the water! Bob and Netseksoak looked, and a ribbon of black water lay between them and the shore. They lashed the dogs and shouted at them until they were hoarse, in a vain effort to urge them on. The poor brutes lay to the ice and did their best, but it was quite hopeless. In an incredibly short time the ribbon had widened into a gulf a quarter of a mile wide. Then it grew to a mile, and presently the shore became a thin black line that was soon lost to view entirely. They were adrift on the wide Atlantic! They stopped the dogs when they realized that further effort was useless and sat down on the komatik in impotent dismay. The weather had grown intensely cold and the perspiration that the excitement and exertion had brought out upon their faces was freezing. Snow squalls were already beginning and before nightfall a blizzard was raging in all its awful fury and at any moment the ice pack was liable to go to pieces. XXII THE MAID OF THE NORTH "The's no profit in this trade any more," said Captain Sam Hanks, as he sat down to supper with his mate, Jack Simmons, in the little cabin of his schooner, _Maid of the North_. "I won't get a seaman's wages out o' th' cruise, an' I'm sick o' workin' fer nothin'. Now there was a time before th' free traders done th' business t' death that a man could make good money on th' Labrador, but that time's past They pays so much fer th' fur they's spoiled it fer everybody, an' I'm goin' t' quit." "Th' free traders don't go north o' th' Straits much. Why don't ye try it there, sir?" suggested the mate. "Ice. Too much ice. I've been thinkin' it over. Th' trouble is we couldn't get through th' ice in th' spring until after th' Hudson's Bay people had gobbled up everything. Th' natives down that coast is poor as Job's turkey, an' they has t' sell their fur soon's th' furrin' season's over. I hears th' company gets th' fur from 'em fer a song. Them natives'll give ye a silver fox fer a jackknife an' a barrel o' flour, an' a marten fer a gallon o' molasses. But the's money in it if a feller could get there in time," he added thoughtfully. "What's th' matter with goin' down in th' fall before th' ice blocks th' coast? Th' _Maid o' th' North_ is sheathed fer ice, an' we could freeze her in, some place down th' coast, an' be on hand t' sail when th' ice clears in th' spring, We could let th' folks know where we were t' freeze up, an' we'd pick up a lot o' fur before th' ice breaks, an' th' natives'd hold th' rest until we calls comin' south. The's a big chanct there," said the mate, conclusively. "I dunno but yer right. I hadn't thought o' goin' down in th' fall t' freeze up. We'd have t' be gettin' t' our anchorage by th' first o' October." "The's plenty o' time t' do that, sir. 'Twon't take more'n ten days t' fit out." "Then the's th' cost o' shippin' th' crew t' be taken into account, 'n havin' 'em doin' nothin' th' hull winter. I don't know's the'd be much in it after everythin's counted out." "That's easy 'nuff fixed. Take a lot o' traps an' let th' crew hunt in th' winter. Ye wouldn't have t' pay 'em then when ye wasn't afloat. Ye could give 'em their keep an' let 'em hunt with th' traps on shore an' make a little outen 'em. The's always fools 'nuff as thinks they'll get rich if they has a chanct t' try their hand doin' somethin' they ain't been doin' before, an' you kin get a crew o' fellers like that easy 'nuff." "I dunno. Maybe I kin an' maybe I can't. Sounds like it's worth tryin' an' I'll think about it." Every spring for ten years Captain Hanks--Skipper Sam he was generally called--had sailed out of Halifax Harbour with his schooner _Maid of the North_ to work his way into the Gulf of St. Lawrence when the waters were clear of ice, and trade a general cargo of merchandise for furs with the Indians and white trappers along the north shore and the Straits of Belle Isle--the southern Labrador. At first he found the trade extremely lucrative, and during the first four or five years in which he was engaged in it accumulated a snug sum of money, the income of which would have been quite sufficient to keep him comfortably the remainder of his life in the modest way in which he lived. But Skipper Sam was much like other people, and the more he had the more he wanted, so he continued in the fur trade. The fact that he had purchased some city real estate for the purpose of speculation became known, and other skippers sailing schooners of their own, with an eye to lucrative, trade, decided that "Skipper Sam must be havin' a darn good thing on th' Labrador," and when the _Maid of the North_ made her fifth voyage she had another schooner to keep her company, and another skipper was on hand to compete with Skipper Sam. Each year had brought additions to the trading fleet, and competition had raised the price of fur until now the trappers, with a ready market, were growing quite independent, and Skipper Sam, instead of paying what he pleased for the pelts, which, when he had a monopoly of the trade, was a merely nominal price as compared with their value, was forced in order to get them at all to pay more nearly their true worth. Even now he was making a fair profit, but his mind constantly reverted to the "good old days" when his returns were from five hundred to a thousand per cent. on his investment, and he felt injured and dissatisfied. At the end of every voyage he declared solemnly that he was no longer making more than seamen's wages and would quit the trade, and the mate, who was well aware of the captain's comfortable financial position, always believed he meant it. It should be said to Captain Hanks' credit that he paid his mate and crew of five men the highest going wages, and treated them well and kindly. So long as they attended strictly to their duties he was their friend. They were provided with the best of food and they appreciated the good treatment and were loyal to Captain Hanks' interest and very much attached to the _Maid of the North_, as seamen are to a good ship that for several voyages has been their home. So it was that the mate made his suggestions so freely. If Captain Hanks were to quit the trade he knew that it would be many a day before he secured another such berth, and his solicitude was therefore not alone in the captain's interests but was largely a matter of looking out for himself. The voyage just completed had not, in fact, been a very profitable one, for the previous winter had been a poor year for the trappers that they dealt with, just as it had been farther north in Eskimo Bay, and Skipper Sam had good reason for feeling discouraged. It was early in August now, and the _Maid of the North_ was entering Halifax Harbour with the expectation of tying up at her berth the next morning. If she were to go north it would be necessary for her to be fitted out for the voyage immediately in order to reach her winter quarters before the ice began to form in the bays. The two men ate their supper and both went on deck to smoke their pipes. Skipper Sam had no more to say about the proposed undertaking until late in the evening, when he called the mate to his cabin, where he had retired after his smoke, and there the mate found him poring over a chart. "D'ye know anything about this coast?" the skipper asked, without looking up. The mate glanced over his shoulder. "Not much, sir. I was down on a fishin' cruise once when I was a lad." "Well, how far down ought we t' go, d' ye think, before we lays up?" "I think, sir, we should go north o' Indian Harbour. Th' farther north we gets, th' more fur we'll pick up." "Well," said the skipper, standing up, "I'm goin' t' sail just as quick as I can fit out. Ship th' crew on th' best terms ye can. We got t' move smart, fer I wants time t' run well down before th' ice catches us." "All right, sir." Thus it happened that the _Maid of the North_, spick and span, with a new coat of paint on the outside, and a good stock of provisions and articles of trade in her hold, sailed out of Halifax Harbour and turned her prow to the northward on the first day of September, and was plowing her way to the Labrador at the very time that Bob Gray with his mother and Emily were returning so disconsolate to Wolf Bight after hearing the verdict of the mail boat doctor, and Bob was making the plans that carried him into the interior. The _Maid of the North_ called at many harbours by the way and the fame of Captain Hanks spread amongst the livyeres, as the native Labradormen are called. He told them what fabulous prices he would pay them for their furs in the spring when he came south, with open water, and they promised him to a man to reserve the bulk of their catch for him, and all had visions of coming wealth. It was decided that they winter in the Harbour of God's Hope, just north of Cape Harrigan, and after passing Indian Harbour the natives were notified that if they wished any supplies during the winter they could bring their furs there and get what they needed. The Harbour of God's Hope was found to be a deep, narrow inlet, not as well protected from the sea as might be desired, but still comparatively well sheltered, and particularly advantageous from the fact that the shores of the upper end of the inlet were wooded, an essential feature, as it provided an abundance of good fuel, and the supply on board was far from adequate for their needs. The _Maid of the North_ was made as snug as possible for the freeze-up, but could not be brought as close to shore as desirable, because of shoals. However, her position was deemed quite safe, and Skipper Sam experienced a sense of supreme satisfaction at his achievements and the prospects for a profitable trade in the spring. The crew were put at work immediately to build a log shack for shore quarters, which was shortly accomplished. This shack was of ample size and was furnished with a stove brought from Halifax for the purpose, some chairs, a table and a kitchen outfit. The skipper, the mate and the cook remained on board at first, but the crew were given permission to go ashore and hunt and trap in the hills back of the harbour, an opportunity of which they promptly took advantage. As the cold weather came on and the ice formed thick and hard around the vessel it seemed unnecessary to keep a watch aboard, and as the shack was much more roomy than the cabin, and therefore more comfortable, all hands finally took up their quarters in it. As the winter wore on livyeres began to pay frequent visits to Skipper Sam from up and down the coast, and they all brought furs to trade. With the approach of spring the skipper found to his satisfaction that he had already collected more pelts than he had been able to purchase on his previous spring's voyage in the South, and at prices that even to him seemed ridiculously low. These furs were duly stored aboard the _Maid of the North_, and by the first of May she had a cargo that could have been disposed of in Halifax or Montreal for several thousand dollars. It was at this time that the skipper suggested to the mate one evening, "Jack, les go caribou huntin' t'-morrer. I'm gettin' stiff hangin' 'round here." "All right, sir," acquiesced the mate, "but," he asked, "th' crew's all away exceptin' th' cook, an' who'll look after things here if we both goes t' once?" "We kin leave the cook alone fer one day I guess. If any o' th' livyeres come he kin keep 'em till we comes back in th' evenin'." The arrangements were therefore made for the hunt, and the following morning bright and early they were off. At sunrise there was a slight westerly breeze blowing, and the skipper suggested, "Th' wind might stiffen up a bit an' we better keep an eye to it." They were well back in the hills before the predicted stiffening came to such an extent that they decided it was wise to return to the shack. Skipper Sam and his mate were not accustomed to land travelling and the hurried retreat soon winded them and they were held down to so slow a walk that the afternoon was half spent and the wind had grown to a gale when they finally came in view of the harbour. Skipper Sam was ahead, and when he looked towards the place where the _Maid of the North_ had been snugly held in the ice in the morning he rubbed his eyes. Then he looked again, and exclaimed: "By gum!" The harbour was clear of ice and nowhere on the horizon was the _Maid of the North_ to be seen. The gale had swept the ice to sea and carried with it the _Maid of the North_ and all her valuable cargo. The cook, asleep in his bunk in the shack, was quite unconscious of the calamity when the skipper roused him to demand explanations. But there were no explanations to be given. The schooner was gone, that was all, and Captain Sam Hanks and his crew were stranded upon the coast of Labrador. XXIII THE HAND OF PROVIDENCE Bob and his companions were indeed in a most desperate situation, and even they, accustomed and inured as they were to the vicissitudes and rigours of the North, could see no possible way of escape. Men of less courage or experience would probably have resigned themselves to their fate at once, without one further effort to preserve their lives, and in an hour or two have succumbed to the bitter cold of the storm. But these men had learned to take events as they came largely as a matter of course, and they did not for a moment lose heart or self-control. The dogs were driven a little farther towards the interior of the ice, for if the pack were to break up the outer edge would be the first to go. Here immediate preparations were made to camp. There was no bank from which snow blocks could be cut for an igloo, and the blinding snow so obscured their surroundings that they could not so much as find a friendly ice hummock to take refuge behind. The gale, in fact, was so fierce that they could scarce hold their feet against it, and had they released their hold of the komatik even for an instant, it is doubtful if they could have found it again. The deerskin sleeping bags were unlashed and the sledge turned upon its side. In the lee of this the bags were stretched upon the ice and with their skin clothes on they crawled into them. Each called "Oksunae"--be strong--have courage--to the others, and then drew his head within the folds of his skin covering. Bob wore the long, warm coat that Manikawan had made for him, and as he snuggled close into the bag he thought of her kindness to him, and he dreamed that night that he had gone back and found her waiting for him and looking just as she did the morning she waved him farewell, as she stood in the light of the cold winter moon--tall and graceful and comely, with the tears glistening in her eyes. The dogs, still in harness, lay down where they stood, and in a little while the snow, which found lodgment against the komatik, covered men and dogs alike in one big drift and the weary travellers slept warm and well regardless of the fact that at any moment the ice might part and they be swallowed up by the sea. The storm was one of those sudden outbursts of anger that winter in his waning power inflicts upon the world in protest against the coming spring supplanting him, and as a reminder that he still lives and carries with him his withering rod of chastisement and breath of destruction. But he was now so old and feeble that in a single night his strength was spent, and when morning dawned the sun arose with a new warmth and the wind had ceased to blow. The men beneath the snow did not move. It was quite useless for them to get up. There was nothing that they could do, and they might as well be sleeping as wandering aimlessly about the ice field. The dogs, however, thought differently. They had not been fed the previous night, and bright and early they were up, nosing about within the limited area afforded them by the length of their traces. One of them began to dig away the snow around the komatik. He paused, held his nose into the drift a moment and sniffed, then went vigorously to work again with his paws. Soon he grabbed something in his fangs. The others joined him, and the snarling and fighting that ensued aroused Bob and the sleeping Eskimos. Aluktook was the first to throw off the snow and look out to see what the trouble was about Then he shouted and jumped to his feet, kicking the dogs with all his power. Bob and Netseksoak sprang to his aid, but they were too late. The dogs had devoured every scrap of food they had, save some tea that Bob kept in a small bag in which he carried his few articles of dunnage. This was a terrible condition of affairs, for though they were doubtless doomed to drown with the first wind strong enough to shatter the ice, still the love of living was strong within them, and they must eat to live. Separating and going in different directions, the three hunted about in the vain hope that somewhere on the ice there might be seals that they could kill, but nowhere was there to be seen a living thing--nothing but one vast field of ice reaching to the horizon on the north, east and south. To the west the water sparkled in the sunlight, but no land and no life, human or otherwise, was within the range of vision. After a time they returned to their bivouac and then drove the dogs a little farther into the ice pack to a high hummock that Aluktook had found, and with an axe and snow knives cut blocks of ice from the hummock and snow from a drift on its lee side, and finally had a fairly substantial igloo built. This they made as comfortable as possible, and settled in it as the last shelter they should ever have in the world, as they all firmly believed it would prove. They were now driven to straits by thirst, but there was not a drop of water, save the salt sea water, to be had. "We'll have to burn the komatik," said Aluktook. Netseksoak knocked two or three cross-bars from it and built a miniature fire, using the wood with the greatest possible economy, and by this means melted a kettle of ice, and Bob brewed some tea. The warm drink was stimulating, and gave them renewed ambition. They separated again in search of game, but again returned, towards evening, empty handed. "Too late for seals," the Eskimos remarked laconically. All were weak from lack of food, and when they gathered at the igloo it was decided that one of the dogs must be killed. "We'll eat Amulik, he's too old to work anyway," suggested Netseksoak. Amulik, the dog thus chosen for the sacrifice, was a fine old fellow, one of Netseksoak's dogs that had braved the storms of many winters. The poor brute seemed to understand the fate in store for him, for he slunk away when he saw Netseksoak loading his gun. But his retreat was useless, and in a little while his flesh was stored in the igloo and the Eskimos were dining upon it uncooked. Though Bob was, of course, very hungry, he declined to eat raw dog meat, and to cook it was quite out of the question, for the little wood contained in the komatik he realized must be reserved for melting ice, as otherwise they would have nothing to drink. Another day, however, and he was so driven to the extremes of hunger that he was glad to take his share of the raw meat which to his astonishment he found not only most palatable but delicious, for there is a time that comes to every starving man when even the most vile and putrid refuse can be eaten with a relish. The dog meat was carefully divided into daily portions for each man. Some of it, of course, had to go to the remaining animals, to keep them alive to be butchered later, if need be, for this was the only source of food the destitute men had. Every day Bob and the Eskimos wandered over the ice, hoping against hope that some means of escape might be found. Bob realized that nothing but the hand of Providence, by some supernatural means, could save him now. Again, he said, "Th' Lard this time has sure been losin' track o' me. Maybe 'tis because when He were showin' me a safe trail over th' hills I were not willin' t' bide His time an' go that way, but were comin' by th' ice after th' warnin' at Kangeva." But he always ended his musings with the comfortable recollection of his mother's prayers. Which had helped him so much before, and this did more than anything else to keep him courageous and brave. The days came and went, each as empty as its predecessor, and each night brought less probability of escape than the night before. Another dog was killed, and a week passed. The komatik wood was nearly gone, although but one small fire was built each day, and the end of their tea was in sight. This was the state of affairs when Bob wandered one day farther to the southward over the pack ice than usual, and suddenly saw in the distance a moving object. At first he imagined that it was a bit of moving ice, so near was it to the colour of the field. This was quite impossible, however, and approaching it stealthily, he soon discovered that it was a polar bear. The animal was wandering leisurely to the south. Bob carried the rifle that Mr. MacPherson had given him, as he always did on these occasions, and keeping in the lee of ice hummocks, that he might not be seen by the bear, ran noiselessly forward. Finally he was within shooting distance and, raising the gun, took aim and fired. Perhaps it was because of weakness through improper food, or possibly as the result of too much eagerness, but the aim was unsteady and the bullet only grazed and slightly wounded the bear. The brute growled and turned to see what it was that had struck him. When it discovered its enemy it rose on its haunches and offered battle. Bob was for a moment paralyzed by the immense proportions that the bear displayed, and almost forgot that he had more bullets at his disposal. But he quickly recalled himself and throwing a cartridge into the chamber, aimed the rifle more carefully and fired again. This time the bullet went true to the mark, and the great body fell limp to the ice. As he surveyed the carcass a moment later he patted his rifle, and said; "'Tis sure a rare fine gun. I ne'er could ha' killed un wi' my old un.". "Now th' Lard _must_ be watchin' me or He wouldn't ha' sent th' bear, an' He wouldn't ha' sent un if He weren't wantin' us t' live. Th' Lard must be hearin' mother's an' Emily's prayers now, after all--He must be." The bear was a great windfall. It would give Bob and the Eskimos food for themselves and oil for their lamp, and the lad was imbued with new hope as he hurried off to summon Netseksoak and Aluktook to aid him in bringing the carcass to the igloo. The afternoon was well advanced before he found the two Eskimos, and when he told them of his good fortune they were very much elated, and all three started back immediately to the scene of the bear hunt. As they approached it Aluktook shouted an exclamation and pointed towards the south. Bob and Netseksoak looked, and there, dimly outlined in the distance but still plainly distinguishable, was the black hull of a vessel with two masts glistening in the sunshine. "Tis th' hand o' Providence!" exclaimed Bob. The three shook hands and laughed and did everything to show their delight short of hugging each other, and then ran towards the vessel, suddenly possessed of a vague fear that it might sail away before they were seen. Bob fired several shots out of his rifle as he ran, to attract the attention of the crew, but as they approached they could see no sign of life, and they soon found that it was a schooner frozen tight and fast in the ice pack. When they at last reached it Bob read, painted in bold letters, the name, "Maid of the North." XXIV THE ESCAPE They lost no time in climbing on deck, and what was their astonishment when they reached there to find the vessel quite deserted. Everything was in spick and span order both in the cabin and above decks. It was now nearly dark and an examination of her hold had to be deferred until the following day. One thing was certain, however. No one had occupied the cabin for some time, and no one had boarded or left the vessel since the last snow-storm, for no footprints were to be found on the ice near her. It was truly a great mystery, and the only solution that occurred to Bob was that the ice pack had "pinched" the schooner and opened her up below, and the crew had made a hurried escape in one of the boats. This he knew sometimes occurred on the coast, and if it were the case, and her hull had been crushed below the water line, it was of course only a question of the ice breaking up, which might occur at any time, when she would go to the bottom. There was one small boat on deck, and if an examination in the morning disclosed the unseaworthiness of the craft, this small boat would at least serve them as a means of escape from the ice pack. Whatever the condition of the vessel, the night was calm and the ice was hard, and there was no probability of a break-up that would release her from her firm fastenings before morning; and they decided, therefore, to make themselves comfortable aboard. There was a stove in the cabin and another in the forecastle, plenty of blankets were in the berths, and provisions--actual luxuries--down forward. Bob was afraid that it was a dream and that he would wake up presently to the realities of the igloo and raw dog meat, and the hopelessness of it all. He and the Eskimos lighted the lamps, started a fire in the galley stove, put the kettle over, fried some bacon, and finally sat down to a feast of bacon, tea, ship's biscuit, butter, sugar, and even jam to top off with. It was the best meal, Bob declared, that he had ever eaten in all his life. "An' if un turns out t' be a dream, 'twill be th' finest kind o' one," was his emphatic decision. How the three laughed and talked and enjoyed themselves over their supper, and how Bob revelled in the soft, warm blankets of Captain Hanks' berth when he finally, for the first time in weeks, was enabled to undress and crawl into bed, can better be imagined than described. After an early breakfast the next morning the first care was to examine the hold, and very much to their satisfaction, and at the same time mystification, for they could not now understand why the schooner had been abandoned, they found the hull quite sound and the schooner to all appearances perfectly seaworthy. Another astonishment awaited Bob, too, when he came upon the quantities of fur, and the stock of provisions and other goods that he found below decks. "'Tis enough t' stock a company's post!" he exclaimed. But its real intrinsic value was quite beyond his comprehension. When it was settled, beyond doubt, that the _Maid of the North_ was entirely worthy of their confidence and in no danger of sinking, the three returned to the igloo and transferred their sleeping bags and few belongings, as well as the dogs, to their new quarters on board of her. After this was done they skinned and dressed the polar bear, which still lay upon the ice where it had been killed, and some of the flesh was fed to the half famished dogs. Bob insisted upon giving them an additional allowance, after the two Eskimos had fed them, for he said that they, too, should share in the good fortune, though Netseksoak expressed the opinion that the dogs ought to have been quite satisfied to escape being eaten. The choicest cuts of the bear's meat the men kept for their own consumption, and Bob rescued the liver also, when Aluktook was about to throw it to the dogs, for he was very fond of caribou liver and saw no reason why that of the polar bear should not prove just as palatable. He fried some of it for supper, but when he placed it on the table both Aluktook and Netseksoak refused to touch it, declaring it unfit to eat, and warned Bob against it. "There's an evil spirit in it," they said with conviction, "and it makes men sick." This was very amusing to Bob, and disregarding their warning he ate heartily of it himself, wondering all the time what heathen superstition it was that prejudiced Eskimos against such good food, for, as he had observed, they would usually eat nearly anything in the way of flesh, and a great many things that he would not eat. In a little while Bob began to realize that something was wrong. He felt queerly, and was soon attacked with nausea and vomiting. For two or three days he was very sick indeed and the Eskimos both told him that it was the effect of the evil spirit in the liver, and that he would surely die, and for a day or so he believed that he really should. Whether the bear liver was under the curse of evil spirits or was in itself poisonous were questions that did not interest Bob. He knew it had made him sick and that was enough for him, and what remained of the liver went to the dogs, when he was able to be about again. The days passed wearily enough for the men in their floating prison, impatient as they were at their enforced inactivity, but still helpless to do anything to quicken their release. May was dragging to an end and June was at hand, and still the ice pack, firm and unbroken, refused to loose its bands. Slowly--imperceptibly to the watchers on board the _Maid of the North_--it was drifting to the southward on the bosom of the Arctic current. But the sun, constantly gaining more power, was rotting the ice, and it was inevitable that sooner or later the pack must fall to pieces and release the schooner and its occupants from their bondage. Then would come another danger. If the wind blew strong and the seas ran high, the heavy pans of ice pounding against the hull might crush it in and send the vessel to the bottom. Therefore, while longing for release, there was at the same time an element of anxiety connected with it. Finally the looked for happened. One afternoon a heavy bank of clouds, black and ominous, appeared in the western sky. A light puff of wind presaged the blow that was to follow, and in a little while the gale was on. The _Maid of the North_, it will be understood, lay in bay ice, and all the ice to the south of her was bay ice. This was much lighter than that coming from more northerly points, and when the open sea which skirted the western edge of the field began to rise and sweep in upon this rotten ice the waves crumbled and crumpled it up before their mighty force like a piece of cardboard. It was a time of the most intense anxiety for the three men. Just at dusk, amid the roar of wind and smashing ice, the vessel gave a lurch, and suddenly she was free. Fortunately her rudder was not carried away, as they had feared it would be, and when she answered the helm, Bob whispered, "Thank th' Lard." They were at the mercy of the wind during the next few hours, and there was little that could be done to help themselves until towards morning, when the gale subsided. Then, with daylight, under short sail they began working the vessel out of the "slob" ice that surrounded it, and before dark that night were in the open sea, with now only a moderate breeze blowing, which fortunately had shifted to the northward. Here they found themselves beset by a new peril. Icebergs, great, towering, fearsome masses, lay all about them, and to make matters worse a thick gray fog settled over the ocean, obscuring everything ten fathoms distant. They brought the vessel about and lay to in the wind, but even then drifted dangerously near one towering ice mass, and once a berg that could not have been half a mile away turned over with a terrifying roar. It seemed as though a collision was inevitable before daylight, but the night passed without mishap, and when the morning sun lifted the fog the ship was still unharmed. There was no land anywhere to be seen. What position they were in Bob did not know, and had no way of finding out. He did know, however, that somewhere to the westward lay the Labrador coast, and this they must try to reach. Fortunately he could read the compass, and by its aid took as nearly as possible a due westerly course. Alutook and Netseksoak, expert as they were in the handling of kayaks, had no knowledge of the management of larger craft like the _Maid of the North_, and without question accepted Bob as commander and followed his directions implicitly and faithfully; and he handled the vessel well, for he was a good sailor, as all lads of the Labrador are. They made excellent headway, and were favoured with a season of good weather, and like the barometer Bob's spirits rose. But he dared to plan nothing beyond the present action. A hundred times he had planned and pictured the home-coming, but each time Fate, or the will of a Providence that he could not understand, had intervened, and with the crushing of each new hope and the wiping out of each delightful picture that his imagination drew, he decided to look not into the future, but do his best in the present and trust to Providence for the rest, for, as he expressed it, "Th' Lard's makin' His own plans an' He's not wantin' me t' be meddlin' wi' un, an' so He's not lettin' me do th' way I lays out t' do, an' I'll be makin' no more plans, but takin' things as they comes along." In this frame of mind he held the vessel steadily to her course and kept a constant lookout for land or a sail, and on the morning of the third day after the release from the ice pack was rewarded by a shout from Netseksoak announcing land at last. Eagerly he looked, and in the distance, dimly, but still there, appeared the shore in low, dark outline against the horizon. Towards noon a sail was sighted, and late in the afternoon they passed within hailing distance of a fishing schooner bound down north. He shouted to the fishermen who, at the rail, were curiously watching the _Maid of the North_, as she plowed past them. [Illustration: "He held the vessel steadily to her course"] "What land may that be?" pointing at a high, rocky head that jutted out into the water two miles away. "Th' Devil's Head," came the reply. "An' what's th' day o' th' month?" "Th' fifteenth o' June," rang out the answer. "Where un hail from?" "Ungava," Bob shouted to the astonished skipper, who was now almost out of hearing. The information that the land was the Devil's Head came as joyful news to Bob. He had often heard of the Devil's Head, and knew that it lay not far from the entrance to Eskimo Bay, and therefore in a little while he believed he should see some familiar landmarks. Bob's hopes were confirmed, and before dark the Twin Rocks near Scrag Island were sighted, and as they came into view his heart swelled and his blood tingled. He was almost home! That night they lay behind Scrag Island, and with the first dawn of the morning were under way again. The wind was fair, and before sunset the _Maid of the North_ sailed into Fort Pelican Harbour and anchored. Bob's heart beat high as he stepped into the small boat to row ashore, for the whitewashed buildings of the Post, the air redolent with the perfume of the forest, and the howling dogs told him that at last the dangers of the trail and sea were all behind him and of the past, and that he would soon be at home again. Mr. Forbes was at the wharf when Bob landed, and when he saw who it was exclaimed in astonishment: "Why it's Bob Gray! Where in the world, or what spirit land did you come from? Why Ed Matheson brought your remains out of the bush last winter and I hear they were buried the other day." "I comes from Ungava, sir, with some letters Mr. MacPherson were sendin'," answered Bob, as he made the painter fast. "Letters from Ungava! Well, come to the office and we'll see them. I want to hear how you got here from Ungava." In the office Bob told briefly the story of his adventures, while he ripped the letters from his shirt, where he had sewed them in a sealskin covering for safe keeping. "Has un heard, sir, how mother an' Emily an' father is?" he asked as he handed over the mail. "Mr. MacDonald sent his man down the other day, and he told me your mother took it pretty hard, when they buried you last week, although she has stuck to it all along that the remains Ed brought out were not yours and you were alive somewhere. Emily don't seem to change. Your father and nearly every one else in the Bay has had a good hunt. Go out to the men's kitchen for your supper now and when you've eaten come back again and we'll talk things over." In the kitchen he heard some exaggerated details of Ed's journey out, and something of the happenings up the bay during the winter. When he had finished his meal he returned to the office, where Mr. Forbes was waiting for him. "Well, Ungava Bob, as Mr. MacPherson calls you in his letter," said Mr. Forbes, "you've earned the rifle he gave you, and you're to keep it. Now tell me more of your adventures since you left Ungava." Little by little he drew from Bob pretty complete details of the journey, and then told him that he had better sail the _Maid of the North_ up to Kenemish, where Douglas Campbell and his father would see that he secured the salvage due him for bringing out the schooner. "An' what may salvage be, sir?" asked Bob. "Why," answered Mr. Forbes, "you found the schooner a derelict at sea and you brought her into port. When you give her back to the owner he will have to pay you whatever amount the court decides is due you for the service, and it may be as much as one-half the value of the vessel and cargo. You'll get enough out of it to settle you comfortably for life." Bob heard this in open-mouthed astonishment. It was too good for him to quite believe at first, but Mr. Forbes assured him that it was usual and within his rights. They arranged that Netseksoak and Aluktook should go with him to Kenemish and later return to Fort Pelican to be paid by Mr. Forbes for their services and to be sent home by him on the company's ship, the _Eric_, on its annual voyage north. Then Bob, after thanking Mr. Forbes, rowed back to the _Maid of the North_, too full of excitement and anticipation to sleep. With the first ray of morning light the anchor was weighed, the sails hoisted and but two days lay between Bob and home. As he stood on the deck of the _Maid of the North_ and drank in the wild, rugged beauty of the scene around him Bob thought of that day, which seemed so long, long ago, when he and his mother, broken hearted and disconsolate were going home with little Emily, and how he had looked away at those very hills and the inspiration had come to him that led to the journey from which he was now returning. Tears came to his eyes and he said to himself, "Sure th' Lard be good. 'Twere He put un in my head t' go, an' He were watchin' over me an' carin' for me all th' time when I were thinkin' He were losin' track o' me. I'll never doubt th' Lard again." XXV THE BREAK-UP One evening a month after Ed Matheson started out with his gruesome burden to Wolf Bight, Dick Blake was sitting alone in the tilt at the junction of his and Ed's trails, smoking his after supper pipe and meditating on the happenings of the preceding weeks. There were some things in connection with the tragedy that he had never been able to quite clear up. Why, for instance, he asked himself, did Micmac John steal the furs and then leave them in the tilt where they were found? Had the half-breed been suddenly smitten by his conscience? That seemed most unlikely, for Dick had never discovered any indication that Micmac possessed a conscience. No possible solution of the problem presented itself. A hundred times he had probed the question, and always ended by saying, as he did now, "'Tis strange--wonderful strange, an' I can't make un out." He arose and knocked the ashes out of his pipe, filled the stove with wood, and then looked out into the night before going to his bunk. It was snowing thick and fast. "'Tis well to-morrow's Sunday," he remarked. "The's nasty weather comin'." "That they is," said a voice so close to his elbow that he started back in surprise, "Why, hello, Ed. You were givin' me a rare start, sneakin' in as quiet's a rabbit. How is un?" "Fine," said Ed, who had just come around the corner of the tilt in time to hear Dick's remark in reference to the weather. "Who un talkin' to?" "To a sensible man as agrees wi' me," answered Dick facetiously. "A feller does get wonderful lonesome seem' no one an' has t' talk t' hisself sometimes." The two entered the tilt and Ed threw off his adikey while Dick put the kettle over. "Well," asked Dick, when Ed was finally seated, "how'd th' mother take un?" "Rare hard on th' start off," said Ed. "'Twere th' hardest thing I ever done, tellin' she, an' 'twere all I could do t' keep from breakin' down myself. I 'most cried, I were feelin so bad for un. "Douglas were there an' Bessie were visitin' th' sick maid, which were a blessin', fer Richard were away on his trail. "I goes in an' finds un happy an' thinkin' maybe Bob'd be comin'. I finds th' bones gettin' weak in my legs, soon's I sees un, an' th' mother, soon's she sees me up an' says she's knowin' somethin' happened t' Bob, an' I has t' tell she wi'out waitin' t' try t' make un easy's I'd been plannin' t' do. She 'most faints, but after a while she asks me t' tell she how Bob were killed, an' I tells. "Then she's wantin' t' see a bit o' the clothes we found, an' when she looks un over she raises her head an' says, '_Them_ weren't Bob's. I knows Bob's clothes, an' them weren't _his_! When I tells 'bout findin' _two_ axes she says Bob were havin' only one axe, an' then she's believin' Bob wasn't got by th' wolves, an' is livin' somewheres. "Douglas goes for Richard, an' when Richard comes he says th' clothes's Bob's an' th' gun _ain't_, an' Bob were havin' only one axe. "Richard's not doubtin' th' remains was Bob's though, an' o' course the's no doubtin' _that_. Th' clothes's gettin' so stained up I'm thinkin' th' mother'd not be knowin' un. But Richard sure would be knowin' th' gun, an' that's what _I'm_ wonderin' at." "'Tis rare strange," assented Dick. "An' _I'm_ wonderin' why Micmac John were leavin' th' fur in th' 'tilt after stealin' un. That's what _I'm_ wonderin' at." The whole evening was thus spent in discussing the pros and cons of the affair. They both decided that while the gun and axe question were beyond explanation, there was no doubt that Bob had been destroyed by wolves and the remains that they found were his. The plan that Bill had suggested for hunting the trails without taking Sunday rest, thus enabling them to attend to a part of Bob's Big Hill trail, was resorted to, and the winter's work was the hardest, they all agreed, that they had ever put in. January and February were excessively cold months and during that period, when the fur bearing animals keep very close to their lairs, the catch was indifferent. But with the more moderate weather that began with March and continued until May the harvest was a rich one, for it was one of those seasons, after a year of unusual scarcity, as the previous two years had been, when the fur bearing animals come in some inexplicable way in great numbers, and food game also is plentiful. At length the hunting season closed, when the mild weather with daily thaws arrived. The fur that was now caught was deteriorating to such an extent that it was not wise to continue catching it. The traps on the various trails were sprung and hung upon trees or placed upon rocks, where they could be readily found again, and Dick and Ed joined Bill at the river tilt, where the boat had been cached to await the breaking up of the river, and here enjoyed a respite from their labours. Ptarmigans in flocks of hundreds fed upon the tender tops of the willows that lined the river banks, and these supplied them with an abundance of fresh meat, varied occasionally by rabbits, two or three porcupines and a lynx that Dick shot one day near the tilt. This lynx meat they roasted by an open fire outside the tilt, and considered it a great treat. It may be said that the roasted lynx resembles in flavour and texture prime veal, and it is indeed, when properly cooked, delicious; and the hunter knows how to cook it properly. Trout, too, which they caught through the ice, were plentiful. They had brought with them when coming to the trails in the autumn, tackle for the purpose of securing fish at this time. The lines were very stout, thick ones, and the hooks were large. A good-sized piece of lead, melted and moulded around the stem of the hook near the eye, weighted it heavily, and it was baited with a piece of fat pork and a small piece of red cloth or yarn, tied below the lead. The rod was a stout stick three feet in length and an inch thick. With this equipment the hook was dropped into the hole and moved up and down slowly, until a fish took hold, when it was immediately pulled out. The trout were very sluggish at this season of the year and made no fight, and were therefore readily landed. The most of them weighed from two to five pounds each, and indeed any smaller than that were spurned and thrown back into the hole "t' grow up," as Ed put it. One evening a rain set in and for four days and nights it never ceased. It poured down as if the gates of the eternal reservoirs of heaven had been opened and the flood let loose to drown the world. The snow became a sea of slush and miniature rivers ran down to join forces with the larger stream. At first the waters overflowed the ice, but at last it gave way to the irresistible force that assailed it, and giving way began to move upon the current in great unwieldly masses. The river rose to its brim and burst its banks. Trees were uprooted, and mingling with the ice surged down towards the sea upon the crest of the unleashed, untamed torrent. The break-up that the men were awaiting had come. "'Tis sure a fearsome sight," remarked Bill one day when the storm was at its height, as he returned from "a look outside" to join Dick and Ed, who sat smoking their pipes in silence in the tilt. "An' how'd un like t' be ridin' one o' them cakes o' ice out there, an' no way o' reachin' shore?" asked Ed. "I wouldn't be ridin' un from choice, an' if I were ridin' un I'm thinkin' 'twould be my last ride," answered Bill. "Once I were ridin' un, an' ridin' un from choice," said Ed, with the air of one who had a story to tell. "No you weren't never ridin' un. What un tell such things for, Ed?" broke in Dick. "Un has dreams an' tells un for happenin's, I'm thinkin'." Ed ignored the interruption as though he had not heard it, and proceeded to relate to Bill his wonderful adventure. "Once," said he,--"'twere five year ago--I were waitin' at my lower tilt for th' break-up t' come, an' has my boat hauled up t' what I thinks is a safe place, when I gets up one mornin' t' find th' water come up extra high in th' night an' th' boat gone wi' th' ice. That leaves me in a rare bad fix, wi' nothin' t' do, seems t' me, but wait for th' water t' settle, an' cruise down th' river afoot. "I'm not fancyin' th' cruise, an' I watches th' ice an' wonders, when I marks chance cakes o' ice driftin' down close t' shore an' touchin' land now an' agin as un goes, could I ride un. Th' longer I watches un th' more I thinks 'twould be a fine way t' ride on un, an' at last I makes up my pack an' cuts a good pole, an' watches my chance, which soon comes. A big cake comes rollin' down an' I steps aboard un an' away I goes. "'Twere fine for a little while, an' I says, 'Ed, now _you_ knows th' thing t' do in a tight place.' "'Twere a rare pretty sight watchin' th' shore slippin' past, an' I forgets as 'tis a piece o' ice I'm ridin' till I happens t' look around an' finds th' cake o' ice, likewise myself, in th' middle o' th' river, an' no way o' gettin' ashore. The's nothin' t' do but hang on, an' I hangs. "Then I sees th' Gull Island Rapids an' I 'most loses my nerve. 'Tis a fearsome torrent at best, as un knows, but now wi' high flood 'tis like ten o' unself at low water. Th' waves beats up twenty foot high." Ed paused here to light his pipe which had a way of always going out when he reached the most dramatic point in his stories. When it was finally going again, he continued: "Lucky 'twere for me th' rocks were all covered. In we goes, me an' th' ice, an' I hangs on an' shuts my eyes. When I opens un we're floatin' peaceful an' steady below th' rapids, an' I feels like breathin' agin. "Then we runs th' Porcupine Rapids, an' I begins t' think I has th' Muskrat Falls t' run too which would be th' endin' o' me, sure. But I ain't. I uses my pole, an' works up t' shore, an' just as we gets th' rush o' th' water above th' falls, I lands. "That were how I rid th' river on a' ice cake." "Where'd ye land, now?" asked Dick. "This side o' th' river or t' other?" "This side o' un," answered Ed, complacently. "'Tis sheer rock this side, an' no holt t' land on," said Dick, triumphantly. "'Th' water were t' th' top o' th' rock," explained Ed. "Then," said Dick, with the air of one who has trapped another, "th' hull country were flooded an' there were no falls." Ed looked at him for a moment disdainfully. "I were on th' ice six days, an' _I knows_." The men were held in waiting for several days after the storm ceased for the river to clear of debris and sink again to something like its normal volume, before it was considered safe for them to begin the voyage out. Then on a fair June morning the boat was laden with the outfit and fur. "Poor Bob," said Dick, as Bob's things were placed in the boat. "Th' poor lad were so hopeful when we were comin' in t' th' trails, an' now un's gone. 'Twill be hard t' meet his mother an Richard." "Aye, 'twill be hard," assented Ed. "She'll be takin' un rare hard. Our comin' home'll be bringin' his goin' away plain t' she again." "An' Emily, too," spoke up Bill. "They were thinkin' so much o' each other." Then the journey was begun, full of danger and excitement as they shot through rushing rapids and on down the river towards Eskimo Bay, where great and unexpected tidings awaited them. XXVI BACK AT WOLF BIGHT Bob's apparent death was a sore shock to Richard Gray. When Douglas found him on the trail and broke the news to him as gently as possible, he seemed at first hardly to comprehend it. He was stunned. He said little, but followed Douglas back to the cabin like one in a mesmeric sleep. A few days before he had gone away happy and buoyant, now he shuffled back like an old man. Mechanically he looked at the remains and examined the gun and the axe--Ed had brought out but one of the axes found by the rock with the remains--and said, "Th' gun's not Bob's. Th' axe were his." "Th' gun's not Bob's!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray "Th' clothes is not Bob's! Now I knows 'tis not my boy we've found." "Yes, Mary," said he broken-heartedly. "Tis Bob th' wolves got. Our poor lad is gone. No one else could ha' had his things." He and Douglas made a coffin into which the remains were tenderly placed, and it was put upon a high platform near the house, out of reach of animals, there to rest until the spring, when the snow would be gone and it could be buried. For a whole week after this sad duty was performed the father sat by the cabin stove and brooded, a broken-hearted, dispirited counterpart of what he had been at the Christmas time. It was the man's nature to be silent in seasons of misfortune. During the previous year, when luck had been so against him, this characteristic of silent brooding had shown itself markedly, but then he did not remain in the house and neglect his work as he did now. He seemed to have lost all heart and all ambition. He scarcely troubled to feed the dogs, and the few tasks that he did perform were evidently irksome and unpleasant to him, as things that interfered with his reveries. From morning until night Richard Gray nursed the grief in his bosom, but never referred to the tragedy unless it was first mentioned by another; and at such times he said as little as possible about it, answering questions briefly, offering nothing himself, and plainly showing that he did not wish to converse upon the subject. Over and over again he reviewed to himself every phase of Bob's life, from the time when, a wee lad, Bob climbed on his knee of an evening to beg for stories of bear hunts, and great gray wolves that harried the hunters, and how the animals were captured on the trail; and through the years into which the little lad grew into youth and approached manhood, down to the day that he left home, looking so noble and stalwart, to brave, for the sake of those he loved, the unknown dangers that lurked in the rude, wild wastes beyond the line of blue mysterious hills to the northward. And now the poor remains enclosed in the rough box that rested upon the scaffold outside were all that remained of him. And that was the end of all the plans that he and the mother had made for their son's future, of all their hopes and fine pictures. Mrs. Gray had never seen her husband in so downcast and despondent a mood, and as the days passed she began to worry about him and finally became alarmed. He had lost all interest in everything, and had a strange, unnatural look in his eyes that she did not like. One evening she sat down by his aide, and, taking his hand, said: "Be a brave man, Richard, and bear up. Th' Lard's never let Bob die so. That were _not_ Bob as th' wolves got. I'm knowin' our lad's somewheres alive. I were dreamin' last night o' seem' he--an'--I feels it--I feels it--an' I can't go agin my feelin'." "No, Mary, 'twere Bob," he answered. "I feels 'tweren't, but if 'twere 'tis th' Lard's will, an' 'tis our duty t' be brave an' bear up. Tis hard--rare hard--but bear up, Richard--an' bear un like a man. Remember, Richard, we has th' maid spared to us." And so, heart-broken though she was herself, she comforted and encouraged him, as is the way of women, for in times of great misfortune they are often the braver of the sexes. Her husband did not know the hours of wakeful uncertainty and helplessness and despair that Mrs. Gray spent, as she lay long into the nights thinking and thinking, until sometimes it seemed that she would go mad. Bessie, gentle and sympathetic, was the pillar upon which they all leaned during those first days after the dreadful tidings came. It was her presence that made life possible. Like a good angel she moved about the house, unobtrusively ministering to them, and Mrs. Gray more than once said, "I'm not knowin' what we'd do, Bessie, if 'twere not for you." After a week of silent despondency the father roused himself to some extent from the lethargy into which he had fallen, and returned to his trail. The work brought back life and energy, and when, a fortnight later, he came back, he had resumed somewhat his old bearing and manner, though not all of the buoyancy. He entered the cabin with the old greeting--"An' how's my maid been wi'out her daddy?" It made the others feel better and happier; and he was almost his natural self again when he left them for another period. The report of Bob's death did not appear to affect Emily as greatly as her mother feared it would. She was silent, and took less interest in her doll, and seemed to be constantly expecting something to occur. One day after her father had left them she called her mother to her, and, taking her hand to draw her to a seat on the couch, asked: "Mother, do angels ever come by day, or be it always by night?" "I'm--I'm--not knowin', dear. They comes both times, I'm thinkin'--but mostly by night--I'm--not knowin'," faltered the mother. "Does un think Bob's angel ha' been comin' by night while we sleeps, mother? I been watchin', an' he've never come while I wakes--an' I'm wonderin' an' wonderin'." "No--not while we sleeps--no--I'm not knowin'," and then she buried her face in Emily's pillow and wept. "Bob's knowin', mother, how we longs t' see he," continued Emily, as she stroked her mother's hair, "an' he'd sure be comin' if he were killed. He'd sure be doin' that so we could see un. But he's not been comin', an' I'm thinkin' he's livin', just as you were sayin'. Bob'll be home wi' th' break-up, mother, I'm thinkin'--wi' th' break-up, mother, for his angel ha' never come, as un sure would if he were dead." On two or three other occasions after this--once in the night--Emily called Mrs. Gray to her to reiterate this belief. She would not accept even the possibility of Bob's death without first seeing his angel, which she was so positive would come to visit them if he were really dead; and it was this that kept back the grief that she would have felt had she believed that she was never to see him again. Bessie remained with them until the last of February, when her father drove the dogs over to take her home, as many of the trappers were expected in from their trails about the first of March to spend a few days at the Post, and her mother needed her help with the additional work that this entailed. Emily was loath to part from her, but her father promised that she should return again for a visit as soon as the break-up came and before the fishing commenced. Douglas Campbell was very good to the Grays, and at least once each week, and sometimes oftener, walked over to spend the day and cheer them up. Often he brought some little delicacy for Emily, and she looked forward to his visits with much pleasure. One day towards the last of May he asked Emily: "How'd un like t' go t' St. Johns an' have th' doctors make a fine, strong maid of un again? I'm thinkin' th' mother's needin' her maid t' help her now." "Oh, I'd like un fine, sir!" exclaimed Emily. "I'm thinkin' we'll have t' send un. 'Twill be a long while away from home. You won't be gettin' lonesome now?" "I'm fearin' I'll be gettin' lonesome for mother, but I'll stand un t' get well an' walk again." "Now does un hear that," said Douglas to Mrs. Gray, who at that moment came in from out of doors. "Your little maid's goin' t' St. Johns t' have th' doctors make she walk again, so she can be helpin' wi' th' housekeepin'." "The's no money t' send she," said Mrs. Gray sadly. "'Tis troublin' me wonderful, an' I'm not knowin' what t' do--'tis troublin' me so." "I'm thinkin' th' money'll be found t' send she--I'm _knowin'_ 'twill," Douglas prophesied convincingly. "Ed were sayin' Bob had a rare lot o' fur that he'd caught before th'--before th' New Year--a fine lot o' martens an' th' silver foxes. Them'll pay Bob's debt an' pay for th' maid's goin' too. That's what Bob were wantin'." "Did Ed say now as Bob were gettin' all that fur?" she asked. "I were feelin' so sore bad over Bob's goin' I were never hearin' un--I were not thinkin' about th' lad's fur--I were thinkin' o' he." "Aye, Ed were sayin' that. Emily must be ready t' go on th' cruise t' meet th' first trip o' th' mail boat. Th' maid must be leavin' here by th' last o' June," planned Douglas. "But we'll not be havin' th' money then--not till th' men comes out, an' then we has t' sell th' fur first t' get th' money," Mrs. Gray explained. "Then--then I hopes th' maid may go. 'Tis what Bob were goin' t' th' bush for--an' takin' all th' risks for--my poor lad--he were countin' on un so----" "We'll not be waitin'. We'll not be waitin'. _I_ has th' money now an' th' maid must be goin' th' _first_ trip o' th' mail boat," said Douglas, in an authoritative manner. "Oh, Douglas, you be wonderful good--so wonderful good." And Mrs. Gray began to cry. "Now! Now!" exclaimed the soft-hearted old trapper, "'Tis nothin' t' be cryin' about. What un cryin' for, now?" "I'm--not--knowin'--only you be so good--an' I were wantin' so bad t' have Emily go--I were wantin' so wonderful bad--an' 'twill save she--'twill save she!" "'Tis no kindness. 'Tis no kindness. 'Tis Bob's fur pays for un--no kindness o' mine," he insisted. Emily took Douglas' hand and drew him to her until she could reach his face. Then with a palm on each cheek she kissed his lips, and with her arms about his neck buried her face for a moment in his white beard. "There! There!" he exclaimed when she had released him. "Now what un makin' love t' me for?" Richard returned that evening from his last trip over his trail for the season, and he was much pleased with the arrangement as to Emily. "Your daddy'll be lonesome wi'out un," said he, "but 'twill be fine t' think o' my maid comin' back walkin' again--rare fine." "An' 'twill be rare hard t' be goin'," she said. "I'm 'most wishin' I weren't havin' t' go." "But when you comes back, maid, you'll be well, an' think, now, how happy that'll make un," Mrs. Gray encouraged. "Th' Lard's good t' be providin' th' way. 'Twill be hard for un an' for us all, but th' Lard always pays us for th' hard times an' th' sorrow He brings us, wi' good times an' a rare lot o' happiness after, if we only waits wi' patience an' faith for un." "Aye, mother, I knows, an' I _is_ glad--oh, _so_ glad t' know I's t' be well again," said Emily very earnestly. "But," she added, "I'm thinkin' 'twould be so fine if you or daddy were goin' wi' me. Bob were countin' on un so--I minds how Bob were countin' on my goin'--an' he's not here t' know about un--an' I feels wonderful bad when I thinks of un." Of course it was quite out of the question for either the father or the mother to go with her, for that would more than double the expense and could not be afforded. There was no certainty as to how much would be coming to them after Bob's share of the furs were sold. This could not be estimated even approximately for they had not so much as seen the pelts yet. Richard, grown somewhat pessimistic with the years of ill fortune, even doubted if, after Bob's debt to Mr. MacDonald was paid, there would be sufficient left to reimburse Douglas for the money he had agreed to advance to meet Emily's expenses. "But then," he said, "I suppose 'twill work out somehow." At last the great storm came that opened the rivers and smashed the bay ice into bits, and when the fury of the wind was spent and the rain ceased the sun came out with a new warmth that bespoke the summer close at hand. The tide carried the splintered ice to the open sea, wild geese honked overhead in their northern flight, seals played in the open water, and the loon's weird laugh broke the wilderness silence. The world was awakening from its long slumber, and summer was at hand. Tom Black kept his word, and when the ice was gone brought Bessie over in his boat to stay with Emily until she should go to the hospital. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon when they arrived and Bessie brought a good share of the sunshine into the cabin with her. "Oh, Bessie!" cried Emily, as her friend burst into the room. "I were thinkin' you'd not be comin', Bessie! Oh, 'tis fine t' have you come!" Tom remained the night, and he and Bessie cheered up the Grays, for it had been a lonely, monotonous period since their last visit, and never a caller save Douglas had they had. Time, the great healer of sorrow, had somewhat mitigated the shock of Bob's disappearance, and had reconciled them to some extent to his loss. But now the sore was opened again when, one day, a grave was dug in the spruce woods behind the cabin, and the coffin, which had been resting upon the scaffold since January, was taken down and reverently lowered into the earth by Richard and Douglas. Mrs. Gray, though still firm in the intuitive belief that her boy lived, wept piteously when the earth clattered down upon the box and hid it forever from view. "I knows 'tis not Bob," she sobbed, "but where is my lad? What has become o' my brave lad?" Bessie, with wet eyes, comforted her with soothing words and gentle caresses. Richard and Douglas did their work silently, both certain beyond a doubt that it was Bob they had laid to rest. Nothing was said to Emily of the burial. That would have done her no good and they did not wish to give her the pain that it would have caused. The days were rapidly lengthening, and the sun coming boldly nearer the earth was tempering and mellowing the atmosphere, and every pleasant afternoon a couch was made for Emily out of doors, where she could bask in the sunshine, and breathe the air charged with the perfume of the spruce and balsam forest above, and drink in the wild beauties of the wilderness about her. Here she lay, alone, one day late in June while her mother and Bessie washed the dinner dishes before Bessie came out to join her, and her father and Douglas, who had come over to dinner, smoked their pipes and chatted in the house. She was listening to the joyous song of a robin, that had just returned from its far-off southland pilgrimage, and was thinking as she listened of the long, long journey that she was soon to take. Her heart was sad, for it was a sore trial to be separated all the summer from her father and mother and never see them once. She looked down the bight out towards the broader waters of the bay, for that was the way she was to go. Suddenly as she looked a boat turned the point into the bight. It was a strange boat and she could not see who was in it, but it held her attention as it approached, for a visitor was quite unusual at this time of the year. Presently the single occupant stood up in the boat, to get a better view of the cabin. "Bob! _Bob!_ BOB!" shouted Emily, quite wild and beside herself. "Mother! Father! Bob is coming! _Bob_ is coming!" Those in the house rushed out in alarm, for they thought the child had gone quite mad, but when they reached her they, too, seemed to lose their reason. Mrs. Gray ran wildly to the sandy shore where the boat would land, extending her arms towards it and fairly screaming, "My lad! Oh, my lad!" Bessie was at her heels and Richard and Douglas followed. When Bob stepped ashore his mother clasped him to her arms and wept over him and fondled him, and he, taller by an inch than when he left her, bronzed and weather-beaten and ragged, drew her close to him and hugged her again and again, and stroked her hair, and cried too, while Richard and Douglas stood by, blowing their noses on their red bandana handkerchiefs and trying to took very self-composed. When his mother let him go Bob greeted the others, forgetting himself so far as to kiss Bessie, who blushed and did not resent his boldness. Emily simply would not let him go. She held him tight to her, and called him her "big, brave brother," and said many times: "I were knowin' you'd come back to us, Bob. I were just _knowin'_ you'd come back." An hour passed in a babble of talk and exchange of explanations almost before they were aware, and then Mrs. Gray suddenly realized that Bob had had no dinner. "Now un must be rare hungry, Bob," she explained. "Richard, carry Emily in with un now, an' we'll have a cup o' tea wi' Bob, while he has his dinner." "Let me carry un," said Bob, gathering Emily into his arms. In the house they were all so busy talking and laughing, while Mrs. Gray prepared the meal for Bob, that no one noticed a boat pull into the bight and three men land upon the beach below the cabin; and so, just as they were about to sit down to the table, they were taken completely by surprise when the door opened and in walked Dick Blake, Ed Matheson and Bill Campbell. The three stopped short in open-mouthed astonishment. "'Tis Bob's ghost!" finally exclaimed Ed. They were soon convinced, however, that Bob's hand grasp was much more real than that of any ghost, and the greetings that followed were uproarious. Nearly the whole afternoon they sat around the table while Bob told the story of his adventures. A comparison of experiences made it quite certain that the remains they had supposed to have been Bob's were the remains of Micmac John and the mystery of the half-breed's failure to return to the tilt for the pelts he had stolen was therefore cleared up. "An' th' Nascaupees," said Bob, "be not fearsome murderous folk as we was thinkin' un, but like other folks, an' un took rare fine care o' me. I'm thinkin' they'd not be hurtin' white folks an' white folk don't hurt _they_." Finally the men sat back from the table for a smoke and chat while the dishes were being cleared away by Mrs. Gray and Bessie. "Now I were sure thinkin' Bob were a ghost," said Ed, as he lighted his pipe with a brand from the stove, "and 'twere scarin' me a bit. I never seen but one ghost in my life and that were----" "We're not wantin' t' hear that ghost yarn, Ed," broke in Dick, and Ed forgot his story in the good-natured laughter that followed. The home-coming was all that Bob had hoped and desired it to be and the arrival of his three friends from the trail made it complete. His heart was full that evening when he stepped out of doors to watch the setting sun. As he gazed at the spruce-clad hills that hid the great, wild north from which he had so lately come, the afterglow blazed up with all its wondrous colour, glorifying the world and lighting the heavens and the water and the hills beyond with the radiance and beauty of a northern sunset. The spirit of it was in Bob's soul, and he said to himself, "'Tis wonderful fine t' be livin', an' 'tis a wonderful fine world t' live in, though 'twere seemin' hard sometimes, in the winter. An' th' comin' home has more than paid for th' trouble I were havin' gettin' here." XXVII THE CRUISE TO ST. JOHNS When Bob and the two Eskimos sailed the _Maid of the North_ up the bay from Fort Pelican it was found advisable to run the schooner to an anchorage at Kenemish where she could lie with less exposure to the wind than at Wolf Bight. The moment she was made snug and safe Bob went ashore to Douglas Campbell's cabin, where he learned that his old friend had gone to Wolf Bight early that morning to spend the day. The lad's impatience to reach home would brook no waiting, and so, leaving Netseksoak and Aluktook in charge of the vessel, he proceeded alone in a small boat, reaching there as we have seen early in the afternoon. What to do with the schooner now that she had brought him safely to his destination was a problem that Bob had not been able to solve. The vessel was not his, and it was plainly his duty to find her owner and deliver the schooner to him, but how to go about it he did not know. That evening when the candles were lighted and all were gathered around the stove, he put the question to the others. "I'm not knowin' now who th' schooner belongs to," said he, "an' I'm not knowin' how t' find th' owner, I'm wonderin' what t' do with un." "Tis some trader owns un I'm thinkin'," Mrs. Gray suggested. "'Tis sure some trader," agreed Bob, "and the's a rare lot o' fur aboard she an' the's enough trader's goods t' stock a Post. Mr. Forbes were tellin' me I should be gettin' salvage for bringin' she t' port safe." "Aye," confirmed Douglas, "you should be gettin' salvage. 'Tis th' law o' th' sea an' but right. We'll ha' t' be lookin' t' th' salvage for un lad." "But how'll we be gettin' un now?" Bob asked, much puzzled. "An' how'll we be findin' th' owner?" "Th' owner," explained Douglas, "will be doin' th' findin' hisself I'm thinkin'. But t' get th' salvage th' schooner'll ha' t' be took t' St. Johns. Now I'm not knowin' but I could pilot she over. 'Tis a many a long year since I were there but I'm thinkin' I could manage un, and we'll make up a crew an' sail she over." "We'll be needin' five t' handle she right," said Bob. "'Twere wonderful hard gettin' on wi' just me an' th' two huskies. We'll sure need five." "Aye, 'twill need five of us," assented Douglas, "I'm thinkin' now Dick an' Ed an' Bill would like t' be makin' th' cruise an' seein' St. Johns, an' we has th' crew right here." The three men were not only willing to go but delighted with the prospect of the journey. They had never in their lives been outside the bay and the voyage offered them an opportunity to see something of the great world of which they had heard so much. "I'll be wantin' t' go home first," said Dick, "an' so will Ed, but we'll be t' Kenemish an' ready t' start in three days." "'Twill be a fine way t' take th' maid t' th' mail boat so th' doctor can take she with un," suggested Richard. "An' father an' mother an' Bessie can go t' th' mail boat with us," spoke up Emily, from her couch. "Oh, 'twill be fine t' have you all go t' th' mail boat with me!" And so this arrangement was made and carried out. On the appointed day every one was aboard the _Maid of the North_, and with light hearts the voyage was begun. Two days later they reached Fort Pelican, when Netseksoak and Aluktook went ashore to await the arrival of the ship that was to take them to their far northern home, and Bob said good-bye to the two faithful friends with whom he had braved so many dangers and suffered so many hardships. The following morning the mail boat steamed in, and Emily was transferred to her in charge of the doctor, who greeted her kindly and promised, "You'll be going home a new girl in the fall, and your father and mother won't know you." Nevertheless the parting from her friends was very hard for Emily, and the mother and child, and Bessie too, shed a good many tears, though the fact that she was to see Bob in a little while in St. Johns comforted Emily somewhat. When the mail boat was finally gone, Richard Gray, with his wife and Bessie, turned homeward in their dory, which had been brought down in tow of the _Maid of the North_, and the schooner spread her sails to the breeze and passed to the southward. With some delays caused by bad weather, three weeks elapsed before the _Maid of the North_ one day, late in July, sailed through the narrows past the towering cliffs of Signal Hill, and anchored in the land-locked harbour of St. Johns. In the interim the mail boat had made another voyage to the north, and brought back with her Captain Hanks and his crew, who had worked their way to Indian Harbour in their open boat to await the steamer there. Of course Skipper Sam had heard that Bob was coming with the _Maid of the North_, and when the schooner finally reached her anchorage he was on the lookout for her, and at once came aboard with much blustering, to demand her immediate delivery. He believed he had some unsophisticated livyeres to deal with, whom he could easily browbeat out of their rights. What was his surprise, then, when Douglas stepped forward, and said very authoritatively: "Bide a bit, now, skipper. When 'tis decided how much salvage you pays th' lad, an' after you pays un, you'll be havin' th' schooner an' her cargo, an' not till then." Bob's first thought upon going ashore was of Emily, and he went immediately to the hospital to see her. The operation had been performed nearly two weeks previously and she was recovering rapidly. When he was admitted to the ward, and she glimpsed him as he entered the door, her delight was almost beyond bounds. "Oh! Oh!" she exclaimed, when he kissed her. "Tis fine t' see un, Bob--'tis _so_ fine. An' now I'll be gettin' well wonderful quick." And she did. She was discharged from the hospital quite cured a month later. At first she was a little weak, but youth and a naturally strong constitution were in her favour, and she regained her strength with remarkable rapidity. Finally a settlement was arranged with Captain Hanks. The furs on board the _Maid of the North_ were appraised at market value, and when Bob received his salvage he found himself possessed of fifteen thousand dollars. He reimbursed Douglas the amount advanced for Emily's hospital expenses, but the kind old trapper would not accept another cent, though the lad wished to pay him for his services in piloting the vessel to St. Johns. "Put un in th' bank. You'll be needin' un some day t' start un in life. Hold on t' un," was the good advice that Douglas gave, and accordingly the money was deposited in the bank. Bob's share of the furs that he had trapped himself he very generously insisted upon giving to Dick and Ed and Bill. They were diffident about accepting them at first, saying: "We were doin' nothin' for un." But Bob pressed the furs upon them, and finally they accepted them. The silver fox which he wept over that cold December evening sold for four hundred and fifty dollars, and the one Dick found frozen in the trap by the deer's antlers for three hundred dollars. Neither did Bob forget Netseksoak and Aluktook. Money would have been quite useless to the Eskimos as he well knew, so he sent them rifles and many things which they could use and would value. Laden with gifts for the home folks, and satiated with looking at the shops and great buildings and wonders of St. Johns, they were a very happy party when at last the mail boat steamed northward with them. Bob Gray was very proud of his little chum when, one beautiful September day, his boat ground its prow upon the sands at Wolf Bight, and with all the strength and vigour of youth she bounded ashore and ran to meet the expectant and happy parents. As, with full hearts, the reunited family of Richard Gray walked up the path to the cabin, Bob said reverently: "Th' Lard has ways o' doin' things that seem strange an' wonderful hard sometimes when He's doin' un; but He always does un right, an' a rare lot better'n _we_ could plan." XXVIII IN AFTER YEARS During the twenty years that have elapsed since the incidents transpired that are here recorded, the mission doctors and the mission hospitals have come to The Labrador to give back life and health to the unfortunate sick and injured folk of the coast, who in the old days would have been doomed to die or to go through life helpless cripples or invalids for the lack of medical or surgical care, as would have been the case with little Emily but for the efforts of her noble brother. New people, too, have come into Eskimo Bay, though on the whole few changes have taken place and most of the characters met with in the preceding pages still live. Douglas Campbell in the fullness of years has passed away. But he is not forgotten, and in the spring-time loving hands gather the wild flowers, which grow so sparsely there, and scatter them upon the mossy mound that marks his resting place. Ed Matheson to this day tells the story of the adventures of Ungava Bob--as Bob Gray has thenceforth been called--not forgetting to embellish the tale with flights of fancy; and of course Dick Blake warns the listeners that these imaginative variations are "just some o' Ed's yarns," and Bob laughs at them good-naturedly. It may be asked to what use Bob put his newly acquired wealth, and the reader's big sister should this book fall into her hands, will surely wish to know whether Bob and Bessie married, and what became of Manikawan. But these are matters that belong to another story that perhaps some day it may seem worth while to tell. For the present, adieu to Ungava Bob. 
16809	----	* * * * * +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: Throughout the whole book, St. | | John's (Newfoundland) is spelled St. Johns. A list | | of typos fixed in this text are listed at the end. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * THE STORY OF GRENFELL OF THE LABRADOR [Illustration: THE PHYSICIAN IN THE LABRADOR] The Story of Grenfell of the Labrador A Boy's Life of Wilfred T. Grenfell By DILLON WALLACE, Author of "_Grit-a-Plenty_," "_The Ragged Inlet Guards_," "_Ungava Bob_," etc., etc. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CHICAGO Fleming H. Revell Company LONDON AND EDINBURGH Copyright, 1922, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street Foreword In a land where there was no doctor and no school, and through an evil system of barter and trade the people were practically bound to serfdom, Doctor Wilfred T. Grenfell has established hospitals and nursing stations, schools and co-operative stores, and raised the people to a degree of self dependence and a much happier condition of life. All this has been done through his personal activity, and is today being supported through his personal administration. The author has lived among the people of Labrador and shared some of their hardships. He has witnessed with his own eyes some of the marvelous achievements of Doctor Grenfell. In the following pages he has made a poor attempt to offer his testimony. The book lays no claim to either originality or literary merit. It barely touches upon the field. The half has not been told. He also wishes to acknowledge reference in compiling the book to old files and scrapbooks of published articles concerning Doctor Grenfell and his work, to Doctor Grenfell's book _Vikings of Today_, and to having verified dates and incidents through Doctor Grenfell's Autobiography, published by Houghton Mifflin & Company, of Boston. D.W. _Beacon, N.Y._ Contents I. THE SANDS OF DEE 11 II. THE NORTH SEA FLEETS 26 III. ON THE HIGH SEAS 31 IV. DOWN ON THE LABRADOR 39 V. THE RAGGED MAN IN THE RICKETY BOAT 52 VI. OVERBOARD! 61 VII. IN THE BREAKERS 68 VIII. AN ADVENTUROUS VOYAGE 74 IX. IN THE DEEP WILDERNESS 83 X. THE SEAL HUNTER 99 XI. UNCLE WILLY WOLFREY 109 XII. A DOZEN FOX TRAPS 116 XIII. SKIPPER TOM'S COD TRAP 126 XIV. THE SAVING OF RED BAY 135 XV. A LAD OF THE NORTH 146 XVI. MAKING A HOME FOR THE ORPHANS 158 XVII. THE DOGS OF THE ICE TRAIL 171 XVIII. FACING AN ARCTIC BLIZZARD 183 XIX. HOW AMBROSE WAS MADE TO WALK 193 XX. LOST ON THE ICE FLOE 203 XXI. WRECKED AND ADRIFT 213 XXII. SAVING A LIFE 219 XXIII. REINDEER AND OTHER THINGS 225 XXIV. THE SAME GRENFELL 233 ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE The Physician in the LABRADOR _Title_ The LABRADOR "LIVEYERE" 40 "Sails North to Remain Until the End of Summer, Catching Cod" 46 The Doctor on a Winter's Journey 84 "The Trap is Submerged a Hundred Yards or so from Shore" 130 "NEXT" 172 "Please Look at My Tongue, Doctor" 172 The Hospital Ship, STRATHCONA 220 "I Have a Crew Strong Enough to Take You into My District" 234 I THE SANDS OF DEE The first great adventure in the life of our hero occurred on the twenty-eighth day of February in the year 1865. He was born that day. The greatest adventure as well as the greatest event that ever comes into anybody's life is the adventure of being born. If there is such a thing as luck, Wilfred Thomason Grenfell, as his parents named him, fell into luck, when he was born on February twenty-eighth, 1865. He might have been born on February twenty-ninth one year earlier, and that would have been little short of a catastrophe, for in that case his birthdays would have been separated by intervals of four years, and every boy knows what a hardship it would be to wait four years for a birthday, when every one else is having one every year. There _are_ people, to be sure, who would like their birthdays to be four years apart, but they are not boys. Grenfell was also lucky, or, let us say, fortunate in the place where he was born and spent his early boyhood. His father was Head Master of Mostyn House, a school for boys at Parkgate, England, a little fishing village not far from the historic old city of Chester. By referring to your map you will find Chester a dozen miles or so to the southward of Liverpool, though you may not find Parkgate, for it is so small a village that the map makers are quite likely to overlook it. Here at Parkgate the River Dee flows down into an estuary that opens out into the Irish Sea, and here spread the famous "Sands of Dee," known the world over through Charles Kingsley's pathetic poem, which we have all read, and over which, I confess, I shed tears when a boy: O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the Sands o' Dee; The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she. The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land-- And never home came she. Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress o' golden hair, O' drown'ed maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes on Dee. They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the Sands o' Dee. Charles Kingsley and the poem become nearer and dearer to us than ever with the knowledge that he was a cousin of Grenfell, and knew the Sands o' Dee, over which Grenfell tramped and hunted as a boy, for the sandy plain was close by his father's house. There was a time when the estuary was a wide deep harbor, and really a part of Liverpool Bay, and great ships from all over the world came into it and sailed up to Chester, which in those days was a famous port. But as years passed the sands, loosened by floods and carried down by the river current, choked and blocked the harbor, and before Grenfell was born it had become so shallow that only fishing vessels and small craft could use it. Parkgate is on the northern side of the River Dee. On the southern side and beyond the Sands of Dee, rise the green hills of Wales, melting away into blue mysterious distance. Near as Wales is the people over there speak a different tongue from the English, and to young Grenfell and his companions it was a strange and foreign land and the people a strange and mysterious people. We have most of us, in our young days perhaps, thought that all Welshmen were like Taffy, of whom Mother Goose sings: "Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief, Taffy came to my house and stole a piece of beef; I went to Taffy's house, Taffy wasn't home, Taffy came to my house and stole a marrow bone; I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed, I took the marrow-bone, and beat about his head." But it was Grenfell's privilege, living so near, to make little visits over into Wales, and he early had an opportunity to learn that Taffy was not in the least like Welshmen. He found them fine, honest, kind-hearted folk, with no more Taffys among them than there are among the English or Americans. The great Lloyd George, perhaps the greatest of living statesmen, is a Welshman, and by him and not by Taffy, we are now measuring the worth of this people who were the near neighbors of Grenfell in his young days. Mostyn House, where Grenfell lived, overlooked the estuary. From the windows of his father's house he could see the fishing smacks going out upon the great adventurous sea and coming back laden with fish. Living by the sea where he heard the roar of the breakers and every day smelled the good salt breath of the ocean, it was natural that he should love it, and to learn, almost as soon as he could run about, to row and sail a boat, and to swim and take part in all sorts of water sports. Time and again he went with the fishermen and spent the night and the day with them out upon the sea. This is why it was fortunate that he was born at Parkgate, for his life there as a boy trained him to meet adventures fearlessly and prepared him for the later years which were destined to be years of adventure. Far up the river, wide marshes reached; and over these marshes, and the Sands of Dee, Grenfell roamed at will. His father and mother were usually away during the long holidays when school was closed, and he and his brothers were left at these times with a vast deal of freedom to do as they pleased and seek the adventure that every boy loves, and on the sands and in the marshes there was always adventure enough to be found. Shooting in the marshes and out upon the sands was a favorite sport, and when not with the fishermen Grenfell was usually to be found with his gun stalking curlew, oyster diggers, or some other of the numerous birds that frequented the marshes and shores. Barefooted, until the weather grew too cold in autumn, and wearing barely enough clothing to cover his nakedness, he would set out in early morning and not return until night fell. As often as not he returned from his day's hunting empty handed so far as game was concerned, but this in no wise detracted from the pleasure of the hunt. Game was always worth the getting, but the great joy was in being out of doors and in tramping over the wide flats. With all the freedom given him to hunt, he early learned that no animals or birds were to be killed on any account save for food or purposes of study. This is the rule of every true sportsman. Grenfell has always been a great hunter and a fine shot, but he has never killed needlessly. Young Grenfell through these expeditions soon learned to take a great deal of interest in the habits of birds and their life history. This led him to try his skill at skinning and mounting specimens. An old fisherman living near his home was an excellent hand at this and gave him his first lessons, and presently he developed into a really expert taxidermist, while his brother made the cases in which he mounted and exhibited his specimens. His interest in birds excited an interest in flowers and plants and finally in moths and butterflies. The taste for nature study is like the taste for olives. You have to cultivate it, and once the taste is acquired you become extremely fond of it. Grenfell became a student of moths and butterflies. He captured, mounted and identified specimens. He was out of nights with his net hunting them and "sugaring" trees to attract them, and he even bred them. A fine collection was the result, and this, together with one of flowers and plants, was added to that of his mounted birds. In the course of time he had accumulated a creditable museum of natural history, which to this day may be seen at Mostyn House, in Parkgate; and to it have been added specimens of caribou, seals, foxes, porcupines and other Labrador animals, which in his busy later years he has found time to mount, for he is still the same eager and devoted student of nature. During these early years, with odds and ends of boards that they collected, Grenfell and his brother built a boat to supply a better means of stealing upon flocks of water birds. It was a curious flat-bottomed affair with square ends and resembled a scow more than a rowboat, but it served its purpose well enough, and was doubtless the first craft which the young adventurer, later to become a master mariner, ever commanded. Up and down the estuary, venturing even to the sea, the two lads cruised in their clumsy craft, stopping over night with the kind-hearted fishermen or "sleeping out" when they found themselves too far from home. Many a fine time the ugly little boat gave them until finally it capsized one day leaving them to swim for it and reach the shore as best they could. At the age of fourteen Grenfell was sent to Marlborough "College," where he had earned a scholarship. This was not a college as we speak of a college in America, but a large university preparatory school. In the beginning he had a fight with an "old boy," and being victor firmly established his place among his fellow students. Whether at Mostyn House, or later at Marlborough College, Grenfell learned early to use the gloves. It was quite natural, devoted as he was to athletics, that he should become a fine boxer. To this day he loves the sport, and is always ready to put on the gloves for a bout, and it is a mighty good man that can stand up before him. In most boys' schools of that day, and doubtless at Marlborough College, boys settled their differences with gloves, and in all probability Grenfell had plenty of practice, for he was never a mollycoddle. He was perhaps not always the winner, but he was always a true sportsman. There is a vast difference between a "sportsman" and a "sport." Grenfell was a sportsman, never a sport. His life in the open taught him to accept success modestly or failure smilingly, and all through his life he has been a sportsman of high type. The three years that Grenfell spent at Marlborough College were active ones. He not only made good grades in his studies but he took a leading part in all athletics. Study was easy for him, and this made it possible to devote much time to physical work. Not only did he become an expert boxer, but he had no difficulty in making the school teams, in football, cricket, and other sports that demanded skill, nerve and physical energy. Like all youngsters running over with the joy of youth and life, he got into his full share of scrapes. If there was anything on foot, mischievous or otherwise, Grenfell was on hand, though his mischief and escapades were all innocent pranks or evasion of rules, such as going out of bounds at prohibited hours to secure goodies. The greater the element of adventure the keener he was for an enterprise. He was not by any means always caught in his pranks, but when he was he admitted his guilt with heroic candor, and like a hero stood up for his punishment. Those were the days when the hickory switch in America, and the cane in England, were the chief instruments of torture. With the end of his course at Marlborough College, Grenfell was confronted with the momentous question of his future and what he was to do in life. This is a serious question for any young fellow to answer. It is a question that involves one's whole life. Upon the decision rests to a large degree happiness or unhappiness, content or discontent, success or failure. It impressed him now as a question that demanded his most serious thought. For the first time there came to him a full realization that some day he would have to earn his way in the world with his own brain and hands. A vista of the future years with their responsibilities, lay before him as a reality, and he decided that it was up to him to make the most of those years and to make a success of life. No doubt this realization fell upon him as a shock, as it does upon most lads whose parents have supplied their every need. Now he was called upon to decide the matter for himself, and his future education was to be guided by his choice. At various periods of his youthful career nearly every boy has an ambition to be an Indian fighter, or a pirate, or a locomotive engineer, or a fireman and save people from burning buildings at the risk of his own life, or to be a hunter of ferocious wild animals. Grenfell had dreamed of a romantic and adventurous career. Now he realized that these ambitions must give place to a sedate profession that would earn him a living and in which he would be contented. All of his people had been literary workers, educators, clergymen, or officers in the army or navy. There was Charles Kingsley and "Westward Ho." There was Sir Richard Grenvil, immortalized by Tennyson in "The Revenge." There was his own dear grandfather who was a master at Rugby under the great Arnold, whom everybody knows through "Tom Brown at Rugby." It was the wish of some of his friends and family that he become a clergyman. This did not in the least suit his tastes, and he immediately decided that whatever profession he might choose, it would _not_ be the ministry. The ministry was distasteful to him as a profession, and he had no desire or intention to follow in the footsteps of his ancestors. He wished to be original, and to blaze a new trail for himself. Grenfell was exceedingly fond of the family physician, and one day he went to him to discuss his problem. This physician had a large practice. He kept several horses to take him about the country visiting his patients, and in his daily rounds he traveled many miles. This was appealing to one who had lived so much out of doors as Grenfell had. As a doctor he, too, could drive about the country visiting patients. He could enjoy the sunshine and feel the drive of rain and wind in his face. He rebelled at the thought of engaging in any profession that would rob him of the open sky. But he also demanded that the profession he should choose should be one of creative work. This would be necessary if his life were to be happy and successful. Observing the old doctor jogging along the country roads visiting his far-scattered patients, it occurred to Grenfell that here was not only a pleasant but a useful profession. With his knowledge of medicine the doctor assisted nature in restoring people to health. Man must have a well body if he would be happy and useful. Without a well body man's hands would be idle and his brain dull. Only healthy men could invent and build and administer. It was the doctor's job to keep them fit. Here then was creative work of the highest kind! The thought thrilled him! Every boy of the right sort yearns to be of the greatest possible use in the world. Unselfishness is a natural instinct. Boys are not born selfish. They grow selfish because of association or training, and because they see others about them practicing selfishness. Grenfell's whole training had been toward unselfishness and usefulness. Here was a life calling that promised both unselfish and useful service and at the same time would gratify his desire to be a great deal out of doors, and he decided at once that he would study medicine and be a doctor. His father was pleased with the decision. His course at Marlborough College was completed, and he immediately took special work preparatory to entering London Hospital and University. In the University he did well. He passed his examinations creditably at the College of Physicians and Surgeons and at London University, and had time to take a most active part in the University athletics as a member of various 'Varsity teams. At one time or another he was secretary of the cricket, football and rowing clubs, and he took part in several famous championship games, and during one term that he was in residence at Oxford University he played on the University football team. One evening in 1885 Grenfell, largely through curiosity, dropped into a tent where evangelistic meetings were in progress. The evangelists conducting the meeting happened to be the then famous D.L. Moody and Ira D. Sankey. Both Mr. Moody and Mr. Sankey were men of marvelous power and magnetism. Moody was big, wholesome and practical. He preached a religion of smiles and happiness and helpfulness. He lived what he preached. There was no humbug or hypocrisy in him. Sankey never had a peer as a leader of mass singing. Moody was announcing a hymn when Grenfell entered. Sankey, in his illimitable style, struck up the music. In a moment the vast audience was singing as Grenfell had never heard an audience sing before. After the hymn Moody spoke. Grenfell told me once that that sermon changed his whole outlook upon life. He realized that he was a Christian in name only and not in fact. His religious life was a fraud. There and then he determined that he must be either an out and out Christian or honestly renounce Christianity. With his home training and teachings he could not do the latter. He decided upon a Christian life. He would do nothing as a doctor that he could not do with a clear conscience as a Christian gentleman. This he also decided: a man's religion is something for him to be proud of and any one ashamed to acknowledge the faith of his fathers is a moral coward, and a moral coward is more contemptible than a physical coward. He also was convinced that a boy or man afraid or ashamed to acknowledge his religious belief could only be a mental weakling. It was characteristic of Grenfell that whatever he attempted to do he did with courage and enthusiasm. He never was a slacker. The hospital to which he was attached was situated in the centre of the worst slums of London. It occurred to him that he might help the boys, and he secured a room, fitted it up as a gymnasium, and established a sort of boys' club, where on Sundays he held a Bible study class and where he gave the boys physical work on Saturdays. There was no Y.M.C.A. in England at that time where they could enjoy these privileges. In the beginning, there were young thugs who attempted to make trouble. He simply pitched them out, and in the end they were glad enough to return and behave themselves. Grenfell and his brother, with one of their friends, spent the long holidays when college was closed cruising along the coast in an old fishing smack which they rented. In the course of his cruising, the thought came to him that it was hardly fair to the boys in the slums to run away from them and enjoy himself in the open while they sweltered in the streets, and he began at once to plan a camp for the boys. This was long before the days of Boy Scouts and their camps. It was before the days of any boys' camps in England. It was an original idea with him that a summer camp would be a fine experience for his boys. At his own expense he established such a camp on the Welsh coast, and during every summer until he finished his studies in the University he took his boys out of the city and gave them a fine outing during a part of the summer holiday period. It was just at this time that the first boys' camp in America was founded by Chief Dudley as an experiment, now the famous Camp Dudley on Lake Champlain. We may therefore consider Grenfell as one of the pioneers in making popular the boys' camp idea, and every boy that has a good time in a summer camp should thank him. But a time comes when all things must end, good as well as bad, and the time came when Grenfell received his degree and graduated a full-fledged doctor, and a good one, too, we may be sure. Now he was to face the world, and earn his own bread and butter. Pleasant holidays, and boys' camps were behind him. The big work of life, which every boy loves to tackle, was before him. Then it was that Dr. Frederick Treves, later Sir Frederick, a famous surgeon under whom he had studied, made a suggestion that was to shape young Dr. Grenfell's destiny and make his name known wherever the English tongue is spoken. II THE NORTH SEA FLEETS The North Sea, big as it is, has no great depth. Geologists say that not long ago, as geologists calculate time, its bottom was dry land and connected the British Isles with the continent of Europe. Then it began to sink until the water swept in and covered it, and it is still sinking. The deepest point in the North Sea is not more than thirty fathoms, or one hundred eighty feet. There are areas where it is not over five fathoms deep, and the larger part of it is less than twenty fathoms. Fish are attracted to the North Sea because it is shallow. Its bottom forms an extensive fishing "bank," we might say, though it is not, properly speaking, a bank at all, and here is found some of the finest fishing in the world. From time immemorial fishing fleets have gone to the North Sea, and the North Sea fisheries is one of the important industries of Great Britain. Men are born to it and live their lives on the small fishing craft, and their sons follow them for generation after generation. It is a hazardous calling, and the men of the fleets are brave and hardy fellows. The fishing fleets keep to the sea in winter as well as in summer, and it is a hard life indeed when decks and rigging are covered with ice, and fierce north winds blow the snow down, and the cold is bitter enough to freeze a man's very blood. Seas run high and rough, which is always the case in shallow waters, and great rollers sweep over the decks of the little craft, which of necessity have small draft and low freeboard. The fishing fleets were like large villages on the sea. At the time of which we write, and it may be so to this day, fast vessels came daily to collect the fish they caught and to take the catch to market. Once in every three months a vessel was permitted to return to its home port for rest and necessary re-fitting, and then the men of her crew were allowed one day ashore for each week they had spent at sea. Now and again there came to the hospital sick or injured men returned from the fleet on these home-coming vessels. When Grenfell passed his final examinations in 1886, and was admitted to the College of Physicians and Royal College of Surgeons of England, Sir Frederick Treves suggested that he visit the North Sea fishing fleets and lend his service to the fishermen for a time before entering upon private practice. The great surgeon, himself a lover of the sea and acquainted with Grenfell's inclinations toward an active outdoor life, was also aware that Grenfell was a good sailor. "Don't go in summer," admonished Sir Frederick. "Go in winter when you can see the life of the men at its hardest and when they have the greatest need of a doctor. Anyhow you'll have some rugged days at sea if you go in winter." He went on to explain that a few men had become interested in the fishermen of the fleets and had chartered a vessel to go among them to offer diversion in the hope of counteracting to some extent the attraction of the whiskey and rum traders whose vessels sold much liquor to the men and did a vast deal of harm. This vessel was open to the visits of the fishermen. Religious services were held aboard her on Sundays. There was no doctor in the fleet, and the skipper, who had been instructed in ordinary bandaging and in giving simple remedies for temporary relief, rendered first aid to the injured or sick until they could be sent away on some home-bound vessel and placed in a hospital for medical or surgical treatment. Thus a week or sometimes two weeks would elapse before the sufferer could be put under a doctor's care. Because of this long delay many men died who, with prompt attention, would doubtless have lived. "The men who have fitted out this mission boat would like a young doctor to go with it," concluded Sir Frederick. "Go with them for a little while. You'll find plenty of high sea's adventure, and you'll like it." In more than one way this suited Grenfell exactly. The opportunity for adventure that such a cruise offered appealed to him strongly, as it would appeal to any real live red-blooded man or boy. It also offered an opportunity to gain practical experience in his profession and at the same time render service to brave men who sadly needed it; and he could lend a hand in fighting the liquor evil among the seamen and thus share in helping to care for their moral, as well as their physical welfare. He had seen much of the evils of the liquor traffic during his student days in London, and he had acquired a wholesome hatred for it. In short, he saw an opportunity to help make the lives of these men happier. That is a high ideal for any one--to do something whenever possible to bring happiness into the lives of others. This was too good an opportunity to let pass. It offered not only practice in his profession but service for others, and there would be the spice of adventure. He applied without delay for the post, requesting to go on duty the following January. Whether Sir Frederick Treves said a word for him to the newly founded mission or not, I do not know, but at any rate Grenfell, to his great delight, was accepted, and it is probable the group of big hearted men who were sending the vessel to the fishermen were no less pleased to secure the services of a young doctor of his character. At last the time came for departure. The mission ship was to sail from Yarmouth. Grenfell had been impatiently awaiting orders to begin his duties, when suddenly he received directions to join his vessel prepared to go to sea at once. Filled with enthusiasm and keen for the adventure he boarded the first train for Yarmouth. It was a dark and rainy night when he arrived. Searching down among the wharves he found the mission ship tied to her moorings. She proved to be a rather diminutive schooner of the type and class used by the North Sea fishermen, and if the young doctor had pictured a large and commodious vessel he was disappointed. But Grenfell had been accustomed in his boyhood to knocking about with fishermen and now he was quite content with nothing better than fell to the lot of those he was to serve. The little vessel was neat as wax below deck. The crew were big-hearted, brawny, good-natured fellows, and gave the Doctor a fine welcome. Of course his quarters were small and crowded, but he was bound on a mission and an adventure, and cramped quarters were no obstacle to his enthusiasm. Grenfell was not the sort of man to growl or complain at little inconveniences. He was thinking only of the duties he had assumed and the adventures that were before him. At last he was on the seas, and his life work, though he did not know it then, had begun. III ON THE HIGH SEAS The skipper of the vessel was a bluff, hearty man of the old school of seamen. At the same time he was a sincere Christian devoted to his duties. At the beginning he made it plain that Grenfell was to have quite enough to do to keep him occupied, not only in his capacity as doctor, but in assisting to conduct afloat a work that in many respects resembled that of our present Young Men's Christian Association ashore. The mission steamer was now to run across to Ostend, Belgium, where supplies were to be taken aboard before joining the fishing fleets. It was bitterly cold, and while they lay at Ostend taking on cargo the harbor froze over, and they found themselves so firm and fast in the ice that it became necessary to engage a steamer to go around them to break them loose. At last, cargo loaded and ice smashed, they sailed away from Ostend and pointed their bow towards the great fleets, not again to see land for two full months, save Heligoland and Terschelling in the far distant offing. The little vessel upon which Grenfell sailed was the first sent to the fisheries by the now famous Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen; and the young Doctor on her deck, hardly yet realizing all that was expected of him, was destined to do no small part in the development of the splendid service that the Mission has since rendered the fishermen. On the starboard side of the vessel's bow appeared in bold carved letters the words, "Heal the sick," on the port side of the bow, "Preach the Word." "Preaching the Word" does not necessarily mean, and did not mean here, getting up into a pulpit for an hour or two and preaching orthodox sermons, sometimes as dry as dead husks, on Sundays. Sometimes just a smile and a cheery greeting is the best sermon in the world, and the finest sort of preaching. Just the example of living honestly and speaking truthfully and always lending a hand to the fellow who is in trouble or discouraged, is a fine sermon, for there is not a man or boy living whose life and actions do not have an influence for good or bad on some one else. We do not always realize this, but it is true. Grenfell little dreamed of the future that this voyage was to open to him. He knew little or nothing at that time of Labrador or Newfoundland. He had never seen an Eskimo nor an American Indian, unless he had chanced to visit a "wild west" show. He had no other expectation than that he should make a single winter cruise with the mission schooner, and then return to England and settle in some promising locality to the practice of his profession, there to rise to success or fade into hum-drum obscurity, as Providence might will. The fishermen of the North Sea fleet were as rough and ready as the old buccaneers. They were constantly risking their lives and they had not much regard for their own lives or the lives of others. With them life was cheap. Night and day they faced the dangers of the sea as they worked at the trawls, and when they were not sleeping or working there was no amusement for them. Then they were prone to resort to the grog ships, which hovered around them, and they too often drank a great deal more rum than was good for them. They were reared to a rough and cruel life, these fishermen. Hard punishments were dealt the men by the skippers. It was the way of the sea, as they knew it. There were more than twenty thousand of these men in the North Sea fleets. Grenfell must have been overwhelmed with the thought that he was to be the only doctor within reach of that great number of men. "Heal the sick"--that was his job! But he resolved to do much more than that! He was going to "Preach the Word" in smiles and cheering words, and was going to help the men in other ways than with his pill box and surgical bandages. As a doctor he realized how harmful liquor was to them, and he was going to fight the grog ships and do his best to put them out of business. In a word, he was not only going to doctor the men but he was going to help them to live straight, clean lives. He was going to play the game as he had played foot ball or pulled his oar with the winning crew at college. He was going to put into it the best that was in him! That was the way Grenfell always did everything he undertook. When he had to pummel the "old boy" at Marlborough College he did it the best he knew how. Now he had a big job on his hands. He resolved, figuratively, to pummel the rum ships, and he was already planning and inventing ways that would make the men's lives easier. He went into the thing with his characteristic zeal, determined to make good. It is a mighty fine thing to make good. Any of us can make good if we go at things in the way Grenfell went at them--determined, whatever obstacles arise, not to fail. Grenfell never whined about luck going against him. He made his own luck. That is the mark of every successful and big man. "There are the fleets," said the skipper one day, pointing out over the bow. "We'll make a round of the fleets, and you'll have a chance to get busy patching the men up." And he was busy. There came as many patients every day as any young doctor could wish to treat. But that was what Grenfell wanted. As the skipper suggested, the mission boat made a tour of the fleets, of which there were several, each fleet with its own name and colours and commanded by an Admiral. There were the Columbias, the Rashers, the Great Northerners and many others. It was finally with the Great Northerners that the mission boat took its station. Grenfell visited among the vessels and made friends among the men, who were like big boys, rough and ready. They were always prepared to go into daring ventures. They never flinched at danger. Few of them had ever enjoyed the privilege of going to school, and none of the men and few of the skippers could write. They could read the compass just as men who cannot read can tell the time of day from the clock. But they had their method of dead reckoning and always appeared to know where they were, even though land had not been sighted for days. Most of these men had been apprentised to the vessels as boys and had followed the sea all their lives. There were always many apprentised boys on the ships, and these worked without other pay than clothing, food and a little pocket money until they were twenty-one years of age. In many cases they received little consideration from the skippers and sometimes were treated with unnecessary roughness and even cruelty. From the beginning Doctor Grenfell devoted himself not only to healing the sick, but also to bettering the condition of the fishermen. His skill was applied to the healing of their moral as well as their physical ills. Of necessity their life was a rough and rugged one, but there were opportunities to introduce some pleasure into it and to make it happier in many ways. Here was a strong human call that, from the beginning, Grenfell could not resist. Using his own influence together with the influence of other good men, necessary funds were raised to meet the expenses of additional mission ships, and additional doctors and workers were sent out. Those selected were not only doctors, but men who were qualified by character and ability to guide the seamen to better and cleaner and more wholesome living. Queen Victoria became interested. The grog ships were finally driven from the sea. Laws were enacted to better conditions upon the fishing vessels that the lives of the fishermen might be easier and happier. In the course of time, as the result of Grenfell's tireless efforts, a marvelous change for the better took place. Thus the years passed. Dr. Grenfell, who in the beginning had given his services to the Mission for a single winter, still remained. He felt it a duty that he could not desert. The work was hard, and it denied him the private practice and the home life to which he had looked forward so hopefully. He never had the time to drive fine horses about the country as he visited patients. But he had no regrets. He had chosen to accept and share the life of the fishermen on the high seas. It was no less a service to his country and to mankind than the service of the soldier fighting in the trenches. When he saw the need and heard the call he was willing enough to sacrifice personal ambitions that he might help others to become finer, better men, and live nobler happier lives. Looking back over that period there is no doubt that Doctor Grenfell feels a thousand times repaid for any sacrifices he may have made. It is always that way. When we give up something for the other fellow, or do some fine thing to help him, our pleasure at the happiness we have given him makes us somehow forget ourselves and all we have given up. And so came the year 1891. It was in that year that a member of the Mission Board returned from a visit to Canada and Newfoundland and reported to the Board great need of work among the Newfoundland fishermen similar to that that had been done by Grenfell in the North Sea. The members of the Board were stirred by what they heard, and it was decided to send a ship across the Atlantic. It was necessary that the man in command be a doctor understanding the work to be done. It was also necessary that he should be a man of high executive and administrative ability, capable of organizing and carrying it on successfully. The man that has made good is the man always looked for to occupy such a post. Grenfell had made good in the North Sea. His work there indeed had been a brilliant success. He was the one man the Board thought of, and he was asked to go. He accepted. Here was a new field of work and adventure offering ever greater possibilities than the old, and he never hesitated about it. He began preparations for the new enterprise at once. The _Albert_, a little ketch-rigged vessel of ninety-seven tons register, was selected. Iron hatches were put into her, she was sheathed with greenhart to withstand the pressure of ice, and thoroughly refitted. Captain Trevize, a Cornishman, was engaged as skipper. Though Doctor Grenfell was himself a master mariner and thoroughly qualified as a navigator, he had never crossed the Atlantic, and in any case he was to be fully occupied with other duties. There was a crew of eight men including the mate, Skipper Joe White, a famous skipper of the North Sea fleets. On June 15, 1892, the _Albert_ was towed out of Great Yarmouth Harbor, and that day she spread her sails and set her course westward. The great work of Doctor Grenfell's life was now to begin. All the years of toil on the North Sea had been but an introduction to it and a preparation for it. His little vessel was to carry him to the bleak and desolate coast of Labrador and into the ice fields of the North. He was to meet new and strange people, and he was destined to experience many stirring adventures. IV DOWN ON THE LABRADOR Heavy seas and head winds met the _Albert_, and she ran in at the Irish port of Cookhaven to await better weather. In a day or two she again spread her canvas, Fastnet Rock, at the south end of Ireland, the last land of the Old World to be seen, was lost to view, and in heavy weather she pointed her bow toward St. Johns, Newfoundland. Twelve days later, in a thick fog, a huge iceberg loomed suddenly up before them, and the _Albert_ barely missed a collision that might have ended the mission. It was the first iceberg that Doctor Grenfell had ever seen. Presently, and through the following years, they were to become as familiar to him as the trees of the forests. Four hundred years had passed since Cabot on his voyage of discovery had, in his little caraval, passed over the same course that Grenfell now sailed in the _Albert_. Nineteen days after Fastnet Rock was lost to view, the shores of Newfoundland rose before them. That was fine sailing for the landfall was made almost exactly opposite St. Johns. The harbor of St. Johns is like a great bowl. The entrance is a narrow passage between high, beetling cliffs rising on either side. From the sea the city is hidden by hills flanked by the cliffs, and a vessel must enter the narrow gateway and pass nearly through it before the city of St. Johns is seen rising from the water's edge upon sloping hill-sides on the opposite side of the harbor. It is one of the safest as well as most picturesque harbors in the world. As the _Albert_ approached the entrance Doctor Grenfell and the crew were astonished to see clouds of smoke rising from within and obscuring the sky. As they passed the cliffs waves of scorching air met them. The city was in flames. Much of it was already in ashes. Stark, blackened chimneys rose where buildings had once stood. Flames were still shooting upward from those as yet but partly consumed. Some of the vessels anchored in the harbor were ablaze. Everything had been destroyed or was still burning. The Colonial public buildings, the fine churches, the great warehouses that had lined the wharves, even the wharves themselves, were smouldering ruins, and scarcely a private house remained. It was a scene of complete and terrible desolation. The fire had even extended to the forests beyond the city, and for weeks afterward continued to rage and carry destruction to quiet, scattered homes of the country. [Illustration: "THE LABRADOR 'LIVEYERE'"] The cause or origin of the fire no one knew. It had come as a devastating scourge. It had left the beautiful little city a mass of blackened, smoking ruins. The Newfoundlanders are as fine and brave a people as ever lived. Deep trouble had come to them, but they met it with their characteristic heroism. No one was whining, or wringing his hands, or crying out against God. They were accepting it all as cheerfully as any people can ever accept so sweeping a calamity. Benjamin Franklin said, "God helps them that help themselves." That is as true of a city as it is of a person. That is what the St. Johns people were doing, and already, while the fire still burned, they were making plans to take care of themselves and rebuild their city. Of course Doctor Grenfell could do little to help with his one small ship, but he did what he could. The officials and the people found time to welcome him and to tell him how glad they were that he was to go to Labrador to heal the sick of their fleets and make the lives of the fishermen and the natives of the northern coast happier and pleasanter. A pilot was necessary to guide the _Albert_ along the uncharted coast of Labrador. Captain Nicholas Fitzgerald was provided by the Newfoundland government to serve in this capacity. Doctor Grenfell invited Mr. Adolph Neilson, Superintendent of Fisheries for Newfoundland, to accompany them, and he accepted the invitation, that he might lend his aid to getting the work of the mission started. He proved a valuable addition to the party. Then the _Albert_ sailed away to cruise her new field of service. It will be interesting to turn to a map and see for ourselves the country to which Doctor Grenfell was going. We will find Labrador in the northeastern corner of the North American continent, just as Alaska is in the northwestern corner. Like Alaska, Labrador is a great peninsula and is nearly, though not quite, so large as Alaska. Some maps will show only a narrow strip along the Atlantic east of the peninsula marked "Labrador." This is incorrect. The whole peninsula, bounded on the south by the Gulf of St. Lawrence and Straits of Belle Isle, the east by the Atlantic Ocean, the north by Hudson Straits, the west by Hudson Bay and James Bay and the Province of Quebec, is included in Labrador. The narrow strip on the east is under the jurisdiction of Newfoundland, while the remainder is owned by Quebec. Newfoundland is the oldest colony of Great Britain. It is not a part of Canada, but has a separate government. The only people living in the interior of Labrador are a few wandering Indians who live by hunting. There are still large parts of the interior that have never been explored by white men, and of which we know little or no more than was known of America when Columbus discovered the then new world. The people who live on the coast are white men, half-breeds and Eskimos. None of these ever go far inland, and they live by fishing, hunting, and trapping animals for the fur. Those on the south, as far east as Blanc Sablon, on the straits of Belle Isle, speak French. Eastward from Blanc Sablon and northward to a point a little north of Indian Harbor at the northern side of the entrance of Hamilton Inlet, English is spoken. The language on the remainder of the coast is Eskimo, and nearly all of the people are Eskimos. Once upon a time the Eskimos lived and hunted on the southern coast along the Straits of Belle Isle, but only white people and half-breeds are now found south of Hamilton Inlet. The Labrador coast from Cape Charles in the south to Cape Chidley in the north is scoured as clean as the paving stones of a street. Naked, desolate, forbidding it lies in a somber mist. In part it is low and ragged but as we pass north it gradually rises into bare slopes and finally in the vicinity of Nachbak Bay high mountains, perpendicular and grey, stand out against the sky. Behind the storm-scoured rocky islands lie the bays and tickles and runs and at the head of the bays the forest begins, reaching back over rolling hills into the mysterious and unknown regions beyond. There is not one beaten road in all the land. There is no sandy beach, no grassy bank, no green field. Nature has been kind to Labrador, however, in one respect. There are innumerable harbors snugly sheltered behind the islands and well out of reach of the rolling breakers and the wind. There is an old saying down on the Labrador that "from one peril there are two ways of escape to three sheltered places." The ice and fog are always perils but the skippers of the coast appear to hold them in disdain and plunge forward through storm and sea when any navigator on earth would expect to meet disaster. For the most part the coast is uncharted and the skippers, many of whom never saw an instrument of navigation in their life, or at least never owned one, sail by rhyme: "When Joe Bett's P'int you is abreast, Dane's Rock bears due west. West-nor'west you must steer, 'Til Brimstone Head do appear. "The tickle's narrow, not very wide; The deepest water's on the starboard side When in the harbor you is shot, Four fathoms you has got." It is an evil coast, with hidden reefs and islands scattered like dust its whole length. "The man who sails the Labrador must know it all like his own back yard--not in sunny weather alone, but in the night, when the headlands are like black clouds ahead, and in the mist, when the noise of breakers tells him all that he may know of his whereabouts. A flash of white in the gray distance, a thud and swish from a hidden place: the one is his beacon, the other his fog-horn. It is thus, often, that the Doctor gets along." Labrador has an Arctic climate in winter. The extreme cold of the country is caused by the Arctic current washing its shores. All winter the ocean is frozen as far as one can see. In June, when the ice breaks away, the great Newfoundland fishing fleet of little schooners sails north to remain until the end of September catching cod, for here are the finest cod fishing grounds in the world. In 1892 there were nearly twenty-five thousand Newfoundlanders on this fleet. Doctor Grenfell's mission was to aid and assist these deep sea fishermen. In those days there was no doctor with the fleet and none on the whole coast, and any one taken seriously ill or badly injured usually died for lack of medical or surgical care. Of course, Grenfell was also to help the people who lived on the coast, that is, the native inhabitants, who needed him. This service he was giving free. At this season there is more fog than sunshine in those northern latitudes. It settles in a dense pall over the sea, adding to the dangers of navigation. Now the fog was so thick that they could scarcely see the length of the vessel. On the fourth day out the fog lifted for a brief time, and Cape Bauld the northeasterly point of Newfoundland Island, showed his grim old head, as if to bid them goodbye and to wish them good luck "down on The Labrador." Then they were again swallowed by the fog and plunged into the rough seas where the Straits of Belle Isle meet the wide ocean. No more land was seen, as they ploughed northward through the fog, until August 4th. This was a Thursday. Like the lifting of a curtain on a stage the fog, all at once, melted away, to reveal a scene of marvellous though rugged beauty. As though touched by a hand of magic, the atmosphere, for so many days dank and thick, suddenly became brilliantly clear and transparent, and the sun shone bright and warm. Off the port bow lay The Labrador, the great silent peninsula of the north. Doctor Grenfell turned to it with a thrill. Here was the land he had come so far to see! Here he would find the people to whom he was to devote his life work! There before him lay her scattered islands, her grim and rocky headlands and beetling cliffs, and beyond the islands, rolling away into illimitable blue distances her seared hills and the vast unknown region of her interior, whose mysterious secrets she had kept locked within her heart through all time. Back there, hidden from the world, were numberless lakes and rivers and mountains that no white man had ever seen. [Illustration: "SAILS NORTH TO REMAIN UNTIL THE END OF SUMMER CATCHING COD"] The sea rose and fell in a lazy swell. Not far away a school of whales were playing, now and again spouting geysers of water high into the air. Shoals of caplin[A] gave silver flashes upon the surface of the sea where thousands of the little fish crowded one another to the surface of the water. Countless birds and sea fowl hovered before the face of the cliffs and above the placid sea. A half hundred icebergs, children of age-old glaciers of the far North, were scattered over the green-blue waters. Some of them were of gigantic proportions and strange outlines. There were hills with lofty summits, marvellous castles, turreted and towered, and majestic cathedrals, their icy pinnacles and spires reaching high above the top-masts of the ship and their polished adamantine surfaces sparkling in the brilliant sunshine and scintillating fire and colour with the wondrous iridescent beauty of mammoth opals. "There's Domino Run," said the pilot. "Domino Run? What is that?" "'Tis a fine deep run behind the islands," explained the pilot. "All the fleets of schooners cruisin' north and south go through Domino Run. There's a fine tidy harbor in there, and we'd be findin' some schooners anchored there now." "We'll go in and see." "I think 'twould be well and meet some of the fleet. There's liviyeres in there too. There's some liviyeres handy to most of the harbors on the coast." "Liveyeres? What are liveyeres?" "They're the folk that live on the coast all the time,--the whites and half-breeds. Newfoundlanders only come to fish in summer, but liveyeres stay the winter. The shop keepers we calls planters. They're set up by traders that has fishin' places. The liveyeres has their homes up the heads of bays in winter, and when the ice fastens over they trap fur. In the summer they come out to the islands to fish." Doctor Grenfell had heard all this before, but now as he looked at the dreary desolation of the rocks it seemed almost incredible that children could be born and grow to manhood and womanhood and live their lives here, forever fighting for mere existence, and die at last without ever once knowing the comforts that we who live in kindlier warmer lands enjoy. Presently a beautiful and splendid harbor opened before the _Albert_. Several schooners were lying at anchor within the harbor's shelter, and the strange new ship created a vast sensation as she hove to and dropped her anchor among them, and hoisted the blue flag of the Deep Sea Mission. From masthead after masthead rose flags of greeting. It was a glorious welcome for any visitor to receive. A warmer or more cordial greeting could scarcely have been offered the Governor General himself. It was given with the fine hearty fervour and characteristic hospitality of the Newfoundland fishermen and seamen. The _Albert's_ anchor chains had scarce ceased to rattle before boats were pulling toward her from every vessel in the harbor. Ships enough sailed down the coast, to be sure, but if they were not fishing vessels they were traders looking to barter for fish, bearing sharp men who drove hard bargains with the fishermen, as we shall see. But here was a different vessel from any of them. Everybody knew that _this_ was not a fisherman, and that she was _not_ a trader. What _was_ her business? What had she come for? What did her blue flag mean? These were questions to which everybody must needs find the answer for himself. Great was their joy when it was learned that the _Albert_ was a hospital ship with a real doctor aboard come to care for and heal their sick and injured, and that the doctor made no charge for his services or his medicine. This was a big point that went to their hearts, for there was scarce a man among them with any money in his pocket, and if Doctor Grenfell had charged them money they could not have called upon him to help them, for they could not have paid him. But here he was ready to serve them without money and without price. The richest, who were poor enough, and the poorest, could alike have his care and medicine. Here, indeed, was cause to wonder and rejoice. Many of the fishermen took their families with them to live in little huts at the fishing places during the summer, and to help them prepare the fish for market. Forty or fifty men, women and children were packed, like figs in a box, on some of the schooners, with no other sleeping place than under the deck, on top of the cargo of provisions and salt in the hold, wherever they could find a place big enough to squeeze and stow themselves. Under such conditions there were ailing people enough on the schooners who needed a doctor's care. The mail boat from St. Johns came once a fortnight, to be sure, and she had a doctor aboard her. But he could only see for a moment the more serious cases, and not all of them, hurriedly leave some medicine and go, and then he would not return to see them again in another two weeks. The mail boat had a schedule to make, and the time given her for the voyage between St. Johns and The Labrador was all too short, and she never reached the northernmost coast. There were calls enough from the very beginning to keep Doctor Grenfell busy with the sick folk of the schooners. All that day the people came, and it was late that evening when the sick on the schooners had been cared for and the last of the visitors had departed. Thus, on that first day in this new land, in the Harbor of Domino Run, Doctor Grenfell's life work among the deep sea fishermen of The Labrador began in earnest. But even yet Doctor Grenfell's day's work was not to end. He was to witness a scene that would sicken his heart and excite his deepest pity. An experience awaited him that was to guide him to new and greater plans and to bigger things than he had yet dreamed of. For a long while a rickety old rowboat had been lying off from the _Albert_. A bronzed and bearded man sat alone in the boat, eyeing the strange vessel as though afraid to approach nearer. He was thin and gaunt. The evening was chilly, but he was poorly clad, and his clothing was as ragged and as tattered as his old boat. Finally, as though fearing to intrude, and not sure of his reception, he hailed the _Albert_. FOOTNOTES: [A] A small fish about the size of a smelt. V THE RAGGED MAN IN THE RICKETY BOAT Grenfell, who had been standing at the rail for some time watching the decrepid old boat and its strange occupant, answered the hail cheerily. "Be there a doctor aboard, sir?" asked the man. "Yes," answered Grenfell. "I'm a doctor." "Us were hearin' now they's a doctor on your vessel," said the man with satisfaction. "Be you a _real_ doctor, sir?" "Yes," assured the Doctor. "I hope I am." "They's a man ashore that's wonderful bad off, but us hasn't no money," suggested the man, adding expectantly, "You couldn't come to doctor he now could you, sir?" "Certainly I will," assured the Doctor. "What's the matter with the man? Do you know?" "He have a distemper in his chest, sir, and a wonderful bad cough," explained the man. "All right," said the Doctor. "I'll go at once. How far is it?" "Right handy, sir," said the man with evident relief. "Pull alongside and I'll be with you in a jiffy," and the Doctor hurried below for his medicine case. The man was alongside waiting for him when he returned a few moments later, and he stepped into the rickety old boat. As the liveyere rowed away Grenfell may have thought of his own famous flat-boat that sank with him and his brother in the estuary below Parkgate years before when they were left to swim for it. But in his mental comparison it is probable that the flat-boat, even in her oldest and most decrepid days, would have passed for a rather fine and seaworthy craft in contrast to this rickety old rowboat. The boat kept afloat, however, and presently the liveyere pulled it alongside the gray rock that served for a landing. They stepped out and the guide led the way up the rocks to a lonely and miserable little sod hut. At the door he halted. "Here we is, sir," he announced. "Step right in. They'll be wonderful glad to see you, sir." Grenfell entered. Within was a room perhaps twelve by fourteen feet in size. A single small window of pieces of glass patched together was designed to admit light and at the same time to exclude God's good fresh air. The floor was of earth, partially paved with small round stones. Built against the walls were six berths, fashioned after the model of ship's berths, three lower and three upper ones. A broken old stove, with its pipe extending through the roof into a mud protection rising upon the peak outside in lieu of a chimney, made a smoky attempt to heat the place. The lower berths and floor served as seats. There was no furniture. The walls of the hut were damp. The atmosphere was dank and unwholesome and heavy with the ill-smelling odor of stale seal oil and fish. The place was dirty and as unsanitary and unhealthful as any human habitation could well be. Six ragged, half-starved little children huddled timidly into a corner upon the entrance of the visitor from the ship and gazed at the Doctor with wide-open frightened eyes. In one of the lower bunks lay the sick man coughing himself to death. At his side a gaunt woman, miserably and scantily clothed, was offering him water in a spoon. It was evident to the trained eye of the Doctor that the man was fatally ill and could live but a short time. He was a hopeless consumptive, and a hasty examination revealed the fact that he was also suffering from a severe attack of pneumonia. Doctor Grenfell's big sympathetic heart went out to the poor sufferer and his destitute family. What could he do? How could he help the man in such a place? He might remove him to one of the clean, white hospital cots on the _Albert_, but it would scarcely serve to make easier the impending death, and the exposure and effort of the transfer might even hasten it. Then, too, the wife and children would be denied the satisfaction of the last moments with the departing soul of the husband and father, for the _Albert_ was to sail at once. The summer was short, and up and down the coast many others were in sore need of the Doctor's care, and delay might cost some of them their lives. Grenfell sat silently for several minutes observing his patient and asking himself the question: "What can I do for this poor man?" If there had only been a doctor that the man could have called a few days earlier his life, at least might have been prolonged. There was but one answer to the question. There was nothing to do but leave medicine and give advice and directions for the man's care, and to supply the ill-nourished family much-needed food and perhaps some warmer clothing. If there were only a hospital on the coast where such cases could be taken and properly treated! If there were only some place where fatherless and orphaned children could be cared for! These were some of the thoughts that crowded upon Doctor Grenfell as he left the hut that evening and was rowed back to the _Albert_. And in the weeks that followed his mind was filled with plans, for never did the picture of the dying man and helpless little ones fade as he saw it that first day in Domino Run. Another call to go ashore came that evening, and the Doctor answered it promptly. Again he was guided to a little mud hut, but this had an advantage over the other in that it was well ventilated. The one window which it boasted was an open hole in the side wall with no glass or other covering to exclude the fresh air. There was no stove, and an open fire on the earthen floor supplied warmth, while a large opening in the roof, for there was no chimney, offered an escape for the smoke, an offer of which the smoke did not freely take advantage. On a wooden bench in a corner of the room a man sat doubled up with pain. Here too was a family consisting of the man's wife and several children. "What's the trouble?" asked the Doctor. "I'm wonderful bad with a distemper in my insides, sir," answered the man with a groan. "Been ill long?" "Aye, sir, for three weeks." "We'll see what can be done." "Thank you, sir." "We'll patch you up and make you as well as ever in a little while," assured the Doctor after a thorough examination, for this proved to be a curable case. "That'll be fine, sir." Medicine was provided, with directions for taking, and, as the Doctor had promised, and as he later learned, the man soon recovered his health and returned to his fishing. The _Albert_ sailed north. Into every little harbor and settlement she dropped her anchor for a visit. She called at the trading posts of the old Hudson's Bay Company at Cartwright, Rigolet and Davis Inlet and the Moravian Missions among the Eskimos in the North. She was welcomed everywhere, and everywhere Doctor Grenfell found so many sick or injured people that the whole summer long he was kept constantly busy. The waters of this coast were unknown to him. He knew nothing of their tides or reefs or currents. But with confidence in himself and a courage that was well-nigh reckless, he sought out the people of every little harbor that he might give them the help that he had come to give. If there was too great a hazard for the schooner, he used a whale-boat. Once this whale-boat was blown out to sea, once it was driven upon the rocks, once it capsized with all on board, and before the summer ended it became a complete wreck. Nine hundred cases were treated, some trivial though perhaps painful enough maladies, others most serious or even hopeless. Here was a tooth to be extracted, there a limb to be amputated,--cases of all kinds and descriptions, with never a doctor to whom the people could turn for relief until Doctor Grenfell providentially appeared. With all the work, the voyage was one of pleasure. Not only the pleasure of making others happier,--the greatest pleasure any one can know,--but it was a rattling fine adventure finding the way among islands that had never appeared on any map and were still unnamed. It was fine fun, too, cruising deep and magnificent fjords past lofty towering cliffs, and exploring new channels. And there were the Eskimos and their great wolfish dogs, and their primitive manner of living and dressing. It was all interesting and fascinating. Never, however, since that August night in Domino Run, had the little mud hut, the dying man, the grief-stricken, miserable mother, and the neglected and starving little ones been out of Doctor Grenfell's thoughts, and often enough his big heart had ached for the stricken ones. He had never before witnessed such awful depths of poverty. In other harbors that he had visited in his northern voyage similar heartrending cases had, to be sure, fallen under his attention. In one harbor he found a poor Eskimo both of whose hands had been blown off by the premature discharge of a gun. For days and days the man had endured indescribable agony. Nothing had been done for him, save to bathe the stubs of his shattered arms in cold water, until Doctor Grenfell appeared, for there was no surgeon to call upon to relieve the sufferer. Everywhere there was a mute cry for help. The people were in need of doctors and hospitals. They were in need of hospital ships to cruise the coast and visit the sick of the harbors. They were in need of clothing that they were unable to purchase for themselves. They were in great need of some one to devise a way that would help them to free themselves from the ancient truck system that kept them forever hopelessly in debt to the traders. The case of the man in the little mud hut at Domino Run, however, first suggested to Grenfell the need of these things and the thought that he might do something to bring them about. As a result of this visit, he made, during his northward cruise, a most thorough investigation of the requirements of the coast. It was early October, and snow covered the ground, when the _Albert_, sailing south, again entered Domino Run and anchored in the harbor. Grenfell was put ashore and walked up the trail to the hut. The man had long since died and been laid to rest. The wife and children were still there. They had no provisions for the winter, and Grenfell, we may be sure, did all in his power to help them and make them more comfortable. His plans had crystalized. He had determined upon the course he should take. He would go back to England and exert himself to the utmost to raise funds to build hospitals and to provide additional doctors and nurses for The Labrador. He would return to Labrador himself and give his life and strength and the best that was in him for the rest of his days in an attempt to make these people happier. Grenfell the athlete, the football player, the naturalist, and, above all, the doctor, was ready to answer the human call and to sacrifice his own comfort and ease and worldly possessions to the needs of these people. The man that will freely give his life to relieve the suffering of others represents the highest type of manhood. It is divine. It was characteristic of Grenfell. And so it came about that the ragged man in the rickety boat who led Doctor Grenfell to the dying man in the mud hut was the indirect means of bringing hospitals and stores and many fine things to The Labrador that the coast had never known before. The ragged man in going for the doctor was simply doing a kindly act, a good turn for a needy neighbor. What magnificent results may come from one little act of kindness! This one laid the foundation for a work whose fame has encircled the world. VI OVERBOARD! When Grenfell set out to do a thing he did it. He never in all his life said, "I will if I can." His motto has always been, "I _can_ if I will." He had determined to plant hospitals on the Labrador coast and to send doctors and nurses there to help the people. When he determined to do a thing there was an end of it. It would be done. A great many people plan to do things, but when they find it is hard to carry out their plans, they give them up. They forget that anything that is worth having is hard to get. If diamonds were as easy to find as pebbles they would be worth no more than pebbles. That was a hard job that Grenfell had set himself, and he knew it. When you have a hard job to do, the best way is to go at it just as soon as ever you can and work at it as hard as ever you can until it is done. That was Grenfell's way, and as soon as he reached St. Johns he began to start things moving. Someone else might have waited to return to England to make a formal report to the Deep Sea Missions Board, and await the Board's approval. Not so with Grenfell. He knew the Board would approve, and time was valuable. Down on The Labrador winter begins in earnest in October. Already the fishing fleets had returned from Labrador when the _Albert_ reached St. Johns, and the fishermen had brought with them the news of the _Albert_'s visit to The Labrador and the wonderful things Doctor Grenfell had done in the course of his summer's cruise. Praise of his magnificent work was on everybody's lips. The newspapers, always hungry for startling news, had published articles about it. Doctor Grenfell was hailed as a benefactor. All creeds and classes welcomed and praised him,--fishermen, merchants, politicians. Even the dignified Board of Trade had recorded its praise. It was November when Grenfell arrived in St. Johns. He immediately waited upon the government officials with the result that His Excellency, the Governor of the Colony, at once called a meeting in the Government House that Grenfell might present his plans for the future to the people. All the great men of the Colony were there. They listened with interest and were moved with enthusiasm. Some fine things were said, and then with the unanimous vote of the meeting resolutions were passed in commendation of Doctor Grenfell's summer's work and expressing the desire that it might continue and grow in accordance with Doctor Grenfell's plans. The resolutions finally pledged the "co-operation of all classes of this community." Here was an assurance that the whole of the fine old Colony was behind him, and it made Grenfell happy. But this was not all. It is not the way of Newfoundland people to hold meetings and say fine things and pass high-sounding resolutions and then let the whole matter drop as though they felt they had done their duty. Doctor Grenfell would need something more than fine words and pats on the back if he were to put his plans through successfully, though the fine words helped, too, with their encouragement. He would need the help of men of responsibility who would work with him, and His Excellency, the Governor, recognizing this fact, appointed a committee composed of some of Newfoundland's best men for this purpose. Then it was that Mr. W. Baine Grieve arose and began to speak. Mr. Grieve was a famous merchant of the Colony, and a member of the firm of Baine Johnston and Company, who owned a large trading station and stores at Battle Harbor, on an island near Cape Charles, at the southeastern extremity of Labrador. He was a man of importance in St. Johns and a leader in the Colony. As he spoke Grenfell suddenly realized that Mr. Grieve was presenting the Mission with a building at Battle Harbor which was to be fitted as a hospital and made ready for use the following summer. What a thrill must have come to Grenfell at that moment! The whole Newfoundland government was behind him! His first hospital was already assured! We can easily imagine that he was fairly overwhelmed and dazed with the success that he had met so suddenly and unexpectedly. But Grenfell was not a man to lose his head. This was only a beginning. He must have more hospitals than one. He must have doctors and nurses, medicines and hospital supplies, food and clothing, and a steam vessel that would take him quickly about to see the sick of the harbors. A great deal of money would be required, and when the _Albert_ sailed out of St. John's Harbor and turned back to England he knew that he had assumed a stupendous job, and that the winter was not to be an idle one for him by any means. It was December first when the _Albert_ reached England. With the backing and assistance of the Mission Board, Doctor Grenfell and Captain Trevize of the _Albert_ arranged a speaking tour for the purpose of exciting interest in the Labrador work. Men and women were moved by the tale of their experiences and the suffering and needs of the fishermen and liveres. Gifts were made and sufficient funds subscribed to purchase necessary supplies and hospital equipment, and a fine rowboat was donated to replace the _Albert's_ whaleboat which had been smashed during the previous summer. Then word came from St. Johns that the great shipping firm of Job Brothers, who owned a fisheries' station at Indian Harbor, had donated a hospital to the Newfoundland committee. This was to be erected at Indian Harbor, at the northern side of the entrance to Hamilton Inlet, two hundred miles north of Battle Harbor, and was to be ready for use during the summer. This was fine news. Not only were there large fishery stations at both Battle Harbor and Indian Harbor, but both were regular stopping places for the fishing schooners when going north and again on their homeward voyage. With two hospitals on the coast a splendid beginning for the work would be made. But there was still one necessity lacking,--a little steamer in which Doctor Grenfell could visit the folk of the scattered harbors. At Chester on the River Dee and not far from his boyhood home at Parkgate Grenfell discovered a boat one day that was for sale and that he believed would answer his purpose. It was a sturdy little steam launch, forty-five feet over all. It was, however, ridiculously narrow, with a beam of only eight feet, and was sure to roll terribly in any sea and even in an ordinary swell. But Grenfell was a good seaman, and he could make out in a boat that did a bit of tumbling. He was the sort of man to do a good job with a tool that did not suit him if he could not get just the sort of tool he wanted, and never find fault with it either. The necessary amount to purchase the launch was subscribed by a friend of the Mission. Grenfell bought it and was mightily pleased that this last need was filled. Later the little launch was christened the "Princess May." Then the _Albert_ was made ready for her second voyage to Labrador. The Mission Board appointed two young physicians to accompany Doctor Grenfell, Doctor Arthur O. Bobardt and Doctor Eliott Curwen, and two trained nurses, Miss Cecilia Williams and Miss Ada Cawardine, that there might be a doctor and a nurse for the hospital at Battle Harbor and a doctor and a nurse for the hospital at Indian Harbor. The launch _Princess May_ was swung aboard the big Allan liner _Corean_ and shipped to St. John's, and on June second Doctor Grenfell and his staff sailed from Queenstown on the _Albert_. Grenfell was as fond of sports as ever he was in his boyhood and college days, and now, when the weather permitted, he played cricket with any on board who would play with him. The deck of so small a vessel as the _Albert_ offers small space for a game of this sort, and one after another the cricket balls were lost overboard until but one remained. Then, one day, in the midst of a game in mid-ocean, that last ball unceremoniously followed the others into the sea. Grenfell ran to the rail. He could see the ball rise on a wave astern. "Tack back and pick me up!" he yelled to the helmsman, and to the astonishment and consternation of everyone, over the rail he dived in pursuit of the ball. Grenfell could swim like a fish. He learned that in the River Dee and the estuary, when he was a boy, and he always kept himself in athletic training. But he had never before jumped into the middle of so large a swimming pool as the Atlantic ocean, with the nearest land a thousand miles away! The steersman lost his head. He put over the helm, but failed to cut Grenfell off, and the Doctor presently found himself a long way from the ship struggling for life in the icy cold waters of the North Atlantic. VII IN THE BREAKERS The young adventurer did not lose his head, and he did not waste his strength in desperate efforts to overtake the vessel. He calmly laid-to, kept his head above water, and waited for the helmsman to bring the ship around again. A man less inured to hardships, or less physically fit, would have surrendered to the icy waters or to fatigue. Grenfell was as fit as ever a man could be. In school and college he had made a record in athletic sports, and since leaving the university he had not permitted himself to get out of training. An athlete cannot keep in condition who indulges in cigarettes or liquor or otherwise dissipates, and Grenfell had lived clean and straight. It was this that saved his life now. He knew he was fit and he had confidence in himself, and was unafraid. While he appreciated his peril, he never lost his nerve, and when finally he was rescued and found himself on deck he was little the worse for his experience, and with a change of dry clothing was ready to resume the interrupted game of cricket with the rescued ball. With no further adventure than once coming to close quarters with an iceberg and escaping without serious damage, the _Albert_ arrived in due time at St. John's, and Grenfell was at once occupied in preparation for his summer's work on The Labrador. Materials with which to construct the Indian Harbor hospital were shipped north by steamer. Supplies were taken aboard the _Albert_, and with Dr. Curwin and nurses Williams and Cawardine she sailed for Battle Harbor, where the building to be utilized as a hospital was already erected. Then the launch _Princess May_, which had been landed from the _Corean_, was made ready for sea, and with an engineer and a cook as his crew and Dr. Bobardt as a companion, Dr. Grenfell as skipper put to sea in the tiny craft on July 7th. There were many pessimistic prophets to see the _Princess May_ off. From skipper to cook not a man aboard her was familiar with the coast, or could recognize a single landmark or headland either on the Newfoundland coast or on The Labrador. They were going into rugged, fog-clogged seas. They might encounter an ice-pack, and the sea was always strewn with menacing icebergs. True, they had charts, but the charts were most incomplete, and no Newfoundlander sails by them. The _Princess May_, a mere cockle-shell, was too small, it was said, for the undertaking. She was six years old and Grenfell had not given her a try-out. The consensus of opinion among the wise old Newfoundland seamen who gathered on the wharf as she sailed was that Doctor Grenfell and his crew were much like the three wise men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl. Still, not a man of them but would have ventured forth upon the high seas in an ancient rotten old hull of a schooner. They were acquainted with schooners and the coast, while the little launch _Princess May_ was a new species of craft to them, and was manned by green hands. "'Tis a dangerous voyage for green hands to be makin'," said one, "and that small boat were never meant for the sea." "Aye, for green hands," said another. "They'll never make un without mishap." "If they does, 'twill be by the mercy o' God." "And how'll they make harbor, not knowin' what to sail by?" "That bit of a craft would never stand half a gale, and if she meets th' ice she'll crumple up like an eggshell." "And they'll be havin' some nasty weather, _I_ says. We'll never hear o' _she_ again or any o' them on board." "Unless by the mercy o' God." Such were the remarks of those ashore as the _Princess May_ steamed down the harbor and out through the narrow channel between the beetling cliffs, into the broad Atlantic. Dr. Grenfell has confessed that he was not wholly without misgivings himself, and they seemed well founded when, at the end of the first five miles, the engineer reported: "She's sprung a leak, sir!" and anxiously asked, "Had we better put back?" "No! We'll stand on!" answered Grenfell. "Those croakers ashore would never let us hear the end of it if we turned back. We'll see what's happened." An examination discovered a small opening in the bottom. A wooden plug was shaped and driven into the hole. To Doctor Grenfell's satisfaction and relief, this was found to heal the leak effectually, and the _Princess May_ continued on her course. But this was not to end the difficulties. In those waters dense fogs settled suddenly and without warning, and now such a fog fell upon them to shut out all view of land and the surrounding sea. Nevertheless, the _Princess May_ steamed bravely ahead. To avoid danger Grenfell was holding her, as he believed, well out to sea, when suddenly there rose out of the fog a perpendicular towering cliff. They were almost in the white surf of the waves pounding upon the rocky base of the cliff before they were aware of their perilous position. Every one expected that the little vessel would be driven upon the rocks and lost, and they realized if that were to happen only a miracle could save them. Grenfell shouted to the engineer, the engine was reversed and by skillful maneuvering the _Princess May_ succeeded, by the narrowest margin, in escaping unharmed. To their own steady nerves, and the intervention of Providence the fearless mariner and his little crew undoubtedly owed their lives. Grenfell suspected that the compass was not registering correctly. Standing out to sea until they were at a safe distance from the treacherous shore rocks, a careful examination was made. The binnacle had been left in St. Johns for necessary repairs, and the examination discovered that iron screws had been used to make the compass box fast to the cabin. These screws were responsible for a serious deviation of the needle, and this it was that had so nearly led them to fatal disaster. A heavy swell was running, and the little vessel, with but eight feet beam, rolled so rapidly that the compass needle, even when the defect had been remedied, made a wide swing from side to side as the vessel rolled. The best that could be done was to read the dial midway between the extreme points of the needle's swing. This was deemed safe enough, and away the _Princess May_ ploughed again through the fog. At five o'clock in the afternoon it was decided to work in toward shore and search for a sheltering harbor in which to anchor for the night. Under any circumstance it would be foolhardy for so small a vessel to remain in the open sea outside, after darkness set in, in those ice-menaced fog-choked northern waters. The course of the _Princess May_ was accordingly changed to bear to the westward and Grenfell was continuously feeling his way through the fog when suddenly, and to the dismay of all on board, they found themselves surrounded by jagged reefs and small rocky islands and in the midst of boiling surf. Now they were indeed in grave peril. They must needs maintain sufficient headway to keep the vessel under her helm. Black rocks capped with foam rose on every side, they did not know the depth of the water, and the fog was so thick they could scarce see two boat lengths from her bow. VIII AN ADVENTUROUS VOYAGE The finest school of courage in the world is the open. The Sands of Dee, the estuary and the hills of Wales made a fine school of this sort for Grenfell. The out-of-doors clears the brain, and there a man learns to think straight and to the point. When he is on intimate terms with the woods and mountains, and can laugh at howling gales and the wind beating in his face, and can take care of himself and be happy without the effeminating comforts of steam heat and luxurious beds, a man will prove himself no coward when he comes some day face to face with grave danger. He has been trained in a school of courage. He has learned to depend upon himself. Fine, active games of competition like baseball, football, basketball and boxing, give nerve, self-confidence and poise. Through them the hand learns instinctively, and without a moment's hesitation, to do the thing the brain tells it to do. Down on The Labrador they say that Grenfell has always been "lucky" in getting out of tight places and bad corners. But we all know, 'way down in our hearts, that there is no such thing as "luck." "God helps them that help themselves." That's the secret of Grenfell's getting out of such tight corners as this one that he had now run into in the fog. He was trained in the school of courage. He helped himself, and he knew how. He was unafraid. So it was now as always afterward. Grim danger was threatening the _Princess May_ on every side. Each moment Grenfell and his companions expected to feel the shock of collision and hear the fatal crunching and splintering of the vessel's timbers upon the rocks. All of Grenfell's experiences on the Sands of Dee and in the hills of Wales and out on the estuary came to his rescue. He did not lose his head for a moment. That would have been fatal. He had acquired courage and resourcefulness in that out-of-door school he had attended when a boy. The situation called for all the grit and good judgment he and his crew possessed. Under just enough steam to give the vessel steerageway, they wound in and out between protruding rocks and miniature islands amidst the white foam of breakers that pounded upon the rocks all around them. At length they were headed about. Then cautiously they threaded their way into the open sea and safety. This was to be but an incident in the years of labor that lay before Grenfell on The Labrador. He was to have no end of exciting experiences, some of them so thrilling that this one was, in comparison, to fade into insignificance. Labrador is a land of adventures. The man who casts his lot in that bleak country cannot escape them. Adventure lurks in every cove and harbor, on every turn of the trail, ready to spring out upon you and try your mettle, and learn the sort of stuff you are made of. Later in the evening they again felt their way landward through the fog. To their delight they presently found themselves in a harbor, and that night they rested in a safe and snug anchorage sheltered from wind and pounding sea. There was adventure enough on that voyage to satisfy anybody. The sun did not set that the voyagers had not experienced at least one good thrill during the daylight hours. On the seventh day from St. Johns the _Princess May_ crossed the Straits of Belle Isle, and drew alongside the _Albert_ at Battle Harbor. The new hospital was nearly ready to receive patients, the first of the hospitals to be built as a result of the visit to the _Albert_ the previous summer of the ragged man in the rickety boat. The other hospital was in course of building at Indian Harbor, and Doctor Grenfell dispatched the _Albert_, with Doctor Curwin and Miss Williams to assist in preparing it for patients, while Doctor Bobart and Miss Cawardine remained in charge of the Battle Harbor hospital. Away Doctor Grenfell steamed again in the _Princess May_ nothing daunted by his many difficulties with the little craft in his voyage from St. John's. It was necessary that he know the headlands and the harbors, the dangerous places and the safe ones along the whole coast. The only way to do this was by visiting them, and the quickest and best way to learn them was by finding them out for himself while navigating his own craft. Now, light houses stand on two or three of the most dangerous points of the coast, but in those days there were none, and there were no correct charts. The mariner had to carry everything in his head, and indeed he must still do so. He must know the eight hundred miles of coast as we know the nooks and corners of our dooryards. Doctor Grenfell wished also to make the acquaintance of the people. He wished to visit them in their homes that he might learn their needs and troubles and so know better how to help them. He was not alone to be their doctor. He was to clothe and feed the poor so far as he could and to put them in a way to help themselves. To do this it was necessary that he know them as a man knows his near neighbors. He must needs know them as the family doctor knows his patients. He was no preacher, but, to some degree, he was to be their pastor and look after their moral as well as their physical welfare. In short, he was to be their friend, and if he were to do his best for them, they would have to look upon him as a friend and not only call upon him when they were in need, but lend him any assistance they could. To this end they would have to be taught to accept him as one of themselves, come to live among them, and not as an occasional visitor or a foreigner. With the exception of a few small settlements of a half-dozen houses or so in each settlement, the cabins on the Labrador coast are ten or fifteen and often twenty or more miles apart. If all of them were brought together there would scarcely be enough to make one fair-sized village. All of the people, as we have seen, live on the seacoast, and not inland. Only wandering Indians live in the interior. Though Labrador is nearly as large as Alaska, there is no permanent dwelling in the whole interior. It is a vast, trackless, uninhabited wilderness of stunted forests and wide, naked barrens. The Liveyeres, as the natives, other than Indians and Eskimos, are called, have no other occupation than trapping and hunting in winter, and fishing in summer. Their winter cabins are at the heads of deep bays, in the edge of the forest. In the summer they move to their fishing places farther down the bays or on scattered, barren islands, where they live in rude huts or, sometimes, in tents. They catch cod chiefly, but also, at the mouths of rivers, salmon and trout. All the fish are salted, and, like the furs caught in winter, bartered to traders for tea and flour and pork and other necessities of life. To make the acquaintance of these scattered people, along hundreds of miles of coast, was a big undertaking. And then, too, there were the settlements in the north of Newfoundland, among whose people he was to work. Doctor Grenfell, and his assistants were the only doctors that any of them could call upon. And there were the fishermen of the fleet. The twenty-five thousand or more men, women and children attached to the Newfoundland summer fisheries on The Labrador formed a temporary summer population. He could not hope, of course, in the two or three months they were there, to get on intimate terms with all of them, but he was to meet as many as he could, and renew and increase both his acquaintances and his service of the year before. With the _Princess May_ to visit the sick folk ashore, and the hospital ship _Albert_, which was to serve, in a manner, as a sea ambulance to take serious cases to the new hospitals at Indian Harbor and Battle Harbor, Doctor Grenfell felt that he had made a good start. As already suggested, this was an adventurous voyage. Twice that summer the _Princess May_ went aground on the rocks, and once the _Albert_ was fastened on a reef. Both vessels lost sections of their keels, but otherwise, due to good seamanship, escaped with minor injuries. At every place the Doctor visited he made a record of the people. After the names of the poorer and destitute ones was listed the things of which they were most in need. In one poor little cabin the mother of a large family had, though ill, kept to her duties in and out of the house until she could stand on her feet no longer, and when Doctor Grenfell entered the cabin he found her lying helpless on a rough couch of boards, with scarce enough bed clothing to cover her. Some half-clad children shivered behind a miserable broken stove, which radiated little heat but sent forth much smoke. The haggard and worn out father was walking up and down the chill room with a wee mite of a baby in his arms, while it cried pitifully for food. Like all the family the poor little thing was starving. The mother was suffering with an acute attack of bronchitis and pleurisy. All were suffering from lack of food and clothing. The children were barefooted. One little fellow had no other covering than an old trouser leg drawn over his frail little body. The man's fur hunt had failed the previous winter. Sickness prevented fishing. There was nothing in the house to eat and the family were helpless. Doctor Grenfell came to them none too soon. In every harbor and bay and cove there was enough for Doctor Grenfell to do. His heart and hands were full that summer as they have ever been since. His skill was constantly in demand. Here was some one desperately ill, there a finger or an arm to be amputated, or a more serious operation to be performed. The hospitals were soon filled to overflowing. Doctor Grenfell afloat, and his two assistants with the nurses in the hospitals were busy night and day. The best of it all was many lives were saved. Some who would have been helpless invalids as long as they lived were sent home from the hospitals strong and well and hearty. An instance of this was a girl of fourteen, who had suffered for three years with internal absesses that would eventually have killed her. She was taken to the Battle Harbor Hospital, operated upon, and was soon perfectly well. To this day she is living, a robust contented woman, the mother of a family, and, perchance, a grandmother. Grenfell was happy. Here was something better than jogging over English highways behind a horse and visiting well-to-do grumbling patients. He was out on the sea he loved, meeting adventure in fog and storm and gale. That was better than a gig on a country road. He was helping people to be happy. He prized that far more than the wealth he might have accumulated, or the reputation he might have gained at home, as a famous physician or surgeon. There is no happiness in the world to compare with the happiness that comes with the knowledge that one is making others happy and helping them to better living and contentment. Without knowing it, Grenfell was building a world-fame. If he had known it, he would not have cared a straw. He was working not for fame but for results--for the good he could do others. Nothing else has ever influenced him. Every day he was doing endless good turns without pay or the thought of pay. In this he was serving not only God but his country. And he never neglected his athletics, for it was necessary that he keep his body in the finest physical condition that his brain might always be keen and alert. Grenfell could not have remained a year in the field if he had neglected his body, and he was still an athlete in the pink of condition. IX IN THE DEEP WILDERNESS Imagine, if you will, a vast primeval wilderness spreading away before you for hundreds of miles, uninhabited, grim and solitary. None but wild beasts and the roving Indians that hunt them live there. None but they know the mysteries that lie hidden and guarded by those trackless miles of forests and barren reaches of unexplored country. And so this wilderness has lain since creation, unmarred by the hand of civilized man, clean and unsullied, as God made it. The air, laden with the perfume of spruce and balsam, is pure and wholesome. The water carries no germs from the refuse of man, and one may drink it freely, from river and brook and lake, without fear of contamination. There is no sound to break the silence of ages save the song of river rapids, the thunder of mighty falls, or the whisper or moan of wind in the tree tops; or, perchance, the distant cry of a wolf, the weird laugh of a loon or the honk of the wild goose. There are no roads or beaten trails other than the trails of the caribou, the wild deer that make this their home. The nearest railroad is half a thousand miles away. Automobiles are unknown and would be quite useless here. Great rivers and innumerable emerald lakes render the land impassable for horses. The traveler must make his own trails, and he must depend in summer upon his canoe or boat, and in winter upon his snowshoes and his sledge, hauled by great wolf dogs. With his gun and traps and fishing gear he must glean his living from the wilderness or from the sea. If he would have a shelter he must fell trees with his axe and build it with his own skill. He has little that his own hands and brain do not provide. He must be resourceful and self-reliant. I venture to say there is not a boy living--a real red-blooded boy or red-blooded man either for that matter--who has not dreamed of the day when he might experience the thrill of venturing into such a wilderness as we have described. This was America as the discoverers found it, and as it was before the great explorers and adventurers opened it to civilization. This was Labrador as Grenfell found Labrador, and as it is to-day--the great "silent peninsula of the North." It occupies a large corner of the North American continent, and much of it is still unexplored, a vast, grim, lonely land, but one of majestic grandeur and beauty. [Illustration: "THE DOCTOR ON A WINTER'S JOURNEY"] The hardy pioneers and settlers of Labrador, as we have seen, have made their homes only on the seacoast, leaving the interior to wandering Indian hunters. They do, to be sure, enter the wilderness for short distances in winter when they are following their business as hunters, but none has ever made his home beyond the sound of the sea. In the forests of the south and southeast are the Mountaineer Indians, as they are called by all English speaking people; or, if we wish to put on airs and assume French we may call them the _Montaignais_ Indians. In the North are the Nascaupees, today the most primitive Indians on the North American continent. In the west and southwest are the Crees. All of these Indians are of the great Algonquin family, and are much like those that Natty Bumpo chummed with or fought against, and those who lived in New York and New England when the settlers first came to what are now our eastern states. Labrador is so large, and there are so few Indians to occupy it, however, that the explorer may wander through it for months, as I have done, without ever once seeing the smoke rising from an Indian tepee or hearing a human voice. The Eskimos of the north coast are much like the Eskimos of Greenland, both in language and in the way they live. Their summer shelters are skin tents, which they call _tupeks_. In winter they build dome-shaped houses from blocks of snow, though they sometimes have cave-like shelters of stone and earth built against the side of a hill. The snow houses they call _iglooweuks_, or houses of snow; the stone and earth shelters are _igloosoaks_, or big igloos, the word igloo, in the Eskimo language, meaning house. When winter comes big snow drifts soon cover the igloosoaks, and the snow keeps out the wind and cold. As a further protection, snow tunnels, through which the people crawl on hands and knees, are built out from the entrance to the igloosoak, and these keep all drafts, when a gale blows, from those within. The Eskimos heat their snow igloos, and in treeless regions their igloosoaks also, with lamps of hollowed stone. These lamps are made in the form of a half moon. Seal oil is used as fuel, and a rag, if there is any to be had, or moss, resting upon the straight side of the lamp, does service as the wick. Of course the snow igloos must never be permitted to get so warm that the snow will melt. The temperature in a snow house is therefore kept at about thirty degrees, or a little lower. Nevertheless it is comfortable enough, when the temperature outside is perhaps forty or fifty degrees below zero and quite likely a stiff breeze blowing. Comfort is always a matter of comparison. I have spent a good many nights in snow houses, and was always glad to enjoy the comfort they offered. To the traveler who has been in the open all day, the snow house is a cozy retreat and a snug enough place to rest and sleep in. On the east coast the Eskimos are more civilized and live much like the liveyeres. All Eskimos are kind hearted, hospitable people. Once, I remember, when an Eskimo host noticed that the bottom of my sealskin mocasins had worn through to the stocking, he pulled those he wore off his feet, and insisted upon me wearing them. He had others, to be sure, but they were not so good as those he gave me. No matter how poorly off he is, an Eskimo will feel quite offended if a visitor does not share with him what he has to eat. Though Dr. Grenfell's hospitals are farther south, on the coast where the liveyeres have their cabins, he cruises northward to the Eskimo country of the east coast every summer, and in the summer has nursing stations there. Sometimes, when there is a case demanding it, he brings the sick Eskimos to one of the hospitals. But, generally, the east coast Eskimos are looked after by the Moravian Brethren in their missions, and in summer Dr. Grenfell calls at the missions to give them his medical and surgical assistance. As stated before, the liveyeres and others than the Indians, build their cabins on the coast, usually on the shores of bays, but always by the salt water and where they can hear the sound of the sea. Every man of them is a hunter or a fisherman or both, and the boys grow up with guns in their hands, and pulling at an oar or sailing a boat. They begin as soon as they can walk to learn the ways of the wilderness and of the wild things that live in it, and they are good sailors and know a great deal about the sea and the fish while they are still wee lads. That is to be their profession, and they are preparing for it. The Labrador home of the liveyere usually contains two rooms, but occasionally three, though there are many, especially north of Hamilton Inlet, of but a single room. All have an enclosed lean-to porch at the entrance. This serves not only as a protection from drifting snow in winter, but as a place where stovewood is piled, dog harness and snowshoes are hung, and various articles stored. In the cabin is a large wood-burning stove, the first and most important piece of furniture. There is a home-made table and sometimes a home-made chair or two, though usually chests in which clothing and furs are stored are utilized also as seats. A closet built at one side holds the meager supply of dishes. On a mantelshelf the clock ticks, if the cabin boasts one, and by its side rests a well-thumbed Bible. Bunks, built against the rear of the room, serve as beds. If there is a second room, it supplies additional sleeping quarters, with bunks built against the walls as in the living room. Travelers and visitors carry their own sleeping bags and bedding with them and sleep upon the floor. This is the sort of bed Dr. Grenfell enjoys when sleeping at night in a liveyere's home. On the beams overhead are rifles and shotguns, always within easy reach, for a shot at some game may offer at any time. The side walls of the cabins are papered with old newspapers, or illustrations cut from old magazines. The more thrifty and cleanly scrub floors, tables, doors and all woodwork with soap and sand once a week, until everything is spotlessly clean. But along the coast one comes upon cabins often enough that appear never to have had a cleaning day, and in which the odor of seal oil and fish is heavy. Those of the Newfoundland fishermen that bring their families to the coast live in all sorts of cabins. Some are well built and comfortable, while others are merely sod-covered huts with earthen floor. These are occupied, however, only during the fishing season. The fishermen move into them early in July and begin to leave them early in September. As stated elsewhere, no farming can be done in Labrador, and the only way men can make a living is by hunting and fishing. Eskimos seldom venture far inland on their hunting and trapping expeditions, but some of the liveyeres go fifty or sixty miles from the coast to set their traps, and some of those in Hamilton Inlet go up the Grand River for a distance of more than two hundred and fifty miles, and others go up the Nascaupee River for upwards of a hundred miles. Trapping is all done in winter and it is a lonely and adventurous calling. Early in September, the men who go the greatest distance inland set out for their trapping grounds. Usually two men go together. They build a small log hut called a "tilt," about eight by ten feet in size. Against each of two sides a bunk is made of saplings and covered with spruce or balsam boughs. On the boughs the sleeping bags are spread, and the result is a comfortable bed. The bunks also serve as seats. A little sheet iron stove that weighs, including stovepipe, about eighteen pounds and is easy to transport, heats the tilt, and answers very well for the trapper's simple cooking. The stovepipe, protruding through the roof, serves as a chimney. The main tilt is used as a base of supplies, and here reserve provisions are stored together with accumulations of furs as they are caught. Fat salt pork, flour, baking powder or soda, salt, tea and Barbadoes molasses complete the list of provisions carried into the wilderness from the trading post. Other provisions must be hunted. Each man provides himself with a frying pan, a tin cup, a spoon or two, a tin pail to serve as a tea kettle and sometimes a slightly larger pail for cooking. On his belt he carries a sheath knife, which he uses for cooking, skinning, eating and general utility. He rarely encumbers himself with a fork. For use on the trail each man has a stove similar to the one that heats the tilt, a small cotton tent, and a toboggan. From the base tilt the trapping paths or trails lead out. Each trapper has a path which he has established and which he works alone. He hauls his sleeping bag, provisions and other equipment on his toboggan or, as he calls it, "flat sled." He carries his rifle in his hand and his ax is stowed on the toboggan, for he never knows when a quick shot will get him a pelt or a day's food. Sometimes tilts are built along the path at the end of a day's journey, but if there is no tilt the cotton tent is pitched. In likely places traps are set for marten, mink or fox. Ice prevents trapping for the otter in winter, but they are often shot. At the end of a week or fortnight the partners meet at the base tilt. Otherwise each man is alone, and we may imagine how glad they are to see each other when the meeting time comes. But they cannot be idle. Out through the snow-covered forest, along the shores of frozen lakes and on wide bleak marshes the trapper has one hundred traps at least, and some of them as many as three hundred. The men must keep busy to look after them properly, and so, after a Sunday's rest together they again separate and are away on their snowshoes hauling their toboggans after them. At Christmas time they go back to their homes, down by the sea, to see their wives and children and to make merry for a week. What a meeting that always is! How eagerly the little ones have been looking forward to the day when Daddy would come! O, that blessed Christmas week! But it is only seven days long, and on the second day of January the trappers are away again to their tilts and trails and traps. Again early in March they visit their homes for another week, and then again return to the deep wilderness to remain there until June. Sometimes the father never comes back, and then the wilderness carries in its heart the secret of his end. Then, oh, those hours of happy expectancy that become days of grave anxiety and finally weeks of black despair! Such a case happened once when I was in Labrador. Later they found the young trapper's body where the man had perished, seventy miles from his home. As I have said, the life of the trapper is filled with adventure. Many a narrow escape he has, but he never loses his grit. He cannot afford to. Gilbert Blake was one of four trappers that rescued me several years ago, when I had been on short rations in the wilderness for several weeks, and without food for two weeks. I had eaten my moccasins, my feet were frozen and I was so weak I could not walk. Gilbert and I have been friends since then and we later traveled the wilderness together. Gilbert has no trapping partner. His "path" is a hundred miles inland from his home. All winter, with no other companion than a little dog, he works alone in that lonely wilderness. One winter game was scarce, and Gilbert's provisions were practically exhausted when he set out to strike up his traps preparatory to his visit home in March. He was several miles from his tilt when suddenly one of his snowshoes broke beyond repair. He could not move a step without snowshoes, for the snow lay ten feet deep. He had no skin with him with which to net another snowshoe, even if he were to make the frame; and he had nothing to eat. A Labrador blizzard came on, and Gilbert for three days was held prisoner in his tent. He spent his time trying to make a serviceable snowshoe with netting woven from parts of his clothing torn into strips. When at last the storm ended and he struck his tent he was famished. Packing his things on his toboggan he set out for the tilt, but had gone only a short distance when the improvised snowshoe broke. He made repeated efforts to mend it, but always it broke after a few steps forward. He was in a desperate situation. He had now been nearly three days without eating. He was still several miles from the tilt where he had a scant supply that had been reserved for his journey home. To proceed to the tilt was obviously impossible, and he could only perish by remaining where he was. Utterly exhausted after a fruitless effort to flounder forward, he sat down upon his flatsled, and looked out over the silent snow waste. Weakened with hunger, it seemed to him that he had reached the end of his endurance. So far as he knew there was not another human being within a hundred miles of where he sat, and he had no expectation or slightest hope of any one coming to his assistance. "I was scrammed," said he, which meant, in our vernacular, he was "all in." Gilbert is a fine Christian man, and all the time, as he told me in relating his experience, he had been praying God to show him a way to safety. He never was a coward, and he was not afraid to die, for he had faced death many times before and men of the wilderness become accustomed to the thought that sometime, out there in the silence and alone, the hand of the grim messenger may grasp them. But he was afraid for Mrs. Blake and the four little ones at home. Were he to perish there would be no one to earn a living for them. He was frightened to think of the privations those he loved would suffer. Suddenly, in the distance, he glimpsed two objects moving over the snow. As they came nearer he discovered that they were men. He shouted and waved his arms, and there was an answering signal. Presently two Mountaineer Indians approached, hauling loaded toboggans, laughing and shouting a greeting as they recognized him. "'Twas an answer to my prayers," said Gilbert in relating the incident to me. "I was fair scrammed when I saw them Indians. They were the first Indians I had seen the whole winter. They weren't pretty, but just then they looked to me like angels from heaven, and just as pretty as any angels could look." The Indians had recently made a killing, and their toboggans were loaded with fresh caribou meat. They made Gilbert eat until they nearly killed him with kindness, and they had an extra pair of snowshoes, which they gave him. This is the life of the trapper on The Labrador. This is the sort of man he is--hardy, patient, brave and reverent. He is a man of grit and daring, as he must be to cheerfully meet, with a stout heart and a smile, the constant hardships and adventures that beset him. Dr. Grenfell declares that it is no hardship to devote his life to helping men like this. His work among them brings constant joy to him. They appreciate him, and he has grown to look upon them as all members of his big family. He takes a personal and devoted interest in each. It is a great comfort to the men to know that if any are sick or injured at home while they are away on the trails the mission doctor will do his best to heal them. Before Grenfell went to The Labrador there was no doctor to call upon the whole winter through. The trapping season for fur ends in April. Then the trapper "strikes up" his traps, hangs them in trees where he will find them the following fall, packs his belongings on his toboggan and returns home, unless he is to remain to hunt bear. In that case he must wait for the bears to come forth from their winter's sleep, and this will keep the hunter in the wilderness until after the "break-up" comes and the ice goes out. Those who go far inland usually wait in any case until the ice is out of the streams and boat or canoe traveling is possible and safe. The break-up sets in, usually, early in June. Then come torrential rains. The snow-covered wilderness is transformed into a sea of slush. New brooks rise everywhere and pour down with rush and roar into lakes and rivers. The rivers over-flow their banks. Trees are uprooted and are swept forward on the flood. Broken ice jams and pounds its way through the rapids with sound like thunder. The spring break-up is an inspiring and wonderful spectacle. When the hunting season ends and the trappers return from their winter trails, they enjoy a respite at home mending fishing nets, repairing boats and making things tidy and ship-shape for the summer's fishing. Everyone is now looking forward with keen anticipation to the first run of fish. From the time the ice goes out all one hears along the coast is talk of fish. "Any signs of fish, b'y?" One hears it everywhere, for everybody is asking everybody else that question. In Hamilton Inlet and Sandwich Bay salmon fisheries are of chief importance. Salmon here are all salted down in barrels and not tinned, as on the Pacific coast. Once there was a salmon cannery in Sandwich Bay, but the Hudson's Bay Company bought it and demolished it, as there was doubtless less work and more profit for the Company in salted salmon. Elsewhere the fisheries are mainly for cod. In a frontier land it is not easy to earn a living. Everybody must work hard all the time. Men, women, boys and girls all do their share at the fishing. Women and children help to split and cure the fish. It is a proud day for any lad when he is big enough and strong enough to pull a stroke with the heavy oar, and go out to sea with his father. The Labrador, or Arctic, current now and again keeps ice drifting along the coast the whole summer through. When ice is there fishermen cannot set their nets and fish traps, for the ice would tear the gear and ruin it. Neither can they fish successfully with hook and line when the ice is in. When this happens few fish are caught. Then, too, there are seasons when game and animals move away from certain regions, and then the trapper cannot get them. Perhaps they go farther inland, and too far for him to follow. I have seen times when ptarmigans were so thick men killed them for dog food, and perhaps the next year there would not be a ptarmigan to be found to put into the pot for dinner. I have seen the snow trampled down everywhere in the woods and among the brush by innumerable snowshoe rabbits, and I have seen other years when not a single rabbit track was to be found anywhere. It is the same with caribou and the fur bearing animals as well. In those years when game is scarce the people are hard put to it to get a bit of fresh meat to eat. When no fresh meat is to be had salt fish, bread (rarely with butter) and tea, with molasses as sweetening, is the diet. There is no milk, even for the babies. If all the salt fish has been sold or traded in for flour and tea, bread and tea three times a day is all there is to eat. People cannot keep well on just bread and tea, or even bread and salt fish and tea. It is not hard for us to imagine how we would feel if every meal we had day in and day out was only bread and tea, and sometimes not enough of that. X THE SEAL HUNTER No less perilous is the business of fisherman and sealer than that of hunter and trapper. Every turn a man makes down on The Labrador is likely to carry him into some adventure that will place his life in danger, at sea as on land. But there is no way out of it if a living is to be made. It is a strange fact that one never recognizes a great deal of danger in the life that one is accustomed to living, no matter how perilous it may seem to others. If a Labradorman were to come to any of our towns or cities his heart would be in his mouth at every turn, for a time at least, dodging automobiles and street cars. It would appear to him an exceedingly hazardous existence that we live, and he would long to be back to the peace and quiet and safety of his sea and wilderness. And our streets would be dangerous ground to him, indeed, until he became accustomed to dodging motor cars. He is nimble enough, and on his own ground could put most of us to shame in that respect, but here he is lacking in experience. The same hunter will face the storms and solitude of the wilderness trail without ever once feeling that he is in danger or afraid. He knows how to do it. That is the life that he has been reared to live. The average city man would perish in a day if left alone to care for himself on a trapper's trail. He has never learned the business, and he would not know how to take care of himself. The Labradorman being both hunter and fisherman, is perfectly at home both in the wilderness and on the sea. He has the dangers of both to meet, but he does not recognize them as dangerous callings, though every year some mate or neighbor loses his life. "'Tis the way o' th' Lard." Ice still covers the Labrador harbors in May, and this is when the seal hunt begins, or, as the liveyere says, he goes "swileing." He calls a seal a "swile." With a harpoon attached to a long line he stations himself at a breathing hole in the ice which the seals under the ice have kept open, and out of which, now and again, one raises its nose and fills its lungs with air, for seals are animals, not fish, and must have air to breathe or they will drown. The hole is a small one, but large enough to cast the spear, or harpoon, into. Seals are exceedingly shy animals, and the slightest movement will frighten them away. Therefore the seal hunter must stand perfectly still, like a graven image, with harpoon poised, and that is pretty cold work in zero weather. If luck is with him he will after a time see a small movement in the water, and a moment later a seal's nose will appear. Then like a flash of lightning, he casts the harpoon, and if his aim is good, as it usually is, a seal is fast on the barbs of the harpoon. The harpoon point is attached to a long line, while the harpoon shaft, by an ingenious arrangement, will slip free from the point. Now, while the shaft remains in the hands of the hunter, the line begins running rapidly down through the hole, for the seal in a vain endeavor to free itself dives deeply. The other end of the line also remaining in the hands of the hunter is fastened to the shaft of the harpoon, and there is a struggle. In time, the seal, unable to return to its hole for air, is drowned, and then is hauled out through the hole upon the ice. These north Atlantic seals, having no fine fur like the Pacific seals, are chiefly valuable for their fat. The pelts are, however, of considerable value to the natives. The women tan them and make them into watertight boots or other clothing. Of course a good many of them find their way to civilization, where they are made into pocketbooks and bags, and they make a very fine tough leather indeed. The flesh is utilized for dog food, though, as in the case of young seals particularly, it is often eaten by the people, particularly when other sorts of meat is scarce. Most of the people, and particularly the Eskimos, are fond of the flippers and liver. Sometimes the seals come out of their holes to lie on the ice and bask in the sun. Then the hunter, simulating the movements of a seal, crawls toward his game until he is within rifle shot. Should a gale of wind arise suddenly, the ice may be separated into pans and drift abroad before the seal hunters can make their escape to land. In that case a hunter may be driven to sea on an ice pan, and he is fortunate if his neighbors discover him and rescue him in boats. After the ice goes out, those who own seal nets set them, and a great many seals are caught in this way. At this season the seals frequently are seen sunning themselves on the shore rocks, and the hunters stalk and shoot them. Newfoundlanders carry on their sealing in steamers built for the purpose. They go out to the great ice floe, far out to sea and quite too far for the liveyeres to reach in small craft. Here the seals are found in thousands. These vessels, depending upon the size, bring home a cargo sometimes numbering as many as 20,000 to 30,000 seals in a single ship, and there are about twenty-five ships in the fleet. This terrible slaughter has seriously decreased the numbers. The Labrador Eskimos used to depend upon them largely for their living. They can do this no longer, for not every season, as formerly, are there enough seals to supply needs. All of the five varieties of North Atlantic seals are caught on the coast--harbor, jar, harp, hooded and square flipper. The last named is also called the great bearded seal and sometimes the sealion. The first named is the smallest of all. Scarce a year passes that we do not hear of a serious disaster in the Newfoundland sealing fleet. Sometimes severe snow storms arise when the men are hunting on the floe, and then the men are often lost. Sometimes the ships are crushed in the big floe and go to the bottom. The latest of these disasters was the disappearance of the _Southern Cross_, with a crew of one hundred seventy-five men. One of my good friends, Captain Jacob Kean, used to command the _Virginia Lake_, one of the largest of the sealers. She carried a crew of about two hundred men. A few years before Captain Kean lost his life in one of the awful sea disasters of the coast, he related to me one of his experiences at the sealing. Captain Kean was in luck that year, and found the seals early and in great numbers. The crew had made a good hunt on the floe, and they are loading them with about a third of a cargo aboard when suddenly the ice closed in and the _Virginia Lake_ was "pinched," with the result that a good sized hole was broken in her planking on the port side forward below the water line. The sea rushed in, and it looked for a time as though the vessel would sink, and there were not boats enough to accommodate the crew even if boats could have been used, which was hardly possible under the conditions, for the sea was clogged with heaving ice pans. The pumps were manned, and Captain Kean, and with every man not working the pumps, with feverish haste shifted the cargo to the starboard side and aft. Presently, with the weight shifted, the ship lay over on her starboard side and her bow rose above the water until the crushed planking and the hole were above the water line. The hole now exposed, Captain Kean stuffed it with sea biscuit, or hardtack. Over this he nailed a covering of canvas. Tubs of butter were brought up, and the canvas thoroughly and thickly buttered. This done, a sheathing of planking was spiked on over the buttered canvas. Then the cargo was re-shifted into place, the vessel settled back upon an even keel, and it was found that the leak was healed. The sea biscuit, absorbing moisture, swelled, and this together with the canvas, butter and planking proved effectual. Captain Kean loaded his ship with seals and took her into St. John's harbor safely with a full cargo. The following year the _Virginia Lake_ was again pinched by the ice, but this time was lost. Captain Kean and his crew took refuge on the ice floe, and were fortunately rescued by another sealer. When Captain Kean lost his life a few years later the sealing fleet lost one of its most successful masters. He was a fine Christian gentleman and as able a seaman as ever trod a bridge. But this is the life of the sealer and the fisherman of the northern sees. Terrible storms sometimes sweep down that rugged, barren coast and leave behind them a harvest of wrecked vessels and drowned men and destitute families that have lost their only support. These were the conditions that Grenfell found in Labrador, and this was the breed of men, these hunters and trappers, fishermen and sealers--sturdy, honest, God-fearing folk--with whom Grenfell took up his life. He had elected to share with them the hardships of their desolate land and the perils of their ice-choked sea. They needed him, and to them he offered a service that was Christ-like in its breadth and devotion. It was a peculiar field. No ordinary man could have entered it with hope of success. Mere ability as a physician and surgeon of wide experience was not enough. In addition to this, success demanded that he be a Christian gentleman with high ideals, and freedom from bigotry. Courage, moral as well as physical, was a necessity. Only a man who was himself a fearless and capable navigator could make the rounds of the coast and respond promptly to the hurried and urgent calls to widely separated patients. Constant exposure to hardship and peril demanded a strong body and a level head. Balanced judgment, high executive and administrative ability, deep insight into human character and unbounded sympathy for those who suffered or were in trouble were indispensable characteristics. All of these attributes Grenfell possessed. A short time before Mr. Moody's death, Grenfell met Moody and told him of the inspiration he had received from that sermon, delivered in London many years before by the great evangelist. "What have you been doing since?" asked Moody. What has Grenfell been doing since? He has established hospitals at Battle Harbor, Indian Harbor, Harrington and Northwest River in Labrador, and at St. Anthony in northeastern Newfoundland. He has established schools and nursing stations both in Labrador and Newfoundland. He has built and maintains two orphanages. He founded the Seamen's Institute in St. Johns. Year after year, since that summer's day when the _Albert_ anchored in Domino Run and Grenfell first met the men of the Newfoundland fishing fleet and the liveyeres of the Labrador coast, winter and summer, Grenfell himself and the doctors that assist him have patrolled that long desolate coast giving the best that was in them to the people that lived there. Grenfell has preached the Word, fed the hungry, clothed the naked, sheltered the homeless and righted many wrongs. He has fought disease and poverty, evil and oppression. Hardship, peril and prejudice have fallen to his lot, but he has met them with a courage and determination that never faltered, and he is still "up and at it." Grenfell's life has been a life of service to others. Freely and joyfully he has given himself and all that was in him to the work of making others happier, and the people of the coast love and trust him. With pathetic confidence they lean upon him and call him in their need, as children lean upon their father, and he has never failed to respond. When a man who had lost a leg felt the need for an artificial one, he appealed to Grenfell: Docter plase I whant to see you. Docter sir have you got a leg if you have Will you plase send him Down Praps he may fet and you would oblig. One who wished clothing for his family wrote: To Dr. Gransfield Dear honrabel Sir, I would be pleased to ask you Sir if you would be pleased to give me and my wife a littel poor close. I was going in the Bay to cut some wood. But I am all amost blind and cant Do much so if you would spear me some Sir I would Be very thankful to you Sir. Calls to visit the sick are continuously received. The following are genuine examples: Reverance dr. Grandfell. Dear sir we are expecting you hup and we would like for you to come so quick as you can for my dater is very sick with a very large sore under her left harm we emenangin that the old is two enchis deep and two enches wide plase com as quick as you can to save life I remains yours truely. Docker--Please wel you send me somting for the pain in my feet and what you proismed to send my little boy. Docker I am almost cripple, it is up my hips, I can hardly walk. This is my housban is gaining you this note. doctor--i have a compleant i ham weak with wind on the chest, weakness all over me up in my harm. Dear Dr. Grenfell. I would like for you to Have time to come Down to my House Before you leaves to go to St. Anthony. My little Girl is very Bad. it seems all in Her neck. Cant Ply her Neck forward if do she nearly goes in the fits. i dont know what it is the matter with Her myself. But if you would see Her you would know what the matter with Her. Please send a word by the Bearer what gives you this note and let me know where you will have time to come down to my House, i lives down the Bay a Place called Berry Head. These people are made of the same clay as you and I. They are moved by the same human emotions. They love those who are near and dear to them no less than we love those who are near and dear to us. The same heights or depths of joy and sorrow, hopes and disappointments enter into their lives. In the following chapters let us meet some of them, and travel with Doctor Grenfell as he goes about his work among them. XI UNCLE WILLIE WOLFREY One bitterly cold day in winter our dog team halted before a cabin. We had been hailed as we were passing by the man of the house. He gave us a hearty hand shake and invitation to have "a drop o' tea and a bit to eat," adding, "you'd never ha' been passin' without stoppin' for a cup o' tea to warm you up, whatever." It was early, and we had intended to stop farther on to boil our kettle in the edge of the woods with as little loss of time as possible, but there was no getting away from the hospitality of the liveyere. There were three of us, and we were as hungry as bears, for there is nothing like snowshoe traveling in thirty and forty degrees below zero weather to give one an appetite. As we entered we sniffed a delicious odor of roasting meat, and that one sniff made us glad we had stopped, and made us equally certain we had never before in our lives been so hungry for a good meal. For days we had been subsisting on hardtack and jerked venison, two articles of food that will not freeze for they contain no moisture, and tea; or, when we stopped at a cabin, on bread and tea. The man's wife was already placing plates, cups and saucers on the bare table for us, and two little boys were helping with hungry eagerness. "Hang your adikeys on the pegs there and get warmed up," our host invited. "Dinner's a'most ready. 'Tis a wonderful frosty day to be cruisin'." We did as he directed, and then seated ourselves on chests that he pulled forward for seats. He had many questions to ask concerning the folk to the northward, their health and their luck at the winter's trapping, until, presently, the woman brought forth from the oven and placed upon the table a pan of deliciously browned, smoking meat. "Set in! Set in!" beamed our host. "'Tis fine you comes today and not yesterday," adding as we drew up to the table: "All we'd been havin' to give you yesterday and all th' winter, were bread and tea. Game's been wonderful scarce, and this is the first bit o' meat we has th' whole winter, barrin' a pa'tridge or two in November. But this marnin' I finds a lynx in one o' my traps, and a fine prime skin he has. I'll show un to you after we eats, though he's on the dryin' board and you can't see the fur of he." We bowed our heads while the host asked the blessing. The Labradorman rarely omits the blessing, and often the meal is closed with a final thanks, for men of the wilderness live near to God. He is very near to them and they reverence Him. "Help yourself, sir! Help yourself!" Each of us helped himself sparingly to the cat meat. There was bread, but no butter, and there was hot tea with black molasses for sweetening. "Take more o' th' meat now! Help yourselves! Don't be afraid of un," our hospitable host urged, and we did help ourselves again, for it was good. Whenever we passed within hailing distance of a cabin, we had to stop for a "cup o' hot tea, whatever." Otherwise the people would have felt sorely hurt. We seldom found more elaborate meals than bread, tea and molasses, rarely butter, and of course never any vegetables. We soon discovered that we could not pay the head of the family for our entertainment, but where there were children we left money with the mother with which to buy something for the little ones, which doubtless would be clothing or provisions for the family. If there were no children we left the money on the table or somewhere where it surely would be discovered after our departure. I remember one of this fine breed of men well. I met him on this journey, and he once drove dog team for me--Uncle Willie Wolfrey. Doctor Grenfell says of him: "Uncle Willie isn't a scholar, a social light, or a capitalist magnate, but all the same ten minutes' visit to Uncle Willie Wolfrey is worth five dollars of any man's investment." It requires a lot of physical energy for any man to tramp the trails day after day through a frigid, snow-covered wilderness, and months of it at a stretch. It is a big job for a young and hearty man, and a tremendous one for a man of Uncle Willie's years. And it is a man's job, too, to handle a boat in all weather, in calm and in gale, in clear and in fog, sixteen to twenty hours a day, and the fisherman's day is seldom shorter than that. The fish must be caught when they are there to be caught, and they must be split and salted the day they are caught, and then there's the work of spreading them on the "flakes," and turning them, and piling and covering them when rain threatens. A cataract began to form on Uncle Willie's eyes, and every day he could see just a little less plainly than the day before. The prospects were that he would soon be blind, and without his eyesight he could neither hunt nor fish. But with his growing age and misfortune Uncle Willie was never a whit less cheerful. He had to earn his living and he kept at his work. "'Tis the way of the Lard," said he. "He's blessed me with fine health all my life, and kept the house warm, and we've always had a bit to eat, whatever. The Lard has been wonderful good to us, and I'll never be complainin'." It was never Uncle Willie's way to complain about hard luck. He always did his best, and somehow, no matter how hard a pinch in which he found himself, it always came out right in the end. Finally Uncle Willie's eyesight became so poor that it was difficult for him to see sufficiently to get around, and one day last summer (1921) he stepped off his fish stage where he was at work, and the fall broke his thigh. This happened at the very beginning of the fishing season, and put an end to the summer's fishing for Uncle Willie, and, of course, to all hope of hunting and trapping during last winter. Then Doctor Grenfell happened along with his brave old hospital ship _Strathcona_. Dr. Grenfell has a way of happening along just when people are desperately in need of him. With Dr. Grenfell was Dr. Morlan, a skillful and well-known eye and throat specialist from Chicago. Dr. Morlan was spending his holiday with Dr. Grenfell, helping heal the sick down on The Labrador, giving free his services and his great skill. Dr. Grenfell set and dressed Uncle Willie Wolfrey's broken thigh. Dr. Morlan was to remain but a few days. If he were to help Uncle Willie's eyes there could be no time given for a recovery from the operation on the thigh. Uncle Willie was game for it. They had settled Uncle Willie comfortably at Indian Harbor Hospital, and immediately the thigh was set Dr. Morlan operated upon one of the eyes. The operation was successful, and when the freeze-up came with the beginning of winter, Uncle Willie, hobbling about on crutches and with one good eye was home again in his cabin. Uncle Willie lives in a lonely place, and for many miles north and south he has but one neighbor. The outlook for the winter was dismal indeed. His flour barrel was empty. He had no money. But that stout old heart could not be discouraged or subdued. Uncle Willie was as full of grit as ever he was in his life. He was still a fountain of cheery optimism and hope. He could see with one eye now, and out of that eye the world looked like a pretty good place in which to live, and he was decided to make the best of it. Dr. Grenfell, passing down the coast, called in to see the crippled old fisherman and hunter, and in commenting on that visit he said: "There are certain men it always does one good to meet. Uncle Willie is a channel of blessing. His sincerity and faith do one good. There is always a merry glint in his eye. Even with one eye out, and his crutches on, and his prospect of hunger, Uncle Willie was just the same." Dr. Grenfell left some money, donated by the Doctor's friends, and made other provisions for the comfort of Uncle Willie Wolfrey during the winter. If all goes well he will be at his fishing again, when the ice clears away; and the snows of another winter will see him again on his trapping path setting traps for martens and foxes. And with his rifle and one good eye, who knows but he may knock over a silver fox or a bear or two? Good luck to Uncle Willie Wolfrey and his spirit, which cannot be downed. As Dr. Grenfell has often said, the Labradorman is a fountain of faith and hope and inspiration. If the fishing season is a failure he turns to his winter's trapping with unwavering faith that it will yield him well. If his trapping fails his hope and faith are none the less when he sets out in the spring to hunt seals. Seals may be scarce and the reward poor, but never mind! The summer fishing is at hand, and _this_ year it will certainly bring a good catch! "The Lard be wonderful good to us, _what_ever." XII A DOZEN FOX TRAPS On that same voyage along the coast when Uncle Willie Wolfrey was found with a broken thigh, Dr. Grenfell, after he had operated upon Uncle Willie, in the course of his voyage, stopping at many harbors to give medical assistance to the needy ones, ran in one day to Kaipokok Bay, at Turnavik Islands. As the vessel dropped her anchor he observed a man sitting on the rocks eagerly watching the ship. The jolly boat was launched, and as it approached the land the man arose and coming down to the water's edge, shouted: "Be that you, Doctor?" "Yes, Uncle Tom, it is I?" the Doctor shouted back, for he had already recognized Uncle Tom, one of the fine old men of the coast. When Grenfell stepped ashore and took Uncle Tom's hand in a hearty grasp, the old man broke down and cried like a child. Uncle Tom was evidently in keen distress. "Oh, Doctor, I'm so glad you comes. I were lookin' for you, Doctor," said the old man in a voice broken by emotion. "I were watchin' and watchin' out here on the rocks, not knowin' whether you'd be comin' this way, but hopin', and prayin' the Lard to send you. He sends you, Doctor. 'Twere the Lard sends you when I'm needin' you, sir, sorely needin' you." Uncle Tom is seventy years of age. He was born and bred on The Labrador, but he has not spent all his life there. In his younger days he shipped as a sailor, and as a seaman saw many parts of the world. But long ago he returned to his home to settle down as a fisherman and a trapper. When the war came, the brave old soul, stirred by patriotism, paid his own passage and expenses on the mail boat to St. Johns, and offered to volunteer for service. Of course he was too old and was rejected because of his age. Uncle Tom, his patriotism not in the least dampened, returned to his Labrador home and divided all the fur of his winter's hunt into two equal piles. To one pile he added a ten dollar bill, and that pile, with the ten dollars added, he shipped at once to the "Patriotic Fund" in St. Johns. He had offered himself, and they would not take him, and this was all he could do to help win the war, and he did it freely and wistfully, out of his noble, generous patriotic soul. "What is the trouble, Uncle Tom?" asked Grenfell, when Uncle Tom had to some extent regained his composure, and the old man told his story. He was in hard luck. Late the previous fall (1920) or early in the winter he had met with a severe accident that had resulted in several broken ribs. Navigation had closed, and he was cut off from all surgical assistance, and his broken ribs had never had attention and had not healed. He could scarcely draw a breath without pain, or even rest without pain at night, and he could not go to his trapping path. He depended upon his winter's hunt mainly for support, and with no fur to sell he was, for the first time in his life, compelled to contract a debt. Then, suddenly, the trader with whom he dealt discontinued giving credit. Uncle Tom was stranded high and dry, and when the fishing season came he had no outfit or means of purchasing one, and could not go fishing. Besides his wife there were six children in Uncle Tom's family, though none of them was his own or related to him. When the "flu" came to the coast in 1918, and one out of every five of the people around Turnavik Islands died, several little ones were left homeless and orphans. The generous hearts of Uncle Tom and his wife opened to them and they took these six children into their home as their own. And so it happened that Uncle Tom had, and still has, a large family depending upon him. "As we neared the cottage," said Doctor Grenfell, "his good wife, beaming from head to foot as usual, came out to greet us. Optimist to the last ditch, she _knew_ that somehow provision would be made. She, too, had had her troubles, for twice she had been operated on at Indian Harbor for cancer." Uncle Tom must have suffered severely during all those months that he had lived with his broken ribs uncared for. Now Dr. Grenfell, without loss of time, strapped them up good and tight. Mrs. Grenfell supplied the six youngsters with a fine outfit of good warm clothes, and when Dr. Grenfell sailed out of Kaipokok Bay Uncle Tom and Mrs. Tom had no further cause for worry concerning the source from which provisions would come for themselves and the six orphans they had adopted. These are but a few incidents in the life of the people to whom Dr. Grenfell is devoting his skill and his sympathy year in and year out. I could relate enough of them to fill a dozen volumes like this, but space is limited. There is always hardship and always will be in a frontier land like Labrador, and Labrador north of Cape Charles is the most primitive of frontier lands. Dr. Grenfell and his helpers find plenty to do in addition to giving out medicines and dressing wounds. A little boost sometimes puts a family on its feet, raising it from abject poverty to independence and self-respect. Just a little momentum to push them over the line. Grenfell knows how to do this. Several years ago Dr. Grenfell anchored his vessel in Big Bight, and went ashore to visit David Long. David had had a hard winter, and among other kindnesses to the family, Dr. Grenfell presented David's two oldest boys, lads of fifteen or sixteen or thereabouts, with a dozen steel fox traps. Lack of traps had prevented the boys taking part in trapping during the previous winter. The next year after giving the boys the traps, Grenfell again cast anchor in Big Bight, and, as usual, rowed ashore to visit the Longs. There was great excitement in their joyous greeting. Something important had happened. There was no doubt of that! David and Mrs. Long and the two lads and all the little Longs were exuding mystery, but particularly the two lads. Whatever this mysterious secret was they could scarce keep it until they had led Dr. Grenfell into the cabin, and he was comfortably seated. Then, with vast importance and some show of deliberate dignity, David opened a chest. From its depths he drew forth a pelt. Dr. Grenfell watched with interest while David shook it to make the fur stand out to best advantage, and then held up to his admiring gaze the skin of a beautiful silver fox! The lads had caught it in one of the dozen traps he had given them. "We keeps un for you," announced David exultantly. "It's a prime one, too!" exclaimed the Doctor, duly impressed, as he examined it. "She _be_ that," emphasized David proudly. "No finer were caught on the coast the winter." "It was a good winter's work," said the Doctor. "'Twere _that_ now! 'Twere a _wonder_ful good winter's work--just t'cotch that un!" enthused Mrs. Long. "What are you going to do with it?" asked Doctor Grenfell. "We keeps un for you," said David. "The time was th' winter when we has ne'er a bit o' grub but what we hunts, all of our flour and molasses gone. But we don't take _he_ to the trade, _what_ever. We keeps _he_ for you." Out on a coast island Captain William Bartlett, of Brigus, Newfoundland, kept a fishing station and a supply store. Captain Will is a famous Arctic navigator. He is one of the best known and most successful masters of the great sealing fleet. He is also a cod fisherman of renown and he is the father of Captain "Bob" Bartlett, master of explorer Peary's _Roosevelt_, and it was under Captain Will Bartlett's instruction that Captain "Bob" learned seamanship and navigation. Captain William Bartlett is as fine a man as ever trod a deck. He is just and honest to a degree, and he has a big generous heart. Doctor Grenfell accepted the silver fox pelt, and as he steamed down the coast he ran his vessel in at Captain Bartlett's station. He had confidence in Captain Bartlett. "Here's a silver fox skin that belongs to David Long's lads," said he, depositing the pelt on the counter. "I wish you'd take it, and do the best you can for David, Captain Will. I'll leave it with you." Captain Bartlett shook the pelt out, and admired its lustrous beauty. "It's a good one! David's lads were in luck when they caught _that_ fellow. I'll do the best I can with it," he promised. "They'll take the pay in provisions and other necessaries," suggested Grenfell. "All right," agreed Captain Will. "I'll send the goods over to them." On his way to the southward a month later Doctor Grenfell again cast anchor at Big Bight. David Long and Mrs. Long, the two big lads, and all the little Longs, were as beaming and happy as any family could be in the whole wide world. Captain Bartlett's vessel had run in at Big Bight one day, and paid for the silver fox pelt in merchandise. The cabin was literally packed with provisions. The family were well clothed. There was enough and to spare to keep them in affluence, as affluence goes down on The Labrador, for a whole year and longer. Need and poverty were vanished. Captain Will had, indeed, done well with the silver fox pelt. These are stories of life on The Labrador as Doctor Grenfell found it. From the day he reached the coast and every day since his heart has ached with the troubles and poverty existing among the liveyeres. He has been thrilled again and again by incidents of heroic struggle and sacrifice among them. He has done a vast deal to make them more comfortable and happy, as in the case of David Long. Still, in spite of it all, there are cases of desperate poverty and suffering there, and doubtless will always be. In every city and town and village of our great and prosperous country people throw away clothing and many things that would help to make the lives of the Longs and the hundreds of other liveyeres of the coast who are toiling for bare existence easier to endure. Enough is wasted every year, indeed, in any one of our cities to make the whole population of Labrador happy and comfortable. And there's the pity. If Grenfell could _only_ be given _some_ of this waste to take to them! From the beginning this thought troubled Doctor Grenfell. And in winter when the ice shuts the whole coast off from the rest of the world, he turned his attention to efforts to secure the help of good people the world over in his work. Making others happy is the greatest happiness that any one can experience, and Grenfell wished others to share his happiness with him. Nearly every winter for many years he has lectured in the United States and Canada and Great Britain with this in view. The Grenfell Association was organized with headquarters in New York, where money and donations of clothing and other necessaries might be sent.[B] As we shall see, many great things have been accomplished by Doctor Grenfell and this Association, organized by his friends several years ago. Every year a great many boxes and barrels of clothing go to him down on The Labrador, filled with good things for the needy ones. Boys and girls, as well as men and women, send warm things for winter. Not only clothing, but now and again toys for the Wee Tots find their way into the boxes. Just like other children the world over, the Wee Tots of The Labrador like toys to play with and they are made joyous with toys discarded by the over-supplied youngsters of our land. Of course there are foolish people who send useless things too. Scattered through the boxes are now and again found evening clothes for men and women, silk top hats, flimsy little women's bonnets, dancing pumps, and even crepe-de-chene nighties. These serve as playthings for the grown-ups, many of whom, especially the Indians and Eskimos, are quite childlike with gimcracks. I recall once seeing an Eskimo parading around on a warm day in the glory of a full dress coat and silk hat, the coat drawn on over his ordinary clothing. He was the envy of his friends. While Grenfell dispensed medical and surgical treatment, and at the same time did what he could for the needy, he also turned his attention to an attack upon the truck system. This system of barter was responsible for the depths of poverty in which he found the liveyeres. He was mightily wrought up against it, as well he might have been, and still is, and he laid plans at once to relieve the liveyeres and northern Newfoundlanders from its grip. This was a great undertaking. It was a stroke for freedom, for the truck system, as we have seen, is simply a species of slavery. He realized that in attacking it he was to create powerful enemies who would do their utmost to injure him and interfere with his work. Some of these men he knew would go to any length to drive him off The Labrador. It required courage, but Grenfell was never lacking in courage. He rolled up his sleeves and went at it. He always did things openly and fearlessly, first satisfying himself he was right. FOOTNOTES: [B] The address of the Grenfell Association is 156 Fifth Avenue, New York. XIII SKIPPER TOM'S COD TRAP Skipper Tom lived, and for aught I know still lives, at Red Bay, a little settlement on the Straits of Belle Isle, some sixty miles to the westward of Battle Harbor. Along the southern coast of Labrador the cabins are much closer together than on the east coast, and there are some small settlements in the bays and harbors, with snug little painted cottages. Red Bay, where Skipper Tom lived, is one of these settlements. It boasts a neat little Methodist chapel, built by the fishermen and trappers from lumber cut in the near-by forest, and laboriously sawn into boards with the pit saw. Skipper Tom lived in one of the snuggest and coziest of the cottages. I remember the cottage and I remember Skipper Tom well. I happened into the settlement one evening directly ahead of a winter blizzard, and Skipper Tom and his good family opened their little home to me and sheltered me with a hospitable cordial welcome for three days, until the weather cleared and the dogs could travel again and I pushed forward on my journey. Skipper Tom stood an inch or two above six feet in his moccasins. He was a broad-shouldered, strong-limbed man of the wilderness and the sea. His face was kindly and gentle, but at the same time reflected firmness, strength and thoughtfulness. When he spoke you were sure to listen, for there was always the conviction that he was about to utter some word of wisdom, or tell you something of importance. The moment you looked at him and heard his voice you said to yourself: "Here is a man upon whom I can rely and in whom I can place absolute confidence." If Skipper Tom promised to do anything, he did it, unless Providence intervened. If he said he would not do a thing, he would not do it, and you could depend on it. He was a man of his word. That was Skipper Tom--big, straight spoken, and as square as any man that ever lived. That is what his neighbors said of him, and that is the way Doctor Grenfell found him. Now and again the Methodist missionary visited Red Bay in his circuit of the settlements, and when he came he made his headquarters in the home of Skipper Tom. On the occasion of these visits he conducted services in the chapel on Sunday, and on week days visited every home in Red Bay. Skipper Tom was class leader, and looked after the religious welfare of the little community, presiding over his class in the chapel, on the great majority of Sundays, when the missionary was engaged elsewhere. The people looked up to Skipper Tom. The folk of Red Bay, like most people who live much in the open and close to nature, have a deep religious reverence and a wholesome fear of God. As their class leader Skipper Tom guided them in their worship, and they looked upon him as an example of upright living. So it was that he had a great burden of responsibility, with the morals of the community thrust upon him. In one respect Skipper Tom was fortunate. He did not inherit a debt, and all his life he had kept free from the truck system under which his neighbors toiled hopelessly, year in and year out. He had, in one way or another, picked up enough education to read and write and figure. He could read and interpret his Bible and he could calculate his accounts. He knew that two times two make four. If he sold two hundred quintals[C] of fish at $2.25 a quintal, he knew that $450.00 were due him. No trader had a mortgage upon the product of _his_ labor, as they had upon that of his neighbors, and he was free to sell his fur and fish to whoever would pay him the highest price. To be sure there were seasons when Skipper Tom was hard put to it to make ends meet, and a scant diet and a good many hardships fell to his lot and to the lot of his family. And when he had enough and his neighbors were in need, he denied himself to see others through, and even pinched himself to do it. But he saved bit by bit until, at the age of forty-five, he was able to purchase a cod trap, which was valued at about $400.00. The purchase of this cod trap had been the ambition of his life and we can imagine his joy when finally the day came that brought it to him. It made more certain his catch of cod, and therefore lessened the possibility of winters of privation. It is interesting to know how the fishermen of The Labrador catch cod. It may be worth while also to explain that when the Labradorman or Newfoundlander speaks of "fish" he means cod in his vocabulary. A trout is a trout, a salmon is a salmon and a caplin is a caplin, but a cod is a fish. He never thinks of anything as fish but cod. Early in the season, directly the ice breaks up, a little fish called the caplin, which is about the size of a smelt, runs inshore in great schools of countless millions, to spawn. I have seen them lying in windrows along the shore where the receding tide had left them high and dry upon the land. This is a great time for the dogs, which feast upon them and grow fat. It is a great time also for the cod, which feed on the caplin, and for the fishermen who catch the cod. Cod follow the caplin schools, and this is the season when the fisherman, if he is so fortunate as to own a trap, reaps his greatest harvest. The trap is a net with four sides and a bottom, but no top. It is like a great room without a ceiling. On one side is a door or opening. The trap is submerged a hundred yards or so from shore, at a point where the caplin, with the cod at their heels, are likely to run in. A net attached to the trap at the center of the door is stretched to the nearest shore. Like a flock of geese that follows the old gander cod follow their leaders. When the leaders pilot the school in close to shore in pursuit of the caplin, they encounter the obstructing net, then follow along its side with the purpose of going around it. This leads them into the trap. Once into the trap they remain there until the fishermen haul their catch. The fisherman who owns no trap must rely upon the hook and line. Though sometimes hook and line fishermen meet with good fortune, the results are much less certain than with the traps and the work much slower and vastly more difficult. When the water is not too deep jigging with unbaited hooks proves successful when fish are plentiful. Two large hooks fastened back to back, with lead to act as a sinker, serve the purpose. This double hook at the end of the line is dropped over the side of the boat and lowered until it touches bottom. Then it is raised about three feet, and from this point "jigged," or raised and lowered continuously until taken by a cod. [Illustration: "THE TRAP IS SUBMERGED A HUNDRED YARDS OR SO FROM SHORE"] In deep water, however, bait is necessary and the squid is a favorite bait. A squid is a baby octopus, or "devil fish." The squid is caught by jigging up and down a lead weight filled with wire spikes and painted bright red. It seizes the weight with its tentacles. When raised into the boat it releases its hold and squirts a small stream of black inky fluid. In the water, when attacked, this inky fluid discolors the water and screens it from its enemy. The octopus grows to immense size, with many long arms. Two Newfoundlanders were once fishing in an open boat, when an octopus attacked the boat, reaching for it with two enormous arms, with the purpose of dragging it down. One of the fishermen seized an ax that lay handy in the boat and chopped the arms off. The octopus sank and all the sea about was made black with its screen of ink. The sections of arms cut off were nineteen feet in length. They are still on exhibition in the St. Johns Museum, where I have seen them many times. Shortly afterward a dead octopus was found, measuring, with tentacles spread, forty feet over all. It was not, however, the same octopus which attacked the fishermen, for that must have been much larger. We can understand, then, how much Skipper Tom's cod trap meant to him. We can visualize his pleasure, and share his joy. The trap was, to a large extent, insurance against privation and hardship. It was his reward for the self-denial of himself and his family for years, and represented his life's savings. When at last the ice cleared from his fishing place and the trap was set, there was no prouder or happier man on The Labrador than Skipper Tom. The trap was in the water when the _Princess May_, one Saturday afternoon, steamed into Red Bay and Doctor Grenfell accepted the hospitable invitation of Skipper Tom to spend the night at his home. It was still early in the season and icebergs were plentiful enough, as, indeed, they are the whole summer long. They are always a menace to cod traps, for should a berg drift against a trap, that will be the end of the trap forever. Fishermen watch their traps closely, and if an iceberg comes so near as to threaten it the trap must be removed to save it. A little lack of watchfulness leads to ruin. "The trap's well set," said Skipper Tom, when Doctor Grenfell inquired concerning it. "The ice is keepin' clear, but I watches close." "What are the signs of fish?" asked the Doctor. "Fine!" said Skipper Tom. "The signs be _wonderful_ fine." "I hope you'll have a big year." "There's a promise of un," Skipper Tom grinned happily. "The trap's sure to do fine for us." But nobody knows from one day to another what will happen on The Labrador. According to habit Skipper Tom was up bright and early on Sunday morning and went for a look at the trap. When presently he returned to join Doctor Grenfell at breakfast he was plainly worried. "There's a berg driftin' down on the trap. We'll have to take her in," he announced. "But 'tis Sunday," exclaimed his wife. "You'll never be workin' on Sunday." "Aye, 'tis Sunday and 'tis against my principles to fish on the Sabbath day. I never did before, but 'tis to save our cod trap now. The lads and I'll not fish. We'll just haul the trap." "The Lard'll forgive _that, what_ever," agreed his wife. Skipper Tom went out when he had eaten, but it was not long until he returned. "I'm not goin' to haul the trap today," he said quietly and decisively. "There are those in this harbor," he added, turning to Doctor Grenfell, "who would say, if I hauled that trap, that 'twould be no worse for them to fish on Sunday than for me to haul my trap. Then they'd go fishin' Sundays the same as other days, and none of un would keep Sunday any more as a day of rest, as the Lard intends us to keep un, and has told us in His own words we must keep un. I'll not haul the trap this day, though 'tis sore hard to lose un." For a principle, and because he was well aware of his influence upon the folk of the settlement, Skipper Tom had made his decision to sacrifice his cod trap and the earnings of his lifetime. His conscience told him it would be wrong to do a thing that might lead others to do wrong. When our conscience tells us it is wrong to do a thing, it is wrong for us to do it. Conscience is the voice of God. If we disobey our conscience God will soon cease to speak to us through it. That is the way every criminal in the world began his downward career. He disobeyed his conscience, and continued to disobey it until he no longer heard it. Skipper Tom never disobeyed his conscience. Now the temptation was strong. His whole life's savings were threatened to be swept away. There was still time to save the trap. But Skipper Tom was strong. He turned his back upon the cod trap and the iceberg and temptation, and as he and Doctor Grenfell climbed the hill to the chapel he greeted his neighbors calmly and cheerily. Every eye in Red Bay was on Skipper Tom that day. Every person knew of the cod trap and its danger, and all that it meant to Skipper Tom, and the temptation Skipper Tom was facing; but from all outward appearance he had dismissed the cod trap and the iceberg from his mind. When dusk fell that night the iceberg was almost upon the cod trap. FOOTNOTES: [C] Pronounced kentel in Labrador; 112 pounds. XIV THE SAVING OF RED BAY At an early hour on Sunday evening Skipper Tom went to his bed as usual, and it is quite probable that within a period of ten minutes after his head rested upon his pillow he was sleeping peacefully. There was nothing else to do. He had no doubt that his cod trap was lying under the iceberg a hopeless wreck. Well, what of it? In any case he had acted as his conscience had him act. He knew that there were those who would say that his conscience was over-sensitive. Perhaps it was, but it was _his_ conscience, not theirs. He was class leader in the chapel. He never forgot that. And he was the leading citizen of the settlement. At whatever cost, he must needs prove a good example to his neighbors in his deeds. Worry would not help the case in the least. Too much of it would incapacitate him. He had lived forty-four years without a cod trap, and he had not starved, and he could finish his days without one. "The Lard'll take care of us," Skipper Tom often said when they were in a tight pinch, but he always added, "if we does our best to make the best of things and look after ourselves and the things the Lard gives us to do with. He calls on us to do that." Though Skipper Tom could scarce see how his trap might have escaped destruction he had no intention of resting upon that supposition and perhaps he still entertained a lingering hope that it had escaped. There is no doubt he prayed for its preservation, and he had strong faith in prayer. At any rate, at half past eleven o'clock that night he was up and dressed, and routed his two sons out of their beds. At the stroke of midnight, waiting a tick longer perhaps, to be quite sure that Sunday had gone and Monday morning had arrived, he and his sons pushed out in their big boat. Skipper Tom would not be doing his best if he did not make certain of what had actually happened to the cod trap. Every one in Red Bay said it had been destroyed, and no doubt of that. But no one knew for a certainty, and there _might_ have been an intervention of Divine Providence. "The Lard helped us to get that trap," said Skipper Tom, "and 'tis hard to believe he'll take un away from us so soon, for I tried not to be vain about un, only just a bit proud of un and glad I has un. If He's took un from me I'll know 'twere to try my faith, and I'll never complain." Down they rowed toward the iceberg, whose polished surface gleamed white in the starlight. "She's right over where the trap were set! The trap's gone," said one of the sons. "I'm doubtin'," Skipper Tom was measuring the distance critically with his eye. "The trap's tore to pieces," insisted the son with discouragement in his voice. "The berg's to the lee'ard of she," declared Skipper Tom finally. "Tis too close t' shore." "'Tis to the lee'ard!" "Is you sure, now, Pop?" "The trap's safe and sound! The berg _is_ t' the lee'ard!" Tom was right. A shift of tide had come at the right moment to save the trap. "The Lard is good to us," breathed Skipper Tom. "He've saved our trap! He always takes care of them that does what they feels is right. We'll thank the Lard, lads." In the trap was a fine haul of cod, and when they had removed the fish the trap was transferred to a new position where it would be quite safe until the menacing iceberg had drifted away. There were seventeen families living in Red Bay. As settlements go, down on The Labrador, seventeen cabins, each housing a family, is deemed a pretty good sized place. At Red Bay, as elsewhere on the coast, bad seasons for fishing came now and again. These occur when the ice holds inshore so long that the best run of cod has passed before the men can get at them; or because for some unexplained reason the cod do not appear at all along certain sections of the coast. When two bad seasons come in succession, starvation looms on the horizon. Seasons when the ice held in, Skipper Tom could not set his cod trap. When this happened he was as badly off as any of his neighbors. In a season when there were no fish to catch, it goes without saying that his trap brought him no harvest. Fishing and trapping is a gamble at best, and Skipper Tom, like his neighbors, had to take his chance, and sometimes lost. If he accumulated anything in the good seasons, he used his accumulation to assist the needy ones when the bad seasons came, and, in the end, though he kept out of debt, he could not get ahead, try as he would. The seasons of 1904 and 1905 were both poor seasons, and when, in the fall of 1905, Doctor Grenfell's vessel anchored in Red Bay Harbor he found that several of the seventeen families had packed their belongings and were expectantly awaiting his arrival in the hope that he would take them to some place where they might find better opportunities. They were destitute and desperate. There was nowhere to take them where their condition would be better. Grenfell, already aware of their desperate poverty, had been giving the problem much consideration. The truck system was directly responsible for the conditions at Red Bay and for similar conditions at every other harbor along the coast. Something had to be done, and done at once. With the assistance of Skipper Tom and one or two others, Doctor Grenfell called a meeting of the people of the settlement that evening, to talk the matter over. The men and women were despondent and discouraged, but nearly all of them believed they could get on well enough if they could sell their fish and fur at a fair valuation, and could buy their supplies at reasonable prices. All of them declared they could no longer subsist at Red Bay upon the restricted outfits allowed them by the traders, which amounted to little or nothing when the fishing failed. They preferred to go somewhere else and try their luck where perhaps the traders would be more liberal. If they remained at Red Bay under the old conditions they would all starve, and they might as well starve somewhere else. Doctor Grenfell then suggested his plan. It was this. They would form a company. They would open a store for themselves. Through the store their furs and fish would be sent to market and they would get just as big a price for their products as the traders got. They would buy the store supplies at wholesale just as cheaply as the traders could buy them. They would elect one of their number, who could keep accounts, to be storekeeper. They would buy the things they needed from the store at a reasonable price, and at the end of the year each would be credited with his share of the profits. In other words, they would organize a co-operative store and trading system and be their own traders and storekeepers. This meant breaking off from the traders with whom they had always dealt and all hope of ever securing advance of supplies from them again. It was a hazardous venture for the fishermen to make. They did not understand business, but they were desperate and ready for any chance that offered relief, and in the end they decided to do as Doctor Grenfell suggested. Each man was to have a certain number of shares of stock in the new enterprise. The store would be supplied at once, and each family would be able to get from it what was needed to live upon during the winter. Any fish they might have on hand would be turned over to the store, credited as cash, and sent to market at once, in a schooner to be chartered for the purpose and this schooner would bring back to Red Bay the winter's supplies. A canvass then was made with the result that among the seventeen families the entire assets available for purchasing supplies amounted to but eighty-five dollars. This was little better than nothing. Doctor Grenfell had faith in Skipper Tom and the others. They were honest and hard-working folk. He knew that all they required was an opportunity to make good. He was determined to give them the opportunity, and he announced, without hesitation, that he would personally lend them enough to pay for the first cargo and establish the enterprise. Can any one wonder that the people love Grenfell? He was the one man in the whole world that would have done this, or who had the courage to do it. He knew well enough that he was calling down upon his own head the wrath of the traders. The schooner was chartered, the store was stocked and opened, and there was enough to keep the people well-fed, well-clothed, happy and comfortable through the first year. In the beginning there were some of the men who were actually afraid to have it known they were interested in the store, such was the fear with which the traders had ruled them. They were so timid, indeed, about the whole matter that they requested no sign designating the building as a store be placed upon it. That, they declared, would make the traders angry, and no one knew to what lengths these former slaveholders might go to have revenge upon them. It is no easy matter to shake oneself free from the traditions of generations and it was hard for these trappers and fishermen to realize that they were freed from their ancient bondage. But Doctor Grenfell fears no man, and, with his usual aggressiveness, he nailed upon the front of the store a big sign, reading: RED BAY CO-OPERATIVE STORE. It was during the winter of 1905-1906 and ten years after the launching of the enterprise and the opening of the store, that I drove into Red Bay with a train of dogs one cold afternoon. Skipper Tom was my host, and after we had a cheery cup of tea, he said: "Come out. I wants to show you something." He led me a little way down from his cottage to the store, and pointing up at the big bold sign, which Grenfell had nailed there, he announced proudly: "'Tis _our_ co-operative store, the first on the whole coast. Doctor Grenfell starts un for us." Then after a pause: "Doctor Grenfell be a wonderful man! He be a man of God." As expected, there was a furore among the little traders when the news was spread that a co-operative store had been opened in Red Bay. The big Newfoundland traders and merchants were heartily in favor of it, and even stood ready to give the experiment their support. But the little traders who had dealt with the Red Bay settlement for so long, and had bled the people and grown fat upon their labors, were bitterly hostile. They began a campaign of defamation against Doctor Grenfell and his whole field of work. They questioned his honesty, and criticised the conduct of his hospitals. They even enlisted the support of a Newfoundland paper in their opposition to him. They did everything in their power to drive him from the coast, so that they would have the field again in their own greedy hands. It was a dastardly exhibition of selfishness, but there are people in the world who will sell their own souls for profit. Grenfell went on about his business of making people happier. He was in the right. If the traders would fight he would give it to them. He was never a quitter. He was the same Grenfell that beat up the big boy at school, years before. He was going to have his way about it, and do what he went to Labrador to do. He was going to do more. He was determined now to improve the trading conditions of the people of Labrador and northern Newfoundland, as well as to heal their sick. From the day the co-operative store was opened in Red Bay not one fish and not one pelt of fur has ever gone to market from that harbor through a trader. The store has handled everything and it has prospered and the people have prospered beyond all expectation. Every one at Red Bay lives comfortably now. The debt to Doctor Grenfell was long since paid and cancelled. And it is characteristic of him that he would not accept one cent of interest. Shares of stock in the store, originally issued at five dollars a share, are now worth one hundred and four dollars a share, the difference being represented by profits that have not been withdrawn. Every share is owned by the people of the prosperous little settlement. Up and down the Labrador coast and in northern Newfoundland nine co-operative stores have been established by Doctor Grenfell since that autumn evening when he met the Red Bay folk in conference and they voted to stake their all, even their life, in the venture that proved so successful. Two or three of the stores had to discontinue because the people in the localities where they were placed lived so far apart that there were not enough of them to make a store successful. Every one of these stores was a great venture to the people who cast their lot with it. True they had little in money, but the stake of their venture was literally in each case their life. The man who never ventures never succeeds. Opportunity often comes to us in the form of a venture. Sometimes, it is a desperate venture too. Doctor Grenfell had to fight the traders all along the line. They even had the Government of Newfoundland appoint a Commission to inquire into the operation of the Missions as a "menace to honest trade." A menace to honest trade! Think of it! The result of the investigation proved that Grenfell and his mission was doing a big self-sacrificing work, and the finest kind of work to help the poor folk, and were doing it at a great cost and at no profit to the mission. So down went the traders in defeat. The fellow that's right is the fellow that wins in the end. The fellow that's wrong is the fellow that is going to get the worst of it at the proper time. Grenfell only tried to help others. He never reaped a penny of personal gain. He always came out on top. It's a good thing to be a scrapper sometimes, but if you're a scrapper be a good one. Grenfell is a scrapper when it is necessary, and when he has to scrap he goes at it with the best that's in him. He never does things half way. He never was a quitter. When he starts out to do anything he does it. XV A LAD OF THE NORTH The needs of the children attracted Dr. Grenfell's attention from the beginning. A great many of them were neglected because the parents were too poor to provide for them properly. Those who were orphaned were thrown upon the care of their neighbors, and though the neighbors were willing they were usually too poor to take upon themselves this added burden. There were no schools save those conducted by the Brethren of the Moravian missions among the Eskimos to the northward, and these were Eskimo schools where the people were taught to read and write in their own strange language, and to keep their accounts. But for the English speaking folk south of the Eskimo coast no provision for schools had ever been made. The hospitals were overflowing with the sick or injured, and there was no room for children, unless they were in need of medical or surgical attention. There was great need of a home for the orphans where they would be cared for and receive motherly training and attention and could go to school. Dr. Grenfell had thought about this a great deal. He had made the best arrangements possible for the actually destitute little ones by finding more or less comfortable homes for them, and seeking contributions from generous folk in the United States, Canada and Great Britain to pay for their expense. But it was not, perhaps, until Pomiuk, a little Eskimo boy, came under his care that he finally decided that the establishment of a children's home could no longer be delayed. Pomiuk's home was in the far north of Labrador, where no trees grow, and where the seasons are quite as frigid as those of northern Greenland. In summer he lived with his father and mother in a skin tent, or tupek, and in winter in a snow igloo, or iglooweuk. Pomiuk's mother cooked the food over the usual stone lamp, which also served to heat their igloo in winter. This lamp, which was referred to in an earlier chapter, and described as a hollowed stone in the form of a half moon, was an exceedingly crude affair, measuring eighteen inches long on its straight side and nine inches broad at its widest part. When it was filled with oil squeezed from a piece of seal blubber, the blubber was suspended over it at the back that the heat, when the wick of moss was lighted, would cause the blubber oil to continue to drip and keep the lamp supplied with oil. The lamp gave forth a smoky, yellow flame. This was the only fireside that little Pomiuk knew. You and I would not think it a very cheerful one, perhaps, but Pomiuk was accustomed to cold and he looked upon it as quite comfortable and cheerful enough. Ka-i-a-chou-ouk, Pomiuk's father, was a hunter and fisherman, as are all the Eskimos. He moved his tupek in summer, or built his igloo of blocks of snow in winter, wherever hunting and fishing were the best, but always close to the sea. Here, under the shadow of mighty cliffs and towering, rugged mountains, by the side of the great water, Pomiuk was born and grew into young boyhood, and played and climbed among the mountain crags or along the ocean shore with other boys. He loved the rugged, naked mountains, they stood so firm and solid! No storm or gale could ever make them afraid, or weaken them. Always they were the same, towering high into the heavens, untrod and unchanged by man, just as they had stood facing the arctic storms through untold ages. From the high places he could look out over the sea, where icebergs glistened in the sunshine, and sometimes he could see the sail of a fishing schooner that had come out of the mysterious places beyond the horizon. He loved the sea. Day and night in summer the sound of surf pounding ceaselessly upon the cliffs was in his ears. It was music to him, and his lullaby by night. But he loved the sea no less in winter when it lay frozen and silent and white. As far as his vision reached toward the rising sun, the endless plain of ice stretched away to the misty place where the ice and sky met. Pomiuk thought it would be a fine adventure, some night, when he was grown to be a man and a great hunter, to take the dogs and komatik and drive out over the ice to the place from which the sun rose, and be there in the morning to meet him. He had no doubt the sun rose out of a hole in the ice, and it did not seem so far away. Pomiuk's world was filled with beautiful and wonderful things. He loved the bright flowers that bloomed under the cliffs when the winter snows were gone, and the brilliant colors that lighted the sky and mountains and sea, when the sun set of evenings. He loved the mists, and the mighty storms that sent the sea rolling in upon the cliffs in summer. He never ceased to marvel at the aurora borealis, which by night flashed over the heavens in wondrous streams of fire and lighted the darkened world. His father told him the aurora borealis was the spirits of their departed people dancing in the sky. He learned the ways of the wild things in sea and on land and never tired of following the tracks of beasts in the snow, or of watching the seals sunning themselves on rocks or playing about in the water. The big wolf dogs were his special delight. His father kept nine of them, and many an exciting ride Pomiuk had behind them when his father took him on the komatik to hunt seals or to look at fox traps, or to visit the Trading Post. When he was a wee lad his father made for him a small dog whip of braided walrus hide. This was Pomiuk's favorite possession. He practiced wielding it, until he became so expert he could flip a pebble no larger than a marble with the tip end of the long lash; and he could snap and crack the lash with a report like a pistol shot. As he grew older and stronger he practiced with his father's whip, until he became quite as expert with that as with his own smaller one. This big whip had a wooden handle ten inches in length, and a supple lash of braided walrus hide thirty-five feet long. The lash was about an inch in diameter where it joined the handle, tapering to a thin tip at the end. One summer day, when Pomiuk was ten years of age, a strange ship dropped anchor off the rocky shore where Pomiuk's father and several other Eskimo families had pitched their tupeks, while they fished in the sea near by for cod or hunted seals. A boat was launched from the ship, and as it came toward the shore all of the excited Eskimos from the tupeks, men, women and children, and among them Pomiuk, ran down to the landing place to greet the visitors, and as they ran every one shouted, "Kablunak! Kablunak!" which meant, "Stranger! Stranger!" Some white men and an Eskimo stepped out of the boat, and in the hospitable, kindly manner of the Eskimo Pomiuk's father and Pomiuk and their friends greeted the strangers with handshakes and cheerful laughter, and said "Oksunae" to each as he shook his hand, which is the Eskimo greeting, and means "Be strong." The Eskimo that came with the ship was from an Eskimo settlement called Karwalla, in Hamilton Inlet, on the east of Labrador, but a long way to the south of Nachvak Bay where Pomiuk's people lived. He could speak English as well as Eskimo, and acted as interpreter for the strangers. This Eskimo explained that the white men had come from America to invite some of the Labrador Eskimos to go to America to see their country. People from all the nations of the world, he said, were to gather there to meet each other and to get acquainted. They were to bring strange and wonderful things with them, that the people of each nation might see how the people of other nations made and used their things, and how they lived. They wished the Labrador Eskimos to come and show how they dressed their skins and made their skin clothing and skin boats, and to bring with them dogs and sledges, and harpoons and other implements of the hunt. The white men promised it would be a most wonderful experience for those that went. They agreed to take them and all their things on the ship and after the big affair in America was over bring them back to their homes, and give them enough to make them all rich for the rest of their lives. The Eskimos were naturally quite excited with the glowing descriptions, the opportunity to travel far into new lands, and the prospect of wealth and happiness offered them when they again returned to their Labrador homes. Pomiuk and his mother were eager for the journey, but his father did not care to leave the land and the life he knew. He decided that he had best remain in Labrador and hunt; but he agreed that Pomiuk's mother might go to make skin boots and clothing, and Pomiuk might go with her and take the long dog whip to show how well he could use it. And so one day Pomiuk and his mother said goodbye to his father, and with several other Eskimos sailed away to the United States, destined to take their place as exhibits at the great World's Fair in Chicago. The suffering of the Eskimos in the strange land to which they were taken was terrible. In Labrador they lived in the open, breathing God's fresh air. In Chicago they were housed in close and often poorly ventilated quarters. The heat was unbearable, and through all the long hours of day and night when they were on exhibition they were compelled to wear their heavy winter skin or fur clothing. They were unaccustomed to the food. Some of them died, and the white men buried them with little more thought or ceremony than was given those of their dogs that died. Pomiuk, in spite of his suffering, kept his spirits. He loved to wield his long dog whip. It was his pride. Visitors at the fair pitched nickles and dimes into the enclosure where the Eskimos and their exhibits were kept. Pomiuk with the tip of his thirty-five foot lash would clip the coins, and laugh with delight, for every coin he clipped was to be his. He was the life of the Eskimo exhibit. Visitors could always distinguish his ringing laugh. He was always smiling. The white men who had induced the Eskimos to leave their homes failed to keep their promise when the fair closed. The poor Eskimos were abandoned in a practically penniless condition and no means was provided to return them to their homes. To add to the distress of Pomiuk's mother, Pomiuk fell and injured his hip. Proper surgical treatment was not supplied, the injury, because of this neglect, did not heal, and Pomiuk could no longer run about or walk or even stand upon his feet. Those of the Eskimos who survived the heat and unaccustomed climate, in some manner, God alone knows how, found their way to Newfoundland. Pomiuk, in his mother's care, was among them. The hospitality of big hearted fishermen of Newfoundland, who sheltered and fed the Eskimos in their cabins, kept them through the winter. It was a period of intense suffering for poor little Pomiuk, whose hip constantly grew worse. When summer came again, Doctor Frederick Cook, the explorer, bound to the Arctic on an exploring expedition, heard of the stranded Eskimos, and carried some of them to their Labrador homes on his ship; and when the schooners of the great fishing fleets sailed north, kindly skippers made room aboard their little craft for others of the destitute Eskimos. Thus Pomiuk, once so active and happy, now a helpless cripple, found his way back on a fishing schooner to Labrador. We can understand, perhaps, the joy and hope with which Pomiuk looked again upon the rock-bound coast that he loved so well. On _these_ shores he had lived care-free and happy and full of bounding health until the deceitful white men had lured him away. He had no doubt that once again in his own native land and among his own people in old familiar surroundings, he would soon get well and be as strong as ever he had been to run over the rocks and to help his father with the dogs and traps and at the fishing. Pomiuk could scarcely wait to meet his father. He laughed and chattered eagerly of the good times he and his father would have together. He was deeply attached to his father who had always been kind and good to him, and who loved him better, even, than his mother loved him. Pomiuk's heart beat high, when at last, one day, the vessel drew into the narrow channel that leads between high cliffs into Nachvak Bay. He looked up at the rocky walls towering two thousand feet above him on either side. They were as firm and unchanging as always. He loved them, and his eyes filled with happy tears. Just beyond, at the other end of the channel, lay the broad bay and the white buildings of the Hudson's Bay Company's trading post, where his father used to bring him sometimes with the dogs in winter or in the boat in summer. What fine times he and his father had on those excursions! And somewhere, back there, camped in his tupek, was his father. What a surprise his coming would be to his father! Pomiuk was carried ashore at the Post. Eskimos camped near-by crowded down to greet him and his mother and the other wanderers who had returned with them. It would be a short journey now in the boat to his father's fishing place and his own dear home in their snug tupek. What a lot of things he had to tell his father! And at home, with his father's help he would soon be well and strong again. Then he heard some one say his father was dead. Dazed with grief he was taken to one of the Eskimo tupeks where he was to make his home. All that day and for days afterward, days of deep, unspoken sorrow, the thought that he would never again hear his father's dear voice was in his mind and forcing itself upon him. The world had grown suddenly dark for the crippled boy. All of his fine plans were vanished. One day late that fall Dr. Grenfell found Pomiuk lying helpless and naked upon the rocks near the tupek of the Eskimo who had taken him in. The little lad was carried aboard the hospital ship. He was washed and his diseased hip dressed, he was given clean warm clothing to wear, and altogether he was made more comfortable than he had been in many months. Then, with Pomiuk as a patient on board, the ship steamed away. Thus Pomiuk bade goodbye to his home, to the towering cliffs and rugged sturdy mountains that he loved so well, and to his people. The dear days when he was so jolly and happy in health were only a memory, though he was to know much happiness again. Perhaps, lying helpless upon the deck of the hospital ship, he shed a tear as he recalled the fine trips he used to have when his father took him to the post with dogs and komatik in winter, or he and his father went cruising in the boat along the coast in summer. And now he would never see his dear father again, and could never be a great hunter like his father, as he had once dreamed he would be. But the cruise was a pleasant one, with every moment something new to attract his attention. Dr. Grenfell was as kind and considerate as a father. Pomiuk had never known such care and attention. His diseased hip was dressed regularly, and had not been so free from pain since it was injured. Appetizing, wholesome meals were served him. Everyone aboard ship did everything possible for his comfort and entertainment. Pomiuk was taken to the Indian Harbor Hospital where he remained until the cold of winter settled, and the hospital was closed for the winter season. Then he was removed to a comfortable home up the Bay. Under careful surgical treatment his hip improved until he was able to get about well on crutches. There was never a happier boy in the world than this little Eskimo cripple in his new surroundings and with his new friends. He laughed and played about quite as though he had the use of his limbs, and had forgotten his affliction. During the winter one of the good missionaries from the Moravian Mission at Hopedale visited him and baptized him "Gabriel"--the angel of comfort. He was a comfort indeed and a joy to those who had his care. XVI MAKING A HOME FOR THE ORPHANS The next winter Pomiuk was taken to the hospital at Battle Harbor where he could receive more constant surgical treatment. He was a joy to the doctors and nurses. His face was always happy and smiling. He never complained, and his amiable disposition endeared him not only to the doctors and nurses but to the other patients as well. But Pomiuk was never to be well again. The diseased hip was beyond control, and was wearing down his constitution and his strength. One day he fell suddenly very ill. For a week he lay in bed, at times unconscious, and then early one morning passed away. Many shed tears for Pomiuk when he was gone. They missed his joyous laughter and his smiling face. Doctor Grenfell missed him sorely. He could not forget the suffering, naked little boy that he had rescued from the rocks of Nachvak Bay, and he decided that some provision should be made to care for the other orphaned, homeless, neglected children of Labrador. In some way, he decided, the funds for such a home had to be found, though he had no means then at his disposal for the purpose. He further decided that the home must not be an institution merely but a real home made pleasant for the boys and girls, where they would have motherly care and sympathy, and where they should have a school to go to like the children of our own favoured land. With cheerful optimism and heroic determination Doctor Grenfell set for himself the task of establishing such a home. And in the end great things grew out of the suffering and death of Gabriel Pomiuk. The splendid courage and cheerfulness of the little Eskimo lad was to result in happiness for many other little sufferers. Now, as always it was, with Doctor Grenfell, "I can if I will,"--none of the uncertainty of, "I will if I can." He pitched into the work of raising money to build that children's home. He lectured, and wrote, and talked about it in his usual enthusiastic way, and money began to come to him from good people all over the world. At length enough was raised and the home was built. He had already picked up and taken into his mission family so many boys and girls, orphans or otherwise, that were without home or shelter, and that he could not leave behind him to suffer and die, that he had nearly enough on his hands to populate the new building before it was ready for them. Indeed he soon found himself almost in the position of the "old woman that lived in a shoe," and "had so many children she didn't know what to do." His big kind fatherly heart would never permit him to abandon a homeless child, and so he took them under his care, and somehow always managed to provide for them. It was about the time of Pomiuk's death, I believe, that the first of these children came to him. One day, when cruising north in the _Strathcona_, he was told that a family living in an isolated and lonely spot on the Labrador coast required the attention of a doctor. He answered the call at once. When he approached the bleak headland where the cabin stood, and his vessel hove her anchor, he was quite astonished that no one came out of the cabin to offer welcome, as is the custom with Labradormen everywhere when vessels anchor near their homes. He and his mate were put ashore in a boat, and as they walked up the trail to the cabin still no one appeared and no smoke issued from the stovepipe, which, rising through the roof, served as a chimney. When he lifted the latch he was quite decided no one, after all, was at home. Upon entering the cabin a shocking scene presented itself. The mother of the family lay upon the bed with wide-open stare. Doctor Grenfell's practiced eye told him she was dead. The father, a Scotch fisherman and trapper, was stretched upon the floor, helplessly ill, and a hasty examination proved that he was dying. Five frightened, hungry, cold little children were huddled in a corner. That night the father died, though every effort was made to revive him and save his life. Grenfell and his crew gave the man and woman as decent a Christian burial as the wilderness and conditions would permit, and when all was over the Doctor found five small children on his hands. An uncle of the children lived upon the coast and this uncle volunteered to take one of them into his home. The other four Doctor Grenfell carried south on the hospital ship. There was no proper provision for their care at St. Anthony, his headquarters hospital, and he advertised in a New England paper for homes for them. One response was received, and this from the wife of a New England farmer, offering to provide for two. The Doctor sent two to the farm, the other two remaining at St. Anthony hospital. The next child to come to him was a baby of three years. The child's father had died and the mother married a widower with a large family of his own. He was a hard-hearted rascal, and the mother was a selfish woman with small love for her baby. The man declined to permit her to take it into his home and she left it in a mud hut, a cellar-like place, with no other floor than the earth. A kind-hearted woman, who lived near by, ran in now and again to see the baby and to take it scraps of food and give it some care. She could not adopt it, for she and her husband were scarce able to feed the many mouths in their own family. So alone this tiny little girl of three lived in the mud hut through the long days and the longer and darker nights. There was no mother's knee at which to kneel; no one to teach her to lisp her first prayer; no one to tuck her snugly into a little white bed; no one to kiss her before she slept. O, how lonely she must have been! Think of those chilly Labrador nights, when she huddled down on the floor in the ragged blanket that was her bed! How many nights she must have cried herself to sleep with loneliness and fear! Here, in the mud hut, Doctor Grenfell found her one day. She was sitting on the earthen floor, talking to herself and playing with a bit of broken crockery, her only toy. He gathered her into his big strong arms and I have no doubt that tears filled his eyes as he looked into her innocent little face and carried her down to his boat. In a locker on his ship, the _Strathcona_, there were neat little clothes that thoughtful children in our own country had sent him to give to the destitute little ones of Labrador. He turned the baby girl over to his big mate, who had babies of his own at home. The mate stroked her tangled hair with a brawney hand, and talked baby talk to her, and as she snuggled close in his fatherly arms, he carried her below decks. The baby's mother would not have known her little daughter if, two hours later, she had gone aboard the _Strathcona_ and heard the peals of laughter and seen the happy little thing, bathed, dressed in neat clean clothes, and well fed, playing on deck with a pretty doll that Doctor Grenfell had somewhere found. It was on his last cruise south late one fall, and not long before navigation closed, that Doctor Grenfell learned that a family of liveyeres encamped on one of the coastal islands was in a destitute condition, without food and practically unsheltered and unclothed. He went immediately in search, steaming nearly around the island, and discerning no sign of life he had decided that the people had gone, when a little curl of smoke rising from the center of the island caught his eye. He at once brought his vessel to, let go the anchor, lowered away a boat and accompanied by his mate pulled ashore. Making the boat fast the two men scrambled up the rocks and set out in the direction from which they had seen the smoke rise. Near the center of the island they suddenly brought up before a cliff, against which, supported by poles, was stretched a sheet of old canvas, pieced out by bits of matting and bagging, to form the roof of a lean-to shelter. In front of the lean-to a fire burned, and under the shelter by the fire sat a scantily clad, bedraggled woman. In her arms she held a bundle of rags, which proved to envelop a tiny new born baby, nursing at her breast. A little girl of five, barefooted and ragged, slunk timidly back as the strangers approached. The woman grunted a greeting, but did not rise. "Where is your man?" asked Doctor Grenfell. "He's right handy, huntin' gulls," she answered. Upon inquiry it was learned that there were three boys in the family and that they were also "somewheres handy about." A search discovered two of them, lads of seven and eight, practically naked, but tough as little bears, feeding upon wild berries. Their bodies were tanned brown by sun and wind, and streaked and splotched with the blue and red stain of berry juice. They were jabbering contentedly and both were as plump and happy in their foraging as a pair of young cubs. Snow had begun to fall before Doctor Grenfell followed by the two lads returned to the fire at the cliff, soon to be joined by the boys' father, tall, gaunt and bearded. His hair, untrimmed for many weeks, was long and snarled. He was nearly barefooted and his clothing hung in tatters. In one hand he carried a rusty old trade gun, (a single-barreled, old-fashioned muzzle loading shotgun), in the other he clutched by its wing a gull that he had recently shot. Following the father came an older lad, perhaps fourteen years of age, little better clothed than his two brothers and as wild and unkempt in appearance as the father. "Evenin'," greeted the man, as he leaned his gun against the cliff and dropped the gull by its side. It was cold. The now thickly falling snow spoke loudly of the Arctic winter so near at hand. The liveyere and his family, however, seemed not to feel or mind the chill in the least, and apparently gave no more thought to the morrow or the coming winter, upon whose frigid threshold they stood, than did the white-winged gulls flying low over the water. Fresh wood was placed upon the fire, and Grenfell and the mate joined the family circle around the blaze. "Do you kill much game here on the island?" asked Doctor Grenfell. "One gull is all I gets today," announced the man. "They bides too far out. I has no shot. I uses pebbles for shot, and 'tis hard to hit un with pebbles. 'Tis wonderful hard to knock un down with no shot." "What have you to eat?" inquired the Doctor. "Have you any provisions on hand?" "All us has is the gull," the man glanced toward the limp bird. "We eats berries." "'Tis the Gover'me't's place to give us things," broke in the woman in a high key. "The Gov'me't don't give us no flour and nothin'." "It's snowing and the berries will soon be covered," suggested Grenfell. "You can't live without something to eat and now winter is coming you'll need a house to live in. You haven't even a tent." "Us would make out and the Gover'me't gave us a bit o' flour and tea and some clodin' (clothing)," harped the woman. "The Gover'me't don't give un to us. The Gover'me't folks don't care what becomes o' we." "How are you going to take care of these children this winter?" asked Grenfell. "You can't feed them and without clothing they'll freeze. Let us take them with us. We'll give them plenty to eat and clothe them well." "Don't be sayin' now you'll let un go!" broke in the mother in a high voice, turning to the man, who stood mute. "Don't be givin' away your own flesh and blood now! Don't let un go." "You can't keep yourselves and these children alive through the winter. Some of you will starve or freeze," persisted Grenfell. "Suppose you let us have the two young lads and the little maid. We'll take good care of them and we'll give you some clothing we have aboard the vessel, and some flour and tea to start you." "And a bit o' shot for my gun?" asked the man, showing interest. "Don't be givin' away your own flesh and blood!" interjected the woman in the same high key. "'Tis the Gov'me't's place to be givin' us what we needs, clodin' and grub too." "I'll let you have one o' th' lads and you lets me have a bit o' shot," the man compromised. The sympathetic mate, with no intention of giving the man an opportunity to change his mind, seized the naked boy nearest him, tucked the lad, kicking and struggling, under one arm, and started for the boat, but upon Doctor Grenfell's suggestion waited, with the lad still under his arm, for developments. In the beginning, to be sure, Doctor Grenfell had intended to issue supplies to the man, whether or no. But no matter how much or what supplies were issued there was no doubt these people would be reduced to severe suffering before summer came again. He wished to save the children from want, and to give them a chance to make good in the world as he believed they would with opportunity. The oldest boy could be of assistance to his father in the winter hunting, and he could scarce expect the mother to give up her new-born baby. Therefore negotiations were confined to a view of securing the two small boys and the little girl. Presently, in spite of violent protests from the mother, the father was moved, by promises of additional supplies, to consent to Grenfell taking the other boy. And immediately the man had said, "Take un both," the mate seized the second lad and with a youngster struggling under each arm, and with four bare legs kicking in a wild but vain effort for freedom and two pairs of lusty young lungs howling rebellion, he strode exultantly away through the falling snow to the boat with his captives. No arguments and no amount of promised stores could move the father to open his mouth again, and Grenfell was finally compelled to be content with the two boys and to leave the little girl behind him to face the hardships and rigors of a northern winter. Poor little thing! She did not realize the wonderful opportunity her parents had denied her. When negotiations were ended Doctor Grenfell arranged for the liveyeres to occupy a comfortable cabin on the mainland. He conspired with the agent of the Hudson's Bay Company, with the result that they were properly clothed and provisioned, a better gun was found for the man and an ample supply of ammunition. Hundreds of stories might be told of the destitute little ones that have been, since the day he found Pomiuk on the rocks of Nochvak, gathered together by Doctor Grenfell and tenderly cared for in the Children's Home that was built at St. Anthony. There was a little girl whose feet were so badly frozen that her father had to chop them both off with an ax to save her life, and who Doctor Grenfell found helpless in the poor little cabin where her people lived. I wish there was time and room to tell about her. He took her away with him, and healed her wounds, and fitted cork feet to her stumps of legs so that she could go to school and run around and play with the other children. Indeed, she learned to use her new feet so well that today, if you saw her you would never guess that her feet were not her real ones. And there was a little boy whose father was frozen to death at his trapping one winter, a bright little chap now in the home and going to school. These are but a few of the many, many children that have been made happy and have been trained at the Home and under Doctor Grenfell's care to useful lives. Some of them have worked their way through college. Some of the boys served in the Great War at the front. Many are holding positions of importance. Let us see, however, what became of those particular ones, mentioned in this chapter. One of the Scotch trapper's daughters found by Doctor Grenfell in the lonely cabin when her mother lay dead and her father dying is a trained nurse. The others are also in responsible positions. The baby of the mud hut is a charming young lady, a graduate of a school in the United States, and the successful member of a useful profession. Both of the little naked boys taken from the island that snowy day are grown men now, and graduates of the famous Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, New York. One is a master carpenter, the other the manager of a big trading store on the Labrador coast. Now, as I write, in the fall of 1921, the walls of a new fine concrete home for the children are under construction at St. Anthony, to be used in conjunction with the original wooden building which is crowded to capacity. Children of the United States, Canada, and Great Britain giving of their pennies made the new building possible. More money is needed to furnish it, but enough will surely be given for the homeless little ones of the Labrador must be cared for. And so, in the end, great things grew out of the suffering and death of Gabriel Pomiuk, the little Eskimo lad. His splendid courage and cheerfulness has led to happiness for many other little sufferers. XVII THE DOGS OF THE ICE TRAIL One of the most interesting features of Labrador life in winter is dog travel. The dogs are interesting the year round, for they are always in evidence winter and summer, but in the fall when the sea freezes and snow comes, they take a most important place in the life of the people of the coast. They are the horses and automobiles and locomotives of the country. No one can travel far without them. The true Eskimo dog of Labrador, the "husky," as he is called, is the direct descendant of the great Labrador wolf. The Labrador wolf is the biggest and fiercest wolf on the North American continent, and the Eskimo dog of northern Labrador, his brother, is the biggest and finest sledge dog to be found anywhere in the world. He is larger and more capable than the Greenland species of which so much has been written, and he is quite superior to those at present found in Alaska. The true husky dog of northern Labrador has the head and jawls and upstanding ears of the wild wolf. He has the same powerful shoulders, thick forelegs, and bristling mane. He does not bark like other dogs, but has the characteristic howl of the wolf. There is apparently but one difference between him and the wild wolf, and this comes, possibly, through domestication. He curls his tail over his back, while the wolf does not. Even this distinction does not always hold, for I have seen and used dogs that did not curl their tail. These big fellows often weigh a full hundred pounds and more. Indeed these northern huskies and the wild wolves mix together sometimes to fight, and sometimes in good fellowship. Once I had a wolf follow my komatik for two days, and at night when we stopped and turned our dogs loose the wolf joined them and staid the night with them only to slink out of rifle shot with the coming of dawn. One of my friends, an agent of the Hudson's Bay Company, was once traveling with a native Labradorman driver along the Labrador coast, when his train of eight big huskies, suddenly becoming excited, gave an extra strain on their traces and snapped the "bridle," the long walrus hide thong that connects the traces with the komatik. Away the dogs ran, heading over a low hill, apparently in pursuit of some game they had scented. [Illustration: "PLEASE LOOK AT MY TONGUE, DOCTOR!"] [Illustration: "NEXT!"] My friend, on snowshoes, ran in pursuit, while the driver made a circuit around the hill in the hope of heading the dogs off. Ten minutes later the team swung down over the hill and back to the komatik. From a distance the men saw them and also turned back, but to their astonishment they counted not the eight dogs that composed their team, but thirteen. On drawing nearer they realized that five great wolves had joined the dogs. The men's guns were lashed on the komatik, and both were, therefore, unarmed, and before they could reach the komatik and unlash the rifles the wolves had fled over the hill and out of range. The dogs, however, answered the driver's call and were captured. One winter evening a few years ago I drove my dog team to the isolated cabin of Tom Broomfield, a trapper of the coast, where I was to spend the night. When our dogs were fed and we had eaten our own supper, Tom went to a chest and drew forth a huge wolf skin, which he held up for my inspection. "He's a big un, now! A wonderful big un!" he commented. "Most big enough all by hisself for a man's sleepin' bag!" "It's a monster!" I exclaimed. "Where did you kill it?" "Right here handy t' th' door," he grinned. "I were standin' just outside th' door o' th' porch when I fires and knocks he over th' first shot." "He were here th' day before Tom kills he," interjected Tom's wife. "He gives me a wonderful scare that wolf does. I were alone wi' th' two young ones." "Tell me about it," I suggested. "'Twere this way sir," said Tom, spreading the pelt over a big chest where we could admire it. "I were away 'tendin' fox traps, and I has th' komatik and all th' dogs, savin' one, which I leaves behind. Th' woman were bidin' home alone wi' th' two young ones. In th' evenin'[D] her hears dogs a fightin' outside, and thinkin' 'tis one o' th' team broke loose and runned home that's fightin' th' dog I leaves behind, she starts t' go out t' beat un apart and stop th' fightin' when she sees 'tis a wolf and no dog at all. 'Twere a wonderful big un too. He were inside that skin you sees there, sir, and you can see for yourself th' bigness o' he. "Her tries t' take down th' rifle, th' one as is there on th' pegs, sir. Th' wolf and th' dog be now fightin' agin' th' door, and th' door is bendin' in and handy t' breakin' open. She's a bit scared, sir, and shakin' in th' hands, and she makes a slip, and th' rifle, he goes off, bang! and th' bullet makes that hole marrin' th' timber above th' windy." Tom arose and pointed out a bullet hole above the window. "Then th' wolf, he goes off too, bein' scared at th' shootin'. "I were home th' next day mendin' dog harness, when I hears th' dogs fightin', and I takes a look out th' windy, and there I sees that wolf fightin' wi' th' dogs, and right handy t' th' house. I just takes my rifle down spry as I can, and goes out. When th' dogs sees me open th' door they runs away and leaves th' wolf apart from un, and I ups and knocks he over wi' a bullet, sir. I gets he fair in th' head first shot I takes, and there be th' skin. 'Tis worth a good four dollars too, for 'tis an extra fine one." They are treacherous beasts, but, like the wolf, cowardly, these big dogs of the Labrador. If a man should trip and fall among them, the likelihood is he would be torn to pieces by their fangs before he could help himself. You cannot make pals of them as you can of other dogs. They would as lief snap off the hand that reared and feeds them as not. It is never safe for a stranger to move among a pack of them without a stick in his hand. But a threatened kick or the swing of a menacing stick will send them off crawling and whining. The Hudson's Bay Company once had a dozen or so of these big fellows at Cartwright Post, in Sandwich Bay. They were exceptionally fine dogs of the true husky breed, brought down from one of the more northerly posts, and the agent was proud of them. This was the same agent whose dogs ran away to chum with the wolves, and I believe these were some of the same dogs. They were splendid animals in harness, well broken and tireless travelers on the trail. One evening, late in the fall, the agent's wife was standing at the open door of the post house, and her little boy, a lad of about your years, was playing near the doorstep. Labrador dogs are fed but once a day, and this is always in the evening. It was feeding time for the dogs, and a servant down at the feed house, where the dog rations were kept, called them. With a rush they responded. Just when some of them were passing the post house the little boy in his play stumbled and fell. In an instant the dogs were upon him. The mother, with rare presence of mind, sprang forward, seized the boy, sprang back into the house and slammed the door upon the dogs. The boy was on the ground but a moment, but in that moment he was horribly torn by the sharp fangs. At one place his entrails were laid bare. There were over sixty wounds on his little body. The dogs lapped up the blood that fell upon the ground and doorstep. That night the pack, like a pack of hungry wolves, congregated outside the window where they heard the child crying and moaning with pain and all night howled as wolves howl when they have cornered prey. The following morning it happened providentially that Doctor Grenfell's hospital ship steamed into Cartwright Harbor and dropped anchor. The Doctor himself was aboard. He took the boy under his charge and the little one's life was saved through his skill. After the attack the dogs became extremely aggressive and surly. They were like a pack of fierce wolves. No one about the place was safe, and the agent was compelled to shoot every animal in defense of human life. Usually in Labrador when dogs are guilty of attacking people they are hung by the neck to a gibbet until dead, and left hanging for several days. I have seen dogs thus hanging after execution. When I left Davis Inlet Post of the Hudson's Bay Company with my dog team one cold winter morning, a native trapper told me that he would follow later in the day and probably overtake me at the Moravian Mission Station at Hopedale. We made half the journey to Hopedale that night and spent the night in a native cabin. A storm was threatening the next morning, but, nevertheless, we set forward. Shortly after midday the storm broke with a gale of wind and driving, smothering snow, and a temperature 30 degrees below zero. Every moment it increased in fury, but fortunately we reached the mission station before it had reached its worst, and here remained stormbound for two days, during which time the trapper did not appear. Later I learned that, with his wife and young son he left Davis Inlet a few hours after our departure. After the storm had abated his dog team appeared at Davis Inlet, but he and his wife and child were not heard from. A searching party set out, but could find no trace of the missing ones. In the spring, when the snow had begun to melt, the komatik was found and scattered about it were human bones. It was supposed that the man had halted to camp and await the passing of the storm. Benumbed by the cold he had probably fallen among his dogs, and they had torn him to pieces, and with whetted appetite had then attacked and killed his wife and child. These great wolf dogs of the north are quite different from those of the south. It is doubtful if today a true Eskimo dog is to be found south of Sandwich Bay, and here and for a long distance north of Sandwich Bay many of the animals have mongrel blood in their veins. They are smaller and inferior. But from Sandwich Bay southward the difference is marked. These southern dogs are faster, in a spurt of half a day or so, than the big wolf dog, but they lack size and strength, and therefore the staying powers that will carry them forward tirelessly day after day. The strain of wolf in their blood often makes them vicious, but in general they respond to kindly treatment and may be petted like dogs the world over, and sometimes the natives make house dogs of their leaders. The dogs of Newfoundland, such as Doctor Grenfell uses in his winter journeys in going out from St. Anthony to visit patients, are still a different type. These are usually big lop-eared kindly fellows, and just as friendly as any dog in the world. The laws of Newfoundland provide a heavy fine upon any one bringing upon the island a Labrador dog that is related even remotely to the husky wolf dog. The leader of the dog team is the best disciplined dog in the team but not always by any means the "boss" dog, or bully, of the pack. Every pack has its bully and generally, also, its under dog that all the others pick upon. Eskimo dogs fight among themselves, but the packs hold together as a gang against strange packs, and when sledges meet each other on the trail the drivers must exert their utmost effort and caution, and wield the whip freely, or there will be a fine mix-up, resulting often in crippled animals. The komatik or sledge used in dog travel is from ten to fourteen feet in length, though in the far north I have seen them a full eighteen feet long. In the extreme north of Labrador, where the largest ones are found, they are but sixteen inches wide. Further south, in the region where the mission hospitals are situated, from ten to twelve feet is the usual length and about two feet the breadth. In Alaska and the Northwest dogs are harnessed tandem, that is one in front of another in a straight line. This is a white man's method, and a fine method too when driving through timbered regions. But in Labrador dog travel is usually on the naked coast and seldom in timbered country, and here the old Eskimo method is used. Each dog has its individual trace, which is fastened to the end of a single line of walrus skin leading from the komatik and called the bridle. The leading dog, which is especially trained to answer the driver's direction, has the longest trace, the next two dogs nearer the komatik shorter ones, the next two still shorter, and so on. Thus, when they travel the leader is in advance with the pack spread out behind him on either side, fan-shaped. Dogs follow the leader like a pack of wolves. When the driver wishes the dogs to go forward he shouts "oo-isht," and to hurry "oksuit."[E] If he wishes them to turn to the right he calls "ouk!", to the left "rah-der!", and to stop "Ah!" In Newfoundland "Hist!" means "Go on"; "Keep off!" "to the right"; "Hold on!" "to the left." The dogs are harnessed in a similar manner to that used in Labrador, and the sledges are of the same form, though of the widest type. When the dogs are put in harness in preparation for a journey they are always keen for the start. They will leap and howl in eagerness to be off unless the menace of a whip compels them to lie down. When the driver is ready he shouts "oo-isht!" to the dogs, as he pulls the nose of the komatik sharply to one side to "break" it loose from the snow. Immediately the dogs are away at a mad gallop, with the komatik swinging wildly from side to side. Quickly enough the animals settle down to a slow pace, only to spurt if game is scented or on approaching a building. The usual dog whip is thirty or thirty-five feet in length, though I have seen them nearly fifty feet long. Eskimo drivers are exceedingly expert in handling the long whip, and in the hands of a cruel driver it is an instrument of torture. In southeastern and southern Labrador and in Newfoundland the dog whip is used much less freely than in the north, and the people are less expert in its manipulation than are the Eskimos. The different species of dogs renders the use of the whip less necessary. Dog travel is seldom over smooth unobstructed ice fields. Sometimes it is over frozen bays where the tide has thrown up rough hummocks and ridges. I have been, under such conditions, nearly half a day crossing the mouth of a river one mile wide. Often the trail leads over high hills, with long hard steep climbs to be made and sometimes dangerous descents. In traveling over sea ice, especially in the late winter and spring, and always when an off shore wind prevails, there is danger of encountering bad ice, and breaking through, or having the ice "go abroad," and cutting you off from shore. When the tide has smashed the ice, it is often necessary to drive the team on the "ballicaders," or ice barricade, a narrow strip of ice clinging to the rocky shore. This is sometimes scarce wide enough for the komatik, and the greatest skill is necessary on the part of the driver to keep the komatik from slipping off the ballicader and falling and pulling the dogs into the sea. When the snow is soft some one on snowshoes must go in advance of the dogs and pack the trail for them. Where traveling is rough, and in up-hill work, it is more than often necessary to pull with the dogs, and lift the komatik over obstructions. In descending steep slopes the driver has a thick hoop of woven walrus hide, which he throws over the nose of one of the runners to serve as a drag. Even then, the descent may be rapid and exciting, and not a little dangerous for dogs and men. The driver throws himself on his side on the komatik clinging to it with both hands. His legs extend forward at the side of the sledge, he sticks his heels into the snow ahead to retard the progress, in imminent danger of a broken leg. Winter settles early in Labrador and northern Newfoundland. Snow comes, the sea smokes, and then one morning men wake up to find a field of ice where waves were lapping the day before and where boats have sailed all summer. Then it is that Doctor Grenfell sets out with his dogs and komatik over the great silent snow waste to visit his far scattered patients. Adventures meet him at every turn and some exciting experiences he has had, as we shall see. FOOTNOTES: [D] Afternoon is referred to as "evening" by Labradormen. [E] In Alaska they say "Mush," but this is never heard in Labrador. XVIII FACING AN ARCTIC BLIZZARD The leader of Doctor Grenfell's dog team at St. Anthony, Newfoundland, is Gypsy, a big black and white fellow, friendly as ever a good dog can be, and trained to a nicety, always obedient and prompt in responding to the driver's commands. Running next behind Gypsy, and pulling side by side, are Tiger and Spider. Tiger is a large, good-natured red and white fellow, and Spider, his brother, is black and white. The next is Spot, a great white fellow with a black spot on his neck, which gives him his name. His mate in harness is a tawny yellow dog called Scotty. Then come Rover and Shaver. Rover is a small, black, lop-eared dog, about half the size of Shaver, who looks upon Rover as an inconsequent attachment, and though he thinks that Rover is of small assistance, he takes upon himself the responsibility of making this little working mate of his keep busy when in harness. Tad and Eric, the rear dogs, are the largest and heaviest of the pack, and perhaps the best haulers. Their traces are never slack, and they attend strictly to business. This is the team that hauls Doctor Grenfell in long winter journeys, when he visits the coast settlements of northern Newfoundland, in every one of which he finds no end of eager folk welcoming him and calling him to their homes to heal their sick. In the scattered hamlets and sparsely settled coast of northern Newfoundland the folk have no doctor to call upon at a moment's notice when they are sick, as we have. They live apart and isolated from many of the conveniences of life that we look upon as necessities. It was this condition that led Doctor Grenfell to build his fine mission hospital at St. Anthony, and from St. Anthony, to brave the bitter storms of winter, traveling over hundreds of miles of dreary frozen storm-swept sea and land to help the needy, often to save life. He never charges a fee, but the Newfoundlander is independent and self-respecting, and when he is able to do so he pays. All that comes to Doctor Grenfell in this way he gives to the mission to help support the hospitals. Those who cannot pay receive from him and his assistants the same skilled and careful treatment as those who do pay. Money makes no difference. Doctor Grenfell is giving his life to the people because they need him, and he never keeps for his own use any part of the small fees paid him. He is never so happy as when he is helping others, and to help others who are in trouble is his one great object in life. Two or three years ago the Newfoundland Government extended a telegraph line to St. Anthony. This offers the people an opportunity to call upon Doctor Grenfell when they are in need of him, though sometimes they live so far away that in the storms of winter and uncertainty of dog travel several days may pass before he can reach the sick ones in answer to the calls. But let the weather be what it may, he always responds, for there is no other doctor than Doctor Grenfell and his assistant, the surgeon at St. Anthony Hospital, within several hundred miles, north and west of St. Anthony. Late one January afternoon in 1919 such a telegram came from a young fisherman living at Cape Norman, urging Doctor Grenfell to come to his home at once, and stating that the fisherman's wife was seriously ill. Grenfell's assistant had taken the dog team the previous day to answer a call, and had not returned, and if he were to go before his assistant's return there would be no doctor at the hospital. He therefore answered the man, stating these facts. During the evening another wire was received urging him to find a team somewhere and come at all costs. It was evidently indeed a serious case. Cape Norman lies thirty miles to the northward of St. Anthony, and the trail is a rough one. The night was moonless and pitchy black, but Grenfell set out at once to look for dogs. He borrowed four from one man, hired one from another, and arranged with a man, named Walter, to furnish four additional ones and to drive the team. Walter was to report at the hospital at 4:30 in the morning prepared to start, though it would still be long before daybreak. Having made these arrangements Grenfell went back to the hospital and with the head nurse called upon every patient in the wards, providing so far as possible for any contingency that might arise during his absence. It was midnight when he had finished. Snow had set in, and the wind was rising with the promise of bad weather ahead. At 4:30 he was dressed and ready for the journey. He looked out into the darkness. The air was thick with swirling clouds of snow driven before a gale. He made out a dim figure battling its way to the door, and as the figure approached he discovered it was Walter, but without the dogs. "Where are the dogs, Walter?" he asked. "I didn't bring un, sir," Walter stepped inside and shook the accumulation of snow from his garments. "'Tis a wonderful nasty mornin', and I'm thinkin' 'tis too bad to try un before daylight. I've been watchin' the weather all night, sir. 'Tis growin' worse. We has only a scratch team and the dog'll not work together right 'till they gets used to each other. I'm thinkin' we'll have to wait 'till it comes light." "You've the team to drive and you know best," conceded the Doctor. "Under the circumstances I suppose we'll save time by waiting." "That we will, sir. We'd be wastin' the dogs' strength and ours and losin' time goin' now. We couldn't get on at all, sir." "Very well; at daylight." Walter returned home and Doctor Grenfell to his room to make the most of the two hours' rest. It was scarce daylight and Walter had not yet appeared when another telegram was clicked in over the wires: "Come along soon. Wife worse." The storm had increased in fury since Walter's early visit. It was now blowing a living gale, and the snow was so thick one could scarce breathe in it. The trail lay directly in the teeth of the storm. No dogs on earth could face and stem it and certainly not the picked up, or "scratch" team as Walter called it, for strange dogs never work well together, and will never do their best by any means for a strange driver, and Walter had never driven any of these except his own four. With visions of the suffering woman whose life might depend upon his presence, the Doctor chafed the forenoon through. Then at midday came another telegram: "Come immediately if you can. Wife still holding out." He had but just read this telegram when, to his astonishment, two snow-enveloped, bedraggled men limped up to the door. "Where did you come from in this storm?" he asked, hardly believing his eyes that men could travel in that drift and gale. "We comes from Cape Norman, sir, to fetch you," answered one of the men. "Fetch me!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Do you believe dogs can travel against this gale?" "No, sir, they never could stem it, not 'till the wind shifts, whatever," said the man. "Us comes with un drivin' from behind. The gale blows us here." That was literally true. Ten miles of their journey had been over partially protected land, but for twenty miles it lay over unobstructed sea ice where the gale blew with all its force. Only the deep snow prevented them being carried at a pace that would have wrecked their sledge, in which case they would certainly have perished. "When did you leave Cape Norman?" asked the Doctor. "Eight o'clock last evenin', sir," said the man. All night these brave men, with no thought of reward, had been enduring that terrible storm to bring assistance to a neighbor! After the manner of the Newfoundlanders they had already fed and cared for the comfort of their wearied dogs, before giving thought to themselves, staggering with fatigue as they were. "Go into the hospital and get your dinner," directed the Doctor. "When you've eaten, go to bed. We'll call you when we think it's safe to start." "Thank you, sir," and the grateful men left for the hospital kitchen. It was after dark that evening when the two men again appeared at Doctor Grenfell's house. They were troubled for the safety of their neighbor's sick wife, and could not rest. "Us were just gettin' another telegram sayin' to hurry, sir," announced the spokesman. "The storm has eased up a bit, and we're thinkin' to make a try for un if you're ready." "Call Walter, and I'll be right with you," directed the Doctor. "Us has been and called he, sir," said the man. "He's gettin' the dogs together and he'll be right here." A lull in a winter storm in this north country, with the clouds still hanging low and no change of wind, does not promise the end of the storm. It indicates that this is the center, that it is working in a circle and will soon break upon the world again with even increased fury. Doctor Grenfell knew this and the men knew it full well, but their anxiety for the suffering woman at Cape Norman would not permit them to sleep. Anything was better than sitting still. The decision to start was a source of vast relief to Doctor Grenfell, even though it were to venture into the face of the terrible storm and bitter cold. Grenfell will venture anything with any man, and if those men could face the wind and snow and cold he could. In half an hour they were off. Before them lay the harbor of St. Anthony, and the ice must be crossed. Through the darkness of night and swirling snow they floundered down to it. The men were immediately knee-deep in slush and the two teams of dogs were nearly swimming. Their feet could not reach the solid bed of ice below. The immense weight of snow had pushed the ice down with the falling tide and the rising tide had flooded it. The team from Cape Norman took the lead to break the way. Every one put on his snowshoes, for traveling without them was impossible. One of those with the advance team went ahead of the dogs to tramp the path for the sledge and make the work easier for the poor animals, while the other remained with the team to drive. In like manner Walter tramped ahead of the rear dogs and Doctor Grenfell drove them. At length they reached the opposite shore, fighting against the gale at every step. Now there was a hill to cross. Here on the lee side of the hill they met mighty drifts of feathery snow into which the dogs wallowed to their backs and the snowshoes of the men sunk deep. They were compelled to haul on the traces with the dogs. They had to lift and manipulate the sledges with tremendous effort. Up the grade they toiled and strained, yard by yard, foot by foot. Sometimes it seemed to them they were making no appreciable progress, but on they fought through the black night and the driving snow, sweating in spite of the Arctic blasts and clouds of drift that sometimes nearly stopped their breath and carried them off their feet. The life of the young fisherman's wife at Cape Norman hung in the balance. The toiling men visualized her lying on a bed of pain and perhaps dying for the need of a doctor. They saw the agonized husband by her side, tortured by his helplessness to save her. They forgot themselves and the risk they were taking in their desire to bring to the fisherman's wife the help her husband was beseeching God to send. This is true heroism. As the saying on the coast goes, "'tis dogged as does it," and as Grenfell himself says, "not inspiration, but perspiration wins the prizes of life." They finally reached the crest of the hill. On the opposite or weather side of the hill the gale met them with full force. It had swept the slope clean and left it a glade of ice. They slid down at a dangerous speed, taking all sorts of chances, colliding in the darkness with stumps and ice-coated rocks and other snags, in imminent danger of having their brains knocked out or limbs broken. The open places below were little better. Everything was ice-coated. They slipped and slid about, falling and rising with every dozen steps. If they threw themselves on the sledges to ride the dogs came to a stop, for they could not haul them. If they walked they could not keep their feet. Their course took them along the bed of Bartlett River, and twice Grenfell and some of the others broke through into the icy rapids. At half past one in the morning they reached the mouth of Bartlett River where it empties into the sea and between them and Cape Norman lay twenty miles of unobstructed sea ice. They had been traveling for nearly six hours and had covered but ten miles of the journey. The temporary lull in the storm had long since passed, and now, beating down upon the world with redoubled fury, it met them squarely in the face. No dog could stem it. The men could scarce stand upright. The clouds of snow suffocated them, and the cold was withering. Far out they could hear the thunder of smashing ice. It was a threat that the still firm ice lying before them might be broken into fragments at any time. Sea water had already driven over it, forming a thick coating of half-frozen slush. Even though the gale that swept the ice field had not been too fierce to face, any attempt to cross would obviously have been a foolhardy undertaking. XIX HOW AMBROSE WAS MADE TO WALK One of the men from Cape Norman had been acting as leader on the trail from St. Anthony. His name was Will, and he was a big broad-shouldered man, a giant of a fellow. He knew all the trappers on this part of the coast, and where their trapping grounds lay. One of his neighbors, whom he spoke of as "Si," trapped in the neighborhood where the baffled men now found themselves. "I'm rememberin', now, Si built a tilt handy by here," he suddenly exclaimed. "A tilt!" Grenfell was sceptical. "I've been going up and down this coast for twenty years and I never heard of a tilt near here." "He built un last fall. I thinks, now, I could find un," Will suggested. "Find it if you can," urged Grenfell hopefully. "Where is it?" "'Tis in a bunch of trees, somewheres handy." "Is there a stove in it?" "I'm not knowin' that. I'll try to find un and see." They had retreated to the edge of the forest. Will disappeared among the trees, and Grenfell and the others waited. It was still six hours to daylight, and to stand inactive for six hours in the storm and biting cold would have been perilous if not fatal. Presently Will's shout came out of the forest, rising above the road of wind: "Ti-l-t and St-o-ve!" They followed Will's voice, bumping against trees, groping through flying snow and darkness, and quickly came upon Will and the tilt. There was indeed, to their great joy, a stove in it. There was also a supply of dry wood, all cut and piled ready for use. In one end of the tilt was a bench covered with spruce boughs which Si used as a bed. There was nothing to feed the exhausted dogs, but they were unharnessed and were glad enough to curl up in the snow, where the drift would cover them, after the manner of northern dogs. Then a fire was lighted in the stove. Will went out with the ax and kettle, and presently returned with the kettle filled with water dipped from Bartlett River after he had cut a hole through the ice. Setting the kettle on the stove, Will, standing by the stove, proceeded to fill and light his pipe while Doctor Grenfell opened his dunnage bag to get the tea and sugar. Suddenly Will's pipe clattered to the floor. Will, standing like a statue, did not stoop to pick it up and Grenfell rescued it and rising offered it to him, when, to his vast astonishment, he discovered that the man, standing erect upon his feet was fast asleep. He had been nearly sixty hours without sleep and forty-eight hours of this had been spent on the trail. They aroused Will and had him sit down on the bench. He re-lighted his pipe but in a moment it fell from his teeth again. He rolled over on the bench and was too soundly asleep to be interested in pipe or tea or anything to eat. Daylight brought no abatement in the storm. The ice was deep under a coating of slush, and quite impassable for dogs and men, and the sea was pounding and battering at the outer edge, as the roar of smashing ice testified, though quite shut out from view by driving snow. There was nothing to do but follow the shore, a long way around, and off they started. Here and there was an opportunity to cut across small coves and inlets where the ice was safe enough, and at two o'clock in the afternoon they reached Crow Island, a small island three-quarters of a mile from the mainland. Under the shelter of scraggly fir trees on Crow Island an attempt was made to light a fire and boil the kettle for tea. But there was no protection from the blizzard. They failed to get the fire, and finally compelled by the elements to give it up they took a compass course for a small settlement on the mainland. The instinct of the dogs led them straight, and when the men had almost despaired of locating the settlement they suddenly drew up before a snug cottage. A cup of steaming tea, a bit to eat, and Grenfell and his men were off again. Cape Norman was not far away, and that evening they reached the fisherman's home. The joy and thankfulness of the young fisherman was beyond bounds. His wife was in agony and in a critical condition. Doctor Grenfell relieved her pain at once, and by skillful treatment in due time restored her to health. Had he hesitated to face the storm or had he been made of less heroic stuff and permitted himself to be driven back by the blizzard, she would have died. Indeed there are few men on the coast that would have ventured out in that storm. But he went and he saved the woman's life, and today that young fisherman's wife is as well and happy as ever she could be, and she and her husband will forever be grateful to Doctor Grenfell for his heroic struggle to reach them. In a few days Doctor Grenfell was back again in St. Anthony, and then a telegram came calling him to a village to the south. The weather was fair. His own splendid team was at home, and he was going through a region where settlements were closer together than on the Cape Norman trail. The first night was spent in his sleeping bag stretched on the floor of a small building kept open for the convenience of travelers with dog sledges. The next night he was comfortably housed in a little cabin in the woods, also used for the convenience of travelers, and generally each night he was quite as well housed. He was going now to see a lad of fifteen whose thigh had been broken while steering a komatik down a steep hill. Dog driving, as we have seen, is frequently a dangerous occupation, and this young fellow had suffered. In every settlement Doctor Grenfell was hailed by folk who needed a doctor. There was one broken leg that required attention, one man had a broken knee cap. In one house he found a young woman dying of consumption. There were many cases of Spanish influenza and several people dangerously ill with bronchial pneumonia. There was one little blind child later taken to the hospital at St. Anthony to undergo an operation to restore her sight. In the course of that single journey he treated eighty-six different cases, and but for his fortunate coming none of them could have had a doctor's care. He found the lad Ambrose suffering intense pain. After his accident the lad had been carried home by a friend. His people did not know that the thigh was broken, and when it swelled they rubbed and bandaged it. The pain grew almost too great for the boy to bear. A priest passing through the settlement advised them to put the leg in splints. This was done, but no padding was used, which, as every Boy Scout knows, was a serious omission. Boards were used as splints, extending from thigh to heel and they cut into the flesh, causing painful sores. The priest had gone, and though Ambrose was suffering so intensely that he could not sleep at night no one dared remove the splints. The neighbors declared the lad's suffering was caused by the pain from the injured thigh coming out at the heel. Ambrose was in a terrible condition when Doctor Grenfell arrived. The pain had been continuous and for a long time he had not slept. The broken thigh had knit in a bowed position, leaving that leg three inches shorter than the other. It was necessary to re-break the thigh to straighten it. Doctor Grenfell could not do this without assistance. There was but one thing to do, take the lad to St. Anthony hospital. A special team and komatik would be required for the journey, but the lad's father had no dogs, and with a family of ten children to support, in addition to Ambrose, no money with which to hire one. A friend came to the rescue and volunteered to haul the lad to the hospital. It was a journey of sixty miles. The trail from the village where Ambrose lived rose over a high range of hills. The snow was deep and the traveling hard, and several men turned out to help the dogs haul the komatik to the summit. Then, with Doctor Grenfell's sledge ahead to break the trail, and the other following with the helpless lad packed in a box they set out, Ambrose's father on snowshoes walking by the side of the komatik to offer his boy any assistance the lad might need. The next morning Doctor Grenfell was delayed with patients and the other komatik went ahead, only to be lost and to finally turn back on the trail until they met Grenfell's komatik, which was searching for them. The cold was bitter and terrible that day. The men on snowshoes were comfortable enough with their hard exercise, but it was almost impossible to keep poor Ambrose from freezing in spite of heavy covering. Now and again his father had to remove the moccasins from Ambrose's feet and rub them briskly with bare hands to restore circulation. He even removed the warm mittens from his own hands and gave them to Ambrose to pull on over the ones he already wore. At midday a halt was made to "boil the kettle," and by the side of the big fire that was built in the shelter of the forest Ambrose was restored to comparative comfort. On the trail again it was colder than ever in the afternoon, and they thought the lad, though he never once uttered a complaint, would freeze before they could reach the cabin that was to shelter them for the night. At last the cabin was reached. A fire was hurriedly built in the stove, and with much rubbing of hands and legs and feet, and a roaring fire, he was made so comfortable that he could eat, and a fine supper they had for him. At the place where they stopped the previous night Doctor Grenfell had mentioned that the oven that sat on the stove in this cabin, was worn out. One of the men immediately went out, procured some corrugated iron, pounded it flat with the back of an ax and then proceeded to make an oven for Grenfell to take with him on his komatik. Upon opening the oven now it was found that the good friend who had made the oven had packed it full of rabbits and ptarmigans, the white partridge or grouse of the north. In a little while a delicious stew was sending forth its appetizing odors. A pan of nicely browned hot biscuits, freshly baked in the new oven and a kettle of steaming tea completed a feast that would have tempted anyone's appetite, and Ambrose, for the first time in many a day relieved of much of his pain, through Doctor Grenfell's ministrations, enjoyed it immensely, and for the first time in many a night, followed his meal with refreshing sleep. The next morning the cold was more intense than ever. Ambrose was wrapped in every blanket they had and, as additional protection, Doctor Grenfell stowed him away in his own sleeping bag, and packed him on the sledge. Off they went on the trail again. Late that afternoon they crossed a big bay, and St. Anthony was but eighteen mile away. When Ambrose was made comfortable in a settler's cottage, Doctor Grenfell directed that he was to be brought on to the hospital the following morning, and he himself much needed at the hospital pushed forward at once, arriving at St. Anthony long after night. But before morning the worst storm of the winter broke upon them. The buildings at St. Anthony rocked in the gale until the maids on the top floor of the hospital said they were seasick. And when the storm was over the snow was so deep that men with snowshoes walked from the gigantic snow banks to some of the roofs which were on a level with the drifts. Tunnels had to be cut through the snow to doors. The storm delayed Ambrose and his friends, but after the weather cleared their komatik appeared. The lad was put on the operating table, the thigh re-broken and properly set by Doctor Grenfell, and the leg brought down to its proper length. Presently the time came when Grenfell was able to tell the father that, after all their fears, Ambrose was not to be a cripple and that he would be as strong and nimble as ever he was. This was actually the case. Doctor Grenfell is a remarkably skillful surgeon and he had wrought a miracle. The thankful and relieved father shed tears of joy. "When I gets un," said he, his voice choked by emotion, "I'll send five dollars for the hospital." Five dollars, to Ambrose's father, was a lot of money. Winter storms, as we have seen, never hold Doctor Grenfell back when he is called to the sick and injured. Many times he has broken through the sea ice, and many times he has narrowly escaped death. The story of a few of these experiences would fill a volume of rattling fine adventure. I am tempted to go on with them. One of these big adventures at least we must not pass by. As we shall see in the next chapter, it came dangerously near being his last one. XX LOST ON THE ICE FLOE One day in April several years ago, Dr. Grenfell, who was at the time at St. Anthony Hospital, received an urgent call to visit a sick man two days' journey with dogs to the southward. The patient was dangerously ill. No time was to be lost, for delay might cost the man's life. It is still winter in northern Newfoundland in April, though the days are growing long and at midday the sun, climbing high now in the heavens, sends forth a genial warmth that softens the snow. At this season winds spring up suddenly and unexpectedly, and blow with tremendous velocity. Sometimes the winds are accompanied by squalls of rain or snow, with a sudden fall in temperature, and an off-shore wind is quite certain to break up the ice that has covered the bays all winter, and to send it abroad in pans upon the wide Atlantic, to melt presently and disappear. This breaking up of the ice sometimes comes so suddenly that traveling with dogs upon the frozen bays at this season is a hazardous undertaking. Scarcely a year passes that some one is not lost. Sometimes men are carried far to sea on ice pans and are never heard from again. A man must know the trails to travel with dogs along this rough coast. Much better progress is made traveling upon sea ice than on land trails, for the latter are usually up and down over rocky hills and through entangling brush and forest, while the former is a smooth straight-away course. When the ice is rotted by the sun's heat, however, and is covered by deep slush, and is broken by dangerous holes and open leads that cannot safely be crossed, the driver keeps close to shore, and is sometimes forced to turn to the land and leave the ice altogether. When the ice is good and sound the dog traveler only leaves it to cross necks of land separating bays and inlets, where distance may be shortened, and makes as straight a course across the frozen bays as possible. There is a great temptation always, even when the ice is in poor condition, to cross it and "take a chance," which usually means a considerable risk, rather than travel the long course around shore. Long experience at dog travel, instead of breeding greater caution in the men of the coast, leads them to take risks from which the less experienced man would shrink. These were the conditions when the call came that April day to Dr. Grenfell. Traveling at this season was, at best, attended by risk. But this man's life depended upon his going, and no risk could be permitted to stand in the way of duty. Without delay he packed his komatik box with medicines, bandages and instruments. It was certain he would have many calls, both for medical and surgical attention, from the scattered cottages he should pass, and on these expeditions he always travels fully prepared to meet any ordinary emergency from administering pills to amputating a leg or an arm. He also packed in the box a supply of provisions and his usual cooking kit. Only in cases of stress do men take long journeys with dogs alone, but there was no man about the hospital at this time that Grenfell could take with him as a traveling companion and to assist him, and no time to wait for any one, and so, quite alone and driving his own team, he set out upon his journey. It was mid-afternoon when he "broke" his komatik loose, and his dogs, eager for the journey, turned down upon the trail at a run. The dogs were fresh and in the pink of condition, and many miles were behind him when he halted his team at dusk before a fisherman's cottage. Here he spent the night, and the following morning, bright and early, harnessed his dogs and was again hurrying forward. The morning was fine and snappy. The snow, frozen and crisp, gave the dogs good footing. The komatik slid freely over the surface. Dr. Grenfell urged the animals forward that they might take all the advantage possible of the good sledging before the heat of the midday sun should soften the snow and make the hauling hard. The fisherman's cottage where he had spent the night was on the shores of a deep inlet, and a few rods beyond the cottage the trail turned down upon the inlet ice, and here took a straight course across the ice to the opposite shore, some five miles distant, where it plunged into the forest to cross another neck of land. A light breeze was coming in from the sea, the ice had every appearance of being solid and secure, and Dr. Grenfell dove out upon it for a straight line across. To have followed the shore would have increased the distance to nearly thirty miles. Everything went well until perhaps half the distance had been covered. Then suddenly there came a shift of wind, and Grenfell discovered, with some apprehension, that a stiff breeze was rising, and now blowing from land toward the sea, instead of from the sea toward the land as it had done when he started early in the morning from the fisherman's cottage. Still the ice was firm enough, and in any case there was no advantage to be had by turning back, for he was as near one shore as the other. Already the surface of the ice, which, with several warm days, had become more or less porous and rotten, was covered with deep slush. The western sky was now blackened by heavy wind clouds, and with scarce any warning the breeze developed into a gale. Forcing his dogs forward at their best pace, while he ran by the side of the komatik, he soon put another mile behind him. Before him the shore loomed up, and did not seem far away. But every minute counted. It was evident the ice could not stand the strain of the wind much longer. Presently one of Grenfell's feet went through where slush covered an opening crack. He shouted at the dogs, but, buffeted by wind and floundering through slush, they could travel no faster though they made every effort to do so, for they, no less perhaps than their master, realized the danger that threatened them. Then, suddenly, the ice went asunder, not in large pans as it would have done earlier in the winter when it was stout and hard, but in a mass of small pieces, with only now and again a small pan. Grenfell and the dogs found themselves floundering in a sea of slush ice that would not bear their weight. The faithful dogs had done their best, but their best had not been good enough. With super-human effort Grenfell managed to cut their traces and set them free from the komatik, which was pulling them down. Even now, with his own life in the gravest peril, he thought of them. When the dogs were freed, Grenfell succeeded in clambering upon a small ice pan that was scarce large enough to bear his weight, and for the moment was safe. But the poor dogs, much more frightened than their master, and looking to him for protection, climbed upon the pan with him, and with this added weight it sank from under him. Swimming in the ice-clogged water must have been well nigh impossible. The shock of the ice-cold water itself, even had there been no ice, was enough to paralyze a man. But Grenfell, accustomed to cold, and with nerves of iron as a result of keeping his body always in the pink of physical condition, succeeded finally in reaching a pan that would support both himself and the dogs. The animals followed him and took refuge at his feet. Standing upon the pan, with the dogs huddled about him, he scanned the naked shores, but no man or sign of human life was to be seen. How long his own pan would hold together was a question, for the broken ice, grinding against it, would steadily eat it away. There was a steady drift of the ice toward the open sea. The wind was bitterly cold. There was nothing to eat for himself and nothing to feed the dogs, for the loaded komatik had long since disappeared beneath the surface of the sea. Exposed to the frigid wind, wet to the skin, and with no other protection than the clothes upon his back, it seemed inevitable that the cold would presently benumb him and that he would perish from it even though his pan withstood the wearing effects of the water. The pan was too small to admit of sufficient exercise to keep up the circulation of blood, and though he slapped his arms around his shoulders and stamped his feet, a deadening numbness was crawling over him as the sun began to sink in the west and cold increased. Though, in the end he might drown, Grenfell determined to live as long as he could. Perhaps this was a test of courage that God had given him! It is a man's duty, whatever befalls him, to fight for life to the last ditch, and live as long as he can. Most men, placed as Grenfell was placed, would have sunk down in despair, and said: "It's all over! I've done the best I could!" And there they would have waited for death to find them. When a man is driven to the wall, as Grenfell was, it is easier to die than live. When God brings a man face to face with death, He robs death of all its terrors, and when that time comes it is no harder for a man who has lived right with God to die than it is for him to lie down at night and sleep. But Grenfell was never a quitter. He was going to fight it out now with the elements as best he could with what he had at hand. These northern dogs, when driven to desperation by hunger, will turn upon their best friend and master, and here was another danger. If he and the dogs survived the night and another day, what would the dogs do? Then it would be, as Grenfell knew full well, his life or theirs. The dogs wore good warm coats of fur, and if he had a coat made of dog skins it would keep him warm enough to protect his life, at least, from the cold. Now the animals were docile enough. Clustered about his feet, they were looking up into his face expectantly and confidently. He loved them as a good man always loves the beasts that serve him. They had hauled him over many a weary mile of snow and ice, and had been his companions and shared with him the hardships of many a winter's storm. But it was his life or theirs. If he were to survive the night, some of the dogs must be sacrificed. In all probability he and they would be drowned anyway before another night fell upon the world. There was no time to be lost in vain regrets and indecision. Grenfell drew his sheath knife, and as hard as we know it was for him, slaughtered three of the animals. This done, he removed their pelts, and wrapping the skins about him, huddled down among the living dogs for a night of long, tedious hours of waiting and uncertainty, until another day should break. That must have been a period of terrible suffering for Grenfell, but he had a stout heart and he survived it. He has said that the dog skins saved his life, and without them he certainly would have perished. The ice pan still held together, and with a new day came fresh hope of the possibility of rescue. The coast was still well in sight, and there was a chance that a change of wind might drive the pan toward it on an incoming tide. At this season, too, the men of the coast were out scanning the sea for "signs" of seals, and some of them might see him. This thought suggested that if he could erect a signal on a pole, it would attract attention more readily. He had no pole, and he thought at first no means of raising the signal, which was, indeed, necessary, for at that distance from shore only a moving signal would be likely to attract the attention of even the keenly observant fishermen. Then his eyes fell upon the carcasses of the three dogs with their stiff legs sticking up. He drew his sheath knife and went at them immediately. In a little while he had severed the legs from the bodies and stripped the flesh from the bones. Now with pieces of dog harness he lashed the legs together, and presently had a serviceable pole, but one which must have been far from straight. Elated with the result of his experiment, he hastily stripped the shirt from his back, fastened it to one end of his staff, and raising it over his head began moving it back and forth. It was an ingenious idea to make a flagstaff from the bones of dogs' legs. Hardly one man in a thousand would have thought of it. It was an exemplification of Grenfell's resourcefulness, and in the end it saved his life. As he had hoped, men were out upon the rocky bluffs scanning the sea for seals. The keen eyes of one of them discovered, far away, something dark and unusual. The men of this land never take anything for granted. It is a part of the training of the woodsman and seaman to identify any unusual movement or object, or to trace any unusual sound, before he is satisfied to let it pass unheeded. Centering his attention upon the distant object the man distinguished a movement back and forth. Nothing but a man could make such a movement he knew, and he also knew that any man out there was in grave danger. He called some other fishermen, manned a boat and Dr. Grenfell and his surviving dogs were rescued. XXI WRECKED AND ADRIFT It happened that it was necessary for Dr. Grenfell to go to New York one spring three or four years ago. Men interested in raising funds to support the Labrador and Newfoundland hospitals were to hold a meeting, and it was essential that he attend the meeting and tell them of the work on the coast, and what he needed to carry it on. This meeting was to have been held in May, and to reach New York in season to attend it Dr. Grenfell decided to leave St. Anthony Hospital, where he then was, toward the end of April, for in any case traveling would be slow. It was his plan to travel northward, by dog team, to the Straits of Belle Isle, thence westward along the shores, and finally southward, down the western coast of Newfoundland, to Port Aux Basque, from which point a steamer would carry him over to North Sydney, in Nova Scotia. There he could get a train and direct railway connections to New York. There is an excellent, and ordinarily, at this season, an expeditious route for dog travel down the western coast of Newfoundland, and Grenfell anticipated no difficulties. Just as he was ready to start a blizzard set in with a northeast gale, and smash! went the ice. This put an end to dog travel. There was but one alternative, and that was by boat. Traveling along the coast in a small boat is pretty exciting and sometimes perilous when you have to navigate the boat through narrow lanes of water, with land ice on one side and the big Arctic ice pack on the other, and a shift of wind is likely to send the pack driving in upon you before you can get out of the way. And if the ice pack catches you, that's the end of it, for your boat will be ground up like a grain of wheat between mill stones, and there you are, stranded upon the ice, and as like as not cut off from land, too. But there was no other way to get to that meeting in New York, and Grenfell was determined to get there. And so, when the blizzard had passed he got out a small motor boat, and made ready for the journey. If he could reach a point several days' journey by boat to the southward, he could leave the boat and travel one hundred miles on foot overland to the railroad. This hike of one hundred miles, with provisions and equipment on his back, was a tremendous journey in itself. It would not be on a beaten road, but through an unpopulated wilderness still lying deep under winter snows. To Grenfell, however, it would be but an incident in his active life. He was accustomed to following a dog team, and that hardens a man for nearly any physical effort. It requires that a man keep at a trot the livelong day, and it demands a good heart and good lungs and staying powers and plenty of grit, and Grenfell was well equipped with all of these. The menacing Arctic ice pack lay a mile or so seaward when Grenfell and one companion turned their backs on St. Anthony, and the motor boat chugged southward, out of the harbor and along the coast. For a time all went well, and then an easterly wind sprang up and there followed a touch-and-go game between Dr. Grenfell and the ice. In an attempt to dodge the ice the boat struck upon rocks. This caused some damage to her bottom, but not sufficient to incapacitate her, as it was found the hole could be plugged. The weather turned bitterly cold, and the circulating pipes of the motor froze and burst. This was a more serious accident, but it was temporarily repaired while Grenfell bivouaced ashore, sleeping at night under the stars with a bed of juniper boughs for a mattress and an open fire to keep him warm. Ice now blocked the way to the southward, though open leads of water to the northward offered opportunity to retreat, and, with the motor boat in a crippled condition, it was decided to return to St. Anthony and make an attempt, with fresh equipment, to try a route through the Straits of Belle Isle. They were still some miles from St. Anthony when they found it necessary to abandon the motor boat in one of the small harbor settlements. Leaving it in charge of the people, Grenfell borrowed a small rowboat. Rowing the small boat through open lanes and hauling it over obstructing ice pans they made slow progress and the month of May was nearing its close when one day the pack suddenly drove in upon them. They were fairly caught. Ice surrounded them on every side. The boat was in imminent danger of being crushed before they realized their danger. Grenfell and his companion sprang from the boat to a pan, and seizing the prow of the boat hauled upon it with the energy of desperation. They succeeded in raising the prow upon the ice, but they were too late. The edge of the ice was high and the pans were moving rapidly, and to their chagrin they heard a smashing and splintering of wood, and the next instant were aware that the stern of the boat had been completely bitten off and that they were adrift on an ice pan, cut off from the land by open water. An inspection of the boat proved that it was wrecked beyond repair. All of the after part had been cut off and ground to pulp between the ice pans. In the distance, to the westward, rose the coast, a grim outline of rocky bluffs. Between them and the shore the sea was dotted with pans and pieces of ice, separated by canals of black water. The men looked at each other in consternation as they realized that they had no means of reaching land and safety, and that a few hours might find them far out on the Atlantic. In the hope of attracting attention, Dr. Grenfell and William Taylor, his companion, fired their guns at regular intervals. Expectantly they waited, but there was no answering signal from shore and no sign of life anywhere within their vision. For a long while they waited and watched and signalled. With a turn in the tide it became evident, finally, that the pan on which they were marooned was drifting slowly seaward. If this continued they would soon be out of sight of land, and then all hope of rescue would vanish. "I'll tell you what I'll do, now," suggested Taylor. "I'll copy toward shore. I'll try to get close enough for some one to see me." To "copy" is to jump from one pan or piece of ice to another. The gaps of water separating them are sometimes wide, and a man must be a good jumper who lands. Some of the pieces of ice are quite too small to bear a man's weight, and he must leap instantly to the next or he will sink with the ice. It is perilous work at best, and much too dangerous for any one to attempt without much practice and experience. They had a boat hook with them, and taking it to assist in the long leaps, Taylor started shore-ward. Dr. Grenfell watched him anxiously as he sprang from pan to pan making a zigzag course toward shore, now and again taking hair-raising risks, sometimes resting for a moment on a substantial pan while he looked ahead to select his route, then running, and using the boat hook as a vaulting pole, spanning a wide chasm. Then, suddenly, Dr. Grenfell saw him totter, throw up his hands and disappear beneath the surface of the water. In a hazardous leap he had missed his footing, or a small cake of ice had turned under his weight. XXII SAVING A LIFE It was a terrible moment for Grenfell when he saw his friend disappear beneath the icy waves. Would the cold so paralyze him as to render him helpless? Would he be caught under an ice pan? A hundred such thoughts flashed through Grenfell's mind as he stood, impotent to help because of the distance between them. Then to his great joy he saw Taylor rise to the surface and scramble out upon a pan in safety. The ice was too far separated now for Taylor either to advance or retreat, and the pan upon which he had taken refuge began a rapid drift seaward. He had made a valiant effort, but the attempt had failed. Grenfell resumed firing his gun, still hoping that some one might hear it and come to their rescue. Time passed and Taylor drifted abreast of Grenfell and finally drifted past him. Then, in the far distance, Grenfell glimpsed the flash of an oar. The flash was repeated with rhythmic regularity. The outlines of a boat came into view. The men shouted the good news to each other. Help was coming! The signals had been heard, and in due time, and with much thankfulness, Dr. Grenfell and William Taylor were safely in the boat and on their way to St. Anthony. Not long after his return to St. Anthony, the ice drifted eastward and an open strip of sea appeared leading northward toward the Straits of Belle Isle. The ice was now a full mile off shore, it was the beginning of June, and Dr. Grenfell, expecting that at this late season the Straits would be open for navigation, had the _Strathcona_ made ready for sea at once, and with high hopes, stowed the anchor and steamed northward. It was his plan to have the vessel carry him westward through the Straits and land him at some port on the west coast of Newfoundland where he could take passage on the regular mail boat, which he had been advised had begun its summer service. Thence he could continue his trip to New York, where the important meeting had been adjourned several times in expectation of his coming. But again he was doomed to disappointment. The Straits were found to be packed from shore to shore with heavy floe ice and clogged with icebergs. Before the _Strathcona_ could make her escape she was surrounded by ice and frozen tight and fast into the floe. [Illustration: "THE HOSPITAL SHIP. STRATHCONA"] Grenfell was determined to reach New York and attend that meeting. It was supremely important that he do so. Now there was but one way to reach the mail boat, and that was to walk. The distance to the nearest port of call was ninety miles. Making up a pack of food, cooking utensils, bedding and a suit of clothes that would permit him to present a civilized and respectable appearance when he reached New York, he made ready for the long overland journey. Shouldering his big pack, he bade goodbye to Mrs. Grenfell, who was with him on the _Strathcona_, and to the crew, and set out over the ice pack to the land. Three days later Dr. Grenfell reached the harbor where he was to board the mail boat upon her arrival. He was wearied and stiff in his joints after the hard overland hike with a heavy pack on his back, and looking forward to rest and a good meal, he went directly to the home of a mission clergyman living in the little village. His welcome was hearty, as a welcome always is on this coast. The clergyman showered him with kindnesses. A pot of steaming tea and an appetizing meal was on the table in a jiffy. It was luxury after the long days on the trail and Grenfell sat down with anticipation of keen enjoyment. At the moment that Grenfell seated himself the door opened unceremoniously, and an excited fisherman burst into the room with the exclamation: "For God's sake, some one come! Come and save my brother's life! He's bleeding to death!" Dr. Grenfell learned in a few hurried inquiries that the man's brother had accidentally shot his leg nearly off an hour before and was already in a comatose condition from loss of blood. The family lived five miles distant, and the only way to reach the cabin where the wounded man lay was on foot. Grenfell forgot all about the steaming tea, the good meal and rest. A moment's delay might cost the man his life. Grenfell ran. Over that five miles of broken country he ran as he had never run before, with the half-frenzied fisherman leading the way. The wounded man was a young fellow of twenty. Dr. Grenfell knew him well. He was a hero of the world war. He had volunteered when a mere boy, served bravely through four years of the terrible conflict and though he had taken part in many of the great battles he had lived to return to his home and his fishing. "I never knew a better cure for stiffness than a splendid chance for serving," said Grenfell in referring to that run from the missionary's home to the fisherman's cottage. All his stiff joints and weary muscles were forgotten as he ran. When Dr. Grenfell entered the room where the man lay, he found the young fisherman soaked with blood and sea water, lying stretched upon a hard table. The remnant of his shattered leg rested upon a feather pillow and was strung up to the ceiling in an effort to stop the flow of blood. He was moaning, but was practically unconscious, and barely alive. The room was crowded to suffocation with weeping relatives and sympathetic neighbors. Dr. Grenfell cleared it at once. The place was small and the light poor and a difficult place in which to treat so critical a case or to operate successfully. He had no surgical instruments or medicines, and even for him, accustomed as he was to work under handicaps and difficulties, a serious problem confronted him. The man was so far gone that an operation seemed hopeless, but nevertheless it was worth trying. Grenfell sent messengers far and near for reserve supplies that he had left at various points to be drawn upon in cases of emergency, and in a little while had at his command some opiates, a small amount of ether, some silk for ligatures, some crude substitutes for instruments, and the supply of communal wine from the missionary's little church, five miles away. While these things had been gathered in, the flow of blood had been abated by the use of a tourniquet. There was scarcely enough ether to be of use, but with the assistance of two men Dr. Grenfell applied it and operated. One of the assistants fainted, but the other stuck faithfully to his post, and with a cool head and steady hand did Dr. Grenfell's bidding. The operation was performed successfully, and the young soldier's life was saved through Dr. Grenfell's skillful treatment. Today this fisherman has but one leg, but he is well and happy and a useful man in the world. Fate takes a hand in our lives sometimes, and plays strange pranks with us. In New York a group of gentlemen were impatiently awaiting the arrival of Dr. Grenfell, while he, in an isolated cottage on the rugged coast of Northern Newfoundland was saving a fisherman's life, and in the importance and joy of this service had perhaps for the time quite forgotten the gentlemen and the meeting and even New York. Perhaps Providence had a hand in it all. If the water lanes had not closed, and the motor boat had not been damaged, and Dr. Grenfell and William Taylor had not been sent adrift on the ice, and no obstacles had stood in the way of Dr. Grenfell's journey to New York, and the _Strathcona_ had not been frozen into the ice pack, in all probability this brave young soldier and fisherman would have died. There is no doubt that _he_ believes God set the stage to send Dr. Grenfell on that ninety-mile hike. XXIII REINDEER AND OTHER THINGS Hunting in a northern wilderness is never to be depended upon. Sometimes game is plentiful, and sometimes it is scarcely to be had at all. This is the case both with fur bearing animals and food game. So it is in Labrador. When I have been in that country I have depended upon my gun to get my living, just as the Indians do. One year I all but starved to death, because caribou and other game was scarce. Other years I have lived in plenty, with a caribou to shoot whenever I needed meat. In Labrador the Eskimos and liveyeres rely upon the seals to supply them with the greater part of their dog feed, supplemented by fish, cod heads and nearly any offal. The Eskimos eat seal meat, too, with a fine relish, both cooked and raw, and when the seals are not too old their meat, properly cooked, is very good eating indeed for anybody. The Indians rely on the caribou, or wild reindeer, to furnish their chief food supply, and to a large extent the caribou is also the chief meat animal of the liveyeres. Sometimes caribou are plentiful enough on certain sections of the coast north of Hamilton Inlet. I remember that in January, 1903, an immense herd came out to the coast north of Hamilton Inlet, They passed in thousands in front of a liveyere's cabin, and standing in his door the liveyere shot with his rifle more than one hundred of them, only stopping his slaughter when his last cartridge was used. From up and down the coast for a hundred miles Eskimos and liveyeres came with dogs and komatik to haul the carcasses to their homes, for the liveyere who killed the animals gave to those who had killed none all that he could not use himself, and none was wasted. That was a year of plenty. Oftener than not no caribou come within reach of the folk that live on the coast, and in these frequent seasons of scarcity the only meat they have in winter is the salt pork they buy at the trading posts, if they have the means to buy it, together with the rabbits and grouse they hunt, and, in the wooded districts, an occasional porcupine. Now and again, to be sure, a polar bear is killed, but this is seldom. Owls are eaten with no less relish than partridges, and lynx meat is excellent, as I can testify from experience. But the smaller game is not sufficient to supply the needs and it occurred to Doctor Grenfell that, if the Lapland reindeer could be introduced, this animal would not only prove superior to the dog for driving, but would also furnish a regular supply of meat to the people, and also milk for the babies. The domestic reindeer is a species of caribou. In other words, the caribou is the wild reindeer. The domestic and the wild animals eat the same food, the gray caribou moss, which carpets northern Newfoundland and the whole of Labrador, furnishing an inexhaustible supply of forage everywhere in forest and in barrens. The Lapland reindeer had been introduced into Alaska and northwestern Canada with great success. They would thrive equally well in Labrador and Newfoundland. With this in mind Doctor Grenfell learned all he could about reindeer and reindeer raising. The more he studied the subject the better convinced he was that domesticated reindeer introduced into Labrador would prove a boon to the people. He appealed to some of his generous friends and they subscribed sufficient money to undertake the experiment. In 1907 three hundred reindeer were purchased and landed safely at St. Anthony, Newfoundland. With experienced Lapland herders to care for them they were turned loose in the open country. For a time the herd grew and thrived and the prospects for complete success of the experiment were bright. It was Doctor Grenfell's policy to first demonstrate the usefulness of reindeer in Newfoundland, and finally transfer a part of the herd to Labrador. The great difficulty that stood in the way of rearing the animals in eastern Labrador was the vicious wolf dogs. It was obvious that dogs and reindeer could not live together, for the dogs would hunt and kill the inoffensive reindeer just as their primitive progenitors, the wolves, hunt and kill the wild caribou. Because of the dogs, no domestic animals can be kept in eastern Labrador. Once Malcolm MacLean, a Scotch settler at Carter's Basin, in Hamilton Inlet, imported a cow. He built a strong stable for it adjoining his cabin. Twelve miles away, at Northwest River, the dogs one winter night when the Inlet had frozen sniffed the air blowing across the ice. They smelled the cow. Like a pack of wolves they were off. They trailed the scent those twelve miles over the ice to the door of the stable where Malcolm's cow was munching wild hay. They broke down the stable door, and before Malcolm was aware of what was taking place the cow was killed and partly devoured. For generations untold, Labradormen have kept dogs for hauling their loads and the dogs have served them well. They were not willing to substitute reindeer. They knew their dogs and they did not know the reindeer, and they refused to kill their dogs. To educate them to the change it was evident would be a long process. In the meantime the herd in Newfoundland was growing. In 1911 it numbered one thousand head, and in 1912 approximated thirteen hundred. Then an epidemic attacked them and numbers died. Following this, illegitimate hunting of the animals began, and without proper means of guarding them Doctor Grenfell decided to turn them over to the Canadian Government. During those strenuous years of war, when food was so scarce, a good many of the herd had been killed by poachers. Perhaps we cannot blame the poachers, for when a man's family is hungry he will go to lengths to get food for his children, and Doctor Grenfell recognized the stress of circumstances that led men to kill his animals and carry off the meat. The epidemic, as stated, had proved fatal to a considerable number of the animals, and the herd therefore was much reduced in size. The remnant were corralled in 1918, and shipped to the Canadian Government at St. Augustine, in southern Labrador, where they are now thriving and promise marvelous results. Some day Doctor Grenfell's efforts with reindeer will prove a great success at least in southern Labrador, where the dogs are less vicious, and play a less important part in the life of the people than on the eastern coast. Upon these thousands of acres of uncultivated and otherwise useless land the reindeer will multiply until they will not only feed the people of Labrador but will become no small part of the meat supply of eastern Canada. His introduction of reindeer into southern Labrador will be remembered as one of the great acts of his great life of activity. Their introduction was the introduction of an industry that will in time place the people of this section in a position of thrifty independence. There never was yet a man with any degree of self-respect who did not wish to pay his own way in the world. Every real man wishes to stand squarely upon his own feet, and pay for what he receives. To accept charity from others always makes a man feel that he has lost out in the battle of life. It robs him of ambition for future effort and of self-reliance and self-respect. Doctor Grenfell has always recognized this human characteristic. It was evident to him when he entered the mission field in Labrador that in seasons when the fisheries failed and no fur could be trapped a great many of the people in Labrador and some in northern Newfoundland would be left without a means of earning their living. There are no factories there and no work to be had except at the fisheries in the summer, trapping in winter and the brief seal hunt in the spring and fall. When any of these fail, the pantries are empty and the men and their families must suffer. But most of the people are too proud to admit their poverty when a season of poverty comes to them. They are eager for work and willing and ready always to turn their hand to anything that offers a chance to earn a dollar. To provide for such emergencies Grenfell, many years ago, established a lumber camp in the north of Newfoundland, and at Canada Bay in the extreme northeast a ship building yard where schooners and other small craft could be built, and nearly everyone out of work could find employment. In southern and eastern Labrador, where wood is to be had for the cutting, he arranged to purchase such wood as the people might deliver to his vessels. In return for the wood he gave clothing and other supplies. Then came mat and rug weaving, spinning and knitting and basket making. Through Grenfell's efforts volunteer teachers went north in summers to teach the people these useful arts. He supplied looms. Every one was eager to learn and today Labrador women are making rugs, baskets and various saleable articles in their homes, and Grenfell sells for them in the "States" and Canada all they make. Thus a new means of earning a livelihood was opened to the women, where formerly there was nothing to which they could turn their hand to earn money when the men were away at the hunting and trapping. Mrs. Grenfell has more recently introduced the art of making artificial flowers. The women learned it readily, and their product is quite equal to that of the French makers. Doctor Grenfell had been many years on the coast before he was married. Mrs. Grenfell was Miss Anna MacCalahan, of Chicago. Upon her marriage to Doctor Grenfell, Mrs. Grenfell went with him to his northern field. She cruises with him on his hospital ship, the _Strathcona_, acting as his secretary, braving stormy seas, and working for the people with all his own self-sacrificing devotion. She is a noble inspiration in his great work, and the "mother of the coast." Doctor Grenfell has established a school at St. Anthony open not only to the orphans of the children's home but to all the children of the coast. There are schools on the Labrador also, connected with the mission. It is a fine thing to see the eagerness of the Labrador boys and girls to learn. They are offered an opportunity through Doctor Grenfell's thoughtfulness that their parents never had and they appreciate it. It is no exaggeration to say that they enjoy their schools quite as much as our boys and girls enjoy moving pictures, and they give as close attention to their books and to the instruction as any of us would give to a picture. They look upon the school as a fine gift, as indeed it is. The teachers are giving them something every day--a much finer thing than a new sled or a new doll--knowledge that they will carry with them all their lives and that they can use constantly. And so it happens that study is not work to them. How much Doctor Grenfell has done for the Labrador! How much he is doing every day! How much more he would do if those who have in abundance would give but a little more to aid him! How much happiness he has spread and is spreading in that northland! XXIV THE SAME GRENFELL Doctor Grenfell is not alone the doctor of the coast. He is also a duly appointed magistrate, and wherever he happens to be on Sundays, where there is no preacher to conduct religious services, and it rarely happens there is one, for preachers are scarce on the coast, he takes the preacher's place. It does not matter whether it is a Church of England, a Presbyterian, a Methodist, or a Baptist congregation, he speaks to the people and conducts the service with fine unsectarian religious devotion. Grenfell is a deeply religious man, and in his religious life there is no buncomb or humbug. He lives what he preaches. In his audiences at his Sunday services are Protestants and Roman Catholics alike, and they all love him and will travel far to hear him. Norman Duncan, in that splendid book, "Doctor Grenfell's Parish," tells the story of a man who had committed a great wrong, amounting to a crime. The man was brought before Grenfell, as Labrador magistrate. He acknowledged his crime, but was defiant. The man cursed the doctor. "You will do as I tell you," said the Doctor, "or I will put you under arrest, and lock you up." The man laughed, and called Doctor Grenfell's attention to the fact that he was outside his judicial district, and had no power to make the arrest. "Never mind," warned the Doctor quietly. "I have a crew strong enough to take you into my district." The man retorted that he, also, had a crew. "Are the men of your crew loyal enough to fight for you?" asked the Doctor. "There's going to be a fight if you don't submit without it. This is what you must do," he continued. "You will come to the church service at seven o'clock on Sunday evening, and before the whole congregation you will confess your crime." Again the man cursed the Doctor and defied him. It happened that this man was a rich trader and felt his power. The man did not appear at the church on Sunday evening. Doctor Grenfell announced to the congregation that the man was to appear to confess and receive judgment, and he asked every one to keep his seat while he went to fetch the fellow. He found the man in a neighbor's house, surrounded by his friends. It was evident the man's crew had no mind to fight for him, they knew he was guilty. The man was praying, perhaps to soften the Doctor's heart. [Illustration: "I HAVE A CREW STRONG ENOUGH TO TAKE YOU INTO MY DISTRICT"] "Prayer is a good thing in its place," said the Doctor, "but it doesn't 'go' here. Come with me." The man, like a whipped dog, went with the Doctor. Entering the meeting room, he stood before the waiting congregation and made a complete confession. "You deserve the punishment of man and God?" asked the Doctor. "I do," said the man, no longer defiant. The Doctor told him that God would forgive him if he truly repented, but that the people, being human, could not, for he had wronged them sorely. Then he charged the people that for a whole year none of them should speak or deal with that man; but if he made an honest effort to mend his way, they could feel free to talk with him and deal with him again at the end of the year. "This relentless judge," says Norman Duncan, "on a stormy July day carried many bundles ashore at Cartwright, in Sandwich Bay of the Labrador. The wife of the Hudson's Bay Company's agent examined them with delight. They were Christmas gifts from the children of the "States" to the lads and little maids of that coast. The Doctor never forgets the Christmas gifts." The wife of the agent stowed away the gifts to distribute them at next Christmas time. "It makes them _very_ happy," said the agent's wife. "Not long ago," said Duncan, "I saw a little girl with a stick of wood for a dolly. Are they not afraid to play with these pretty things?" "Sometimes," she laughed, "but it makes them happy just to look at them. But they do play with them. There is a little girl up the bay who _has kissed the paint off her dolly_!" And so even the tiniest, most forlorn little lad or lass is not forgotten by Doctor Grenfell. He is the Santa Claus of the coast. He never forgets. Nothing, if it will bring joy into the life of any one, is too big or too small for his attention. Can we wonder that Grenfell is happy in his work? Can we wonder that nothing in the world could induce him to leave the Labrador for a life of ease? Battling, year in and year out, with stormy seas in summer, and ice and snow and arctic blizzards in winter, the joy of life is in him. Every day has a thrill for him. Here in this rugged land of endeavor he has for thirty years been healing the sick and saving life, easing pain, restoring cripples to strength, feeding and clothing and housing the poor, and putting upon their feet with useful work unfortunate men that they might look the world in the face bravely and independently. There is no happiness in the world so keen as the happiness that comes through making others happy. This is what Doctor Grenfell is doing. He is giving his life to others, and he is getting no end of joy out of life himself. The life he leads possesses for him no element of self-denial, after all, and he never looks upon it as a life of hardship. He loves the adventure of it, and by straight, clean living he has prepared himself, physically and mentally, to meet the storms and cold and privations with no great sense of discomfort. Wilfred Thomason Grenfell is the same sportsman, as, when a lad, he roamed the Sands o' Dee; the same lover of fun that he was when he went to Marlborough College; the same athlete that made the football team and rowed with the winning crew when a student in the University--sympathetic, courageous, tireless, a doer among men and above all, a Christian gentleman. * * * * * _Printed in the United States of America_ * * * * * Obvious typos fixed: "book" for "look", page 132 "alseep" for "asleep", page 195 (twice) "hundrel" for "hundred", page 214 "seaprated" for "separated", page 216 "Malcom's" for "Malcolm's", page 228 (twice) "bad" for "bade", page 156 "Trezize" for "Trevize", page 38 * * * * * 
20059	----	The LABRADOR TALES of DILLON WALLACE Left on the Labrador A Tale of Adventures Down North. Illustrated $1.75 The Testing of Jim MacLean A Tale of the Wilds of Labrador. Illustrated $1.75 Troop One of the Labrador A Tale of Life Out-of-Doors. Illustrated $1.75 The Ragged Inlet Guards A Story of Adventure in Labrador. Illustrated $1.75 Grit-A-Plenty A Tale of the Labrador Wild. Illustrated $1.75 The Gaunt Gray Wolf Fur-Trapping on the Labrador. Illustrated $1.75 Ungava Bob A Tale of the Fur Trappers. Illustrated $1.75 The Story of Grenfell of the Labrador A Boy's Life of Wilfred T. Grenfell. Illustrated $1.50 The Lure of the Labrador Wild The Story of the Exploring Expedition conducted by Leonidas Hubbard, Jr. Illustrations and Maps. 8vo, cloth $2.50 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- [Illustration: HE HELD THE AX READY TO STRIKE THE FIRST ATTACKING ANIMAL. (See page 189.)] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- LEFT ON THE LABRADOR A Tale of Adventure Down North By DILLON WALLACE Author of "Troop One of the Labrador," "The Testing of Jim MacLean," "The Lure of the Labrador Wild," etc., etc. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK--CHICAGO Fleming H. Revell Company London and Edinburgh ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright, MCMXXVII, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 851 Cass Street London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 99 George Street ----------------------------------------------------------------------- To Her Whose Never Failing Loyalty and Devotion is My Fount of Inspiration My Wife ----------------------------------------------------------------------- This life is not all sunshine, Nor is it yet all showers; But storms and calms alternate, As thorns among the flowers, And while we seek the roses, The thorns full oft we scan, Still let us, though they wound us, Be happy as we can. This life has heavy crosses, As well as joys to share, And griefs and disappointments, Which you and I must bear. And if we may not follow The path our hearts would plan, Let us make all around us As happy as we can. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS I. THE LOST PASSENGER 9 II. THE TWIGS OF PINCH-IN TICKLE 19 III. SKIPPER ZEB FIXES MATTERS 25 IV. MISSING 34 V. WRECKED 43 VI. THE CAMP AT THE DUCK'S HEAD 53 VII. A SNUG BERTH 64 VIII. THE TRAIL OF A LYNX 77 IX. THE FAR WILDERNESS 86 X. SKIPPER ZEB'S TRAPPING PATH 99 XI. THE WORST FIX OF ALL 112 XII. THE PANGS OF STARVATION 126 XIII. THE GREAT SNOWY OWL 141 XIV. THE BAY FASTENS 146 XV. LOST IN THE BARRENS 156 XVI. A WALL OF SNOW 171 XVII. SKIPPER ZEB'S DOGS 176 XVIII. THE FIGHT WITH THE WOLVES 188 XIX. CHARLEY'S NEW RIFLE 198 XX. THE REBELLION OF THE DOGS 213 XXI. THE CARIBOU HUNT 223 XXII. THE STRANGER 240 XXIII. THE LOST FUR 255 XXIV. THE VENGEANCE OF THE PACK 266 XXV. AMISHKU AND MAIGEN, THE INDIANS 273 XXVI. THE END OF THE FIX 281 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ILLUSTRATIONS Facing Page HE HELD THE AX READY TO STRIKE THE FIRST ATTACKING ANIMAL title "SHE'S GONE! THE SHIP HAS GONE!" CRIED CHARLEY IN SUDDEN FRIGHT 18 SKIPPER ZEB'S OAR BROKE, AND THE BOAT WAS DRIVEN UPON A ROCK 154 THE GREAT PAW SENT TOBY SPRAWLING 214 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- I THE LOST PASSENGER Charley Norton was bored and unhappy. He stood at the starboard rail of the mail boat gazing out at the cold, bleak rocks of the Labrador coast, dimly visible through fitful gusts of driving snow. Charley Norton and his father's secretary, Hugh Wise, had boarded the ship at St. John's ten days before for the round trip voyage to Hopedale, and during the voyage there had not been one pleasant day. Biting blasts swept the deck, heralding the winter near at hand, and there was no protecting nook where one could escape them and sit in any degree of comfort. The cabin was close and stuffy, and its atmosphere was heavy with that indescribable odor that rises from the bowels of old ships. The smoking room, bare and dismal and reeking with stale tobacco smoke, was deserted, save when the mail boat doctor and Hugh Wise were occasionally discovered there in a silent game of checkers. Charley had tried every corner of the ship to which he was admitted, and had decided that, as uncomfortable as it was, he preferred the deck to cabin or smoking room. It was the middle of October, and the last voyage the mail boat was to make until the end of the following June, when the winter's ice would clear from the coast, and navigation would open for another short summer. The last fishing schooner had already hurried southward to escape the autumn gales and the blockade of ice, and the sea was deserted save by the lonely mail boat, which was picking up the last of the Newfoundlanders' cod fishing gear at the little harbours of the coast. "A swell time I'm having!" Charley muttered. "Not even a decent place on the old ship where I can sit and read!" "Not having a good time, eh?" Charley looked up into the smiling face of Barney MacFarland, the second engineer. "Hello!" he exclaimed. "I didn't know anybody was around. I didn't hear you." "Having a rotten time?" Barney grinned good-naturedly. "The worst I've ever had!" said Charley. "It's too cold to stay on deck and too close and smelly inside, and there's no one to talk with. Mr. Wise sprawls in his bunk reading silly novels he brought with him, when he isn't playing checkers with the Doctor." "'Tis a bad season to be coming down to The Labrador," suggested Barney. "Though there's fog enough in July and August, we're having fine weather too, with plenty of sunshine. 'Tis then the passengers are with us, with now and again sightseers from the States. And the fishing places are busy, with enough to see. Then's the time to come." "I didn't pick the time," explained Charley, glad to have an opportunity to talk into sympathetic ears. "Dad was going hunting in Newfoundland, and he took me to St. John's with him. I thought I was going along, but after we got to St. John's he said I was too young to hike through the country, and that this trip on the mail boat would be more interesting for me while he hunted. He sent Mr. Wise along to keep me company. He's Dad's secretary. He's left me alone most of the time. Dad said I would see Indians and Eskimos and loads of interesting things, but I've been on the ship ever since we left, except at Hopedale when the Captain took me ashore for an hour while we were lying there before we turned back. That was dandy! I saw Eskimos, and Eskimo dogs, and I bought some souvenirs at the Moravian Mission for Mother and some of the boys. But I wasn't there half long enough to see everything. They never let me go ashore in the boat at the harbours where we stop." "Well, well, now! That is hard on you, b'y," agreed Barney sympathetically. "Where is your home?" "In New York. But Dad is so busy at his office that I don't see him often. I thought I was going to have a dandy time with _him_!" Charley choked back tears, which he felt it would be unmanly to shed, and gazed out over the sea. "Lad, when you gets lonesome to talk come down to the engine room when it's my watch on," Barney invited heartily. "I'll show you the big engines, and we'll chum up a bit. I'm off watch now, but I'll be on at eight bells. That's four o'clock, land reckoning. I'll come and get you, b'y, and show you the way." "Thank you! Thank you ever so much!" Charley acknowledged gratefully, as Barney left him. The ship which had been standing off from the shore was now edging in toward the land. Suddenly there came a long blast of the whistle. There was activity upon the deck at once. Sailors were swinging a boat out upon the davits. Charley hastened to join the sailors, and asked: "Are we going to make a port?" "Aye, lad," answered one of them good-naturedly. "What place is it?" asked Charley. "Pinch-In Tickle." "Will it be a long stop?" "Now I'm not knowin' how long or how short. We stop inside the Tickle to take on fish and gear. I'm thinkin' 'twill be a half hour's stop, or thereabouts." "May I go ashore in the boat?" "Ask the mate. I'm doubtin' there'll be room. The boat comes back with full cargo at this harbour." Charley turned his inquiry to the mate, who was directing the men. "No, lad. I'm sorry," he answered, "but there'll be no room for passengers." It was always that way! Charley left them to return to his old place at the rail. The ship had slowed to half speed, and was already picking her way cautiously into the tickle, where the cliffs, nearly as high as the masthead, were so close on either side that Charley believed he might have touched them with a ten-foot pole. At the end of two hundred yards the narrow tickle opened up into a beautiful, sheltered harbour. Perched upon the rocks at the north side of the harbour were some rude cabins. Opposite these the ship swung about, the boat was lowered, and manned by four sailors, pulled to the rocks that formed a natural pier for the fishing station. There was some bitterness in Charley's heart as he watched the retreating boat, and so occupied was he that he failed to observe, until it was quite near, another boat pulling toward the ship. It was a small, dilapidated old boat, with a boy of fourteen or thereabouts at the oars. Charley leaned over the rail, and with much interest watched the boy make the painter fast to the ladder, and then, like a squirrel, mount the ladder to the deck. The visitor was dressed much like the other natives that Charley had seen. An Eskimo adikey, made of white moleskin cloth, with the hood thrown back, served as a coat. His trousers were also of white moleskin, and were tucked into knee-high sealskin boots with moccasined feet. From under a muskrat fur cap appeared a round, smiling face, tanned a dark brown, and a pair of bright, pleasant eyes. "Hello!" said Charley. "Looking for some one?" "No," answered the boy, "I'm just pullin' over to look at the ship." Charley was seized by a sudden impulse, and acted on it instantly. "Will you take me ashore? The ship will be here for half an hour, and maybe longer. I'll give you a dollar if you'll take me ashore and bring me back." "And you wants to go I'll pull you ashore," agreed the boy cheerfully. "I'll be goin' down and holdin' the boat up so you can get into she easy." Without parley he slipped over the side and down the ladder into the boat, which he drew broadside to the ladder and there held it until Charley, who followed, was seated astern. "Where you wantin' to go now?" asked the boy. "To the boat landin'?" "Just anywhere ashore," directed Charley. "Let's land over where I can climb that hill and have a look around." He indicated a low hill midway between the tickle and the cabins, and the boy soon made a landing on a shelving rock, above which the hill rose abruptly. Charley helped him pull the boat to a safe place, and waited while he made the painter fast. Then the two began the ascent of the hill. "What's your name?" asked Charley. "Toby Twig," answered the boy. "My name is Charley Norton, and I'm from New York. I'm taking a cruise in the mail boat." "I'm wishin' every time I sees she come in that I could be takin' a cruise in she! It must be wonderful fine." "I don't think it is. It's too cold on deck and too smelly in the cabin. It must get pretty cold here in winter. Where I live we hardly ever have snow until the end of December." "Aye, it does get wonderful cold," agreed Toby. "'Twill not be long now till the harbour freezes and the sea too." "Can't you use boats in winter?" "No, we can't use un much longer now. We cruises with dogs in winter, after the harbour and the sea freezes." "It must be dreadfully lonesome with no boats coming in." "I don't find un lonesome. There's aplenty to do. We hunts in winter, and 'tis fine fun." "Did you ever shoot a wolf?" asked Charley in some awe. "No, but I sees un. Last winter I sees five wolves, but they keeps too far away to shoot un." "My, but I'd like to see a wild wolf! Did you ever see a bear?" "Yes, I sees bears, black and white. Dad killed a black bear last week." The two had crossed the crest of the hill, as they talked, wholly oblivious of the passage of time, until Toby suggested: "I'm thinkin' now we'd better be goin' back. The mail boat never bides long here." "She was to be here half an hour," said Charley, as they retraced their steps. "We haven't been half an hour." A moment later they reached the top of the hill. Both boys stopped and looked below them and in consternation into the empty harbour. "She's gone! The ship has gone!" cried Charley in sudden fright. "She's gone!" echoed Toby. "She's goin' and leavin' you!" "Oh, catch her! Signal her! Do something!" Charley plead helplessly. "We can't catch she or signal she! She's too far," and Toby pointed to a long black line of smoke rising above the rocks beyond Pinch-In Tickle, and more than a mile distant. "What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?" wailed Charley in wild despair. What indeed could he do? Here he was, left upon the bleak rocks of the Labrador coast, at the edge of an Arctic winter, a lad of thirteen, a stranger in a strange and desolate land. [Illustration: "SHE'S GONE! THE SHIP HAS GONE!" CRIED CHARLEY IN SUDDEN FRIGHT.] II THE TWIGS OF PINCH-IN TICKLE "You'll be comin' along with me," suggested Toby. "Dad'll be knowin' what to do." "But the boat has gone! How can I get home?" Charley almost sobbed, quite beside himself with despair and terror. "Don't be takin' on like that now!" Toby placed his hand soothingly upon Charley's arm. "Dad says a man can get out of most fixes, and he keeps his head and don't get scared. Dad knows. He's wonderful fine about gettin' out of fixes. Dad'll know what to do. He'll be gettin' you out of your fix easy as a swile[1] slips off a rock. You'll see!" Helpless to do otherwise, Charley submitted, and Toby led him down to the boat, and when Charley was seated astern, and Toby was pulling for the huts, a half mile away, with the strong, sure stroke of an expert boatman, Toby counselled: "Don't be lettin' yourself get worked up with worry, now. Dad says worry and frettin' never makes a bad job better." "It's terrible! It's terrible!" exclaimed Charley in agony. "I've been left behind! I've no place to go, and I'll starve and freeze!" "'Tisn't so bad, now," Toby argued. "You be safe and sound and well. Maybe the mail boat folk'll be missin' you and come back." "Do you think they will?" asked Charley, ready to grasp at a straw of hope. "I'm not knowin'," answered Toby cautiously, "but leastways you'll be safe enough." Toby's assurance gave little comfort to Charley. The snow was now falling so heavily that he could scarcely see the huts perched upon the rocky hillside, and there was no other indication of human life in the great wide, bleak wilderness that surrounded them. The bare rocks, the falling snow, and the sound of the sea beating upon the cliffs beyond Pinch-In Tickle filled his heart with hopelessness and helplessness. As uncomfortable and unhappy as he had been upon the ship, he now thought of it as a haven of refuge and luxury. If it would only come back for him! Why had he gone ashore! He had dreamed of adventures, but never an adventure like this. "Here's the landin'." Toby had drawn the boat alongside a great flat rock that formed a natural wharf. He sprang nimbly out, painter in hand, and while he steadied the boat Charley followed. Above the landing were three unpainted and dilapidated cabins. Smoke was issuing from a stovepipe that protruded through the roof of the smallest of these, and toward this Toby led the way. "This is our fishin' place," Toby volunteered. "We fishes here in summer, and lives in the house where you sees the smoke. The other houses belongs to Mr. McClung from Newfoundland. The mail boat were takin' he and three men that fishes with he, and their gear, and they takes Dad's fish, too." "You stay here, don't you? You'll stay here till the ship comes back for me, won't you?" asked Charley pleadingly. "We goes up the bay to-morrow marnin' to our tilt, our winter house at Double Up Cove," said Toby, "but I'm thinkin' that if the ship's comin' back she'll be back before night. Nobody stays out here in winter. 'Tis wonderful cold here when the wind blows down over the hills and in from the sea, with no trees to break un, and 'tis a poor place for huntin', and no wood is handy for the fire." "What'll I do when you go?" asked Charley in fresh dismay. "You'll not be stoppin' here _what_ever," assured Toby. "Dad'll know what to do. He'll get you out of _this_ fix! Don't you worry now." Toby opened the door of the cabin, and the two boys entered. A tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man stood by one of the two windows cleaning a gun. A round-faced, plump little woman was at the stove, transferring from a kettle to a large earthen bowl something that filled the room with a most delicious odour, and a girl of twelve years or thereabouts was placing dishes upon the table. "Dad," said Toby addressing the man, "I brings with me Charley Norton who was a passenger on the mail boat, and while he's ashore the mail boat goes off and leaves he." "That's a fix now! _That's_ a fix to be in! I calls that a mean trick for the mail boat to be playin'!" He spoke in a big voice that quite suited his size, but which startled Charley, and did not reassure him. "What's to be done about un now? What be _you_ thinkin' to do?" "I don't know. I don't know what to do," answered Charley timidly. Toby's Dad put down the gun he was cleaning and wiped his hand on a cloth. "Leastways we'll make the best of un," he said, taking Charley's hand in a bear-like clasp. "Besides bein' Toby's Dad, I'm Skipper Zebulon Twig of Double Up Cove, and this is Mrs. Twig and this is Vi'let, the smartest little maid on The Labrador." Skipper Zebulon Twig laughed so heartily that Charley forgot his difficulty for a moment, and laughed too, while he shook hands with Mrs. Twig, who had, Charley thought, a nice motherly way, and with Violet, who took his hand shyly. "Now," said Skipper Zeb, "you're in a fix. You're cast away. The worst fix a man can get in, to my thinkin', is to be cast away on a rock, or on the ice, without grub. But you're cast away _with_ grub, and that's not so bad. There's a pot of stewed bear's meat with dumplin' just ready. We'll set in and eat, and then talk about your fix. 'Tis hard to think a way out of fixes with an empty belly, and we'll fill ours. Then we'll get to the bottom of this fix. We'll find a way out of un. You'll see!" III SKIPPER ZEB FIXES MATTERS Mrs. Twig placed the big earthen bowl with the appetizing odour in the center of the table, together with a plate heaped high with slices of white bread and a bowl of molasses. Then she poured tea. "Dinner's ready this minute," boomed Skipper Zeb. "Set in, and we'll eat." There was no cover upon the home-made table, but its top had been scoured clean and white with sand and water. The cabin boasted no chairs, and chests were drawn up by Skipper Zeb and Toby to the ends of the table, and a bench on each side, to serve as seats. Accepting the invitation, Charley took a place beside Toby on one of the benches, Violet sat on the bench opposite them, while the Skipper and Mrs. Twig each took an end. When all were seated, Skipper Zeb, in so big a voice Charley was sure the Lord could not fail to hear, asked a devout blessing upon the family, the stranger within their home, and upon the food. "Turn to, now, and eat hearty," Skipper Zeb invited, indicating the earthen bowl. "'Tisn't much we has, but 'tis good. Mrs. Twig makes the finest dumplin' on The Labrador. I knows for I eats un. I shoots the bear last week, and 'twere as fine and fat a bear as ever I sees. He were just prime to curl up for his winter sleep." "It looks good, and I'm hungry," said Charley, transferring, with a big serving spoon, a portion of the stewed bear's meat and dumpling to his plate. "I never ate bear's meat, and I've always wished I could." "Never ate bear's meat!" exclaimed Skipper Zeb. "Well, now! And we gets a bear most every year. What kind of meat does you eat where you comes from? 'Tis likely you gets plenty of deer's meat?" "Beef, and lamb, and veal, and pork, but I don't care much for pork, except bacon," said Charley. "Well, now! In all my days I never tastes beef or lamb or veal! We gets pickled pork at the post, and 'tis wonderful fine meat _I_ thinks. If beef and lamb and veal be better than pork, I'd like to try un once. _They_ must be a rare treat." Skipper Zeb smacked his lips. "Yes, sir, I'd like to try un once! And does you hunt un?" "No," Charley smiled, "the animals are raised on farms and the meat is sold at stores." "Well, now! What wonderful things goes on in the world, and we never knows about un down here on The Labrador." Skipper Zeb shook his head in astonishment. "Does you mark that, Sophia? They raises the animals and then kills un, and sells the meat at the tradin' stores!" "'Tis a queer way," admitted Mrs. Twig. "'Tis a fine way!" enthused Skipper Twig. "Twould be fine if we could raise deer and kill un when we wants un." "Here's sweetenin' for your tea," and Toby, observing that Charley had not helped himself, passed the molasses. "Thank you," Charley accepted, putting a spoonful of the molasses into his tea, and wondering why it was used instead of sugar, but venturing no question. Had he asked, Skipper Zeb would have told him that it was much less expensive than sugar, and that sugar was a luxury they could not afford. There were no vegetables, for on the Labrador coast the summers are too short and too cold to grow them, and not one of the Twig family had ever so much as tasted a potato or an onion or a tomato, or, indeed, any of the wholesome vegetables that we, in our kindlier land, have so plentifully, and accept as a matter of course. But Charley and the Twigs, old and young, found the stewed bear's meat, with Mrs. Twig's light, fluffy dumplings and the good bread and molasses, both satisfying and appetizing; and when Charley declined a third helping, urged upon him by Skipper Zeb, he declared that he was as full as though he had eaten a Christmas dinner. When all were finished, Skipper Zeb bowed his head and gave thanks for the bountiful meal; and then, with Toby's assistance, drew the benches and chests back to the wall. "Set down, now, and when I lights my pipe we'll talk over this fix you're gettin' in," said Skipper Zeb. Drawing a pipe and a plug of black tobacco and a jack-knife from his pocket, he shaved some of the plug into the palm of his left hand, rolled it between his palms, and filled the pipe. Then, with some deliberation, he selected a long, slender sliver from the wood box, ignited it at the stove, lighted his pipe and carefully extinguished the burning sliver. "This _is_ a fix, now! Well, now, '_tis_ a fix!" Skipper Zeb sat down upon a bench by Charley's side, and for a minute or two puffed his pipe in silence, sending up a cloud of smoke. Then, turning to Charley, he boomed: "But 'tis not such a bad fix we can't get out of un! No, sir! We'll see about _this_ fix! We'll see!" "Thank you," said Charley gratefully, and with hope that there might be a way out of his trouble after all. "Now, to start in the beginning, and that's where most things have to start," said Skipper Zeb, "we won't worry about un. Worry is bad for the insides of a man's head, and what's bad for the insides of a man's head is bad for all of his insides, and if he worries, and keeps un up, he gets sick. To-day is to-day and to-morrow is to-morrow. 'Tis but sense for a man to provide for to-morrow, and do his best to do un, but if he can't there's no use his worryin' about un. That's how I figgers. You're feelin' well and hearty to-day?" "Yes," admitted Charley. "You just had a good snack of vittles?" "Yes." "You're warm and snug?" "Yes." "There you be! The worst of un's took care of to start with! Feelin' well, a belly full of good vittles, warm and snug! Now keep feelin' contented, and right as if this was your own home. Nothin' to worry over. No, sir, not a thing! Now we've headed off the worst of un. "You're in a fix, but 'twon't trouble us any. Not us! Life is full of fixes, first and last. 'Twouldn't be much fun livin' if we didn't get in fixes now and again! 'Tis a fine bit of sport figgerin' the way out of fixes. Fixes gives us a change and somethin' to think about. There's a way out of most fixes _I_ finds, even the worst of un." "Do you think the ship will come back for me?" asked Charley anxiously. "Well, now," Skipper Zeb wrinkled his forehead as though he were pondering the question deeply, "if she comes back she'll come in through the tickle and come to in the offing and blow her whistle, and we'll hear un, and be ready for she. If she don't come back, she'll not blow her whistle, and we'll not hear un. We'll be stayin' here as snug as a bear in his den and listen for that whistle." "But _do_ you think she'll come back?" insisted Charley, with a suspicion that Skipper Zeb's answer had been evasive. "That's a question! That's a fair and square question, now," admitted Skipper Zeb. "You asks un fair and I'll answer un fair. The folk on the mail boat misses you. They looks up and down and don't find you. You're not on the boat, and how can they find you? Captain Barcus of the mail boat says, 'Well, he's gone, that's sure. If he leaves the mail boat at Pinch-In Tickle, he's with Skipper Zeb Twig by now, and safe enough and well took care of. If he falls overboard, that's the last of he.' And sayin' this, and knowin' Captain Barcus the way I knows he, he keeps right on to St. John's, and don't come back till next June or July month." "If the ship don't come," broke in Charley, suddenly startled into his old fear, "what _can_ I do? What _will_ become of me?" "Well, now!" and Skipper Zeb broke into a hearty laugh. "'Tis just what I says in the beginnin' about no worry, and about to-day bein' to-day and to-morrow bein' to-morrow. You're cast away with shelter _and_ grub. That's not so bad, considerin'. Not the best of shelter and not the best of grub, but not so bad either. You does your best to get out of this fix, and the best way you finds is to bide right where you finds the shelter and grub. If the mail boat don't come to-day, and I says fair and square, I'm not expectin' she, you goes to Double Up Cove in the marnin' with us. Whilst you're on The Labrador our home is your home, and I hopes you'll like un." "But Daddy! Poor Daddy! He'll be broken-hearted when he thinks I've been lost at sea, and so will Mother!" Charley gulped hard to keep back the tears. "'Twill be a bit hard for un, but you can't help un," Skipper Zeb consoled. "What's past is past, and there's no use worryin' about un. You're busy tryin' to get out of a fix. They'll be so glad to see you when you gets home, 'twill more than make up to un for the mournin' they does now. Your feelin' bad and worryin' about un won't help your father and mother any, and it'll get your insides upset, as I were sayin'. You're gettin' out of a fix. You stick by the grub and shelter, such as 'tis, and make the best of un, and be happy." "Oh, thank you!" and tears came into Charley's eyes in spite of his effort to keep them back. "Daddy will make it right with you. He'll pay you for being good to me. He'll pay you all you ask." "I asks nothing," said Skipper Zeb. "'Tis the right thing to do. Here on The Labrador we stands shoulder to shoulder, and when a man's cast away we takes him to our home till he can get to his own home. We all be wonderful glad to have you. Ask Mrs. Twig, now." "'Twill be wonderful fine to have you bide with us," and Mrs. Twig's smile left no doubt of her sincerity. "You and Toby will be havin' rare good times together." "That we will, now!" broke in Toby quite excited at the prospect. FOOTNOTE: [1] Seal. IV MISSING Mr. Henry Wise, Mr. Bruce Norton's secretary, was enjoying himself. The mail boat did not offer the luxuries to which he was accustomed, to be sure, but it was much more to his liking than a hunting camp in the wilderness, particularly in frosty weather and flying snow. He could not keep his shoes properly polished, nor creases in his trousers, nor a spotless collar tramping upon rough trails through underbrush, and the very thought of sleeping in a tent, and upon the ground, was horrible. When he had suggested to Mr. Norton that Charley was too young to follow his father on the trail, he had done so with the hope that he might be permitted to remain at St. John's in charge of Charley, and there enjoy the comfort of a hotel in idleness. That the hunting trip might prove too strenuous for Charley had not occurred to Mr. Norton until the suggestion came from Mr. Wise after their arrival in St. John's. Mr. Wise amplified his suggestion with the argument that it was quite too great a physical undertaking for any boy of thirteen, and might therefore create in Charley a distaste for future camping in the wilds. This appealed to Mr. Norton as reasonable. He wished his boy to love the wilds as he loved them. Perhaps, he admitted, Mr. Wise was right, and if he took Charley with him, and Charley found the trails too hard, not only his own holiday would be spoiled, but Charley would have anything but a pleasant time. In expectation that he would take him on his hunting expedition, Mr. Norton had promised Charley a unique and enjoyable experience. Now that he had decided against it, he cast about for a substitute. Mr. Norton was a man of his word. Charley had looked forward with keen anticipation to the hunting trip with his father, and had asked innumerable questions concerning it, and talked of little else since leaving New York. The prospect of camping in a real wilderness with his father,--the association with his father in camp, rather than the camp itself,--was the source of Charley's anticipated pleasure. Not realizing this, and believing that any unusual experience would please Charley quite as well, whether or not he was to take part in it himself, Mr. Norton received with satisfaction the suggestion that Charley be sent upon the Labrador cruise. This, he was satisfied, was a solution of his difficulty. A cruise on the mail boat would be an experience to be remembered, and he had no doubt would prove much more interesting to Charley than the hunting expedition. This settled, he engaged passage on the mail boat for Charley and Mr. Wise, to the chagrin and disappointment of the latter gentleman, who was forced, however, to accept the situation with good grace. Mr. Wise had no love of the sea. He was to be Charley's companion on the voyage. He was to learn the interesting features of the coast along which the mail boat cruised, and to explain them and point them out to Charley. In general, he was to do his utmost to make the voyage one which Charley would remember with pleasure. But as Mr. Wise expressed himself to the mail boat doctor, he was "employed as secretary and not as nurse maid." He had no intention of shivering around in the cold. He was going to make this voyage, which had been thrust upon him, as pleasant for himself as circumstances would permit. He pleaded sickness, and, as Charley had complained to Barney MacFarland, lay in his bunk reading novels, or sat in the smoking room playing checkers with the mail boat doctor, while Charley was left to his own resources. It was eleven o'clock in the morning when the mail boat departed from Pinch-In Tickle. Mr. Wise was engrossed in a particularly interesting novel, and was so deeply buried in it that he failed to hear or respond to the noonday call to dinner. When, an hour later, hunger called his attention to the fact that he had not eaten, he rang for the steward, and a liberal tip brought a satisfactory luncheon to his stateroom. Thus it came to pass that he did not observe Charley's absence from the dinner table. It was four o'clock in the afternoon when, the novel at last finished, Mr. Wise left his room to challenge the doctor to a game in the smoking room. It was not until the six o'clock evening meal that his attention was called to the fact that Charley, who was usually prompt at meals, was not present. He had no doubt Charley had gone to his room and fallen asleep. If his ward chose to sleep at meal time it was no fault of his. He ate leisurely, and when he was through lighted a cigar, and, prompted by compunction perhaps, looked into Charley's room. It was vacant. A sudden anxiety seized him, and nervously and excitedly he searched the deck and the smoking room. Charley was nowhere to be found, and in a state of panic he reported the disappearance to Captain Barcus. The Captain immediately instituted an investigation, and a minute search of the ship was made, but nowhere was Charley to be found, and with every moment Mr. Hugh Wise grew more excited. Members of the crew were called before the Captain and Mr. Wise and quizzed. The sailor to whom Charley had spoken and of whom he had requested a passage ashore, recalled the incident. The mate stated that Charley had also come to him and asked permission to go ashore in the ship's boat at Pinch-In Tickle, but as there was no room in the boat, permission had been denied. The men who manned the boat were then questioned, and all were agreed that he had not been in the boat and had not gone ashore, and they were equally positive that he had not gone ashore at any other harbour where the vessel had stopped during the day. Barney MacFarland recalled his conversation with Charley, when he was going off watch. He stated that the lad had seemed most unhappy and lonesome, and complained that Mr. Wise had done little to make the voyage a pleasant one for him, or to help him find entertainment. He was not on deck when Barney went on duty at eight bells. So fertile is the imagination that two of the sailors were quite positive they had seen Charley leaning at the rail during the afternoon, and after the ship's departure from Pinch-In Tickle. The steward was quite sure Charley had not eaten the midday meal. As there was some sea running, he had supposed that Charley had a touch of seasickness and had preferred not to eat. He had not seen Charley since breakfast, and had not been in his stateroom since early morning. "What can we do?" asked Mr. Wise, now in complete panic. "Will you turn back?" he plead in a voice trembling with apprehension and fear. "Will you look for him, Captain? You'll turn the ship back and look for him! You must! You must at once! We _must_ find him!" "Where would we look?" asked Captain Barcus. "At the harbours where we stopped! At Pinch-In Tickle, or whatever you call it! Everywhere! Everywhere!" plead Mr. Wise. "'Twould be a waste of time and fuel, and a fool's chase," said Captain Barcus quietly. "There was no way for the lad to go ashore but by the ship's boat, and 'tis plain he didn't go ashore in the boat at any port we stops at to-day. Some one would have seen him if he had, and every man of the crew says he didn't." "Then he's on the ship somewhere!" shouted Mr. Wise excitedly, springing to his feet. "He's hiding! He's hiding somewhere on the ship!" "He's not on the ship," said Captain Barcus gravely. "She've been searched from masthead to hold, and he's not on the ship. There's no doubting the poor lad has fallen overboard." "Do you mean he's been--lost--at--sea?" and the terrified Wise sank limply into a seat. "Aye," admitted Captain Barcus, "lost at sea." "Then turn back! Turn back and look for him!" demanded Mr. Wise, again on his feet in a frenzy of excitement. "Why don't you turn back and look for him?" "Keep your senses, man," admonished Captain Barcus. "As I said before, 'twould be a fool's job to look for him in the sea. No man knows where or when he went overboard. 'Tis likely 'twere hours ago." Mr. Wise slouched into a seat, and with his elbows upon his knees held his head in his hands for a full minute before he spoke. "What can I tell his father? What can I tell him? He'll discharge me! He'll think I didn't look after the boy!" and Mr. Wise's dejection was complete. "What _can_ I tell him!" "Tell him the truth. He'll discharge you likely. I would," said the Captain in blunt disgust. "You can fix it up! You can tell him it happened through no fault of mine! Tell him something that will clear me of any charge of neglecting the boy!" Mr. Wise raised his head and looked wistfully and pleadingly at the Captain. "You seem to be thinking more of your job than of the poor lad that's lost," and Captain Barcus, who had risen to his feet, looked down in contempt upon the cringing man. "My log will say he was last seen leaning over the starb'rd rail. That he was not at dinner nor at tea, and that you didn't miss him till after tea and long after dark, though 'tis likely he was lost overboard before dinner. And I'll put in the testimony of the last to talk with him, the mate, and the seaman, and what he said to Barney MacFarland. I'm going now to write my log while 'tis all fresh in my mind." And leaving Mr. Wise, Captain Barcus went to his room to write in his log a true report of what apparently had happened, and the account that was finally to be given Mr. Bruce Norton upon the arrival of the steamer in St. John's. V WRECKED There was much to be done in Pinch-In Tickle that everything in and about Skipper Zeb's cabin, which they were to leave the following morning, should be snug and tight and tidy for the winter. There were boats to be hauled out of the water and covered, that they might be protected from the ice and snow, fishing gear and boat equipment to stow, and much cleaning to be done about the fish stage and cabin. Then there was Skipper Zeb's big trap boat to make ready for the voyage up the bay. A mast step had to be repaired, sails mended, and no end of tinkering before it met with Skipper Zeb's approval. "I never says a thing's good enough unless 'tis right," declared Skipper Zeb. "I likes to have my boats, and fishin' gear and dog trappin's ship shape before I starts to use un. When I stops usin' they I leaves un as right as I can so they'll be ready to use when I needs un again." For a little while Charley, the picture of gloom, watched Skipper Zeb and Toby stowing gear. Presently Skipper Zeb, who had been observing Charley out of the corner of his eye, suggested: "Come on, lad, and lend a hand. Toby and I needs help to haul the boats up. Work's a wonderful fine medicin' for folks that's feelin' homesick. Lend Toby and me a hand, and you'll be forgettin' all about this fix you're in. I were thinkin' we'd taken all the kinks out o' that fix, and that we made out 'twere no fix at all." "I guess I would like to help, if you'll let me," Charley admitted. "It isn't much fun standing around and doing nothing. What can I do?" "We'll pull this un up first, she's heaviest," and Skipper Zeb indicated one of two boats that were moored at the landing. "You take the port side of un along with Toby, and I'll take the starb'rd side, and when I bawls 'Heave ho!' we'll all heave on her together." Charley did as he was directed, and while he did not believe that he was lending much assistance, he did his best with each "heave ho!" boomed by Skipper Zeb, and in due time the two boats were removed to a desirable distance from high tide level. Timbers were now placed under them to elevate them from the ground, and a roofing of heavy planking built over them. It was all novel and interesting to Charley. He lent a hand here and there, and as they worked Skipper Zeb and Toby talked of the fishing season just ended, and of the winter hunting and trapping, and of journeys on snowshoes and with dogs and sledge, and related many exciting adventures, until Charley quite forgot that he was marooned in a strange land among strangers. Before candles were lighted that evening, Charley had placed Skipper Zeb and Toby in the category of the heroes of his favourite books of adventure. Here he was in a wilderness as remote as any of which he had ever read, and here he was with folk who were living the life and doing the deeds and meeting the adventures of which he had often read with breathless interest. When he went to sleep that night in a bunk with Toby he would have been glad that the mail boat had not returned for him, had it not been for the regret he felt for the grief he knew that his mother and father would suffer when Mr. Wise would report to them that he had been lost. They ate breakfast by candle-light the following morning, and daybreak was still two hours away when Charley embarked with Skipper Zeb and the family for the voyage to Double Up Cove. Skipper Zeb and Toby hoisted leg-o'-mutton sails on the foremast and mainmast under the lee of the land though the sails did not fill to Skipper Zeb's satisfaction, and he and Toby each shipped a big oar and pulled for a little until they were in the open bay and beyond the shelter of the hills. Then they stowed the oars, and Skipper Zeb took the tiller. A good breeze now bellied the sails, and almost immediately the morning darkness swallowed up the outline of the cabins. No star, no light, no land was to be seen, and Charley was only conscious of the swishing waters that surrounded them. He wondered how Skipper Zeb could know the direction with no landmarks to guide him. How vast and mysterious this new world was! How far away and unreal the land from which he had come! He tried to visualize home, and the city streets with crowded traffic and jostling people; and crouching down in the boat a thought of the luxury and comfort of his snug bed, in which he would now have been cozily tucked were he there, came to him, and he drew the collar of his ulster more closely around his ears, and thrust his hands into its deep pockets. For a long time no one spoke, and a sense of great loneliness was stealing upon him, when Skipper Zeb, lighting his pipe, remarked: "'Tis a good sailin' breeze, and come day 'twill be smarter, with more sea, and I'm thinkin' more snow." "How long a trip is it?" asked Charley. "'Tis a short cruise. With a fair wind like we has now we makes un in five or six hours, whatever," explained Skipper Zeb. "We never bides here so late in the year. 'Tis wonderful late for us. We always goes before the end of September month. This year I stays to help Mr. McClung." "It's a fine, big boat," said Charley. "She's a wonderful fine boat!" boasted Skipper Zeb. "Twenty-eight foot over all. I buys she last year from a schooner crew, south bound after the fishin' ends. They wants to sell she bad, because they has no room to stow she on deck, and in the rough sea that were runnin' they couldn't tow she. I buys she for thirty dollars!" "That was cheap, I should think," said Charley. "'Twere, now!" and there was pride in Skipper Zeb's voice. "I'll tell you how 'twere. We needs a trap boat wonderful bad for our cruisin', and I says to Mrs. Twig, 'We'll skimp and save till we gets enough saved to buy un.' So each year we saves a bit, sometimes more and sometimes less, goin' without this and that, and not mindin', because when we goes without somethin' we thinks about what a fine boat 'tis goin' to help us get. And so we keeps savin' and savin' and skimpin' and skimpin'. We were savin' for un for four years----" "Five years, Zeb," Mrs. Twig corrected. "You're right, Sophia, 'twere five years, and we has thirty dollars saved. Then along comes the schooner with the boat, and the skipper says to me, 'Skipper Zeb, you wants a trap boat. I'll sell you this un.' 'How much does you want for un?' says I. 'You can have she for fifty dollars,' says he, 'and that's givin' she to you.' 'All I has is thirty dollars,' says I. 'Give me the thirty dollars and take un,' says he. 'I'd have to leave un behind whatever.' And so I gets un." "You _were_ lucky!" said Charley. "Lucky! Not that!" objected Skipper Zeb. "'Twere the Lard's doin's. He knows how bad I wants un, and how we skimps to get un, and He says to that skipper, 'You just sell that trap boat to Skipper Zeb Twig for thirty dollars,' and the skipper just ups and sells un to me. _I_ says the Lard were good, and I thanks _He_ for un, and not luck." The northeast wind was rising. Charley huddled down in the bottom of the boat, where he found some protection. A gray dawn was breaking, and this is the coldest and bleakest hour of the day. With dawn both wind and cold increased, until by mid-forenoon half a gale was blowing. "We're makin' fine headway," said Toby. "We'll be getting to Double Up Cove by twelve o'clock, _what_ever." "I'm wishin' 'twere a bit calmer," observed Skipper Zeb, looking critically at the sky, "but there's no signs of un." "Can't we make a landin' somewhere, and wait for un to calm down?" asked Mrs. Twig solicitously. "I fears cruisin' when 'tis so rough." "They's no fair shore to land on this side o' the Duck's Head," answers Skipper Zeb. White horses were chasing each other over the surrounding sea. A half hour later the wind had developed into a gale. Skipper Zeb reefed the mainsail. Then taking a long oar from the boat, he dropped it between two pegs astern, and while he used this as a sculling oar to steer the boat, Toby unshipped the rudder and dragged it aboard. "She's makin' leeway," Skipper Zeb explained, "and I can hold she up to the wind better with the oar than the tiller." A roller broke over the boat, and left a foot of water in the bottom. Toby seized a bucket, and began to bail it out. Charley was now thoroughly frightened, but with a bucket thrust into his hand by Mrs. Twig, he assisted Toby. The boat was on her beam ends, even with shortened sail. The air was filled with flying spray, and now came the snow that Skipper Zeb had predicted. "We'll make a landin' in the lee of the Duck's Head," shouted Skipper Zeb, his voice booming above the tumult of sea and wind. Violet was crying, and clinging to her mother. "Don't be scared, now!" Skipper Zeb reassured, though he was plainly anxious. "There'll be a fine lee above the Duck's Head!" "There's the Duck's Head!" Toby's voice suddenly came in warning. "I sees un!" Skipper Zeb shouted back in confirmation. "Take care the reef! She's straight ahead!" yelled Toby. "She's makin' leeway the best I can do," came back from Skipper Zeb. "Lend me a hand, Toby!" Toby sprang to his assistance. The long oar bent under the superhuman effort that the two put forth, but the boat was coming up. Charley saw, in dim outline through the snow, a high, black mass of rock jutting out in a long point. It bore a strong resemblance to a duck's neck and head, and as though to form the duck's bill a reef extended for several yards beyond into the water and over this the sea with boom and roar heaved in mighty breakers, sending the spray a hundred feet into the air. If they failed to pass that awful boiling caldron they would be lost. It was a terrifying spectacle, and Charley's heart stood still. They were close upon the reef. Skipper Zeb's face was tense. He was working like a giant, and Toby, too, was putting all the strength he possessed upon the sculling oar. With a scant margin to spare, they were at last shooting past the outer rocks, when the oar snapped with a report that was heard above the boom of the breakers. An instant later came a crash, Violet screamed in terror, and Charley felt the bottom of the boat rise beneath his feet. VI THE CAMP AT THE DUCK'S HEAD When Skipper Zeb's oar broke, the boat, now at the mercy of the wind, was driven upon a submerged rock at the tip end of the reef extending some twenty yards out from the cliff known as the Duck's Head. Here it stuck for what seemed to Charley a long time, reeling in the surf until he was quite certain it would roll over and they would all be drowned. Mrs. Twig, clinging with Violet to the mainmast, gave a shrill cry of despair, and Violet screamed in terror. Then a mighty sea lifted them like a chip from the rock, and swept the boat onward and beyond the reef. Rolling and wallowing in the angry sea, which threatened every moment to swallow it up, the boat still floated to the astonishment of all, and Skipper Zeb and Toby, with feverish zeal shipping a fresh oar, began sculling toward the sheltered and calm waters under the lee of the Duck's Head. The wind in their quarter helped them, and with a few mighty strokes of the oar the boat was carried beyond the reach of the rollers, and a few minutes later, submerged to her gunwale, grounded upon a narrow strip of gravelly beach on the western side of the Duck's Head, and Skipper Zeb carried Violet ashore, while the other half drowned and half frozen voyageurs followed. A quantity of driftwood lined the base of the cliff. With an ax, which Skipper Zeb recovered from the boat, he quickly split some sticks, whittled shavings with his jack-knife from the dry hearts of the split sticks, lighted these with a match from a supply which he carried in a small corked bottle, and which were thus protected from the water, and in an incredibly short time a cheerful fire was blazing. "Well, now!" Skipper Zeb exclaimed, genially, warming his hands before the fire. "Here we are safe and sound and none of us lost, as I were fearin' when we strikes the rock we might be! All of us saved by the mercy of the Lard! How is you feelin' now, Vi'let?" "I feels fine, with the fire," answered Violet, who was snuggling close to her mother. "That's pluck; now! And wet as a muskrat!" exclaimed Skipper Zeb, laughing heartily, and quite as though it were an ordinary occurrence, and they had not, a few minutes before, been in peril of their lives. Turning to Charley, he asked: "And how be you, lad?" "I'm all right now, thank you," said Charley shivering still with the cold. "But I never was so wet and cold in my life, and I'm sure I'd have frozen stiff if you hadn't made a fire in a hurry. It's lucky you had some matches in a bottle, for that's all that kept them dry." "No, no, 'twaren't luck!" objected Skipper Zeb. "'Twere just sense! I never goes cruisin' without dry matches corked tight in a bottle handy in my pocket, and I never uses un unless my other matches gets wet. There's times when it's the only way to get a fire, and without un to-day I'm not doubtin' some of us would have perished." "I always carries un too," said Toby. "Aye, a man that cruises in this land must always be ready to put a fire on," commended Skipper Zeb. "I'll remember that," said Charley. "'Twere a narrow shave we has," remarked Toby, "but you always gets out of fixes, Dad. When I looks through the snow and sees the white water rollin' over the reef right handy ahead, and the wind drivin' us on to un, I thinks, now here's a _fix_! 'Tis a wonderful bad fix! Dad can't be gettin' us out of _this_ fix, whatever! I'll be just watchin' now, and see! Dad can't get us out of this un! And then you gets the oar and pulls us up into the wind, and we has room to pass fine, and then I says, Dad's doin' it! Dad's gettin' us out of the fix! Then the oar breaks, and I says that's the end of _us_! But you gets out of un, _what_ever! You're wonderful fine at gettin' out of fixes, Dad!" "'Tweren't me," objected Skipper Zeb, "'twere the Lard. We does the best we can, and when the Lard sees we does our best, He steps in and helps. He says, 'These folk does the best _they_ can to get out of this fix, and I'll just step in and do what they can't do, and help un out of it,' and that's what He does, and here we be, safe and sound." "Is the boat wrecked?" asked Mrs. Twig. "Can't you fix un and use un any more?" "Well now, I'm not knowin' rightly yet, but I'm fearin' her bottom's knocked out of she," answered Skipper Zeb. "If 'tis, 'twill be the end of she, but we'll be makin' out as fine as can be without she." "'Tis too bad to lose she after all our skimpin' and savin' to buy she," mourned Mrs. Twig. "You were wantin' she so bad, and we were savin' and skimpin' for five years, and when you got she you were so pleased over she, and she were helpin' you so in the fishin'." "Aye, she were a fine help," admitted Skipper Zeb cheerfully. "But I were thinkin' maybe she were a bit too big to be handy. Leastways to-day is to-day and to-morrow is to-morrow, and if she's wrecked she's wrecked, and that's the end of she. We won't worry and fuss about what's gone and can't be helped, and maybe some day we'll be gettin' a better boat. We'll just thank the Lard we're safe and sound." Skipper Zeb put some fresh wood upon the fire, and then, pausing to rub his hands over the blaze, he chuckled audibly. "I'm feelin' wonderful glad to be thinkin' how all of us be alive and safe," he said in explanation. "The Lard were wonderful good to us to be bringin' us all ashore. Now we'll get snug. Toby, lad, we'll try to get the things out of the boat, and we'll put up the tent and the stove, and before night comes we'll be as dry and tight as ever we were in our lives." It was no easy matter to transfer the cargo from the submerged boat. It was snowing hard, and the water was icy cold, and Skipper Zeb would not permit Charley to go into the boat with himself and Toby. "You be stayin' ashore," he directed, "and keep the fire up for Mrs. Twig and Vi'let." "But I want to help! I want to do my part!" protested Charley. "Perhaps I can't do much, but I can do something. You've been so kind to me and took me in when I had no place to go! Now I want to do what I can, and not have you do everything for me." "That's fine now! That's spirit! You'll be makin' a real Labradorman before you leaves us. But not bein' used to un," Skipper Zeb explained, "you'd be findin' the water a bit coolish. We're used to un. We're wet at the fishin' all summer. 'Tis best you stays by the fire and gets warmed up, and gets your clothes dry." But when Charley insisted that he do something to help, Skipper Zeb agreed that he might carry the things back from the shore, as they were brought from the boat, and pile them near the fire. "Then they'll be handy for us to get at and dry out, and the work'll be keepin' you warm and free from chill," said Skipper Zeb, "and 'twill be better than gettin' in the water with Toby and me." Skipper Zeb and Toby, waist deep in the boat, rescued the various articles of the cargo and passed them to Charley, who worked with a will until everything was salvaged. A tent was then quickly set up in the lee of the cliff, a tent stove placed in the tent, a fire lighted in the stove, and in fifteen minutes the tent was warm and snug and cozy. A bag of flour was now opened, and it was found that while the outside was wet, the greater part of the center was dry, and in a jiffy Mrs. Twig was mixing dough bread, a kettle was over for tea, and Skipper Zeb had some bear's meat sizzling in the pan and sending forth a most delicious and appetizing odour. "Well, now!" exclaimed Skipper Zeb when they were all gathered in the warm tent, and Mrs. Twig had piled their plates with meat and hot bread and passed each of them a cup of steaming hot tea, "here we are in as snug a berth as can be, safe and sound, with nothin' to worry about even if we be a bit wet." "It is cozy," agreed Charley, with a mouthful of the hot bread, "and I never tasted anything so good!" "Hunger be a wonderful fine spice for vittles," remarked Skipper Zeb. "Are you all warmed up, now?" Everybody was warm, and wet clothing was steaming in the overheated tent. "I'm wonderful thankful you makes the cruise to the Post early," said Mrs. Twig. "'Twere fine to get our winter outfit in September month, and get un safe up to Double Up Cove whilst fair weather held. If we'd had un to-day all the flour and tea and hard bread[2] would be spoiled. As 'tis, we loses the boat and so much else it makes my heart sick to think of un." "Well, now!" exclaimed Skipper Zeb. "Worryin' when we has everything to be thankful for! We has the boat for the cruise in September month, just when we needs un most. Now we don't need un this year again. The things we loses we'll make out without. Everything works fine for us, and here we be, snug as a bear in his den, eatin' good vittles, even if we be a bit wet." "I can't help worryin' about the boat," insisted Mrs. Twig. "I'm 'tis feelin' bad for you not havin' she." "Don't feel bad about un, Mother," and there was a tenderness in Skipper Twig's voice that Charley noted. "'Twere the Lard's doin's." When the meal was finished Mrs. Twig and Violet were left in the tent to dry their clothing, and to hang the blankets from the ridge in an attempt to dry them also. With one of the sails a lean-to shelter was made by the open fire outside, and while Skipper Zeb was busy with this, Toby and Charley broke boughs for a seat, and here the three devoted themselves to drying their own clothing. "How can we get from here without a boat?" asked Charley. "Now that's a fair question!" admitted Skipper Zeb, "but 'tis easy to answer. We're not so far from Double Up Cove. I can walk un in an hour, whatever. Toby and I goes in the marnin', if the sea calms down in the night, and I'll be comin' with another boat. I'm thinkin' 'twill clear before we turns in, whatever. 'Twere only a squall, and 'tis about over. To-morrow's like to be a fair day." Late in the afternoon, as Skipper Zeb predicted, the snow ceased, the sky cleared and the wind moderated. The campfire outside was so cheerful Mrs. Twig and Violet came out of the tent to cook their supper there; and while Mrs. Twig cooked, Skipper Zeb laid a fragrant, springy bed of boughs within the tent. They all sat around the fire and ate in the light of its blaze. And when they were through, Skipper Zeb lighted his pipe, and told stories of his life at sea as a fisherman and on the winter trail as a trapper and hunter that were as full of thrills as any Charley had ever read, until it was time to go to the tent and to bed. It had been the most exciting and adventurous day of Charley's life. He was thankful for his escape. Within his heart welled something of the exultation that one feels who meets and conquers obstacles. True, he had done little himself to aid in the escape, but he had done something. He had taken part in the transference of the cargo, and in pitching the tent, and breaking boughs. He had helped make the camp, and had more than the passive interest of a visitor in it. What tales he would have to tell when he returned home! He had not enjoyed the experience of the day as an experience, but already in retrospect he was thrilled by it. The fellows would surely envy him! When he was wet to the skin and chilled to numbness, he had longed again and again for the warmth of the mail boat, even with its unsavoury smells, and he had asked himself why he had been so foolish as to go ashore. Now that he was dry and warm, his regrets passed, and he felt himself quite a hero. Within, the tent was warm and cozy. The air was perfumed with the spicy fragrance of spruce mingled with the pleasant odour of the woodfire, the incense of the wilderness. Outside he could hear the seas breaking upon the cliff off the Duck's Head and over the reef, and listening to the pounding seas outside, and the cheerful crackling of the fire in the stove, he fell into pleasant dreams. VII A SNUG BERTH It was Charley Norton's first experience in a wilderness camp, but he slept quite as well as he could have slept in his own bed at home, and perhaps more soundly. He had lain down wearied with the day's excitement and exertion, as he had never been wearied before. The strokes of an ax outside awakened him, and he hurried out to find Skipper Zeb and Toby preparing breakfast over an open fire. It was early. The sky was studded with stars, and he stood for a moment to look out over the starlit and now peaceful waters of the bay. No longer were the shrieking winds and the booming breakers to be heard, and no sound broke the silence other than the gentle rhythmic lap of the waters over the reef. Rising above the snow-covered foreground, towered the grim cliff of the Duck's Head. The two figures bending over the brightly burning fire at its base were pigmies as compared to its great bulk. The romance and the mystery of the scene thrilled Charley. He breathed deeply of the crisp, frosty, perfumed air, as he hastened to join Skipper Zeb and Toby. "Right on time!" exclaimed Skipper Zeb. "Were you sleepin' warm and snug the night? I keeps the fire on in the stove to make un warm. The blankets were a bit damp." "I never woke up till I heard you chopping wood," said Charley. "Feelin' good after yesterday's wettin' and chillin'?" asked Skipper Zeb solicitously. "Fine and dandy!" Charley answered. "Isn't it great out here!" "'Tis a fine marnin'," agreed Skipper Zeb. "Toby and I thinks we'll be makin' an early start, so I'll be comin' early with the boat." "May I go with you?" asked Charley eagerly. "Well, now!" and Skipper Zeb looked doubtfully at Charley's leather shoes and heavy ulster. "You'd be findin' that coat a weary burden, and you'd be gettin' wonderful cold feet." "I were dryin' out my other adikey," suggested Toby. "Charley might wear un. I'll soften up my other skin boots for he, and let him have a pair of my duffle socks." "Aye," agreed Skipper Zeb, "he might wear they. Get un, b'y." In a moment Toby produced from the tent an adikey made of heavy white woolen cloth, a pair of thick woolen slippers made of heavy blanket cloth, and a pair of knee-high black sealskin boots with moccasin feet. The latter were hard as boards, but by rubbing the skin upon the rounded end of a stick Toby soon had them soft and pliable. Charley took off his leather shoes, donned the woolen slippers, and over these pulled the sealskin boots which met his knickers, and with a buckskin draw string tied the boot tops just below the knees. Then, removing his ulster, he drew the hooded adikey over his head. "You looks now like you belong here," commented Toby, much pleased. "Anyhow," said Charley, "I feel a lot more comfortable, dressed this way." "Now we'll eat a bit and get started," suggested Skipper Zeb, passing the frying-pan which contained fried salt pork, smoking hot. "We'll be leavin' Mother and Vi'let to rest as long as they wants." It was a half hour later, and dawn was just breaking, when Skipper Zeb and Toby picked up their rifles, and with Skipper Zeb in the lead, and Charley bringing up the rear, they set out for Double Up Cove. For a little while they followed the shore, single file, making their way through tangles of willow brush, or over piles of boulders that had been loosed from the cliffs above by the frosts of untold winters, and rolled down to the base of the cliff. It was the hardest work Charley had ever done, and he felt some pride in the fact that he was able to keep close at Toby's heels, quite unaware that Skipper Zeb was making what to him and Toby was a slow pace, in order that Charley's unaccustomed legs might not lag too far behind. Presently the cliffs receded into sloping hills, covered with a forest of spruce and tamarack, and here they turned into the forest along the slopes, where walking proved much easier, though still more difficult than Charley had expected. Suddenly some birds arose with a great whir of wings, and alighted in a tree. "Spruce pa'tridges!" exclaimed Toby. In a twinkling Skipper Zeb and Toby had their rifles at their shoulders, and with the report of the rifles, which was almost simultaneous, two of the birds fell to the snow below. To Charley's astonishment, the remaining birds did not fly from the tree, and still they remained when two more were shot, and in the end Skipper Zeb and Toby bagged the whole flock of nine. In each case the head had been neatly clipped off by the bullet, and the body of the bird was unmarred and uninjured. "We has two good meals whatever," remarked Skipper Zeb, as they gathered up the birds. "We'll pluck un whilst they're warm. 'Tis easier to do than after they gets cold. 'Twill give us a bit of time to rest." "Why didn't the others fly after you shot the first ones?" asked Charley. "I expected they'd be frightened and all fly away after the first shot." "That's the way with spruce pa'tridges," explained Skipper Zeb. "They has a wonderful foolish way with un. They don't fly when you shoots. They're so tame you could almost knock un over with a stick. They flies in a tree when we comes, thinkin' we're like a fox and can't climb a tree, and knowin' nothin' about guns there they sets and lets us shoot un." To Skipper Zeb and Toby, the shooting of the grouse had meant no more than a means of securing necessary food. In that land where there are no domestic animals or birds, men must hunt the wild things to supply their table, just as a farmer in civilized lands kills chickens from his flock to supply his table. Charley assisted in plucking the birds, and silently admiring the marksmanship of his companions, determined that he, too, would learn to shoot well. The sun had risen, and the winter forest gleamed and sparkled under its rays. Through the trees the waters of the bay glinted like molten silver. The air was redolent with forest fragrance. An impudent Labrador Jay[3] scolding them in its harsh voice, came so close that Charley could almost have caught it with his bare hands. Chickadees[4] chirped in the trees. A three-toed arctic woodpecker hammered industriously upon a tree trunk. In the distance a red squirrel chattered happily and noisily. A thrill of exultation tingled Charley's spine. He was doing the very thing that his father had believed too hard for him to do, and in a wilder country than his father had ever seen. How proud and pleased his father would be when he reached home and told of what he had seen and done! It would compensate for all the suffering at his supposed loss. "Plenty of rabbits this year," remarked Toby, calling Charley's attention to a network of tracks that covered the snow. "We'll be settin' snares for un. 'Tis great sport." "Oh, can we snare them?" said Charley. "That will be great." "Aye," promised Toby, "and we'll be settin' marten traps too. Here's some marten signs now. There's fine signs of marten this year." "You catch martens for the fur, don't you?" asked Charley. "Aye," answered Toby. "They has wonderful fine fur. Weren't you ever seein' a marten?" "No," confessed Charley, "I never saw one." "You'll be seein' they this winter, whatever," promised Toby. Toby pointed to the tracks of a small animal in the snow. It was mid-forenoon when they suddenly came upon a cabin in the midst of a clearing at the edge of the forest, and looking out upon the water. "Well, now, and here we be safe and sound and in good time!" announced Skipper Zeb. He opened a door leading into an enclosed porch, which was built against one end of the cabin, and through the porch they entered the cabin. Charley observed that neither the porch door nor the inner door was locked, and that the latches of both were made of wood, and opened by pulling a string, which hung outside. "Not so bad a place to be cast away in!" boomed Skipper Zeb, surveying the room with pride after depositing his gun upon the beams overhead. "What does you think of your new home, now? 'Twere easy enough to get you out o' _that_ fix, says I! Easy enough!" "It's great!" exclaimed Charley in appreciation. "I'm going to have a bang-up time with you! I feel at home already!" "That's fine, now! Fine!" and Skipper Zeb slapped Charley on the shoulder with his big hand and laughed his hearty laugh. "No worries! To-day's to-day and to-morrow's to-morrow! Cast away with plenty o' grub and a snug shelter and berth! Not so bad! Not so bad! That's gettin' out of a fix, now! Half the time a man worries there's nothin' to worry about. The worst fix a man ever gets in can't last. There's sure to be an end to un." "It seems like a lot to ask of you--taking me into your home this way," said Charley appreciatively. "Dad'll make it up to you some day, after I get home." "Nothin' to make up, if you means pay me!" broke in Skipper Zeb, rather resenting the implication that he might expect payment. "'Tis the way of The Labrador, and the way of the Lard, to share what we has with castaway folk or folk that's in trouble. 'Tis a pleasure to have you with us, lad. Mrs. Twig and I'll just be havin' two lads instead of one the winter, and we were always wishin' we has two. So here you be out o' your fix, and we're all happy as a swile on a sunny rock." "I'm wonderful glad to have you, too," added Toby. "I gets wishin' I had some one to hunt with me, when Dad's away. We'll be huntin' and cruisin' about together, and have a fine time." "It's just great to be with you!" and Charley said it with a full and appreciative heart. "Now, lads, help me put the boat in the water, and I'll pull over to the Duck's Head for Mother and Vi'let and the cargo," said Skipper Zeb. "Whilst I'm gone, Toby, put on a fire and make the house snug." Charley and Toby helped Skipper Zeb launch a boat, which was drawn up upon the beach below the cabin, and when he had set out for the Duck's Head, the boys returned to the cabin, and Toby kindled a fire in a big oblong box stove. It was a small cabin, but snug and homelike, and much more comfortable than the one they had left at Pinch-In Tickle. There was no covering upon the floor, but the boards were white and clean with much scrubbing. Sections of old newspapers and picture pages from old magazines were pasted upon the log walls, and completely covered them. These kept out no small degree of winter wind and cold, and at the same time did duty as decorations. Charley observed with interest several guns resting upon the beams overhead. There were no chairs in the room, and storage chests served as seats. A table occupied the center of the room, and this had doubtless been built by Skipper Zeb himself. Against the side wall was a shelf upon which stood a silent clock. At one side of the clock was a small Bible, at the other a candlestick. A bed built against a corner of the room and a dish closet completed its furnishings. A partition across the rear of the cabin formed a second room, and built against the wall, one at each end of this room, were two beds similar to that in the living-room. "I sleeps in this un in the big room, and you'll be sleepin' with me," Toby advised. "Mother and Dad and Violet sleeps in the beds in the back room." The rear of the entrance porch was piled with firewood ready for the stove, ranked in tiers which reached nearly to the roof, while upon the walls in front hung dog harness, several pairs of snowshoes, traps and other gear incident to a hunter's life. Primitive and crude as was the cabin, it appealed to Charley, doubtless in contrast to his recent experiences, as most comfortable and homelike. This feeling of comfort increased when Toby wound the clock, and it began ticking its welcome. Toby was quite excited at his return to his winter home. He must needs see and show Charley everything inside and outside the cabin, and Charley was interested in all he saw, but most of all in the big, broad snowshoes and the dog harness. "Where are the dogs?" Charley asked. "We leaves un over at Tom Ham's whilst we were at the fishin' in summer," explained Toby. "Tom Ham lives at Lucky Bight, ten miles to the nuth'ard from here. We'll be goin' for un soon now." "It must be fun traveling with dogs," said Charley. "Aye, 'tis that," agreed Toby, "when the weather's fair and the travelin' is good. When the weather's nasty with snow or high winds and frost, or when the goin' is soft, 'tis hard cruisin' with dogs." When Skipper Zeb returned at one o'clock with Mrs. Twig and Violet, and the cargo from the wrecked boat, Toby and Charley had a pot of grouse stewing upon the stove and ready for the dumplings which Mrs. Twig quickly prepared. "'Twill be fine for you lads to set some rabbit snares this evenin'," suggested Skipper Zeb, when dinner was finished. "Rabbit stew would make fine eatin'. Whilst you're gone, I'll be snuggin' up and makin' things tidy around the house. Comin' Monday I'll start settin' up the traps on my path, and I'm thinkin' to take you lads with me on the first round I makes. When you gets back I'm thinkin' 'twill be well to get the dogs from Tom Ham's if he don't bring un before. He'll have his wood hauled, and there'll be good footin' for you lads to take the team and haul our wood by then." This was exciting news to Charley. The dogs! How he wanted to see Eskimo sledge dogs in harness! And to set traps with a real trapper and hunter! He could scarce wait for the time to come. FOOTNOTES: [2] Hardtack. [3] Similar to the Canada Jay, but with darker upper parts and head. [4] The Hudsonian Chickadee. VIII THE TRAIL OF A LYNX Evening down on The Labrador begins directly after twelve o'clock, noon, and therefore by Labrador reckoning it was already evening. It was Skipper Zeb's intention that the boys set out immediately, and he emphasized this by bidding them: "Bide a bit whilst I find some proper twine. The old twine you has last year Toby, lad, were not strong enough to hold rabbits when you catches un." "'Twere wonderful poor twine," agreed Toby, "and I loses half the rabbits, whatever, that gets in the snares." Skipper Zeb began rummaging in one of the storage chests, and presently produced a ball of heavy, smooth, closely wound twine. "There's the best twine now I ever gets for snares," he declared with some pride, handing it to Toby. "The rabbits'll not be breakin' _that_ twine, whatever. 'Tis stout as a small cable. I gets un in July month from Skipper Mudge o' the schooner _Lucky Hand_. I asks he last fall when he goes home from the fishin' to get un for me in St. John's. That's _string_, now, _that_ is! 'Twill hold the biggest rabbit on the Labrador." "Are rabbits so strong?" asked Charley. "Strong enough to break string that's not stout enough to hold un," laughed Skipper Zeb, explaining good-naturedly: "She has to be rare stout to hold some of un. The string Toby has last year were rotten, 'twere so old, and he loses a rare lot o' rabbits that gets in the snares with un breakin' the twine, so I gets new string for this year." "That'll hold un! 'Tis fine twine," agreed Toby, testing it. "Come on, Charley! We'll set a rare lot o' snares this evenin', and have rabbit for dinner to-morrow." The boys hurried into their adikeys, and Toby carrying his rifle, and Charley a light ax, which Toby selected from three or four in the shed, the two set out. "We can't set snares too handy to the house," advised Toby, turning into the forest behind the cabin, with Charley following. "The dogs would find un _too_ handy, when we gets the team home from Skipper Tom's." A thick bramble of dwarf willows and mooseberry bushes lined the shore between the water of the bay and the spruce forest, and to avoid this Toby laid his course through the forest behind the tangle. Charley, thrilled with a sense of adventure, followed Toby eagerly as he led the way for some time in silence. This was Charley's first trapping expedition in a real wilderness! He wondered whether there were wolves or other wild animals lurking among the shadows, and he was glad that Toby had his rifle. Suddenly Toby stopped. The white surface of the snow was covered with a thick network of tracks, among the forest trees and back among the bramble. "They's plenty o' rabbits here," and Toby pointed to the tracks. "I never sees so much rabbit footin'. I'm thinkin' 'tis far enough so the dogs'll not be findin' the snares, and we'll start to set un here." "Are these all rabbit tracks?" asked Charley in amazement. "There must be thousands of them!" "Aye, there's a rare fine band of un about," agreed Toby with an appraising glance. "Here's a fine run, now! We'll be settin' the first snare on this run." Toby pointed to a beaten path or runway, indicating that rabbits had passed back and forth over it many times. He proceeded at once to cut a spruce sapling. From the middle of one side of this he trimmed off the branches with his ax, leaving the thick branches on both ends and on the other side. He then laid the sapling across the runway where the runway passed between two trees, placing it in such manner that the branches on each end of the sapling supported it about eighteen inches above the snow, and the trimmed section of the sapling left an opening for the runway. On each side of the runway he now placed an upright stick, and between the sticks and the trees on each side made a thick network of branches, that only the gateway between the sticks, with the sapling above, would be open for the passage of rabbits, and there would be no temptation to pass around or to jump over the obstruction of branches on the upper side of the sapling. This done, he made a slipnoose on one end of a piece of twine. The other end of the twine he tied to the sapling directly over the runway, and spreading the noose around the gateway through the barricade, stood up and surveyed his work. "There she is, all ready for un to come along and get caught," he said with pride. "Don't you bait it with anything?" asked Charley, who had watched the making of the snare with much interest. "No, we don't bait un," explained Toby. "'Tis a runway where rabbits goes, and they'll go right through un without bait, and get caught." "Rabbits must be chumps to walk right into a contraption like that without any reason, when they've miles of space to go around," Charley declared. "They're wonderful foolish creatures," said Toby. "They never seems to know enough to go around." Darkness comes early at this season in that northern latitude, and when the boys had set six snares they suddenly became aware that it was nearly sunset. They must set out on their return to the cabin without delay. "This _is_ the life!" exclaimed Charley, as they turned back. "Seems to me an afternoon never flew so fast!" "When I'm busy workin' I finds the time does go wonderful fast," agreed Toby. "Havin' you along it went a wonderful lot faster'n when I'm alone, too. 'Tis fine to have you here, Charley!" "I'm having a great time, too! It's a peck of fun getting off here in the woods away from everything, and setting snares." "Aye, 'tis that." "When shall we know whether we have caught anything?" "We'll come and look at un first thing in the marnin'." "I can't wait to see!" "'Twill be more fun when we sets marten and fox traps. I'm goin' to ask Dad to let us have some traps, and we can trap together, and I'm not doubtin' we'll be gettin' some fur. We'll be partners." "That'll be great! When can we start setting them?" "When we comes back from goin' with Dad to his path." "Where are we going now? We're not going the way we came." "I'm takin' a short way through the timber. We may see some pa'tridges." They walked for a few minutes in silence, when Toby, who was in the lead, suddenly stopped, and examined the snow at his feet. "What is it?" asked Charley in excitement, as Toby pointed to some large tracks in the snow. Toby, looking in the direction in which the tracks led, said nothing for a moment. They were large tracks--nearly large enough for those of a bear, and the steps taken by the animal that made them were short steps. "What tracks are they?" Charley repeated, with bated breath. "Are they wolf tracks or bear tracks?" "They looks something like bear tracks, but 'tis not a bear made un," answered Toby. "'Tis not heavy enough for a bear, and bear tracks has nail marks. This un has no nail marks. A bear steps longer, too. 'Tis the track of a lynx, I'm thinkin'." "Is a lynx dangerous?" asked Charley, a strange tingle chasing up and down his spine. "They're not like to be unless they gets cornered," said Toby. "Anything fights when 'tis cornered. Even a fox would do that. This track is fresh. 'Twere just made. I'm thinkin' the lynx is handy by, and we might get a shot at un. He's around huntin' rabbits. Let's follow he." "All right, I'm for it!" agreed Charley, quite excited at the prospect of a lynx hunt. The two boys set forward in silence, following the well defined trail left by the animal. They had gone but a short distance when Toby stopped and pointed at a red-stained and trampled place in the snow, with some bits of fur lying about. "He kills a rabbit here," whispered Toby. "See how fresh 'tis. That stick is fresh wet with the rabbit's blood. 'Tis sure a lynx. 'Tis the only beast makin' that big track that kills rabbits. I knows now 'tis a lynx." "It must be _very_ near!" whispered Charley, his heart beating fast. "We're like to see he any minute," agreed Toby. "He's right handy. We'll have to be keepin' wonderful quiet now." "Will he run when he sees us?" asked Charley anxiously. "He's not like to run at first. 'Tis the way of the lynx to stop and look before he goes, but 'twould be easy to lose sight of he and lose a shot here in the timber." Never was Charley more excited. They continued on the trail with increased caution. In every dark shadow Charley fancied he saw the figure of a crouching beast about to spring upon them. He knew that a lynx was a big cat, and he could not but wonder if, in spite of Toby's assurance, it would not attack them from ambush. He had seen fierce panthers in the zoo at home, and with every step the lynx grew in his imagination to the proportions of the panther. He recalled a story he had read of an attack a lynx had made upon a hunter, and the more he thought of it the surer he was that at any moment he would feel the lynx upon his back clawing and tearing at his throat. Afraid, wild eyed, and peering into every shadowy recess as they advanced, he still had no thought of deserting Toby. Come what might, he was determined to see the adventure through. In this he was heroic. One who faces danger without fear or appreciation of the danger displays no bravery. But he who faces danger, drawn on by duty as Charley felt it his duty now to stick by the side of Toby, believing himself in great peril, but still not flinching, is truly brave. The sun had dropped behind the western hills, and the first hint of twilight was settling among the trees, when Toby without warning halted and froze where he stood. Then it was that Charley saw in the shadows ahead two eyes glowing like balls of fire and the outlines of a great crouching creature. IX THE FAR WILDERNESS Deliberately Toby raised his rifle to his shoulder, so deliberately that Charley was sure the lynx would spring upon them before Toby could fire. Charley held his breath, and then Toby's rifle rang out. The lynx gave a feeble lunge, and the next instant lay crumpled in a heap. "We got un! I knocked un over!" cried Toby exultantly as the two ran forward to the prostrate animal. "That was a fine shot!" Charley shouted, quite beside himself with excitement, and now breathing freely again. "He'll be a fine surprise for Dad!" exclaimed Toby, surveying the carcass with vast pride. "Won't he and Mother be glad of un! The fur's not prime, but 'twill be fair, and 'tis the first fur we gets this year!" "He won't kill any more of our rabbits!" Charley boasted, touching the furry coat of the dead animal. "The one he kills back there where we sees un, were the last un for he," agreed Toby. "How'll we carry it?" asked Charley. "'Twill be easy to carry he," assured Toby. "I'll show you how easy 'tis." Now that the lynx was harmless to attack, and lay quiet and motionless at their feet, Charley discovered that it was a much smaller animal than he had thought when he saw its eyes and its crouching form in the shadows. Still he had no desire to meet a lynx alone in the forest, though Toby still insisted that the animal would have made no attack, and would have slipped away from them had he failed in his aim. Toby drew the twine from his pocket, and tied together the front legs, just above the padded feet, wrapping the twine around the legs several times, and tying it in a secure knot. The hind legs were tied in similar manner. Then cutting a stiff pole, and trimming off the branches with the ax, he ran the pole between the front and hind legs, with the two ends protruding. "Now," said Toby, "and you takes one end of the pole on your shoulder, I'll take the other on mine and we'll carry he in between us." "I never would have thought of doing it that way," said Charley admiringly. "That's dead easy!" It was dusk when they reached the cabin, and the lynx was growing heavy to Charley's unaccustomed shoulder, and both boys were tired and happy with the day's adventure. "Well, now!" boomed Skipper Zeb in his biggest voice, when the boys appeared at the door. "A lynx! And a fine big un, too! And the fur's not so bad for this early in the season. You're startin' in fine as a Labradorman!" and he slapped Charley on the shoulder. "Day before yesterday a castaway! Yesterday shipwrecked! To-day settin' rabbit snares and helpin' Toby knock over a lynx! Aye, and gettin' the lynx! That's two bad fixes you gets out of yourself, and one you gets the lynx in that he don't get out of!" "Toby shot the lynx," said Charley modestly. "He'd have got away from me if I'd been alone, or eaten me up." "Charley helped," Toby broke in. "He helped to trail he, though I did the shootin', and he helped to carry he home." "Both of you gets un, though only one does the shootin'," agreed Skipper Zeb with a hearty "haw! haw! haw!" slapping the two boys on the shoulder with vast approval. "Only one would be doin' the shootin' whatever. We'll be makin' a hunter o' you before the ship comes back in July month, lad! You'll be a true Labradorman by then. Now we'll have roast lynx for dinner to-morrow, and 'tis a fine fat un too." Supper was not ready, and while they waited Skipper Zeb and Toby skinned the lynx, beginning at the hind feet, and drawing the skin whole and inside out over the carcass. It was then pulled snugly over a board shaped for the purpose, with the fur next the board and the fleshy side out, drawn taut and secured. Now, with a sheath knife, Skipper Zeb scraped it carefully, removing every particle of fat or flesh that adhered, and when this was completed to his satisfaction he hung the board with the pelt upon it from a peg to dry. "It seems like a month instead of three days since I came," said Charley when supper was eaten and Skipper Zeb had lighted his pipe. "A lot has happened in three days." "Things has happened, now! Yes, sir!" observed Skipper Zeb, puffing at his pipe. "We had a bit of a hard time yesterday, but here we are to-day all snug and safe and well. Not one of us in a fix, and all goin' fine." "I wonder how Mr. Wise felt when he missed me," Charley chuckled. "I can just see him running around the ship looking for me. I guess he thinks he's in a fix! Serves him right if he is worried. But," and Charley sobered, "it makes me feel badly to think of Dad and Mother when they hear I'm missing." "Don't be thinkin' o' that now," cautioned Skipper Zeb. "'Twill do you no good and 'twill do they no good. Just be thinkin' how joyful they'll be when you goes home in July month. What a fine surprise 'twill be for un!" And then to change the line of thought, he suggested: "You'll be needin' a fit out o' clothes for the winter." "I have some money," volunteered Charley. "I could buy things if there was a store to go to." "There's no store this side o' Skipper Blink's shop at Deer Harbour, and that's a bit down north from Pinch-In Tickle, and we'll not be gettin' there for two months whatever," explained Skipper Zeb. "Mother, how can we fit out the lad for clothes?" "We has a bolt o' moleskin and a bolt o' kersey cloth," said Mrs. Twig. "I'll make the adikeys from that, and a pair o' moleskin trousers. We're a bit short o' underclothes. We gets Toby new ones this year, and I can mend up his old ones to do he for a bit until you goes to Deer Harbour, and Charley can wear the new ones." "I'll wear the old ones," objected Charley. "Let Toby have the new ones. I have the suit I'm wearing, too." "You have one of the new ones," suggested Toby by way of compromise, "and with the suit you has 'twill make two. I'll be havin' the other two suits of new uns, and we'll both be wearin' the old uns if we needs un till you gets new." "All right, I'll go you on that," agreed Charley. "That's a good way to fix it. And when there's a chance to go to the store at Deer Harbour I'll get some new things there." "We has some fine skins for boots," said Mrs. Twig. "I gets un all tanned in the spring, and I'll be makin' up some boots." "Well, now! We're gettin' out o' that fix easy," and Skipper Zeb beamed delightedly. "We're gettin' out o' _that_ fix! And has you duffle for sox? And is there plenty o' deerskin on hand for moccasins?" "Aye, plenty o' duffle and plenty of deerskins," smiled Mrs. Twig, amused at the Skipper's enthusiasm. "I'll soon be havin' a plenty o' sox and moccasins made up." "The lynx fur the lads gets this evenin' not bein' prime for trade, but fine for caps, I thinks the lads might have caps made out of un, and the hoods of their adikeys trimmed with un," suggested Skipper Twig. "Then both our lads will be dressed alike." "'_Twould_ be fine, now," assented Mrs. Twig, who usually agreed with Skipper Zeb's suggestions. "Now that's settled, and we has you lads togged out to the king's taste for winter." Skipper Zeb stroked his beard contentedly. "No fix there to bother, and we'll talk up our plans. First thing, Mother's been fussin' about the trap boat, and feelin' bad about un ever since we leaves un at the Duck's Head. She's thinkin' if we pulls un out o' the water, we'll find the bottom not so bad we can't fix un. I'm not doubtin' myself the bottom's all stove in, the way she struck. But we'll go over to the Duck's Head in the marnin' to pull she out and make sure of un, and 'twill make Mother feel better if we tries, whatever." "That's fine," agreed Toby. "I were thinkin' maybe she's just got a busted plank, and her timbers are sound." "Now what does you think o' the plan, Charley?" asked Skipper Zeb. "You're one o' the partners, and must have a say about un." "It sounds good to me," agreed Charley, feeling that responsibility was being thrust upon him, and rather pleased that it was. "I think the boat should be looked at." "There, now, that's good judgment," boomed the Skipper. "I were sure you were a lad o' judgment from the minute I sees you, and that proves un. We'll go in the marnin' to the Duck's Head to see the trap boat, after you lads come back from your rabbit snares." As Toby had planned, Charley and he shared the bed in the living-room, and so soundly did Charley sleep that Mrs. Twig had breakfast nearly ready before he awoke the following morning. They ate by candle-light, and at the first break of dawn the two boys set out eagerly to look at the rabbit snares, and within an hour returned with three big snowshoe rabbits. Skipper Twig was ready with his boat, in which he had stowed block and fall rigging, hammer, nails, pieces of plank and an ax, and without delay the three were off for the Duck's Head. With the block and fall they were able to haul the boat out of the water, and to their satisfaction, and the amazement of Skipper Zeb, discovered that no serious damage had been done. A plank had been broken, but ribs and timbers were uncracked. The boat was soon mended and the new section of plank caulked with oakum, and shortly after midday the trap boat was again afloat, and quite as serviceable as before the accident. "There she be, fine and shipshape as ever!" Skipper Zeb boomed. "Mother were worryin' and stewin' herself half sick about she. That's the way 'tis with most worries, when you goes to the bottom of un. Nothin' to worry about. There's another fix we gets out of." "Fine and dandy!" exclaimed Charley. "I was sure you'd lost her, and I'm so glad she's all right after all." "Well, now," said Skipper Zeb, "this was once Mother was right when she pesters me to come and look at un. I thinks we'd lost she sure, but I says, 'That's the way o' things,' and I don't worry. Though we'd have missed she at the fishin', we'd be gettin' on, and 'twasn't worth a worry, whatever." There was great rejoicing when Skipper Zeb and the boys arrived at Double Up Cove early in the afternoon with the big trap boat, and the small boat in tow. Mrs. Twig and Violet saw them coming, and were at the beach to meet them, and Mrs. Twig actually shed tears of joy. "Snug and tight as ever!" announced Skipper Zeb, as the prow touched the shore. "We gets she all fixed up, Mother. I'm thinkin' you knows more about boats than I does." "I'm _so_ glad!" and Mrs. Twig's round face was wreathed in smiles while glad tears glistened in her eyes. "Now you and the lads must be wonderful hungry, for 'tis near two hours after dinner time, and dinner's been waitin' this long while." "Aye, hungry as seven bears and as happy and perky as a cock pa'tridge," boomed Skipper Zeb. "We'll make the boats fast, and be right up." What an appetite Charley had! And when he learned that the delicious roast meat was a cut of the lynx that he and Toby had killed the night before, his natural prejudice against unaccustomed food did not prevent him from taking a second helping. Charley scarce had time to think of home. Skipper Zeb was quite aware that the best antidote for homesickness is work, with little time to ruminate, and he kept Charley busy from morning till night with himself and Toby doing the most interesting things imaginable, and, with all the other work, the boys visited their rabbit snares each day and set new ones. The week passed quickly, and on Saturday evening, when they sat down to supper, Skipper Zeb announced: "Well, now, here 'tis time to go to the path and set up the traps. We'll be leavin' Monday marnin', lads." This was an adventure to which Charley had looked forward with keen anticipation since Skipper Zeb had first announced that he and Toby were to accompany him. Reaching away for countless miles in every direction from the water's edge lay the vast primordial, boundless wilderness. What unfathomed mysteries it held! There it slept as it had slept through the silence of unnumbered ages since the world was formed, untrod by the white man's foot, known only to wild Indian hunters, as primitive as the wilderness itself. What strange beasts lived in its far fastnesses! What marvelous lakes, what great rivers, what mountain peaks waited there to be discovered! What a wonderful sensation it would be to penetrate the hem of its outer edge beyond the sight and reach of even Skipper Zeb's frontier cabin. This was what Charley was thinking, as they talked of the going on Monday morning, though he could not, perhaps, have put his thoughts or emotions into words that would express them. "'Tis a late start," Skipper Zeb continued. "I never goes in quite so late to set up my path. But I has two fine helpers, whatever, and I never has they before." Everything was made ready on Sunday night, and a full two hours before daybreak on Monday morning Skipper Zeb's small boat was laden with a cargo of flour, pork, molasses, tea and steel traps, with extra clothing for the trail. Two pairs of snowshoes were taken for himself, in case of accident to one of them, and also a pair for Toby and a pair for Charley. "'Tis never safe to go without snowshoes at this season," explained Skipper Zeb. "If snow comes now, there'll be no gettin' about without un." "I never had a pair of snowshoes on in my life," said Charley. "I don't see how you can walk with them, they're so wide and must be clumsy." "Never has snowshoes on!" explained Skipper Zeb in astonishment. "Well, now! And how does you ever get about in winter without un?" "The streets are kept clear of snow," explained Charley, "and we don't have so much snow anyhow. Even in the country there isn't enough snow to use them." "Well, now!" said Skipper Zeb in wonderment. "It must be strange to be livin' in a place where you're not needin' snowshoes to get about in winter. You'll learn to use un. 'Twill be easy enough, once you finds the way o' swingin' your feet." Mrs. Twig and Violet went down to the landing to see them off, and to wish them Godspeed as they pulled away with Skipper Zeb and Toby at the oars and Charley settled snugly in the stern. X SKIPPER ZEB'S TRAPPING PATH The stars shone brightly. The distant shore line stood out in dark silhouette marking the boundary of the land of silence, where no man lived. A thousand miles of trackless, unknown wilderness lay beyond that dark forest boundary. Charley's imagination pictured it as another world, apart and different from anything he had ever seen. Reared in a great city, it was difficult for him, even after his experience of the past week, to visualize it or form any accurate conception of what lay within its cold, rugged heart. Listening to the ripple of water, watching the stars, Charley's thoughts turned from the dark shore line to the brighter home land. What had his father said when Mr. Wise returned without him? What would his mother say and feel when his father reached home alone? How grief-stricken they would be! Tears came into Charley's eyes, and remorse threatened to dampen the pleasure, and rob him of the ardour, of the adventure, when Skipper Zeb, in his big, cheery voice, asked: "Be you snug and warm back there, Charley, lad?" "Yes, thank you." Charley's voice betrayed his thoughts, perhaps, for Skipper Zeb asked: "Not sorry now that the ship left you, be you, lad?" "N-n-o," hesitated Charley, "I'm having a great time, but I was thinking of Dad and Mother, and how badly they will feel." "Don't be thinkin' o' that now. Think how glad you'll make they when you goes back." Skipper Zeb laughed heartily. "I'm just laughin' at the way they'll be takin' on _then_! They'll be just maulin' you to pieces, they'll be so glad! Think o' _that_ now. Think o' the bad fix you gets out of, and thank the Lard you gets left at Pinch-In Tickle where you was as welcome as a son, instead of at some harbour where no one was bidin', as might o' happened. Just be thinkin' of to-day, and thank the Lard you're well and hearty, and has a snug berth with plenty o' grub. Nothin' to worry about! Not a thing!" "May I have a pull at the oars?" Charley asked, the gloom suddenly dispersed by Skipper Zeb's cheery voice and logical argument. "Aye, lad, 'twill warm you up," agreed Skipper Zeb heartily. "Take Toby's oars. Let Charley have a pull at your oars, Toby, lad." Charley soon wearied of the unaccustomed work, and blisters began to form in the palms of soft hands; and when Toby suggested it, he was glad enough to surrender the oars again to Toby, who minded it not a bit. Daylight came and with it bright sunshine. Charley's heart beat with gladness and the joy of life. His far away city home seemed farther away than ever. He remembered it as one remembers a place of dreams--the subways, the elevated railways, the traffic-clogged streets, the high buildings, the noise. Here were no chimneys vomiting smoke and soot. Here were no dirty streets to poison the air with noxious fumes and germs of disease. He breathed deeply of the pure air bearing the sweet perfume of the forest and the refreshing smell of the salt sea. It filled his lungs like a life-giving tonic. How glorious this wild world was! "Well, now!" Skipper Zeb announced an hour before midday. "Here's Swile Island before we knows it! We'll stop for a bit to boil the kettle and stretch our legs ashore." Swile Island was a small, nearly round island, containing an area equal to about that of a city block. Its center rose to a small hill, covered by a stunted growth of black spruce trees, which somehow clung to its rocky surface. Charley was glad to go ashore, and he soon learned that "to boil the kettle" meant to prepare and eat luncheon. While Toby carried up from the boat the food and cooking utensils, Skipper Zeb lighted a fire, and in a little while the kettle was boiling for tea and a pan of salt pork sizzling over the coals. Never in his life had Charley eaten fried salt pork, and Skipper Zeb's pork contained no streak of lean. He would have left the table without eating had such a meal been served him in his city home. But here he ate the pork, with his bread sopped into the grease, and tea sweetened with molasses, hungrily and with a relish, so quickly had exercise in the pure, clear air of the wilderness had its effect. Indeed, he was always hungry now, and could scarcely wait for meal time. "There were lots of things I'd never eat at home," he said as he passed his plate for a second helping of pork, "but here I like everything." "As I were sayin' before, hunger's a rare sauce for vittles," remarked Skipper Zeb. A light breeze sprang up while they were eating, and when they made their departure from Swile Island Skipper Zeb hoisted a leg-o'-mutton sail, and then sat and smoked his pipe and told stories of experiences and adventures on the trail, while Toby took the rudder. It was nearly three o'clock when Skipper Zeb pointed out a little log hut near the mouth of a small river, and announced: "There's Black River and there's Black River tilt where we bides to-night." A few minutes later the prow of the boat grounded upon a gravelly beach, and while Skipper Zeb unloaded the cargo the boys carried it to the tilt, laying it upon spruce boughs broken by Toby to protect it from the snow. The tilt was built of logs, with a roof thatched with bark. The door was not more than four feet in height, and when Skipper Zeb opened it the three were compelled to stoop low to enter. The interior was a room about eight by ten feet in size. Across the end opposite the door was a bunk, and, along the right side of the room as they entered, another bunk extended from that at the far end to the wall behind the door. On the left side of the room, and midway between the end bunk and the door was a sheet-iron tent stove, with a pipe dismantled and lying on top of it. An old pair of snowshoes, and steel traps, pieces of board shaped for stretching pelts of various sizes and some simple cooking utensils hung upon wooden pegs against the wall. The floor was of hard-packed earth. "Well, now! Here we be safe and sound and ready for work!" boomed Skipper Zeb. "Everything snug and fine when we gets our beds made and the stove set up and a fire in she. Whilst you lads gets boughs for the beds, I'll be puttin' up the stove and stow the cargo inside." Toby and Charley went to work with a will, and soon had deep springy beds laid upon the bunks. Upon the bunk at the farther end they spread Skipper Zeb's sleeping bag, and side by side, upon the other bunk, their own. Already Skipper Zeb had a crackling fire in the stove and the cargo carried in and stowed snugly under the berths. "Now whilst Toby and I tidy up a bit, put over the kettle, Charley lad, and we'll have a bite to eat," suggested Skipper Zeb. Charley took the tin pail that served as a kettle, to fill it at the river. Just as he had dipped it and was about to return, his eye fell upon a peculiar looking animal perched upon a branch high up in a spruce tree. With all speed he ran back to the tilt and called excitedly upon Toby to come and see it. "'Tis a porcupine!" exclaimed Toby, grabbing his rifle and following Charley. "I'll shoot he, and we'll have he for supper!" And so it proved. A shot brought the animal tumbling down. Toby picked it up gingerly by a leg and carried it back. "Well, now! Fresh meat the first night!" boomed Skipper Zeb. "Whilst you lads tidy the tilt, I'll skin he." In a few minutes Skipper Zeb had the porcupine skinned and dressed, and after washing the meat in the river and cutting it into convenient sections he placed it in a kettle of water to stew for supper. Two Indian flatsleds or toboggans, which were standing on end against the tilt, were put into repair by Skipper Zeb and made ready for the journey on the morrow, and before dark all preparations for an early departure were completed. It was snug and cozy now in the tilt, with the fire in the little tent stove cracking and snapping. The air was spicy sweet with the odour of the spruce and balsam beds, but to the boys a still more delicious and appealing odour was given out by the kettle of stewing porcupine on the stove. Presently when supper was served Charley declared that the meal more than fulfilled his expectations. "Why, it makes me think of lamb," he said, "only it's a heap better than any stewed lamb I ever ate. It's just great!" "'Twere young and fat," said Skipper Zeb. "We likes porcupine wonderful well. 'Tis a fine treat _we_ thinks." Before daybreak the following morning loads were lashed upon the two flatsleds, and all was made ready for the trail. Snow was not deep enough to require the use of snowshoes, and they were tied securely upon the tops of the loads. "All ready!" announced Skipper Zeb, in his big hearty voice, as dawn was breaking. "I'll be goin' ahead with the heavy flatsled, and you lads takes turns haulin' the other. Toby b'y, you take the first turn at un." "Aye," agreed Toby eagerly, "I'll haul un a spell first." The route for a time followed the course of Black River. Now and again Skipper Zeb paused and turned aside to set a trap, where the tracks of martens or minks indicated their presence. At intervals he took bunches of a dozen or more traps from trees where he had hung them the previous spring when the trapping season had ended. Charley wondered how it was possible for him to remember where he had left them, and asked: "How do you ever find the traps where you left them? The places all look alike to me." "Why, 'tis easy enough, lad. This bunch I hangs in the only hackmatack tree handy about. I just looks up and sees the tree, and there I finds the traps just where I leaves un." Even still Charley could not understand how Skipper Zeb could know where to look for the particular hackmatack tree, standing alone among the spruces and quaking aspens, for at several points he saw lone hackmatacks in similar surroundings. Presently he was to learn that the woodsman by long practice learns to know every tree or bush that is even slightly out of the ordinary along his trail, and so trained is he in the art of observation that his subconscious mind records these with no effort on his part. Thus to the woodsman the trail over which he has traveled two or three times, and often but once, becomes as familiar to him as streets to the city dweller. After two hours on the trail, Skipper Zeb announced that they would "boil the kettle," and have a "snack" to eat. Already the boys were ravenously hungry, and Skipper Zeb chuckled merrily as he observed their keen enjoyment as they ate. "Settin' up traps makes for hunger," said he. "Fill up now." "I was just hollow!" confessed Charley. "And I was hungrier'n a starved wolf!" added Toby. Their course now left the river valley, and presently came upon a wide frozen marsh, or "mesh" as Skipper Zeb called it. "'Tis here on the meshes we finds the best fox footin'," he explained to Charley. It was not long until he found tracks that he said were fox tracks, and in various places on the marsh set three traps, which were considerably larger than those set for marten or mink, and had two springs instead of one, and he used much greater care in setting them than in setting those for marten and mink. With his sheathknife he cut out a square of snow, and excavated in the snow a place large enough to accommodate the trap. Over the trap a thin crust of snow was placed, and so carefully fitted that its location was hardly discernible. In like manner the chain, which was attached to the root of a scrubby spruce tree, was also concealed. From a carefully wrapped package on his flatsled Skipper Zeb produced some ill-smelling meat, and this he scattered upon the snow over and around the trap. "They likes meat that smells bad," he explained, "and I'm thinkin' that smells bad enough for un." Evening was falling when suddenly through the forest there glinted the waters of a lake, and here on its shores Skipper Zeb told them they were to camp for the night. A home-made cotton tent, small but amply large enough for the three, was quickly pitched and a tent stove set up. Then while Toby and Charley gathered boughs and laid the bed, Skipper Zeb cut a supply of wood for the night, and before the boys had finished the bed he was frying in the pan a delicious supper of partridges, which he and Toby had shot during the afternoon. Charley was sure he had never been so tired in his life. It had been a long day of steady walking, save for the brief stops when Skipper Zeb halted to set a trap, and the snow and turns at hauling the flatsled had made it the harder. He lay back upon his sleeping bag chatting with Toby and watching Skipper Zeb prepare supper. How cozy and luxurious the tent was! The pleasant fragrance of spruce and balsam would have put him to sleep at once, had it not been for the pleasanter fragrance of the frying partridges and a hunger that increased with every minute. When the meal was eaten Charley's eyes were so heavy that it was little short of torture to keep them open, and he slipped into his sleeping bag, and in an instant had fallen into dreamless, restful sleep. How long he had been sleeping he did not know, when suddenly he found himself awake and alert. Something had aroused him, and he sat up and listened. For a time he heard nothing, save the heavy breathing of Skipper Zeb and Toby, and he was about to lie down again when there came the sound of footsteps in the slightly crusted snow outside. Some animal was prowling cautiously about the tent sniffing at its side. The moon was shining, and suddenly he saw the shadowy outline, against the canvas, of a great beast that he knew to be a timber wolf. He was about to reach over to Skipper Zeb to wake him, when all at once the stillness was broken by a terrifying, heartrending howl, rising and falling in mournful cadence, and echoing through the forest behind them. The howling creature was separated from Charley only by the thickness of the canvas, and Charley's blood ran cold. XI THE WORST FIX OF ALL Skipper Zeb and Toby sat up hurriedly, and without an instant's hesitation Skipper Zeb slipped on his moccasins, reached for his rifle and left the tent. A moment later there came the report of his rifle. The boys awaited eagerly his return, and when presently he reentered the tent it was to report: "'Twere an old she wolf, but I misses she. 'Twere just one alone. I'm thinkin' we may be findin' deer signs up the path. Wolves follow the deer." "Will the wolf come back? And is it dangerous?" asked Charley, the terrifying echo of its howl still in his ears. "We'll never see _she_ again," said Skipper Zeb, settling in his sleeping bag to resume his interrupted rest. "That un won't be dangerous, whatever. If she keeps goin' as smart as she started she'll be over the height o' land by to-morrow night this time," and he chuckled with the recollection of the frightened wolf's speed. Farther and farther into the wilderness they went. It seemed to Charley that they had left the whole world behind them, and that the forest and barrens through which they trod had swallowed them up, and he wondered if they would ever be able to find their way back to Black River tilt and the boat. Had he been left alone he would not have known in which direction to turn. The silence was total. There was never a sound to break it at night, and during the day none save the harsh voice of the Labrador jay, which came begging for food whenever they boiled the kettle, and was so fearless it would almost take crumbs from the hand; or the incessant dee-dee-dee of the chickadee, a much pleasanter companion of the trail, Charley thought, than the jay. Once, in the evening, they heard the honk of a flock of wild geese passing south. "They're a bit late," observed Skipper Zeb. "They'll be bidin' in a pond a step to the west'ard from here, and feedin' in the marnin'. I gets geese there sometimes, and I'm thinkin' I'll take a look at break o' day and see if I can knock one or two of un over." Accordingly, the following morning after they had eaten breakfast and just as dawn was breaking, he left the boys, and a half hour later returned with three fat geese. "We'll cache un here," said he, "and when we comes back take un with us, and you lads can take un home." On Wednesday night they had the shelter of a tilt, which Skipper Zeb called "Long Lake tilt," and on Friday evening they reached "Big Lake tilt" and the end of the trail. "Here we stops till Monday," Skipper Zeb announced. "'Twill give you lads a chance to rest up." "That's great! It's the longest and hardest hike I ever had," said Charley. "I'll tell Dad about it when I get home, and he'll think I could have stood the Newfoundland hike he wouldn't take me on. I'll bet it wasn't half as hard as this one!" "You'll be gettin' as strong as a young bear, lad, and as toughened up as a wolvering before you leaves The Labrador," chuckled Skipper Zeb. "Mother'll be scared when I tell her what I've done here," said Charley, "but Dad will be proud of it. They never thought I could do _anything_ hard, and never let me do anything much. They'll know now what I can do!" "We never knows what we can do till we tries un," commented Skipper Zeb. The following morning Skipper Zeb did not wake the boys, but left them to sleep while he slipped away alone to set traps in the forest and marshes along the lake shore. It was broad day when they awoke, and when they had eaten Toby suggested: "We'll be goin' out with my rifle and try shootin' at a mark." "May I shoot?" asked Charley eagerly. "I never shot a gun in my life and I'd like to learn!" "'Tis easy," assured Toby. "I'll be showin' you how, and you'll be learnin' quick." Before they left the tilt Toby instructed Charley in how to fill the magazine and how to manipulate the lever, impressing all the time upon his pupil the necessity of caution, and telling tales of two or three of his acquaintances who had been shot through the careless handling of firearms. When Charley had learned the rudiments of gun handling to Toby's satisfaction, they went a little way down the lake shore, and selecting a bank as a background, in order, Toby told Charley, that bullets that missed the mark might not go crashing through the forest, but would be buried in the earth, he fastened a small square of white birchbark upon a spruce tree, to serve as a target, and retired with Charley to a distance of about fifty yards from it. "Now try a shot," Toby directed. "How do you hold the rifle steady?" asked Charley who found the muzzle wabbling woefully. Toby, with much patience, illustrated the method of placing the feet, the position in which to stand, how to hold the arm, and how to aim properly. "Now don't pull un with a jerk. Hold your breath and squeeze the trigger hand together all at once, so she goes off almost without your knowin' when she goes." Charley proved himself an apt pupil, and after a few shots rarely missed the target. Skipper Zeb did not return to the tilt for dinner, and after the boys had eaten Toby suggested that they stroll up the lake shore in the hope that they might get a shot at some partridges. "May I carry your rifle and try to shoot them if we see any?" asked Charley eagerly. "Aye," agreed Toby, "'twill be fine for you to try un, now you knows how to shoot." Charley took the rifle eagerly, and this time took the lead, as the hunter. They had walked but a short distance when Toby whispered: "Drop quick!" "What is it?" whispered Charley, as both dropped to the ground and Toby crawled up beside him. "Deer!" whispered Toby. "See un! Right ahead!" Then for the first time Charley saw a big caribou, nosing in the snow and feeding leisurely. "What'll I do?" asked Charley. "'Tis a fine shot!" answered Toby. "Be wonderful careful o' your aim, and shoot!" Charley was all atremble as he brought the rifle to his shoulder for his first shot at any game. In spite of all he could do, the muzzle of the rifle would not behave, and before he was aware of it he pulled the trigger, and the shot went wild. "Try un again! Try un again before he runs!" plead Toby. Charley fired again and then again, but with no better success, and the caribou, now taking alarm, turned and disappeared into the forest. "You misses that un," said Toby, not in the least perturbed, now that the caribou had gone. "'Tis hard to hit un the first time you tries." "Oh, I'm so sorry!" and Charley could scarce control his voice in excitement and disappointment. "It was nearer than the target we shot at! How _could_ I miss it?" "You gets nervous the first time you tries, the way most folks does," soothed Toby. "Next time you'll get un." It was Thursday evening of the following week when they again reached the tilt at Black River and the boat. Both boys were tired but happy, and Charley, who had shot his first partridge with Toby's rifle that morning, told Skipper Zeb that he had had the best time he ever had in all his life. "That's the way to talk, lad! That's the way!" and Skipper Zeb slapped him on the shoulder, his characteristic method of expressing approval. "You has the makin's in you of a fine trapper and hunter. You fits yourself to what you has to meet and to do, whether 'tis a bit hard or whether 'tis easy. 'Twere a long way for young legs that's not used to un. Bein' on the path settin' up traps is a wonderful sight different from bein' snug and warm with a good bed o' nights at home. You lads stands un like old hands at un." "Thank you, Skipper," and Charley was proud, as was Toby, at the word of praise. Every one likes to be praised for an act well done, or done to the best of one's ability, and Skipper Zeb, who in a crude way was a student of human nature, and carried a gentle, affectionate heart in his bosom, never failed to speak a word of praise where it was deserved. He knew that a kindly word of appreciation for a deed well done, often proved an incentive to greater effort. A little flower handed to the living is better than a wreath placed upon the casket of the dead. Skipper Zeb gave his flowers of kindliness to those about him while they lived and could enjoy them. "Now, lads," said Skipper Zeb when they had finished their evening meal, and he was puffing his pipe comfortably by the warm stove, "I has a line o' traps to set up to the east'ard of the tilt that I weren't settin' up before we goes in, and two days' work to do about here whatever. We've been havin' a long spell o' fine weather like we mostly has before winter sets in hard. The wind is shiftin', and before to-morrow night, whatever, there'll be snow. Early in the marnin' I thinks you had better start back with the boat, and be gettin' snug at Double Up Cove before the snow comes." "When'll you be gettin' home, Dad?" asked Toby. "I'll be gettin' home the Saturday or Sunday before Christmas, whatever," promised Skipper Zeb, "and I'll be stayin' for a fortnight holiday when I comes." "Won't you be home before then?" asked Charley in astonishment. "No, I has to keep tendin' the traps once I sets un," explained Skipper Zeb. "'Tis the only way to get fur." "I should think you'd get dreadfully lonesome on the trail alone," said Charley, "and we'll miss you." "A busy man's not havin' time to get lonesome. 'Tis only idleness that makes for lonesomeness." The sky was heavily clouded the following morning, and a brisk northeasterly breeze, cold and raw, was blowing. Toby and Charley bade good-bye to Skipper Zeb, and hoisting the sail departed for Double Up Cove. "The breeze'll be helpin' you now," shouted Skipper Zeb from the shore. "Make the most of un, and don't be takin' too much time to boil the kettle at Swile Island!" "Aye," shouted Toby, "we'll be makin' the most of un." Charley watched Skipper Zeb standing on the shore and looking longingly after them, and then turn back to his lonely work in the wilderness, and he, himself, felt suddenly very lonely. With unexpected suddenness the wind rose to half a gale before they had spanned two-thirds of the distance to Swile Island. The boat shipped several seas, and while Charley bailed the water out, all of Toby's seamanship was required to keep her on her course, until at length, to their great relief, a landing was made on the lee side of the island. "I was sure we'd be wrecked again!" exclaimed Charley when he and Toby, dripping wet, had hauled the prow of the boat upon the sloping rock of the island shore. "'Twere a bit rough," admitted Toby. "We'll have to bide here till the wind goes down, and I'm thinkin' there'll be snow before we gets the kettle boiled." "And we haven't any tent!" exclaimed Charley in consternation. "We'll be makin' a lean-to with the sail," suggested Toby. "We'll not find un so bad. We'll make un before we boils the kettle." The boat was unloaded, and under the lee of a big rock, where they were protected from the wind also by a grove of spruce trees, Toby selected two trees about seven feet apart, and five feet from the ground and lashed a pole from tree to tree. He then cut several poles, and arranged them evenly with one end resting upon the pole which he had lashed to the tree and the other end sloping back to the ground. To make the sloping poles secure and hold them in place, he laid another pole between the trees, and on top of the sloping poles, lashing this also firmly into place, and then placed a log over the ends of the poles on the ground to hold them in position. With Charley's assistance he now spread the boat sail over the poles, and tied it into place. Then at each end of the lean-to be and Charley placed a thick barricade of spruce brush. A floor of boughs finished and made comfortable the shelter, and a fire built against a rock in front of it, that the rock might serve as a reflector, soon made the lean-to warm and snug. There was no abatement of wind, and snow was falling thickly before they had finished eating, and when they were through, Toby suggested: "I'm thinkin' we'd better haul the boat up farther and turn she over." "All right," agreed Charley, "let's do it now. It don't look as though we'd get off the island to-day." "Not till the wind stops, whatever," said Toby. "We may have to bide here two or three days, _I'm_ thinkin'." This was a new adventure. Charley rather enjoyed the prospect of it, and Toby perhaps equally as well, and as they walked down to their landing place they chatted merrily about what they would do, when all at once both boys stopped and looked at each other aghast. The boat was not there! "She's gone!" exclaimed Toby. "The tide were risin' up and floatin' she off!" "What shall we do?" asked Charley in dismay. "We can't get off the island without a boat!" "'Tis a bad fix," confessed Toby. "They's no way o' gettin' off the island without the boat. I'm not knowin' rightly what to do. 'Tis the worst fix I _ever_ were in!" The snow was now falling heavily, driven in thick, swirling clouds by the gale. Everywhere they looked along the shore, in the vain hope that the boat may have drifted in at some other point, and eagerly they looked out into the drifting clouds of snow in the equally vain hope that it might be seen floating near enough to the shore to be recovered by some means. But nowhere was it to be seen, and the two boys, depressed by a sense of helplessness to extricate themselves from the small, isolated and nearly barren island that had so suddenly become their prison, turned back to the partial protection of their improvised shelter. Disconsolate, they sat under the lean-to and talked over their dilemma while the snow beyond the fire grew thicker, and the wind shrieked and howled dismally through the trees. "You thinks 'twere bad when the ship leaves you at Pinch-In Tickle," said Toby finally, "but we're gettin' in a wonderful sight worse fix!" "Yes," agreed Charley dejectedly, "of all that's happened, this is the worst fix of all." "All we has to eat," continued Toby, "is half a loaf o' bread, a small bit o' pork and enough tea for one or two days, besides the three geese Dad were sendin' home to Mother." "Perhaps we can get some game on the island?" suggested Charley. "No," said Toby, "they's no game here. 'Tis too small an island." "Is any one likely to come this way in a boat?" asked Charley hopefully. "No," answered Toby discouragingly. "We're clost to the head o' the bay, and nobody ever comes here except Dad. We're sure in a wonderful bad fix, Charley." XII THE PANGS OF STARVATION When the first shock at the loss of their boat had passed, youthful buoyancy of spirit asserted itself, and the two castaways looked more hopefully upon their position. By eating lightly, Toby declared they could make a goose last them two days, and thus they had six days' rations of goose. The other food they would consider another day's rations. Thus, while they would not have as much to eat by any means as they might wish, they would do fairly well for a week. "'Tis the comin' o' winter," prognosticated Toby. "'Tis gettin' frostier all the time, and when the storm clears 'twill settle down to steady freezin' day and night. If she does, the bay's like to fasten over soon, and then we'll be walkin' back to Double Up Cove on the ice, and couldn't use a boat if we had un." "How long will it likely be before the bay freezes?" asked Charley anxiously. "Soon as the wind stops and she calms down. After she begins freezin' she'll keep freezin' and ice is like to make fast," Toby explained. "The ice'll hold us in one or two days after she fastens, whatever, and there'll be fine footin' then to Double Up Cove." "Then we're not likely to be here very long, and that's a comfort," said Charley, much relieved. "Not so long, I'm thinkin'," agreed Toby. There was a good deal of driftwood on the island shores, and dead wood scattered over the island, and upon Toby's suggestion they carried a quantity of this to the lean-to, and piled it at one side of the big boulder against which the fire was built. A huge pile was collected to serve as a reserve supply of fuel, that they might have a-plenty on hand to serve their needs, should the storm continue for two or three days, as Toby predicted it would, in which case the dead wood scattered over the island might be buried so deeply beneath the snow that they could not reach it. When Toby deemed the supply of dead wood sufficient, even in case of a greater emergency than he anticipated, he felled some green trees, trimmed the branches from the trunks, and cut the logs into convenient lengths for use upon the fire, and these Charley carried to the lean-to and piled at the opposite side of the boulder, that either dry or green wood might be had as desired. "The green wood's slow to get started," said Toby, "but 'twill burn longer and keeps a fire longer." Toby's judgment in collecting a reserve supply of fuel proved sound. Before night came a sudden and decided increase in the fall of snow rendered it unsafe to move a score of feet from the shelter, and the boys were thankful for the foresight that had led them to provide for the emergency. Comfort and luxury are measured by contrast and comparison. The mail boat had seemed to Charley bleak and uncomfortable as compared to the luxurious home he had just left. The cabin at Pinch-In Tickle had appealed to him as a crude and miserable shelter in contrast to the mail boat, and he had wondered how the Twigs could exist in a place so barren of what he had always looked upon as the most necessary conveniences. But after his experience on the trap boat, and the retreat from the Duck's Head camp, the Twig home, at Double Up Cove, in all its simplicity, was accepted by him as possessing every necessary comfort. Now, in contrast to the buffeting snow and wind which he and Toby had been fighting all day, even the rough lean-to assumed a cozy atmosphere, the fire before it blazing cheerily, and the boulder against which the fire was built reflecting the heat to the farthest corner. "I never thought a place like this could be so snug," said Charley, when they had plucked and dressed one of the geese, and after disjointing it with his sheathknife Toby had put it over the fire to boil in the kettle, and the two boys lay upon their bough bed basking in the warmth and sniffing the appetizing odour sent forth from the kettle, while beyond the fire the snow drifted and the wind whistled. "'Tis snug now," agreed Toby. "'Tis an easy way o' makin' a place to bide in when they's no tent." "Your father always says not to worry," said Charley reflectively. "I know he's right, and it never helps a fellow any to worry. I'm not going to worry again. I'm sure the ice will come in time to get us out of here. When we found the boat was gone I _was_ worried though! I'm almost glad now we got caught here. When I get home and tell Dad about it he'll think it was just great!" "No, as Dad says, 'twill do no good to worry, because worry unsets the insides of our heads and then that upsets our other insides and we gets sick," commented Toby. "We're about as well off without the boat as we would be with un. 'Tis lookin' to me like the start of winter, and if 'tis, I'm thinkin' the bay'll fasten over by the time the storm's over and before we could be gettin' away with the boat if we had un, and we'd be havin' to walk whatever." "Do you mean walk on the ice when it comes?" asked Charley anxiously. "Won't that take a good while? We won't starve before then, will we?" "We may be havin' some hungry days, but we'll not be starvin'," suggested Toby. "Indians has hungry spells when they don't get deer sometimes, and if Indians can stand un we can." "Yes," Charley boasted, "if the Indians can stand it we can." It was long after dark, and the evening well advanced, when they ate a most satisfying supper of boiled goose. After they had eaten Toby cut a supply of dry shavings and kindling wood from the hearts of dead sticks, which he split, and stowed the shavings and kindling wood behind their sleeping bags where the snow could not reach them to wet them, and they would be ready for instant use in the morning. Then he piled an extra supply of dry wood upon the fire, and upon this placed two of the green logs, remarking: "The green wood'll not be goin' out so quick when she gets goin', and the coals are like to keep the fireplace free o' snow longer if she drifts in whilst we sleeps." Never had Charley experienced such a storm. The weather had suddenly grown intensely cold, as he discovered when he stepped beyond the fire's glow. Now, snuggling down into his sleeping bag, it seemed to him that all the forces of nature had broken loose in their wildest fury. Above the shriek of wind was heard the dull thud of pounding seas upon the rocks, and the hiss of driving snow, combining to fill the air with a tumult little less than terrifying. Once, in concern, he spoke to Toby, but there was no response, and he knew that Toby was asleep. For a time he lay awake and listened to the roar of the storm and the thunder of the seas, and then, wearied with the day's labours and adventures, the shriek of wind and hiss of snow and roar of pounding seas blended into blissful unconsciousness, and he slept as peacefully as he would have slept in his bed at Double Up Cove. When the young adventurers awoke the next morning, there was no abatement in the storm. A huge drift covered the boulder and the place where their fire had been, and nearly enclosed the front of the lean-to; and before they could lay a fire, a half hour's hard work was necessary to clear the snow away, each using a snowshoe in lieu of a shovel. Then Toby lighted a fire, and soon the lean-to was warm again, and the kettle boiling merrily, and they ate a light breakfast of goose, a little of the remaining bread, and one cup each of weak tea sweetened with molasses. "We'll have to be a bit careful o' the grub," advised Toby, "and not eat all we wants. There's no tellin' how long 'twill be before the bay freezes over. I'm thinkin' if we eats only twice a day 'twill be best." "That's good sense," agreed Charley. "We'll not be doing anything but waiting here, and we'll have to make two meals do us." For four days and four nights the blizzard raged without abatement, and when the sky cleared on the fifth day, a new intense cold had settled upon the world. When the boys were able again to venture forth, they discovered that while the smooth rocks of the island had been swept clear of snow by the wind, huge drifts had formed against every obstructing boulder, and among the trees the snow lay a full four feet deep. "It's a good time for me to learn to use snowshoes," suggested Charley. "I'm going to put them on and try them." "'Tis, now," agreed Toby. "Get un out, and we'll see how you likes un." Toby adjusted the slings for Charley, and then donning his own the two set out in the deep snow on the center of the island. At the beginning Charley stumbled, and falling in the snow could not get upon his feet without Toby's assistance; but in a little while he discovered that he could swing along at a good pace, and Toby pronounced him an "easy larner." "I'm thinkin' Dad's at Black River tilt yet," said Toby when the snowshoe lesson was finished and they had returned to their fire. "He'll be havin' a wonderful bad time settin' up his path again. The marten traps'll be above the snow, settin' on trees, but the mink and fox traps'll be deep enough under." "Our snares will all be covered up," suggested Charley. "We'll never find them." "We'll never dig _they_ out, whatever," agreed Toby. "When we gets home we'll be settin' new ones." "It seems to me it must be cold enough to freeze the bay," said Charley wistfully. "We haven't much goose left, and if it doesn't freeze soon we'll not have any left." "'_Tis_ cold enough," said Toby, "but the sea'll have to calm down before she freezes. We'll have to bide here three or four days more, _what_ever." Two days later they ate the last of the goose, and that night went to their sleeping bags with no breakfast in view for the following morning. Still the waters of the bay gave no promise of freezing when they awoke. Heavy seas were breaking in from the eastward, though for three days the sky had been clear. With scant meals the boys had been hungry for several days, and now with nothing to eat they became ravenous. They could talk of little else than the good things they would have to eat when they were safely back at the cabin at Double Up Cove, and the possibility of the early freezing of the bay. Every little while during the day they wandered out along the shore in the hope that they might discover that the sea was calming, only to return each time with little to encourage them. "I'm as hollow as a drum," Charley declared when night came and they had settled in their sleeping bags. "I don't see how I can stand it another day. Isn't there something we can find to eat?" "I'm wonderful hungry too," admitted Toby. "I'm as empty as a flour barrel that's been scraped, and I'm not knowin' anything we could find to eat, with snow on the ground. If the ground were clear we might be findin' berries, though I'm doubtin' there's many on Swile Island. But if there are, they're under the snow and they'll have to bide there, for we never could be findin' they." "It seems to me I can't sleep without something to eat," Charley complained. "I just can't stand it much longer, that's all." "Try gettin' asleep," counseled Toby, "and when you gets asleep you'll be forgettin' about bein' hungry." Charley did get to sleep readily enough, but it was only to dream that he was hungry, and always in his dreams he was about to get food, but something happened to keep it from him. Two more days passed, and still the boys were without food. No one can know but one who has starved the degree of their hunger and craving for food during this period. Nothing that might have served as food would have been rejected by them or have been repugnant to them, but no morsel could they find. It was on the morning of the third day of their famine, when hunger pangs were the keenest, that Toby announced: "I been prayin' the Lard to send the ice, and telling He how we wants to get away from here but don't know how until ice comes. Has you been prayin', Charley?" "No," confessed Charley, "I've been growling around about our hard luck and about being hungry. All I know is the Lord's prayer anyhow. I never was taught to pray out of my head. How do you do it?" "Just talk to the Lard like you talks to anybody," said Toby in astonishment. "Ask He what you wants He to give you or wants He to do, just like you asks your Dad." "You pray for both of us," suggested Charley. "Do it aloud so that I can hear it, and I'll say it over to myself, and maybe that will help. Don't forget to tell Him how hungry we are." "I'm not doubtin' 'twould help," agreed Toby. "We'll be takin' off our caps. 'Twill be more respectful. Mr. Stuart at the Hudson's Bay Post makes us take off our caps when we talks to he and asks he anything." "Yes, and we'd better get on our knees too," suggested Charley. "Aye, 'twould be respectful," Toby agreed. "Dad says 'tis fine to kneel when 'tis so we can, though if we can't, to pray standin' up or rowin' a boat, or any way that's handiest." Taking off their caps and kneeling upon their sleeping bags under the lean-to, and bowing their heads reverently, Toby prayed: "Charley and I are wonderful hungry, Lard. We been bidin' here on this island, which we calls Swile Island, goin' on ten days. We only has two meals a day till day before yesterday, and since then we has nothin' and to-day we has nothin'. Please, Lard, calm the sea and let the bay fasten over so 'twill be right to walk on, and we'll be goin' to Double Up Cove where our home is. You know all about it, Lard. We been doin' our best, Lard, and we don't know anything more to do. We're in a wonderful bad fix, and we needs help to get out of un. We're wantin' somethin' to eat, Lard, and we'll be wonderful thankful for un. Amen." The boys sat down and resumed their caps, and in a moment Charley said: "That was a bang up prayer, Toby. I couldn't have thought of a thing to say, except that I was hungry, but you thought of everything." That evening Toby announced that the sea was calmer, but still too rough to freeze, and the next morning that the water was much "steadier," though yet not enough to freeze. "If she keeps on steadyin' down I'm thinkin' by to-morrow marnin' she'll begin to fasten." "I'm not half so hungry as I was," said Charley, "but I'll be just as glad to get away from here." "That's the way I hears the Indians say 'tis," said Toby, "and that's the way 'tis with me. I wants to eat, but I'm not hankerin' after un the way I was first." Another morning brought a calm, though still unfrozen, sea. The boys were early by the shore to scan eagerly the waters. "She's smokin'!" exclaimed Toby. "She's smokin'! 'Tis a sure sign!" "What do you mean?" asked Charley excitedly. "Do you mean that haze that hangs over the water?" "Aye," explained Toby, "'tis what we calls the sea smoke." But this time the sign failed, and another morning dawned with the sea still free from its wintry shackles. A gentle swell, but quite enough to prevent the hoped for freezing, was rolling in, and the boys, quite discouraged, returned to their fire. "We can't stand it much longer," declared Charley, making no effort to conceal his discouragement. "I'm getting so weak I don't believe I can ever walk to Double Up Cove, even if it does freeze. I'm weak and I'm sleepy all the time. We've been days without eating, and even when it does freeze you say we'll have to wait a day or two before the ice outside will be strong enough to bear our weight." "Don't be talkin' that way now," counseled Toby. "We were prayin' the Lard, and He'll fix un for us. Keep a stout heart We'll not be givin' up hopes for another week, _what_ever." "The Lord don't seem to be answering our prayer," retorted Charley. And Toby, though he hid his thoughts within his breast, realized, even better than did Charley, that their position was now desperate, and that with another day or two without food they might become too weak to make the journey to Double Up Cove. Even were the bay to freeze that very night, at least two days must elapse before the water at a distance from shore would be hard enough frozen to bear their weight, and permit them to cross to the mainland. XIII THE GREAT SNOWY OWL The cold had become intense, and in their starving condition Charley and Toby felt it perhaps the more keenly. With the disappointment of another morning dawning and still no sign of the longed-for ice, Charley, after making his declaration of discouragement and hopelessness to Toby, became quiet and morose. He had no inclination to leave the tent and the fire, and he spent his time sitting under the shelter and brooding over his troubles. Toby, no less anxious, made frequent journeys along the shore. On each return he would endeavour to engage Charley in conversation, but without result. Charley's replies to questions were "yes" or "no," unless a statement was necessary, and then it was given in as few words as possible. He appeared to have suddenly developed a grudge against Toby, as though Toby were responsible for their unfortunate position, and at length would not respond to Toby's efforts at conversation, or reply to him. This was an attitude that Toby could not in the least understand, and he finally, when Charley in silence crawled into his sleeping bag, left the lean-to, doubly depressed because of Charley's bearing toward him, and set out again to reconnoiter the island. "'Tis not me he's angry with," he soliloquized, "'tis the hunger, and 'tis gettin' the insides of his head sick, like Dad says worry will." Toby wandered aimlessly along the shore rocks. He was weak, and walking was becoming an effort. For two or three days he and Charley had noticed that when they sat down their knees would unexpectedly give way to let them down with a shock upon their seat; and when they arose, they were compelled to stand for a moment to steady themselves lest they would stagger. Toby's usually brisk walk was now a lounging gait, like that of one grown old. He had more than half circled the island, and was returning to the lean-to, when his eye fell upon something white, perched in a spruce tree which stood apart from the other trees. He stepped nearer, and his heart leaped with joy. The object was a great snowy owl. With the best haste he could make he hurried back to the lean-to. Charley was asleep in his bag, and without arousing him Toby secured his rifle, and returned with renewed haste and vigour to the tree. There still sat the owl taking its daytime rest, and quite unconscious of impending danger. With greater care than he had ever taken before, Toby aimed, fired, and the owl came tumbling to the snow below. As though fearful that it might still escape from him, Toby sprang upon the dead bird like a ravenous wolf. Tears of joy came into his eyes as he held it up and stroked its feathers, and hugged it close to his breast. This would save his own and Charley's life, and how glad Charley would be! How he ran back to the lean-to! How he shouted to Charley as he approached! How the two boys, their eyes wet with tears, stroked the thing for a moment before plucking it! these were events that neither ever forgot while he lived. "The Lard sent un to us! The Good Lard sent un!" declared Toby. "The Lord surely sent it to save us!" said Charley devoutly. "Toby, I've been a cad. I was so selfish that I was thinking that nothing mattered but my having to stay here, and I guess I was blaming you for it. I don't know why, for you didn't make the storm that stranded us here. Anyhow, I acted a cad, and I want to tell you how sorry I am." "'Tweren't your fault," soothed Toby. "Don't think of un. 'Twere like Dad says, you got to worryin' and worry were makin' the insides of your head upsot." "Your father always says not to worry, but the Lord will help us out of any fix, if we do our best first," said Charley. "He's right. Isn't it just great, Toby, that you saw it and shot it! I feel like yelling, I feel so happy!" "Just get out and yell all you wants to," grinned Toby. "We'll have one good feed, whatever." In remarkably short time the owl was plucked, dressed and boiling merrily over the fire in a kettle that was becoming rusty from disuse. "We'll be eatin' the broth first, and then the meat a bit at a time, and often," suggested Toby. "The Indians says if they eats too much when they first gets un after starvin' 'tis like to make un sick. Sometimes they gets wonderful sick, too." "Then we'll be careful," agreed Charley, "though it's mighty hard not to pitch right in. I feel as though I could eat it all and then want more." "So does I," grinned Toby, "and I'm not doubtin' you could eat un all, and I knows 'twould be easy for me to eat un." How delicious the broth tasted, unsalted and unseasoned as it was! And when they drank it all, and temptation got the better of them and they each ate a small portion of the meat. "'Tis growing calmer on the water," Toby announced when he had covered the kettle and hidden its contents from their hungry eyes. "I sees un when I'm out and sees the owl in the tree. The water's smokin' just fine now. Come and have a look, Charley." "All right," said Charley reluctantly rising, though cheerfully. "If I stay here by the kettle, I'll not be able to leave the meat alone, and one of us mustn't have any more of it than the other." Down on the sunny side of the island Charley all at once clutched Toby's arm. "What's that?" he whispered excitedly, pointing to a dark object lying upon the rocks just above the water's edge. XIV THE BAY FASTENS "Down!" whispered Toby. "Keep down where you is! Don't move! 'Tis a swile!" Charley lay prone upon the snow, scarcely daring to move, and Toby was gone in a twinkling, moving as silently as a fox. It seemed an age that Charley lay there before he discovered Toby edging, rifle in hand, to a rock behind which he might have good vantage ground for a shot. Charley, tense with excitement lest the seal might take alarm, watched Toby's every movement as he wormed himself forward, then lay still, then wormed forward again little by little. On his success might depend their lives, and Charley realized it fully. The owl would not last long, and would not go far to renew their wasted strength. The ice had not yet formed upon the bay, and still many days might pass before it would form. At last Toby reached the rock, and Charley held his breath as Toby slowly and deliberately adjusted the rifle at his shoulder and aimed. Then the rifle rang out as music to Charley's ears. The seal gave a spasmodic lurch toward the water, and then lay still. Toby's aim had been sure, and the bullet had reached its mark in the head, the one point where it would deal quick and certain death to the seal. Both boys ran to their game, and fairly shouted with the joy of success. They touched it with their moccasined toes, and felt it with their hands. "'Tis a dotar,"[5] said Toby. "Now we has plenty to eat till the bay fastens over." "The Lord is _surely_ helping us!" declared Charley devoutly. "Just when I gave up all hope of ever getting away from this island you shot the owl, and now we've got the seal!" "Let's thank the Lard," suggested Toby. "Dad says 'tis a fine thing to thank He for what He's givin' us, and tryin' to be doin' somethin' for _He_ sometimes, and not be always just askin' He for somethin' and takin' what He's givin' us without ever lettin' He know how much we likes un." "You thank Him, Toby. I don't know just how to do it," admitted Charley. "Dad never says blessing or gives thanks at the table the way your father does." "I'll thank He," agreed Toby. "We'll be gettin' on our knees." The two boys knelt. "Lard, Charley and I be wonderful thankful for the owl and the swile You sends us. And we'll be tryin' to think o' things to do for You, and we has a chanst. Amen." "That makes me feel better," Charley confessed. "Now what shall we do with the seal?" "I'll be gettin' a rope, and we'll haul he over to camp." "I'll stay here and watch it till you come back," Charley volunteered. "I'll be comin' right back, and the swile'll not be runnin' away," grinned Toby. "I know it," Charley laughed, "but I just want to enjoy looking at it." When Toby was gone, Charley stroked the seal caressingly. He was sure now that all of their worries were at an end. His heart was light again, and he stood up and looked out over the smoking waters, and breathed deeply of the frosty air. How lovely the world was! How glorious it was just to live! What an Odyssey of adventures he would have to relate when he reached home! And still, he mused, as wonderful as these adventures appeared to him they were a part of the routine of life in the country, and not one of them unusual. Toby looked upon them as a part of the day's work, and experiences that were to be expected. Lost in retrospection, Charley was surprised by Toby's return with the rope much sooner than he had expected him. The rope was fastened to the seal, and the two boys, their hearts light with the certainty of food to sustain them and end their long fast, hauled the carcass back to their bivouac. It was not easy to be abstemious in their eating. The broth from the owl had aroused the full vigour of the appetite of both boys, which had to some extent become dormant with long fasting. But they heeded the warning Toby had borrowed from the Indians, and practicing self-denial ate sparingly, though often. Toby busied himself at once in removing the seal's entrails, before the carcass could freeze, and this he did without skinning it, explaining to Charley that if the ice formed before they had eaten the flesh, as he expected it would, they could haul it home over the ice, at the end of the rope, much more easily than they could carry the dismembered joints. Extracting the liver, and laying it back under the lean-to on a piece of bark, Toby remarked: "We'll be eatin' the liver fried in a bit o' seal fat for breakfast. If we just eats the owl to-day, I'm thinkin' by marnin' we can stand the liver, or a piece of un. 'Tis stronger meat than the owl. After the liver's gone, we'll be tryin' the flippers." "All right," agreed Charley, happily. "Anything you say goes with me. I'm going to have a good time here now until we get away." "So'll I," said Toby, "and we'll not be startin' till the ice is strong enough, whatever, so's not to be takin' any risk o' breakin' through. 'Tis never as thick outside as 'tis near shore." When they awoke the next morning, a new and strange silence had fallen upon the world. Toby sat up excitedly, and shaking Charley into wakefulness, asked: "Does you hear un? Does you hear un?" "Hear what?" asked Charley, sleepily. "I don't hear a thing." "Hear the stillness!" explained Toby. "The water's not lappin'! The bay has fastened over! By to-morrow, whatever, we'll be leavin' here for Double Up Cove!" "Hurrah!" shouted Charley, now thoroughly awake. "Isn't it great, Toby! We'll start to-morrow, and to-morrow night we'll be at good old Double Up Cove again! Hurrah!" Charley "heard" the silence, the impressive, gravelike silence that had fallen upon the world. No longer was there a lapping of waters upon the rocks. No breath of wind murmured through the trees. There was a silence so complete, so absolute that Charley declared he could actually hear it. The boys hurried down to the shore to scan the bay, and sure enough it lay gray and still under a coating of smooth, dark ice. Toby tried it with a stick, and already it was tough enough to bear his weight near shore. "I'm doubtin' 'tis fast out in the middle yet," said Toby, "but she'll be freezin' all day, and she'll be fast enough all over by to-morrow, whatever." It was a busy day of preparation and excitement. On the morrow they were surely to be relieved from their island prison and from an experience that had been most trying and that they would both remember while they lived. All of the boat gear that they had brought ashore and other equipment and belongings were gathered together in a pile. "'Tisn't much," said Toby, "but 'twould make for weariness to pack un on our backs. I'm thinkin' I'll fix up a riggin' to haul un. 'Twill be easier than packin'." He proceeded to lay two of the long boat oars parallel upon the snow, and about eighteen inches apart. The blade end of the oars he connected with half a dozen sticks, the end of the sticks lashed firmly to the oars. The handle end of the oars he connected with a piece of rope, drawn taut, and securely tied to the handles. "Now stand betwixt the handles, Charley, and lift un up so's the rope'll be against your chest," Toby directed. Charley complied, and Toby tied another piece of rope to the end of one of the oars, and where the chest rope was tied to it. Then passing the rope up and in front of the shoulder, then behind the neck and down in front of the other shoulder, he secured the loose end to the other oar. "There, now," said Toby, surveying his work, "she'll ride on the ice and she's right for easy haulin'. The rope up around the back o' your neck holds she so you won't have to be holdin' she up with your hands, and you can have un free, and the rope across your chest fixes un so's you can haul by just walkin'." "Am I going to haul this rig?" asked Charley. "We'll be takin' turns at she and the seal," said Toby. "You'll be haulin' the one you likes to haul best, and I'll be haulin' the other. But I thinks this un'll be easier to haul than the seal. She'll be slippin' over the ice wonderful easy. We'll be lashin' the outfit on the sticks across the oar blades on the other end. 'Twill be light. We hasn't much of un to take. We'll cache the other pair of oars here for Dad to pick up next year when he's comin' up with the boat." "All right," agreed Charley. "This rig will be dead easy to walk with on the ice, and I think I'll take it and let you drag the seal, if you don't mind." "I'll be goin' ahead with the seal, if you likes the rig," planned Toby, "and I'll take a stick to try the ice, so we'll be keepin' abroad from any bad ice." "You're wonderful, Toby!" exclaimed Charley admiringly. "I never would have thought of fixing up a rig like this." "'Twill be easier'n packin' the outfit on our backs," remarked Toby. Under ordinary conditions Charley would have found the fishy flavour of the seal's liver, and the still more highly flavoured flippers objectionable, if not offensive, to his taste. But now he pronounced them delectable, and his revived appetite found no grounds for complaint or criticism. During the day they consumed the liver, and for the evening meal a pair of flippers. With the skin still in place that it might protect the meat and carcass of the seal in dragging it over the ice, Toby cut some liberal slices of meat in preparation for the frying pan in the morning, that there might be no delay. He also prepared an extra portion for the next day's luncheon, which he said they could eat cold. Before they retired to their sleeping bags, Toby again led the way to the ice, and tried it with his ax. It was fully two inches thick. "She's fine and tough, and she's makin' for thickness fast," Toby announced delightedly. "She'll be twice as thick by marnin', whatever! She'd hold us now! Salt water ice is a wonderful sight tougher'n fresh water ice." [Illustration: SKIPPER ZEB'S OAR BROKE, AND THE BOAT WAS DRIVEN UPON A ROCK.] That night, snug in his sleeping bag, Charley recalled the many adventures that had befallen him since his arrival at Pinch-In Tickle nearly a month before. One peril after another had beset him, and now, the worst of all, threatened starvation upon this desolate island, was about to end, and he thanked God silently for his deliverance. To the dwellers in that far, silent land adventures are an incident in the game of life, and their existence is truly a man's game fashioned for the sturdy of soul and strong of heart. Everywhere in that bleak country adventure lurks, ever ready to spring upon the unwary. In the mysterious and dark depths of the broad forests, in the open wastes of the bleak barrens, in the breath of the sea winds it is met suddenly and unexpectedly. And soon enough Charley was to meet it again in a struggle for his very life, as we shall see. XV LOST IN THE BARRENS Winter, the monarch of the North, had returned to his throne to rule his kingdom with relentless hand. Never had Charley experienced such cold as that which met him when he and Toby left their sleeping bags the next morning. The air was marvelously clear and transparent. The stars shone with unusual brilliancy, and seemed very near the earth. Frost prisms on the snow sparkled and glinted in the starlight. "Our skin boots'll be freezin' stiff as sticks," remarked Toby. "'Tis time for deerskin moccasins, for the snow'll not be softenin' again. They'll be steady freezin' all day, and _I_ thinks steady freezin' now till the end o' winter." "Oh, boy, but it's cold!" shivered Charley, as he hurriedly drew on his duffle socks and skin boots. "Wonderful frosty!" said Toby, as he lighted the fire. "There's no doubtin' the ice'll be stout enough to hold us now, whatever, and she'll be makin' thicker all day." In a few minutes the fire was crackling and snapping cheerily, and the boys drew close to its genial warmth. A kettle of ice was put over to melt for water, and some slices of seal meat to fry in the pan. They were eager to gain release from their island prison, and when their meal was eaten Toby hurriedly lashed their few belongings, including the boat sail, which had served so well as a shelter, upon the improvised travois, for Charley to drag behind him. A rope had been attached to the now hard-frozen seal the evening before. Snow was thrown upon the fire to put it out, that there might be no danger of a breeze scattering the embers among the trees, which covered the center of the island with a scant growth, and burning them. Then, with cheerful hearts and eager feet they turned down upon the ice and set forth on their way to Double Up Cove at last. Toby, carrying a staff with which to try the ice ahead, and with the seal in tow, took the lead, while Charley, with the travois followed. How good it was to be away! How glorious the ice and the starlit morning! The surface of the bay, smooth and firm, proved much more solidly frozen than Toby had expected to find it, and in a little while, when they had passed the center of ice lying between the island and the mainland, he discarded his staff as an unnecessary burden. "She don't bend anywhere," he said delightedly. "We'll not be needin' to try she now. Past the middle 'tis sure to be tough and thick. We'll be headin' now for shore, and be keepin' clost inshore where there'll sure be no bad ice whatever." "Isn't it glorious!" Charley exploded in exuberance. "I feel like dancing a jig! Whoopla! Toby, let's yell!" And together the boys gave a yell that made the forest on the near-by shore echo. "Oh, but it's great!" exclaimed Charley a little later. "I'm glad there's no snow on the ice. This rig I'm harnessed in wouldn't drag half so easily if there was snow. I don't mind it a little bit. I hardly feel the difference, it slides so well. How long will it take us?" "With the early start, we'll be getting there a bit after dinner, and we may make un by dinner. We were startin' two hours before daylight, whatever." The travois continued to prove no appreciable burden to Charley, as Toby had feared it would. The clear frosty air was an inspiration to fast walking, and indeed it was necessary for the boys to walk fast in order that they might keep the blood in circulation and comfortably warm. His experience on the trail with Skipper Zeb had toughened Charley's muscles, and improved his powers of endurance greatly, and he had no difficulty in keeping the quite rapid pace that Toby made. They had been a full two hours on the trail when daylight came, and presently the sun peeped over the eastern horizon. In the flood of glorious sunshine that suddenly bathed the world, every shrub and bush that lined the shore, thickly coated with hoarfrost and rime, sparkled and glinted as though encrusted with burnished silver set with countless diamonds. "How wonderful!" exclaimed Charley. "Isn't it great, Toby! I never saw anything like it!" "Aye, 'tis wonderful fine," said Toby. Even in the full rays of sunshine the snow along shore did not soften, and the ice kept dry. Charley declared that it was no warmer at midday than it had been in the early morning. It was nearly one o'clock when they rounded the point above Double Up Cove, and the cabin fell into view. Smoke was curling upward from the stovepipe which protruded above the roof. How cozy and hospitable it looked! Both boys gave exclamations of pleasure, and with one accord broke into a trot. Mrs. Twig and Violet saw them coming, and putting on the kettle hurried outside to greet them, and what a welcome they received! "Set down now, lads, by the stove whilst I gets you something to eat, and sets a pot o' tea to brew," admonished Mrs. Twig. "You must be rare hungry, and 'tis wonderful frosty." While the boys ate a hastily prepared luncheon of bread and molasses and drank hot tea they related their experiences, interrupted by Mrs. Twig, who was cooking a substantial dinner of stewed rabbit, with frequent exclamations of concern or sympathy. "Vi'let and I were worryin' and worryin' about you lads, when the storm comes," confessed Mrs. Twig. "We were fearin' you'd be comin' in the boat. I'm wonderful thankful you gets home safe!" The borrowed garments that Charley had been wearing were now discarded for new, and sealskin boots were now replaced by buckskin moccasins and moleskin leggings. During their absence Mrs. Twig had made for Charley an adikey of white woolen kersey, and another to wear over it of white moleskin cloth, the hood of the latter trimmed with lynx fur. The former was for warmth, and the latter to break the wind and to shed snow readily. She had also made him moleskin trousers and leggings, and a fur cap for each of the boys. The caps were made from the pelt of the lynx that they had shot on that memorable evening when they first set their rabbit snares. There were new buckskin moccasins for Charley, with socks of heavy blanket duffle to wear inside the moccasins; and buckskin mittens, with inner mittens of duffle that would keep the hands comfortable on the coldest day. The novelty of the new life, flavoured with his many adventures, had long since stilled completely the pangs of homesickness that had insisted upon asserting themselves during Charley's first days at Double Up Cove, and he was quite as contented as though he had always lived in a cabin in the wilderness. Home and the old life had melted into what seemed like a far distant past to him, though his father and mother were still very real and dear, and he often imagined them as near at hand, as they were, indeed, in a spiritual sense. On the day after their return fresh rabbit snares were set, and on the following morning when they went to look at the snares, Toby took with him two fox traps. "I were seein' some footin' o' foxes on the mesh," he explained. "I'm thinkin' we'll set the traps, and we might get a fox. Dad would be wonderful glad and we gets a fox. There's a chance we might get a silver, or a cross, whatever." "That would be great!" exclaimed Charley. "And can't we set other traps?" "Aye, when I gets everything fixed up about home we'll set some marten traps too. There's fine signs o' martens. Dad don't think we can get un hereabouts, but I sees the signs and we'll get un!" Beyond the last rabbit snare, and a quarter mile out upon an open marsh, Toby set the first fox trap, concealing it, as Skipper Zeb had concealed his fox traps, with great care, and scattering bits of meat around the trap and over the snow, and a few drops of liquid from a bottle which he called "scent," and which had a most unpleasant odour. "Skipper Tom Ham'll be like to bring the dogs over from Lucky Bight now any day, with the bay fast," said Toby as they turned homeward. "I wants to get some more wood cut to haul with un when they comes, but we'll set some o' the marten traps up to-morrow and more of un later." "Oh!" exclaimed Charley. "We've been doing so many things I forgot all about the dogs! Then we can travel with them?" "Aye, we'll be cruisin' with un. 'Twill be a fine way for you to get used to un, helpin' me haul in the wood, and you'll be learnin' to drive un. We hauls in most of our wood in the spring, but they's some left to haul, and if I cuts more whilst they's a chanst before the snow gets too deep, we'll be haulin' that too, so there'll be plenty of un." "How many dogs are there?" Charley asked eagerly. "Eight of un," answered Toby, "and 'tis the best team on The Labrador, _I_ thinks. They's the real nu'thern dogs. Dad says the nu'thern dogs has more wolf in they than others has." "Do they look like wolves?" Charley asked in some awe. "Aye, they look so much like un you could scarce tell un from wolves, only they curls their tails up over their backs and wolves don't." "Are they cross?" Charley inquired anxiously. "I wouldn't call un cross," explained Toby. "I calls un sneaky. If they thinks they could down you, they'd do un quick enough. 'Tis best to carry a stick when you goes abroad among un, till you gets used to un and they gets used to you. They're wonderful scared of a stick." "I'll carry a stick, but I'll make friends with them too. I like dogs." "They's not like other dogs," warned Toby. "Maybe you won't be likin' they so much after you sees un." "I can hardly wait till the dogs come! I've read so much about Eskimo dogs, but I never saw them pulling a sledge, and I know it's going to be great sport traveling with them." "Soon as Tom brings un we'll start haulin' the wood. I'll have to be workin' wonderful hard cuttin' more, so we'll have un hauled before too late. The wood gets so deep under, that 'tis hard to dig un out o' the snow." "I could look after the snares and fox traps," suggested Charley, "and you could cut wood. I can set up some more snares, too." "Aye, now, you could look after un, whilst I cuts more wood. You knows from the tracks we makes where the traps are set, and you can find un. I'll be cuttin' no more wood after the next snow comes. 'Twill be gettin' too deep by then, and I'll not be havin' long to cut un." "All right," and Charley was quite delighted with the prospect of responsibility, and the fact that Toby would trust him to go alone. "I'll start in to-morrow morning. May I carry your shotgun when I go?" "Aye, carry un. You may be pickin' up some pa'tridges." In accordance with this arrangement, Charley visited the rabbit snares and the fox traps alone the next morning, and returned quite elated with his experience, bringing with him three rabbits that he had found in snares and four spruce grouse that he had shot. It was dinner time when he appeared, and he reported to Toby, who had just reached the cabin after a morning chopping wood, that there was nothing in the fox traps, and that he had set up three new snares. "That's fine, now," Toby praised. "I were knowin' you could 'tend the snares and traps alone. You can do un as well as I can." "Thank you," said Charley, much elated at Toby's praise. "It was great fun." For two more days Charley proudly followed the trail alone, and then came a morning with a heavily overcast sky, and a keen northeast wind blowing in from the bay. Toby predicted that it would snow before midday, and as Charley slipped his feet into his snowshoe slings, and shouldered Toby's gun preparatory to setting out to make the morning round of the traps and snares alone, Toby warned: "If snow starts, 'twill be best to turn about and come home as soon as you sees un start. If she comes she'll cover the footin' wonderful fast, and you might be goin' abroad from the trail. The wind'll be risin' a bit, and if she blows hard 'twill make for nasty traveling and I'm thinkin' when the snow starts the wind'll come up quick, and be blowin' wonderful hard before you knows un." "Oh, I'll be all right," Charley assured confidently. "I ought to know my way by this time, even if the snow does cover my tracks." "'Twill be safer to turn back," said Toby. "Don't go to the fox traps. 'Twill do no harm to let un stand over a day." Charley had reached the last of the rabbit snares before the first flakes of the threatened storm fell. He had three rabbits in a game bag slung over his shoulder, and he was hesitating as to whether or not he should visit the fox traps or heed Toby's warning to turn back, when he was startled by a flock of ptarmigans, or "white pa'tridges," as Toby called them, rising at the edge of the marsh. The partridges flew a short distance out upon the marsh, and alighted upon the snow. Charley could see them plainly. They offered a good shot, and it would be a feat to bag some of them. Quite excited with the prospect, he followed them, and with careful stalking brought down two, one with each barrel of his gun. Startled by the shots, the remainder of the flock flew farther into the open marsh, and elated with his success Charley picked up the two birds he had killed, and following the flock soon succeeded in bagging two more. The next flight was much farther, but he overtook them and shot a fifth bird. They now took a long flight, and were lost in the mist of snow, which was now falling thickly. Forgetting all caution, Charley continued to follow in the direction in which the birds had disappeared. On and on he went without a thought of danger. He was sure the birds had not gone far, and he must have one more shot at them before turning back. All at once, he found himself in a rocky, barren region. He had crossed the marsh, and was rising upon higher ground. This must certainly, he concluded, be a barren beyond the marsh of which Toby had told him, and he suddenly realized that he had gone much farther than he had yet ventured. In the brief space of time since he had last flushed the birds the wind had risen and was fast gaining strength. Already the snow was drifting so thickly that he could not see the marsh, which lay between the barrens and the forest. But still he was not alarmed. "I've got five of them anyway," he said exultantly, looking into his bag and admiring the beautiful white birds. "Toby said it was some stunt to shoot ptarmigans. I guess he'll think now that I can shoot most as well as he can." With no other thought than that he could find his way to the marsh and across it to the forest without difficulty, he turned to retrace his steps. "Even if I can't see far, I can follow my tracks I made coming in," he said confidently. "That'll be dead easy." Every moment the wind was rising, and the storm was increasing in fury. Before he had reached the marsh, the gale was sweeping the snow before it in suffocating clouds, and he was forced frequently to turn his back upon it that he might catch his breath. Presently Charley realized that he had lost the trail of his snowshoe prints, but still confident that he could find it he searched first to the right and then to the left, but nowhere could he discover it. Then it was that he became anxious, and a vague fear fell upon him, and he rushed madly about in vain search of some sign that would guide him. He could scarcely see twenty feet away, and nowhere within his limited range of vision was a rock or bush or anything that he had ever before seen. Suddenly he knew that he was lost. The thought fell upon him like an overwhelming disaster. All at once he was seized by wild terror. He must find the forest or he would perish! The snow was suffocating him, and his legs were atremble with the effort he had put forth. Dazed and uncertain he stood, with the wind swirling the snow about him, and then, with no sense of direction, like a panic-stricken animal, he plunged away into the storm. FOOTNOTE: [5] Old harbour seal. XVI A WALL OF SNOW Several times he fell, and regaining his feet rushed madly and blindly about in vain hope of finding the lost trail and escaping the doom that seemed closing in upon him. The snow clouds were like dense walls, and he, like a child, in puny effort wildly trying to batter them down to gain his freedom. Finally exhaustion overtook him, and with it a degree of reason. His legs were weak and quivering with their effort. He began to realize that he had been depending upon them to extricate him from the trackless marsh in which he wandered, instead of using reason. Limp and trembling as a result of the mad fear that had taken possession of him, and the tremendous physical exertion he had been putting forth, he stopped and with wild, still frightened eyes gazed at the walls of snow that surrounded him like an impassable barrier. Then his brain began to function and his reason to return. He knew that he must reach the cover of the forest, where the trees would shelter him from the blasts that swept the marsh. There he would find some measure of protection at least, and in any case the forest lay between him and the cabin at Double Up Cove. He recalled that time and again Toby had said to him, "Dad's wonderful fine at gettin' out o' fixes, and he always does un by usin' his head." And Skipper Zeb himself had said, "When a man gets into a fix 'tis mostly because he don't use his head, and 'tis his head has to get he out of un. His legs and his hands won't help he, unless his head tells un what to do." That was logical and reasonable. He was now in a "fix," and a worse fix indeed than that in which he and Toby had found themselves on Swile Island. Charley crouched with his back to the snow-laden blasts while he tried to gather his senses and his poise, and these thoughts flashing through his mind, gave him courage. It was bitterly cold and he knew that he must soon find shelter or he would perish. In his mad panic, he had not only lost knowledge of direction, but had expended much of his strength. Slowly it occurred to him that the wind blew across the marsh from the direction of the forest and toward the barrens, and was in his back when he followed the ptarmigans. This being the case, he reasoned, he must _face_ the wind to regain the forest. He was somewhere in the marsh. He knew that. The forest must lie _up_ the wind. It was suffocating and paralyzing work to face it, but in that direction alone lay the only chance for escape and safety. His very life depended upon reaching the forest, and reaching it soon, and he turned boldly to it. With renewed courage, he fought his way forward step by step. He would walk but a little way, when dense snow clouds would force him to turn his back upon them to regain his breath. But he kept going, now and again stumbling and falling and then getting to his feet again to stumble on a little farther. The distance seemed interminable, and several times he was on the point of giving up the struggle in despair. Then it was that he collided with a tree. An outpost of the forest! His heart leaped with hope. With renewed vigour he plunged forward into wind and snow cloud, and a moment later was under the blessed shelter of the trees. The wind raged through the tree tops, but the thick growth of the spruce forest protected him. He did not know where he was, and could see no familiar thing. Finally, too weary to go farther, he crawled under the low branches of a tree to rest. Charley was dozing and half unconscious when a distant crash startled him into wakefulness. What could it have been? He listened intently. Then it came again, and he sprang to his feet excitedly. He had no doubt now. It was the report of a rifle, and some one was within hearing. Through all his struggle in the marsh, Charley had unconsciously clung to Toby's shotgun. He fired one barrel, and then the other. An answering shot rang out above the roar of the wind, and not so far away now. He ran in the direction from which it came. Then came another shot, now quite near, and a moment later he saw Toby hurrying toward him. Charley's heart leaped with joy and relief. How good Toby looked! Dear Toby, who always seemed to be on hand when he was needed! "You looks fair scragged!" greeted Toby. "Were you gettin' lost?" "Lost--I was lost out on the barrens and the marsh!" and Charley was scarce able to choke back tears of joy and relief. Toby after the manner of woodsmen had brought his ax. He quickly cut some wood, and in a few moments had a rousing fire. Then he cut some poles, and made a lean-to, which he thatched thickly with boughs, and within it made a couch of boughs where they could sit before the fire protected from the storm. While Toby prepared and broiled two of the ptarmigans, Charley told the story of his experiences. "I was scared stiff," said Charley in closing. "If I had done as you told me to do, and gone straight home when the snow began it wouldn't have happened. But I didn't know a storm could come up like that, or how bad it could get in a few minutes." "You were usin' your head when you goes up the wind, and that gets you out of a wonderful bad fix," said Toby. "Dad says the only way to get out of fixes is to use your head, and he knows." There was never a word of reproach from Toby for not having heeded his advice, and for this Charley was grateful. XVII SKIPPER ZEB'S DOGS Long Tom Ham was glad to have the care of Skipper Zeb's dogs during the summer. There was always enough food from the sea for them during the fishing season, and a supply of seal meat from the spring sealing to feed them in the fall, after the fishing season was ended. And to compensate him for caring for the dogs, he had them to haul his winter's wood in from the forest, before returning them to Skipper Zeb, which he always did after the bay was frozen and his fall hauling was finished. In summer, with no work to do, and as much to eat as ever they wished, the dogs were sleek and fat and lazy, and quite harmless. But with the close of the fishing season they were given but one meal a day, and that in the evening, and only enough to keep them strong and in good condition, for fat dogs will not work well. With frosty weather and less food they roused from their lethargy. Then it was that they became savage, snapping creatures, with no more affection for man than has the wild wolf, which was their ancestor. Long Tom Ham declared that Skipper Zeb's dogs were the most "oncivil team of dogs he ever knew." Toby and Charley, a week after the big storm, were returning home at midday after a morning in the forest setting marten traps, when, just as they came around the corner of the cabin, and the bay below them came into view, Toby exclaimed: "There's Skipper Tom comin' with the dogs and komatik!"[6] For the first time in his life Charley saw dogs in harness. They were still a half mile away, the animals spread out in fan-shaped formation, and trotting leisurely. As they approached nearer the cabin they broke into a run, as though eager to reach their destination, and with short yelps swung off of the ice and came charging up to the cabin where Charley and Toby were awaiting them. Skipper Tom Ham, his beard encrusted with ice, disembarked from the komatik, and Charley thought him the tallest man he had ever seen. "'Ere I ham, and 'ow are you hall?" greeted Skipper Tom through his ice mask, as he extended a hand to Toby and then to Charley. "We're all well," said Toby. "Were you gettin' your wood all hauled?" "Aye, hall my wood is 'auled, and I'm most thankful I 'ad the dogs to 'aul un, and most thankful to be rid of un. So Hi'm twice thankful," said Skipper Tom following Toby and Charley into the house to join them at dinner, picking the ice from his beard as he talked. "Them's the most honcivil dogs I knows," remarked Skipper Tom, as he ate. "Hi comes 'ome from my traps last hevenin' and I sees Martha sittin' hup on the scaffold where I keeps the dog meat, and the dogs hall haround lookin' at 'er. When she sees me she yells the dogs be hafter 'er, and I says to 'er that they thinks she his goin' to feed 'em, and she says she thinks they his goin' to heat 'er. Hi tells 'er to come down, and she comes, and when we gets hinto the 'ouse she says, 'Tom, you take them dogs right hover to Skipper Zeb's,' and so Hi brings the honcivil beasts hover." Tom chuckled at the recollection of his wife's fear and her appearance on the scaffold the evening before. When he was through he said he must return at once, or Martha would think the dogs had eaten him. Toby suggested taking Skipper Tom home with dogs and komatik, but Skipper Tom declined on the ground that it was just a wee bit of a walk, and he would rather walk and look for partridges along shore as he went. The ten mile walk to Lucky Bight was no hardship to Skipper Tom. The coming of the dogs was an exciting incident to Charley. They were big, handsome creatures, though with a fierce, evil look, and a sneaking manner that made Charley feel uncomfortable when they were loosed from harness, and had liberty to prowl about at will. "'Tis a wonderful team," Toby declared proudly. "They comes from Nuth'ard dogs, though we raises they all from pups. Some of un has wild wolves for fathers. Tinker there is one, and so are Rocks and Sampson. They comes from the same litter. That un over there is Nancy. I names she from a schooner that calls at Pinch-In Tickle every spring. That un next she, with the end of his tail gone, is Traps. Whilst he were a pup he gets the end of his tail in a trap, and loses the end of un. I remember his howlin' yet! Nancy and Traps be brother and sister. Tucker and Skipper and Molly are the names of the others. We gets un from the Post when they's just weaned and are wee pups. They tells us they has wild wolf fathers too, but I'm not knowin'." "That man that brought them told me, when I went to pat one of them on the head, that they were bad, and not to touch them," said Charley. "You can't trust un," admitted Toby. "I knows un all, and I plays with un when they's pups, but if I were trippin' and fallin' down among un now, I'm not doubtin' they's tear me abroad." "After you raised them from pups, and always had them, and feed them and everything?" asked Charley, horrified at the suggestion. "Aye, they has no care for man, and whilst they'll mind me a wonderful sight better than they'd be mindin' a stranger to un, they'd be tearin' me abroad if they has the chance just like a band o' wolves," warned Toby. "They don't look so terrible, though they do look sneaky, as you told me the other day they are," said Charley. "Aye, sneaky, and as I tells you, 'tis never safe to go abroad among un unless you has a stick in your hand, and if they comes close strike at un. They're wonderful afraid of a stick. When they gets used to you, just kick at un, and 'twill keep un off, and then you won't be needin' a stick." "I'll look out for them," Charley promised. "Tinker's the leader in harness," said Toby. "He were always quick to learn, and I trains he whilst he were a pup when I plays with he before he's big enough to drive with the other dogs. Sampson's the boss, and out of harness he has his will of un. He's a bad fighter." "He's an ugly looking brute," observed Charley. "With the dogs about you'll be wantin' to learn to use the whip," suggested Toby. "They fears un worse than a stick. 'Tis fine sport to learn to crack un, and you'll soon learn to do that, whatever." Toby brought forth the dog whip. It was a cruel looking instrument, with a lash of braided walrus hide, thirty-five feet in length, and a heavy wooden handle about eighteen inches long. Toby was quite expert in its use. He could snap it with a report like a pistol shot, and at twenty-five or thirty feet distance he could, with the tip of the whip, strike a chip that was no bigger than a half dollar. When he had given an exhibition of his skill, he passed the whip to Charley. "Now you try to snap un," said he. It was great fun learning to handle the long whip, and though in his first awkward attempts Charley sometimes wound the lash around his own neck, where it left a red, smarting ring, with much practice he learned, in the course of two or three days, to snap it fairly well and without danger to himself. During the days that followed Toby and Charley used the dogs and sledge, or komatik, as Toby called it, to haul wood that Toby had cut in the near-by forest. During this time Charley was gradually becoming familiar with the dogs, and sometimes Toby would permit him to guide the komatik, though he himself was always present to exact obedience from the team. The wood hauling was done in the afternoon, while the mornings were devoted to a visit to the rabbit snares and several marten traps, which Toby had set in the woods, and to the two fox traps on the marsh. Five fine martens had been caught, but no fox had been lured into either trap, when Toby suggested one morning, three weeks after the arrival of the dogs, that they drive the team on the coast ice to a point opposite the marsh, and by a short cut through the forest drive out upon the marsh. "I'm thinkin' if we moves the fox traps from the mesh to the barrens we'd be gettin' a fox there," said he. "'Twould be a long walk out to the barrens to tend un, but if we takes the dogs and komatik we'd have good travelin' for un everywhere exceptin' through the short neck of woods." "Let's do!" Charley agreed enthusiastically. "It'll be a lot quicker, and it will give us a fine trip with the dogs every day when we go to look at the traps." And so it was arranged, and so it came to pass that on that very day Charley met with his first adventure with the dogs, and a most unusual one it was, as Toby declared. While it was nearly twice as far to the marsh by this roundabout route, the bay ice was in excellent condition for the dogs, and they traveled so briskly that they arrived at the point where they were to turn into the woods much too soon for Charley. Here in the deep snow it was necessary for them to tramp a trail for the dogs with their snowshoes, but the distance was short to the marsh, and once there the dogs again had a good hard bottom to walk upon. Toby took up the two fox traps, and drove the team to the edge of the barrens, where the dogs were brought to a stop, and under the threat of the whip compelled to lie down. "'Tis rocky and bad travelin' in here, and if we takes the komatik we'll have to help the dogs pull un some places," said Toby. "The wind sends the snow abroad from the rocks, and plenty of places they're bare. I'm thinkin' now if you stays with the dogs and komatik, I'll go and set the traps. I'll be back in half an hour, whatever." "All right," agreed Charley. "I'll stay with them." "If they tries to get up, take the whip and make un lie down," Toby directed. "Keep un lyin' down." Toby strode away upon his snowshoes, and quickly disappeared over a low knoll. For the first time Charley was alone with the dogs, and he felt some pride in the fact that they were under his direction. Suddenly Sampson became restless, and he and Tinker rose to their feet. Charley snapped the whip over them, and reluctantly they lay down. But it was only for a moment. All of the dogs had their noses in the air, and before Charley could quiet them they were all on their feet restlessly sniffing the air. Charley swung the whip, and shouted at them to lie down, but they were beyond his control, and would not lie down, but jumped and strained at their traces, giving out short whines and howls. He struck at Sampson with the butt end of the whip, and Sampson snapped at him with ugly fangs, and would have sprung upon him had the dog's trace not held him in leash. Then the komatik broke loose. Charley threw himself upon it, still clinging to the whip, as the dogs, at a mad gallop, turned across a neck of the marsh and toward a low hill that rose at the edge of the barrens and a quarter of a mile to the westward. The komatik bounced from side to side with every hummock of ice it struck, and several times was in imminent danger of overturning. Charley shouted "Ah! Ah!" at the top of his voice in vain effort to stop the mad beasts, and then "Ouk! Ouk! Ouk!" and "Rahder! Rahder! Rahder!" in the hope that they would swing to the right or to the left and return to the starting point. But on they went, howling more excitedly and going faster and faster until, suddenly, at the farther side of the neck of marsh and at the very edge of the barrens, the komatik struck a rock and with the impact the bridle, a line of walrus hide which connected the dogs' traces to the komatik, snapped. The yelping, howling dogs, freed from the komatik, ran wildly and eagerly on, and soon passed over the lower slopes of the hill and out of sight. Charley, dazed at what had happened, watched the dogs disappear. Then, in sudden realization that they had escaped from him and were gone, he ran after them calling them excitedly but vainly. He had not run far when all at once he saw them swing down over the brow of the hill toward the komatik, and he turned about and ran to the komatik to intercept them with the whip, which he was still dragging. The dogs were before him, a snarling, fighting mass. He was sure they would tear each other to pieces. He was about to lay the whip upon them when to his amazement he discovered that there were many more than eight dogs fighting, and that the strangers were even more ferocious creatures than those of the team, and wore no harness. He brought down his whip upon the savage mass. Immediately one of the strange animals turned upon him, showing its gleaming white fangs, and with short, snapping yelps was about to spring at him, when Sampson, taking advantage of the animal's diverted attention, snapped his fangs into its neck. Then it was that the truth dawned upon Charley. The strange beasts were not dogs, but a pack of the terrible northern wolves of which he had heard. It was plain, too, that the dogs were no match for them, and then the thought came to him that he had no firearms and no means of protecting himself against them. XVIII THE FIGHT WITH THE WOLVES A Cold sweat broke out upon Charley's body. His knees went limp. He felt like one receiving the sentence of death. He was sure that he would presently be torn to pieces by the savage beasts. The wolves were getting the better of the fight. They were one less in number than the dogs, but the dogs were hampered by their harness, and they were not as free to spring aside and snap at their enemy as were the wolves. Tucker and Traps, bleeding and mangled, were falling back and trying to escape. The other dogs were fighting valiantly, but they were fighting a losing fight, and Charley's untrained eyes could see that there would soon be an end of it, with the wolves victors. Toby had taken his rifle with him, and Charley was unarmed. There was no chance for defence, and no escape. There was not a tree nearer than the farther side of the marsh that he could climb, and long before he could reach the woods the fight would be over and the wolves would be after him. His eyes, as he looked helplessly about, fell upon an ax tucked under the lashings of the komatik. With nervous hands he drew it forth, and held it ready to strike at the first attacking animal. Sampson and a big gray wolf were facing each other, and each maneuvering for an opening to snap at the other's throat. The wolf's back was toward Charley, and not two paces away. With a sudden impulse he sprang forward and brought the ax down upon the creature's head. It fell and lay still. He had killed it with one blow. The two wolves that were attacking Tucker and Traps, sensing a new and more formidable enemy, turned upon Charley. Swinging his ax he held them at bay, while they crouched, watching for an opening, their lips drawn back from their ugly fangs, while with ferocious snaps and yelps they voiced their defiance. Then came the sharp report of a rifle, and one of the wolves fell. Then another report, and the other crumpled by the side of its dead mate. The remainder of the pack, suddenly aware of a new and unknown danger, broke from the dogs and ran, with bullets from Toby's rifle raising little spurts of snow around them until they disappeared over a spur of the hill. "I hears the fightin'," said Toby, "and I runs as fast as I can. I sees you knock that un over with the ax. 'Twere wonderful plucky, Charley, to fight un with an ax." Charley sank, weak and trembling, upon the komatik. "I--thought--they'd--kill--me," he said. "'Twere lucky I hears un." Toby stooped and felt of the fur of one of those he had shot. "They's prime, and we gets three of un, whatever. They pays six dollars for wolf skins at the post, and we'll be gettin' eighteen dollars for un. The dogs gets cut up some, but not so bad, and they'll get over un." Charley made no response. He was not interested in the character or value of the fur. He was too close to the peril from which he had escaped. He had been face to face with what he had believed to be certain death. How could Toby treat the incident with so little concern, and apparently with so little appreciation of the grave danger just ended? He was giving first thought to the value of the pelts, as though that mattered in the least. Toby, on his part, did not in any degree deprecate the peril in which Charley had been placed, but now that it was ended, why should he talk about it or even think about it? This was a habit of his life, a life of unremitting endeavour in a stern land with its own dangers and adventures which Toby accepted as a matter of course and to be expected. In his city streets Charley might dodge an automobile at a crossing and escape with his life by a hair's breadth, but Charley would scarcely give such an adventure a second thought. But to Toby such would have been an adventure to think and talk about and to remember with a thrill. To Toby now, the matter of chief importance was the fact that he and Charley had earned the trade value of three wolf pelts, which was eighteen dollars, and that was a good day's wages. The danger was at an end and behind them, and no longer worth a thought; the reward was before them, and Toby began immediately, as a habit of life, to enjoy it in anticipation. While life warmth was still in the carcasses, the boys turned their attention to the removal of the pelts, after first securing the dogs and repairing the broken bridle. As Charley worked his interest in his trophy grew, and he was as proud of it as he had ever been of anything in his life. He had killed a wolf at close quarters! It was an achievement to be proud of, and what normal boy or man would not have been proud of it? This was the first pelt that Charley had ever secured by his own effort, and when they reached home he insisted upon stretching it himself, with a word or two of advice from Toby. Then, with a sheathknife, and with much pride, he scraped it free from every particle of clinging flesh and fat. None of the dogs, as an examination disclosed, was seriously injured, though Tucker and Traps had suffered severe lacerations from the wolf fangs, and these two were relieved from team work for several days. During the week following the adventure with the wolves, good fortune smiled upon the young hunters. More martens were captured, increasing the number of marten pelts to nine, and Toby shot an otter. But the crowning event of the winter, and, Toby was sure, the big event of his life, came two days after the fox traps had been removed from the marsh to the barrens, when Toby found in one of them a silver fox. They all declared, as did Long Tom Ham, who came over from Lucky Bight to see the pelt, that it was the blackest, thickest and longest furred, and glossiest silver fox they had ever seen. "'Tis rare fine fur," said Mrs. Twig, shaking out the pelt and holding it up to admire it when it was finally dry and Toby had removed it from the board that it might be packed carefully and safely away in one of the chests. "Aye," boasted Toby, "'tis that. 'Twill be worth five hundred dollars at the post, or four hundred _what_ever." "Now we'll not have to skimp so with things," said Mrs. Twig happily. "The silver'll get us a wonderful lot o' things we needs, and 'twill pay the debt at the post." "We has the marten skins, too," said Toby. "They's worth at the post thirty dollars apiece, good martens like they. Skipper Tom Ham says that be the price this year for good black martens, and all we has is black. I'm thinkin' the otter'll be bringin' fifty dollars whatever. 'Tis a wonderful fine skin o' fur." "You and Charley were wonderful lucky gettin' fur," said Mrs. Twig in praise. In another ten days Skipper Zeb would come home from his trapping grounds to bring the pelts he had captured, and to take back with him, after a fortnight's rest, a fresh supply of provisions. Skipper Zeb's mid-winter return was always an occasion for great rejoicing, but this winter it would have an added flavour of joy. All of them were keenly anxious that he see the silver fox pelt, and Toby declared he could hardly wait to show it to him. "'Twill be a rare treat for he, now," said Toby. It was an event, indeed. Even Skipper Zeb had never in all his life caught a silver fox. Toby and Charley were justly proud, too, of their success in catching martens. Skipper Zeb had smiled indulgently when Toby had told him that with Charley's help he would set some marten traps, and Skipper Zeb's only remark had been, "'Twill be fine practice for you lads," never expecting that they would get a pelt. Indeed, Toby's previous winter's trapping had resulted in nothing but rabbits, but that was due, Toby had complained, to the fact that his mother had not permitted him to go so far alone into the forest. But this year he was older, and with Charley's companionship she had made no restrictions upon bounds. "And there are the wolf skins," said Toby. "I wants Charley to take un home with he when he goes next summer on the mail boat. Twere he that fought for un, and they belongs to he." "Aye, they belongs to Charley," agreed Mrs. Twig, "and half the martens too. If 'tweren't for Charley bein' here to go along with you, you couldn't have got un, with all the work you were havin' to do with the wood, to make you bide home. If Charley were havin' a rifle when he meets the wolves he'd have got more of un, and the dogs wouldn't have got cut up so bad." "I wish I had a rifle," Charley suggested eagerly. "I've got sixty dollars my father gave me before I left him. Is there anywhere I could buy one with that?" "You'll be needin' that to pay your passage back home," Mrs. Twig counseled. "You needs some warm underclothes, and I'm thinkin' now you and Toby might take the dogs and komatik and go to Skipper Cy Blink's tradin' store at Deer Harbour, and take three of the marten skins and trade un in for a rifle and what you needs, and Toby can get some things we're needin' in the house." "Oh, I wish we could!" Charley exclaimed. "But the skins aren't really mine," he added more soberly. "I owe you a lot for keeping me here, and for all you've done for me, but Dad will pay you for that when I get home." "You owes us nothing," declared Mrs. Twig, a little out of patience that Charley should have suggested it. "You pays for all you gets in work, and half the skins be yours, whatever." "Thank you," said Charley gratefully, "but I can't help feeling that you're doing a lot more for me than I deserve, and I'm sure a good deal more than I've earned." "You earns all of un, and more than you gets," insisted Mrs. Twig kindly. "'Tis wonderful fine to have you here with Toby, and we're gettin' to think so much you belongs to us 'twill be a rare hard thing to see you go. You lads better be startin' for Deer Harbour in the marnin'. You'll be reachin' Pinch-In Tickle by noon, whatever, with the fine footin' for the dogs, and Deer Harbour by night. Comin' back the next day you can bide the night at Pinch-In Tickle, and fetch back the fishin' gear that needs mendin', so 'twill be here to work on when they's time to work on un." Charley and Toby were as excited as they could be, and that evening all arrangements were made for an early start in the morning. It was to be Charley's first long dog journey, and that night he lay awake a long time thinking of the wonderful journey he was to have, and of the new rifle he was to buy. FOOTNOTE: [6] Sledge. XIX CHARLEY'S NEW RIFLE Breakfast was eaten early, and long before daylight, which in that latitude does not come at this season until nearly ten o'clock. Toby and Charley brought the komatik box into the cabin that Mrs. Twig might pack it for them. In a cotton bag as a protection, the precious marten pelts were stored in the bottom of the box. Then came the provisions consisting of hardtack, which would not freeze as would ordinary bread, tea, a bottle of molasses, a liberal quantity of salt pork, and the necessary cooking utensils. As a precaution in case of accident some extra duffle socks, and an extra pair of buckskin moccasins were included for each, and Toby added some cartridges for his rifle. The box packed, it was lashed upon the rear of the komatik, and on the floor of the sledge, in front of the box, Toby spread an untanned caribou skin, and upon it lashed their sleeping bags, securing his rifle and an ax under the lashings, and tying to them his own and Charley's snowshoes. "Look out for bad ice, and be wonderful careful on the ballicaders,"[7] cautioned Mrs. Twig, as Toby broke the komatik loose and the dogs dashed away down the decline to the bay ice. A big full moon lighted the ice, which stretched before them for miles in an unbroken white sheet. Rime filled the air, and soon their clothing was coated with a film of frost. In the silvery moonlight they passed the black cliff of the Duck's Head. They were well down the bay when daylight came, and at last the sun rose, and its glorious rays set the rime-filled air shimmering like a veil of silver. An hour before noon they reached Pinch-In Tickle, and stopped in the cabin to boil the kettle and eat a hasty luncheon. What memories it revived of the day when Charley first entered the door with Toby, and was first greeted by Skipper Zeb! How miserable a place in which to live Charley thought it then! How alone and deserted he felt! Now it appealed to him as not uncomfortable, and here he had found friends and a welcome; and the thought came to him that when the time to leave The Labrador came he would feel equally as badly at the leaving as he had at the entry. Upon investigation, the ice in the tickle proved unsafe, and in the center there was some open water, where the tide surging in and out of the narrow passage had not permitted it to freeze. In order, therefore, to reach the sea ice outside, it proved necessary to cross the low ridge of hills to the eastward of the cabin, which Charley and Toby had climbed on the day that the mail boat deserted Charley. The ridge was bare of trees, and there was a hard coating of icy snow upon its rocky surface. From the cabins to the summit the slope was gradual, and with some help over the steeper places, the dogs hauled the komatik to the summit with little difficulty. The descent to the sea ice on the opposite side was much more abrupt. Immediately it was begun, the komatik began to coast, and Toby threw a ring of braided walrus hide over the front end of one of the runners. This "drag," as he called it, was three feet in diameter and as thick as his wrist. The lower side of the ring, dragging back under the runner, was forced into the hard snow, and thus served to retard the komatik, but even then it gathered such speed that the dogs were forced to turn aside, lest it should run them down, and to race with it as fast as they could run. Toby threw himself upon his side upon the komatik, clinging to it with both hands, and sticking his heels into the snow at the side and in front of him, and running with the komatik at the same time, put forth all his strength to hold it back. This is exceedingly dangerous work, as Charley realized. A single misstep might result in a broken leg, and even worse injury, and Charley held his breath in expectation that some such catastrophe would surely happen before they reached the bottom. Once a dog's trace caught over a rock. The dog was sent sprawling, and Charley expected that the speeding komatik would strike and crush the helpless animal. But fortunately the trace slipped over the top of the rock just in time for the dog to escape, and in a moment it was on its feet again, racing with its companions. They had covered two-thirds of the descent, when to their horror the boys saw a ribbon of black water, several yards in width, separating the shore from the sea ice. They were dashing directly toward it at tremendous speed, and Charley was sure that they could not avoid a plunge into its cold depths. "Roll off!" Toby shouted. Charley rolled clear of the speeding komatik, pitching over and over, and finally sliding to a stop, dazed and bewildered, but in time to see the komatik, bottom up, at the very brink of the chasm. Toby was sprawling just above it. The dogs, with traces taut, stood above him bracing themselves to hold the sledge from slipping farther. "Oh!" cried Charley running down to Toby, who was up and righting the komatik before he could reach him, "I was sure we were going over!" "We were wonderful close to un!" said Toby. "When you drops off, I jerks the front of the komatik and that makes she turn over and roll, and when I does un the dogs stops and holds fast. If 'tweren't for that we'd sure gone into the water and liker'n not been drowned." "What'll we do now?" asked Charley. "We can't reach the sea ice." "Follow the ballicaders," said Toby, indicating a narrow strip of ice hanging to the shore above the water. "'Twere careless of me not to think of the open water. This early in winter 'tis always like this above and below the tickle." For nearly an hour they traveled upon the ice barricade. Sometimes it was so narrow that Charley's heart was in his mouth in fear that the komatik would slip over the brink. But Toby was a good driver, and at last they came in safety to the end of the water, with the ocean solidly frozen as far as they could see. Here they turned upon the sea ice, and presently left the shore behind them to cross a wide bay. The sun was setting, and they were approaching land on the opposite shore of the bay, when Toby remarked: "We're most there. Deer Harbour's just around that p'int you sees ahead." Just before dusk they drove up to the little log house and trading store of Skipper Cyrus Blink, and glad enough they were to be met at the door by Skipper Blink, who greeted them most heartily, and helped them to unharness their dogs and unpack their komatik, and when they had fed the dogs ushered them into the warm cabin, where Mrs. Blink, who had seen them coming, had a pot of hot tea ready to pour and a "snack" to eat to "stay their stummiks" till supper would be ready. Skipper Blink's store, or "shop" as he called it, was in a small room adjoining the living-room. It was a most primitive emporium of a most primitive frontier. Its stock of goods was limited to the necessities of the people, and consisted chiefly of flour, pork, molasses, duffle, practical clothing, arms and ammunition, with a pail of "sweets," or hard candies that at some remote date might have laid claim to being "fresh." It was a small branch shop of the Hudson's Bay Company's establishment known as the "Post" at Snow Inlet, some twenty miles to the northward, and Skipper Blink received from the Company a commission upon the trade which he did. Charley could scarcely restrain his eagerness to hold in his hands the new rifle which he was to purchase, and when he and Toby had finished their "snack," he asked: "Have you any guns for sale?" "Aye," said the Skipper, "I has three shotguns in the shop and three rifles. What kind now would you be wantin'?" "A rifle," said Charley. "Do you think I might see it now?" "You can see un," answered the Skipper obligingly. "I'll fetch un right in here where 'tis warm. I has a forty-four carbine, a forty-five rifle and a thirty rifle. The forty-five would be a bit heavy for you. The forty-four is fine and light, and so is the thirty, and that's a wonderful far shootin' and strong shootin' gun, but the ca'tridges comes high." "Thank you," said Charley, "I'd like to look at the rifles." Accordingly Skipper Cy lighted a candle, and passed through the door leading to the shop, presently to return with the three rifles. "Now here be the forty-four," said he, presenting the carbine for inspection. "'Tis a wonderful light fine gun for a lad." "It's just like yours, isn't it, Toby?" Charley asked. "Aye," said Toby, "the one I has is a forty-four carbine, just like this un." "'Tis a fine rifle for any shootin'," explained Skipper Blink. "'Tis strong enough for deer or bear, if you hits un right, and 'tis fine for pa'tridges if you shoots un in the head. I finds un fine to hunt with, and 'tis not so costive as the others." "Let me see the forty-five," suggested Charley. "That looks like a big, strong gun." "Here 'tis now," and Skipper Blink handed it to Charley. "'Tis a wonderful sight stronger shootin' gun than the forty-four, but 'tis a bit too heavy for a lad like you to pack. 'Twould make for weariness, packin' she all day." "It is heavy," agreed Charley, returning it to Skipper Blink, and eyeing the thirty caliber. "May I see the other one?" "Aye, and there 'tis now. She's the best, and I keeps she for the last," said Skipper Blink proudly, as he delivered it into Charley's hands. "_She's_ a rifle now. She's the best and strongest shootin' gun I ever sees." "This isn't heavy," said Charley. "I like it mighty well. Try it, Toby, and see what you think of it." "She is fine and light," said Toby. "I likes un better'n the forty-four." "So do I, ever so much," said Charley taking it back from Toby, and handling it caressingly. "You knows a good gun when you sees un, lad," flattered Skipper Blink. "I were thinkin' when you asks to see un that you'd be pickin' that un, and I were sayin' to myself, 'There's a lad now what knows a gun, and he'll be wantin' the thirty.' But 'tis the most costive of all of un." "I'll take it anyhow," agreed Charley, fondling the arm, quite sure that his happiness depended upon owning it, and recognizing it as the undoubted aristocrat of the three. "That's right, lad," beamed the Skipper. "When the bullet from that un hits a deer, you'll be gettin' the deer, whatever. Let me get a bit o' rag and wipe the grease off of she. And we'll take the ramrod and wipe out the barrel. 'Tis clogged full o' grease, and if you shoots she without cleanin' she out 'tis like to split she." When Skipper Cy had cleaned the gun to his satisfaction he handed it to Charley, with the suggestion: "You'll be needin' some ca'tridges--a hundred, whatever." "I'll take a hundred and fifty," said Charley proudly. "They comes twenty in a box," advised the Skipper. "If you takes seven boxes 'twill do you. 'Tis all I has." "Very well," agreed Charley. It was Charley's first gun. He fondled it and handled it, and scarce put it down until Mrs. Blink announced supper, and they sat down to an appetizing meal of bruise.[8] Both boys were hungry, and Skipper Cy urged them to eat. "Fill up, now," he would say. "Take more of un. You lads have had a long day cruisin', and I'm not doubtin' you're fair starved." And they ate and ate of the bruise until they could eat no more, with all the good Skipper's urging. When they were through Skipper Cy took them into the store, or "shop" as he called it, where Charley purchased fresh underwear for himself and for Toby to take the place of that which Toby had let him use, and Toby purchased necessities which Mrs. Twig required at home, and still there was a small balance left to Charley's credit. "I'd like something for Mrs. Twig," suggested Charley. "Have you anything you think she'd like?" "Just the thing! Just the thing!" and Skipper Cy produced a small woolen shawl. "She'll like un for her shoulders. Mrs. Blink wears one of un, and she's wonderful proud of un, and says 'tis a rare comfort." "Mother _would_ like un wonderful well," advised Toby, much pleased at Charley's thoughtfulness. "All right," agreed Charley. "And now I want something for Violet." "I has just the thing for the little maid!" Skipper Cy beamed delightedly. Going to a chest he produced a really nice and prettily dressed little doll. "Here's a doll I gets at the Moravian Mission. I gets un because 'tis a pretty trinket, but I has no use for un. Take un to the little maid from me, and tell she I sends un to she." "Vi'let never has a doll in her life, but just a bit of cloth tied around a stick Mother fixes up for she and she calls a doll!" exclaimed Toby delightedly. "It is _just_ the thing! But I want to pay for it," insisted Charley. "I want to give it to her myself." Finally it was agreed that Charley should pay Skipper Cy the price that he had paid the Mission folk for it, and he was perhaps quite as happy, and even more happy, with the thought of the pleasure his gifts would give Mrs. Twig and Violet than with his new rifle. This closed Charley's purchases, and still he found that there was a small balance due him. This balance, he insisted, Toby should use in selecting something for himself, and Toby acquired some additional cartridges for his rifle, confessing that his supply was low, and from the pail of ancient candy a quantity of "sweets" to take home; and though the candy was hard with age, in this land where luxuries are scarce, it was hailed as a great treat. They were up and had their breakfast before daylight, as is the custom in this country, and with daylight the boys went out to try Charley's new rifle, which proved to be an accurate and strong shooting gun, and quite equal to Skipper Cy's recommendation. Charley found, indeed, that he could make a better target with it than with Toby's rifle. And it was well that he had taken this early opportunity to become accustomed to its mechanism, as events proved. Shortly after sunrise they said good-bye to Skipper and Mrs. Blink, and were on their way to Pinch-In Tickle, where it was their purpose to spend the night. When they passed out and beyond the point and the shelter of land they met a stiff southeast wind, and looking at the sky, Toby stopped the dogs. "'Twill be blowin' hard before noon, and 'tis like to move the ice," said Toby. "'Twill take two hours whatever to make land the other side." "What can we do?" asked Charley. "Can we go around?" "We'd not make un to-day," said Toby. "I'm thinkin' by hurryin' the dogs a bit we can make un. The ice'll not go abroad unless the wind blows a good bit stronger than 'tis blowin' now." "Hadn't we better go back and wait until we're sure?" asked Charley anxiously. "If we goes back and waits we'll not be gettin' home to-morrow," Toby objected. "We promises Mother we'd be home by to-morrow night whatever." "Let's take a chance at it," said Charley. "This wind can't move the ice, and we can get across before it gets blowing much harder." "Ooisht!"[9] called Toby, breaking the komatik loose, and away went the dogs. "Oksuit! Oksuit!"[10] Toby kept calling to the dogs, snapping the whip over them and urging them ahead. "What's that?" It was an hour later, and Charley pointed to a great moving object a half mile seaward. "A white bear!" exclaimed Toby, after a moment's scrutiny. "Can't we get it?" Charley excitedly clutched his new rifle. "We'll try un! Rahder! Rahder! Rahder!"[11] Toby shouted in rapid command, as rapidly as he could speak the word. Slowly the dogs turned to the left and toward the bear. Suddenly a sniff of the animal came down the wind. Immediately the dogs sprang forward in their traces, and with short, sharp yelps were in wild, unrestrained pursuit. The komatik swayed from side to side, now on one runner, now on the other with every ice hummock it struck. The bear did not run. Either its dignity, its confidence in its own strength and prowess, or resentment that any should dare invade its silent domain led it to face about upon its enemies. FOOTNOTES: [7] Ice barriers skirting open water. [8] Hardtack and salt codfish cooked together. [9] Go on. [10] Hurry! Hurry! [11] To the left. XX THE REBELLION OF THE DOGS "He's like to run before we gets to he," shouted Toby, between bumps of the speeding sledge, "but I'm thinkin' the dogs'll catch he before he gets to open water if he tries gettin' away." But the bear did not run. He rose upon his haunches, and looked upon the advancing dogs with apparent contempt, the monarch of the ice fields. "He's a whopper!" exclaimed Charley, his heart beating double time, as Toby by means of the drag cautiously slackened the speed of the team, and at a safe distance came to a stop, with the dogs, eager to be at the bear, springing in their traces and emitting snarls and growls and little impatient yelps. "Don't shoot till I gets the dogs clear!" warned Toby. "If he comes at un whilst they's in harness they won't have a chanst to dodge he!" Toby threw the komatik upon its side, with its nose against an ice hummock as an anchorage, and observing this maneuver, the bear resumed all fours and began a retreat with a lumbering, but astonishingly rapid gait, toward the northward. "Go after he and shoot!" Toby shouted, at the same time, with feverish haste, endeavouring to loosen his rifle from its lashings upon the komatik, and losing no time in unleashing the dogs. The bear was already fifty yards away when Charley fired. It was not a long shot, but in his excitement he missed, and the report of the rifle did not, apparently, in any manner decrease or accelerate the bear's speed. Again Charley fired, aiming more carefully, and this time the bear stopped and bit at a wound in its flank. Taking advantage of the animal's pause, Charley ran toward it, and fired a third shot. Now the bear bit at its shoulder, and suddenly in mighty rage turned upon Charley and charged him. A cold chill ran up and down his spine, and his hair stood upon end, when he saw the mighty hulk of the enraged beast coming at him. Again he fired, but on came the bear, and Charley turned and ran. [Illustration: THE GREAT PAW SENT TOBY SPRAWLING.] In the meantime, Toby had extricated his rifle and was running to Charley's assistance. They were taking a direction at right angles to Toby, which gave him an excellent opening, and with careful aim he fired upon the bear. The bear paused to bite at a fresh wound, and discovering a new enemy, turned upon Toby who fired again, but with no apparent effect. Hoping to plant a bullet in the bear's head, Toby held his ground. He threw the lever forward to eject the empty shell, and jerked it back to insert a fresh cartridge with undue haste, and to his consternation it jammed. He jerked at the lever, but it would not move. Beads of perspiration broke out upon his forehead. The bear was less than a dozen feet from him. Toby dropped his gun and ran, but he knew he could not outdistance the furious animal at his heels. At that moment Charley's rifle rang out. The tip of the bear's great paw reached Toby and sent him sprawling, and as he fell the bear suddenly sank with a grunt like the dying exhaust of an engine. "You got un! You got un!" exclaimed Toby, springing to his feet. "I thought he was going to get you!" said Charley, all atremble. "He just touched me!" Toby boasted. "'Tis the first white bear killed in these parts in two years, whatever!" Toby and Charley gloated over their prize, and when they had examined the carcass, Toby declared that it was Charley's last shot, just behind the shoulder, that had killed it. "My shots takes un too far for'ard, and all your shots hits un too far back, except one," Toby declared. Nearly an hour was occupied in skinning the bear, and in packing and lashing the meat upon the komatik. While they packed the meat, the dogs were permitted to feast upon the offal, as their reward, and when all was ready they turned their faces again toward Pinch-In Tickle, quite elated with their success. Travel now, with the heavily laden komatik, was slow, and the overfed dogs required constant urging. Completely engrossed with the capture and skinning of the bear, both Toby and Charley had quite forgotten about the unstable condition of the ice. Now they were aware that the wind was blowing considerably harder than when they had started. Charley was the first to speak of it. "The wind has stiffened," said he with some concern. "The bear made us forget about the ice. Do you think it's all right?" "That's what I'm thinkin' about." Toby looked worried. "We'll soon be knowin'. If the ice has gone abroad from the shore, we're in a worse fix than the bear had us in." "What'll we do if it has?" asked Charley with a sinking heart. "'Twill be a bad fix. 'Twill be a wonderful bad fix. I'm not knowin' how we'd be gettin' out of a fix like that. I'd be wishin' Dad was here to get us out of un. He's always findin' a way out of fixes. We won't be thinkin' about un till we finds out. Dad says folk worry more about things that don't happen than about things that do." On they went in silence, tense with uncertainty, for another half hour. Charley was thinking about what Skipper Zeb had said about worry when they were in the camp at the Duck's Head, and Skipper Zeb's philosophy helped him to keep his courage. "Ah!" Toby suddenly shouted to the dogs, and they came to a stop at the command. "She's gone abroad from the shore!" and he pointed at a long, black streak of water between the ice and the shore ahead. "What'll we do?" asked Charley in a frightened voice. "Can't we get to land?" "We'll try un to the west'ard," suggested Toby. "The ice'll hold the shore longer there. 'Tis only half as far from here as we've come from the p'int this side of Deer Harbour. There's a narrow place in the bay where I'm thinkin' the ice may clog and hold." With this he shouted "Ooisht!" to the dogs, and breaking the komatik loose, "Ouk! Ouk! Ouk!" until they were pointing toward the opposite shore of the bay, and farther inland. "And you runs ahead of the dogs now," suggested Toby, "'twill help un to work faster. I'll push un with the whip. Make toward the Capstan. That's that round hill you sees over there," and Toby pointed to a lonely mountain to the westward. Charley set forth at a trot. His example, aided by Toby's threatening whip, accelerated the speed of the dogs perceptibly, and the shore began to loom up. But the sky had clouded, and presently a fine mist of snow shut out the Capstan, which was Charley's guide, and at last the entire shore line was clouded from view. For some time the dogs had persisted in edging toward the right, which was seaward, though Toby held them to their course with the whip. After a little while he called to Charley to come back. "I'm thinkin' you don't go straight since the snow comes and you can't see the hill," he explained. "I'll be goin' ahead for a bit and you drive." "All right," agreed Charley. "I can drive the team, and you'll know the way better in the snow." Still the dogs were obstinate. They at once recognized the change in drivers, and took advantage of Charley's inexperience. Charley used the whip, but he could not handle it as effectively as a driver should, and the dogs gave little heed to it. They insisted upon taking an angle to the right of Toby's trail, and Charley found that he could not straighten them out upon the trail. In desperation he ran forward to the side of the team, with the whip handle clubbed, to compel obedience. Sampson showed his fangs, and snapped at Charley's legs. This was a signal for open rebellion on the part of the whole team. They came to a standstill, and faced him, showing their fangs, and one or two of them sprang at him, but were held in leash by their traces. Toby, looking behind, discovered the situation and came running to Charley's assistance. Taking the whip from Charley he quickly had the mutinous dogs reduced to sullen submission. "I'll not be goin' ahead of un again," said Toby. "'Tis not helpin' to make they go any. The dogs act wonderful queer. They won't follow like they always has." Toby urged them forward. They whined and whimpered, and at last some of them lay down, and Toby was compelled to beat them into action. It was directly after this that they came to open water. The boys looked at each other in consternation. "What'll we do?" asked Charley. "I'm not knowin'," confessed Toby. "The ice has gone abroad from the shore, and we're driftin' out to sea." "Shall we be--lost?" asked Charley in dull terror. "It may be she's just settled off from shore here," suggested Toby hopefully. "She may be holdin' fast up the bay above the narrows. We'll try un whatever." He commanded the dogs to go on. They sprang to the traces, but turned to the right. Against their will, and with free use of the whip, he succeeded in swinging them to the left and up the wind. Reluctantly and slowly they moved. They seemed aware of their danger. They were dissatisfied. At length Tinker, the leader, squat upon his belly. Toby cracked the whip over him with a command to go on, and he turned upon his back, paws in air, as though in meek appeal. Toby clipped him with the tip of the lash, and he sprang up, turning to the right, and Toby lashed him back into the course to the left. He gave no display of savagery, as did Sampson, but appeared to be beseeching his young master to do something his master could not understand. The cold had grown intense. The wind had become a stiff gale. The air was filled with a blinding dust of snow, so thick that Tinker, the leader, could scarcely be seen from the komatik. The wind was in their face, and Toby and Charley and the dogs struggled against it as against an unseen wall. The ice was heaving with an under swell. Now the komatik would be climbing an incline, now dashing down another. At last the dogs in sullen mutiny rebelled against further action. Tinker squatted upon the ice, and the other dogs followed his example, save Sampson, who faced about at Toby, snarling and showing his fangs. No beating could induce them to move ahead in the direction in which they had been traveling, though they made several attempts to swing about to the right. XXI THE CARIBOU HUNT The mutinous dogs eyed Toby's whip. They feared the whip, but no fear of it could induce them to advance farther, in the face of the storm, upon the unstable ice. "What can we do now?" asked Charley in an appealing tone. "I'm not knowin' what's ailin' the dogs," answered Toby rather uncertainly. "I can't make un go ahead, and we can't bide here, whatever. I'm fearin' with the way the ice heaves she's gone abroad at the narrows. 'Tis no worse to the east'ard than 'tis here, and that's the way the dogs wants to go. I'm thinkin' to let un go that way." "But that will be going out to sea!" exclaimed Charley in alarm. "Aye, but the mouth of the bay is quite a bit out past Deer Harbour, and we're a good bit inside Deer Harbour P'int now," Toby explained. "Till we gets beyond the mouth of the bay I'll be hopin' to get ashore. We'll turn back before we goes too far, unless the ice floats us out." "Let's get farther from the edge of the ice anyhow," said Charley, as a great heave of the ice under his feet nearly threw him down. "Aye, 'tis like to break up here any time. We'll let the dogs have their will," agreed Toby, but not hopefully. With that he commanded the dogs to rise, which they did readily, and breaking the komatik loose he gave them the order to the right, and away they went with a will, and with apparent satisfaction that they had won their way in facing toward the eastward. Now, with the wind nearly behind them, the animals traveled steadily, and with no urging. It was much less trying, too, for Toby and Charley as well as for the dogs. "The ice has about stopped its roll," said Charley presently, and with fresh hope. "It's a lot steadier." "She is that," admitted Toby. "I were just thinkin' that the dogs knows more than we does about un." And so it proved. Following the ice that bounded the open water along the north shore of the bay, they observed that the chasm of water separating the ice from the land was narrowing. Presently, to their great joy, the open water came to an abrupt end, with the ice firmly connected with the shore. "We're just across from the p'int outside Deer Harbour," said Toby. "We can make un to Deer Harbour now, and bide there till the storm passes. We'll be findin the Deer Harbour ice fast, I'm not doubtin'." "But we'll keep close to shore!" suggested Charley cautiously. "Aye, we'll do that," agreed Toby. "We'll be takin' no more chances with the ice." An hour later they again drove up to Skipper Cy Blink's trading store, and received a hearty welcome from the Skipper. "I'm wonderful glad to see you! Wonderful glad!" greeted the Skipper. "I've been blamin' myself ever since you goes for lettin' you start with the wind the way she were, and fearin' all the time you'd be gettin' caught in a break up." Skipper Cy Blink made much of the bear that Charley had killed with his new rifle, and admitted that such game would surely have made him forget, quite as readily as it had the boys, about the danger of the ice going abroad. "'Twere fine you knocks he over," enthused the Skipper. "I never could have let a white bear pass without _tryin_' to knock he over, whatever. You lads bide here in comfort till the storm passes. 'Twill be a short un. I'm thinkin' 'twill clear in the night, and the wind'll shift nuth'ard before to-morrow marnin', and before to-morrow evenin' the ice'll be fast again on the bay." And, as Skipper Cy had said, so it came to pass, and on the second morning after their return Toby and Charley turned again toward Pinch-In Tickle and Double Up Cove, with the ice beneath them as firm and solid and safe as ever it was. How glad the boys were to reach Pinch-In Tickle! There would be no more danger of bad ice to face, and the difficult ballicaders were behind them, a fact that was particularly appreciated by Charley. They made a rousing fire in the stove, and fried some bear's meat to satisfy a hunger that had been accumulating since they had left Deer Harbour in the morning. Then a fishing net that needed repairs was made ready to lash upon the komatik with the load in the morning, the dogs were fed, and they settled for a cozy evening while they talked over their adventures, and Charley's new rifle. "'Tis the finest shootin' rifle I _ever_ sees," declared Toby, adding wistfully: "I wishes I had one like she. Maybe with the silver fox Dad'll be lettin' me have un." "When I get home I'll have my Dad send you one, Toby," Charley promised impulsively. "Don't say a thing to your father about it and I'll send you one and him one too. I'd let you have mine, only it's the first one I ever owned, and I shot the bear with it." "Charley, you're wonderful kind!" and Toby's face beamed with pleasure. "But," he added seriously, "'twould be too much, Charley. You mustn't send un." "No it won't be too much," insisted Charley. "I want to do it. It will make me feel happy." It was late the following afternoon when they reached Double Up Cove. The komatik was laden much more heavily than on the outward journey, and the dogs, perforce, traveled much more slowly. When they had unloaded the komatik, and carried the meat and other cargo into the cabin, they brought in the komatik box, but before they unpacked it Mrs. Twig and Violet must needs see Charley's new rifle, and he exhibited it with due pride to be admired with real appreciation. The komatik box was then opened, and Charley drew forth the shawl and presented it to Mrs. Twig. "Oh, Charley, lad!" she exclaimed, holding it up. "I been wantin' a shawl all my life and never has un, and this un is a _rare fine_ shawl. 'Twere wonderful kind o' you to think o' me and get un!" Violet was standing wistfully by, and she hugged her mother to show how deeply she shared her mother's pleasure. In the meantime Charley was delving into the depths of the komatik box, and now he brought forth another package, which he presented to Violet, remarking: "There's something for you, Violet. I hope you'll like it." Skipper Blink had packed the doll most carefully in a box, that its dainty dress might not be soiled. In great eagerness of anticipation Violet removed the wrappings one by one. When at last the doll was disclosed, she gasped for a moment, then caught her breath, and then in a spasm of joy hugged it to her breast with eyes brimming with tears. "Oh! Oh! Oh! How _pretty!_ How _wonder_ful pretty!" she cried in ecstasy. "I _loves_ un! I _loves_ un! Oh, _Charley!_" and with one arm hugging the doll, she flung the other arm around Charley's neck in unrestrained joy, and kissed his cheek. "Charley, you brings me the first doll I _ever_ has in my life!" It was the most sincere exhibition of appreciation and pleasure Charley had ever witnessed, and the pathos of it made him wink hard to keep back the tears that threatened to come into his own eyes. In the kindlier land from which he came, where dolls and other toys are lavished upon the children, and they accept them as a matter of course, and soon cast the old ones aside for the new, no such joy as that which Violet experienced is possible. She was at that moment certainly the happiest little girl in all The Labrador, and perhaps in all the world. And for many years to come that doll was to be her most precious possession. No other could ever take its place. She talked to it and loved it as though it were human, and alive, and to her it was indeed a living thing. She told it all her joys, and went to it for comfort in all her sorrows. What exclamations of appreciation there were when Toby produced the ancient "sweets" that he had purchased from Skipper Blink! They were as hard and ordinary and stale as ever candies could be, and at home Charley could not have been tempted to taste them. But here even he pronounced them excellent, and to the others they were indeed a rare treat. Just as Mrs. Twig announced supper one evening a week after the boys had returned from their trip to Deer Harbour and their adventure with the bear and on the ice, the door unexpectedly opened and there stood Skipper Zeb in the lamplight, laughing heartily at the fine surprise he had given them. Violet ran to him and threw her arms around him, and every one gathered about him in joyful welcome, while he picked ice from his eyelashes and his beard, and chuckled contentedly: "Well, now! Here we be, safe and sound and snug! Everybody well and happy! 'Tis wonderful fine to be back." "'Tis wonderful fine to have you back!" Mrs. Twig declared, and everybody echoed the sentiment. When he had taken his things off, and properly greeted every one, and Toby and Charley had unpacked his toboggan and carried into the house his winter's catch of pelts and his traveling equipment, he turned to Charley. "Well, now!" said he. "You looks like a Labradorman! And how does you like livin' at Double Up Cove? 'Twere a proper way to get out of that fix you gets in when the mail boat leaves you, I'm thinkin', from the way you looks! Rugged and well! And everybody happy!" "I've had the best time this winter I ever had in my life," Charley declared. "Well, now! That's the way to talk! That's the way to make the best of a bad job! 'Twere lookin' like a wonderful bad job you makes of un, and a wonderful bad fix you gets in, when the mail boat goes and leaves you. But you gets out of the fix and makes the best of what you finds and turns trouble into a good time! That's what I calls risin' above trouble," and Skipper Zeb slapped Charley upon the shoulder in hearty approval. "Now we'll set in and eat. I'm as hungry as a bear, and I could eat a bear if I had un to eat." "'Twill be bear's meat you'll eat," smiled Mrs. Twig, placing a dish of meat on the table. "Charley knocks un over, and 'twere a white bear," Toby announced. "And Charley fights a wolf pack, and knocks one of un over with an ax." As they ate Skipper Zeb heard from Toby the stories of Charley's fight with the wolves and of the shooting of the bear, interrupting the narrative with many delighted exclamations. "Now I wants wonderful bad to hear how you lads were makin' out to get back to Double Up Cove after you leaves the Black River tilt," said Skipper Zeb. "The wind comes to blow a gale before you has time to get to Swile Island, and I wonders and wonders about un, and I fears you gets in a wonderful bad fix. But they's no way I can be helpin', so I says, ''Tis no use to worry. To-day's to-day and to-morrow's to-morrow, and so I'll trust the Lard and the good sense o' the two lads to get un out o' any fix they gets in.'" "Were you findin' the oars we caches on Swile Island?" asked Toby. "Aye, I finds un, but I'm not findin' the boat," nodded Skipper Zeb, a puzzled look on his face. "I'm not knowin' what to think o' that. When I finds the oars this marnin' I says, 'The lads gets to Swile Island, whatever.' But when I'm not findin' fin or feather o' the boat, I'm not knowin' what to think about un. I figgers that they's no chanst to get away from Swile Island with the boat, whatever, with the storm and the high seas that's runnin' for a week or ten days, and I knows you'll be gettin' out o' grub." Then Toby told him of his own and Charley's experiences, and while he listened admiringly he asked many questions. "Well, now! With good sense and the Lard's help you pulls out of a wonderful bad fix. You does all you knows how, and then prays the Lard. That's the way! 'Tis no use wastin' time prayin' till you does your best first," and Skipper Zeb nodded his head approvingly. "Well, now!" and leaning back his head he looked at Charley approvingly. "When you shoots a deer I'll be namin' you a Labradorman! 'Tis the proudest name I'm thinkin' of, and _that_ you'll be! There's a fine chance to knock over some deer right handy. I sees fine footin' this evenin'. A big band of deer's workin' down this way, and they're like to come out any time. 'Tis a wonderful big band. Some years they comes and some years they don't. This year they comes." Skipper Zeb explained to Charley that at this season of the year the snow became so deep in the wooded interior that the caribou, or wild reindeer, had a great deal of digging to do with their hoofs to reach the thick beds of moss which covered the ground beneath the snow, and upon which the animals chiefly fed. He also explained that each fall the caribou gathered in great bands or herds, and when food became hard to get, they would move or migrate to barren places, where the wind, its force unobstructed by trees, swept the greater part of the snow from the moss covered ground, and thus it was much easier for the animals to reach food. Such a barren was that where the wolf fight had taken place, and where Toby had caught his fox. "This band, I'm thinkin', is on the barrens to the nuth'ard of the mesh, where you fights the wolves," said Skipper Zeb. "The footin' goes that way. We'll have a look in the marnin'." Not a sign of caribou had Toby or Charley seen the whole winter, and Skipper Zeb's statement that a large herd was so near was exciting news. All winter they had been living upon rabbits, partridges and an occasional porcupine. Caribou venison would be a great treat, and the boys were keen for the hunt. The great event of the evening was reserved until after they had eaten. Then Toby, with much dignity, opened a chest and brought forth the otter and marten skins, and, as a climax, the silver fox pelt. Skipper Zeb was quite overcome. His praise of the boys was unstinted. "I makes a fine winter's hunt myself," said he, "but nary a silver has I ever caught. I has a rare fine catch of martens and minks, and one cross fox, three reds and seven whites, but I never catches a silver. 'Tis worth all the fox skins I gets three times over!" "And now we'll be havin' a wonderful lot o' things we needs," Mrs. Twig smiled happily. "Aye, _that_ we will!" Skipper Zeb boomed heartily. "We can afford un now without stintin'. We'll have un! We'll have nigh to anything we're minded to buy!" Breakfast the following morning was an exciting meal. The boys could scarce restrain their eagerness to be away to the barrens to look for caribou, and they could talk of nothing else. "I'm thinkin'," suggested Skipper Zeb, "that if you lads had done a bit of huntin' back over the barrens after you sees the wolves that you'd have found some scatterin' deer there then. Wolves follows deer and kills un to eat, and there's not like to be wolves when there's no deer about." As soon as breakfast was finished the dogs were harnessed, and day was just breaking when Skipper Zeb and Toby and Charley set forth on their caribou hunt. They had scarcely reached the marsh below the barrens when the dogs began to sniff the air, and to show much eagerness to go forward. "See un sniff! See un sniff, now!" and Skipper Zeb grinned. "The wind's down from the barrens, and the dogs smells the caribou. We'll find un feedin' there, and there'll be aplenty of un." At the edge of the barrens the komatik was stopped, and the dogs were secured that they might not interfere with the hunting. Then the three proceeded cautiously, with their rifles ready, over the slope of a knoll, Skipper Zeb in advance. On the summit of the knoll Skipper Zeb halted, and pointed to a moving mass nearly a mile away. "See un?" said he. "There's hundreds of un! There's not much danger we'll startle they, with the wind nuth'ard. When deer are in big bands they don't startle easy. We'll get all we wants of un." Gently rising knolls punctuated the barren plateau. Skipper Zeb, leading the way, set forward at an easy but rapid pace. As they approached the feeding herd, he practiced some caution, until at length he stopped, crouching behind a rock, until the boys joined him. For some time, following depressions between the knolls, the caribou had been hidden from view. Now, peering over the rock, they saw the great herd directly before them. Hundreds upon hundreds of the sleek, graceful animals, spreading over the hills and knolls beyond, were pawing away the hard snow and eating the thick growth of moss that lay beneath it, with some old bucks strolling among them as sentinels. "We're in fine shootin' range, and we'll be gettin' all we wants of un," said Skipper Zeb. "Go at un now!" Charley was so excited that he could hardly hold his rifle, but he aimed and fired. Skipper Zeb and Toby fired at the same time, and the three continued to shoot into the herd until fourteen of the fine antlered beasts lay stretched upon the snow. "That's enough of un!" directed Skipper Zeb. "'Twill be all we wants, and there'll be enough for Long Tom Ham, too. We'll knock down no more than we can use handy." With the report of the rifles the animals had begun to move restlessly about. Some of the bucks were snorting, but because the wind was blowing down from the herd toward the hunters, no smell of their enemies reached the caribou. The sound of shooting and even the view of the hunter will often fail to startle a herd, unless they get the smell. But something had happened to some of their number, and the sentinels were on the alert. Skipper Zeb, with Toby and Charley, stepped out from cover and approached their victims. Suddenly panic seized the herd. It is probable that in their sudden terror the animals did not see or realize that these were the enemies that had attacked them, but with one accord they started forward. Slowly at first the great herd moved, and then, in an instant, were in a wild stampede. The three hunters stood directly in the pathway of the fear-blinded animals. On they came, the thousands of hoofs beating upon the frozen snow with an ominous roar like that of a great wind, and smashing everything before them. "Run! Run! They'll trample us down!" yelled Skipper Zeb. They turned and ran, but they could not run with half the speed of deer. XXII THE STRANGER On came the caribou like a brigade of charging cavalry, tramping all before them. Forward they swept in blind panic, as relentlessly destructive as an avalanche, and no more easily stopped or turned aside. Skipper Zeb and the two boys ran as they had never run before. Once Charley slipped and fell, but was on his feet in an instant. It was an uneven race, and there was no hope of outdistancing the sea of animals in mad flight. Skipper Zeb knew this, but he hoped to find refuge for himself and the boys behind a boulder large enough to protect them in its lee. Such a boulder caught his eye, and yelling at the boys at the top of his voice, that he might be heard by them above the roar of the pounding hoofs, he directed them to follow him. The foremost caribou were at their heels, when they crouched, breathless with their running, behind the boulder, and not an instant too soon. Here in safety they watched the herd sweep past them like ocean waves. Nearly as quickly as the stampede began it ended. The herd swung to the northeast, began to slow its pace, and presently the three hunters saw the rear of the herd in the distance, no longer running, but still moving around restlessly before the animals resumed their morning feeding. Eight of the carcasses of those they had shot were hauled to the cabin that morning, and while Skipper Zeb busied himself skinning and dressing them, Toby and Charley, in the afternoon, loaded another on the komatik and drove over to Long Tom Ham's at Lucky Bight, and in the evening brought him back with them that he might prepare and take home with him the meat and hides of those that had been reserved for his use; and for this purpose Skipper Zeb loaned him the dogs and komatik. In that land neighbours are neighbours indeed. They never lose an opportunity to do one another a good turn; and just as Skipper Zeb had thoughtfully shot the animals for Long Tom, and provided the means for Long Tom to take them home, others would, he knew, if occasion offered, do him a similar kindness. It was no small job to skin the carcasses and prepare the meat. The sinews were cut from the backs, scraped carefully and hung in the cabin to dry. Later, as she required them, Mrs. Twig would separate them into threads with which to sew moccasins, and boots, and other articles of skin clothing. The tongues were preserved as a delicacy. The livers and hearts were put aside to serve as a variety in diet. The back fat was prized as a substitute for lard. The venison was hung up to freeze and keep sweet for daily consumption. What a treat that venison was! Charley declared he had never tasted such delicious meat, and he was sure it was much better than beef. "Well, now!" said Skipper Zeb. "I never in my life tastes beef, and I were thinkin' beef might be better than deer's meat, though I thinks deer's meat is good enough for any man to eat." Christmas came with plum duff as a special treat, and then the New Year, and with it Skipper Zeb's departure again for his trapping grounds, where he was to remain alone, tramping silent, lonely trails until the middle of April, then to return before the warming sun softened the snow and in season for the spring seal hunt. In January the cold increased. With February it became so intense that even the animals kept close to their lairs, venturing out only when hunger drove them forth to seek food. In January Toby and Charley captured two martens and one red fox, and during February the traps were visited but twice a week, and with no returns. For their pains, they suffered frost-bitten cheeks and noses, which peeled in due time, leaving white patches where the frost burn had been. Then, too, the rabbit snares were sprung and abandoned. There were rabbits and partridges enough hanging frozen in the porch to serve the family needs until spring. During the cold days of January and February Charley and Toby spent much time in the cabin assisting Mrs. Twig prepare and tan the caribou skins into soft buckskin, or occupied themselves outside at the woodpile with a crosscut saw. The woodpile seemed always to require attention, and though it was a bit tiresome now and again when they wished to do something more interesting, it supplied excellent exercise. But they had their share of sport too. On days when there was a fair breeze it was great fun sailing an old sledge over the bay ice. They fitted a mast upon it, and with a boat sail had some rare spins, with occasional spills, which added to the zest of the sport. Both Charley and Toby enjoyed, perhaps, most of all their excursions with the dogs. When Skipper Zeb returned to his trapping path after his holiday, they took him back, with a load of provisions to Black River tilt. And twice since, on the fortnightly weekend, when they knew he would be there, they drove over and spent the night with him in the tilt, and a jolly time they had on each occasion. Once on a Saturday the whole family paid a visit to Skipper Tom Ham and his wife at Lucky Bight, spending a Sunday with them. The journey on the komatik was a great treat for both Mrs. Twig and Violet, and this visit supplied food for pleasant conversation during the remainder of the winter. One day in January Aaron Slade and his wife, neighbours who lived at Long Run, some forty miles away and to the southward of Pinch-In Tickle, drove into Double Up Cove with dogs and komatik, and spent two whole days with the Twigs. And then, the following week, came David Dyson and his son Joseph, and to all the visitors Toby, with vast pride, exhibited his wonderful silver fox pelt. "'Tis a fine silver!" exclaimed Aaron, holding it up and shaking out its glossy fur that he might admire its sheen. "'Tis the finest silver ever caught in these parts! You'll be gettin' a fine price for he, Toby." And so said David Dyson and Joseph, and David, with a wise shake of his head, added: "Don't be lettin' the traders have un, now, for what they offers first. Make un pay the worth of he." With these excursions of their own, and the pleasant visits from their neighbours, and with always enough to do, time slipped away quickly, and the middle of March came with its rapidly lengthening days. "In another month, whatever, Dad'll be comin' home," said Toby one morning when they were at breakfast. "We'll go for he with the dogs and komatik. And then 'twill soon be time for the sealin' and fishin' again." "'Twill be nice to have fresh fish again," suggested Mrs. Twig. "We're not havin' any but salt fish the whole winter. I'm thinkin' 'twould be fine for you lads to catch some trout. I'm wonderful hungry for trout." "I can be helpin' too," Violet broke in delightedly. "'Twill be fine, now," agreed Toby enthusiastically. "We'll catch un to-day." "How can you catch trout with everything frozen as tight as a drumhead?" asked Charley. "I'll be showin' you when we gets through breakfast," Toby assured. "We always gets un in winter when we gets hungry for un." "I'm hungry for trout too," laughed Charley, adding skeptically, "but you'll have to show me, and I'll have to see them before I'll believe we can get them with forty below zero." "I'll be showin' you," Toby promised. From a box he selected some heavy fishing line and three hooks. On the shank of the hooks, and just below the eye, was a cone shaped lead weight, moulded upon the shank. Each line was then attached to the end of a short, stiff stick about three feet in length, which he obtained from the woodpile outside. Then the hooks were attached to the lines, and cutting some pieces of pork rind, Toby announced that the "gear" was ready. Violet had her things on, and armed with the equipment, the three set out expectantly for the ice, Toby picking up an ax to take with them as he passed through the wood porch. "Here's where we fishes," said Toby, leading the way to a wide crack in the ice a few feet from shore and following the shore line, caused by the rising and falling of tide. The crack at the point indicated by Toby was eighteen inches wide. With the ax he cut three holes at intervals of a few feet through a coating of three or four inches of young, or new ice, which had formed upon the ice in the crack. Then, baiting the hooks with pork rind, he gave one of the sticks with line and baited hook to Charley and one to Violet. "The way you fishes now," he explained to Charley, "you just drops the hook into the water in a hole, and holdin' the stick keeps un movin' up and down kind of slow. When you feels somethin' heavy on the hook heave un out." "Don't the trout fight after you hook them?" asked Charley. "I always heard they fought to get away, and you had to play them and tire them out before you landed them." "They never fights in winter, and your fishin' pole is strong enough so she won't be hurt any by heavin' they out soon as you hooks un," grinned Toby. "'Tis too cold to play with un any. Just heave un up on the ice. They don't feel much like sportin' about this weather." Charley had scarcely dropped his line into the water, when Violet gave a little scream of delight, and cried: "I gets one! I gets the first un!" and with a mighty yank she flung a three-pound trout clear of the hole. A few minutes later Charley, no less excited and thrilled, landed one that was even larger than the one Violet had caught, and at the end of half an hour the three had caught forty big fellows, some of which, Charley declared, were "as big as shad." It was stinging cold, and even with the up and down movement of the line it was often caught fast in the newly forming ice. At intervals of a few minutes it was necessary to use the ax to reopen the holes, and the lines themselves were thickly encrusted by ice. "'Tis wonderful cold standin' on the ice," said Violet at length. "I has to go in to get warm." "We're gettin' all the trout we can use for a bit," suggested Toby. "If you wants to go in, Charley, I'll be goin' too." "I'm ready to quit," Charley admitted. "It's mighty cold standing in one place so long." "Wait a bit," said Toby. "I'll be gettin' a box to put the trout in, and the old komatik to haul un up to the house. Wait and help me." Charley busied himself throwing the fish from the three piles into one, while Toby followed Violet to the house, and when he had finished looked out over the bay. Far down the bay he saw something moving over the ice, and in a moment recognized it as an approaching dog team. "Somebody's coming!" he shouted to Toby. "There's a team of dogs coming up the bay!" "Who, now, might that be?" puzzled Toby, who ran down to Charley. "They must be coming here, for we're the last place up the bay," reasoned Charley. "They's sure comin' here!" said Toby. "I'm thinkin' now she may be a team from the French Post in Eskimo Bay, up south. They comes down north every year about this time to buy fur, though they never comes here before." "Maybe they heard about your silver fox," suggested Charley, "and they're coming to try to buy it from you. Ask a good price for it. It's a good one." "Maybe 'tis that now," admitted Toby. "Aaron and David's been telling they about un, and they thinks they'll be comin' and buyin' she. But I'll not sell un. I'll let Dad sell un." The boys excitedly threw the fish into two boxes that Toby had brought down on the old sledge that they used for sailing, and hastening to the cabin announced the approaching visitors to Mrs. Twig. She was in a flurry at once. She put the kettle over, and told Violet to set two places at the table, and Toby to clean some trout, and in a jiffy she had a pan of trout on the stove frying. "There'll be two of un, whatever," she predicted. "The traders always has a driver." But as the komatik approached nearer, the boys discovered that there was but one man, and, therefore, Toby was certain it could not be the French trader. "He'd be havin' a driver, whatever. He never travels without un," Toby asserted. "I'm not knowin' the team. 'Tis sure not the Company[12] team." "We'll soon know now," said Charley, as the dogs swung in from the bay ice and up the incline toward the cabin. Toby's dogs had been standing in the background growling ominously as they watched the approach of the strange team. Now, as one dog, they moved to the attack and as the two packs came together there was a mass of snapping, snarling, howling dogs. The stranger with the butt of his whip, Toby with a club that he grabbed from the woodpile, jumped among them and beating them indiscriminately presently succeeded in establishing an armistice between the belligerents, the Twig dogs retiring, and the visitors, persuaded by their master's whip, lying down quietly in harness. "Is this Double Up Cove, and are you Toby Twig?" asked the stranger through an ice-coated beard, when he was free to speak. "Aye," admitted Toby, "'tis Double Up Cove, and I'm Toby Twig, sir. Come into the house and get warmed up and have a cup o' tea. 'Tis a wonderful cold day to be cruisin', sir." "Thank you," said the stranger, shaking hands with Toby and Charley. "It is cold traveling, and I'll come in." "Charley and I'll be unloadin' your komatik, and puttin' your cargo inside so the dogs won't get at un," suggested Toby. "You'll bide here the night, sir?" "Yes," said the stranger, "I'll spend the night here." "Come in and have a cup o' tea, and we'll loose your dogs after, sir," suggested Toby, leading the way to the cabin. Mrs. Twig, still flurried with the coming of a stranger, met them at the door. "Come right in, sir. 'Tis wonderful cold outside," she invited. "Thank you," said the man. "That fish you're frying smells appetizing. My name is Marks. I'm the trader at White Bear Run. I suppose you're Mrs. Twig and this little maid is your daughter?" "Aye, sir, I'm Mrs. Twig and this is Vi'let." "Glad to see you both," and after shaking hands with Mrs. Twig and Violet, Marks the trader from White Bear Run proceeded to remove his adikey, and standing over the stove that the heat might assist him, to remove the mass of ice from his thickly encrusted beard. "Set in now and have a cup o' tea, sir, and some trout," invited Mrs. Twig when Marks's beard was cleared to his satisfaction. "Thank you," and Marks took a seat. "Nippy out. Hot tea is warming. Trout good too. Regular feast!" "The lads and Vi'let just catches the trout this morning." When he was through eating, Marks donned his adikey, and went out of doors to release his dogs from harness. Toby and Charley had already unlashed his load, and carried his things into the porch where they would be safe from the inquisitive and destroying dogs. One by one Marks loosed his dogs from harness, giving each a vicious kick as it was freed, and sending it away howling and whining, until he came to the last one, a big, gray creature. As he approached this animal, it bared its fangs and snarled at him savagely. With the butt of his whip he beat the dog mercilessly. Then slipping the harness from the animal, Marks kicked at it as he had kicked at the others. The dog, apparently expecting the kick, sprang aside, and Marks losing his balance went sprawling in the snow. In an instant the savage beast was upon him. XXIII THE LOST FUR With the release of the stranger's dogs Toby had rather anticipated a renewal of hostilities between the packs. To be prepared and armed for such an event he was standing by with his dog whip ready for action. He had been observing Marks and the dog, and the ill feeling between the two had caused him to expect, sooner or later, some such accident as that which had occurred. The gray dog was bolder than is usual with Eskimo dogs, and Toby had no doubt that it was constantly on the alert for an opening that might permit it to find its cruel master at a disadvantage, when it could attack and destroy him safely. With these thoughts, Toby was an anxious witness of the inhuman treatment of the dogs by Marks, and when the big wolf dog sprang upon its victim, he intuitively and instantly brought the butt of his whip down upon the dog's head using all the force of his young arm. This unexpected attack from the rear caused the animal to retreat, but not until it had torn a rent in the man's adikey, and drawn blood from his shoulder, barely missing the neck and throat, which had been its aim. Marks was in a white rage when he regained his feet, and the dog would have had another merciless beating at his hands, had he been able to approach it, but it wisely kept at a distance, and would not permit itself to be approached. "That dog's holdin' a grudge against you," remarked Toby. "He'll be gettin' you when you're not mindin' he sometime, and he'll sure kill you if he does. I'd shoot un if 'twere mine." "No," snapped Marks decisively, "I won't kill him. He won't kill me. I'll keep him and club him till he cringes and crawls at my feet. I'll be his master. No dog can make me kill him because he's bad. I'll take it out of him." "But that un has a grudge," repeated Toby. "Just bad! Just bad! Three-quarters wolf! I'll make him a dog and take the wolf out of him." The wound in Marks's shoulder proved little more than a scratch. Mrs. Twig bathed it with Dr. Healum's Liniment, and Marks assured her it would be all right. Then while Marks smoked, and the boys sat and talked with him, she repaired his torn adikey. "I'm buying fur," Marks presently suggested. "Aaron Slade told me you have some." "We has some fur," Toby admitted, "but Dad sells the fur and he's away at his path. He'll not be comin' home till the middle o' April month." "Too bad, but I'd like to have a look at it. Aaron says you have a silver fox. I'd like to see that." "I'll get un," said Toby. While Toby opened the fur chest, and brought forth the cotton bag in which he kept the silver fox pelt, Marks watched him closely. As Toby drew the pelt from the bag and handed it to Marks and the man shook it out and held it up for inspection, Charley detected a gleam in his eye of mingled admiration and greed, and it gave Charley a most uncomfortable feeling. "I'll give you four hundred cash for it," said Marks without taking his eyes from the fur. "No," Toby declined, "I'm not wantin' to sell un." "That's a good offer," persisted Marks. "It's about what they'll give you at the post in _trade_. I'll pay _cash_." "I'll not sell un. I'll keep un till Dad comes home, and let he sell un." "Four hundred fifty," said Marks, and he drew forth a roll of bills and counted out the money. "There's the cash. Take it. I want this fur. It's a big price." "I can't take un," Toby declined, unmoved. "I'm not doubtin' 'tis a fair price, but I'll not sell un. The fur's for Dad to sell when he comes home." "You're a stubborn young fool!" blurted the man in a burst of temper. "I'm not doubtin' that either," grinned Toby. "I'm a bit stubborn whatever about not sellin' the fur. 'Tis for Dad to sell." "All right. We'll call you stubborn and not a fool but foolish. That's what I mean to say. You're turning down the best offer you'll ever get for that skin, and your father will say so, and he would want you to sell it if he were here." The man smiled in an effort to appear agreeable, though Charley thought there was something sinister and unpleasant in the curl of his lips. "I'll not sell un whatever without Dad's tellin' me to sell un." At his request Toby displayed to Marks his other pelts. "I'll pay you twenty-five dollars apiece for your marten skins, and take them as they run," Marks offered. "That's cash I'm offering, not trade." "I can't sell un," Toby declined. "We owes a debt at the Company shop, and we has to use un to pay the debt. They gives us thirty dollars for un there." "But that's trade," said Marks. "I offer cash, and twenty-five in cash is more than thirty-five in trade." "Not for us," objected Toby. "If we takes twenty-five dollars in cash we only buys twenty-five dollars' worth with un. If we trades un in we gets thirty dollars' worth with un, whatever." "I can't argue with you, I see," and the man appeared to relinquish his effort to buy the fur. Marks made no further reference to the pelts, indeed, until after Mrs. Twig and Violet had retired that evening to the inner room and to bed. Then for nearly an hour he sat smoking and telling the boys stories of adventures up and down the coast, until Charley, yawning, suggested that he was sleepy, and saying good night retired to the bunk which he and Toby occupied. While Toby was spreading a caribou skin upon the floor near the stove as a protection for Marks's sleeping bag, Marks suggested: "Let me see that silver again. I'd like another look at it." Toby obligingly brought it forth, and again Marks held it up for inspection. "I'll give you five hundred and fifty in trade for that, and you can come to my shop at White Bear Run and trade it out any time you like." "No, I'll not sell un," and there was no doubt that this was Toby's final and decisive decision. "All right!" and Marks returned the pelt to Toby. "You have an otter there you didn't show me. How about that?" Toby passed the otter pelt over to Marks, who examined it critically, and finally suggested: "I'll give you fifty-five dollars in cash for it." That was a good price. Toby was aware that the best price for otters at the Hudson's Bay Company's shop was fifty dollars in trade, and he could see no reason for refusing to sell it to Marks. "You can have he," he accepted. "Glad I can buy something," Marks grinned, counting out the money and handing it to Toby. "Aye," said Toby, accepting the bills and counting them, "and I'm glad I can sell that un to you, sir." "Dream pleasant dreams, and let them be about the silver fox," Marks smiled his sinister smile. "If you dream right, you'll dream you took me up on my offer." "I'll not be dreamin' that, sir, whatever. Good night, and I hopes you'll rest well," and closing the fur chest, Toby joined Charley, who was already asleep. Marks made no further mention of the silver fox the following morning. Directly breakfast was eaten he packed his sledge, harnessed his dogs, and drove away, and was soon lost in the distance. It was after sundown that evening, when Toby and Charley had just fed the dogs, and were about to return to the cabin, when suddenly there appeared out of the silent forest a party of six Indians, each hauling a heavily laden flat sled, or toboggan. Charley was the first to see them as they emerged in single file from the shadow of the trees into the clearing--tall, swarthy creatures, with straight, coarse black hair reaching to their shoulders, and held in place by red or blue bands of cloth tied around the forehead. They wore hooded buckskin coats, decorated with painted designs. Two of the Indians had the hoods of their coats drawn over their heads, showing them to be of caribou skin with the hairy side out, and with pieces of skin sewn on each side of the hood to represent ears, and which served to lend a savage aspect to the wearer. Some of them wore buckskin leggings, while others wore leggings of bright red cloth reaching from their buckskin moccasins to the knees. Straight down they came on their snowshoes to Charley and Toby. Fierce and wild they looked to Charley, but Toby stepped out to meet them and to shake the hand of each, greeting them in their own tongue, while they laughed as they returned the greeting and appeared to be glad to see Toby. Then they shook hands with Charley, and when he looked into their faces he decided that they were not so savage after all, but human enough, though he could not take his eyes from their strange dress. It spoke of mystery and of the wild life the men lived in the trackless land from which they came. They unpacked their toboggans, and directed by Toby stowed their belongings in the porch. When everything was stowed, they stood the toboggans on end, leaning them against the house, and followed Toby into the living-room. Mrs. Twig welcomed the Indians with the cordiality of the frontier, and made a pot of tea for them, which they drank with rare relish until the pot was drained. Then spoke Amishku[13] who was the leader, or chief, and Toby, who understood their language well, interpreted his words: "We have been far into the land hunting the caribou, the marten and the fox, and it has been long since we have visited the wigwams of the white man. This is the first tea we have had in many moons. It is good, and we are hungry for it. You are our friends." "Tell un we'll be havin' supper after a bit," said Mrs. Twig, "and then I'll make more tea." Upon Toby repeating this, the Indians laughed and two of them went to the porch, where their belongings had been left, and presently returned with a quantity of jerked[14] caribou meat, half a dozen caribou tongues smoked and cured after the Indian manner, and six beautifully tanned hides of buckskin, all of which they presented to Mrs. Twig. "Give the poor men each a stick of your father's tobacco," directed Mrs. Twig, when the Indians had seated themselves upon the floor, with their backs against the wall, after supper. Toby went to Skipper Zeb's chest, and fetched a plug for each of them. When they saw the tobacco their faces beamed, and every man drew a red stone pipe from his belt, and when they had filled their pipes and were sending up clouds of smoke they began to laugh and joke. The conversation inevitably turned to the success of the winter's hunt, and the fur they had caught, and Toby went proudly to his chest to produce and exhibit his precious silver fox pelt to the appreciative eyes of the Indians. He gave an exclamation of horror, and standing up held in his hand the empty bag in which he had kept the pelt. Then he wildly rummaged to the very bottom of the chest, and finally cried out: "'Tis gone! The silver's gone!" Madly he looked through the chest again, throwing out every pelt and every article it contained, but the pelt was not there. FOOTNOTES: [12] Hudson's Bay Company. [13] The Beaver. [14] Dried. XXIV THE VENGEANCE OF THE PACK Marks was well satisfied with his day's work. He had gone to Double Up Cove for the silver fox pelt, and he had it. He also had the otter pelt. He had paid a good price for the otter--more than he would have paid under ordinary circumstances. Still, it would yield him a fair margin of profit. He and Toby had been alone when the bargain was struck. Mrs. Twig and the little maid had retired and were asleep, and in any case could not have heard the final bargaining or conversation between himself and Toby. He was assured, also, by the lad's heavy breathing, that Charley was asleep. There was no witness. It would be his word against Toby's. He was a trader with an established reputation, Toby was only a boy. Marks cringed a little when it occurred to him that contracts made with minors were not binding, if the minor's parents or guardians chose not to approve them. But this was Labrador, with no court of justice to which they might appeal. Possession was the point, and Marks grinned with satisfaction. He had the pelt in his possession. No doubt, when the silver fox pelt was missed, he would be accused of having stolen it. When they came to him, he would simply claim that he had purchased it from Toby, upon a trade basis, and that the price was five hundred and fifty dollars. He would stand upon this claim. He was prepared to supply them with goods to this extent of value at any time they might choose to come to his shop at White Bear Run and select them. The price he should put on the goods, he assured himself, would be sufficiently high to render the deal a highly profitable one for him. Marks had no doubt that he could establish a plausible case. He assured himself that he had no intention of stealing the pelt. At most, he had been guilty only of sharp practice. He would pay for it. From the moment that Aaron Slade had told him about it, he had set his heart upon possessing it, and, he told himself, he usually got what he wanted. "I'm a go-getter," he laughed in self-appreciation. The sun was climbing in the sky, and the reflection from the great white field of snow covered ice was intense. At this season it is never safe to travel in the north with the eyes unprotected by goggles fitted with smoked or orange-tinted glasses. The penalty for neglect might prove a serious attack of snow-blindness. Marks felt in a pocket for his goggles. He could not find them. He felt in another pocket, and repeated the search, but they were not to be found. Then he remembered that he had laid them on the shelf beside the clock, at Double Up Cove, at the time he had taken off his adikey the previous day, and he had no recollection of having removed them from the shelf. It was a risk to proceed without them, but there was a very good reason why he could not safely return to the cabin at Double Up Cove. He felt that it was to his advantage, until the Twigs had become accustomed to the loss of the silver fox skin, to place as many miles as he could between himself and them, and to do it as quickly as possible. Toby was stubborn, and nobody knew what he might do in his first anger upon discovering his loss. "He might even shoot," he mused. "That other fellow didn't like me, and the two work together. I'll take a chance without glasses, and won't go back for them." He turned about on the komatik and looked toward the cabin, his guilty conscience prompting him to fear that even now he might be followed. The cabin was still in view, and to his relief he could discover no activity, and nothing to alarm him. He urged the dogs forward, and did not halt until he had passed Pinch-In Tickle, and early in the afternoon had turned into the next bay to the southward. Here he found a grove of spruce trees, and with firewood at hand he stopped and lighted a fire and put his kettle over to boil for luncheon. When the fire was burning freely, Marks discovered, upon looking into it, a painful sensation in his eyeballs. The glare of the snow had affected them. Before he finished eating, the pain had developed considerably, and he determined to remain where he was until sunset, when he would proceed to Aaron Slade's cabin, some five miles farther. Here he could spend the night, and could borrow a pair of goggles, he was sure, from Aaron. If he kept his eyes closed in the meantime, he had no doubt they would be much improved when evening came. Snapping his long whip over the dogs, he compelled them to lie down. The big gray dog was slow to obey, and Marks laid the lash upon him two or three times to enforce authority. The dogs quieted, he dropped the whip in the snow at the rear of the komatik, and within reach, and breaking some boughs arranged them to form a comfortable couch near the fire. He then unlashed his sleeping bag from the top of the load on his komatik, spread it upon the boughs and crawled into it. Marks fell asleep. When he awoke it was nearing sunset, and time to drive on to Aaron Slade's. But he could only open his eyes to a narrow slit, and that for a moment, when they would close. The pain was excruciating. Marks was snowblind. It was near feeding time, and the dogs were on their feet and restless. If he could get them started, perhaps they would carry him unguided to Slade's. At any rate, he determined to try, for he could not remain where he was. With much fumbling and groping he succeeded fairly well in securing his load. He felt for his whip, and found it on the snow at the rear of the komatik, where he had dropped it after compelling the dogs to lie down. The restless dogs had swung around in their traces, and were facing him. Through some mysterious instinct they appeared to have sensed the fact that there was something wrong with Marks. When he ordered them forward, and snapped the whip over them in an effort to straighten them out in the direction in which he wished to go, they replied with snarls, and refused to obey. Their open defiance of his authority sent Marks into a rage. He tried to lash them, but in his blinded condition his aim was poor and his efforts ineffectual. His anger rose to white heat. If he could not lash them, he could at least beat them into submission, at close quarters, with the clubbed handle of the whip. With a volley of curses, he flew at them blindly, beating right and left, and bringing whines of pain from the unfortunate dogs that he chanced to strike. Still they did not move into position. In painful peeps that he had through narrow eye slits he saw the big gray dog facing him and snarling at him with a show of its ugly fangs. That dog was the instigator of the trouble he was having! He hated the creature! He would beat it into submission! The gray dog was in the center of the pack, and to reach it Marks was compelled to step over the traces of some of the other dogs. One of them, in fear of the whip handle, sprang away as Marks approached, and in the movement wrapped its trace around the man's foot. Marks stooped to disentangle his foot, and as he did the dog swung in another direction in an effort to escape. This motion jerked the blinded man's feet from under him, and unable to recover his balance, he fell at full length among the dogs. In a moment the gray dog, followed by the pack, was upon the prostrate and helpless man. The trader's team had suddenly become a snarling, yelping savage pack of wolves. XXV AMISHKU AND MAIGEN, THE INDIANS Every one gathered around Toby and the chest. The Indians were no less excited than were Charley and Toby. Again the chest was searched, but with no result, until Charley thrust his hand into the cotton bag in which Toby had kept the missing pelt, and drew forth a piece of paper. "Here's something!" he exclaimed. "It's a note that man wrote and left." "Read un! Read un to me, Charley!" Toby asked, and Charley read: "To TOBY TWIG: "I forgot to give you credit slip for the silver fox skin before you went to bed. I may forget to give it to you in the morning, so I will put this in the bag where you will find it. You may use this as a credit memorandum. You may have trade goods from my store at White Bear Run to the value of $550.00 at any time you wish to take the goods. "JACOB MARKS." "I didn't trade he the silver!" Toby protested. "I'm not wantin' his goods! I sold he the otter, and told he the silver was for Dad to sell when he comes home from his path!" "Of course you didn't sell it to him," Charley vouched indignantly. "He's a crook! I knew it right away! He stole it! He's going to try to make out that you sold it to him for five hundred and fifty dollars in trade." "I wants the silver back," said Toby decisively. "I'll get un, too! Come on, Charley, we'll go for un now." "All right, Toby, _I'll_ help you get it! We'll make that fellow hand it over, if we ever catch him," and Charley meant every word of it. "What is you lads about?" asked Mrs. Twig anxiously, as Toby and Charley began to change to their traveling moccasins. "Charley and I'll be gettin' the silver back," said Toby firmly. "Marks'll be gettin' no farther than David Dyson's to-day, whatever, and Charley and I'll be catchin' he by marnin'. If we don't we'll follow he till we does, won't we, now, Charley? We'll be gettin' the silver." "I'll stick to you, whatever you do," said Charley. "You lads can't be goin' alone, whatever," objected Mrs. Twig. "I'm goin' to get that silver!" persisted Toby. "Don't be hasty, lads. Ask Amishku what he thinks about un," suggested Mrs. Twig. "I'm fearin' to have you lads go." In his excitement Toby had failed to interpret the note to the Indians, nor had he told them of his purpose of following Marks, and they were looking curiously on without understanding the conversation. When Toby now told them in their own language the contents of the note which Charley had found in the bag, and of his own and Charley's intention of following Marks and recovering the pelt, and of his mother's objection, the Indians were interested in behalf of their friends. They gathered at once in council. Shortly Amishku turned to Toby, and said: "You are our friends and you are in trouble. We wish to help you. Your silver fox skin has been stolen, and we will help you find the man that stole it, and get it back for you. We are on our way to the Hudson's Bay Company's Post at Snow Inlet. At Pinch-In Tickle we must turn north. The man that stole your fur is from White Bear Run. That is south. "This man left here this morning. He has been traveling all day. We must go now and travel all night if we overtake him soon. I will go with you and my brother Maigen[15] will go with you. You will take my things and my brother's things on your sledge. Our three friends will follow to-morrow and bring their flat sleds with their loads. At Pinch-In Tickle they will wait for us if we are not there before them. We will leave my brother's things and my own things at Pinch-In Tickle and go south until we find the man that stole your fur. Then we will get the fur and come back to Pinch-In Tickle where our friends will be waiting. "Are you ready? We must go, and we must travel fast, that we may not lose the man's trail." There was hustle and bustle at once. Toby and Charley brought in the komatik box that Mrs. Twig might pack in it necessary provisions and other equipment. The Indians packed their goods upon the komatik, together with the boys' sleeping bags, and Toby and Charley harnessed the dogs. All of these preparations required but a few minutes, and when they were ready, and as the boys were leaving, Mrs. Twig plead with Toby to prevent the Indians "hurting the poor man," even if he would not surrender the fur. "I'd shoot he myself," said Toby, "if he wouldn't give un up. I would, I'm that self-willed!" "Don't be hard on the poor man now," admonished Mrs. Twig as Toby broke the dogs loose and they dashed away in the starlight. The ice was firm and with few hummocks, and the snow that covered it was frozen nearly as hard as the ice beneath it. The dogs made fast progress, taking a steady trotting gait, with Toby and Charley trotting beside the komatik and the two Indians ahead following the trail of Marks to be certain that it did not turn to some other quarter. This was an adventure indeed for Charley. He had never before seen Indians other than those exhibited in shows in New York. But these were different. They had never tasted civilization. They were like the Indians that Natty Bumpo knew, and of which Charley had read in Cooper's tales. He thrilled with the thought that he was traveling with Indians quite as primitive as those which Henry Hudson met when he first sailed up the river that was named after him. These, indeed, he was happy to think, might be the descendants of some of those very Indians, still living the untamed, free life of their primordial ancestors. It was still dark when the komatik drew up before the cabins at Pinch-In Tickle, now grown familiar to Charley. Here the Indians quickly unloaded the komatik, while Toby and Charley lighted a fire in the stove and put the kettle on to boil; and while Toby fried some fresh caribou steak, the two Indians ran down the trail to assure themselves that Marks had turned to the southward instead of to the northward. Presently they were back to report that the ice was safe through the tickle, and that Marks had gone, as Toby had expected, southward. Charley was glad of the opportunity for a short rest, and both boys were hungry. The moment they had eaten, however, the Indians were on their feet keen for the chase. The sledge was lightly laden now, and the dogs traveled so rapidly that Charley and Toby were able to ride much of the time, though the Indians ran ahead to keep their eye on the trail. Presently dawn came, and before they turned into the bay to the southward it was full daylight. It was at this time that Amishku, who was some distance in advance, held up his hand and signaled Toby to stop. The two Indians in a moment were lost to view among the boulders that lined the shore, and into which they crept. "I wonder what's up?" asked Charley, no little excited by the occurrence. "I'm not knowin'. Maybe 'tis some game they sees. 'Tis not like that Marks would be bidin' hereabouts. He sure went on to Dyson's or Slade's, whatever," answered Toby, no less mystified than was Charley. Not more than fifteen minutes had passed, though it seemed to the boys much longer, when they saw the Indians returning, and when they joined them at the komatik Amishku held out the silver fox pelt to Toby. "We got the silver fox skin for our friend, and we are glad," said Amishku, in high good humour. "The man who stole it will never steal again." "You--don't mean--you--killed him?" asked Toby, suddenly sorry that he had permitted the Indians to come, and so horrified at the thought that the Indians might have done such a thing for him that he could scarcely speak. "No," answered Amishku. "His dogs kill him. The dogs are there. The sledge is there. Not much of the man is there." "The gray dog!" exclaimed Toby. They drove their team nearer to the scene of the tragedy. A horrible thing met their view, and they quickly turned from it--blood-stained snow, pieces of torn clothing, and other evidences of the tragedy that had taken place. The gray dog and his mates were still held in leash by their harness, and Toby decided that they should drive on to Aaron Slade's cabin to tell him what had happened and to ask his assistance. And when they reached Aaron's and he had listened to their story, he said: "I'll drive my team over and take care of un, lads. 'Tis no job for lads like you." XXVI THE END OF THE FIX March, with its sudden blizzards and terrific gales passed. Mid-April came, and Toby and Charley, with dogs and komatik, met Skipper Zeb at Black River tilt, when he appeared again out of the silent wilderness with the harvest of his labours, and his winter's trapping was ended. How happy they were when Skipper Zeb was home again. It was pleasant to hear his big voice and his jolly laugh booming about the cabin. He was always an optimist, and he always made every one feel that everything was all right. "Well, now! Here we are all safe and sound and snug! The winter gone, and nothin' to worry about, but a wonderful lot to be thankful to the Lard for!" The days were long now, and with the coming of May the sun began to assert his strength. The snow softened at midday, and sealskin boots again took the place of buckskin moccasins. Toby and Charley, with dogs and komatik, hauled wood that Toby had cut in the fall, and more wood that Skipper Zeb felled each day, in preparation for another winter. "Before we knows un the summer'll be gone and the fishin' over, and Dad'll be settin' up his traps again, and the winter'll come, and I'll not be havin' you, Charley," said Toby sadly. When there was enough wood cut and hauled to the cabin, and the warm days of June came with their threat of a final break-up of the ice in the bay, Long Tom Ham appeared to take the dogs to Lucky Bight for the summer. A lump came in Charley's throat when he saw Long Tom Ham drive the dogs away. The going of the dogs marked the end of winter, and the time close at hand when they should close the little cabin at Double Up Cove, where he had spent so many happy months, and depart for Pinch-In Tickle, to await the coming of the mail boat. But with every wave of regret there followed the happy thought that he would soon be with his father and his mother again, and the thought always sent a tingle of joy up and down his spine. What a meeting that would be! What a welcome he should receive! What tales he would have to tell! How proud his father would be of him! How his mother would hover over him and love him! As much as he regretted leaving his good friends, these thoughts made the time that he must wait for his going seem all too long. Near the end of June came a deluge of rain. Miniature rivers poured down the hillsides into the bay, and the world became a sea of slush. When the rain ceased and the sky cleared, the sun shone warm and mellow, and the ice, now broken into pans, began to move out with the tide. Seals were now basking in the sunshine upon the loosened ice and upon the shore, and for two weeks Skipper Zeb and the boys devoted their time to hunting them. The skins were needed for boots, the flesh for dog food, and the blubber for oil. Sometimes they would themselves eat seal meat, and though the Twigs were fond of it, and Charley had pronounced the meat excellent when he and Toby were starving on Swile Island, he now thought it strong and not as palatable as he would like. On the last day of June Skipper Zeb's trap boat, calked and made tight, was launched, and Skipper Zeb announced: "Well, now! Here we are clear of ice, and I'm thinkin' there'll soon be signs of fish down at the tickle. To-morrow marnin', and the weather holds fine, we'll be cruisin' down. In another week, or fortnight, whatever, the mail boat'll be comin' and blowin' her whistle in the offing. I tells you, Charley lad, when you comes, and when you wants to go home so bad, that when the mail boat comes back and blows her whistle in the offing, we'd be ready and waitin' for she." And so it came to pass that Charley found himself again with Skipper Zeb and his family in the little cabin at Pinch-In Tickle. How crude it had seemed to him that day when Toby led him up the path, and he had first met Skipper Zeb! How comfortable and hospitable it seemed to him now! How many memories it held for him! Early one morning there sounded the long blast of a whistle, and presently the mail boat appeared in the tickle, and came to in the offing. There was great excitement in Skipper Zeb's cabin. Charley had no time to change to the clothes in which he had arrived, but they were packed in a neat bundle, and in another bundle were the wolf and bear skins, together with many other souvenirs of the winter. Charley wished to give his rifle to Toby, but Toby declined: "Keep un yourself to remember the bear, and our other huntin'." "I'll send you and your father new ones, as I promised, anyhow," Charley assured. "Well, now, and there's the mail boat!" exclaimed Skipper Zeb. "She's come at last to take Charley away from us! And this is the end of the fix you gets in! I'm wonderful sorry to have you go, lad! We're thinkin' of you like one of the family now, and we're not wishin' to lose you." "We're all wonderful sorry!" and Mrs. Twig brushed away a tear. "Some day," said Charley, his heart full, "I'll come back to see you, and perhaps I'll bring Dad with me to show him how good you people are, and how we live in a real wilderness." "I'll be puttin' you over in the punt to the mail boat," said Toby, reluctant to bid Charley farewell. They all went down to the landing to see him off, Skipper Zeb, Mrs. Twig and Violet. He sat in the stern of the punt, as he did on the day Toby took him ashore, while Toby rowed him alongside and helped him on deck with his baggage, and then the boys grasped each other's hands in farewell. "'Twere the finest winter I ever has--with you here," and Toby's choking voice would permit him to say no more. "It was the finest winter I ever spent, too," and Charley was little less moved than Toby. "The ship's movin'. Good-bye!" and Toby hurried down the ladder and into his boat. Charley stood at the rail watching Toby row his old punt back, until the ship passed into the tickle and shut from view Toby, the rocky hillside, the clinging cabins and Skipper Zeb with Mrs. Twig and Violet at the landing still waving their farewell to him. "Where you going?" the steward's question met Charley as he turned from the rail. "To St. John's. Don't you know me? I'm Charley Norton who came down with you last fall." It was several minutes before the steward could convince himself that this upstanding, clear-eyed, bronze-skinned fellow, attired like a Labradorman, was the pale, listless unhappy lad they had lost the previous fall. Then he hastened to Captain Barcus with the news, and Captain Barcus and the whole crew gathered around Charley and welcomed him as they would have welcomed a returned hero, to his great confusion. "Now a wireless to your father!" beamed Captain Barcus, when Charley had been duly greeted. * * * * * Mr. Bruce Norton was in his private office on William Street, in New York City, dictating his morning mail, when a boy laid a telegram upon his desk. He finished the letter he was dictating, before opening the message, and then he read: "Will arrive in St. John's July twentieth, on mail boat from Labrador. Had a great winter. Killed a wolf and shot a white bear. Wire how you and mother are. Love to you both. Cannot wait to see you. "CHARLEY." Mr. Norton was upon his feet before he had read the last line. He stuffed the message into his pocket, seized his hat, and as he bolted from his office he shouted to his secretary, who now filled the place formerly occupied by Mr. Henry Wise: "Get sleeper reservations for Mrs. Norton and myself to St. John's at once!" "For to-day?" asked the secretary. "Yes! Yes! First train possible!" and Mr. Norton disappeared in an elevator. When Mr. Norton broke the good news to Mrs. Norton a half hour later, the two declared it was the happiest day of their whole life. But when, a week later, they greeted Charley in St. John's when he disembarked from the mail boat, and he threw his arms around his mother, perhaps a greater height of happiness was reached. Before they left St. John's, Mr. Norton contracted for the best motor boat that he could buy, to be shipped on the mail boat to Skipper Zeb; and with it went a host of gifts to Mrs. Twig and Violet from Mrs. Norton, and new rifles and ammunition to Skipper Zeb and Toby as gifts from Charley. And we may be sure that the friendship did not end with this. But our story has already grown too long, and those happenings of after years belong to another tale. FOOTNOTE: [15] The Wolf. Printed in the United States of America ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Transcriber's Notes: 1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards. 2. In the original, the place name "St. John's" was consistently spelled incorrectly as "St. Johns" and has been corrected here. 
15190	----	www.canadiana.org WITH THE HARMONY TO LABRADOR [Illustration: "THE HARMONY"] A VISIT TO THE MORAVIAN MISSION STATIONS ON THE NORTH EAST COAST OF LABRADOR London: MORAVIAN CHURCH AND MISSION AGENCY. 32, FETTER LANE, E.C. PRICE THREEPENCE. * * * * * _WITH_ THE HARMONY TO LABRADOR. NOTES OF A VISIT BY THE REV. B. LA TROBE TO THE MORAVIAN MISSION STATIONS ON THE NORTH-EAST COAST OF LABRADOR. LONDON: MORAVIAN CHURCH AND MISSION AGENCY, 32, FETTER LANE, E.C. LONDON: G. NORMAN AND SON, PRINTERS, HART STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. CONTENTS. PAGE INTRODUCTORY REMARKS 1 ARRIVAL AT HOPEDALE, THE SOUTHERN STATION 2 THE 119TH VOYAGE OF THE SOCIETY'S VESSEL 3 HOPEDALE 5 A STROLL "TO THE HEATHEN" 5 JOYS AND SORROWS--A MARRIAGE AND A FUNERAL 7 THREE NATIVE HELPERS 9 A COMMUNION AND FESTIVAL SUNDAY AT HOPEDALE 11 A PLEASANT SAIL FROM HOPEDALE TO ZOAR 13 ZOAR 14 A CLIMB TO THE TOP OF THE SHIP HILL AT ZOAR 15 FROM ZOAR TO NAIN BETWEEN ISLANDS 16 THE FIRST EVENING AT NAIN 17 INTERCHANGE OF VISITS WITH THE ESKIMOES 18 TWO ESKIMO GROUPS TAKEN AT NAIN 21 "GOD'S ACRE" 23 A BUSY WEEK AT NAIN 25 FROM NAIN TO OKAK 27 THE MOST PRIMITIVE STATION IN LABRADOR 30 WALKS IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF OKAK 33 FROM OKAK TO RAMAH 34 "RAMARSUK" (NEAT LITTLE RAMAH) 35 AN ESKIMO VILLAGE 38 ON THE BEACH AT RAMAH 41 A FAITHFUL NATIVE HELPER 42 LEAVING RAMAH 43 SUNSET, MOONRISE AND AURORA BOREALIS 44 ARRIVAL AT HEBRON 45 THE VISITING MISSIONARIES' LEVEE 46 A SLEDGE DRIVE 47 MY LAST SUNDAY IN LABRADOR 51 MUSIC ON THE WATER 53 HOMEWARD BOUND 53 ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE "THE HARMONY" 1 HOPEDALE 4 TITUS, NATIVE HELPER AT HOPEDALE 10 ESKIMO HOUSES 19 A GROUP OF WIDOWS AT NAIN 21 THE CHOIR AT NAIN 22 ICE AGROUND 29 RAMAH 36 TENTS AT RAMAH 37 AN ESKIMO IN HIS KAYAK 42 TRAVELLING IN LABRADOR 49 =LABRADOR= Is an extensive triangular peninsula on the north-east coast of British North America, Lat. 50° to 62° N., Lon. 56° to 78° W.; bounded N. by Hudson's Straits, E. by the Atlantic, S.E. by the Strait of Belle Isle, separating it from Newfoundland, S. by the Gulf and River St. Lawrence and Canada, and W. by James' Bay and Hudson's Bay. Its area is estimated at 420,000 sq. miles. The vast interior, inhabited by a few wandering Nascopie Indians, is little known; the coast, mainly but sparsely peopled by Eskimoes, is rugged, bleak and desolate. Seals abound, and the sea is well stocked with cod and other fish. The wild animals include deer (caribou), bears, wolves, foxes, martens, and otters. The Eskimo dogs are trained to draw sledges, to which they are attached in teams of from eight to fourteen. The temperature in winter ranges lower than that of Greenland, the thermometer often showing a minimum of 70° below freezing-point of Fahrenheit. The climate is too severe to ripen any cereals, and the flora is very limited. The Moravian Mission to the Eskimoes on the north-east coast of Labrador was established in 1771 by a colony of brethren and sisters from England and Germany, who on July 1st reached Unity's Harbour, and at once began the erection of a station, calling it NAIN. An earlier attempt in 1752 under the direction of John Christian Erhardt had failed, the leader of the little band of missionaries and the captain of the ship, together with several men of the crew, having been killed by the natives. Five more stations were subsequently added--viz., ZOAR and HOPEDALE to the south, and OKAK, HEBRON, and RAMAH to the north of Nain. The distance from Ramah to Hopedale is about three hundred miles. Since the year 1770, when the "Jersey Packet" was sent out on an exploratory trip, the Society for the Furtherance of the Gospel has maintained regular communication with Labrador by despatching each year a ship, specially devoted to this missionary object. Eleven different ships have been employed in this service, ranging from a little sloop of seventy tons to a barque of two hundred and forty tons. Of these only four were specially constructed for Arctic service, including the vessel now in use, which was built in the year 1861. She is the fourth of the Society's Labrador ships bearing the well-known name "THE HARMONY." [Illustration: "THE HARMONY."] =WITH THE HARMONY TO LABRADOR=. NOTES OF A VISIT BY THE REV. B. LA TROBE. What can a summer visitor tell of Labrador, that great drear land whose main feature is winter, the long severe winter which begins in October and lasts until June? I have been sailing over summer seas, where in winter no water is visible, but a wide waste of ice stretching thirty, forty, fifty or more miles from the snowy shores. In the same good ship "Harmony," I have been gliding between the innumerable islands of the Labrador archipelago and up the fine fjords stretching far inland among the mountains, but in winter those bays and straits and winding passages are all white frozen plains, the highways for the dog-sledge post from station to station. I have visited each of our six mission-stations, dotted at intervals of from forty to ninety miles along some 250 miles of the grand, rocky coast, but I have seen them in their brightest and sunniest aspect, and can only imagine how they look when stern winter has come to stay for months, and the thermometer frequently descends to forty, fifty, sixty, sometimes even seventy degrees below freezing point, Fahrenheit. I have spent happy, busy days in those Christian villages, nestling close by the shore under the shelter of one or another hill that cuts off the icy northern blasts of winter. But I can fancy that their ordinary aspect is very different to the bustle and interest of the "shiptime." I have enjoyed the kindly hospitality of successive mission-houses, one as neat and clean as the other. But I have seen none of them half buried, as they often are, in snowdrifts of fifteen or twenty feet deep. The summer sun sent down powerful rays into the windows of the pleasant guest-chamber usually facing southward, but in mid-winter the Okak mission-house lies in the shadow of a great hill for weeks, and at other stations the sun describes a low curve over the opposite mountains, and does little more than shed a feeble ray of cheer upon the mid-day meal. One unpleasant experience of the warmer season I have shared with our missionaries, which they are spared in winter. That is the inconvenience of the swarms of mosquitoes and sand flies, which make them almost glad when the brief summer yields to a cooler autumn. On the other hand many phases of Labrador life do not change with the season of the year, least of all the spiritual verities which there, as elsewhere, concern the welfare of the bodies and the souls of men, and the eternal principles which should rule the life that now is, as well as that which is to come. The Christian life of the dwellers in those mission-houses, and, thank God, of the goodly congregations gathered around them, has its source in a perennial fountain, flowing summer and winter from the upper sanctuary. _This_ is the matter of main interest to my readers, therefore I will transcribe, or rather adapt, some diary pages, hoping they may convey correct impressions of the daily surroundings and local conditions under which our dear, self-denying missionaries are constantly toiling to win souls, and build up truly Christian congregations. ARRIVAL AT HOPEDALE, THE SOUTHERN STATION. Hopedale, Zoar, Nain, Okak, Hebron, Raman; these are our Labrador mission-stations in order from south to north, and as we visited them in the "Harmony," with one exception. From Okak we went straight to Ramah, and returned southward to Hebron, whence we sailed for Europe. Each station consists of the mission premises and a group of Eskimo dwellings, situated on the shore of a bay, affording safe and convenient anchorage for the ship which brings supplies. From Hopedale to Ramah is about 250 miles, "as the crow flies," but the ship traverses a hundred miles more in its passages from place to place. The distances between the stations are about as follows:-- Hopedale to Zoar 90 miles Okak to Hebron 70 miles. Zoar to Nain 40 " Hebron to Ramah 60 " Nain to Okak 80 " The accompanying log of our voyage gives a _résumé_ of its history. I will take up my more detailed sketches on the day when we arrived at Hopedale, the southern station. THE 119th VOYAGE OF THE SOCIETY'S VESSEL. (28th of present barque "Harmony.") June 20. Wed.--_Farewell Service in London Docks._ " 23. Sat.--Left LONDON. July 3. Tues.--Arr. at STROMNESS (Orkney Isles). " 6. Fri.--Left STROMNESS. (_London to Labrador, 41 days_.) Aug. 3. Fri.--Arr. at HOPEDALE. " 13. Mon.--Left " " 14. Tues.--Arr. at ZOAR. " 19. Sun.--Left " " 19. Sun.--Arr. at NAIN. " 27. Mon.--Left " " 29. Wed.--Arr. at OKAK. Sept. 5. Wed.--Left " " 9. Sun.--Arr. at RAMAH. " 14. Fri.--Left " " 17. Mon.--Arr. at HEBRON. " 25. Tues.--Left " (_Stay in Labrador, 53 days_.) Oct. 26. Fri.--Re-entered LONDON DOCKS. (_Homeward Voyage, 31 days_.) The whole voyage occupied 125 days, or close upon 18 weeks. _August 3rd_, 1888. It is six weeks all but a day since we left London. We might have reached Hopedale three days ago, for we were within eighty miles. But a dense fog made it impossible to venture among the islands, where drift ice might be added to the dangers of rocks. So we have been driving to and fro for the last three days and nights over a high sea, studded with icebergs hidden from us by a thick white mist, which made everything wet and cold. It has been the least pleasant and most anxious part of our voyage hitherto. This morning the fog cleared away, and we could see how good the Lord had been to us, for the icebergs were still surrounding us, but had never been permitted to come nigh our vessel. (Not till later did we know how well He had not only protected but piloted us. Drift ice beset the whole coast, but during those three days it cleared away southward. Nor could we have reached Hopedale by the usual southerly route, past the Gull Island, even on August 3rd. The course by which we were taken, _nolens volens_, was the only one open). As morning wore on our swift progress brought us to the outer islands, bare bleak rocks, at whose base the sea was breaking terrifically. The first was Ukalek (the hare), about equal distance from Nain, Zoar, and Hopedale. We turned southward, our good ship speeding along before a favourable breeze and rolling heavily. Many icebergs of all shapes and sizes were visible around our now widened horizon. Tremendous waves were beating against their gleaming white sides, and sending the spray high towards their towering pinnacles, in one case clean over a huge berg perhaps 150 feet high. Presently the Eskimoes at their northern fishing-places caught sight of us. Yonder are two boats sailing from that barren island, and we can now see three or four Eskimoes in each. As we overtake them they fire their guns and shout. See, on that island to the right is a regular little encampment, two or three tents, and men, women, and children running about excitedly, waving their arms and hallooing. Soon they launch their boats and row after us. The Ship Hill has been visible for some time. Now we see the red roof of the mission-house, and the little cupola of the church. Thank God! the flag is flying at the mast-head, _i.e._, at the top of the station flagstaff; no death has occurred in the mission circle. Yonder Eskimoes on the rocks, congregated about their little cannon, fire their salutes and shout their welcome. Now we are sailing into the harbour. With mingled feelings I scan the mission-house. Yes, there are some of the missionaries at the door. They run down to the pier, launch their boat and are coming off to us, rowed by two men and two women. I recognize old Boaz from his photograph; and that is Verona, good faithful soul. But there are only Mrs. Dam, and the Brethren Kaestner, Asboe, and Hansen. Where are the rest? Mr. Bourquin has not arrived from Nain; no news from the North; Mr. Dam is ailing, and must return to Europe with us. Mrs. Asboe and Mrs. Kaestner await us, so we are soon off in the boat to get another warm welcome at the door of the mission-house, about half-past five. [Illustration: HOPEDALE. (_See next page._)] I am conducted to the guest-chamber, and ere long we meet at the tea table, around which the whole mission family is assembled with their visitors. First our gratitude is expressed for the many mercies to each and all, included in the safe arrival of the "Harmony," and then ensues a lively interchange of news and mutual interests. HOPEDALE. I will content myself with a few explanations of the accompanying view of the station from the bay. In winter the aspect of the whole landscape would be very much whiter, and the foreground not water, but ice. The bare, rocky ship hill which forms the background still had considerable patches of snow when we arrived early in August, but it melted from day to day during our stay, for the summer sun asserts its power during its brief sway. The mission-house in the centre of the picture is connected with the church by a covered passage, and the building with the three gable-ends, on the other side of it, is the store. The gardens, really wonderful in results when the climate is considered, are situated at some distance to the rear of the mission premises. The Eskimo village lies mostly to the right, where only one or two log huts are visible in the picture. Some of the native houses are behind the mission premises, including that of Jonas and his capable wife Lydia, perhaps the neatest and best furnished home of an Eskimo to be found in Labrador. The three windows to the right of the front door of the mission-house belong to the rooms occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Asboe. If there be as much snow this winter as last, they may be in the dark, part of the time. The three centre windows of the upper story show Mr. Hansen's rooms, and on each side of these are the dwellings of Mr. and Mrs. Kaestner and Mr. and Mrs. Lundberg. A STROLL "TO THE HEATHEN." The only "road" in all Labrador is the broad path at Hebron traversed by the only wheeled vehicle in the country, a queer little wagon drawn by dogs, and used to fetch water for the house. But great service to succeeding generations of missionaries has been rendered by those who have employed some of their leisure in making pleasant paths leading to points of view or places of interest. For such a remote settlement, Hopedale is rich in well-made walks, though they are by no means so extensive as the winding paths in the fir woods behind Nain, the oldest station. And as I can bear witness, the present generation of missionaries have at each station fairly done their duty in adding to the roads along which their successors in the service shall take their social strolls or their lonely prayerful walks in communion with the best of friends. What an illustration of the spiritual service in such a land! The pioneer finds all in the roughest phase of nature. With infinite trouble and pains he prepares the way of the Lord, making the rough places plain; here he takes away the rocks and stones which bar the way, there he builds up, so making His paths straight. And where the good-work has been begun, other missionaries follow on the same lines; and so by grace it shall go forward, until the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together. One of the Hopedale paths leads "to the heathen," and what more interesting spot could we visit than those three mounds, which are all that remain of the former winter dwellings of the original heathen population. One by one, and sometimes several at once, when the Spirit of the Lord was powerfully bringing home to their hearts the Gospel preached by the early missionaries, the inmates of these abodes moved from their pagan surroundings and began to make themselves Christian homes around the mission-houses. On our way to the long uninhabited ruins of this older group of abodes, we will pass through the Christian village, which has thus sprung up at Hopedale as at all the other stations. It consists of irregular groups of little log houses, planted with little attempt at symmetry. Their Eskimo owners have no idea of a street. Perhaps some day the conception may occur to them as they read in their Bibles of "the street which was called straight." Nor do they need any words in their language for "rent," "rates," or, "taxes." Here in the south and at the station most influenced by civilization, the majority of the little houses are built of logs and even roofed with wood. Some are covered with turf. The dwellings of our people in the north are much more primitive. Each house has its low porch, a very necessary addition in this land of "winter's frost and snowing." Between the houses and in their porches lie many dogs. One of these wolf-like creatures follows us over the rocks to the burial-ground, and then runs off to fish on his own account. The dogs scour the shore for miles in search of food, for, with the exception of those belonging to our stores, they mostly have to forage for themselves. They like seal and reindeer meat, but there are times when they can get neither flesh nor fish. Then they turn vegetarians, spring over the fences of the mission gardens and help themselves. We enter the irregular enclosure, where lie the bodies of many, who have fallen asleep during the hundred years that Hopedale has stood. Here are some Eskimo graves with little headstones, bearing brief inscriptions, but more mounds without identification. In one corner lies a group of graves of touching interest--the missionaries and their children--who have taken sepulchre possession here. Thence our way lies along the shore. What is that noise? It is a whale blowing in the smooth water. Look, yonder rises the column of spray, and now a great fin appears for a moment over the surface. Wait awhile, and the monster will blow again. Yes, there he is, spouting and diving; on the whole, we can hear more than we can see of him. Over rock and moss, variegated with lovely little flowers, we reach the path which skirts the old heathen sites. Little more than the outline of the former turf houses is visible. The turf roof has fallen in, or been carried away, but the low mounds which formed the walls remain, as also the roofless curving porch, which in each opened out to the sea. More than one hundred persons of both sexes and all ages are said to have inhabited these three houses, and their heathen life here, with its cruelties, sorceries, and other unhallowed phases, can better be imagined than described. It must have been a great advance for them in every respect when they moved to the mission-station, established nearly half a mile away, and began to learn the faith and hope which have given it its name. In those days there must have been a good many such heathen villages along this coast with a nomad population far more numerous than now. Thence we easily ascend the ship hill, over rock and moss, and occasional patches of snow. The view is really grand, though bleak and bare. Hundreds of rocky islands lie between us and the seaward horizon, while to north and south one can scarcely distinguish them from the bold headlands which stretch out into the ocean. Northward, the white sails of from thirty to forty fishing schooners are gleaming white in the sun. Hundreds of these craft pass up the coast from Newfoundland every summer, and the spiritual interests of their crews are faithfully sought at Hopedale. Sometimes the Sunday afternoon English service is attended by more than two hundred such visitors. As we descend the hill and return to the station past the well-kept gardens, we make our first acquaintance with mosquitoes, but they do not trouble us much to-day. JOYS AND SORROWS--A MARRIAGE AND A FUNERAL Each mission-station is a little world in itself; it has its own joys and sorrows, and complete cycle of events in the human lives lived here for a time by the will of God, who has His purposes of love in each and all. I have touched many of these joys and sorrows during my brief stay here. In the godly family of this Hopedale mission-house, it is a time when the clouds return after the rain. Little Hildegard Kaestner has been lying for some days between life and death, but at last we can rejoice with her parents in a degree of hope. The child has even shown a faint interest in her toys. (I am grieved to hear on my return that the little one passed away while her father was absent with me on duty.) Our English missionary sister has also been passing through woman's time of trial and honour, and we are now able to rejoice with her and her husband in the gift of a little girl, their firstborn. God bless and keep mother and child! My visits with Mr. Dam, the pastor, and his wife, to some of the Eskimoes' houses have been singularly sad. Titus' wife, Katharina, formerly a good and able woman, has fallen into a pitiable state of insanity, which is not only a sore sorrow to the good man, but also a great hindrance to his earning a livelihood. Then we were suddenly summoned to the next house, where we found Hermine dying. In the morning she went out fishing with her husband, Wilhadus. Both were taken very ill with one of those colds which are so fatal to the Eskimoes, and he feared he should not be able to bring her home alive. She was nearly gone, and he very ill, when they did arrive. We found her on the floor, surrounded by sympathizing and helpful neighbours. But there was little to be done; life was fast ebbing. Mr. Dam knelt and prayed beside her, then blessed her, and she feebly responded to his words. The women laid her down comfortably, and as they sang hymns, amid tears and sobs, she passed away to be with the Lord, on whom she believed. God be praised that there is such hope and comfort in this event. Hermine died on Thursday, and the funeral was on Saturday afternoon, when a little child was also buried. The first part of the service was in the church. Then the congregation reassembled just outside, the men by themselves and the women apart. The larger coffin was borne on the shoulders of six men, the little one was carried by two. The whole congregation appeared to be the mourners, nor was poor Wilhadus well enough to follow his wife's remains to their last resting-place. After singing a verse in front of the church, the procession moved slowly onward to the burial ground, where Mr. Kaestner read the litany, and the responses and singing were beautifully reverent. At his signal the coffins were lowered into the graves, and he spoke the concluding blessing at each. I was present at a marriage service last Sunday. The young bridegroom and bride sat together on two stools in the middle of the church. They were simply and plainly dressed in clean white "sillapaks," _i.e._, light calico tunics edged with broad braid, mostly red. The woman's was rather more ornamental than the man's, and had a longer tail hanging over her skirts. She had a ring on one finger, but that played no part in the ceremony. In his opening address the minister named the pair. William Tuktusna comes from the South, and possesses both Christian name and surname, which is unusual for an Eskimo. The woman is called Amalie. Both replied with a clear "Ahaila" (yes) to the usual questions of the marriage service. They then gave the hand to one another, and, kneeling down, a prayer and the Old Testament blessing confirmed the solemn contract, into which they had entered before God. As usual the congregation sang the response, "Jêsum akkâne, Amen." (In the name of Jesus, Amen). Amalie cried a little during the ceremony, and more as she followed her husband out of the church, but the heathen custom of feigning sorrow on such an occasion is dying out. At first she refused William's offer, made through their missionary, but afterwards she thought better of it. May the Lord give them a happy and holy union of heart and life! THREE NATIVE HELPERS. I had a visit this afternoon from the three "native-helpers" here at Hopedale. They came to interview the angajokak from London (anga-yo-kâk = chief or elder) and their pastor kindly interpreted. I am pleased to know these worthy men. They are true Eskimoes in modes of thought and expression, and they are true servants of God, faithfully serving this congregation of their countrymen in many ways. Among the duties of their office are, visiting the sick, admonishing the negligent, settling disputes, and affectionately exhorting those who are under Church discipline. They are also chapel-servants, and evidently glad to be door-keepers in the house of their God. At the fishing or hunting places they often hold services, and sometimes they preside at the meetings at Hopedale. At the celebration of the recent centenary each of the three delivered a powerful address. Let me introduce them to my readers. The first and oldest is JOSHUA, a decided Christian of many years' standing. His wife Bertha is also a chapel-servant, a real mother in the congregation, and a true helpmeet to her husband. They are a thrifty, diligent, much respected couple, whose influence and example is blessed to those around them. Next February 4th they will, D.V., celebrate their golden wedding, an event unknown as yet in Labrador. Though Joshua cannot read, he frequently addresses the congregation with power, suitability, spirituality, and some originality. In his public prayers he almost invariably adds a petition "for our Queen Victoria; because she is only a woman." On one occasion he said to his countrymen: "Those of you who can read know that it says, they shall come from the East and the West, and the North and the South, and shall sit down in the kingdom, but the children of the kingdom shall be cast out. Our fathers were heathen, but we are children of the kingdom. If _we_ fail of the grace of God, we shall not only be cast into hell, but into outer, _outer_, OUTER darkness." It made a great impression on them. At another time he drew a comparison between the Israelites, who entered Canaan with Joshua, and the spiritual Israelites, who with Jesus shall enter on the millennium. The second is DANIEL, a gifted man with a humble spirit and considerable missionary zeal. Year by year, as Epiphany, "the Heathen Festival," comes round, he has sleepless nights of deep sorrow in his heart for those who know not Jesus, the Salvation of God. Twenty years ago, stirred by the example of John King, the bush-negro evangelist in Surinam, Daniel went in his own boat to his heathen countrymen in the far north of Labrador. He found a companion of like sentiment in Gottlob of Hebron, who afterwards rendered such excellent service at Ramah. More recently Daniel induced Titus of Hopedale to accompany him on a winter journey to some of the European settlers and half-breeds in the neighbourhood of that station. When they arrived at the log-house of one or another of these dwellers in the remote bays, Daniel at once told their errand with as much humility as earnestness. Their simple testimony of the Saviour from sin was well received. When they returned to Hopedale Daniel had a great deal to tell the missionaries of the utterances of his companion, but very little to remark about his own sayings and doings. He frequently accompanies his missionaries on their evangelistic or pastoral journeys not only as driver of the dog-sledge, but as helper of their spiritual work. [Illustration: TITUS. _Native Helper at Hopedale_.] The third of my visitors is the above mentioned TITUS, also a man of ripe years and Christian experience. The way in which his zeal and spirit of service supplement the gifts of his friend Daniel is a striking illustration of the Spirit's dividing to every man severally as He wills. Daniel is a man of quick perceptions, Titus of prompt action. The two may be walking together and talking of the spiritual welfare of the congregation so much upon their hearts and prayers. Daniel mentions some matter which he fears is displeasing in God's sight. "Yes, yes, that is so," says Titus; "I had not perceived it, but you are right. We must testify against that." And testify he does, on the first opportunity, with such vigour that the abuse is rebuked and stopped, yet with such tact that none can be offended at his faithful outspokenness. For some years Titus has served as assistant schoolmaster, and like his friend Daniel he takes part in the music of the sanctuary, having a good bass voice. Daniel sings tenor in the choir, or plays the violoncello. A COMMUNION AND FESTIVAL SUNDAY AT HOPEDALE. _Sunday, August 12th_.--To-day the festival of the thirteenth of August, the spiritual birthday of the renewed Brethren's Unity, has been celebrated in this far northern congregation, incorporated in the one bond with those in Germany, England, America, and our various mission-fields scattered thousands of miles apart over the surface of the globe. In the early morning the congregation band played suitable chorales in good time and tune, and the solemn strains were well adapted to prepare hearts and feelings for the spiritual privileges of the day. At nine o'clock Daniel kept the morning blessing. Picture the neat clean, church, simple and suitable for the worship of an Eskimo congregation. Behind the table sits the worthy native-helper. To his right hand the missionaries face the men and boys; to his left are the missionaries' wives, and opposite them a more numerous company of women and girls. The benches are without backs. The little organ is played by Ludolf, an Eskimo, well and devotionally, and the singing is further accompanied by other musicians with one clarionet, five violins, and a violoncello. The choice of tunes is such as would puzzle most congregations in England. The people are very devout in their demeanour and sing well. Their faces are mostly brown, with high cheek bones, but on the whole they are much lighter in complexion than photographs had led me to conclude. Daniel did his part reverently and simply, for, as he had told me before by word and gesture, God has made the heart and the mouth. His long and earnest prayer, spoken extempore in his own language, was evidently well prepared, and thoroughly suitable to the occasion. He asked the Lord to be among us with His blessings, His faithfulness, and His mercies. He continued: "O Saviour, Thou hast all fulness; Thou wast able and willing to bless the brethren at Herrnhut a hundred and fifty years ago, bless us now. True, we are worse and much lower than they were, but Thou canst do it. Bless us to-day. We are very bad, but Thou wilt bless those among us who believe. As to those who do not believe, bless them too, and, if possible, let them be partakers of Thy salvation. "We think of our teachers, those who have come to us and those who are about to leave us by the 'Harmony.' O bless them for their works' sake. We do not always obey them as we ought. Help us to be more obedient. Lord, do these things for us, and though we are not able to praise Thee sufficiently here on earth, we will praise Thee in heaven for ever." The next service was commenced with a choir piece, when the organ and other instruments accompanied seven singers, four women and three men. The women especially had voices of power and compass. Alto, tenor, and bass were fairly sustained, as well as soprano, and the whole effect was good. The piece, which was not easy, but suitable in liturgical character, was well rendered both in forte and piano passages. This time Ambrose, another native, presided at the organ, and Ludolf played the first violin. Mr. Kaestner's sermon on 1 John iii. 1 was followed by a baptism, in Labrador suitably the closing part of the public service. The congregation as ever take up the long responses well and devotionally, and in this service the children repeat portions of Scripture (1 Pet. iii. 21, Tit. iii. 5, and Matt. xix. 14). These were spoken distinctly and simultaneously by the boys and girls. The infant having been brought up to the table by the parents, the minister baptized it with the formula Susannah, Jesusib tokkun-ganut baptipagit Atatab, Ernerublo, Anernerublo ajunginerub attinganut. (Susannah, into the death of Jesus I baptize thee, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.) I took the English service at three o'clock. Soon after we again assembled in the church, for the Eskimo choir had sent a deputation to request that they might sing some more of their pieces for us. The programme of their really excellent performance included such pieces as Hosanna, Christians Awake, Stille Nacht, Morgernstern (Morning Star), and an anthem (Ps. 96) containing effective duets for tenor and alto. When they had finished I spoke a few words of thanks and farewell, and then Mr. Dam bade good-bye to the people he had loved and served for ten years. They were much moved at the thought of parting with their faithful pastor and his wife. Shall I ever forget that communion at seven? I felt it a great privilege to partake of the Lord's Supper with my brethren and sisters in Labrador. How much He has done for these dear missionaries, simple earnest Christians, experienced in the things of God, men and women of mighty faith, who do "move mountains." How much hath God wrought for these dear Eskimo Christians, who sit down at His table with beautiful reverence and real appreciation of this act of faith. The benches not needed for the communicant congregation had been removed from the centre of the church. On the men's side two empty benches stood together, on the women's three or four. After the trombonists had played a solemn chorale outside, the first chapel servant Joshua and his wife Bertha opened their respective doors, and about twenty men and more than thirty women entered from right and left and took their seats. Both men and women were all attired in their light braided sillapaks, and they are very particular to have clean ones for this service. The women who are communicants have a lock of their hair plaited in front of each ear. The vessels used on this occasion were presented to this congregation by two American ladies, who recently visited Hopedale. They were present on a similar occasion and were much struck by the solemnity and reality of the service. In grateful remembrance of the kindness of our missionaries they have sent this valuable and beautiful gift of communion plate. Though unacquainted with the language, I was able to follow the simple, familiar communion service. The words of institution sounded solemn, as pronounced in Eskimo, and truly when one knelt with the congregation, and partook of the bread and wine, one could discern the Lord's body, and feel that, though these dear people have their temptations and their failings, yet there are many souls here who feed on the Bread of Life and live by Him. When He cometh it will be manifest, and even now He is glorified here in them that believe. After the communion we went down to the boat to embark. The rock that stretches out into the harbour was crowded with Eskimoes, who had hurried to bid their departing missionaries a loving farewell. A PLEASANT SAIL FROM HOPEDALE TO ZOAR. _Tuesday, August 14th._--We are nearing the second station. Leaving Hopedale about dawn yesterday we made good progress northward, sailing quietly between innumerable islets, all bleak, bare, uninhabited rocks. We saw many small icebergs. In the evening one singularly shapely and beautiful berg floated past us, tipped with violet, which contrasted with the curious yellow tint of one side, the pure white of the mass and the living green of the waves rippling at its base. The sunset and the northern lights were very fine. When I went on deck this morning the island of Ukalek, or "The Hare," was astern, various rocky islets, imperfectly marked, or altogether omitted on the chart, were on both sides of us, and Zoar far ahead among the distant hills. Our vessel was almost imperceptibly gliding in that direction. May the Lord, who alone knows the rifts and rocks of this marvellous coast, bring us safely thither, and guide me aright amid the difficulties of the present situation there! These people have learned no wisdom or thrift, in spite of all the love and patience shown them, and they have made the past winter a most trying time for their devoted missionaries. The mirage yesterday and to-day is a wonderful freak of nature. At times, nothing can be seen as it really is. Icebergs and islands are flattened to one dead level, or doubled, so as to appear now like long bridges, now like high towers. The rapid changes in the appearance of solid masses are marvellous. All day we have been slowly sailing westward, new prospects of distant hills ever opening up as we passed headland after headland. Presently the barren rocks began to be clothed with firs here and there, but the lifelessness of the scene was striking. Once we caught sight of two or three Eskimo tents on a little island, but no human beings were visible. Only a solitary grampus made the circuit of our ship. At length we round the last cape, and enter Zoar Bay. Presently we come in sight of the station buildings between the fir-clad slope and the shore. There is the store, now the mission-house and church appear from behind yonder rock. The Eskimoes are firing their shots of welcome, answered by rockets from the ship. Thank God, the station flag is flying at the mast-head! That tells us that neither illness nor accident have been permitted to carry off any of the missionaries. Look behind you. The hills are glowing with a glorious "Alpenglühen"--an evening effect as splendid as it is surprising. Now we are nearer. They are launching the "Emily," the station boat. Rowed by natives, she comes alongside almost as soon as our anchor is down, and all the resident missionaries climb on board, followed by a number of Eskimoes. Soon our hosts carry us off to the hospitable little mission-house, which somehow or another manages to find comfortable quarters for all the visitors. I am writing up my diary in Mr. and Mrs. Rinderknecht's pleasant rooms, which I am to share with Mr. Kaestner, who is on his way to Nain to take part in our conference there. Mr. and Mrs. Martin are occupying the spare room below us, and the Lundbergs have also turned out to make room for Mr. and Mrs. Dam. Where our hosts have taken up their abode meanwhile remains a riddle for the present. (The riddle was solved in a subsequent tour of inspection of the house, when I found that the one resident couple had retired to the garret and the other to a workshop on the ground floor.) ZOAR. In its summer aspect this is a singularly lovely place. Yet, I see each station at its best, and can only guess at the changes which snow and ice will work in the landscape. Were this spot in Europe, it would soon be a favourite summer resort. Being in Labrador, however, the summer visitors would speedily fly from the swarms of mosquitoes and sand-flies. These appear as soon as the weather is at all warm and are a veritable plague in the summer evenings, which would else be so enjoyable. And when these myriad tormentors with wings and stings are gone, rude winter cuts short the autumn. As usual in Labrador, the little mission-station lies on the north side of the bay, so that the wooded hill behind shields it from the northern blasts. This fir-clad slope makes Zoar much more friendly in appearance than any other station. Hopedale is bare and treeless in its general aspect and so in less degree are Nain and Okak, though all three have fir-trees in their neighbourhood. Ramah and Hebron are beyond the limit of even these hardy evergreens, and the latter looks very bleak and rocky. Pleasing as is the first impression of Zoar, the conviction soon grows upon one that the site has its serious disadvantages. First and foremost among these is the fact that it is not favourable to success in sealing and fishing, so that it is not easy for the inhabitants to make a livelihood. The pretty mission-house affords convenient accommodation for two missionary families. It is, as usual, connected with the church by a covered passage. To the right of these buildings the little Eskimo village stretches along the shore, to their left are situated the well-stocked mission-gardens, from which pleasant paths have been made through the woods beyond. Between the church and the rocky beach stands the store, and not far off the salt-house and the boat-house. The powder-house is always situated on some rock at a safe distance from the station, for the Eskimoes burn a considerable quantity of this dangerous material in their ceaseless war with seals, walrusses, reindeer, and other animals, including an occasional black or white bear. A CLIMB TO THE TOP OF THE SHIP HILL AT ZOAR. The ascent to the spot whence the approach of the ships can best be descried is by no means so easily accomplished at Zoar as at Hopedale. But the hour's stiff climb is richly rewarded by a magnificent prospect. Our path lies first through the fir woods, then over a bare plain on which tufts of beautiful and very variegated mosses alternate with rocks and withered roots. This is evidently the site of a forest, which at no very distant date has been killed by the terrible climate. Up again through low thick brushwood and over great rocks, till at last we reach the summit. Seaward we can see the course by which the "Harmony" came in. Northward the eye ranges along the rugged coast with its innumerable islands and deep fjords. Yonder sheet of water is not an arm of the sea, but a great freshwater lake, long an object of superstitious dread to the Eskimoes. Neither in summer or winter dared they cross it, until their missionaries did so, for they believed a monster dwelt in it, who could eat up the man and his kayak, or sledge, dogs and driver. Inland one sees mountain after mountain, whose wild slopes are traversed by no human foot unless the Nascopie Indian, or "mountaineer," may pass that way in pursuit of the reindeer. None of these natives of the great unknown interior have visited our stations this year. In the Zoar bay beneath us the "Harmony" is riding at anchor near the mission premises, and now we can see the whole curve of the other great bay, which approaches Zoar from the north. The "itiblek," as the Eskimoes call a low narrow neck of land between two such arms of the sea, is but a few hundred yards across. To the east of yonder waterfall is a level place on the shore of the larger fjord, which was once thought of as a site for this station. But it would have been too much exposed to the east wind. What a different landscape this will be in winter, when all those waterways among the islands are frozen! It must be very difficult even for an Eskimo sledge driver to know his way through the snow-covered labyrinth on so large a scale, indeed almost impossible when the driving snow hides his landmarks. But He, to whom we are wont to commend our travellers by land and sea, cares also for those who traverse the ice-plains of Labrador, that they may serve Him or join His people in worship. Not only our missionaries but the settlers have often experienced His goodness in answer to prayer in moments of perplexity or danger. It is indeed praiseworthy that, to gain a blessing for their souls, the latter are willing to run the risks and bear the expenses of a two or three days' sledge journey to the stations, often in terrible cold. Sometimes their children are sorely disappointed when the parents cannot venture to take them to the Christmas or Easter Festival. Last Christmas Eve, two boys, aged sixteen and fourteen, started from their home in Kamarsuk bay and walked through deep snow to Zoar, which they reached after ten laborious hours. English services are held for the settlers at this station as well as at Hopedale, though they are more frequent at the southern place owing to the visits of the crews from the Newfoundland fishing schooners. FROM ZOAR TO NAIN BETWEEN ISLANDS. Our voyage from Zoar to Nain occupied just twelve hours. We left about 5.30 A.M., and our anchor went down again before 5.30 P.M. The day was fine and warm, and the scenery changed continually. Often the way seemed barred before us, but, as we sailed on, a narrow strait opened to right or left, and as we neared Nain our voyage between the islands became more and more interesting. Presently some Nain Eskimoes caught sight of the "Harmony," and posted off to the station in their sailing boat, which kept ahead the whole way. Two men came to meet us in their kayaks, and paddled alongside for some time, their light skin boats skimming over the water as easily as the flock of ducks which had just crossed our bows. Passing the island Tâktuk, a salute fired by the one Eskimo visible was followed by such a concert of howls from his dogs seated in a row on a rock as made us all laugh. Next the Kauk came in view, a great rock looking like a skull, or, as its name implies, "a forehead," a very recognizable landmark often anxiously looked for on sledge journeys. Paul's Island, with its deep inlets, was to our right, and now a good wind sent us forward past headland after headland till Nain came out from behind the Süderhucke. First we could see the Eskimo village, whose inhabitants were, as usual, firing their guns and shouting; then the church came in sight, and the mission-house with flag at the mast head; then the store and the little pier, which, as we approached, was crowded with Eskimoes singing, "Now let us praise the Lord." THE FIRST EVENING AT NAIN. [Illustration] Nain was the third station visited on our voyage northward along the bleak but grand coast of Labrador. Hopedale and Zoar had already been left behind in the south; Okak, Hebron, and Ramah, all to the north of Nain, had yet to be touched at in their turn. Each successive station has its own distinctive features and so presents fresh interest to the visitor. Nain, the oldest of all, is rich in associations with the past as well as very interesting in the life, spiritual and temporal, of the mission-house and the Eskimo dwellings, which constitute this little Christian village of three hundred inhabitants. _August 19th._--I take up the story on the Sunday evening, when, about a quarter past five o'clock, the "Harmony" came to her anchorage some three to four hundred yards from the mission premises on the north shore of the Nain bay. It is a mercy when no accident occurs on the arrival of a ship at a station, for the Eskimoes are rather wild in their expression of their joy, and rather careless in handling powder. Just a year ago they burst a little cannon in welcoming the "Gleaner." The pieces flew in all directions about the heads of those standing round. Yet by God's great goodness not one was hurt. One man's cap was knocked off by a flying fragment of iron. Our first welcome to Nain was from some members of the mission-band, who at once came aboard the "Harmony" in their boat. Rowing ashore with them, we visitors received a second kind welcome at the mission-house. It was rather curious that my fellow-travellers, the Martins, should arrive at their destination five-and-twenty years to the day after Mr. Bourquin, whom Mr. Martin is eventually to succeed in the presidency of this mission. I was conducted to the pleasant guest chamber. On my table lay two dear letters from home, the first and last received after leaving Stromness. During our stay at Zoar the mail steamer came from Newfoundland to Hopedale where she is due every fortnight, while the coast is free from ice. This time she came on to Nain, which she is bound to visit twice in the season at the captain's discretion. She never touches at Zoar between these two stations. When we met as a family for the evening meal, Mr. Bourquin expressed our thanks to the Lord for all his goodness and mercy involved in another safe arrival of the mission-ship. The congregation did the same at the thanksgiving liturgy, which commenced at 7 P.M. The Church here is older and larger than any other in the land. The singing was good, rather quicker than at Hopedale. About forty men and sixty women occupied the same relative positions to the minister behind the table and to the missionary brethren and sisters to right and left of him, as at Hopedale and Zoar. The short benches at each end of the long church were respectively occupied by three male and three female chapel servants. The latter were dressed, not in European fashion, but in the national costume of skin trousers with the fur outside. 9 P.M. I am seated in my room after a pleasant social hour with interchange of mutual tidings. Every provision has been made for my comfort in this neat, clean guest-chamber. What interesting scenes of human life as well as fine views of Labrador scenery are visible from its windows south and west! Grand rocks from five hundred to eight hundred feet in height rise nearly perpendicularly from the opposite shore of the bay. Here comes a man paddling his kayak past the "Harmony" as she lies at anchor. What is up among the dogs? They are all howling and running along the beach, and now they have set on one unfortunate, which is hustled and bitten until he escapes and hobbles away yelping. Here is a woman coming to fetch water from the trough. I wish I could draw her, for she is an odd figure in trousers and high boots. The tail of her sillapak almost trails on the ground, and in its capacious hood, a baby is seated looking out on the world with great content. 10 P.M. It has grown dark whilst I have been writing up my diary. What a concert the dogs are giving us now. They are howling, barking, and sometimes fairly screaming, each and all contributing their full share of the unearthly noises. 10.10. All is still: may it last! It is time I retired to rest, for one must be up betimes; 6 A.M. is the hour in all these mission-houses, for morning prayers are at 6.30 sharp. One more look out of my window. The moon is rising above the opposite hills and casting a broad band of light across the rippling waters. INTERCHANGE OF VISITS WITH THE ESKIMOES. "Good luck to you, sir!" That was meant for "Good-bye," and is the sort of English the Eskimoes to the south of Hopedale have learnt. Both at that station and here at Nain I have had curious visits from such as prided themselves on their knowledge of my mother-tongue. Some spoke it very fairly, but my conversation with the natives was, of course, mostly through an interpreter. These visits are quite a feature of mission-house life. One afternoon at Hopedale Jonas and his wife Lydia came to see me. The good man said: "As there are so many souls here, I would ask our angayokaks (elders or superiors) in London and Berthelsdorf for God's sake to let us have teachers, as long as there are people here. We cannot do without them. We have undying souls, and must be cared for." With tears he added, "When I cannot sleep, I ask God for this. We thank the angayokaks very much. I hope God will grant those who are leaving us a good passage. We may never meet again on earth, but I hope we shall in heaven." I had specially interesting visits from some of the native-helpers at different stations. They expressed their humble sense of unworthiness, and their gratitude for the benefits which come to them and their countrymen through the mission. They also promised faithfully to stand by their missionaries. My conviction is that the spiritual life of each congregation very much depends on the Christian character, stability, and influence of its native leaders. [Illustration: ESKIMO HOUSES.] Visits of the Eskimoes to my room, however, took up much precious time of the missionary requested to interpret, so I preferred to get one of the pastors to accompany me on a round of calls in the village. Let my visits to the native-helpers at Nain give a view of the interiors of some of the better dwellings. _Wednesday, August 22nd._--Mr. Bourquin kindly conducted me to the homes of Jonathan, Abraham, and Matthew. Through the little porch or vestibule, where the dogs lie, one enters the house. Sometimes there are two rooms, one for sleeping and the other the dwelling room; but mostly the beds are in corners, more or less partitioned or curtained off. A little stove serves for warmth and cooking. A small table stands by the wall, and there are one or two short benches, but the articles of furniture most frequent are the boxes, which accompany the Eskimo in his nomad life, and hold his possessions, whether he be in his house at home, in his boat fishing, or in his tent at some distant hunting place. The walls of the houses are ornamented here and there with pictures cut out of old _Illustrated London News_ or _Graphics_. Some remains of Christmas ornamentation showed considerable taste. The present is not a favourable season to gain a good impression of the houses, as their owners are most of their time away from home hunting and fishing. Before Christmas they have a thorough turn out and clean up, and then await the usual visit from their missionaries, who wisely speak a word of commendation where it is deserved. Undoubtedly the invariable neatness of the mission-houses, and the special care bestowed upon the churches, have a great influence on the cleanliness of the Eskimo dwellings. Husbands and wives were at home in all three houses visited to-day. Jonathan spells his own name "Jonatan." He is a godly and worthy man of mild disposition yet decided Christian character. His Leah is also a native-helper among her sex, and a chapel servant. They gave us a friendly welcome. True, it did not occur to them to ask us to sit down; but our Eskimoes are pleased if one takes a seat in their houses without the asking. Jonatan's grandchild was sleeping on one of the beds, and its young mother sat in a corner sewing. The little harmonium by the wall belonged to her husband, who lives with his parents. The older people thanked me for the visit, and desired their greetings to the great teachers over the water. Our second call was on Abraham, or more correctly "Abraha," for the genius of the Eskimo language always requires a name to end with a vowel. He is also an excellent and intelligent native assistant. He and his Pauline were very pleased to see us, and expressed themselves in the same strain as the former couple. As his harmonium and violin show, he is very musical; indeed, he is a leading member of the Nain choir. Lastly we called on Matthew and his young wife. His quiet, rather shy demeanour and humble estimate of himself, as a recently appointed office-bearer in the congregation pleased me well. Perhaps his house was the neatest and best furnished of the three. I wish I could have heard Abraham or Jonathan speak at some service. I am told their addresses correspond with their dispositions. The former is warm, and vigorous, the latter more calm and affectionate in tone. Matthew has yet to overcome his diffidence. By the way, when I went over to the ship to-day. I found Abraham and his family on board. His little two-masted smack was lying alongside the "Harmony," ready for a start to his fishing place. It contained an interesting variety of possessions. Tent-poles and oars lay along both sides, and his kayak was lashed to the right gunwale. Tackle, tent, skins, utensils, and boxes were secured in the bottom of the boat, and in a small pen at the bows lay his seven dogs. TWO ESKIMO GROUPS TAKEN AT NAIN. [Illustration: A GROUP OF WIDOWS AT NAIN.] Mr. Jannasch is the photographer among our Labrador missionaries, and we have to thank him for some excellent pictures of persons and places in that cold land. Copies of these may be obtained at our Agency (No. 32, Fetter Lane, London, E.C.), and we should be glad to encourage him by a larger sale for his interesting cabinet, stereoscopic and _carte de visite_ photographs. As he is resident at Nain, most of his scenes or groups are taken at or near that station, but last-winter he took his camera with him on a sledge journey to Hopedale. [Illustration: THE CHOIR AT NAIN.] The two groups which we have had reproduced for our pages are characteristic, but those whose portraits are given might remark that justice has scarcely been done to their faces. The first is a group of WIDOWS AT NAIN. It was a good day for lonely Eskimo women of this class when the Gospel came to their shores. I made a point of inquiring at each station as to the status of the widows and the fatherless, and found that everywhere they are well cared for. Indeed, the widows invariably stand in the first rank of those for whom regular employment is found by the Society for the Furtherance of the Gospel. They gratefully acknowledged this. Several of them also gave me a special commission, which I hereby discharge to the best of my ability. It was this, "_Give my greeting to all the widows in Europe._" Perhaps they thought it would be as easy for the visitor from England to do this on his return, as to inquire after all the widows in Labrador. The five aged women in our picture are Adolfina (standing behind), Marta (seated to her right), and Hulda and Beata (to her left). Amalia (in the centre of the foreground) is attired in skirts after European fashion, though she has on a pair of the Eskimo boots indispensable in such a land. The rest are dressed in full Eskimo costume. It will be seen that their sillapaks and trousers are ornamented with broad coloured braid, and the hood, which falls back over their shoulders, is edged with dog's skin and adorned with a strip of embroidery. Hulda is a worthy door-keeper in the church, and a valued servant in the mission-house of many years' standing. The other group represents THE CHOIR AT NAIN. We have already referred to the musical taste and ability of many of the Eskimoes, and those at Nain are not behind the Hopedalers in this respect. The man with the violoncello seated in the centre is Abraham, the native helper mentioned in a previous paragraph. To his right is Nathanael, with a violin. He is the schoolmaster at Nain, and his wife Frederika is seated at his right hand. One day in 1887, Nathanael was seen shaking his fists at the mission house. What had ruffled his temper? He had been told by some fishermen that Queen Victoria, to mark her Jubilee, had sent a present of a suit of clothes to every schoolmaster in her dominions. As his had not reached him, he suspected the missionaries of withholding it. This is a characteristic instance of the credulity with which the Eskimoes accept the statements of strangers and the mistrust they are too apt to show towards those who have long proved themselves their most disinterested friends. "GOD'S ACRE." The burial ground at Nain is the best kept in Labrador. Others are neat and tidily arranged, but this decidedly bears off the palm. It is finely situated, commanding a view seaward, and an Easter morning service in this peaceful resting-place of the departed must be impressive indeed, as the rising sun sheds his first rays across frozen sea and snowy islands on a company of Christian Eskimoes, rejoicing in Him who is the Resurrection and the Life, and not sorrowing hopelessly for their dead. I know no better name for such a sacred enclosure, where the bodies of those who have died in the Lord are sown in hope, than the beautiful German term, "God's Acre." ______________ ______________ | | | | | 805 | | 741 | | _Harriott_ | | _Eleonora_ | | 1865-1882 | | 1819-1879 | |______________| |______________| Scarcely any grass grows within the oblong space surrounded by wooden palings, but here and there patches of moss or low berry bushes threaten to hide the neat little slabs of wood placed by the missionaries on the graves of the native Christians. If left to the Eskimoes, this duty to their departed relatives and friends would either be done carelessly or forgotten. These simple "headstones," of which I give two specimens as copied into my notebook, are perhaps about twelve inches by eight. The place for the next grave in each row (men, women, boys, girls) is indicated by long poles likely to appear above the highest snow in winter. Here at Nain, and indeed at all the stations except Okak, where the soil is clay, it is possible, though in winter very troublesome, to dig a grave all the year round. At Okak the coffin must be laid in the snow until returning spring thaws the frozen ground. As already stated, the Eskimoes have no surnames, and their graves show a great repetition of certain Christian names, as Abel, Abia, Zecharias, Thomas, Susannah, Katarina, &c. There is a greater variety on the female side. At Zoar I noted some curious ones--Persida, Botille, Teresia Dina, and Justine. "Helena-Helenalo" evidently means mother and child, both bearing the name Helena. "Fillipusib-kitornganga" and "Davidib-kitornganga" mean the child of Philip and the child of David. Mostly, the little wooden "headstones" lie flat on the grave; those at Okak are placed upright, as in the accompanying sketch, and record the names of several persons buried beneath. /--------\ / \ | 644 | | Andrew | | 1862 | | -------- | | 959 | | Marcus | | -------- | | 642 | | Heinrich | | 1873. | +----------+ | | | | Where the paths cross one another at right angles, in the older Labrador churchyards, there is always a specially interesting group of graves. There lie, in sure and certain hope of a joyous resurrection, the bodies of good men and women, who have taken sepulchre possession of this land for their Lord. Here, too, many sorrowing missionary parents have had to lay little ones, early taken home in this bleak climate. Ah, what stories are written on those simple gravestones, when one can read between the lines! The "God's Acre" at Nain is as rich in historical associations as any. Christian Larsen Drachard, one of the pioneers of this mission was buried here in 1778; and beside the stone, on which is inscribed his honoured name in full, is a rough slab from the shore, placed on his grave by his own desire. Side by side to right and left of the path separating the last resting-places of the married men from those of the single missionaries lie Christopher Brasen and Gottfried Lehmann, drowned in 1774 on their return voyage from finding a site for Okak, the second station in this land. Not many days after I stood beside their graves I sailed close by the island on which their sloop was wrecked, and on whose rocks the angry sea cast their bodies. /\ / \ / \ / D. \ / \ / 1778. \ / \ \ _Sep. 18._ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \/ I will close this chapter with a contrast. Leaving the peaceful Christian burial ground, we climb the hill behind the station. In a lofty, lonely valley we find many heaps of great stones. We will examine one. Remove one or two of the boulders, and look in. On the ground, rather than in it, lies a human skeleton, perfect with the exception of the skull. We go on to the next heap; it is empty. In a third we find a skull and one or two bones. Others contain scarcely any human remains, but some Eskimo utensils were evidently the property in life of the natives whose bodies were laid there by their countrymen. It was customary to bury the possessions of the dead with them, and very interesting curiosities used to be found in all these graves. Yes, these are _heathen graves_, and the bodies in them are those of Eskimoes who have died, ere they heard the words of life from the lips of missionaries sent by the Church of Christ to proclaim His salvation at this end of the earth. No inscriptions mark the tombs of these nameless pagans, yet those rude stoneheaps have a voice for those who have ears to hear. Methinks they appeal loudly on behalf of myriads still living without God and dying without hope. "How shall they believe in Him of whom they have not heard, and how shall they hear without a preacher, and how shall they preach except they be sent?" A BUSY WEEK AT NAIN. The week spent at Nain may serve as a specimen of my stay at each station in turn. We arrived here on Sunday, August 19th, in the evening. Monday and part of Tuesday were taken up by conferences on the spiritual prosperity and temporal regulations of the. Labrador Mission. Tuesday afternoon proved the most convenient time for my special meeting with the congregation, when, as at every station, I gave the assembled men and women the greeting and message sent them by the mission authorities at home. Opportunity being afforded them to reply, some of the native helpers and others expressed their pleasure that a visitor had come from Europe, and their gratitude that Christians on the other side of the ocean had sent missionaries to their forefathers, and still maintained teachers among them. They also asked questions and gave their opinions on very various topics. I promised to convey their salutations to "their angayokaks in London and Herrnhut." This meeting lasted about two hours, and was, as elsewhere, an arduous time for the missionary who acted as my interpreter. It seemed easier to him to render into Eskimo my own address given in English, than to interpret all the speeches made by the natives in reply. Inspection of the premises, stores, archives, &c., continued conferences, and other businesses filled up the remaining days of the week during which the "Harmony" lay at anchor near the station. Meanwhile the disembarking and embarking of her outward and homeward cargoes went on, and when she was ready to sail we were ready to go northward with her. In the intervals of daily duty I enjoyed pleasant walks and talks with one or another member of the mission band in the extensive plantation behind the station, the growth of more than a hundred years of careful cultivations, Not till Saturday did we find time for more distant expeditions, when grand views rewarded our ascent of two hills to the north and south of the Nain Bay. They are about 700 or 800 feet in height. Most of the week the majority of the natives were away fishing, but several of the men and boys were earning daily wages by assistance with the cargo. For those at the station evening services were held in the church. These varied in character, one was a singing meeting, another a liturgy, a third a Bible reading, when the two last chapters of II. Corinthians were the portion of Holy Scripture taken in course. When there was no Eskimo service, the mission family and their guests met in their dining-room for mutual edification with the German Bible and hymn-book. As to the latter, by the way, the book itself was seldom needed, for most of the company knew the hymns by heart. So the week sped away, bringing the Sabbath again. _Sunday, August 26th._--The Church Litany, and not the so-called "Catechism Litany," was used at the 9 o'clock service. At 10 A.M. Mr. Dam preached with fervour on the text for the day, John X. 16, of course in Eskimo. The sermon was followed by the baptism of little Esther, the infant daughter of Joash and Wilhelmina. After the service the parents passed me on their way home. But where is the baby? Nowhere visible, but the hood on the mother's back is bulky and moves. At three o'clock I conducted the usual English service on the deck of the "Harmony." A good many natives were present, rather out of curiosity than as able to understand, though it is astonishing to find how many have managed to pick up a little English, especially at the southern stations. At five we again gathered in the church for a short Eskimo liturgy of praise to the Triune God, when our vessel and her passengers were commended to the renewed care of the faithful Creator. Our evening meal, the last in this hospitable mission-house, was followed by farewell words and some commendatory hymns in German. Then we "parting guests" went on board the "Harmony," accompanied by most of our hosts, who lingered long with us. As we got into the boat, the Eskimoes bade us an affectionate good-bye, "Aksunai, aksuse." (Aksunai, Be thou strong, or its plural, Aksuse, Be ye strong, are used both for "How do you do?" and "Good-bye.") FROM NAIN TO OKAK. _Monday, August 27th, 1888._--When I rose, our ship was being slowly towed by her boats out of the bay in search of a fair breeze. About eleven we had to put down the anchor, as wind and current forbade our attempting to pass between "the Turnpikes," two rocks in the narrow channel before us. Here we lay all the day among islands. Barth, to our left, is so called in honour of Dr. Barth of Calw, the compiler of a Bible history translated by our missionaries into Eskimo, as well as into the languages of several other people evangelized by our church. Rhodes, to our right, is named after James Rhodes, a native of Gomersal, Yorkshire, who was a missionary here for twenty-six years, 1771-1797. Lister, the snowy hill beyond, perpetuates the memory of Christian Lister, another Yorkshireman, who crowned seventeen years of service in Labrador by thirteen in Jamaica. It is well to be thus reminded that the British Province of four missionary Unitas Fratrum had several representatives in this mission field a hundred years ago. William Turner (twenty-two years' service, 1771-93) was a native of Halifax; and James Bramagin (1775-94) of Lurgan in the north of Ireland; Samuel Towle (1782-91) came from the neighbourhood of Ockbrook, Derbyshire, and Henry Shaw (1806-13) was again a Yorkshireman. Further, Mary Butterworth (1771-84), of Birstal in Yorkshire, gave herself to this mission as the wife of Jens Haven, its founder; and later Mary Waters (1812-31), of Dukinfield in Lancashire, married George Kmoch for similar service. Yonder fjord running far inland is the _Nunaingoak_ Bay, which, conveniently for the natives, embodies the foreign name given to their station. Nain itself is behind that neck of land, on which our friends have lit a fire as a signal that they perceive our vessel has not as yet been able to leave them very far behind. What a study of colour this evening effect would make! The sun has just set and the sky to the north and west is orange, shading off into yellow along the horizon. Between these curiously bright hues and their fainter reflection on the rippling water, the nearer islands are black as ink and the further mountains indigo. _Tuesday, August 28th._--Besides the missionary pair, who are accompanying me all the way from Hopedale to Europe, my fellow passengers are now the superintendent, who has acceded to my request to go with us to Okak, and a young missionary, transferred from Nain to Ramah. When I went on deck this morning we had passed the Turnpikes and were gliding very slowly seawards between islands. The one which faced us all the morning is called Tappé, after a worthy missionary, still living, who served some years in Labrador, before going to Jerusalem in 1867, to be the first "house-father" of the Leper Home. About noon a fresh breeze sent us northward swiftly and safely through several narrow and awkward passages. We passed two or three Newfoundland fishing schooners, whose crews were doubtless interested to see the "Dutch Bark," or the "foreigner" as they called the "Harmony." Our other vessel, the "Gleaner," calls at St. John's, so she is not a foreigner in the estimation of Newfoundland mariners. About two o'clock we were off the island memorable for the shipwreck in which Brasen and Lehmann lost their lives. Later we passed the rocks on to which Liebisch and Turner escaped as by a miracle, when a sudden storm broke up the ice over which they had been travelling. The scene must have been terrific. One moment the frightened dogs drawing their sledges were being urged at utmost speed over the leagues of heaving, cracking ice. The nest, the shore was reached, and the missionaries were overwhelmed with astonishment as they turned and looked upon a raging, foaming sea, whose wild waves had already shattered the frozen surface as far as the eye could reach. Even the heathen Eskimoes with them joined in praising God for the wonderful deliverance. This part of the coast is rugged and grand. There is a good deal of snow on the heights of Aulatsivik and the northern extremity of that great island is a bold precipitous cliff. Port Mauvers, at the mouth of the narrow strait, which separates Aulatsivik from the mainland, figures so prominently as a name upon most maps of Labrador, that one might suppose it to be at least the capital. But there are no inhabitants there, nor indeed all along the coast between Nain and Okak. Kiglapeit, to the north, is so splendid a mountain range that I am quite sorry we shall pass it in the dark. We are getting more into the open sea as evening advances, and there are icebergs to be seen here and there. Come into the captain's cabin and look at this little budget of letters. They are notes from Eskimoes at our southern stations to their relatives and friends in the north. Some are funny little pencilled scraps folded and oddly directed, e.g. "Kitturamut-Lucasib, Okak." That means "To Keturah (the wife) of Lucas or Luke, at Okak." Our Eskimoes seem to have a talent for phonetic spelling; "ilianuramut" is evidently "To Eleanor," and "Amaliamut-kuniliusip, Okak," is meant for "Amalia (the wife) of Cornelius at Okak." Some are very respectable epistles, and I doubt not the Christian tone of most would please us could we read the Eskimo language, with its strange long words. Here is a good-sized letter folded and directed in a bold clear hand, "Sosanemut-Andoneb, Hibron" (To Susannah, the wife of Antony at Hebron). It is not sealed, so, as we shall scarcely understand a word of its contents, we will venture to open it and glance at them. It is a well-written letter, covering three pages of blue foolscap paper, so it must be conveying a good deal of news to Antony and Susannah. The writer names himself at the commencement, "Boas-Kedoralo." "Lo" is Eskimo for "and," and "Kedora" is another phonetic version of Keturah. He closes his long epistle with "Amen." The Eskimoes also write the names of their missionaries with considerable variations as to spelling. "Pinsilamut" might be the address of a letter to Mr. Bindschedler, and I have seen "Karizima"' stand for Mr. Kretschmer. The natives have no idea of such titles as Mr. or Mrs., and they still call the majority of their missionaries by their Christian names. [Illustration: ICE AGROUND.] _Wednesday, August 29th._--5 A.M. The sun just rising. We are between Lundberg Island and the Saddle, so named from its shape. Its "stirrups," two little rocks, are supplemented by a great, white berg. To the south-west Kiglapeit is still visible, and to the west are the hills on Okak Island, including "Smith Hill," so called after Tiger Schmitt[A] of South African fame. I did not know before that the good man had also been a missionary in Labrador. How ready our forefathers were to go anywhere, everywhere, if only they could "win one soul for the Saviour!" The grandest mountain in the landscape is Cape Mugford. Yes, it does look like Salisbury Crags on a large scale, as a missionary remarked to me last year on the Calton Hill in Edinburgh. In the course of the morning Okak came in sight, visible at a much greater distance than any other station. Another hour and we had entered the bay and were approaching our anchorage. A very numerous company gathered on the pier and sang; how or what I could not hear for the rattling of our iron cable. Then the "Kitty" came off to us, bringing the missionaries Schneider, Stecker, and Schaaf, and seventeen natives. Soon after we got ashore to be welcomed also by the three sisters, the mist, which we had seen gathering round the Saddle, came in from the sea, first drawing a broad, white stripe straight across the entrance of the bay, then gradually enveloping everything. Experience of driving to and fro off this coast in such a fog makes one doubly thankful to be safe ashore, with our good ship riding at anchor in the bay. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: See "Conquests of the Cross" (an admirable Missionary Serial, published by Cassell & Co.), Part I., p. 20.] THE MOST PRIMITIVE STATION IN LABRADOR. Our dear missionaries who dwell in Labrador for the King's work have certainly not much space in their small sitting-rooms and smaller bedrooms, for each family is content with two apartments, easily warmed in winter. They meet in the common dining room for meals, the household worship or conference, and the sisters take it in turns, a week at a time, to preside over the kitchen department, where they have the aid of an Eskimo servant. Besides the ministry and the pastoral care of their congregations, the brethren share between them a vast variety of constantly recurring temporal duties, for in Labrador there is no baker, greengrocer, and butcher round the corner, and no mason, carpenter, plumber, painter or glazier to be called in when repairs are needed. The missionaries must discharge all these offices, as well as be their own gardener and smith, and on occasion doctor, dentist, chemist, or anything else that may be necessary. These general remarks hold good of mission life at every station, but in many respects Okak is the most primitive of the six, and not least in the appointments of the mission-house, like all the rest, built of wood. Glance round the two rooms kindly set apart for the English guest. They are the same size as the simple domain of any one of the three mission families resident here. The sitting-room is about fourteen feet by twelve; its panelled walls are coloured a blue-green. The floor is boarded, and over the middle a carpet is laid. In front of the sofa, the seat of honour, stands a little table, and the high back of my antique chair is within a foot of it as I write at the bureau against the opposite wall. By the way, what convenient pieces of furniture these bureaus are, especially to a visitor who has so much writing to do! The other chair is of like pattern, with seat stuffed and covered with sealskin. It stands between the door into the bedroom and the high, white stove. Of course open fire-places are unknown in Labrador, nor would they effectually warm the rooms. In the corner by the door the Eskimo bench is the regular institution. Sometimes my door opens, a native enters, sits down and smiles at me. When we have exchanged the usual greetings, "Aksunai" (be strong) and "Ahaila" (yes), my Eskimo vocabulary is nearly at an end, and I have to fetch an interpreter. A cupboard and a stool complete the inventory of my furniture. Do my readers wish to look into the bedroom about fourteen feet by six? Two little bedsteads and another bureau scarcely leave room to pass to the window. The prophet's table, chair, and candlestick are there, also a washstand, a strip of carpet by the bed, a little looking-glass, and some useful rows of hooks: I think that is all; but in my endeavour to give a correct idea of the godly simplicity of such a mission-house, I would not for anything misrepresent the hospitable care, of which at every station I have the most pleasant and grateful remembrance. Now look out of my window. High hills close in the bay where the "Harmony" lies at anchor some distance from the shore. Yesterday a strong wind made her roll even in the harbour. The mission premises stand within a few yards of the beach and the little pier runs out into the water just in front of the gate. The tide is out now, and the lighter which is bringing the stores from the ship has got aground. The mate and some Eskimoes are trying to push it off, and among the rest two women are standing in the water and pushing manfully. Their position and occupation illustrate the utility of their national female costume of trousers and boots. Skirts would be impracticable when they go out boating and fishing with their husbands or trudge through the deep snow, which lies on the ground more than half a year. Nevertheless they look odd to an unaccustomed eye. The children are comical miniatures of their fathers and mothers, and sometimes it is difficult to tell whether they are boys or girls. Do you see the station boat lying a little way from the end of the pier? She is named the "Kitty," and has an interesting history. Many years ago she brought to Okak the five survivors of the ship "Kitty" lost in the ice of Hudson's Bay. The captain and ten men escaped in the larger boat, but fell into the hands of heathen Eskimoes, who treacherously murdered them all. Those in the smaller boat rounded Cape Chudley and were driven by the wind among the islands near Okak. Here they were seen by Eskimoes belonging to the station. Emaciated and famished, they feared a cruel death, but to their astonishment the natives helped them ashore, took them into their little hut of sods, wrapped them in skins, and supplied them with food. Very beautiful to those ship-wrecked mariners sounded the singing and very solemn the prayers at the morning and evening devotions of their Eskimo deliverers. As soon as the wind permitted, the natives brought them to the station, where they were carried ashore to this mission-house and received every attention. They were in a deplorable condition and the missionaries had to perform some surgical operations on severely frost-bitten limbs. When recovered, three of them went to the south, and the other two worked their passage home in the "Harmony." Here come a number of women and children running to the pier. Several of the women have babies in their hoods. There must be something of special interest. Yes, the fishermen from the schooner are coming ashore in their boat, and I perceive their flag is flying half-mast high, indicating a death aboard their vessel. They came into the bay yesterday, piloted by some of our Eskimoes, and bringing a dying comrade. Their request for medicine was at once granted, but the poor man lay unconscious. His "mates" said he had not lacked spiritual exhortation and comfort, adding simply and humbly, "several of us know the way, sir." So they did, as was evident from further observation of, and conversation with them. They were very grateful for Christian literature.[B] Now they have come for boards to make a coffin for their dead comrade, and the Eskimo women and children watch the strangers with curiosity, but not rudely. On the whole, I think our Eskimoes very well behaved. Their Christianity has certainly improved their manners in everyday life, as well as made them remarkably devout in church. There is the church bell. Being the first Monday in the month, it is the missionary prayer-meeting. Let us go. The interior of the church is similar to that at Hopedale already described, and the congregation is more numerous. Edification predominates, but one or two amusing items may be noted. The babies are rather noisy. Should one or another get too obstreperous, however, the mother slips it into her hood behind, and marches to the door on the women's side. The worthy widow, who acts as chapel servant, opens the door and then closes it upon the little disturber of the peace. It is also amusing to a stranger to watch the organ-blower, for this humble but important service to the sanctuary has a prominent place here. The office is fulfilled by a woman, clad in Eskimo fashion, and when the hymn is given out she places one booted leg on the lever of the bellows and then, hymn book in hand, treads wind into the instrument as vigorously as she sings. During the concluding hymn a number of little heads and muffled up little bodies appear above the four or five rows of women; they belong to the babies who have already been heard and now are seen as their mothers lift them up to slip them into the hoods of their sillapaks. The babies being thus stowed away on their backs, the mothers are ready to stand up and file out at the end of the service. But, as I said before, edification predominates, and truly it is edifying to hear the hearty singing and see the reverent demeanour of all classes of this Eskimo congregation. I may here add that after being present at between thirty or forty services at our six stations, I do not remember seeing a single boy or girl talking or laughing with a neighbour in church. Had one done so, no doubt he or she would have received a timely rebuke from some native-helper. The Eskimoes at Hopedale have been known to take the Newfoundland fishermen to task for irreverence. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote B: This gives me an opportunity of recording thanks to the Drummond Tract Institute for a free supply of bright Christian publications in English, which have been distributed, and will, I trust, bear some fruit. From the Religious Tract Society and other benefactors we have also received valuable help for evangelistic efforts among English-speaking sailors or settlers on the Coast of Labrador.] WALKS IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF OKAK. The word Okak signifies "the Tongue." The station is situated on a hilly island, which for nearly half the year is practically part of the mainland, for the broad straits are bridged by thick ice. The heights around our little settlement command fine views of the surrounding mountains and fjords. The island of Cape Mugford is one of the grandest objects in the barren landscape, and the Kaumajets, a noble range, stretch away to the north of it. _Thursday, August 30th._--Had an interesting walk over moorland in search of the site of Kivalek, one of the old heathen villages, from which the population of Okak was drawn. On a grassy plain we found the roofless remains of many turf huts. They are similar to the mounds near Hopedale, already described, but larger and more numerous. One cannot but view, with a sad interest, these remnants of the former abodes of pagans without hope and without God in the world. "Let them alone, they are very happy in their own religion." So some would tell us; but was it so here? Is it so where the true light has not yet shined into pagan darkness? No, here, as everywhere in heathenism, the works of the flesh were manifest. And these, as the Bible plainly tells us, and as missionary experience abundantly confirms, are "fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness, idolatry, sorcery, enmities, strifes, jealousies, wraths, factions, divisions, parties, envyings, drunkenness, revellings, and such like." But through the power of the Gospel old things have passed away. Heathen Kivalek is uninhabited, and though the flesh yet lusteth against the Spirit in the lives of the dwellers at Christian Okak, yet, thank God, the Spirit also lusteth against the flesh, and the fruits of the Spirit are manifest there, as at the other stations. _Tuesday, September 4th._--Before we had done breakfast the flag was flying at the mizen-gaff of the "Harmony," summoning her passengers to start for Ramah. We speedily packed our baggage, but the wind died away ere the anchor could be lifted, and we did not sail out of the bay till the next morning. So some of us utilized the interval for the ascent of the Sonnenkoppe, so called because it hides the sun from Okak for several weeks of the year. High on the hill was a pond, which superstitious natives believe to be inhabited by a sea-monster left there by the flood. A larger lake is named after our Irish missionary Bramagin. Arrived at the summit, a very wide prospect over innumerable mountains and blue sea, dotted with white icebergs, rewarded our climb. Far below us we could see the mission-house, centre of blessed influence, for the Eskimo village, divided into Lower Okak by the beach, and Upper Okak on the slope beyond. Strange to think that, with the exception of one settler family in Saeglek Bay, the nearest group of fixed human habitations is at Hebron, seventy miles to the north. Easier than the ascent was the descent, over rocks and stones, beautifully variegated mosses, and low vegetation changing its hue to a brilliant red as the autumn advances. FROM OKAK TO RAMAH. _Wednesday, September 5th._--About ten o'clock this morning a strong breeze sprang up, and we speedily left behind us the friendly red-roofed mission-house at Okak. When we entered the open sea and turned northwards we passed near a grounded iceberg, curiously hollowed out by the action of the waves. The seaward face of Cape Mugford is even grander than its aspect from the heights around Okak. It seems to be a perpendicular precipice of about 2000 feet, with white base, and a middle strata of black rocks surmounted by castellated cliffs. Presently the remarkably jagged peaks on the island of Nennoktuk came out from behind the nearer headland. There's a sail to the right of it! No, she is not another schooner; she is two-masted and square rigged, and therefore the "Gleaner," the only brigantine in these waters. So the two Moravian vessels pass one another within a mile or two, the "Gleaner" on her way southward from Hebron to Okak, whence she will take Mr. Bourquin home to Nain, the "Harmony" pursuing her northward course past Hebron to Ramah. The captains, who are consigns, exchange a salute by running up their flags, but the sea is too rough to put down a boat. _Thursday, September 6th._--We have had a rough night. This morning we are off Hebron, but twenty-five miles out to sea. We have just passed "the Watchman," an island which serves as a waymark for the entrance to that station. I asked the mate, who once spent a winter there, whether the missionaries or the Eskimoes could see us from the heights near it. He replied that there was no doubt of it, but that he had looked out in this direction from those hills, where no drop of water was visible, nothing but an illimitable plain of ice stretching far beyond where we are now sailing. _Sunday, 9th._--Safe at Ramah, thank God, and not out in the fog, which now envelopes sea and land. The last two days have been a trial of patience. We have seen the entrance to this Nullatatok Bay all the time, and longed to reach the desired haven, yet have not been able, owing to calms and contrary currents. This Labrador coast becomes ever bolder and grander as one sails northward. Here the snowy mountains are quite Alpine in appearance. This morning the thick mist hides all but the base of these magnificent hills, but the enormous rocky masses, rising so quickly from the water's edge into the heights veiled from us, give some idea of their grandeur. Our captain is, indeed, well acquainted with their aspect or he would not have ventured to enter this bay under such circumstances. "RAMARSUK" (NEAT LITTLE RAMAH). [Illustration] Missionaries all over the world are perhaps too fond of multiplying Scripture names of their stations. In our own fields we have already three Bethanys and three Bethesdas. We should have had three Ramahs too, had not the natives of Australia themselves greatly improved the appellation of theirs by adding to it a syllable meaning "home" or mother's place. It seemed so homelike to the Christian Aborigines, who moved thither from Ebenezer, the older station, that they at once called it Ramahyuck (Ramah, our home). Perhaps as the Ramah on the Moskito Coast is also known as Ramah Key, the northern station in Labrador, founded in 1871 to mark the cenutry of that mission, should abide plain, simple "Ramah," otherwise the above combination would, I understand, have suited the genius of the language, and its significance. "Neat little Ramah" certainly expresses the character of the lonely missionary settlement. The village, if one may dignify this small group of human dwellings by that name, stands on a little plain evidently won by degrees from the sea for the successive beaches can be traced. The mission premises, the old house, the new house, and the church with its little belfry, are one continuous building facing the bay southward, and exactly one hundred feet in length. Behind are the store buildings, and the low turf huts of the natives stretch westward along the strand. They are so like grassy mounds, that from any distance one would ask, "But where do the Eskimoes live?" The missionary dwelling is primitive enough, even as enlarged. During our brief stay here, I have the honour of occupying the original house, built about twenty years ago. It is but a room divided by a curtain, but it served the first missionary couple here as dwelling-room, bedroom, church, and everything else. What a grand view there is from the window over the deep land-locked bay, in which the "Harmony" is lying at the only available anchorage. No one would guess that it would take more than half-an-hour to row across the smooth water, or in winter to walk over its frozen surface to the opposite shore, where, as on this side, precipitous bluffs rise almost from the water's edge. All nature around is on a grand scale, and those snow-clad mountains, which look over the shoulders of the nearer cliffs, are quite Alpine in effect. Climb to the dizzy heights, which tower threateningly six or seven hundred feet above the station and you find you are not half way to the summit of the nearest hill. It must, indeed, be a magnificent view from thence towards the great mountains in the interior, whose everlasting snows cover long ridges at least five or six thousand feet in height. Seawards, the Ramah Hill, a remarkable perpendicular rock, surmounts the nearer cliffs. It looks as if, standing on the crag, one could drop a stone into the water at its base, 1000 feet below. All this is grand, but grander still is the quiet, unconscious devotion of the worthy missionary pair, who live in this lonely bay, tending the little Christian congregation already gathered, and seeking the salvation of the heathen Eskimoes to the north. Of these there are perhaps sixty or seventy dwelling between Ramah and Cape Chudley; the northern point of Labrador. I am heartily glad Mr. and Mrs. Schulze have now a helper in Mr. Eckhardt, and trust the little missionary band will have increasing joy in souls won for the Lord. [Illustration: RAMAH.] It will be remembered that the fourth morning after leaving Okak we entered Nullatatok Bay through a thick mist. Beautiful days followed, showing the Ramah scenery to advantage, but the weather was rather wintry. Snow fell once or twice, though not in sufficient quantities to lie, and one morning we had ice on the bay. Yet at midday the sun was quite hot. The arrival of the "Harmony" at Ramah on Sunday (September 9th, 1888), interfered with the usual morning worship. We passengers came ashore for the afternoon service, Mr. Schulze read the Litany and then Mr. Dam addressed the congregation in Eskimo, centreing nearly all the black eyes in eager attention to the Word preached. The chapel being small, the people were rather near to the benches occupied by the missionary brethren and sisters, and this proximity was evident to the organs of smell. Several being away at their fishing places, there were only about a dozen men and boys and rather more women and girls with an extra sprinkling of lively and healthy-looking babies. Most were characterized by an air of independence amusingly illustrated at the close by the oldest man, who asked aloud when the visitor from London was going to speak to them. [Illustration: TENTS AT RAMAH.] And what of the spiritual life of this little congregation? In reply I will give neither my own impressions, nor the missionary's testimony to his flock, apt sometimes to be influenced by his estimate of what they should be. I will call in a casual witness. Last year Eugenia, a Christian Eskimo from Hopedale, visited all the congregations, travelling to and fro by dog-sledge with the post-sledges. She remarked to her missionary: "The Ramah and Okak people, those are the best in the country. At Ramah I was quite shamed by their desire after truth. They said, 'You know these things; teach us, we are so stupid.'" AN ESKIMO VILLAGE. Now for a visit to our Eskimoes in their own dwellings, as the two missionaries are ready to accompany me and interpret for me. It may not be a pleasant expedition in every respect, as within and without there is a pervading fishy smell. Rows of drying fish hang on frames high enough to be out of reach of the dogs, who sniff about everywhere, sometimes climbing into the boats to see if any fish be left. Those red rows are trout, the white ones are cod. When we arrived here last Sunday, two families were living in skin tents. One has now taken down the temporary abode and removed into the more permanent winter residence, a low turf hut. We will enter the other tent. Frederick, the owner, is not at home, but his wife, Susannah, is there with her two children. Whilst she inquires after her former missionaries and sends a grateful greeting to the widow of the late Samuel Weitz, take the opportunity to glance around the tent. It is more spacious and better furnished than one would think. We can all three stand upright in the middle of it, which is not possible in every house. Deer skins spread on a raised platform at the further end make two beds. In that open box are hymn-book, liturgy-book, and some volumes of the Eskimo Bible. Next it are a set of very fair cups and saucers, but it seems incongruous for the china to stand on the mud floor. Various utensils lie about, but there is neither chair nor table. We cannot stay long, however, for we are going to visit every house in the place. The first house is Gottlob's. He came hither from Hebron, and has enjoyed a better education than the Ramah people, most of whom grew up in heathenism. His wife's baptismal name is Lydia; as a heathen, she was Auinasuak. This is one of the best huts, but the best are poor inside as well as outside, compared to many log-houses I have seen further south. Through the low porch, without any remonstrance from the dogs, we reach a lower door. It is hot inside. Yes, there is a stove to the left, and it appears to be the only article of furniture in the room entered. Behind the partition is a very different chamber. It is furnished with the usual couches spread with skins, and on the edge of one of these, Lydia is seated. She does not rise to greet her visitors, nor does it occur to her to offer a seat. What shall she offer? A box? As with the rest of those visited, her welcome takes the form of a good-humoured laugh. One or two objects in her room testify to a refinement unusual for this station. A guitar hangs on the wall near a cage with a bird in it, and against the partition stands a piano. Fancy such an instrument in a low turf hut, even though it be but an old square piano! Here, as elsewhere, we speak a few words of kindly greeting and spiritual interest, and then take leave with "Aksunai." The occupant of the next hut is not at home. This is indicated by two great slabs of slate, one at the entrance to his porch and one over his front (and only) window. These are more for protection against prowling dogs than dishonest men. Now we come to the dwelling of the oldest couple, William and Hulda, whose heathen names were Nochasak and Aksuana. They are, respectively, fifty-five and fifty, but look older. Two sons live with them, of whom the elder is married. Both parents are at home, and the daughter-in-law with her first baby in her arms. Here first I notice the curious lamp, a sort of dish hollowed out in a soft stone. The wick is a kind of moss which floats in seal-oil, and gives a feeble flame apparently more for warmth than for light, for the houses are not dark. Next to William's stand the roofless remains of an unoccupied dwelling, which may serve to show how these huts are built. It is a square enclosure three or four feet in height; the back is dug out of the sloping bank, the front wall is built up with turf. Put a roof over this and your house will be made. Two upright posts in the middle, about seven feet in height, will serve as the supports for the frame of your roof, which will also be covered with turf. The low door must be in front, facing the bay, and, both for warmth and as a shelter for the dogs, must invariably be protected by a low covered porch. Whether he be dwelling in his turf hut or sheltering in some snow hut, quickly built for a night away from home, the Eskimo enters his abode by a little tunnel, at the further end of which is the door. Just above this comes the window-frame, sometimes on a slant, better perpendicular. The window of his turf hut is semi-transparent seal bladder unless the owner of the mansion can afford and obtain glass. Now your house is complete, but lacks interior fittings. If you are an Eskimo, you do not want many. Your two poles supporting the roof may help you to partition off the sleeping places, either with boards or with curtains. These are raised about a foot from the ground, and the edge of the bed is the general seat. Let us continue our visits to the inhabited houses, one next the other, in an irregular row. Outside them the children are playing about and seem to enjoy life. Here and there one may see a sledge, or a kayak, the skin-covered boat such as is used, by the men. The larger umiak, or women's boat, is now scarcely met with in Labrador. There are one or two light wooden skeleton frames of kayaks, but most are tightly covered with white smooth skins, cleverly sewn together by the women. Look at this one lying on the grass; it is about fifteen feet long, but you can lift the end of it quite easily. The owner paddled home in it this morning from his fishing-place at the head of the fjord, and sold fifty-two trout off the top of it to the captain, as he passed the "Harmony." His bone-pointed harpoon and a hook with a long handle are strapped on top of the canoe. Beside it lies his paddle, which the Eskimo wields so deftly and silently that even a seal may fail to detect his swift approach. Its blades at both ends are beautifully finished off with bone. I see his gun is carelessly left in the round man-hole in which he sits when afloat. It may be loaded; I hope the children will let it alone. Passing Daniel's empty hut, for he and his family are away fishing, we call on Ikkaujak and Sakkearak (now John and Ernestine), and then on Matthew and his wife Verona, who not long ago were known as Swanzi and Akkusane. Matthew is interested to show and explain the weapons of the chase. His racket-shaped snow-shoes are the shortest I ever saw. Longer ones, unless like the Norwegian skydder, would be unpractical among these mountains. His harpoons hang on the wall next his gun. The blunt one, pointed with a walrus tooth, is used in the body of a seal, but the iron-pointed one is needed when the animal's head alone is above the water or the ice. Both are cleverly put together with wood, bone, and thongs, so arranged that when necessary head and haft easily come apart. Some of these Ramah Eskimoes are perhaps 5 ft. 10 in. in height, and most of them look robust and strong; but little Paul's door is very low, and I must bend double to enter his hut. His heathen name was Simigak and his wife's Ikkinek when they came from Nachvak in 1881. He is not at home, but his Adolfine gives us a welcome in Eskimo fashion. There is a stove in the corner, and on it a pot with some pieces of salmon in it. A few trout are strung up to the roof. I notice a clock in the corner, but am told that it is broken. Perhaps Paul can mend it; at any rate, while I was at Hopedale some Newfoundland fishermen entrusted their ship clock to an Eskimo for repairs. The last hut in the village is Frederick's. Some of his goods are here, but most are in the tent where we found his wife and family. A few pictures are pasted on his walls. Many houses at other stations are almost papered with pages from the _Graphic_ and _Illustrated London News_. What is your impression of Eskimo abodes now you have seen their interiors? Well, they are not prepossessing to a European with the ordinary notions of what belongs to the necessaries of life, yet they are airier and cleaner than I had expected from their exterior aspect. I am assured that there is much Christian life in those queer homes, and that in many a heart there a "candle of the Lord" has been lighted, which shines for the illumination of the dark North. If honoured with an invitation to a meal in some Eskimo hut, I would rather it were not at Ramah. In the southern stations there are some tidy log-houses, where one need not hesitate to sit down to table with Christian Eskimoes, who have learnt cleanly and tidy habits from intercourse with and the example of missionaries. Here there are no tables; the people have scarcely learnt the use of forks, and are apt to handle the knives in eating in a somewhat uncouth fashion. The meat is taken in the teeth and cut off near the mouth, so that the upward motion of the blade seems to endanger the nose at every bite, especially in the case of very small children with a very big knife. Do my readers want to know about the gardens? There are none. Gardening is no employment for the Eskimoes; the severity of the climate and their migratory habits forbid it. Nor do they seem to have much taste for flowers, though they see them in the missionaries' gardens. They appreciate the vegetables grown there, but they do not care for the trouble of raising them for themselves. ON THE BEACH AT RAMAH. Returning along the beach we see Matthew's skin-covered canoe lying upside down on the grass, and we induce him to give us a specimen of kayak navigation. He picks up the end of his light craft, runs round so as to bring it right end foremost to the sea, and pushes it over the beach till three-fourths or more are in the water. Then he steps lightly over the flat top, paddle in hand, sets himself deftly in the man-hole, and in a moment he is afloat, paddling to and fro with quiet powerful strokes. Returning at full speed, he runs his kayak, which only draws a few inches, straight on to the shore; stepping lightly over the front of it, he stands dry shod on the beach and drags his kayak out of the water. Further along a little group of Eskimoes have just finished unloading a boat, which has brought goods from the ship. Let us join them, for I want to see a whip, such as they use in driving the dog-sledge. My request is interpreted and one of the natives runs to fetch his. Truly it is a formidable instrument. The wooden handle is only a few inches in length, but the lash is more than thirty feet. It is made of many thongs of stout, tough sealskin sown together, and tapering till a single thong goes off almost to a point. The owner gives us a specimen of its powers by cracking it, but I am glad he does not practice on anything living. Stepping backwards from us, he drags the whip out to its full length, so as to be sure he is beyond reach of us, then deftly throws the lash behind him. Now a rapid movement of the hand and arm sends the long lash back towards us, and a quick turn of the wrist makes the end of it crack like a pistol. I have purchased that implement, but I doubt if any amount of practice would enable me to perform the feat of cracking it with safety to myself and the bystanders. To the east of the mission-house there is a pretty waterfall about ten or twelve feet in depth. It is the last leap of a mountain brook, which in summer flows swiftly down the deep ravine, which it has cut. Higher up, a part of the pure, clear stream is diverted as the water supply for the mission-house and the native huts. As at Hopedale and Zoar, this runs off a trough about a hundred yards from the house. At Nain and Okak it is conducted straight into the kitchen, when desired. In winter every station is liable to the freezing of the ordinary supply, and then water must be fetched from a distance, or if none can be found, snow or ice must be melted. Icicles are hanging from the trough here to-day, for though the sun is warm now, there were four or five degrees of frost last night, and the wind is still keen. In spring, when a thaw sets in, this little stream is a source of danger to Ramah. Its deep channel is filled with snow, and the pent-up torrent, seeking an outlet, is apt to escape from its usual bounds and start an avalanche down the steep declivity. When the thaw becomes general, there is a grand series of leaping cataracts and roaring rapids in that ravine. [Illustration: AN ESKIMO IN HIS KAYAK.] A FAITHFUL NATIVE HELPER. I would that young Gottlob, now living at Ramah, might turn out as good a man as his late namesake. Let me take you to old Gottlob's grave, and there tell you the story of himself and his family. The little "God's acre" is scarcely an acre, and it should be enclosed. Flat slaty stones, suitable for wall, lie around in abundance, brought down by the avalanche, which a year or two ago endangered the station, but happily did no more damage than destroy the powder-house and devastate the burial-ground. Kegs of powder and tombstones were carried far out on to the ice of the bay. Most of the latter were recovered unbroken and replaced, and among them the one of which we are in search. Here it is, a simple square slate tablet of touching interest. The Eskimo inscription informs us that Gottlob was born in 1816. He was the child of heathen parents at Nachvak, and grew up in paganism. Presently he came under the influence of the Gospel and was baptized at Okak, exchanging his heathen name of Nikkartok for the Christian name which his subsequent life adorned. __________________ | | | GOTTLOB. | | | | unulilanktok | | | | 1816. | | | | angerarpok | | | | 14 Septbr. 1878. | |__________________| In 1867 he joined Daniel of Hopedale in an endeavour to evangelize the northern heathen, among whom his childhood had been spent. After this he settled with his family at Hebron, but when Mr. and Mrs. Weitz commenced the station at Ramah in 1871 Gottlob volunteered to accompany them. He and his family proved useful helpers of the missionary effort. His wife Marianna was also born a heathen, and named Nukupjuna. She is now a native helper at Hebron. His daughter was exceedingly valuable as the schoolmistress, and when an organist was needed Nicholina fulfilled the office to the best of her ability by playing the melody with one finger on the very little harmonium, which still does duty at Ramah. That was a simple service rendered in simplicity of spirit, yet in such a climate possibly attended with suffering. A missionary sister lately resident at Hebron told me she had often played the organ there with a blister at the end of each finger, for the intense cold made the touch of the keys like contact with red-hot iron. But to return to Gottlob. For seven years he lived and laboured among his countrymen, from whom he had at times to bear obloquy on account of his Christian fidelity. He died September 14th, 1878, and this is the comprehensive record of him in the Ramah Church book: "In life and death Gottlob placed his whole trust in the crucified Saviour, in whom he found pardon, peace, and joy." LEAVING RAMAH. _Friday, September 14th._--Came aboard last night for an early start; weighed our anchor about 6 o'clock this morning. The wind was light and several of the natives towed us out of the bay in the ship's boats. Ere we started the resident missionaries brought their last batch of letters for Europe, and bade us farewell. They had been writing most of the night. Now the good folk will rest after the excitement and bustle of shiptime. It will be a year before they have visitors again, unless it be a missionary brother from Hebron or Mr. MacLaren, the Hudsons Bay Company's agent at Nachvak. It was most interesting to move slowly out of the bay, passing point after point, each headland opening up new vistas of grand, snowy mountains at the heads of the bays southwards, whilst northwards the great cliff of the Ramah Hill looks down upon us. Having brought the "Harmony" round the first point into more open water, where she can better avail herself of the occasional light puffs of wind, our Eskimoes came aboard for their breakfasts and presently rowed away in their boats. They bade us a hearty "Aksunai" and went down the side evidently well pleased with their wages. Nor were they sorry to leave the ship, which was beginning to roll a little. Accustomed as they are to brave high waves in their kayaks or flats, they nevertheless felt the motion of the vessel and were afraid of seasickness. Before starting John had to splice his oar with a strip of seal hide. I watched him put it round the handle, then holding on to the oar with both hands get the rope in his teeth and pull his lashing tight with all the strength of his back. So the teeth served him at each turn. SUNSET, MOONRISE AND AURORA BOREALIS. Now we have got fairly out to sea. The light land breeze has ceased and we are lying becalmed. What a sunset there is over that Alpine range of snowy mountains! Yonder dark hills to the north of Ramah are glowing as if they were red hot through and through. True this is a glory that fadeth, yet the cloudless sky long retains the brilliant hues, and the seaward horizon has a broad red band shading off above and below into blue. Still more beautiful is the paler pink reflection, tinting the smooth surface of the water on all sides of us save the west. There the sun has just gone down, and the lingering glories of the sky are reflected on the rippling waves in a wonderful network of bright yellow and deep orange. Look southward again, now that the darkness is beginning to tell on the scene. Over yonder great iceberg the rising moon sends a path of silvery light across the water, now a broad waving band, now innumerable sparks and circlets dancing like fairy lights upon the gently swelling sea. All this is beautiful, but what follows is a rarer sight. "Mr. La Trobe, the northern lights." "Thank you, captain, I will be on deck in a moment." I have seen many pictures of the Aurora Borealis, and we have already had some fine displays during this voyage, but I never witnessed anything like this. Truly the heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament sheweth His handiwork! Undulating bands of bright white light are swiftly scintillating across the sky, now curving upwards from the horizon, now stretching in broad stripes right over the zenith. Sometimes the Aurora is stationary and the smooth surface of the sea reflects the steady light; in the next moment it is moving rapidly all over the heavens. The swifter the motion the more brilliant the red or pink or green, which at times fringes the lower edge of the broad white bands of light. _Monday, September 17th._--Early this morning I went on deck and found we were a considerable distance outside the Kangertluksoak Fjord. We were much nearer the entrance for the greater part of yesterday, but a strong contrary wind kept us tacking to and fro the whole day, till the darkness made it impossible to reach Hebron, which lies in a little side bay to the north of the great fjord. There were many large icebergs around us, and we passed quite close to some floating fragments, which proved to be great lumps of ice, necessitating a turn of the helm to avoid collision with them. It was evident from the number of these, that a berg had recently broken up. I was told that yesterday a large piece fell off one near us with a crack like a cannon shot. I would like to see an iceberg turn over, as they sometimes do, but I do not wish to be too near it in that case. Last night the wind fell and the currents drifted our little vessel perilously near one of the great bergs, which was probably aground. It was an anxious time for those on the watch, but the Lord preserved us. The headland to the north of us is Cape Uivak. Uivak is simply the Eskimo word for promontory, and the names of Cape Webuck on this coast and Quebec in Canada, are evidently derived from it. There is a board on that little island, and through the glass one can read the betters S.F. What does that stand for? Well, that identifies "Friday Island," so-called after Sophia Freitag, the wife of a worthy missionary. Once the captain of a steamer read it S.E., so he steered north-west, and safely entered Hebron Bay. He afterwards congratulated our captain on having put up so good a way-mark. To-day the wind has veered round a little to the north, which enables us, at last, to run straight in at the mouth of Kangertluksoak Fjord, past three great icebergs, which stand in a row as if to defend the entrance. The sailors call them "men-of-war." Our rapid progress soon brings us in sight of the mission premises, whose red roofs stand out against the bare rocky background of the steep hillside, tinted a warm red-brown by the autumn hues of the mosses. There is the church with its cupola in a line with the long one-storied mission-house. The store buildings and the boat-house are nearer the landing stage. Some skilful tacks bring us into the Hebron Bay, and ere long the "Harmony" lies at her anchorage, here farther from the station than at any other place on the coast. What a lively scene! Ten or a dozen boats have already came round us--these Eskimoes are bold sailors--and our anchor is scarcely down before we are boarded in friendly fashion by numerous natives. Yonder white boat is the "Harp," and it brings four good gentlemen in sealskin coats. The patriarch of the band is our venerable Mr. Kretschmer, who came to Labrador in 1852. This year he leaves his loved land after thirty-six years of service, during which he has been home once, twenty-seven years ago. He is followed by the missionaries Kahle, Wirth, and Hlawatschek, who report their wives and children all well. Ere long we visitors, Mr. and Mrs. Dam and myself, are ready to go ashore with them. Landing from the boat, we climb the hill to the mission-house, farther from the shore than any other. The sisters and children welcome us at the door, and for the sixth time I enjoy the hospitality of a Labrador mission family. The chapter entitled "A busy week at Nain" would serve as a general description of the time spent at this or any of the stations. Conferences with the missionary band, daily services in the Church or the house, the special meeting for my address to the congregation, visits to and from the natives, inspection of the mission premises and their surroundings, pleasant strolls in the intervals of daily duty and the routine of a mission-house, one or two more extensive walks on the hills around, profitable evenings in the mission circle, all these made eight days at Hebron pass very quickly, whilst as ever I was lovingly cared for by my hosts. Hebron is, to use the expressive term of the Newfoundland fishermen, a "blusterous" place. It is beyond the northern limit of trees on this part of the coast, and the wind sweeps down the bare, rocky slopes with great force. This is the reason for the exceptional construction of the mission premises. THE VISITING MISSIONARIES' LEVEE. My dear fellow-travellers from Hopedale used to be stationed at Hebron, and it is astonishing to see how affectionately these people gather around them. Their temporary abode here is the schoolroom, and it is just as well that it is a good size and easily accessible. Look in upon them at any hour of the day, and you will probably find that they have Eskimo visitors. Last Sunday they held quite a levee, for men, women, and children flocked in after service to greet them. Come and make acquaintance with some of these Eskimo brethren and sisters. Several are introduced as relatives of Abraham and Tobias, who visited Germany and France in 1880. In their letters home the poor fellows confessed that there was far more sea between Labrador and Europe than they had any idea of, before they and some heathen from Nachvak were induced by an agent of Hagenbeck's in Hamburg to allow themselves to be brought over and exhibited. They were very home-sick for Labrador, but they never returned, for one after another was taken fatally ill. The last survivors died in Paris early in 1881. The Christians among them did credit to their profession, had their daily worship, exercised a good influence over the heathen members of the party, and died in simple trust in Jesus as their Saviour. Sarah needs no introduction. I had heard of her before reaching Hebron, and one cannot be in the place long without making her acquaintance. She is a woman of energy and resource. Last year she lost her good husband Hieronymus, the oldest native helper at Hebron. She continues, however, to be a leader in the concerns of the community, and her influence is good. She is a prominent chapel servant, and a leading singer in the choir. To be sure, tact is needed to keep Sarah in good humour, and direct her energies into useful channels. She has a turf house for winter occupation, but when I visited her she was living in her summer abode--a log hut. The interior was very tidy. In the outer room I noticed a harmonium; and in the inner one, besides a table and some chairs, there were pictures and ornaments and a sewing machine, on which she kindly did some work for me. Seated near us, among the numerous visitors in the schoolroom, are a mother and daughter, whose names are already well known to us. That dark-looking old woman is Marianna, the widow of Gottlob, whose grave we saw at Ramah. She is now a valued native helper here. The younger person is Nicholina, bright and strong in mind and heart though rather bent and crippled in body. Here, as formerly at Ramah, she serves as school mistress, and I am told has considerable capacity both for imparting knowledge and for maintaining discipline. She stands in regular correspondence with several friends of the mission in Europe. She had something to tell them in her last letters, for not long ago she and her mother with eight other Eskimoes were nearly drowned in the bay about where the "Harmony" lies at anchor. A sudden gust of wind capsized the sailing boat, in which they were coming home from their fishing place. One good feature of the Eskimo character is their presence of mind in danger. There was no panic, though the boat sank instantly. Happily she was towing a little flat. One of the men promptly cut the rope, and so all were brought safe to land, some in the flat, others hanging on to its sides. Old Marianna was one of the latter, and when her numbed hands lost their hold, they tied her wrists to the gunwale of the little boat. She has recovered from the shock and exposure, but like the rest has been impoverished, for they lost their all in the boat, which went down. Thomas, Enoch, and John are the three native helpers. Since the death of Hieronymus, Thomas has been the oldest in the office, but, as he feels, has not yet sufficient influence or force of character to lead his countrymen at critical times. He is, however, a humble child of God, and growing in grace as well as experience. John has a little speech to make, and here is the literal translation of it:--"Sometimes when we are busy, we do not always use the Scriptures daily. Mostly we do. The distress of our body often causes us to seek the Word of God. If the everlasting Gospel were well considered by all, there would be visible love." A SLEDGE DRIVE. _September 22nd, 1888._--My good friends are determined that I shall see a real sledge and team of dogs start and travel. So after dinner the sledge is brought to the gate of the mission premises. It consists of a couple of iron-bound wooden runners about fifteen feet long and eight inches high, across which many cross-pieces of wood are secured with thongs. Nails would soon be pulled out or broken off on a journey over hummocky ice or uneven ground. First the sledge is laden with everything necessary for a winter journey. A great white bear skin is folded and laid along the front, making a comfortable seat. That bruin must have been an enormous creature. The box comes about the middle; it contains the traveller's traps. Behind it some coats, a gun, a harpoon (we may see a seal if we go on the ice), some wood (we shall want a fire for camping out, and I hope matches have not been forgotten), the coats of the men, a sleeping sack and a pair of sealskin trousers. Those two oval frames like a large lawn tennis bat without handle, are a pair of snow-shoes. All these traps are secured by a sealskin thong passing over the ends of the cross-boards, and pulled tight. It would not do to lose anything on the way. Now seat yourself there in front of the box. But the dogs are not attached to the sledge. _Seat yourself_; they are all harnessed. Each has a band of sealskin round his neck and another round his body, and to this simple harness is attached the separate trace or thong by which he does his share in pulling the sledge. In one moment the sledge rope will be passed through the loops of all their traces, and they will be off almost before you can say "Hoo-eet," for they, like the Eskimoes standing round, seem to enjoy the fun. We are supposed to start southward for Okak, and to come home, by way of Ramah. I seat myself and get a good hold, with my back against the box and my feet well off the ground. "Hoo-eet!" The dogs are directed by the voice, and that is the word used to start them. Shout "Owk, Owk," and they will run to the right, or "Ra, Ra, Ra," and you will soon find yourself going to the left. Say, "Ah, Ah," and your dogs will lie down. Now you have all your directions so "Hoo-eet," we are off, gliding easily over the grass, for snow and ice there is none this warm autumn day after a night when there were two or three degrees of frost. So it is rather hard for the dogs, when we turn the corner of the mission enclosure and are going a bit up-hill through the long grass. Thomas, one of the Eskimoes, is running in front of the dogs in his sealskin boots with the fur outside--a handsome pair. Enoch is minding the sledge, now running beside me, now throwing himself down on it in front of me, or lifting the front end of the runners from right to left, or _vice versâ_ to turn a corner or avoid a stone. "Owk, Owk," he shouts as we wish to turn the corner to the _right_. A third Eskimo, who is running between us and the dogs with the whip, takes up the sound and the dogs obey. But as it seems hard for them through the long grass, I get off and run after till we come to the corner by the church. It will go easier along the path to the _left_. I seat myself again and the driver cries "Ra, Ra, Ra." Away we go. It is well I was wary of the stones, another inch and that rock just passed would have given me a sore foot or a sprained ankle. "Owk, Owk." We leave the path on our left and turn away to the _right_ over rocks and moss. The ground is broken but the long runners of the sledge make it go fairly smoothly. "Ah, Ah," or as Thomas pronounces it long drawn, "Aw, Aw." At this sound the dogs stop and lie down, with their tails curled over their backs. We are supposed to have arrived at a halting place where we shall camp out for the night. The wood is unloaded; to make the fire would be the first thing and then perhaps a snow-house for a shelter. The sleeping sack is ready to be my night's couch on the floor. Meanwhile, the dogs lie quite contentedly, and we use the first opportunity to count them. There are fourteen in harness and two are running beside them of their own accord, entering into the spirit of the thing in spite of their fear of that formidable whip. Nine of these useful animals belong to the mission. Their names are Yauerfritze, Purtzelmutter, Purtzel, Caro, Pius, Fanny (an exceptionally friendly Eskimo dog), Ammi, Kakkortak and Takkolik. The others belong to different natives. [Illustration: TRAVELLING IN LABRADOR.] Our imaginary night has been short enough, and we are supposed to be preparing for a new start. "Look, see," says Thomas to me, and pours some water on the iron of the runners, for the sledge has meanwhile been turned upside down. Were it winter, that water would at once freeze on the iron and form a splendid smooth surface for the sledge to run on over ice or snow. "Hoo-eet." The sledge has been turned right again and repacked, and the dogs get up. No, there is nothing left behind. "Hoo-eet;" away we go. It is astonishing how widely the dogs spread themselves in pulling. However, the course of the sledge, as it follows them, depends more on the nimble drivers. See yonder dog is getting to the wrong side of that post, by way of illustrating the difficulties of travelling through a wood. Hebron is beyond the northern limit of trees, but our missionaries at Hopedale have often great trouble in passing through forests of stunted fir-trees. The front dogs also have got their traces foul of the two other posts in our forest of three trees without any branches. So we are brought to a standstill until, all the harness being cleared, we are ready for a fresh start down that slope to the right. "Owk, Owk," is the word, but at the brook our wild career is brought to a sudden stop. Our specimen sledge trip would not be complete without an accident. The bed of the little stream proves just too wide for the sledge to clear it, and the points of the runners have bored into the further bank. The thong of the sledge has broken in two places with the jerk, and the dogs who were pulling with might and main are suddenly released. Four or five have been caught by our nimble Eskimoes, but the majority are off home. Were the station three hours or three days distant and we were left in the snow it would be a bit different to the present situation. The station is about three minutes distant, and we have time for a good laugh before our dogs are caught and brought back. What has become of the passenger? Oh, he is unhurt; the shock did not even unseat him. There he sits on the sledge, which stretches like a little bridge from bank to bank. It is freed from the earth, and the dogs are again attached, after a fierce little quarrel between two or three of them, just to keep up their credit as quarrelsome creatures. Order and obedience restored, "Hoo-eet," away we go homeward, but at a more moderate pace, for it is uphill. By the mission-house the road bends to the left, "Ra, Ra, Ra." At the corner a number of women are standing and laughing, and as the sledge approaches, they ran, according to their usual custom, and throw themselves on to it, so the poor dogs finish their course with an extra load, and are quite willing to lie down in obedience to the final command, "Ah, Ah." If you were on a real journey, you would learn by experience to avoid that interjection in your conversation, for the weary animals would at once take the permission to stop and lie down. Now the dogs are released from their harness and run away to their respective homes with glee. The sledge is unloaded, and its contents carried off by their owners. "When did you leave Ramah?" says the missionary to Thomas. "Yesterday morning," replies the good fellow, keeping up the joke with thorough appreciation. I give them my hearty thanks, "Nakungmék," for Thomas and Co. have not only given me a great pleasure, but provided interest for young friends at home, to whom I may detail my winter journey on a sunny autumn afternoon at Hebron. A real midwinter Labrador sledge journey, with the thermometer far below zero of Fahrenheit and the wind blowing hard and cold, is not so pleasant, especially if the dogs be quite invisible because of the driving snow. Should the traveller then be pitched off the sledge, and the drivers not perceive his absence at once, they may lose one another for ever. But God has watched over our travellers by sea and land, by ice and snow on many an errand of spiritual import to the settlers, or journey from station to station. MY LAST SUNDAY IN LABRADOR. _Sunday, September 23rd._--Morning prayers in German with the house-family. Our venerable senior missionary read the texts and the Gospel for the day, and gave out suitable hymns, which were well sung by the company of brethren, and sisters, and children assembled in the dining-room around the long table. Breakfast is enlivened with cheerful, godly converse, and shortly after we join the Eskimo congregation in the first service of the day. I like this church as well as any in the land. It is proportionate, simple, neat and light. Mr. Wirth takes his place behind the table, and, what with residents and visitors, there is a goodly row of missionary brethren and sisters to right and left of him, facing the Eskimo congregation. Among the latter the white faces of a settler family, the Metcalfs from Napartok Bay, are conspicuous. Though the language be strange, I have already grown familiar with the liturgic forms of worship and can follow either the "Church Litany," familiar to one in English and German, or the admirable responsive compilation of tests known as the Catechism Litany. The latter is chosen this morning, and it is quite possible that a negro congregation in Surinam, or a Kaffir congregation in South Africa may be using the same form of sound words, for it exists both in Negro English and in Kaffir. At 10 we are again summoned to the house of prayer by the bell. Mr. Dam is the preacher, and is evidently moved by the thought that this may be his last sermon in Eskimo for many a day. A hymn and a prayer, fervent and brief, precede the giving out of his text, Rev. i. 12-20. The sermon is listened to attentively by old and young, of whom considerably more than a hundred are present. Old Zippora is, as ever, at her place at the end of the bench. Blind though she is, she often walks miles to church over uneven ground or hummocky ice, when away at the fishing places. She seems to take her part in the worship of the sanctuary thoroughly, whether in response or sacred song, or as listener with animated face and at times an overflowing heart. While I am looking, her fingers seek the corner of her apron, and lifting it she wipes the tears from her sightless eyes. But the eloquent flow of words, mostly unintelligible to me, comes to a close. A hymn is sung, and the New Testament blessing pronounced. Then the procession from the missionary benches files out through the schoolroom into the mission-house and the people disperse to their homes. Mere mounds they look as I see them from my window. But they are Christian homes, whence rises prayer and praise. I was mistaken. The congregation had not dispersed, for the choir wished to give me a specimen of their powers. I returned to the church and listened to a fair selection of sacred music, including a long piece (Psalm xcv. 6, 7), well sustained by a choir of about a dozen men and women, and two or three instrumentalists. When they ceased, I spoke a few words of thanks and farewell. Dinner was as usual very literally "the mid-day meal." Soup was followed by a joint of reindeer venison, which was a treat to me, as beef or mutton would be to my hosts. The vegetables had been grown in the mission garden. After coffee I went over to the ship for the afternoon service aboard, rowed by four Eskimoes, Thomas, Clement, one of the organists, Daniel, and Heinrich. In their endeavour to converse with me they brought out some amusing scraps of English, and little Heinrich informed me his name in my language was "Harry." Whilst I was preaching to the crew there was an afternoon meeting ashore. I returned for our solemn farewell service with the missionary band. Here, as at each previous station, this was an occasion of deep feeling. My parting word was founded on (2 Corinthians xiii. 11) "Finally, brethren, farewell. Be perfect, be of good comfort, be of one mind, live in peace; and the God of love and peace shall be with you." So I took leave of "brethren," who are faithfully serving their Lord in this cold country. Truly here is the patience and the faith of the saints. The God of all grace bless each missionary family, comfort and strengthen them in all their work, and perfect that which concerneth them and their people! How wonderfully He can and does help, I have experienced on this voyage and visit to Labrador, and so at the close of my visitation record my humble praise. MUSIC ON THE WATER. After the evening meal we went down to the shore and embarked. The people crowded the pier, and many a hand was stretched out with a hearty "Aksunai." As we rowed away they were singing, and when their voices sounded fainter across the water Thomas began of his own accord the following hymn in his own language:-- "O Lord! lift up thy countenance Upon thy Church, and own us thine; Impart to each thy peace divine, And blessings unto all dispense. 'Tis our desire to follow thee, And from experience to proclaim Salvation in thy blessed name: O bless thy servants' ministry." The other Eskimoes rowing our boat sang with him, until we reached the "Harmony." We were having a quiet time of cheerful converse in the cabin, when the sound of singing again called us on deck. A procession of eight or ten boats, the bow of one almost touching the stern of the other, was rowing slowly round and round the ship, and the people in them were singing sweet Christian songs to the measured beat of the oars. Sarah was in the first boat, evidently the leader and director of the proceedings.[C] Hymn after hymn, in well-sustained parts, sounded beautifully over the still water, and not till it was getting quite dark did they row away, singing "Victoria," _i.e._ "God save the Queen," in honour of the English visitor. Her Majesty has very loyal subjects in that unknown corner of her realm; and, by the way, some of them charged me to bring home an "Aksunai" to her, too. _Tuesday, September 25st._--Yes, "good-bye;" yet, when your vessel is not a steamer, but dependent on the wind, you may have repeated "good-byes," as often happens in Labrador. Not till this afternoon could the "Harmony" hoist her sails and speed away to the broad Atlantic. As soon as the Eskimoes saw our sails being unfurled, they again came around the vessel in their boats, and anew commended us to the Divine protection in their version of a very favourite hymn of Count Zinzendorf's ("Jesu geh voran"). "Jesus, day by day, Guide them on their way." HOMEWARD BOUND. The story of our homeward voyage must he told in short. We had more stormy days than bright ones, and more contrary winds than fair breezes. We left Hebron on Tuesday, September 25th, and on the following Sunday found ourselves among Greenland icebergs and fogs. So we had to turn southwards and run on that tack for two days. Then a moderate side wind followed the strong contrary gale, and we made good steady progress eastward. This was undoubtedly pleasant after the heavy rolling and pitching of the previous days. For two weeks and more nothing was to be seen but sea and sky, yet both had their interest and beauty. The sunsets were lovely, and the phosphorescent light in the water at night especially so. The wake of the ship was luminous for a long distance, and the crests of the waves shone all around us. Once I was leaning over the taffrail late in the evening, when a shoal of fish passed. There were thousands of them, and each one was a living, moving centre of light. Bottle-nosed whales gambolled around us when we were within a few hundred miles of Labrador, and later on "schools" of porpoises occasionally visited us. The latter often sprang clean out of the water, and seemed to take special delight in crossing the bows of the "Harmony." On October 10th, we sighted the first ship since leaving Labrador, and a day or two later tacked southward near the coast of Ireland to make the entrance of the British Channel. There a trial of patience awaited us. A hard-hearted east wind barred our progress, and with long tacks we seemed to make headway only by inches. Yet the little "Harmony" bravely held on her way, when larger vessels had given up the fight. _Sunday, October 21st._--Up at six, to find the Scilly Isles in sight. The Bishop's rock and St. Agnes lighthouses were plainly visible. But the old east wind is back again. The light, fair breeze of yesterday evening sent us forward fifteen miles in an hour or two, and seventy or eighty miles of tacking to-day has barely secured as much progress. Visited the men in the forecastle, a small gloomy looking place, yet fair as such accommodation goes. The good fellows are cheery and happy there, indeed, they have been pleasant and faithful to duty throughout the entire voyage. God grant them the true blessedness we have told them of in this morning's and previous Sunday services. _Monday, 22nd._--Weathered the Wolf Rock by this tack. Sighted Land's End, with its white houses, and the Longships lighthouse on its lofty rock. A steamer passing us into Penzance answered our signals and will report us we hope. _Tuesday, 23rd._--Four weeks away from Labrador. Four months absent from home. How much longer yet? To windward of the Lizard this morning. That is good, for we could have run for Falmouth harbour had it blown harder from the east. But the wind has died away altogether. The Lizard twin lighthouses and the white walls surrounding them are plainly visible, as we lie becalmed. _Wednesday, 24th._--Got a fair wind yesterday, which carried us forward past the Eddystone Lighthouse. We are now nearing Start Point, and have shown our signals. They will be seen, and reported either at that lighthouse or at Prawle Point, and it is quite a relief to think our presence in the Channel will soon be known in London. What a contrast there is between our own shores and the coast of Labrador. _Here_ one is never out of sight of some guiding light, _there_ not a lighthouse--not a buoy. Such a voyage makes one the more thankful for the experience and faithfulness of our own valued ship's officers, tried servants of the Society for the Furtherance of the Gospel, who have the interests of that society and of the mission at heart, and whose annual voyages to Labrador involve a full share of responsibility and anxiety. _Thursday, 25th._--Passed the Isle of Wight this morning, and Beachy Head in the afternoon. As night came on the long rows of electric lights on the marine parades of Eastbourne, Hastings, and St. Leonard's were very effective across the water. Got our pilot aboard at Dungeness just before midnight. _Friday, 26th._--_Home again!_ How infinitely good is the gracious Lord, who permits one to go on His errands, and meanwhile takes care of all that is so dear! We were off Margate when I went on deck, about 7 A.M., and shortly afterwards secured a powerful little tug, which towed the "Harmony" swiftly up the Thames to London Docks, where she now lies at her usual moorings, awaiting the hundred and twentieth voyage. "Then, at the vessel's glad return, The absent meet again; At home, our hearts within us burn To trace the cunning pen, Whose strokes, like rays from star to star, Bring happy messages from far, And once a year to Britain's shore Join Christian Labrador." I lay down the pen which has transcribed those lines of Montgomery's as a fitting close to my chapter, "Homeward Bound." If it has had any "cunning," it has been simply because I have described what I have seen with my own eyes in Christian Labrador. Traversing nearly three hundred miles of that grand, but bleak and desolate-looking coast, I met with scarcely any heathen. Only at Ramah I found one or two who had no Christian names, because they had not yet publicly professed Christ. They were, however, candidates for baptism, and their few heathen countrymen to the north of that station are, from time to time, attracted to the sound of the Gospel. But if the mission in that land be nearing the close of the evangelistic phase, our task is not done, and still we hear the voice of the Divine Spirit saying: Separate me this one and that one for the work whereunto I have called him in Labrador. Yet I hope and pray for a wider result from these pages than increased interest in the one field so closely connected with Britain by the good ship "Harmony." Labrador in its turn is linked to all the mission provinces in the world-wide parish given to the little Moravian Church, and I trust this glimpse into the life and labours of our devoted missionaries there will quicken the loving intercessions of my readers for their fellow labourers in all our own fields, and for the whole great mission work of the Church of Christ. I will conclude with a stirring stanza[D] from another poet, who found a theme and an inspiration in contrasting the wretched condition of the people of Labrador, prior to the arrival of missionaries, with the wonderful change wrought among the poor Eskimoes through their noble efforts under the blessing of God. "When round the great white throne all nations stand, When Jew and Gentile meet at God's right hand, When thousand times ten thousand raise the strain-- 'Worthy the Lamb that once for us was slain!' When the bright Seraphim with joy prolong Through all eternity that thrilling song-- The heathen's universal jubilee, A music sweet, O Saviour Christ, to Thee-- Say, 'mid those happy strains, will not _one_ note,-- Sung by a hapless nation once remote, But now led Home by tender cords of love, Rise clear through those majestic courts above? Yes! from amid the tuneful, white-robed choirs, Hymning Jehovah's praise on golden lyres, _One_ Hallelujah shall for evermore Tell of the Saviour's love to LABRADOR." [Illustration] * * * * * G. NORMAN & SON, PRINTERS, HART STREET, COVENT GARDEN. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote C: For those who may be interested to know what hymns were chosen, and what tunes were sung (without accompaniment), by the natives on this occasion, I will append the numbers in our new English Hymn Book, as far it contains their selection, 646, 788, 755, 834, and 1135. The melodies included our Tunes 132, 26, 69, 205, 166, and 146.] [Footnote D: _Labrador, a Poem in three parts_, written to commemorate the centenary of the Moravian Labrador Mission, by B. TRAPP ELLIS.] THE "HARMONY." Captain: HENRY LINKLATER. Length (Extreme) 120 ft. Breadth 27-1/2 " Depth 15 " 4 in. Length of Mast 87 " Tonnage 251 tons. _Launched, April 24th, 1861._ * * * * * The average duration of the _outward_ voyage with the present vessel has been 41-1/4 days, including a short stay at Stromness in the Orkneys. The _homeward_ voyage has been accomplished on an average in 23 days, including the coarse up channel to the West India Dock. The whole voyage, including the stay on the coast and visit to six stations there, has averaged 117-3/4 days. THE TEMPERATURE OF LABRADOR. At Hopedale, the most southerly of our mission stations, thermometrical observations during several years give + 86° Fahrenheit as the greatest heat (July 26, 1871), -104°, or 72° below freezing point, Fahrenheit, as the greatest cold (February 2nd, 1873). The average temperature for the year is -5° F. For four years the month of July was the only one in which there was not a fall of snow. The average temperature of Edinburgh, which lies in about the same degree of latitude as Hopedale, is + 47° F. At the Hospice of St. Bernard in the Alps, which is situated at an elevation of 7192 feet above the level of the sea, the average temperature for the year is not quite -3° F. There winter and spring are much less cold, summer and autumn much less warm than in Labrador. * * * * * 
47128	----	_BILLY TOPSAIL, M.D._ _The "Billy Topsail" Books_ By NORMAN DUNCAN Each Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, net $1.25 _The Adventures of Billy Topsail_ "There was no need to invent conditions or imagine situations. The life of any lad of Billy Topsail's years up there is sufficiently romantic. It is this skill in the portrayal of actual conditions that lie ready to the hand of the intelligent observer that makes Mr. Duncan's Newfoundland stories so noteworthy."--_Brooklyn Eagle._ _Billy Topsail and Company_ "Another rousing volume of 'The Billy Topsail Books.' Norman Duncan has the real key to the boy heart and in Labrador he has opened up a field magnetic in its perils and thrills and endless excitements."--_Examiner._ _Billy Topsail, M. D._ A Tale of Adventure with "Doctor Luke of the Labrador." The further adventures of Billy Topsail and Archie Armstrong on the ice, in the forest and at sea. In a singular manner the boys fall in with a doctor of the outposts and are moved to join forces with him. The doctor is Doctor Luke of the Labrador whose prototype as every one knows is Doctor Grenfell. Its pages are as crowded with brisk adventures as those of the preceding books. [Illustration: "BACK, YOU, CRACKER! BACK, YOU, SMOKE!"] (See page 85) _BILLY TOPSAIL, M.D._ _A Tale of Adventure With Doctor Luke of the Labrador_ _By NORMAN DUNCAN_ _ILLUSTRATED_ [Illustration] _New York Chicago Toronto Fleming H. Revell Company London and Edinburgh_ Copyright, 1916, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. Toronto: 25 Richmond Street, W. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street _To the Reader_ In this tale of the seas and ice-floes of Newfoundland and Labrador, Billy Topsail adventures with Doctor Luke of the Labrador. There are thrilling passages in the book. The author is frank to admit the hair-raising quality of them. Indeed, they have tickled his own scalp. Well, it is proper that the hair of the reader should sometimes stand on end and his eyes pop wide. The author would be a poor teller of tales if he could not manage as much--a charlatan if he did not. Yet these thrilling passages are not the work of a saucy imagination, delighting in shudders, no matter what, but are all decently founded upon fact, true to the experience of the coast, as many a Newfoundlander, boy and man, could tell you. Doctor Luke has often been mistaken for Doctor Wilfred Grenfell of the Deep Sea Mission. That should not be. No incident in this book is a transcript from Doctor Grenfell's long and heroic service. What Billy Topsail and Doctor Luke encounter, however, is precisely what the Deep Sea Mission workers must encounter. It should be said, too, that as the tale is told of the spring of the year, when the ice breaks up and the floes come drifting out of the north with great storms, Newfoundland presents herself in her worst mood. Yet the sun shines in Newfoundland, tender enough in summer weather--there are flowers on the hills and warm winds on the sea; and such as learn to know the land come quickly to love her for her beauty and for her friendliness. N. D. _New York, March, 1916._ CONTENTS CHAPTER I 15 In which it is hinted that Teddy Brisk would make a nice little morsel o' dog meat, and Billy Topsail begins an adventure that eventually causes his hair to stand on end and is likely to make the reader's do the same. CHAPTER II 24 In which Timothy Light's team of ten potential outlaws is considered, and there is a significant description of the career of a blood-guilty, ruined young dog, which is in the way of making desperate trouble for somebody. CHAPTER III 33 In which Timothy Light's famished dogs are committed to the hands of Billy Topsail and a tap on the snout is recommended in the probable case of danger. CHAPTER IV 40 In which the komatik is foundered, the dogs draw their own conclusions from the misfortune and prepare to take advantage, Cracker attempts a theft and gets a clip on the snout, and Billy Topsail and Teddy Brisk confront a situation of peril with composure, not knowing the ultimate disaster that impends. CHAPTER V 50 In which the wind goes to work, the ice behaves in an alarming way, Billy Topsail regrets, for obvious reasons, having to do with the dogs, that he had not brought an axe, and Teddy Brisk protests that his mother knew precisely what she was talking about. CHAPTER VI 56 In which the sudden death of Cracker is contemplated as a thing to be desired, Billy Topsail's whip disappears, a mutiny is declared and the dogs howl in the darkness. CHAPTER VII 64 In which a blazing club plays a salutary part, Teddy Brisk declares the ways of his mother, and Billy Topsail looks forward to a battle that no man could win. CHAPTER VIII 70 In which Teddy Brisk escapes from the wolfskin bag and determines to use his crutch and Billy Topsail comes to the conclusion that "it looks bad." CHAPTER IX 76 In which attack is threatened and Billy Topsail strips stark naked in the wind in pursuit of a desperate expedient and with small chance of success. CHAPTER X 82 In which Teddy Brisk confronts the pack alone and Cracker leads the assault. CHAPTER XI 87 In which Teddy Brisk gives the strains of a Tight Cove ballad to the north wind, Billy Topsail wins the reward of daring, Cracker finds himself in the way of the evil-doer, and Teddy Brisk's boast makes Doctor Luke laugh. CHAPTER XII 92 In which Billy Topsail's agreeable qualities win a warm welcome with Doctor Luke at Our Harbour, there is an explosion at Ragged Run, Tommy West drops through the ice and vanishes, and Doctor Luke is in a way never to be warned of the desperate need of his services. CHAPTER XIII 100 In which Doctor Luke undertakes a feat of daring and endurance and Billy Topsail thinks himself the luckiest lad in the world. CHAPTER XIV 104 In which Billy Topsail and Doctor Luke take to the ice in the night and Doctor Luke tells Billy Topsail something interesting about Skinflint Sam and Bad-Weather Tom West of Ragged Run. CHAPTER XV 112 In which Bad-Weather Tom West's curious financial predicament is explained. CHAPTER XVI 118 In which Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail proceed to accomplish what a cat would never attempt and Doctor Luke looks for a broken back whilst Billy Topsail shouts, "Can you make it?" and hears no answer. CHAPTER XVII 126 In which rubber ice is encountered and Billy Topsail is asked a pointed question. CHAPTER XVIII 134 In which discretion urges Doctor Luke to lie still in a pool of water. CHAPTER XIX 140 In which Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail hesitate in fear on the brink of Tickle-my-Ribs. CHAPTER XX 149 In which Skinflint Sam of Ragged Run finds himself in a desperate predicament and Bad-Weather Tom West at last has what Skinflint Sam wants. CHAPTER XXI 158 In which a Croesus of Ragged Run drives a hard bargain in a gale of wind. CHAPTER XXII 167 In which Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail go north, and at Candlestick Cove, returning, Doctor Luke finds himself just a bit peckish. CHAPTER XXIII 174 In which, while Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail rest unsuspecting at Candlestick Cove, Tom Lute, the father of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island, sharpens an axe in the wood-shed, and the reader is left to draw his own conclusions respecting the sinister business. CHAPTER XXIV 184 In which Bob Likely, the mail-man, interrupts Doctor Luke's departure, in the nick of time, with an astonishing bit of news, and the ice of Ships' Run begins to move to sea in a way to alarm the stout hearted. CHAPTER XXV 190 In which a stretch of slush is to be crossed and Billy Topsail takes the law in his own hands. CHAPTER XXVI 196 In which it seems that an axe and Terry Lute's finger are surely to come into injurious contact, and Terry Lute is caught and carried bawling to the block, while his mother holds the pot of tar. CHAPTER XXVII 204 In which Doctor Luke's flesh creeps, Billy Topsail acts like a bob-cat, and the Little Fiddler of Amen Island tells a secret. CHAPTER XXVIII 212 In which Sir Archibald Armstrong's son and heir is presented for the reader's inspection, highly complimented and recommended by the author, and the thrilling adventure, which Archie and Billy are presently to begin, has its inception on the departure of Archie from St. John's aboard the _Rough and Tumble_. CHAPTER XXIX 221 In which the crew of the _Rough and Tumble_ is harshly punished, and Archie Armstrong, having pulled the wool over the eyes of Cap'n Saul, goes over the side to the floe, where he falls in with a timid lad, in whose company, with Billy Topsail along, he is some day to encounter his most perilous adventure. CHAPTER XXX 226 In which a little song-maker of Jolly Harbour enlists the affection of the reader. CHAPTER XXXI 232 In which a gale of wind almost lays hands on the crew of the _Rough and Tumble_, Toby Farr is confronted with the suggestion of dead men, piled forward like cord-wood, and Archie Armstrong joins Bill o' Burnt Bay and old Jonathan in a roar of laughter. CHAPTER XXXII 240 In which Archie Armstrong and Billy Topsail say good-bye to Toby Farr for the present, and, bound down to Our Harbour with Doctor Luke, enter into an arrangement, from which issues the discovery of a mysterious letter and sixty seconds of cold thrill. CHAPTER XXXIII 251 In which the letter is opened, Billy and Archie are confronted by a cryptogram, and, having exercised their wits, conclude that somebody is in desperate trouble. CHAPTER XXXIV 257 In which Archie and Billy resolve upon a deed of their own doing, and are challenged by Ha-ha Shallow of Rattle Water. CHAPTER XXXV 265 In which Billy Topsail takes his life in his hands and Ha-ha Shallow lays hold of it with the object of snatching it away. CHAPTER XXXVI 271 In which Ha-ha Shallow is foiled, Archie Armstrong displays swift cunning, of which he is well aware, and Billy Topsail, much to his surprise, and not greatly to his distaste, is kissed by a lady of Poor Luck Barrens. CHAPTER XXXVII 279 In which Archie Armstrong rejoins the _Rough and Tumble_, with Billy Topsail for shipmate, and they seem likely to be left on the floe, while Toby Farr, with the gale blowing cold as death and dark falling, promises to make a song about the ghosts of dead men, but is entreated not to do so. CHAPTER XXXVIII 287 In which the wind blows a tempest, our heroes are lost on the floe, Jonathan Farr is encased in snow and frozen spindrift, Toby strangely disappears, and an heroic fight for life is begun, wrapped in bitter dark. CHAPTER XXXIX 293 In which one hundred and seventy-three men of the _Rough and Tumble_ are plunged in the gravest peril of the coast, wandering like lost beasts, and some drop dead, and some are drowned, and some kill themselves to be done with the torture they can bear no longer. CHAPTER XL 298 In which Toby Farr falls in the water, and, being soaked to the skin, will freeze solid in half an hour, in the frosty dusk of the approaching night, unless a shift of dry clothes is found, a necessity which sends Jonathan Farr and Billy Topsail hunting for dead men. CHAPTER XLI 305 In which a dead man is made to order for little Toby Farr. CHAPTER XLII 311 In which the tale comes to a good end: Archie and Billy make ready for dinner, Toby Farr is taken for good and all by Sir Archibald, and Billy Topsail, having been declared wrong by Archie's father, takes the path that leads to a new shingle, after which the author asks a small favour of the reader. _To Elspeth's Canadian Cousins Russ and Dode, Tom and Kenn, Rich and Logan, Mort and Fos, Georgie, and all the girls of the connection who will deign to read the tale, Mar and Buff, Frankie, Bettie and Jean when the time comes, with a wink and a challenge to Kathie Sweet._ CHAPTER I _In Which It Is Hinted that Teddy Brisk Would Make a Nice Little Morsel o' Dog Meat, and Billy Topsail Begins an Adventure that Eventually Causes His Hair to Stand on End and Is Likely to Make the Reader's Do the Same_ One dark night in the fall of the year, the trading-schooner _Black Bat_, of Ruddy Cove, slipped ashore on the rocks of Tight Cove, of the Labrador. She was frozen fast before she could be floated. And that was the end of her flitting about. It was the end, too, of Billy Topsail's rosy expectation of an hilarious return to his home at Ruddy Cove. Winter fell down next day. A great wind blew with snow and frost; and when the gale was blown out--the sun out and the sky blue again--it was out of the question to rip the _Black Bat_ out of her icy berth in Tight Cove Harbour and put her on the tumbled way to Ruddy. And that is how it came about that Billy Topsail passed the winter at Tight Cove, with Teddy Brisk, and in the spring of the year, when the ice was breaking up, fell in with Doctor Luke of the Labrador in a way that did not lack the aspects of an adventure of heroic proportions. It was no great hardship to pass the winter at Tight Cove: there was something to do all the while--trapping in the back country; and there was no uneasiness at home in Ruddy Cove--a wireless message from the station at Red Rock had informed Ruddy Cove of the fate of the _Black Bat_ and the health and comfort of her crew. And now for the astonishing tale of how Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail fell in together---- * * * * * When Doctor Luke made Tight Cove, of the Labrador, in the course of his return to his little hospital at Our Harbour, it was dusk. His dogs were famished; he was himself worn lean with near five hundred miles of winter travel, which measured his northern round, and his komatik (sled) was occupied by an old dame of Run-by-Guess Harbour and a young man of Anxious Bight. The destitute old dame of Run-by-Guess Harbour was to die of her malady in a cleanly peace; the young man of Anxious Bight was to be relieved of those remnants of a shoulder and good right arm that an accidental gunshot wound had left to endanger his life. It was not fit weather for any man to be abroad--a biting wind, a frost as cold as death, and a black threat of snow; but Doctor Luke, on this desperate business of healing, was in haste, and the patients on the komatik were in need too urgent for any dawdling for rest by the way. Schooner Bay ice was to cross; he would put up for the night--that was all; he must be off at dawn, said he in his quick, high way. From this news little Teddy Brisk's mother returned to the lamp-lit cottage by Jack-in-the-Box. It was with Teddy Brisk's mother that Billy Topsail was housed for the winter. "Is I t' go, mum?" said Teddy. Teddy Brisk's mother trimmed the lamp. "He've a ol' woman, dear," she replied, "from Run-by-Guess." Teddy Brisk's inference was decided. "Then he've room for _me_," he declared; "an' I'm not sorry t' learn it." "Ah, well, dear, he've also a poor young feller from Anxious Bight." Teddy Brisk nodded. "That's all about _that_," said he positively. "He've _no_ room for me!" Obviously there was no room for little Teddy Brisk on Doctor Luke's komatik. Little Teddy Brisk, small as he was, and however ingenious an arrangement might be devised, and whatever degree of compression might be attempted, and no matter what generous measure of patience might be exercised by everybody concerned, including the dogs--little Teddy Brisk of Tight Cove could not be stowed away with the old dame from Run-by-Guess Harbour and the young man of Anxious Bight. There were twenty miles of bay ice ahead; the dogs were footsore and lean; the komatik was overflowing--it was out of the question. Nor could Teddy Brisk, going afoot, keep pace with the Doctor's hearty strides and the speed of the Doctor's team--not though he had the soundest little legs on the Labrador, and the longest on the Labrador, of his years, and the sturdiest, anywhere, of his growth. As a matter of fact, one of Teddy Brisk's legs was as stout and willing as any ten-year-old leg ever you saw; but the other had gone bad--not so recently, however, that the keen Doctor Luke was deceived in respect to the trouble, or so long ago that he was helpless to correct it. Late that night, in the lamp-lit cottage by Jack-in-the-Box, the Doctor looked over the bad leg with a severely critical eye; and he popped more questions at Teddy Brisk, as Teddy Brisk maintained, than had ever before been exploded on anybody in the same length of time. "Huh!" said he at last. "I can fix it." "You can patch un up, sir?" cried Skipper Tom. This was Thomas Brisk. The father of Teddy Brisk had been cast away, with the _Brotherly Love_, on the reef by Fly Away Head, in the Year of the Big Shore Catch. This old Thomas was his grandfather. "No, no, no!" the Doctor complained. "I tell you I can _fix_ it!" "Will he be as good as new, sir?" said Teddy. "Will he?" the Doctor replied. "Aha!" he laughed. "You leave that to the carpenter." "As good as Billy Topsail's off shank?" "I'll scrape that bad bone in there," said the Doctor, rubbing his hands in a flush of professional expectation; "and if it isn't as good as new when the job's finished I'll--I'll--why, I'll blush, my son: I'll blush all red and crimson and scarlet." Teddy Brisk's mother was uneasy. "Will you be usin' the knife, sir?" "The knife? Certainly!" "I'm not knowin'," said the mother, "what little Teddy will say t' that." "What say, son?" the Doctor inquired. "Will it be you that's t' use the knife?" asked Teddy. "Mm-m!" said the Doctor. He grinned and twinkled. "I'm the butcher, sir." Teddy Brisk laughed. "That suits _me_!" said he. "That's hearty!" the Doctor exclaimed. He was delighted. The trust was recompense. God knows it was welcome! "I'll fix you, Teddy boy," said he, rising. And to Skipper Thomas: "Send the lad over to the hospital as soon as you can, Skipper Thomas. When the ice goes out we'll be crowded to the roof at Our Harbour. It's the same way every spring. Egad! they'll sweep in like the flakes of the first fall of snow! Now's the time. Make haste! We must have this done while I've a cot to spare." "I will, sir." "We're due for a break-up soon, I suppose--any day now; but this wind and frost will hold the ice in the bay for a while. You can slip the lad across any day. It must be pretty fair going out there. You can't bring him yourself, Skipper Thomas. Who can? Somebody here? Timothy Light? Old Sam's brother, isn't he? I know him. It's all arranged, then. I'll be looking for the lad in a day or two. You've plenty of dogs in Tight Cove, haven't you?" "Oh, aye, sir," Skipper Thomas replied; "we've _dogs_, sir--never you mind about that!" "Whose dogs?" "Timothy Light's dogs." The Doctor grinned again. "That pack!" said he. "A saucy pack o' dogs!" said Teddy's mother. "It's mostly new this season. I don't like un! I'm fair afraid o' them, sir. That big Cracker, sir, that Timothy haves for bully an' leader--he've fair spoiled Timothy Light's whole team. I'm none too fond o' that great dog, sir; an' I'll have my say about it." Skipper Thomas laughed--as a man will at a woman's fears. "No sheep's manners t' that pack," he drawled. "The team's all dawg." "What isn't wolf!" the woman retorted. "She've been afraid o' that Cracker," Skipper Thomas explained, "ever since he fetched a brace o' wolves out o' the timber. 'Twas as queer a sight, now, as ever you seed, sir. They hung round the harbour for a day an' a night. You might think, sir, that Cracker was showin' off his new quarters t' some friends from the back country. They two wolves seemed t' have knowed Cracker all their lives. I 'low that they _had_ knowed----" "He's half wolf hisself." "I 'low he's _all_ wolf," Skipper Thomas admitted. This was not true. Cracker was not all wolf. "I never heard o' nobody that knowed where Cracker was born. That dog come in from the timber." "A wicked crew--the pack o' them!" "We've had a lean winter at Tight Cove, sir," said Skipper Thomas. "The dogs have gone marvellous hungry this past month, sir. They're just a wee bit savage." "Spare your dog meat if you lack it," the Doctor advised. "I'll feed that team at Our Harbour." Teddy Brisk put in: "Timothy Light haves command o' that pack." "I'm not so sure that he've command," Teddy Brisk's mother protested. "I'm not so sure that any man could command a shockin' pack like that. In case o' accident, now----" Skipper Thomas chucked his ample, glowing daughter-in-law under the chin. "You loves that lad o' yourn!" he bantered. "I does!" "You're thinkin' he'd make a nice little morsel o' dog meat?" "As for me," she laughed, "_I_ could eat him!" She caught little Teddy Brisk in her arms and kissed him all over his eager little face. And then Doctor Luke, with a laugh and a boyish "So long, Teddy Brisk! See you soon, old soldier!" vanished to his lodgings for the night. CHAPTER II _In Which Timothy Light's Team of Ten Potential Outlaws is Considered, and There is a Significant Description of the Career of a Blood-Guilty, Ruined Young Dog, Which is in the Way of Making Desperate Trouble for Somebody_ Of all this Billy Topsail had been an observer. To a good deal of it he had listened with an awakened astonishment. It did not appear to him that he would be concerned in what might grow out of the incident. He did not for a moment imagine, for example, that he would find himself in a situation wherein his hair would stand on end--that he would stand stripped naked in the north wind, confronting Death in a most unpleasant form. Nor was it that Doctor Luke's personality had stirred him to admiration--though that was true: for Doctor Luke had a hearty, cheery twinkling way with him, occasionally mixed with a proper austerity, that would have won any boy's admiration; but what particularly engaged Billy Topsail was something else--it was Doctor Luke's confident assertion that he could cure little Teddy Brisk. Billy Topsail knew something of doctors, to be sure; but he had never before quite realized their power; and that a man, being only human, after all, could take a knife in his hand, which was only a man's hand, after all, and so employ the knife that the painful, hampering leg of Teddy Brisk, which had placed a dreadful limitation on the little boy, would be made whole and useful again, caused Billy Topsail a good deal of deep reflection. If Doctor Luke could do that, why could not Billy Topsail learn to do it? It seemed to Billy Topsail to be a more admirable thing to be able to do than to sail a hundred-tonner in a gale of wind. "Who _is_ that man?" he asked. "That's Doctor Luke," said Teddy's mother. "You know that." "Well, who's Doctor Luke?" "I don't know. He's jus' Doctor Luke. He've a wee hospital at Our Harbour. An' he heals folk. You'll find un go anywhere he's asked t' go if there's a poor soul in need. An' that's all _I_ know about un." "What does he do it for?" "I reckon he wants to. An' anyhow, I'm glad he does do it. An' I reckon you'd be glad, too, if you had a little boy like Teddy." "I _am_ glad!" said Billy. "I think 'tis the most wonderful thing ever I heard of. An' I wish----" And the course of Billy Topsail's life moved inevitably on towards a nearing fate that he would have shuddered to contemplate had he foreseen it. * * * * * Well, now, there was but one team of dogs in Tight Cove. It was a happy circumstance. No dogs could have existed as a separate pack in the neighbourhood of Timothy Light's mob of potential outlaws. It was all very well for Timothy Light to pleasure his hobby and pride in the unsavoury collection. Timothy Light had command of his own team. It was quite another matter for the timid mothers of Tight Cove. Timothy Light's dogs had a bad name. As neighbours they deserved it, whatever their quality on the trail--a thieving, snarling crew. To catch Timothy Light in the act of feeding his team was enough to establish an antipathy in the beholder--to see the old man beat off the rush of the pack with a biting walrus whip while he spread the bucket of frozen fish; to watch him, then, leap away from the ferocious onset; and to be witness of the ravenous anarchy of the scramble--a free fight, dwindling, at last, to melancholy yelps and subsiding in the licking of the small wounds of the encounter. Timothy Light was a fancier of dog flesh, as a man may be devoted to horse-flesh; and the object of his selective taste was what he called go-an'-gumption. "The nearer the wolf," said he, "the better the dog." It was to accord with this theory--which is a fallacy as a generalization--that he had evolved the team of ten that he had. "I'm free t' say," he admitted, "that this here Cracker o' mine is none too tame. He've the wolf in him--that's so. As a wolf, with the pack in the timber, he'd be a bad wolf; as a dog in harbour he's a marvellous wicked rogue. He've a eye as bitter as frost. Did you mark it? He leaves it fool all over a person in a laughin' sort o' fashion an' never stop on the spot he really wants t' look at--except jus' once in a while. An' then it darts t' the throat an' away again; an' Cracker thinks, jus' as plain as speech: "'Oh, Lord, wouldn't I like t' fix my teeth in there!' "Still an' all," the old man concluded, "he yields t' command. A tap on the snout goes a long way with Cracker. He've a deal o' wolf's blood--that one has; but he's as big a coward, too, as a wolf, an' there's no danger in him when he's overmastered. Still an' all"--with a shrug--"I'd not care t' lose my whip an' stumble an' fall on the trail in the dusk when he haven't been fed for a while." * * * * * Cracker had come to Tight Cove in a dog trade of questionable propriety. Cracker had not at once taken to the customs and dogs of Tight Cove; he had stood off, sullen, alert, still--head low, king-hairs lifted, eyes flaring. It was an attitude of distrust, dashed with melancholy, rather than of challenge. Curiosity alone maintained it through the interval required for decision. Cracker was deliberating. There was Tight Cove and a condition of servitude to Timothy Light; there were the free, wild, famishing spaces of the timber beyond. Cracker must choose between them. All at once, then, having brooded himself to a conclusion, Cracker began to wag and laugh in a fashion the most ingratiating to be imagined: and thereupon he fought himself to an established leadership of Timothy Light's pack, as though to dispose, without delay, of that necessary little preliminary to distinction. And subsequently he accepted the mastery of Timothy Light and fawned his way into security from the alarmed abuse of the harbour folk; and eventually he settled himself comfortably into the routine of Tight Cove life. There were absences. These were invariably foreshadowed, at first, by yawning and a wretched depth of boredom. Cracker was ashamed of his intentions. He would even attempt to conceal his increasing distaste for the commonplaces of an existence in town by a suspiciously subservient obedience to all the commands of Timothy Light. It was apparent that he was preparing for an excursion to the timber; and after a day or two of whimpering restlessness he would vanish. It was understood, then, that Cracker was off a-visiting of his cronies. Sometimes these absences would be prolonged. Cracker had been gone a month--had been caught, once, in a distant glance, with a pack of timber wolves, from whom he had fled to hiding, like a boy detected in bad company. Cracker had never failed, however, to return from his abandoned course, in reasonable season, as lean and ragged as a prodigal son, and in a chastened mood, to the respectability and plenty of civilization, even though it implied an acquiescence in the exigency of hard labour. Timothy Light excused the dog. "He've got t' have his run abroad," said he. "I 'low that blood is thicker than water." Cracker had a past. Timothy Light knew something of Cracker's past. What was respectable he had been told, with a good deal of elaboration--concerning Cracker's feats of endurance on the long trail, for example, accomplished with broken shoes, or no shoes at all, and bloody, frosted feet; and relating, with warm, wide-eyed detail of a persuasively conscientious description, to Cracker's cheerful resistance of the incredible pangs of hunger on a certain celebrated occasion. Moreover, Cracker was a bully of parts. Cracker could bully a discouraged team into a forlorn endeavour of an amazing degree of power and courage. "As clever a dog as ever you seed, sir! No shirkin'--ecod!--with Cracker t' keep watch on the dogs an' snap at the heels an' haunches o' the loafers." It was all true: Cracker was a powerful, clever, masterful, enduring beast in or out of harness, and a merciless driver of the dogs he led and had mastered. "Give the devil his due!" Timothy Light insisted. What was disreputable in Cracker's past--in the course of the dog trade of questionable propriety referred to--Timothy Light had been left to exercise his wit in finding out for himself. Cracker was from the north--from Jolly Cove, by the Hen-an'-Chickens. And what Timothy Light did not know was this: Cracker had there been concerned in an affair so doubtful, and of a significance so shocking, that, had the news of it got abroad in Tight Cove, the folk would have taken the customary precaution as a defensive measure, in behalf of the children on the roads after dark, and as a public warning to all the dogs of Tight Cove, of hanging Cracker by the neck until he was dead. Long John Wall, of Jolly Cove, on the way to the Post at Little Inlet, by dog team, in January weather, had been caught by the snow between Grief Head and the Tall Old Man; and Long John Wall had perished on the ice--they found his komatik and clean bones in the spring of the year; but when the gale blew out, Long John Wall's dogs had returned to Jolly Cove in a fawning humour and a suspiciously well-fed condition. The Jolly Cove youngster, the other party to the dog trade, neglected to inform Timothy Light--whose eyes had fallen enviously on the smoky, taut, splendid brute--that this selfsame Cracker which he coveted had bullied and led Long John Wall's team on that tragic and indubitably bloody occasion. His philosophy was ample to his need. "In a dog trade," thought he with his teeth bare, when the bargain was struck, "'tis every man for hisself." And so this blood-guilty, ruined young dog had come unsuspected to Tight Cove. CHAPTER III _In Which Timothy Light's Famished Dogs Are Committed to the Hands of Billy Topsail and a Tap on the Snout is Recommended in the Probable Case of Danger_ It is no great trick to make Tight Cove of the Labrador from the sea. There is no chart, of course. Nor is any chart of the little harbours needed for safe sailing, as long as the songs of the coast are preserved in the heads of the skippers that sail it. And so you may lay with confidence a bit west of north from the Cape Norman light--and raise and round the Scotchman's Breakfast of Ginger Head: whereupon a straightaway across Schooner Bay to the Thimble, and, upon nearer approach to the harbour water of the Cove-- When Bill Pott's P'int you is abreast, Dane's Rock bears due west; An' west-nor'west you must steer, 'Til Brimstone Head do appear. The tickle's narrow, not very wide; The deepest water's on the starboard side; When in the harbour you is shot, Four fathoms you has got-- and there you are: harboured within stone's throw of thirty hospitable cottages, with their stages and flakes clustered about, like offspring, and all clinging to the cliffs with the grip of a colony of mussels. They encircle the quiet, deep water of the Cove, lying in a hollow of Bill Pott's Point, Dane's Rock, and the little head called Brimstone. Winter was near done, at Tight Cove, when Doctor Luke made the lights of the place from the north. Presently the sun and southwesterly winds of spring would spread the coast with all the balmy, sudden omens of summer weather, precisely as the first blast from the north, in a single night of the fall of the year, had blanketed the land with snow, and tucked it in, with enduring frost, for the winter to come. With these warm winds, the ice in Schooner Bay would move to sea, with the speed of a thief in flight. It would break up and vanish in a night, with all that was on it (including the folk who chanced to be caught on it)--a great, noisy commotion, and swift clearing out, this removal to the open. And the ice would drift in, again, with contrary winds, and choke the bay, accompanied by Arctic ice from the current beyond, and depart and come once more, and take leave, in a season of its own willful choosing, for good and all. When Doctor Luke made off across the bay, leaving Teddy Brisk to follow, by means of Timothy Light's komatik and scrawny dogs, Schooner Bay had already gone rotten, in a spell of southerly weather. The final break-up was restrained only by an interval of unseasonable frost. A favourable wind would tear the field loose from the cliffs and urge it to sea. * * * * * Teddy Brisk could not go at once to Doctor Luke's hospital at Our Harbour. There came a mild spell--the wind went to the south and west in the night; a splashing fall of tepid southern rain swept the dry white coats in gusts and a melting drizzle; and, following on these untimely showers, a day or two of sunshine and soft breezes set the roofs smoking, the icicles dissolving, the eaves running little streams of water, the cliffs dripping a promise of shy spring flowers, and packed the snow and turned the harbour roads to slush, and gathered pools and shallow lakes of water on the rotting ice of the bay. Schooner Bay was impassable; the trail was deep and sticky and treacherous--a broken, rotten, imminently vanishing course. And sea-ward, in the lift of the waves, vast fragments of the field were shaking themselves free and floating off; and the whole wide body of ice, from Rattle Brook, at the bottom of the bay, to the great heads of Thimble and the Scotchman's Breakfast, was striving to break away to the open under the urge of the wind. Teddy Brisk's adventure to Our Harbour must wait for frost and still weather; and wait it did--until in a shift of the weather there came a day when all that was water was frozen stiff overnight, and the wind fell away to a doubtful calm, and the cliffs of Ginger Head were a loom in the frosty distance across the bay. "Pack that lad, mum," said Skipper Thomas then. "'Tis now or never." "I don't like the look of it," the mother complained. "I warns you, mum--you're too fond o' that lad." "I'm anxious. The bay's rotten. You knows that, sir--a man as old as you. Another southerly wind would shatter----" "Ecod! You'll coddle that wee lad t' death." Teddy Brisk's mother laughed. "Not me!" said she. A cunning idea occurred to Skipper Thomas. "Or cowardice!" he grumbled. Teddy Brisk's mother started. She stared in doubt at old Skipper Thomas. Her face clouded. She was grim. "I'd do nothin' so wicked as that, sir," said she. "I'll pack un up." * * * * * It chanced that Timothy Light was sunk in a melancholy regard of his physical health when Skipper Thomas went to arrange for the dogs. He was discovered hugging a red-hot bogie in his bachelor cottage of turf and rough-hewn timber by the turn to Sunday-School Hill. And a woebegone old fellow he was: a sight to stir pity and laughter--with his bottles and plasters, his patent-medicine pamphlets, his drawn, gloomy countenance, and his determination to "draw off" the indisposition by way of his lower extremities with a plaster of renowned power. "Nothin' stronger, Skipper Thomas, knowed t' the science o' medicine an' the"--Skipper Timothy did not hesitate over the obstacle--"the prac-t'-tie-on-ers thereof," he groaned; "an' she've begun t' pull too. Ecod! but she's drawin'! Mm-m-m! There's power for you! An' if she don't pull the pain out o' the toes o' my two feet"--Skipper Timothy's feet were swathed in plaster; his pain was elsewhere; the course of its exit was long--"I'm free t' say that nothin' will budge my complaint. Mm-m! Ecod! b'y, but she've sure begun t' draw!" Skipper Timothy bade Skipper Thomas sit himself down, an' brew himself a cup o' tea, an' make himself t' home, an' feel free o' the place, the while he should entertain and profit himself with observing the operation of the plaster of infallible efficacy in the extraction of pain. "What's gone wrong along o' you?" Skipper Thomas inquired. "I been singin' pretty hearty o' late," Skipper Timothy moaned--he was of a musical turn and given frequently to a vigorous recital of the Psalms and Paraphrases--"an' I 'low I've strained my stummick." Possibly Skipper Timothy could not distinguish, with any degree of scientific accuracy, between the region of his stomach and the region of his lungs--a lay confusion, perhaps, in the matter of terms and definite boundaries; he had been known to mistake his liver for his heart in the indulgence of a habit of pessimistic diagnosis. And whether he was right in this instance or not, and whatever the strain involved in his vocal effort, which must have tried all the muscles concerned, he was now coughing himself purple in the face--a symptom that held its mortal implication of the approach of what is called the lung trouble and the decline. The old man was not fit for the trail--no cruise to Our Harbour for him next day; he was on the stocks and out of commission. Ah, well, then, would he trust his dogs? Oh, aye; he would trust his team free an' willin'. An' might Billy Topsail drive the team? Oh, aye; young Billy Topsail might drive the team an' he had the spirit for the adventure. Let Billy Topsail keep un down--_keep the brutes down_, ecod!--and no trouble would come of it. "A tap on the snout t' mend their manners," Skipper Timothy advised. "A child can overcome an' manage a team like that team o' ten." And so it was arranged that Billy Topsail should drive Teddy Brisk to Our Harbour next day. CHAPTER IV _In Which the Komatik is Foundered, the Dogs Draw Their Own Conclusions from the Misfortune and Prepare to Take Advantage, Cracker Attempts a Theft and Gets a Clip on the Snout, and Billy Topsail and Teddy Brisk Confront a Situation of Peril with Composure, Not Knowing the Ultimate Disaster that Impends_ Billy Topsail was now sixteen years old--near seventeen, to be exact; and he was a lusty, well-grown lad, who might easily have been mistaken for a man, not only because of his inches, but because of an assured, competent glance of the eye. Born at Ruddy Cove of Newfoundland, and the son of a fisherman, he was a capable chap in his native environment. And what natural aptitude he possessed for looking after himself in emergencies had been developed and made more courageous and acute by the adventurous life he had lived--as anybody may know, indeed, who cares to peruse the records of those incidents as elsewhere set down. As assistant to the clerk of the trader _Black Bat_, he had served well; and it is probable that he would some day have been a clerk himself, and eventually a trader, had not the adventure upon which he was embarking with Teddy Brisk interrupted his career by opening a new vista for his ambition. * * * * * Billy Topsail and Teddy Brisk set out in blithe spirits for Doctor Luke's hospital at Our Harbour. A dawn of obscure and disquieting significance; a hint of milder weather in the growing day; a drear, gray sky thickening to drab and black, past noon; a puff of southerly wind and a slosh of rain; a brisk gale, lightly touched with frost, running westerly, with snow, in a close, encompassing cloud of great wet flakes; lost landmarks; dusk falling, and a black night imminent, with high wind--and Billy Topsail's team of ten went scrambling over an unexpected ridge and foundered the komatik. It was a halt--no grave damage done; it was nothing to worry a man--not then. Young Billy Topsail laughed; and little Teddy Brisk chuckled from the tumbled depths of his dogskin robes; and the dogs, on their haunches now, a panting, restless half-circle--the Labrador dogs run in individual traces--viewed the spill with shamefaced amusement. Yet Billy Topsail was confused and lost. Snow and dusk were impenetrable; the barricades and cliffs of Ginger Head, to which he was bound, lay somewhere in the snow beyond--a mere general direction. It is nothing, however, to be lost. Daylight and clearing weather infallibly disclose the lay of the land. A general direction is good enough; a man proceeds confidently on the meager advantage. It was interesting for the dogs--this rowdy pack from Tight Cove. They were presently curious. It was a break in the routine of the road. The thing concerned them nearly. What the mischief was the matter? Something was up! Here was no mere pause for rest. The man was making no arrangements to move along. And what now? Amusement gave place to an alert observation of the course of the unusual incident. The dogs came a little closer. It was not an attitude of menace. They followed Billy Topsail's least movement with jerks of concern and starts of surprise; and they reflected--inquiring amazed. Day's work done? Camp for the night? Food? What next, anyhow? It was snowing. Thick weather, this! Thick's bags--this palpable dusk! No man could see his way in a gale like this. A man had his limitations and customs. This man would camp. There would be food in reward of the day's work. Was there never to be any food? There must be food! Now--at last! Oh, sure--why, sure--sure--sure there'd be something to eat when the man went into camp! Mm-m? No? Was the new man going to starve 'em all to death! Big Cracker, of this profane, rowdy crew, sidled to the sled. This was in small advances--a sly encroachment at a time. His object was plain to the pack. It was theft. They watched him in a trance of expectant interest. What would happen to Cracker? Wait and see! Follow Cracker? Oh, wait and see, first, what happened to Cracker. And Cracker sniffed at the tumbled robes. The pack lifted its noses and sniffed, too, and opened its eyes wide, and exchanged opinions, and kept watch, in swift, scared glances, on Billy Topsail; and came squirming nearer, as though with some intention altogether remote from the one precisely in mind. From this intrusion--appearing to be merely an impudent investigation--Cracker was driven off with a quick, light clip of the butt of the walrus whip on the snout. "Keep the brutes down! Keep un down--ecod!--an' no trouble would come of it." And down went Cracker. He leaped away and bristled, and snarled, and crawled, whimpering then, to his distance; whereupon the pack took warning. Confound the man!--he was too quick with the whip. Cracker had intended no mischief, had he? After that the big Cracker curled up and sulked himself to sleep. "I 'low we're close t' Ginger Head," said Billy Topsail. "Ah, no, b'y." "I seed the nose o' the Scotchman's Breakfast a while back." "We're t' the south o' that by three mile." "We isn't." "We is." "Ah, well, anyhow we'll stop the night where we is. The snow blinds a man." "That's grievous," Teddy Brisk complained. "I wisht we was over the barricades an' safe ashore. The bay's all rotten. My mother says----" "You isn't timid, is you?" "Me? No. My mother says----" "Ah, you is a bit timid, Teddy." "Who? Me? I is not. But my mother says the wind would just----" "Just a wee bit timid!" "Ah, well, Billy, I isn't never been out overnight afore. An' my mother says if the wind blows a gale from the west, south or sou'west----" "Never you mind about that, Skipper Teddy. We've something better t' think about than the way the wind blows. The wind's full o' notions. I've no patience t' keep my humour waitin' on what she does. Now you listen t' me: I got bread, an' I got 'lasses, an' I got tea, an' I got a kettle. I got birch all split t' hand, t' save the weight of an axe on the komatik; an' I got birch rind, an' I got matches. 'Twill be a scoff"--feast--"Skipper Teddy. Mm-m! Ecod! My belly's in a clamour o' greed. The only thing I isn't got is dog meat. Save for that, Skipper Teddy, we're complete." Teddy Brisk renewed his complaint. "I wisht," said he, "the wind would switch t' sea. Once on a time my grand----" "Never you mind about that." "Once on a time my grandfather was cotched by the snow in a gale o' wind off----" "Ah, you watch how clever I is at makin' a fire on the ice! Never you mind about the will o' the wind. 'Tis a foolish habit t' fall into." Billy Topsail made the fire. The dogs squatted in the offing. Every eye was on the operation. It was interesting, of course. Nothing escaped notice. Attention was keen and inclusive. It would flare high--a thrill ran through the wide-mouthed, staring circle--and expire in disappointment. Interesting, to be sure: yet going into camp on the ice was nothing out of the way. The man would spend the night where he was--that was all. It portended no extraordinary departure from the customs--no opportunity. And the man was alert and capable. No; nothing stimulating in the situation--nothing to be taken advantage of. Billy Topsail was laughing. Teddy Brisk chattered all the while. Neither was in difficulty. Nor was either afraid of anything. It was not an emergency. There was no release of authority. And when the circumstances of the affair, at last, had turned out to be usual in every respect, interest lapsed, as a matter of course; and the pack, having presently exhausted the distraction of backbiting, turned in to sleep, helped to this good conduct by a crack of the whip. "Not another word out o' you!" Billy Topsail scolded. "You'll be fed full the morrow." Almost at once it fell very dark. The frost increased; the snow turned to dry powder and the wind jumped to half a gale, veering to the sou'west. Teddy Brisk, with the bread and tea and molasses stowed away where bread and tea and molasses best serve such little lads as he, was propped against the komatik, wrapped up in his dogskin robes as snug as you like. The fire was roaring, and the circle of the night was safe and light and all revealed, in its flickering blaze and radiant, warm red glow. Billy Topsail fed the fire hot; and Billy Topsail gave Teddy Brisk riddles to rede; and Billy Topsail piped Teddy Brisk a song or two--such a familiar song of the coast as this: 'Way down on Pigeon Pond Island, When daddy comes home from swilein' Maggoty fish hung up in the air, Fried in maggoty butter; Cakes an' tea for breakfast, Pork an' duff for dinner, Cakes an' tea for supper-- 'Way down on Pigeon Pond Island, When daddy comes home from swilein'.[1] Whatever was bitter and inimical in the wind and dark and driving mist of snow was chased out of mind by the warm fire and companionable behaviour. It was comfortable on the ice: it was a picnic--a bright adventure; and Teddy Brisk was as cozy and dry and content as---- "I likes it, Billy," said he. "I jus' fair loves it here!" "You does, b'y? I'm proud o' you!" "'Way out here on the ice. Mm-m! Yes, sirree! I'm havin' a wonderful happy time, Billy." "I'm glad o' that now!" "An' I feels safe----" "Aye, b'y!" "An' I'm's warm----" "Sure, you is!" "An' I'm's sleepy----" "You go t' sleep, lad." "My mother says, if the wind----" "Never you mind about that. I'll take care o' you--never fear!" "You would, in a tight place, wouldn't you, Billy, b'y?" "Well, I 'low I would!" "Yes, sirree! You'd take care o' me!" "You go t' sleep, lad, an' show yourself an old hand at stoppin' out overnight." "Aye, Billy; but my mother says----" "Never you mind about that." "Ah, well, my mother----" And Teddy Brisk fell asleep. FOOTNOTE: [1] Sealing. CHAPTER V _In Which the Wind Goes to Work, the Ice Behaves in an Alarming Way, Billy Topsail Regrets, for Obvious Reasons, Having to Do with the Dogs, that He Had Not Brought an Axe, and Teddy Brisk Protests that His Mother Knew Precisely What She was Talking About_ Well, now, Teddy Brisk fell asleep, and presently, too, Billy Topsail, in his wolfskin bag, got the better of his anxious watch on the wind and toppled off. The dogs were already asleep, each covered with a slow-fashioning blanket of snow--ten round mounds, with neither snout nor hair to show. The fire failed: it was dark; and the wind blew up--and higher. A bleak place, this, on Schooner Bay, somewhere between the Thimble and the Scotchman's Breakfast of Ginger Head; yet there was no hardship in the night--no shivering, blue agony of cold, but full measure of healthful comfort. The dogs were warm in their coverings of snow and Billy Topsail was warm in his wolfskin bag; and Teddy Brisk, in his dogskin robes, was in a flush and soft sweat of sound sleep, as in his cot in the cottage by Jack-in-the-Box, at Tight Cove. It was a gale of wind by this time. The wind came running down the bay from Rattle Brook; and it tore persistently at the ice, urging it out. It was a matter of twenty miles from the Thimble, across Schooner Bay, to the Scotchman's Breakfast of Ginger Head, and a matter of thirty miles inland to Rattle Brook--wherefrom you may compute the area of the triangle for yourself and bestir your own imagination, if you can, to apply the pressure of a forty-mile gale to the vast rough surface of the bay. Past midnight the ice yielded to the irresistible urge of the wind. Crack! The noise of the break zigzagged in the distance and approached, and shot past near by, and rumbled away like a crash of brittle thunder. Billy Topsail started awake. There was a crackling confusion--in the dark, all roundabout, near and far--like the crumpling of an infinitely gigantic sheet of crisp paper: and then nothing but the sweep and whimper of the wind--those familiar, unportentous sounds, in their mild monotony, like dead silence in contrast with the first splitting roar of the break-up. Billy Topsail got out of his wolfskin bag. The dogs were up; they were terrified--growling and bristling; and they fawned close to Billy, as dogs will to a master in a crisis of ghostly fear. Billy drove them off; he whipped them into the dark. The ice had broken from the cliffs and was split in fields and fragments. It would move out and go abroad with the high southwest wind. That was bad enough, yet not, perhaps, a mortal predicament--the wind would not run out from the southwest forever; and an escape ashore from a stranded floe would be no new thing in the experience of the coast. To be marooned on a pan of ice, however, with ten famishing dogs of unsavoury reputation, and for God only knew how long--it taxed a man's courage to contemplate the inevitable adventure! A man could not corner and kill a dog at a time; a man could not even catch a dog--not on a roomy pan of ice, with spaces for retreat. Nor could a man escape from a dog if he could not escape from the pan; nor could a man endure, in strength and wakefulness, as long as a dog. Billy Topsail saw himself attempt the death of one of the pack--the pursuit of Cracker, for example, with a club torn from the komatik. Cracker would easily keep his distance and paw the ice, head down, eyes alert and burning; and Cracker would withdraw and dart out of reach, and swerve away. And Smoke and Tucker and Scrap, and the rest of the pack, would all the while be creeping close behind, on the lookout for a fair opportunity. No; a man could not corner and kill a dog at a time. A man could not beat a wolf in the open; and these dogs, which roamed the timber and sprang from it, would maneuver like wolves--a patient waiting for some lapse from caution or the ultimate moment of weakness; and then an overwhelming rush. Billy Topsail knew the dogs of his own coast. He knew his own dogs; all he did not know about his own dogs was that Cracker had been concerned in a dubious affair on the ice off the Tall Old Man. These dogs had gone on short rations for a month. When the worst came to the worst--the pan at sea--they would attack. Teddy Brisk, too, was wide awake. A thin little plaint broke in on Billy Topsail's reflections. "Is you there, Billy?" "Aye, I'm here. You lie still, Teddy." "What's the matter with the dogs, Billy?" "They're jus' a bit restless. Never you mind about the dogs. I'll manage the dogs." "You didn't fetch your axe, did you, Billy?" "Well, no, Skipper Teddy--no; I didn't." "That's what I thought. Is the ice broke loose?" "Ah, now, Teddy, never you mind about the ice." "Is she broke loose?" "Ah, well--maybe she have broke loose." "She'll move t' sea in this wind, won't she?" "Never you mind----" "Won't she?" "Ah, well, she may take a bit of a cruise t' sea." Teddy Brisk said nothing to this. An interval of silence fell. And then Teddy plaintively again: "My mother said----" Billy Topsail's rebuke was gentle: "You isn't goin' t' cry for your mother, is you?" "Oh, I isn't goin' t' cry for my mother!" "Ah, no! You isn't. No growed man would." "All I want t' say," said Teddy Brisk in a saucy flash of pride, "is that my mother was right!" CHAPTER VI _In Which the Sudden Death of Cracker is Contemplated as a Thing to Be Desired, Billy Topsail's Whip Disappears, a Mutiny is Declared and the Dogs Howl in the Darkness_ Past twelve o'clock and the night as black as a wolf's throat, with the wind blowing a forty-mile gale, thick and stifling with snow, and the ice broken up in ragged pans of varying, secret area--it was no time for any man to stir abroad from the safe place he occupied. There were patches of open water forming near by, and lanes of open water widening and shifting with the drift and spreading of the ice; and somewhere between the cliffs and the moving pack, which had broken away from them, there was a long pitfall of water in the dark. The error of putting the dogs in the traces and attempting to win the shore in a forlorn dash did not even present itself to Billy Topsail's experienced wisdom. Billy Topsail would wait for dawn, to be sure of his path and direction; and meantime--there being no occasion for action--he got back into his wolfskin bag and settled himself for sleep. It was not hard to go to sleep. Peril of this sort was familiar to Billy Topsail--precarious situations, with life at stake, created by wind, ice, reefs, fog and the sea. There on the ice the situation was completely disclosed and beyond control. Nothing was to be manipulated. Nothing threatened, at any rate, for the moment. Consequently Billy Topsail was not afraid. Had he discovered himself all at once alone in a city; had he been required to confront a garter snake--he had never clapped eyes on a snake---- * * * * * Placidly reflecting on the factors of danger to be dealt with subsequently, Billy Topsail caught ear, he thought, of a sob and whimper from the midst of Teddy Brisk's dogskin robes. This was the little fellow's first full-fledged adventure. He had been in scrapes before--the little dangers of the harbour and the adjacent rocks and waters and wilderness; gusts of wind; the lap of the sea; the confusion of the near-by back country, and the like of that; but he had never been cast away like the grown men of Tight Cove. And these passages, heroic as they are, and stimulating as they may be to the ambition of the little fellows who listen o' winter nights, are drear and terrifying when first encountered. Teddy Brisk was doubtless wanting his mother. Perhaps he sobbed. Yet he had concealed his fear and homesickness from Billy Topsail; and that was stoicism enough for any lad of his years--even a lad of the Labrador. Billy Topsail offered him no comfort. It would have shamed the boy to comfort him openly. Once ashore again Teddy Brisk would want to boast, like his elders, and to spin his yarn: "Well now, lads, there we was, ecod! 'way out there on the ice, me 'n' Billy Topsail; an' the wind was blowin' a gale from the sou'west, an' the snow was flyin' as thick as ever you seed the snow fly, an' the ice was goin' out t' sea on the jump. An' I says t' Billy: 'I'm goin' t' sleep, Billy--an' be blowed t' what comes of it!' An' so I falled asleep as snug an' warm; an' then----" Billy Topsail ignored the sob and whimper from the depths of the dogskin robes. "The lad haves t' be hardened," he reflected. * * * * * Dawn was windy. It was still snowing--a frosty mist of snow. Billy Topsail put the dogs in the traces and stowed Teddy Brisk away in the komatik. The dogs were uneasy. Something out of the way? What the mischief was the matter? They came unwillingly. It seemed they must be sensing a predicament. Billy Topsail whipped them to their work and presently they bent well enough to the task. Snow fell all that day. There were glimpses of Ginger Head. In a rift of the gale Teddy Brisk caught sight of the knob of the Scotchman's Breakfast. Always, however, the way ashore was barred by open water. When Billy Topsail caught sight of the Scotchman's Breakfast for the last time it was in the southwest. This implied that the floe had got beyond the heads of the bay and was moving into the waste reaches of the open sea. At dusk Billy had circled the pan twice--hoping for chance contact with another pan, to the east, and another, and still another; and thus a path to shore. It was a big pan--a square mile or more as yet. When the pinch came, if the pinch should come, Billy thought, the dogs would not be hampered for room. Why not kill the dogs? No; not yet. They were another man's dogs. In the morning, if the wind held offshore---- Wind and snow would fail. There would be no harsher weather. Billy Topsail made a little fire with his last billets of birchwood. He boiled the kettle and spread a thick slice of bread with a meager discoloration of molasses for Teddy Brisk. What chiefly interested Teddy Brisk was the attitude of the dogs. It was not obedient. There was swagger in it. A crack of the whip sent them leaping away, to be sure; but they intruded again at once--and mutinously persisted in the intrusion. Teddy Brisk put out a diffident hand towards Smoke. Smoke was an obsequious brute. Ashore he would have been disgustingly grateful for the caress. Now he would not accept it at all. He snarled and sprang away. It was a defiant breach of discipline. What was the matter with the dogs? They had gone saucy all at once. The devil was in the dogs. Nor would they lie down; they withdrew, at last, in a pack, their hunger discouraged, and wandered restlessly in the failing light near by. Teddy Brisk could not account for this singular behaviour. It alarmed him. "Ah, well," said Billy Topsail, "they're all savage with hunger." "Could you manage with nine, Billy?" Billy Topsail laughed. "With ease, my son," said he, "an' glad of it!" "Is you strong enough t' kill a dog?" "I'll find that out, Teddy, when the time comes." "I was 'lowin' that one dog would feed the others an' keep un mild till we gets ashore." "I've that selfsame thing in mind." Teddy said eagerly: "Kill Cracker, Billy!" "Cracker! Already? 'Twould be sheer murder." "Aye, kill un now, Billy--ah, kill un right away now, won't you, b'y? That dog haves a grudge on me. He've been watchin' me all day long." "Ah, no! Hush now, Teddy!" "I knows that dog, Billy!" "Ah, now! The wind'll change afore long. We'll drift ashore--maybe in the mornin'. An then----" "He've his eye on me, Billy!" Billy Topsail rose. "You see my whip anywhere?" "She's lyin' for'ard o' the komatik." "She's not." "She was." "She've gone, b'y!" "Ecod! Billy, Cracker haves her!" It was not yet dark. Cracker was sitting close. It was an attitude of jovial expectation. He was on his haunches--head on one side and tail flapping the snow; and he had the walrus whip in his mouth. Apparently he was in the mood to pursue a playful exploit. When Billy Topsail approached he retreated--a little; and when Billy Topsail rushed he dodged, with ease and increasing delight. When Billy Topsail whistled him up and patted to him, and called "Hyuh! Hyuh!" and flattered him with "Good ol' dog!" he yielded nothing more than a deepened attention to the mischievous pleasure in hand. Always he was beyond reach--just beyond reach. It was tantalizing. Billy Topsail lost his temper. This was a blunder. It encouraged the dog. To recover the whip was an imperative precaution; but Billy could not accomplish it in a temper. Cracker was willful and agile and determined; and when he had tired--it seemed--of his taunting game, he whisked away, with the pack in chase, and was lost to sight in the gale. It fell dark then; and presently, far away a dog howled, and there was an answering howl, and a chorus of howls. They were gone for good. It was a mutiny. Billy knew that his authority had departed with the symbol of it. He did not see the whip again. CHAPTER VII _In Which a Blazing Club Plays a Salutary Part, Teddy Brisk Declares the Ways of His Mother, and Billy Topsail Looks Forward to a Battle that No Man Could Win_ Next night--a starlit time then, and the wind gone flat--Billy Topsail was burning the fragments of the komatik. All day the dogs had roamed the pan. They had not ventured near Billy Topsail's authority--not within reach of Billy's treacherously minded flattery and coaxing. In the exercise of this new freedom they had run wild and fought among themselves like a mutinous pirate crew. Now, however, with night down, they had crept out of its seclusion and were sitting on the edge of the firelight, staring, silent, pondering. Teddy Brisk was tied up in the wolfskin bag. It was the best refuge for the lad. In the event of a rush he would not be torn in the scuffle; and should the dogs overcome Billy Topsail--which was not yet probable--the little boy would be none the worse off in the bag. Had the dogs been a pack of wolves Billy would have been in livid fear of them; but these beasts were dogs of his own harbour, which he had commanded at will and beaten at will, and he was awaiting the onset with grim satisfaction. In the end, as he knew, the dogs would have an advantage that could not be resisted; but now--Billy Topsail would "l'arn 'em! Let 'em come!" Billy's club, torn from the komatik, was lying one end in his little fire. He nursed it with care. Cracker fawned up. In the shadows, behind, the pack stared attentive. It was a pretense at playfulness--Cracker's advance. Cracker pawed the ice, and wagged his tail, and laughed. This amused Billy. It was transparent cunning. Billy gripped his club and let the fire freely ignite the end of it. He was as keen as the dog--as sly and as alert. He said: "Good ol' dog!" Obviously the man was not suspicious. Cracker's confidence increased. He moved quickly, then, within leaping distance. For a flash he paused, king-hairs rising. When he rushed, the pack failed him. It started, quivered, stopped, and cautiously stood still. Billy was up. The lift of Cracker's crest and the dog's taut pause had amply warned him. A moment later Cracker was in scared, yelping flight from the pain and horror of Billy's blazing club, and the pack was in ravenous chase of him. Billy Topsail listened for the issue of the chase. It came presently--the confusion of a dog fight; and it was soon over. Cracker was either dead or master again. Billy hoped the pack had made an end of him and would be content. He could not be sure of the outcome. Cracker was a difficult beast. Released from the wolfskin bag and heartened by Billy's laughter, Teddy Brisk demanded: "Was it Cracker?" "It was." Teddy grinned. "Did you fetch un a fatal wallop?" "I left the dogs t' finish the job. Hark! They're not feastin', is they? Mm-m? I don't know." They snuggled up to the little fire. Teddy Brisk was wistful. He talked now--as often before--of the coming of a skiff from Our Harbour. He had a child's intimate knowledge of his own mother--and a child's wise and abounding faith. "I knows my mother's ways," he declared. "Mark me, Billy, my mother's an anxious woman an' wonderful fond o' me. When my mother heard that sou'west wind blow up, 'Skipper Thomas,' says she t' my grandfather, 'them b'ys is goin' out with the ice; an' you get right straight up out o' bed an' tend t' things.' "An' my grandfather's a man; an' he says: "'Go to, woman! They're ashore on Ginger Head long ago!' "An' my mother says: "'Ah, well, they mightn't be, you dunder-head!'--for she've a wonderful temper when she's afeared for my safety. "An' my grandfather says: "'They is, though.' "An' my mother says: "'You'll be off in the bait skiff t'-morrow, sir, with a flea in your ear, t' find out at Our Harbour.' "An' she'd give that man his tea in a mug (scolding) until he got a Tight Cove crew t'gether an' put out across the bay. Ecod! but they'd fly across the bay in a gale o' wind like that! Eh, Billy?" "All in a smother--eh, Teddy?" "Yep--all in a smother. My grandfather's fit an' able for anything in a boat. An' they'd send the news up an' down the coast from Our Harbour--wouldn't they, Billy?" "'Way up an' down the coast, Teddy." "Yep--'way up an' down. They must be skiffs from Walk Harbour an' Skeleton Cove an' Come-Again Bight searchin' this floe for we--eh, Billy?" "An' Our Harbour too." "Yep--an' Our Harbour too. Jus' the way they done when ol' Bad-Weather West was cast away--eh, Billy? Don't you 'low so?" "Jus' that clever way, Teddy." "I reckon my mother'll tend t' that." Teddy's heart failed him then. "Anyhow, Billy," said he weakly, "you'll take care o' me--won't you--if the worst comes t' the worst?" The boy was not too young for a vision of the worst coming to the worst. "None better!" Billy replied. "I been thinkin' I isn't very much of a man, Billy. I've not much courage left." "Huh!" Billy scoffed. "When we gets ashore, an' I tells my tale o' these days----" Teddy started. "Billy," said he, "you'll not tell what I said?" "What was that now?" "Jus' now, Billy--about----" "I heard no boast. An I was you, Teddy, I wouldn't boast too much. I'd cling t' modesty." "I takes it back," said Teddy. He sighed. "An' I'll stand by." It did not appear to Billy Topsail how this guardianship of the boy was to be accomplished. Being prolonged, it was a battle, of course, no man could win. The dogs were beaten off for the time. They would return--not that night, perhaps, or in the broad light of the next day; but in the dark of the night to come they would return, and, failing success then, in the dark of the night after. That was the way of it. CHAPTER VIII _In Which Teddy Brisk Escapes From the Wolfskin Bag and Determines to Use His Crutch and Billy Topsail Comes to the Conclusion that "It Looks Bad"_ Next day the dogs hung close. They were now almost desperately ravenous. It was agony for them to be so near the satisfaction of their hunger and in inhibitive terror of seizing it. Their mouths dripped. They were in torture--they whimpered and ran restless circles; but they did not dare. They would attack when the quarry was weak or unaware. Occasionally Billy Topsail sallied on them with his club and a loud, intimidating tongue, to disclose his strength and teach them discretion; and the dogs were impressed and restrained by this show. If Billy Topsail could catch and kill a dog he would throw the carcass to the pack and thus stave off attack. Having been fed, the dogs would be in a mild humour. Billy might then entice and kill another--for himself and Teddy Brisk. [Illustration: THE DOGS WERE DESPERATELY RAVENOUS] Cracker was alive and still masterful. Billy went out in chase of Smoke. It was futile. Billy cut a ridiculous figure in the pursuit. He could neither catch the dog nor overreach him with blandishments; and a cry of alarm from the boy brought him back to his base in haste to drive off Cracker and Tucker and Sling, who were up to the wolf's trick of flanking. The dogs had reverted. They were wolves again--as nearly as harbour dogs may be. Billy perceived that they could no longer be dealt with as the bond dogs of Tight Cove. In the afternoon Billy slept. He would need to keep watch through the night. Billy Topsail had husbanded the fragments of the komatik. A fire burned all that night--a mere glow and flicker of light. It was the last of the wood. All that remained was the man's club and the boy's crutch. Now, too, the last of the food went. There was nothing to eat. What Billy had brought, the abundant provision of a picnic, with something for emergencies--the bread and tea and molasses--had been conserved, to be sure, and even attenuated. There was neither a crumb nor a drop of it left. What confronted Billy Topsail now, however, and alarmed his hope and courage, was neither wind nor frost, nor so much the inevitable pangs of starvation, which were not immediate, as a swift abatement of his strength. A starved man cannot long continue at bay with a club. Billy could beat off the dogs that night perhaps--after all, they were the dogs of Tight Cove, Cracker and Smoke and Tucker and Sling; but to-morrow night--he would not be so strong to-morrow night. The dogs did not attack that night. Billy heard them close--the sniffing and whining and restless movement in the dark that lay beyond the light of his feeble fire and was accentuated by it. But that was all. * * * * * It was now clear weather and the dark of the moon. The day was bright and warm. When night fell again it was starlight--every star of them all twinkling its measure of pale light to the floe. The dogs were plain as shifting, shadowy creatures against the white field of ice. Billy Topsail fought twice that night. This was between midnight and dawn. There was no maneuvering. The dogs gathered openly, viciously, and delivered a direct attack. Billy beat them off. He was gasping and discouraged, though, at the end of the encounter. They would surely come again--and they did. They waited--an hour, it may have been; and then they came. There was a division of the pack. Six dogs--Spunk and Biscuit and Hero in advance--rushed Billy Topsail. It was a reluctant assault. Billy disposed of the six--after all, they were dogs of Tight Cove, not wolves from the rigours of the timber; and Billy was then attracted to the rescue of Teddy Brisk, who was tied up in the wolfskin bag, by the boy's muffled screams. Cracker and Smoke and Tucker and Sling were worrying the wolfskin bag and dragging it off. They dropped it and took flight when Billy came roaring at them with a club. When Billy released him from the wolfskin bag the boy was still screaming. He was not quieted--his cries and sobbing--until the day was broad. "Gimme my crutch!" said he. "I'll never go in that bag no more!" "Might as well wield your crutch," Billy agreed. To survive another night was out of the question. Another night came in due course, however, and was to be faced. * * * * * It was a gray day. Sky and ice and fields of ruffled water had no warmth of colour. All the world was both cold and drear. A breeze was stirring down from the north and would be bitter in the dusk. It cut and disheartened the castaways. It portended, moreover, a black night. Teddy cried a good deal that day--a little whimper, with tears. He was cold and hungry--the first agony of starvation--and frightened and homesick. Billy fancied that his spirit was broken. As for Billy himself, he watched the dogs, which watched him patiently near by--a hopeless vigil for the man, for the dogs were fast approaching a pass of need in which hunger would dominate the fear of a man with a club. And Billy was acutely aware of this much--that nothing but the habitual fear of a man with a club had hitherto restrained the full fury and strength of the pack. That fury, breaking with determination, would be irresistible. No man could beat off the attack of ten dogs that were not, in the beginning, already defeated and overcome by awe of him. In the dark--in the dark of that night Billy could easily be dragged down; and the dogs were manifestly waiting for the dark to fall. It was to be the end. "It looks bad--it do so, indeed!" Billy Topsail thought. That was the full extent of his admission. CHAPTER IX _In Which Attack is Threatened and Billy Topsail Strips Stark Naked in the Wind in Pursuit of a Desperate Expedient and with Small Chance of Success_ Teddy Brisk kept watch for a skiff from Our Harbour or Come-Again Bight. He depended for the inspiration of this rescue on his mother's anxious love and sagacity. She would leave nothing to the indifferent dealings and cold issue of chance; it was never "more by good luck than good conduct" with her, ecod! "I knows my mother's ways!" he sobbed, and he repeated this many times as the gray day drew on and began to fail. "I tells you, Billy, I knows my mother's ways!" And they were not yet beyond sight of the coast. Scotchman's Breakfast of Ginger Head was a wee white peak against the drab of the sky in the southwest; and the ragged line of cliffs running south and east was a long, thin ridge on the horizon where the cottages of Walk Harbour and Our Harbour were. No sail fluttered between--a sail might be confused with the colour of the ice, however, or not yet risen into view; but by and by, when the misty white circle of the sun was dropping low, the boy gave up hope, without yielding altogether to despair. There would be no skiff along that day, said he; but there would surely be a sail to-morrow, never fear--Skipper Thomas and a Tight Cove crew. In the light airs the floe had spread. There was more open water than there had been. Fragments of ice had broken from the first vast pans into which Schooner Bay ice had been split in the break-up. These lesser, lighter pans moved faster than the greater ones; and the wind from the north--blown up to a steady breeze by this time--was driving them slowly south against the windward edge of the more sluggish fields in that direction. At sunset--the west was white and frosty--a small pan caught Billy Topsail's eye and instantly absorbed his attention. It had broken from the field on which they were marooned and was under way on a diagonal across a quiet lane of black water, towards a second great field lying fifty fathoms or somewhat less to the south. Were Billy Topsail and the boy aboard that pan the wind would ferry them away from the horrible menace of the dogs. It was a small pan--an area of about four hundred square feet; yet it would serve. It was not more than fifteen fathoms distant. Billy could swim that far--he was pretty sure he could swim that far, the endeavour being unencumbered; but the boy--a little fellow and a cripple--could not swim at all. Billy jumped up. "We've got t' leave this pan," said he, "an' forthwith too." "Have you a notion, b'y?" Billy laid off his seal-hide overjacket. He gathered up the dogs' traces--long strips of seal leather by means of which the dogs had drawn the komatik, a strip to a dog; and he began to knot them together--talking fast the while to distract the boy from the incident of peculiar peril in the plan. The little pan in the lane--said he--would be a clever ferry. He would swim out and crawl aboard. It would be no trick at all. He would carry one end of the seal-leather line. Teddy Brisk would retain the other. Billy pointed out a ridge of ice against which Teddy Brisk could brace his sound leg. They would pull, then--each against the other; and presently the little pan would approach and lie alongside the big pan--there was none too much wind for that--and they would board the little pan and push off, and drift away with the wind, and leave the dogs to make the best of a bad job. It would be a slow affair, though--hauling in a pan like that; the light was failing too--flickering out like a candle end--and there must be courage and haste--or failure. Teddy Brisk at once discovered the interval of danger to himself. "I'll be left alone with the dogs!" he objected. "Sure, b'y," Billy coaxed; "but then you see----" "I won't stay alone!" the boy sobbed. He shrank from the direction of the dogs towards Billy. At once the dogs attended. "I'm afeared t' stay alone!" he screamed. "No, no!" "An we don't leave this pan," Billy scolded, "we'll be gobbled up in the night." That was not the immediate danger. What confronted the boy was an immediate attack, which he must deal with alone. "No! No! No!" the boy persisted. "Ah, come now----" "That Cracker knows I'm a cripple, Billy. He'll turn at me. I can't keep un off." Billy changed front. "Who's skipper here?" he demanded. "You is, sir." "Is you takin' orders or isn't you?" The effect of this was immediate. The boy stopped his clamour. "I is, sir," said he. "Then stand by!" "Aye, sir!"--a sob and a sigh. * * * * * It was to be bitter cold work in the wind and water. Billy Topsail completed his preparations before he began to strip. He lashed the end of the seal-leather line round the boy's waist and put the club in his hand. All this while he gave directions: The boy was to face the dogs; he was not to turn round for hints of Billy's progress or to be concerned at all with that; he was not to lose courage; he was to feint and scold; he was to let no shadow of fear cross his face--no tremor of fear must touch his voice; he was not to yield an inch; he was not to sob and cover his eyes with his hands--in short, he was to mind his own task of keeping the dogs away and leave Billy to accomplish his. And the boy answered: "Yes, sir!" and "Aye, sir!" and "Very well, sir!"--like an old hand of the coast. It was stimulating. Billy Topsail was heartened. He determined privately that he would not turn to look back--that if the worst came to the worst, and he could manage to do so, he would jerk the lad into the water and let him drown. The snarling tumult of the onset would warn him when the worst had come to the worst. And then he stripped stark naked, quickly stowed away his clothes in the midst of the boy's dogskin robes, tied the end of the seal-leather line round his waist, and ran to the edge of the pan. "If you drowns--" the boy began. "Keep them dogs off!" Billy Topsail roared. "I'll not drown!" He slipped into the water and struck out. CHAPTER X _In Which Teddy Brisk Confronts the Pack Alone and Cracker Leads the Assault_ By this time the sun was touching the cliffs of shore. It was a patch of struggling white light in the drear gray colour of the west. It would drop fast. In his punt, in summer weather, wondering all the while at the acceleration of this last descent, Teddy Brisk had often paused to watch the sun fall and flicker out of sight. It had seemed to fall beyond the rim of the world, like a ball. "She tumbles through the last foot or two!" he had determined. In a little while the sun would be gone. Now the sky was overcast and scowling. In the east it was already dusk. The cloudy black sky in the east caught no light from the feeble sun. Presently everywhere it would be dark. It had turned colder too. The wind from the north was still blowing up--a nipping gray wind which would sweep the floe and hamper the manipulation of the little pan towards which the naked Billy Topsail was striving. And the wind lifted the dry snow and drove it past Teddy Brisk's feet in swirling wreaths. The floe was smoking, the boy thought. Before long the snow would rise higher and envelop him. And he thought that when Billy reached the little pan, and stood exposed and dripping in the blast, he would be very cold. It would take a long time, too, to haul the little pan across the lane of water. It will be recalled that Teddy Brisk was ten years old. He stood alone. He knew the temper of the dogs. Billy Topsail was out of reach. The burden of fear had fallen on the boy--not on Billy. The boy had been in a panic; yet he was not now even afraid. Duty occupied him. He had no time for reflection. The hazard of the quarter of an hour to come, however, was clear to him. Should he fail to keep off the dogs through every moment of that time, he would be torn to death before Billy could return to his rescue. Should Billy Topsail fail to reach the pan--should Billy go down midway--he would surely be devoured. And Billy Topsail was no swimmer to boast of. Teddy knew that. He had heard Billy tell of it. Billy could keep afloat--could achieve a slow, splashing progress. That was true. Billy's chance of winning the pan was small. But Teddy was Labrador born and bred. What now commanded his fear was Billy's orders to duty. Obedience to a skipper was laid on all men. It must be instant and unfailing in an emergency. Billy was in command. He was responsible. It was for the boy to obey. That was the teaching of his habitat. Consequently Teddy Brisk's terror yielded and he stood fast. When Billy began to strip, the dogs were disturbed. What was the man up to? What was this? Queer proceeding this! It was a trick. When he stood naked in the wind the dogs were uneasy. When he went into the water they were alarmed. They withdrew. Cracker and Smoke ran to the water's edge and stared at Billy--keeping half an eye on the boy meantime. It troubles a dog to see a man in the water. Smoke whined. Cracker growled and crouched to leap after Billy. He could easily overtake and drown Billy. Teddy went at Cracker and Smoke with his club. He screamed at them: "Back, you, Cracker! Back, you, Smoke!" The dogs responded to this furious authority. They scurried away and rejoined the others. Teddy taunted them. He laughed at the pack, challenged it--crutch under his left arm and club swinging in his right hand. He taunted the dogs by name--Cracker and Smoke and Tucker. This bewildered the dogs. They were infinitely suspicious. The boy hobbled at them in a rage, a few feet forth--the seal-leather line round his waist limited him--and defied them. They retreated. When Teddy returned to the edge of the field they sat regarding him in amazement and renewed suspicion. In this way for a time the boy kept the dogs at a distance--by exciting their surprise and suspicion. It sufficed for a space. The dogs were curious. They were entertained. What was strange in the behaviour of the quarry, moreover, was fearsome to the dogs. It indicated unknown resources. The dogs waited. Presently Teddy could devise no new startling gestures. He was never silent--he was never still; but his fantastic antics, growing familiar and proving innocuous, began to fail of effect. Something else--something out of the way and unexpected--must be done to distract and employ the attention of the dogs. They were aware of Billy Topsail's absence--they were cunning cowards and they would take advantage of the opportunity. The dogs began to move--to whine and circle and toss their heads. Teddy could see the concerted purpose take form. It was as though they were conspiring together. He was fully aware of what impended. They were coming! he thought; and they were coming in a moment. It was an attack agreed on. They were to act as a pack. They advanced. It was tentative and slow. They paused. They came closer. Teddy brandished his club and reviled them in shrill screams. The dogs paused again. They crouched then. Cracker was in the lead. The boy hated Cracker. Cracker's white breast was touching the ice. His head was thrust forward. His crest began to rise. CHAPTER XI _In Which Teddy Brisk Gives the Strains of a Tight Cove Ballad to the North Wind, Billy Topsail Wins the Reward of Daring, Cracker Finds Himself in the Way of the Evil-Doer, and Teddy Brisk's Boast Makes Doctor Luke Laugh_ Stripped down, at first, on the field, Billy Topsail would not yield to the cold. He did not shrink from the wind. He moved like a man all clothed. Nor would he yield to the shock of the water. He ignored it. It was heroic self-command. But he was the man for that--a Newfoundlander. He struck out precisely as though he had gone into the summer water of Ruddy Cove. If he relapsed from this attitude the cold would strike through him. A chill would momentarily paralyze his strength. He was neither a strong nor a cunning swimmer. In this lapse he would go down and be choked beyond further effort before he could recover the use of his arms and legs. It was icy cold. He would not think of the cold. His best protection against it was the sufficient will to ignore it. The power would not long endure. It must endure until he had clambered out of the water to the little pan towards which he floundered. He was slow in the water. It seemed to him that his progress was mysteriously prolonged--that the wind was driving the pan away. The wind could not rise to this pitch in a minute; but when he was midway of the lane he thought half an hour had elapsed--an hour--that he must have left the field and the boy far behind. The boy was not much more than fifteen yards away. A word of advice occurred to Billy. He did not turn. He was then within a dozen strokes of the little pan. He shouted: "Give un a tune!" Teddy Brisk dropped his crutch, fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, whipped out his mouth organ, clapped it to his lips, and blew a lively air: Lukie's boat was painted green, The finest boat that ever was seen; Lukie's boat had cotton sails, A juniper rudder and galvanized nails. And he so profoundly astonished the dogs with these sudden, harmonious sounds, accompanied by the jerky movement of a crippled leg, designed to resemble a dance, and in itself shockingly suspicious--so profoundly astonished the dogs that they paused to reconsider the matter in hand. It was startling. They sat up. Aha! What was this? What did it portend? And the little boy wheezed away: Lukie sailed her out one day, A fine spell o' weather in the month o' May; She leaked so bad when he put about, He drove her ashore on the Tailor's Snout. And he kept on blowing that famous jig-time ballad of Tight Cove for dear life until a tug at the line round his waist warned him to brace himself against the steady pull to follow. Teddy was still giving the strains of Lukie's adventure to the north wind when the little pan came alongside. "Carry on!" Billy Topsail chattered behind him. Teddy interrupted himself to answer: "Aye, sir!" "I'll get my clothes an' the skins aboard. Ecod! It's awful cold!" Presently they pushed out from the field. It had not taken long. The patch of white light that was the sun had not yet dropped out of sight behind the cliffs of the shore. * * * * * It was a bad night on the field to the south. The boys were hungry. It was cold. Billy Topsail suffered from the cold. In the morning the northerly wind had turned the heap of dogskin robes into a snowdrift. The sun shone. Billy was still cold. He shivered and chattered. He despaired. Rescue came, however, in the afternoon. It was the Tight Cove skiff, hailing now from Our Harbour, with Doctor Luke aboard. The skiff from Come-Again Bight found the dogs. The dogs were wild--the men said--and would not come aboard, but ran off in a pack to the farthest limits of the field and were not seen again--save only Cracker, who fawned and jumped into the skiff without so much as a by-your-leave. And Cracker, in due course and according to custom, they hanged by the neck at Tight Cove until he was dead. That day, however--the afternoon of the rescue--when the Tight Cove skiff came near, Teddy Brisk put his hands to his mouth and shouted--none too lustily: "Ahoy!" "Aye?" Skipper Thomas answered. "Did my mother send you?" "She did." Teddy Brisk turned to Billy Topsail. "Didn't I tell you," he sobbed, his eyes blazing, "that I knowed my mother's ways?" And Doctor Luke laughed. CHAPTER XII _In Which Billy Topsail's Agreeable Qualities Win a Warm Welcome with Doctor Luke at Our Harbour, There is an Explosion at Ragged Run, Tommy West Drops Through the Ice and Vanishes, and Doctor Luke is in a Way Never to Be Warned of the Desperate Need of His Services_ In Doctor Luke's little hospital at Our Harbour, Billy Topsail fell in with a charming group--Doctor Luke and his friends; and being himself a boy of a good many attractive qualities, and of natural good manners, which association with his friend Archie Armstrong, of St. John's, Sir Archibald's son, had helped to fashion--being a manly, good-mannered, humorous fellow, he was very soon warmly accepted. There was no mystery about Doctor Luke. He was an Englishman--a well-bred, cultured man; and having been wrecked on the coast, and having perceived the great need of a physician in those parts, he had thrown in his lot for good and all with the Labrador folk. And he was obviously happy--both busy and happy. That he regretted his determination was a preposterous thing to assume; on the contrary, he positively did not regret it--he whistled and sang and laughed and laboured, and Billy Topsail was convinced that he was not only the most useful man in the world, but the most delightful and best, and the happiest, too. That Doctor Luke was useful was very soon evident to an astonishing degree. Teddy Brisk's leg was scraped--it was eventually healed and became quite as sound as Billy Topsail's "off shank." But there was a period of convalescence, during which Billy Topsail had all the opportunity in the world to observe just how mightily useful Doctor Luke was. The demands upon him were extraordinary; and his response to them--his ready, cheerful, skillful, brave response--was more extraordinary still. Winter was not yet done with: summer delayed--there was more snow, more frost; and the ice drifted in and out with the variable winds: so that travelling in those parts was at its most dangerous period. Yet Doctor Luke went about with small regard for what might happen--afoot, with the dogs, and in a punt, when the ice, having temporarily drifted away, left open water. Up and down the coast, near and far, always on the wing: that was Doctor Luke--the busiest, happiest, most useful man Billy Topsail had ever known. And Billy Topsail was profoundly affected by all this beneficent activity. He wished to emulate it. This was a secret, to be sure; there was no reason for Billy Topsail to think that a fisherman's son like himself would ever be presented with the opportunity to "wield a knife" and be made master of the arts of healing--and consequently he said nothing about the growing ambition. But the ambition flourished. When Doctor Luke returned from his professional calls with tales of illness cured and distress alleviated, and when Billy Topsail reflected that there would have been neither cure nor alleviation had it not been for Doctor Luke's skill and kindly heart, Billy Topsail wanted with all his strength to be about that selfsame business. And there was a good deal in the performance of it to appeal to a lad like Billy Topsail--the adventure of the thing: for Doctor Luke seldom counted the chances, when they seemed not too unreasonably against him, and when the need was urgent he did not count them at all. Billy Topsail was just a little bit puzzled at first. Why should Doctor Luke do these things? There was no gain--no material gain worth considering; but it did not take Billy Topsail long to perceive that there was in fact great gain--far exceeding material gain: the satisfaction in doing a good deed for what Doctor Luke called "the love of God" and nothing else whatsoever. Doctor Luke was not attached to any Mission. His work was his own: his field was his own--nobody contributed to his activities; nobody helped him in any way. Yet his work was done in the spirit of the missionary; and that was what Billy Topsail liked about it--the masterful, generous, high-minded quality of it. Being an honest, healthy lad, Billy Topsail set Doctor Luke in the hero's seat and began to worship, as no good boy could very well help doing; it was not long, indeed, before Doctor Luke had grown to be as great a hero as Sir Archibald Armstrong, Archie's father--and that is saying a good deal. In the lap of the future there lay some adventures in which Billy Topsail and Archie Armstrong were to be concerned; but Billy Topsail was not aware of that. Billy Topsail was neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet. Sometimes, however, he sighed: "I wish Archie was here!" And that wish was to come true. * * * * * Before Teddy Brisk was well enough to be sent home, something happened at Ragged Run Cove, which lay across Anxious Bight, near by the hospital at Our Harbour; and Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail were at once drawn into the consequences of the accident. It was March weather. There was sunshine and thaw. Anxious Bight was caught over with rotten ice from Ragged Run Cove to the heads of Our Harbour. A rumour of seals--a herd on the Arctic drift-ice offshore--had come in from the Spotted Horses. It inspired instant haste in all the cottages of Ragged Run--an eager, stumbling haste. In Bad-Weather Tom West's wife's kitchen, somewhat after ten o'clock in the morning, in the midst of this hilarious scramble to be off to the floe, there was a flash and spit of fire, pale in the sunshine, and the clap of an explosion and the clatter of a sealing gun on the bare floor; and in the breathless, dead little interval, enduring between the appalling detonation and a man's groan of dismay and a woman's choke and scream of terror--in this shocked silence, Dolly West, Bad-Weather Tom's small maid, and Joe West's niece, stood swaying, wreathed in gray smoke, her little hands pressed tight to her eyes. She was a pretty little creature--she had been a pretty little creature: there had been yellow curls, in the Labrador way--and rosy cheeks and grave blue eyes; but now of all this shy, fair loveliness---- "You've killed her!" "Dear Lord--no!" cried Uncle Joe West, whose gun had exploded. Dolly dropped her hands. She reached out, then, for something to grasp. And she plainted: "I ithn't dead, mother. I juth'--I juth' can't thee." She extended her red hands. "They're all wet!" she complained. By this time the mother had the little girl gathered close in her arms. She moaned: "Doctor Luke--quick!" Tommy West caught up his cap and mittens and sprang to the door. "Not by the Bight!" Joe West shouted. "No, sir." Dolly West whimpered: "It thmart-th, mother!" "By Mad Harry an' Thank-the-Lord!" "Ay, sir." Dolly screamed--now: "It hurt-th! Oh, oh, it hurt-th!" "An' haste, lad!" "Ay, sir." There was of course no doctor at Ragged Run; there was a doctor, Doctor Luke, at Our Harbour, however--across Anxious Bight. Tommy West avoided the rotten ice of the Bight, which he dared not cross, and took the 'longshore trail by way of Mad Harry and Thank-the-Lord. At noon he was past Mad Harry, his little legs wearing well and his breath coming easily through his expanded nostrils--he had not paused; and at four o'clock--still on a dog-trot--he had hauled down the chimney smoke of Thank-the-Lord and was bearing up for Our Harbour. Early dusk caught him short-cutting the doubtful ice of Thank-the-Lord Cove; and half an hour later, midway of the passage to Our Harbour, with two miles left to accomplish--dusk falling thick and cold, then, and a frosty wind blowing--the heads of Our Harbour looming black and solid in the wintry night beyond--he dropped through the ice and vanished. There was not a sign of him left--some bubbles, perhaps: nothing more. CHAPTER XIII _In Which Doctor Luke Undertakes a Feat of Daring and Endurance and Billy Topsail Thinks Himself the Luckiest Lad in the World_ Returning from a call at Tumble Tickle, in clean, sunlit weather, with nothing more tedious than eighteen miles of wilderness trail and rough floe ice behind him, Doctor Luke was chagrined to discover himself a bit fagged. He had come heartily down the trail from Tumble Tickle in the early hours of that fine, windy morning, fit and eager for the trudge--as a matter of course; but on the ice, in the shank of the day--there had been eleven miles of the floe--he had lagged. A man cannot practice medicine out of a Labrador outport harbour and not know what it means to stomach a physical exhaustion. Doctor Luke had been tired before. He was not disturbed by that. But being human, he looked forward to rest; and in the drear, frosty dusk, when he rounded the heads of Home, opened the lights of Our Harbour, and caught the warm, yellow gleam of the lamp in the surgery window, he was glad to be near his supper and his bed. And so he told Billy Topsail, whom he found in the surgery, replenishing the fire. "Ha, Billy!" said he. "I'm glad to be home." Afterwards, when supper had been disposed of, and Doctor Luke was with Billy in the surgery, the rest of the family being elsewhere occupied, there was a tap on the surgery door. Doctor Luke called: "Come in!"--with some wonder as to the event. It was no night to be abroad on the ice. Yet the tap on the surgery door could mean but one thing--somebody was in trouble; and as he called "Come in!" and while he waited for the door to open, Doctor Luke considered the night and wondered what strength he had left. A youngster--he had been dripping wet and was now sparkling all over with frost and ice in the light of the surgery lamp--intruded. "Thank-the-Lord Cove?" "No, sir." "Mad Harry?" "Ragged Run, sir." "Bad-Weather West's lad?" "Yes, sir." "Been in the water?" The boy grinned. He was ashamed of himself. "Yes, sir. I falled through the ice, sir." "Come across the Bight?" The boy stared. "No, sir. A cat couldn't cross the Bight the night, sir. 'Tis all rotten. I come alongshore by Mad Harry an' Thank-the-Lord. I dropped through all of a sudden, sir, in Thank-the Lord Cove." "Who's sick?" "Uncle Joe's gun went off, sir." Doctor Luke rose. "Uncle Joe's gun went off! Who was in the way?" "Dolly, sir." "And Dolly in the way! And Dolly----" "She've gone blind, sir. An' her cheek, sir--an' one ear, sir----" "What's the night?" "Blowin' up, sir. There's a scud. An' the moon----" "You didn't cross the Bight? Why not?" "'Tis rotten from shore t' shore. I'd not try the Bight, sir, the night." "No?" "No, sir." The boy was very grave. "Mm-m." All this while Doctor Luke had been moving about the surgery in sure haste--packing a waterproof case with little instruments and vials and what-not. And now he got quickly into his boots and jacket, pulled down his coonskin cap, pulled up his sealskin gloves, handed Bad-Weather West's boy over to the family for supper and bed, and was about to close the surgery door upon himself when Billy Topsail interrupted him. "I say, sir!" Doctor Luke halted. "Well, Billy?" "Take me, sir! Won't you?" "What for?" "I wants t' go." "I go the short way, Billy." "Sure, you does! I knows _you_, sir!" Doctor Luke laughed. "Come on!" said he. Billy Topsail thought himself the luckiest lad in the world. And perhaps he was. CHAPTER XIV _In Which Billy Topsail and Doctor Luke Take to the Ice in the Night and Doctor Luke Tells Billy Topsail Something Interesting About Skinflint Sam and Bad-Weather Tom West of Ragged Run_ Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail took to the harbour ice and drove head down into the gale. There were ten miles to go. It was to be a night's work. They settled themselves doggedly to the miles. It was a mile and a half to the Head, where the Tickle led a narrow way from the shelter of Our Harbour to Anxious Bight and the open sea; and from the lee of the Head--a straightaway across Anxious Bight--it was nine miles to Blow-me-Down Dick of Ragged Run Cove. Doctor Luke had rested but three hours. It was but a taste. Legs and feet were bitterly unwilling to forego a sufficient rest. They complained of the interruption. They were stiff and sore and sullen. It was hard to warm them to their labour. Impatient to revive the accustomed comfort and glow of strength, Doctor Luke began to run. Presently they slowed up. Doctor Luke told Billy Topsail, as they pushed on, something about the Ragged Run family they were to visit. "There is a small trader at Ragged Run," said he. "A strange mixture of conscience and greed he is. Skinflint Sam--they call him. Conscience? Oh, yes, he has a conscience! And his conscience--as he calls it--has made him rich as riches go in these parts. No, of course not! You wouldn't expect a north-coast trader to have a conscience; and you wouldn't expect a north-coast trader with a conscience to be rich!" Billy Topsail agreed with this. "Ah, well," Doctor Luke went on, "conscience is much like the wind. It blows every which way (as they say); and if a man does but trim his sails to suit, he can bowl along in any direction without much wear and tear of the spirit. Skinflint Sam bowled along, paddle-punt fisherman to Ragged Run merchant. Skinflint went where he was bound for, wing-and-wing to the breeze behind, and got there with his peace of mind showing never a sign of the weather. It is said that the old man has an easy conscience and ten thousand dollars! "This Bad-Weather West vowed long ago that he would even scores with Skinflint Sam before he could pass to his last harbour with any satisfaction. "'With me, Tom?' said Sam. 'That's a saucy notion for a hook-an'-line man.' "'Ten more years o' life,' said Tom, 'an' I'll square scores.' "'Afore you evens scores with me, Tom,' said Sam, 'you'll have t' have what I wants.' "'I may have it.' "'An' also,' said Sam, 'what I can't get.' "'There's times,' said Tom, 'when a man stands in sore need o' what he never thought he'd want.' "'When you haves what I needs,' said Sam, 'I'll pay what you asks.' "'If 'tis for sale,' said Tom. "'Money talks,' said Sam. "'Ah, well,' said Tom, 'maybe it don't speak my language.' "Of course, Skinflint Sam's conscience is just as busy as any other man's conscience. I think it troubles Sam. It doesn't trouble him to be honest, perhaps; it troubles him only to be rich. And possibly it gives him no rest. When trade is dull--no fish coming into Sam's storehouses and no goods going out of Sam's shop--Sam's conscience makes him grumble and groan. They say a man never was so tortured by conscience before. "And to ease his conscience Sam goes over his ledgers by night; and he will jot down a gallon of molasses here, and a pound of tea there, until he has made a good day's trade of a bad one. 'Tis simple enough, too: for Sam gives out no accounts, but just strikes his balances to please his greed, at the end of the season, and tells his dealers how much they owe him or how little he owes them." Doctor Luke paused. "Ay," said Billy Topsail. "I've seed that way o' doin' business." "We all have, Billy," said Doctor Luke. And resumed: "In dull times Sam's conscience irks him into overhauling his ledgers. 'Tis otherwise in seasons of plenty. But Sam's conscience apparently keeps pricking away just the same--aggravating Sam into getting richer and richer. There is no rest for Skinflint Sam. Skinflint Sam must have all the money he can take by hook and crook or suffer the tortures of an evil conscience. And as any other man, Sam must ease that conscience or lose sleep o' nights. "And so in seasons of plenty up goes the price of tea at Skinflint Sam's shop. And up goes the price of pork. And up goes the price of flour. All sky high, ecod! Never was such harsh times (says Sam); why, my dear man, up St. John's way (says he) you couldn't touch tea nor pork nor flour with a ten-foot sealing-gaff. And no telling what the world is coming to, with prices soaring like a gull in a gale and all the St. John's merchants chary of credit! "''Tis awful times for us poor traders,' says Sam. 'No tellin' who'll weather this here panic. I'd not be surprised if we got a war out of it.' "Well, now, as you know, Billy, on the north-coast in these days it isn't much like the big world beyond. Folk don't cruise about. They are too busy. And they are not used to it anyhow. Ragged Run folk are not born at Ragged Run, raised at Rickity Tickle, married at Seldom-Come-By, aged at Skeleton Harbour and buried at Run-By-Guess. They are born and buried at Ragged Run. So what the fathers think at Ragged Run, the sons think; and what the sons know, has been known by the old men for a good many years. "Nobody is used to changes. They are shy of changes. New ways are fearsome. And so the price of flour is a mystery. _It is, anyhow._ Why it should go up and down at Ragged Run is beyond any man of Ragged Run to fathom. When Skinflint Sam says that the price of flour is up--well, then, it is up; and that's all there is about it. Nobody knows better. And Skinflint Sam has the flour. You know all about that sort of thing, don't you, Billy?" "Ay, sir," Billy replied. "But I been helpin' the clerk of an honest trader." "There are honest traders. Of course! Not Sam, though. And, as I was saying, Sam has the pork, as well as the flour. And he has the sweetness and the tea. And he has the shoes and the clothes and the patent medicines. And he has the twine and the salt. And he has almost all the cash there is at Ragged Run. And he has the schooner that brings in the supplies and carries away the fish to the St. John's markets. "He is the only trader at Ragged Run. His storehouses and shop are jammed with the things that the folk of Ragged Run can't do without and are able to get nowhere else. So all in all, Skinflint Sam can make trouble for the folk that make trouble for him. And the folk grumble. But it is all they have the courage to do. And Skinflint Sam lets them grumble away. The best cure for grumbling (says he) is to give it free course. If a man can speak out in meeting (says he) he will work no mischief in secret. "'Sea-lawyers, eh?' says Sam. 'Huh! What you fellers want, anyhow? Huh? You got everything now that any man could expect. Isn't you housed? Isn't you fed? Isn't you clothed? Isn't you got a parson and a schoolmaster? I believes you wants a doctor settled in the harbour! A doctor! An' 'tisn't two years since I got you your schoolmaster! Queer times we're havin' in the outports these days with every harbour on the coast wantin' a doctor within hail. "'You're well enough done by at Ragged Run. None better nowhere. An' why? Does you ever think o' that? Why? Because I got my trade here. An' think o' _me_! If ar a one o' you had my brain-labour t' do, you'd soon find out what harsh labour was like. What with bad debts, an' roguery, an' failed seasons, an' creditors t' St. John's, I'm hard put to it t' keep my seven senses. An' small thanks I gets--me that keeps this harbour alive in famine an' plenty. 'Tis the business I haves that keeps you. You make trouble for my business, an' you'll come t' starvation! Now, you mark me!' "I do not want you to think too harshly of Skinflint Sam. No doubt he has his good points. Most of us can discover a good point or two in ourselves and almost everybody else. There are times when Skinflint Sam will yield an inch. Oh, yes! I've known Skinflint Sam to drop the price of stick-candy when he had put the price of flour too high for anybody's comfort." CHAPTER XV _In Which Bad-Weather Tom West's Curious Financial Predicament is Explained_ "Well, now," said Doctor Luke, continuing his tale, "Bad-Weather Tom West, of Ragged Run, has a conscience, too. But 'tis just a common conscience. Most men have that kind. It is not like Skinflint Sam's conscience. Nothing 'useful' ever comes of it. It is like yours and mine, Billy. It troubles Tom West to be honest and it keeps him poor. All Tom West's conscience ever aggravates him to do"--Doctor Luke was speaking in gentle irony now--"is just to live along in a religious sort of fashion, and rear his family, and be decently stowed away in the graveyard when his time is up if the sea doesn't catch him first. "But 'tis a busy conscience for all that--and as sharp as a fish-prong. There is no rest for Tom West if he doesn't fatten his wife and crew of little lads and maids. There is no peace of mind for Tom if he doesn't labour! And so Tom labours, and labours, and labours. Dawn to dusk, in season, his punt is on the grounds off Lack-a-Day Head, taking fish from the sea to be salted and dried and passed into Skinflint Sam's storehouses. "The tale began long ago, Billy. When Tom West was about fourteen years old, his father died. 'Twas of a Sunday afternoon, Tom says, that they stowed him away. He remembers the time: spring weather and a fair day, with the sun low, and the birds twittering in the alders just before turning in. "Skinflint Sam caught up with young Tom on the road home from the little graveyard on Sunset Hill. "'Well, lad,' said he, 'the old skipper's gone.' "'Ay, sir, he's dead an' buried.' "'A fine man,' said Skinflint. 'None finer.' "With that young Tom broke out crying. 'He were a kind father t' we,' says he. 'An' now he's dead!' "'You lacked nothin' in your father's life-time,' said Sam. "'An' now he's dead!' "'Well, well, you've no call t' be afeared o' goin' hungry on that account,' said Sam, putting an arm over the lad's shoulder. 'No; nor none o' the little crew over t' your house. Take up the fishin' where your father left it off, lad,' said he, 'an' you'll find small difference. I'll cross out your father's name on the books an' put down your own in its stead.'" Billy Topsail interrupted. "That was kind!" he snorted, in anger. "What a kind man this Skinflint is!" And Doctor Luke continued: "'I'm fair obliged,' said Tom. 'That's kind, sir.' "'Nothin' like kindness t' ease sorrow,' said Skinflint Sam. 'Your father died in debt, lad.' "'Ay, sir?' "'Deep.' "'How much, sir?' "'I'm not able t' tell offhand,' said Sam. ''Twas deep enough. But never you care. You'll be able t' square it in course o' time. You're young an' hearty. An' I'll not be harsh. _I'm_ no skinflint!' "'That's kind, sir.' "'You--you--_will_ square it?' "'I don't know, sir.' "'_What?_' cried Sam. '_What!_ You're not _knowin'_, eh? That's saucy talk. Didn't you have them there supplies?' "'I 'low, sir.' "'An' you guzzled your share, I'll be bound!' "'Yes, sir.' "'An' your mother had her share?' "'Yes, sir.' "'An' you're not knowin' whether you'll pay or not! Ecod! What is you? A scoundrel? A dead beat? A rascal? A thief? A jail-bird?' "'No, sir.' "''Tis for the likes o' you that jails was made.' "'Oh, no, sir!' "'Doesn't you go t' church? Is that what they learns you there? I'm thinkin' the parson doesn't earn what I pays un. Isn't you got no conscience?' "'Twas just a little too much for young Tom. You see, Tom West _had_ a conscience--a conscience as fresh and as young as his years. And Tom had loved his father well. And Tom honoured his father's name. And so when he had brooded over Skinflint Sam's words for a time--and when he had lain awake in the night thinking of his father's goodness--he went over to Skinflint's office and said that he would pay his father's debt. "Skinflint gave him a clap on the back. "'You are an honest lad, Tom West!' said he. 'I knowed you was. I'm proud t' have your name on my books!' "And after that Tom kept hacking away on his father's debt. "In good years Skinflint would say: "'She's comin' down, Tom. I'll just apply the surplus.' "And in bad he'd say: "'You isn't quite cotched up with your own self this season, b'y. A little less pork this season, Tom, an' you'll square this here little balance afore next. I wisht this whole harbour was as honest as you. No trouble, then,' said he, 't' do business in a businesslike way.' "When Tom got over the hill--fifty and more--his father's debt, with interest, according to Skinflint's figures, which Tom had no learning to dispute, was more than it ever had been; and his own was as much as he ever could hope to pay. And by that time Skinflint Sam was rich and Bad-Weather Tom was gone sour. One of these days--and not long, now--I shall make it my business to settle with Skinflint Sam. And I should have done so before, had I known of it." "When did you find out, sir?" "Bad-Weather Tom," Doctor Luke replied, "came to consult me about two months ago. He is in a bad way. I--well, I had to tell him so. And then he told me what I have told you--all about Skinflint Sam and his dealings with him. It was an old story, Billy. I have--well, attended to such matters before, in my own poor way. Bad-Weather Tom did not want me to take this up. 'You leave it to me,' said he; 'an' I'll fix it meself.' I wish he might be able to 'fix' it to his satisfaction." "I hopes he does!" said Billy. "Well, well," Doctor Luke replied, "it is Bad-Weather Tom's maid who is in need of us at Ragged Run." Billy liked that "Us"! CHAPTER XVI _In Which Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Proceed to Accomplish What a Cat Would Never Attempt and Doctor Luke Looks for a Broken Back Whilst Billy Topsail Shouts, "Can You Make It?" and Hears No Answer_ When they came to the Head and there paused to survey Anxious Bight in a flash of the moon Billy Topsail and Doctor Luke were tingling and warm and limber and eager. Yet they were dismayed by the prospect. No man could cross from the Head to Blow-me-Down Dick of Ragged Run Cove in the dark. Doctor Luke considered the light. Communicating masses of ragged cloud were driving low across Anxious Bight. Offshore there was a sluggish bank of black cloud. And Doctor Luke was afraid of that bank of black cloud. The moon was risen and full. It was obscured. The intervals of light were less than the intervals of shadow. Sometimes a wide, impenetrable cloud, its edges alight, darkened the moon altogether. Still--there was light enough. All that was definitely ominous was the bank of black cloud lying sluggishly offshore. "I don't like that cloud, Billy," said Doctor Luke. "No, sir; no more does I." "It will cover the moon by and by." "Sure, sir." "There may be snow in it." "Sure t' be, sir." The longer Doctor Luke contemplated that bank of black cloud--its potentiality for catastrophe--the more he feared it. "If we were to be overtaken by snow----" Billy interrupted with a chuckle. "'Twould be a tidy little fix," said he. "Eh, sir?" "Well, if that's all you have to say," said Doctor Luke--and he laughed--"come right along!" It was blowing high. There was the bite and shiver of frost in the wind. Half a gale ran in from the open sea. Midway of Anxious Bight it would be a saucy, hampering, stinging head-wind. And beyond the Head the ice was in doubtful condition. A man might conjecture: that was all. What was it Tommy West had said? "A cat couldn't cross!" It was mid-spring. Freezing weather had of late alternated with periods of thaw and rain. There had been windy days. Anxious Bight had even once been clear of ice. A westerly wind had broken the ice and swept it out beyond the heads; a punt had fluttered over from Ragged Run Cove. In a gale from the northeast, however, these fragments had returned with accumulations of Arctic pans and hummocks from the Labrador Current; and a frosty night had caught them together and sealed them to the cliffs of the coast. It was a slender attachment--a most delicate attachment: one pan to the other and the whole to the rocks. It had yielded somewhat--it must have gone rotten--in the weather of that day. What the frost had accomplished since dusk could be determined only upon trial. "Soft as cheese!" Doctor Luke concluded. "Rubber ice," said Billy. "Air-holes," said the Doctor. There was another way to Ragged Run--the way by which Tommy West had come. It skirted the shore of Anxious Bight--Mad Harry and Thank-the-Lord and Little Harbour Deep--and something more than multiplied the distance by one and a half. Doctor Luke was completely aware of the difficulties of Anxious Bight, and so was Billy Topsail--the way from Our Harbour to Ragged Run: the treacherous reaches of young ice, bending under the weight of a man, and the veiled black water, and the labour, the crevices, the snow-crust of the Arctic pans and hummocks, and the broken field and wash of the sea beyond the lesser island of the Spotted Horses. They knew, too, the issue of the disappearance of the moon--the desperate plight into which the sluggish bank of black cloud might plunge a man. Yet they now moved out and shaped a course for the black bulk of the Spotted Horses. This was in the direction of Blow-me-Down Dick of Ragged Run and the open sea. "Come on!" said Doctor Luke. "I'm comin', sir," Billy replied. There was something between a chuckle and a laugh from Billy's direction. Doctor Luke started. "Laughing, Billy?" he inquired. "I jus' can't help it, sir." "Nothing much to laugh at." "No, sir," Billy replied. "I don't _feel_ like laughin', sir. But 'tis so wonderful dangerous out on the Bight that I jus' can't _help_ laughin'." * * * * * Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail were used to travelling all sorts of ice in all sorts of weather. The returning fragments of the ice of Anxious Bight had been close packed for two miles beyond the entrance to Our Harbour by the northeast gale that had driven them back from the open. An alien would have stumbled helplessly and exhausted himself; by and by he would have begun to crawl--in the end he would have lost his life in the frost. This was rough ice. In the press of the wind the drifting floe had buckled. It had been a big gale. Under the whip of it, the ice had come down with a rush. And when it encountered the coast, the first great pans had been thrust out of the sea by the weight of the floe behind. A slow pressure had even driven them up the cliffs of the Head and heaped them in a tumble below. It was thus a folded, crumpled floe--a vast field of broken bergs and pans at angles. No Newfoundlander would adventure on the ice without a gaff. A gaff is a lithe, iron-shod pole, eight or ten feet in length. Doctor Luke was as cunning and sure with the gaff as any old hand of the sealing fleet; and Billy Topsail always maintained that he had been born with a little gaff in his hand instead of a silver spoon in his mouth. They employed the gaffs now to advantage. They used them like vaulting poles. They walked less than they leaped. But this was no work for the half-light of an obscured moon. Sometimes they halted for light. And delay annoyed Doctor Luke. A peppery humour began to possess him. A pause of ten minutes--they squatted for rest meantime--threw him into a state of incautious irritability. At this rate it would be past dawn before they made the cottages of Ragged Run Cove. It would be slow beyond--surely slow on the treacherous reaches of green ice between the floe and the Spotted Horses. And beyond the Spotted Horses, whence the path to Ragged Run led--the crossing of Tickle-my-Ribs! A proverb of Our Harbour maintains that a fool and his life are soon parted. Doctor Luke invented the saying. "'Twould be engraved on my stationery," he would declare, out of temper with recklessness, "if I had any engraved stationery!" Yet now, impatient of precaution, when he thought of Dolly West, Doctor Luke presently chanced a leap. It was error. As the meager light disclosed the path, a chasm of fifteen feet intervened between the edge of the upturned pan upon which he and Billy Topsail stood and a flat-topped hummock of Arctic ice to which he was bound. There was footing for the tip of his gaff midway below. He felt for this footing to entertain himself whilst the moon delayed. It was there. He was tempted. It was an encouragement to rash conduct. The chasm was critically deep for the length of the gaff. Worse than that, the hummock was higher than the pan. Doctor Luke peered across. It was not _much_ higher. Was it too high? No. It would merely be necessary to lift stoutly at the climax of the leap. And there was need of haste--a little maid in hard case at Ragged Run and a rising cloud threatening black weather. "Ah, sir, don't leap it!" Billy pleaded. "Tut!" scoffed the Doctor. "Wait for the moon, sir!" A slow cloud covered the moon. It was aggravating. How long must a man wait? A man must take a chance--what? And all at once Doctor Luke gave way to impatience. He gripped his gaff with angry determination and projected himself towards the hummock of Arctic ice. In mid-air he was doubtful. A flash later he had regretted the hazard. It seemed he would come short of the hummock altogether. He would fall. There would be broken bones. He perceived now that he had misjudged the height of the hummock. Had the gaff been a foot longer Doctor Luke would have cleared the chasm. It occurred to him that he would break his back and merit the fate of his callow mistake. Then his toes caught the edge of the flat-topped hummock. His boots were of soft seal-leather. He gripped the ice. And now he hung suspended and inert. The slender gaff bent under the prolonged strain of his weight and shook in response to the shiver of his arms. Billy Topsail shouted: "Can you make it, sir?" There was no answer. CHAPTER XVII _In Which Rubber Ice is Encountered and Billy Topsail is Asked a Pointed Question_ Dolly West's mother, with Dolly in her arms, resting against her soft, ample bosom, sat by the kitchen fire. It was long after dark. The wind was up--the cottage shook in the squalls. She had long ago washed Dolly's eyes and temporarily staunched the terrifying flow of blood; and now she waited--and had been waiting, with Dolly in her arms, a long, long time; rocking gently and sometimes crooning a plaintive song of the coast to the restless child. Uncle Joe West came in. "Hush!" "Is she sleepin' still?" "Off an' on. She've a deal o' pain. She cries out, poor lamb!" Dolly stirred and whimpered. "Any sign of un, Joe?" "'Tis not time." "He might----" "'Twill be hours afore he comes. I'm jus' wonderin'----" "Hush!" Dolly moaned. "Ay, Joe?" "Tommy's but a wee feller. I'm wonderin' if he----" The woman was confident. "He'll make it," she whispered. "Ay; but if he's delayed----" "He was there afore dusk. An' Doctor Luke got underway across the Bight----" "He'll not come by the Bight!" "He'll come by the Bight. I knows that man. He'll come by the Bight--an' he'll----" "Pray not!" "I pray so." "If he comes by the Bight, he'll never get here at all. The Bight's breakin' up. There's rotten ice beyond the Spotted Horses. An' Tickle-my-Ribs is----" "He'll come. He'll be here afore----" "There's a gale o' snow comin' down. 'Twill cloud the moon. A man would lose hisself----" "He'll come." Uncle Joe West went out again. This was to plod once more down the narrows to the base of Blow-me-Down Dick and search the vague light of the coast towards Thank-the-Lord and Mad Harry for the first sight of Doctor Luke. It was not time. He knew that. There would be hours of waiting. It would be dawn before a man could come by Thank-the-Lord and Mad Harry if he left Our Harbour even so early as dusk. And as for crossing the Bight--no man could cross the Bight. It was blowing up, too--clouds rising and a threat of snow abroad. Uncle Joe West glanced apprehensively towards the northeast. It would snow before dawn. The moon was doomed. A dark night would fall. And the Bight--Doctor Luke would never attempt to cross the Bight---- * * * * * Doctor Luke, hanging between the hummock and the pan, the gaff shivering under his weight, slowly subsided towards the hummock. It was a slow, cautious approach. He had no faith in his foothold. A toe slipped. He paused. It was a grim business. The other foot held. The leg, too, was equal to the strain. He wriggled his toe back to its grip of the edge of the ice. It was an improved foothold. He turned then and began to lift and thrust himself backward. And a last thrust on the gaff set him on his haunches on the Arctic hummock. He turned to Billy Topsail. "Thank God!" said he. And then: "Come on, Billy!" There was a better light now. Billy Topsail chose a narrower space to leap. And he leaped it safely. And they went on; and on--and on! There was a deal of slippery crawling to do--of slow, ticklish climbing. Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail rounded bergs, scaled perilous inclines, leaped crevices. Sometimes they were bewildered for a space. When the moon broke they could glimpse the Spotted Horses from the highest elevations of the floe. In the depressions of the floe they could not descry the way at all. It was as cold as death now. Was it ten below? The gale bit like twenty below. "_'Tis_ twenty below!" Billy Topsail insisted. Doctor Luke ignored this. "We're near past the rough ice," said he, gravely. "Rubber ice ahead," said Billy. Neither laughed. "Ay," the Doctor observed; and that was all. When the big northeast wind drove the ice back into Anxious Bight and heaped it inshore, the pressure had decreased as the mass of the floe diminished in the direction of the sea. The outermost areas had not felt the impact. They had not folded--had not "raftered." There had been no convulsion offshore as inshore when the rocks of Afternoon Coast interrupted the rush. The pans had come to a standstill and snuggled close. When the wind failed they had subsided towards the open. As they say on the coast, the ice had "gone abroad." It was distributed. And after that the sea had fallen flat; and a vicious frost had caught the floe--wide-spread now--and frozen it fast. It was six miles from the edge of the raftered ice to the first island of the Spotted Horses. The flat pans were solid enough--safe and easy going; but this new, connecting ice--the lanes and reaches of it---- Doctor Luke's succinct characterization of the condition of Anxious Bight was also keen. These six miles were perilous. "Soft as cheese!" All that day the sun had fallen hot on the young ice in which the scattered pans of the floe were frozen. Doctor Luke recalled that in the afternoon he had splashed through an occasional pool of shallow water on the floe between Tumble Tickle and the short-cut trail to Our Harbour. Certainly some of the wider patches of green ice had been weakened to the breaking point. Here and there they must have been eaten clear through. It occurred to Doctor Luke--contemplating an advance with distaste--that these holes were like open sores. And by and by the first brief barrier of new ice confronted Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail. They must cross it. A black film--the colour of water in that light--bridged the way from one pan to another. Neither Doctor Luke nor Billy Topsail would touch it. They leaped it easily. A few fathoms forward a second space halted them. Must they put foot on it? With a running start a man could--well, they chose not to touch the second space, but to leap it. Soon a third interval interrupted them. No man could leap it. Doctor Luke cast about for another way. There was none. He must run across. A flush of displeasure ran over him. He scowled. Disinclination increased. "Green ice!" said he. "Let me try it, sir!" "No." "Ay, sir! I'm lighter." "No." Billy Topsail crossed then like a cat before he could be stopped--on tiptoe and swiftly; and he came to the other side with his heart in a flutter. "Whew!" The ice had yielded without breaking. It had creaked, perhaps--nothing worse. Doctor Luke crossed the space without accident. It was what is called "rubber ice." There was more of it--there were miles of it. As yet the pans were close together. Always however the intervals increased. The nearer the open sea the more wide-spread was the floe. Beyond--hauling down the Spotted Horses, which lay in the open--the proportion of new ice would be vastly greater. At a trot, for the time, over the pans, which were flat, and in delicate, mincing little spurts across the bending ice, Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail proceeded. In a confidence that was somewhat flushed--they had rested--Doctor Luke went forward. And presently, midway of a lane of green ice, he heard a gurgle, as the ice bent under his weight. Water washed his boots. He had been on the lookout for holes. This hole he heard--the spurt and gurgle of it. He had not seen it. "Back!" he shouted, in warning. Billy ran back. "All right, sir?" Safe across, Doctor Luke grinned. It was a reaction of relief. "Whew! _Whew!_" he whistled. "Try below." Billy crossed below. "Don't you think, sir," said he, doubtfully, "that we'd best go back?" "Do you think so?" Billy reflected. "No, sir," said he, flushing. "Neither do I. Come on." CHAPTER XVIII _In Which Discretion Urges Doctor Luke to Lie Still in a Pool of Water_ It was a mean light--this intermittent moonlight: with the clouds slow and thick, and the ominous bank of black cloud rising all the while from the horizon. A man should go slow in a light like that! But Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail must make haste. And by and by they caught ear of the sea breaking under the wind beyond the Little Spotted Horse. They were nearing the limits of the ice. In full moonlight the whitecaps flashed news of a tumultuous open. A rumble and splash of breakers came down with the gale from the point of the island. It indicated that the sea was working in the passage between the Spotted Horses and Blow-me-Down Dick of the Ragged Run coast. The waves would run under the ice--would lift it and break it. In this way the sea would eat its way through the passage. It would destroy the young ice. It would break the pans to pieces and rub them to slush. Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail must make the Little Spotted Horse and cross the passage between the island and the Ragged Run coast. "Come on!" said the Doctor again. Whatever the issue of haste, they must carry on and make the best of a bad job. Otherwise they would come to Tickle-my-Ribs, between the Little Spotted Horse and Blow-me-Down Dick of Ragged Run, and be marooned from the mainshore. And there was another reason. It was immediate and desperately urgent. As the sea was biting off the ice in Tickle-my-Ribs so too it was encroaching upon the body of the ice in Anxious Bight. Anxious Bight was breaking up. The scale of its dissolution was gigantic. Acres of ice were wrenched from the field at a time and then broken up by the sea. What was the direction of this swift melting? It might take any direction. And a survey of the sky troubled Doctor Luke no less than Billy Topsail. All this while the light had diminished. It was failing still. It was failing faster. There was less of the moon. By and by it would be wholly obscured. "If we're delayed," Doctor Luke declared, "we'll be caught by the dark." "Hear that, sir!" Billy exclaimed. They listened. "Breaking up fast!" said the Doctor. Again there was a splitting crash. Another great fragment of the ice had broken away. "Come on!" cried Billy, in alarm. At first prolonged intervals of moonlight had occurred. Masses of cloud had gone driving across a pale and faintly starlit sky. A new proportion was disclosed. Now the stars were brilliant in occasional patches of deep sky. A glimpse of the moon was rare. From the northeast the ominous bank of black cloud had risen nearly overhead. It would eventually curtain both stars and moon and make a thick black night of it. A man would surely lose his life on the ice in thick weather--on one or other of the reaches of new ice. And thereabouts the areas of young ice were wider. They were also more tender. Thin ice is a proverb of peril and daring. To tiptoe across the yielding film of these dimly visible stretches was instantly and dreadfully dangerous. It was horrifying. A man took his life in his hand every time he left a pan. Doctor Luke was not insensitive. Neither was Billy Topsail. They began to sweat--not with labour, but with fear. When the ice bent under them, they gasped and held their breath. They were in livid terror of being dropped through into the sea. They were afraid to proceed--they dared not stand still; and they came each time to the solid refuge of a pan with breath drawn, teeth set, faces contorted, hands clenched--a shiver in the small of the back. This was more exhausting than the labour of the folded floe. Upon every occasion it was like escaping an abyss. To achieve safety once, however, was not to win a final relief--it was merely to confront, in the same circumstances, a precisely similar peril. Neither Doctor Luke nor Billy Topsail was physically exhausted. Every muscle that they had was warm and alert. Yet they were weak. A repetition of suspense had unnerved them. A full hour of this and sometimes they chattered and shook in a nervous chill. In the meantime they had approached the rocks of the Little Spotted Horse. They rested a moment. "Now for it, boy!" said the Doctor, then. "Ay, ay, sir!" "Sorry you came, Billy?" Billy was a truthful boy--and no hero of the melodrama. "I wisht we was across, sir," said he. "So do I," the Doctor agreed. "Come," he added, heartily; "we'll _go_ across!" In the lee of the Little Spotted Horse the ice had gathered as in a back-current. It was close packed alongshore to the point of the island. Between this solidly frozen press of pans and the dissolving field in Anxious Bight there had been a lane of ruffled open water before the frost fell. It measured perhaps fifty yards. It was now black and still--sheeted with new ice which had been delayed in forming by the ripple of that exposed situation. Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail had encountered nothing as doubtful. They paused on the brink. A long, thin line of solid pan-ice, ghostly white in the dusk beyond, was attached to the rocks of the Little Spotted Horse. It led all the way to Tickle-my-Ribs. They must make that line of solid ice. They must cross the wide lane of black, delicately frozen new ice that lay between and barred their way. And there was no way out of it. Doctor Luke waited for the moon. When the light broke--a thin, transient gleam--he started. "Wait," said he, "until I'm across." A few fathoms forth the ice began to yield. A moment later Doctor Luke stopped short and recoiled. There was a hole--gaping wide and almost under his feet. He stopped. The water overflowed and the ice cracked. He must not stand still. To avoid a second hole he twisted violently to the right and almost plunged into a third opening. It seemed the ice was rotten from shore to shore. And it was a long way across. Doctor Luke danced a zigzag towards the pan-ice under the cliffs--spurting forward and retreating and swerving. He did not pause. Had he paused he would have dropped through. When he was within two fathoms of the pan-ice a foot broke through and tripped him flat on his face. With his weight thus distributed he was momentarily held up. Water squirted and gurgled out of the break--an inch of water, forming a pool. Doctor Luke lay still and expectant in this pool. CHAPTER XIX _In Which Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Hesitate in Fear on the Brink of Tickle-my-Ribs_ Dolly West's mother still sat rocking by the kitchen fire. It was long past midnight now. Once more Uncle Joe West tiptoed in from the frosty night. "Is she sleepin' still?" he whispered. "Hush! She've jus' toppled off again. She's havin' a deal o' pain, Joe. An' she've been bleedin' again." "Put her down on the bed, dear." The woman shook her head. "I'm afeared 'twould start the wounds, Joe. I'm not wantin' t' start un again. Any sign o' Doctor Luke yet, Joe?" "Not yet." "He'll come soon." "No; 'tis not near time. 'Twill be dawn afore he----" "Soon, Joe." "He'll be delayed by snow. The moon's near gone. 'Twill be black dark in half an hour. I felt a flake o' snow as I come in. An' he'll maybe wait at Mad Harry----" "He's comin' by the Bight, Joe." Dolly stirred--cried out--awakened with a start--and lifted her bandaged head a little. She did not open her eyes. "Is that you, Doctor Luke, sir?" she plainted. "Hush!" the mother whispered. "'Tis not the Doctor yet." "When----" "He's comin'." "I'll take a look," said Joe. He went out again and stumbled down the path to Blow-me-Down Dick by Tickle-my-Ribs. * * * * * Doctor Luke lay still and expectant in the pool of water near the pan-ice and rocks of the Little Spotted Horse. He waited. Nothing happened. It was encouraging. But he did not dare stand up. Nor would he dare to get to his knees and crawl. There was no help to be had from the agonized Billy Topsail. Both knew it. "Shall I come, sir?" Billy called. "Stay where you are," Doctor Luke replied, "or we'll both drop through. Don't move." "Ay, sir." Presently Doctor Luke ventured delicately to take off a mitten--to extend his hand, to sink his finger-nails in the ice and attempt to draw himself forward. He tried again. It was a failure. His finger-nails were too short. He could merely scratch the ice. He reflected that if he did not concentrate his weight--that if he kept it distributed--he would not break through. And once more he tried to make use of his finger-nails. There was no snow on this ice. It was a smooth, hard surface. It was dry. It turned out that the nails of the other hand were longer. Doctor Luke managed to gain half an inch before they slipped. They slipped again--and again and again. It was hopeless. Doctor Luke lay still--pondering. Billy Topsail's agony of anxiety increased. "Is you safe, sir?" "Stay where you are!" "Ay, sir!" Doctor Luke could not continue to lie still. Presently he would be frozen in the pool of water. In emergencies he was used to indulging in a simple philosophical reflection: A man can lose his life but once. Now he shot his gaff towards the pan-ice, to be rid of the incumbrance of it, and lifted himself on his palms and toes. By this the distribution of his weight was not greatly disturbed. It was not concentrated upon one point. It was divided by four and laid upon four points. And there were no fearsome consequences. It was a hopeful experiment. Doctor Luke stepped by inches on his hands towards the pan-ice--dragging his toes. In this way he came to the line of solid ice under the cliffs of the Little Spotted Horse and gained the refuge of it. And then he directed the crossing of Billy Topsail, who was much lighter, and crossed safely. Whereupon they set out for the point of the Little Spotted Horse and the passage of Tickle-my-Ribs. And they were heartened. * * * * * A country physician might say of a muddy, midnight call, in the wind and dark of a wet night in the fall of the year, that the roads were bad. Doctor Luke would have said of the way from Our Harbour to the Little Spotted Horse that he had been "in a bit of a mess." Thus far there had been nothing extravagantly uncommon in the night's experience. Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail had merely encountered and survived the familiar difficulties of a passage of Anxious Bight in a period of critical weather in the spring of the year. A folded floe and six miles of rubber ice were not sufficiently out of the way to constitute an impressive incident. Doctor Luke had fared better and worse in his time. So had Billy Topsail. All this was not a climax. It was something to be forgotten in a confusion of experiences of the same description. It would not remain very long in the memory of either. In what lay ahead, however--the passage of Tickle-my-Ribs--there was doubtless an adventure. "She'll be heavin' in this wind," Billy Topsail said. "We'll get across," Doctor Luke replied, confidently. "Come along!" Tickle-my-Ribs was heaving. The sea had by this time eaten its way clear through the passage from the open to the first reaches of Anxious Bight and far and wide beyond. The channel was half a mile long--in width a quarter of a mile at the narrowest. Doctor Luke's path was determined. It must lead from the point of the island to the base of Blow-me-Down Dick and the adjoining fixed and solid ice of the narrows to Ragged Run Harbour. And ice choked the channel loosely from shore to shore. It was a thin sheet of fragments--running through from the open. There was only an occasional considerable pan. A high sea ran outside. Waves from the open slipped under this field of little pieces and lifted it in running swells. In motion Tickle-my-Ribs resembled a vigorously shaken carpet. No single block of ice was at rest. The crossing would have been hazardous in the most favourable circumstances. And now aloft the moon and the ominous bank of black cloud had come close together. Precisely as a country doctor might petulantly regard a stretch of hub-deep cross-road, Doctor Luke, the outport physician, when he came to the channel between the Little Spotted Horse and Blow-me-Down Dick of the Ragged Run coast, regarded the passage of Tickle-my-Ribs. Not many of the little pans would bear the weight of either himself or Billy Topsail. They would sustain it momentarily. Then they would tip or sink. There would be foothold only through the instant required to choose another foothold and leap towards it. Always, moreover, the leap would have to be taken from sinking ground. When they came, by good chance, to a pan that would bear them up for a moment, they would have instantly to discover another heavy block to which to shape their agitated course. There would be no rest--no certainty beyond the impending moment. But leaping thus--alert and agile and daring--a man might---- Might? Mm-m--a man _might_! And he might _not_! There were contingencies. A man might leap short and find black water where he had depended upon a footing of ice--a man might land on the edge of a pan and fall slowly back for sheer lack of power to obtain a balance--a man might misjudge the strength of a pan to bear him up--a man might find no ice near enough for the next immediately imperative leap--a man might confront the appalling exigency of a lane of open water. As a matter of fact, a man might be unable either to go forward or retreat. A man might be submerged and find the shifting floe closed over his head. A man might easily lose his life in the driving, swelling rush of the shattered floe through Tickle-my-Ribs. And there was the light to consider. A man might be caught in the dark. He would be in hopeless case if caught in the dark. And the light might---- Light was imperative. Doctor Luke glanced aloft. "Whew!" he whistled. "What do you think, Billy?" Billy was flat. "I'd not try it!" said he. "No?" "No, sir!" The moon and the ominous bank of black cloud were very close. There was snow in the air. A thickening flurry ran past. * * * * * Uncle Joe West was not on the lookout when Doctor Luke opened the kitchen door at Ragged Run Cove, and strode in, with Billy Topsail at his heels, and with the air of a man who had survived difficulties and was proud of it. Uncle Joe West was sitting by the fire, his face in his hands; and the mother of Dolly West--with Dolly still restlessly asleep in her arms--was rocking, rocking, as before. And Doctor Luke set to work without delay or explanation--in a way so gentle, with a voice so persuasive, with a hand so tender and sure, with a skill and wisdom so keen, that little Dolly West, who was brave enough, in any case, as you know, yielded the additional patience and courage that the simple means at hand for her relief required. Doctor Luke laved Dolly West's blue eyes until she could see again, and sewed up her wounds, that night, so that no scar remained, and in the broad light of the next day picked out grains of powder until not a single grain was left to disfigure the child. CHAPTER XX _In Which Skinflint Sam of Ragged Run Finds Himself in a Desperate Predicament and Bad-Weather Tom West at Last Has What Skinflint Sam Wants_ Well, now, when all this had been accomplished, and when Dolly had gone to bed with her mother, it occurred to Doctor Luke that he had not clapped eyes on Dolly's father, Bad-Weather Tom West. "Where's Tom?" said he. Joe started. "Wh-wh-where's Tom?" he stammered. "Ay." "Have you not heard about Tom?" Doctor Luke was puzzled. "No," said he; "not a word." Joe commanded himself for the tale he had to tell. * * * * * "Skipper Tom West," Joe began, "made a wonderful adventure of life in the end. I doubt if ever a man done such a queer thing afore. 'Twas queer enough, sir, I'll be bound, an' you'll say so when I tells you; but 'twas a brave, kind thing, too, though it come perilous close t' the line o' foul play--but that's how you looks at it. Bad-Weather Tom," he went on, "come back from seein' you, sir, in a silent mood. An' no wonder! You told un, sir--well, you told un what you told un, about what he was to expect in this life; an' the news lay hard on his mood. He told nobody here what that news was; nor could the gossips gain a word from his wife. "'What's the matter with Bad-Weather Tom?' says they. "'Ask Tom,' says she. "An' they asked Tom. "'Tom,' says they, 'what's gone along o' you, anyhow?' "'Well,' says Tom, 'I found out something I never knowed afore. That's all that's the matter with me.' "'Did Doctor Luke tell you?' "'When I talks with Doctor Luke,' says Tom, 'I _always_ finds out something I never knowed afore.' "Whatever you told un, sir--an' I knows what you told un--it made a changed man o' Bad-Weather Tom. He mooned a deal, an' he would talk no more o' the future, but dwelt upon the shortness of a man's days an' the quantity of his sin, an' laboured like mad, an' read the Scriptures by candle-light, an' sot more store by going to church and prayer-meetin' than ever afore. Labour? Ecod, how that poor man laboured--after you told un. While there was light! An' until he fair dropped in his tracks o' sheer weariness! "'Twas back in the forest--haulin' fire-wood with the dogs an' storin' it away back o' this little cottage under Lend-a-Hand Hill. "'Dear man!' says Skinflint Sam; 'you've fire-wood for half a dozen winters.' "'They'll need it,' says Tom. "'Ay,' says Sam; 'but will you lie idle next winter?' "'Nex' winter?' says Tom. An' he laughed. 'Oh, nex' winter,' says he, 'I'll have another occupation.' "'Movin' away, Tom?' "'Well,' says Tom, 'I is an' I isn't.' "There come a day not long ago when seals was thick on the floe off Ragged Run. You mind the time, sir?" Billy Topsail "minded" the time well enough. And so did Doctor Luke. It was the time when Billy Topsail and Teddy Brisk were carried to sea with the dogs on the ice. "Well, you could see the seals with the naked eye from Lack-a-Day Head. A hundred thousand black specks swarmin' over the ice three miles an' more to sea. Ragged Run went mad for slaughter--jus' as it did yesterday, sir. 'Twas a fair time for offshore sealin', too: a blue, still day, with the look an' feel o' settled weather. "The ice had come in from the current with a northeasterly gale, a wonderful mixture o' Arctic bergs and Labrador pans, all blindin' white in the spring sun; an' 'twas a field so vast, an' jammed so tight against the coast, that there wasn't much more than a lane or two an' a Dutchman's breeches of open water within sight from the heads. Nobody looked for a gale o' offshore wind t' blow that ice t' sea afore dawn o' the next day. "'A fine, soft time, lads!' says Skinflint Sam. 'I 'low I'll go out with the Ragged Run crew.' "'Skipper Sam,' says Bad-Weather Tom, 'you're too old a man t' be on the ice.' "'Ay,' says Sam; 'but I wants t' bludgeon another swile afore I dies.' "'But you _creaks_, man!' "'Ah, well,' says Sam; 'I'll show the lads I'm able t' haul a swile ashore.' "'Small hope for such as you on a movin' floe!' "'Last time, Tom,' says Sam. "'Last time, true enough,' says Tom, 'if that ice starts t' sea with a breeze o' wind behind!' "'Oh, well, Tom,' says Sam, 'I'll creak along out an' take my chances. If the wind comes up I'll be as spry as I'm able.' "It come on to blow in the afternoon. But 'twas short warnin' o' offshore weather. A puff o' gray wind come down: a saucier gust went by; an' then a swirl o' galeish wind jumped off the heads an' come scurrying over the pans. At the first sign o' wind, Skinflint Sam took for home, lopin' over the ice as fast as his lungs an' old legs would take un when pushed, an' nobody worried about _he_ any more. He was in such mad haste that the lads laughed behind un as he passed. "Most o' the Ragged Run crew followed, draggin' their swiles; an' them that started early come safe t' harbour with the fat. But there's nothin' will master a man's caution like the lust o' slaughter. Give a Newfoundlander a club, an' show un a swile-pack, an' he'll venture far from safety. 'Twas not until a flurry o' snow come along of a sudden that the last o' the crew dropped what they was at an' begun t' jump for shore like a pack o' jack-rabbits. "With snow in the wind 'twas every man for himself. An' that means no mercy an' less help. "By this time the ice had begun t' feel the wind. 'Twas restless. An' a bad promise. The pans crunched an' creaked as they settled more at ease. The ice was goin' abroad. As the farther fields drifted off t' sea, the floe fell loose inshore. Lanes an' pools opened up. The cake-ice tipped an' went awash under the weight of a man. Rough goin', ecod! There was no tellin' when open water would cut a man off where he stood. "An' the wind was whippin' offshore, an' the snow was like dust in a man's eyes an' mouth, an' the landmarks o' Ragged Run was nothin' but shadows in a mist o' snow t' windward. "Nobody knowed where Skinflint Sam was. Nobody thought about Sam. An' wherever poor old Skinflint was--whether safe ashore or creakin' shoreward against the wind on his last legs--he must do for himself. 'Twas no time t' succour rich or poor. Every man for himself an' the devil take the hindmost! "Bound out, in the mornin', Bad-Weather Tom had fetched his rodney through the lanes. By luck an' good conduct he had managed t' get the wee boat a fairish way out. He had beached her there on the floe--a big pan, close by a hummock which he marked with care. And 'twas for Tom West's little rodney that the seven last men o' Ragged Run was jumpin'. With her afloat--an' the pack loosenin' inshore under the wind--they could make harbour well enough afore the gale worked up the water in the lee o' the Ragged Run hills. "But she was a mean, small boat. There was room for six, with safety--but room for no more. There was no room for seven. 'Twas a nasty mess, t' be sure. You couldn't expect nothin' else. But there wasn't no panic. Ragged Run men is accustomed t' tight places. An' they took this one easy. Them that got there first launched the boat an' stepped in. No fight: no fuss. "It just happened t' be Eleazer Butt that was left. 'Twas Eleazer's ill-luck. An' Eleazer was up in years an' had fell behind comin' over the ice. "'No room for me?' says he. "'Twas sure death t' be left on the ice. The wind begun t' taste o' frost. An' 'twas jumpin' up. 'Twould carry the floe far an' scatter it broadcast. "'See for yourself, lad,' says Tom. "'Pshaw!' says Eleazer. 'That's too bad!' "'You isn't no sorrier than me, b'y.' "Eleazer tweaked his beard. 'Dang it!' says he. 'I wisht there _was_ room. I'm hungry for my supper.' "'Let un in,' says one of the lads. ''Tis even chances she'll float it out.' "'Well,' says Eleazer, 'I doesn't want t' make no trouble----' "'Come aboard,' says Tom. 'An' make haste.' "'If she makes bad weather,' says Eleazer, 'I'll get out.' "We pushed off from the pan. 'Twas failin' dusk by this time. The wind blowed black. The frost begun t' bite. Snow come thick--just as if, ecod, somebody up aloft was shakin' the clouds, like bags, in the gale! An' the rodney was deep an' ticklish. "Had the ice not kep' the water flat in the lanes an' pools, either Eleazer would have had to get out, as he promised, or she would have swamped like a cup. As it was, handled like dynamite, she done well enough; an' she might have made harbour within the hour had she not been hailed by Skinflint Sam from a small pan o' ice midway between." Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail were intent on the tale. "Go on," said Doctor Luke. "A queer finish, sir." "What happened?" CHAPTER XXI _In Which a Croesus of Ragged Run Drives a Hard Bargain in a Gale of Wind_ "An' there the ol' codger was squattin'," Skipper Joe's tale went on, "his ol' face pinched an' woebegone, his bag o' bones wrapped up in his coonskin coat, his pan near flush with the sea, with little black waves already beginnin' t' wash over it. "A sad sight, believe me! Poor old Skinflint Sam bound out t' sea without hope on a wee pan o' ice! "'Got any room for me?' says he. "We ranged alongside. "'She's too deep as it is,' says Tom. 'I'm wonderful sorry, Skipper Sam.' "An' he was. "'Ay,' says Sam; 'you isn't got room for no more. She'd sink if I put foot in her.' "'Us'll come back,' says Tom. "'No use, Tom,' says Sam. 'You knows that well enough. 'Tis no place out here for a Ragged Run punt. Afore you could get t' shore an' back night will be down an' this here gale will be a blizzard. You'd never be able t' find me.' "'I 'low not,' says Tom. "'Oh, no,' says Sam. 'No use, b'y.' "'Skipper Sam,' says Tom, 'I'm sorry!' "'Ay,' says Sam; ''tis a sad death for an ol' man--squattin' out here all alone on the ice an' shiverin' with the cold until he shakes his poor damned soul out.' "'Not damned!' cries Tom. 'Oh, don't say it!' "'Ah, well!' says Sam; 'sittin' here all alone I been thinkin'.' "''Tisn't by any man's wish that you're here, poor man!' says Tom. "'Oh, no,' says Sam. 'No blame t' nobody. My time's come. That's all. But I wisht I had a seat in your rodney, Tom.' "An' then Tom chuckled. "'What you laughin' at?' says Sam. "'I got a comical idea,' says Tom. "'Laughin' at me, Tom?' "'Oh, I'm jus' laughin'.' '"'Tis neither time nor place, Tom,' says Sam, 't' laugh at an old man.' "Tom roared. Ay, he slapped his knee, an' he throwed back his head, an' he roared! 'Twas enough almost t' swamp the boat. "'For shame!' says Sam. "An' more than Skinflint Sam thought so. "'Skipper Sam,' says Tom, 'you're rich, isn't you?' "'I got money,' says Sam. "'Sittin' out here all alone,' says Tom, 'you been thinkin' a deal, you says?' "'Well,' says Sam, 'I'll not deny that I been havin' a little spurt o' sober thought.' "'You been thinkin' that money wasn't much, after all?' "'Ay.' "'An' that all your money in a lump wouldn't buy you passage ashore?' "'Oh, some few small thoughts on that order,' says Sam. ''Tis perfectly natural.' "'Money talks,' says Tom. "'Tauntin' me again, Tom?' "'No, I isn't,' says Tom. 'I means it. Money talks. What'll you give for my seat in the boat?' "''Tis not for sale, Tom.' "The lads begun t' grumble. It seemed just as if Bad-Weather Tom West was makin' game of an ol' man in trouble. 'Twas either that or lunacy. An' there was no time for nonsense off the Ragged Run coast in a spring gale of wind. But I knowed what Tom West was about. You sees, sir, I knowed what you told him. An' as for me, fond as I was o' poor Tom West, I had no mind t' interrupt his bargain. "'Hist!' Tom whispered t' the men in the rodney. 'I knows what I'm doin'.' "'A mad thing, Tom!' "'Oh, no!' says Tom. ''Tis the cleverest thing ever I thought of. Well,' says he to Sam, 'how much?' "'No man sells his life.' "'Life or no life, my place in this boat is for sale,' says Tom. 'Money talks. Come, now. Speak up. Us can't linger here with night comin' down.' "'What's the price, Tom?' "'How much you got, Sam?' "'Ah, well, I can afford a stiffish price, Tom. Anything you say in reason will suit me. You name the price, Tom. I'll pay.' "'Ay, ye crab!' says Tom. 'I'm namin' prices, now. Look you, Sam! You're seventy-three. I'm fifty-three. Will you grant that I'd live t' be as old as you?' "'I'll grant it, Tom.' "'I'm not sayin' I would,' says Tom. 'You mark that.' "'Ah, well, I'll grant it, anyhow.' "'I been an industrious man all my life, Skipper Sam. None knows it better than you. Will you grant that I'd earn a hundred and fifty dollars a year if I lived?' "'Ay, Tom.' "Down come a gust o' wind. "'Have done!' says one of the lads. 'Here's the gale come down with the dark. Us'll all be cast away.' "'Rodney's mine, isn't she?' says Tom. "Well, she was. Nobody could say nothin' t' that. An' nobody did. "'That's three thousand dollars, Sam,' says Tom. 'Three--thousand--dollars!' "'Ay,' says Sam, 'she calculates that way. But you've forgot t' deduct your livin' from the total. Not that I minds,' says he. ''Tis just a business detail.' "'I'll not be harsh!' says Tom. "'Another thing, Tom,' says Sam. 'You're askin' me t' pay for twenty years o' life when I can use but a few. God knows how many!' "'I got you where I wants you,' says Tom, 'but I isn't got the heart t' grind you. Will you pay two thousand dollars for my seat in the boat?' "'If you is fool enough t' take it, Tom.' "'There's something t' boot,' says Tom. 'I wants t' die out o' debt.' "'You does, Tom.' "'An' my father's bill is squared?' "'Ay.' "''Tis a bargain!' says Tom. 'God witness!' "'Lads,' says Skinflint Sam t' the others in the rodney, 'I calls you t' witness that I didn't ask Tom West for his seat in the boat. I isn't no coward. I've asked no man t' give up his life for me. This here bargain is a straight business deal. Business is business. 'Tis not my proposition. An' I calls you t' witness that I'm willin' t' pay what he asks. He've something for sale. I wants it. I've the money t' buy it. The price is his. I'll pay it.' "Then he turned to Tom. "'You wants this money paid t' your wife, Tom?' says he. "'Ay,' says Tom, 't' my wife. She'll know why.' "'Very good,' says Skinflint. 'You've my word that I'll do it.' An' then: 'Wind's jumpin' up, Tom.' "'I wants your oath. The wind will bide for that. Hold up your right hand.' "Skinflint shivered in a blast o' the gale. "'I swears,' says he. "'Lads,' says Tom, 'you'll shame this man to his grave if he fails t' pay!' "'Gettin' dark, Tom,' says Sam. "'Ay,' says Tom; ''tis growin' wonderful cold an' dark out here. I knows it well. Put me ashore on the ice, lads,' says he. "We landed Tom, then, on a near-by pan. He would have it so. "'Leave me have my way!' says he. 'I've done a good stroke o' business.' "Presently we took ol' Skinflint aboard in Tom's stead; an' jus' for a minute we hung off Tom's pan t' say good-bye. "'I sends my love t' the wife an' the children,' says he. 'You'll not fail t' remember. She'll know why I done this thing. Tell her 'twas a grand chance an' I took it.' "'Ay, Tom.' "'Fetch in here close,' says Tom. 'I wants t' talk t' the ol' skinflint you got aboard there. I'll have my say, ecod, at last! Ye crab!' says he, shakin' his fist in Skinflint's face when the rodney got alongside. 'Ye robber! Ye pinch-a-penny! Ye liar! Ye thief! I _done_ ye! Hear me? I done ye! I vowed I'd even scores with ye afore I died. An' I've done it--I've done it! What did ye buy? Twenty years o' my life! What will ye pay for? Twenty years o' my life!' "An' Tom laughed. An' then he cut a caper, an' come close t' the edge o' the pan, an' shook his fist in Skinflint's face again. "'Know what I found out from Doctor Luke?' says he. 'I seen Doctor Luke, ye crab! Know what he told me? No, ye don't! Twenty years o' my life this here ol' skinflint will pay for!' he crowed. 'Two thousand dollars he'll put in the hands o' my poor wife!' "Well, well! The rodney was movin' away. An' a swirl o' snow shrouded poor Tom West. But we heard un laugh once more. "'My heart has give 'way!' he yelled. '_I didn't have three months t' live! An' Doctor Luke tol' me so!_' * * * * * "Well, now, sir," Skipper Joe concluded, "Skinflint done what he said he would do. He laid the money in the hands o' Tom West's wife last week. But a queer thing happened next day. Up went the price o' pork at Skinflint's shop! And up went the price o' tea an' molasses! An' up went the price o' flour!" CHAPTER XXII _In Which Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Go North, and at Candlestick Cove, Returning, Doctor Luke Finds Himself Just a Bit Peckish_ A rumour came to Our Harbour, by the tongue of a fur-trader, who stopped over night at Doctor Luke's hospital, on his way to the South, that there was sickness in the North--some need or other; the fur-trader was not sure what. Winter still lingered. The mild spell, which had interrupted the journey of Billy Topsail and Teddy Brisk across Schooner Bay, had been a mere taste of spring. Hard weather had followed. Schooner Bay was once more jammed with ice, which had drifted back--jammed and frozen solid; and the way from Our Harbour to Tight Cove was secure. Teddy Brisk was ready to be moved; and this being so, and the lad being homesick for his mother, and the rumour of need in the North coming down--all this being so, Doctor Luke determined all at once to revisit the northern outports for the last time that winter. "Are you ready for home, Teddy?" said he. "I is that, sir!" "Well," Doctor Luke concluded, "there is no reason why you should not be home. I'll harness the dogs to-morrow and take you across Schooner Bay on the komatik." "Billy Topsail comin', sir?" "What say, Billy?" "May I go, sir?" "You may." "All the way, sir?" "All the way!" cried Doctor Luke. "Why, boy, I'm going north to----" "Please, sir!" "Well, well! If you've the mind. Come along, boy. I'll be glad to have you." Teddy Brisk was taken across Schooner Bay and restored to his mother's arms. And Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail drove the dogs north on Doctor Luke's successful round of visits. * * * * * It was on the return journey that Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail fell in with the Little Fiddler of Amen Island. At Candlestick Cove they were to feed the dogs and put up for the night. It was still treacherous March weather; and the night threatened foul--a flurry of snow falling and the sky overcast with a thickening drab scud. Day was done when Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail crawled out of the timber and scurried down Twist Hill. In the early dusk the lights were already twinkling yellow and warm in the cottages below; and from the crest of the long hill, in the last of the light, Amen Island was visible, an outlying shadow, across Ships' Run. There were still sixty miles left of Doctor Luke's round--this second winter round from Our Harbour to the lonely huts of Laughter Bight, thirty miles north of Cape Blind, touching all the harbours between, and by way of Thunder Tickle and Candlestick Cove, which lay midway, back to the shaded lamp and radiant open fire of the little surgery at Our Harbour. As the dogs scurried down Twist Hill, whimpering and snarling, eager to make an end of a hard day, Doctor Luke visioned those wintry miles and reflected upon the propriety of omitting a call at Amen Island. Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail drew up at Mild Jim Cull's. "Skipper James," said Doctor Luke, in the kitchen, across the lamp-lit, devastated supper table, an hour later, "what's the health of Amen Island?" "They're all well, sir--so far as I knows." "All well? Just my luck! Then I won't----" "Amanda," Skipper James admonished his wife, in a grieved whisper, "the Doctor is wantin' another cup o' tea." The good woman was astonished. "He've had----" she began. Then she blushed--and grasped the pot in a fluster--and---- "Thank you--no more," the Doctor protested. "Ah, now, sir----" "No more. Really, you know! I've quite finished. I--well--I--if you please, Mrs. Cull. Half a cup. No more. Thank you." "An' Billy Topsail, too," said Skipper James. Billy was abashed. "No--really!" he began. "I--well--thank you--half a cup!" "All fit an' well, sir, as I says," Skipper James repeated, relieved, now resuming his conversation with Doctor Luke--"so far as I knows." "Anybody come across Ships' Run lately?" "Well, no, sir--nobody but ol' Jack Hulk. Another slice o' pork, Doctor?" The youngest little Cull tittered, astounded: "He've had----" Amanda covered the youngest little Cull's lips just in time with a soft hand. "Thank you--no," the Doctor protested again. "I'm quite finished. Nothing more--really! Well," he yielded--"if you will----" "You, too, Billy Topsail?" said Skipper James. "Nothing more, really!" Billy replied, with a grin. And then: "Well--if you will----" "No; nobody but ol' Jack Hulk," said Skipper James to Doctor Luke. "Jack Hulk, you say? Hm-m. When was that?" "I don't rightly remember, sir. 'Twas less than a fortnight ago. I'll lay t' that much." "And all well over there?" "No report o' sickness, sir. Have another cut o' bread, sir, while you're about it." The Doctor lifted his hand. "No--really," said he, positively. "No more. Well--I--if you please. Thank you. I seem to be just a bit peckish to-night." "A cut o' bread, Billy?" said Skipper James. Billy lifted his hand. "Not a bite!" he protested. And he winked. "Ah, well," he yielded, "might as well, I 'low. Really, now, I _is_ jus' a bit peckish the night." "No; no report o' sickness on Amen," Skipper James repeated, resuming his conversation, as before. "Quite sure about that?" "Well, sir," Skipper James replied, his gray eyes twinkling, "I asked ol' Jack Hulk, an' he said, 'All well on Amen Island. The Lord's been wonderful easy on us this winter. I'd almost go so far as t' say,' says he, 'that He've been lax. We've had no visitation o' the Lord,' says he, 'since the fall o' the year. We don't deserve this mercy. I'm free t' say that. We isn't been livin' as we should. There's been more frivolity on Amen Island this winter than ever afore in my time. It haven't been noticed so far,' says he. 'That's plain enough. An' so as yet,' says he, 'we're all well on Amen Island.'" The Doctor grinned. "What's the ice on Ships' Run?" said he. "'Tis tumbled, sir. The bread's at your elbow, sir." "Thank you. Dogs?" "No, sir. Ships' Run's jammed with floe ice. A man would have t' foot it across. You bound over, sir?" Doctor Luke deliberated. "I think not," said he, then. "No." This was positive. "If they're all as well as that on Amen Island I'll get away for Our Harbour at noon to-morrow. No; no more--really. I--well--I'm almost wolfish, I declare. Thank you--if you please--just a sma-a-all----" Billy Topsail burst out laughing. "What's this mirth?" cried the Doctor. "Well, sir," Billy chuckled, "you _is_ jus' a _bit_ peckish the night, sir!" There was a burst of laughter. At that moment, however, in a cottage on Amen Island, across Ships' Run, nobody was laughing--least of all the Little Fiddler of Amen Island. CHAPTER XXIII _In Which, While Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail Rest Unsuspecting at Candlestick Cove, Tom Lute, the Father of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island, Sharpens an Axe in the Wood-Shed, and the Reader is Left to Draw His Own Conclusions Respecting the Sinister Business_ It was the boast of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island that he had lamed many a man and maid. "An' ecod!" said he, his blue eyes alight, his clean little teeth showing in a mischievous grin, his round cheeks flushed with delight in the gift of power; "there's no leg between the Norman Light an' Cape Mugford so sodden it can balk me when I've the wind in my favour!"--meaning to imply, with more truth than modesty, that the alluring invitation of his music was altogether irresistible when he was in the mood to provoke a response. "Had I the will," said he, "I could draw tears from the figurehead o' the _Roustabout_. An' one o' these days, when I've the mind t' show my power," said he, darkly, "maybe I'll do it, too!" He was young--he was twelve. Terry Lute was his name. To be known as the Little Fiddler of Amen Island as far north as the world of that coast sailed was the measure of the celebrity he coveted. And that was a good deal: it is a long way for fame to carry--north to the uttermost fishing-berths of the Labrador. Unquestionably the Little Fiddler of Amen Island was of the proportions of a Master. It was aboard a trading schooner--a fly-by-night visitor at Amen Island (not Skinflint Sam's trader from Ragged Run)--that the Little Fiddler of Amen Island had first clapped eyes on a fiddle and heard the strains of it. That was long ago--oh, long, long ago! Terry Lute was a mere child, then, as he recalled, in a wistful amusement with those old days, and was accustomed to narrate--seven or thereabouts. An' 'twas the month o' June--sweet weather, ecod! (said he) an' after dark an' the full o' the moon. And Terry had harkened to the strain--some plaintive imaginings of the melancholy clerk in the cabin, perhaps; and he had not been able to bear more--not another wail or sob of it (said he)--but had run full tilt to his mother's knee to tell her first of all the full wonder of the adventure. 'Twas called a fiddle (said he)--'twas played with what they called a bow; an' oh, woman (said he), what music could be made by means of it! And Terry could play it--he had seen the clerk sawin' away--sawin' an' sawin' away; an' he had learned how 'twas done jus' by lookin'--in a mere peep. 'Twas nothin' at all t' do (said he)--not a whit o' bother for a clever lad. Jus' give un a fiddle an' a bow--he'd show un how 'twas done! "I got t' have one, mama!" he declared. "Oo-sh! I jus' got t'!" His mother laughed at this fine fervour. "Mark me!" he stormed. "I'll have one o' they fiddles afore very long. An' I'll have folk fair shakin' their legs off t' the music I makes!" * * * * * When old Bob Likely, the mail-man, travelling afoot, southbound from Elegant Tickle to Our Harbour and the lesser harbours of Mad Harry and Thank-the-Lord, a matter of eighty miles--when old Bob Likely, on the night of Doctor Luke's arrival at Candlestick Cove, rounded Come-Along Point of Amen Island and searched the shadows ahead for his entertainment, his lodgings for the night were determined and disclosed. It was late--a flurry of snow falling and the moon overcast with a thickening drab scud; and old Bob Likely's disheartened expectation on the tumbled ice of Ships' Run, between Point o' Bay of the Harbourless Shore and Amen Island, had consequently discovered the cottages of his destination dark--the windows black, the fires dead, the kitchens frosty and the folk of Amen Island long ago turned in. Of the thirty cottages of Amen, however, snuggled under thick blankets of snow, all asleep in the gray night, one was wide awake--lighted up as though for some festivity; and for the hospitality of its lamps and smoking chimney old Bob Likely shaped his astonished course. "'Tis a dance!" he reflected, heartening his step. "I'll shake a foot if I lame myself!" Approaching Tom Lute's cottage from the harbour ice, old Bob Likely cocked his ear for the thump and shuffle of feet and the lively music of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island. It was the Little Fiddler's way to boast: "They'll sweat the night! Mark me! I'm feelin' fine. They'll shed their jackets! I'll have their boots off!" And old Bob Likely expected surely to discover the Little Fiddler, perched on the back of a chair, the chair aloft on the kitchen table, mischievously delighting in the abandoned antics of the dancers, the while a castaway sealing crew, jackets shed and boots kicked off, executed a reel with the maids of Amen Island. But there was no music--no thump or shuffle of feet or lively strain; the house was still--except for a whizz and metallic squeaking in the kitchen shed to which old Bob Likely made his way to lay off the sacred bag of His Majesty's Mail and his own raquets and brush himself clean of snow. * * * * * Tom Lute was whirling a grindstone by candle-light in the shed. When Bob Likely lifted the latch and pushed in he was interrupted and startled. "Who's that?" he demanded. "'Tis His Majesty's Mail, Tom." "That you, Bob?" Tom's drawn face lightened with heartiness. "Well, well! Come in. You're welcome. We've need of a lusty man in this house the night. If the thing haves t' be done, Bob, you'll come handy for holdin'. You come across from Candlestick?" Bob threw off his pack. "No," said he, "I come over from Point o' Bay." "Up from Laughter Bight, Bob?" "All the way." "Any word o' Doctor Luke down north?" "Ay; he's down north somewheres." "Whereabouts, Bob?" "I heard of un at Trap Harbour." "Trap Harbour! Was he workin' north, Bob?" "There was sickness at Huddle Cove." "At Huddle Cove? My, my! 'Tis below Cape Blind. He'll not be this way in a fortnight. Oh, dear me!" By this time His Majesty's Mail was stamping his feet and brooming the snow from his seal-hide boots. In answer to his violence the kitchen door fell ajar. And Bob Likely cocked his ear. Queer sounds--singular scraps of declaration and pleading--issued to the wood-shed. There was the tap-tap of a wooden leg. Bob Likely identified the presence and agitated pacing of the maternal grandfather of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island. And there was a whimper and a sob. It was the Little Fiddler. A woman crooned: "Hush, dear--ah, hush, now!" A high-pitched, querulous voice: "That's what we done when I sailed along o' Small Sam Small aboard the _Royal Bloodhound_." And repeated, the wooden leg tap-tapping meanwhile: "That's what we done aboard the _Royal Bloodhound_. Now, mark me! That's what we done t' Cap'n Small Sam Small." A young roar, then: "I'll never have it done t' me!" And the woman again: "Ah, hush, dear! Never mind! Ah--hush, now!" To which there responded a defiant bawl: "I tells you I won't have it done t' me!" By all this, to be sure, old Bob Likely, with his ear cocked and his mouth fallen open in amazement, was deeply mystified. "Look you, Tom!" said he, suspiciously; "what you doin' out here in the frost?" "Who? Me?" Tom was evasive and downcast. "Ay." "Nothin' much." "'Tis a cold place for that, Tom. An' 'tis a poor lie you're tellin'. 'Tis easy t' see, Tom, that you're busy." "Ah, well, I got a little job on hand." "What is your job?" "This here little job I'm doin' now?" "Ay." "Nothin' much." "What _is_ it?" Tom was reluctant. "I'm puttin' an edge on my axe," he replied. "What for, Tom?" Tom hesitated. "Well----" he drawled. And then, abruptly: "Nothin' much." He was both grieved and agitated. "But what _for_?" "I wants it good an' sharp." "What you want it good an' sharp for?" "An axe serves best," Tom evaded, "when 'tis sharp." "Look you, Tom!" said Bob; "you're behavin' in a very queer way, an' I gives you warnin' o' the fac'. What happens? Here I comes quite unexpected on you by candle-light in the shed. Who is I? I'm His Majesty's Mail. Mark that, Tom! An' what does I find you doin'? Puttin' an edge on an axe. I asks you why you're puttin' an edge on your axe. An' you won't tell. If I didn't know you for a mild man, Tom, I'd fancy you was tired o' your wife." "Tired o' my wife!" Tom exploded, indignantly. "I isn't goin' t' kill my wife!" "Who _is_ you goin' t' kill?" "I isn't goin' t' kill nobody." "Well, _what_ you goin' t' kill?" "I isn't goin' t' kill nothin'." "Well, then," Bob burst out, "what in thunder is you puttin' an edge on your axe for out here in the frost by candle-light at this time o' night?" "Who? Me?" "Ay--you!" "I got some doctorin' t' do." Bob lifted his brows. "Hum!" he coughed. "You usually do your doctorin' with an axe?" he inquired. "No," said Tom, uneasily; "not with an axe." "What you usually use, Tom?" "What I usually uses, Bob," Tom replied, "is a decoction an' a spoon." "Somebody recommend an axe for this complaint?" "'Tisn't that, Bob. 'Tis this way. When I haves a job t' do, Bob, I always uses what serves best an' lies handy. That's jus' plain common sense an' cleverness. Well, then, jus' now an axe suits me to a tee. An' so I'm puttin' a good edge on the only axe I got." "An axe," Bob observed, "will do quick work." "That's jus' what I thought!" cried Tom, delighted. "Quick an' painless." "There's jus' one trouble about an axe," Bob went on, dryly, "when used in the practice o' medicine. I never heard it stated--but I fancy 'tis true. What's done with an axe," he concluded, "is hard t' repair." CHAPTER XXIV _In Which Bob Likely, the Mail-Man, Interrupts Doctor Luke's Departure, in the Nick of Time, with an Astonishing Bit of News, and the Ice of Ships' Run Begins to Move to Sea in a Way to Alarm the Stout Hearted_ Doctor Luke, having finished his professional round of the Candlestick cottages in good time, harnessed his dogs, with the help of Billy Topsail, soon after noon next day. Evidently the folk of Amen Island were well. They had been frivolous, no doubt--but had not been caught at it. Amen Island was to be omitted. Doctor Luke was ready for the trail to Poor Luck Harbour on the way south. And he shouted a last good-bye to the folk of Candlestick Cove, who had gathered to wish him Godspeed, and laughed in delighted satisfaction with their affection, and waved his hand, and called to his dogs and cracked his whip; and he would have been gone south from Candlestick Cove on the way to Poor Luck and Our Harbour in another instant had he not caught sight of Bob Likely coming up the harbour ice from the direction of the Arctic floe that was then beginning to drive through Ships' Run under the impulse of a stiffening breeze from the north. It was old Bob Likely with the mail-bag on his back--there was no doubt about that; the old man's stride and crooked carriage were everywhere familiar--and as he was doubtless from Amen Island, and as he carried the gossip of the coast on the tip of his tongue, of which news of illness and death was not the lest interesting variety, Doctor Luke, alert for intelligence that might serve the ends of his work--Doctor Luke halted his team and waited for old Bob Likely to draw near. "From Amen, Bob?" "I is, sir. I'm jus' come across the floe." "Are they all well?" "Well, no, sir; they isn't. The Little Fiddler is in mortal trouble. I fears, sir, he's bound Aloft." "Hut!" the Doctor scoffed. "What's the matter with the Little Fiddler?" "He've a sore finger, sir." The Doctor pondered this. He frowned--perplexed. "What sort of a sore finger?" he inquired, troubled. "They thinks 'tis mortification, sir." "Gangrene! What do you think, Bob?" "It looks like it, sir. I seed a case, sir, when I were off sealin' on the----" "Was the finger bruised?" "No, sir; 'twasn't bruised." "Was it frost-bitten?" "No, sir; 'twasn't the frost that done it. I made sure o' that. It come from a small cut, sir." "A simple infection, probably. Did you see a line of demarcation?" "Sir?" "It was discoloured?" "Oh, ay, sir! 'Twas some queer sort o' colour." "What colour?" "Well, sir," said Bob, cautiously, "I wouldn't say as t' that. I'd jus' say 'twas some mortal queer sort o' colour an' be content with my labour." "Was there a definite line between the discolouration and what seemed to be sound flesh?" Bob Likely scratched his head in doubt. "I don't quite mind," said he, "whether there was or not." "Then there was not," the Doctor declared, relieved. "You would not have failed to note that line. 'Tis not gangrene. The lad's all right. That's good. Everybody else well on Amen Island?" Bob was troubled. "They're t' cut that finger off," said he, "jus' as soon as little Terry will yield. Las' night, sir, we wasn't able t' overcome his objection. 'Tis what he calls one of his fiddle fingers, sir, an' he's holdin' out----" "Cut it off? Absurd! They'll not do that." "Ay; but they will, sir. 'Tis t' be done the night, sir, with the help o' Sandy Lands an' Black Walt Anderson. They're t' cotch un an' hold un, sir. They'll wait no longer. They're afeared o' losin' little Terry altogether." "Yes; but surely----" "If 'twere mortification, sir, wouldn't you cut that finger off?" "At once." "With an axe?" "If I had nothing better." "An' if the lad was obstinate----" "If an immediate operation seemed to be advisable, Bob, I would have the lad held." "Well, sir," said Bob, "they thinks 'tis mortification, sir, an' not knowin' no better----" "Thank you," said the Doctor. He turned to Mild Jim Cull. "Skipper James," said he, "have Timmie take care of the dogs. I'll cross Ships' Run and lance that finger." * * * * * Dusk fell on Amen Island. No doctor had happened across the Run. No saving help--no help of any sort, except the help of Sandy Lands and Black Walt Anderson, to hold the rebellious subject--had come. At Candlestick Cove Doctor Luke had been delayed. The great news of his fortunate passing had spread inland overnight to the tilts of Rattle River. Before the Doctor could get under way for Amen Island, an old dame of Serpent Bend, who had come helter-skelter through the timber, whipping her team, frantic to be in time to command relief before the Doctor's departure, drove up alone, with four frowsy dogs, and desired the extraction of a tooth; but so fearful and coy was she--notwithstanding that she had suffered the tortures of the damned, as she put it, for three months, having missed the Doctor on his northern course--that the Doctor was kept waiting on her humour an hour or more before she would yield to his scoldings and blandishments. And no sooner had the old dame of Serpent Bend been rejoiced to receive her recalcitrant tooth in a detached relationship than a lad of Trapper's Lake trudged in to expose a difficulty that turned out to be neither more nor less than a pitiable effect of the lack of nourishment; and when an arrangement had been accomplished to feed the lad well and strong again, a woman of Silver Fox was driven in--a matter that occupied Doctor Luke until the day was near spent and the crossing of Ships' Run was a hazard to be rather gravely debated. "You'll put it off, sir?" Skipper James advised. The Doctor surveyed the ice of Ships' Run and the sky beyond Amen Island. "I wish I might," said he, frankly. "I would, sir." "I--I can't very well." "The floe's started down the Run, sir." "Yes-s," the Doctor admitted, uneasily; "but you see, Skipper James, I--I----" CHAPTER XXV _In Which a Stretch of Slush is to be Crossed and Billy Topsail Takes the Law in His Own Hands_ It was falling dusk and blowing up when Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail, gaffs in hand, left the heads of Candlestick Cove for the ice of Ships' Run; and a spit of frosty snow--driving in straight lines--was in the gale. Amen Island, lying nearly in the wind's eye, was hardly distinguishable, through the misty interval, from the blue-black sky beyond. There was more wind in the northeast--more snow and a more penetrating degree of frost. It was already blowing at the pitch of half a gale: it would rise to a gale in the night, thick with snow, it might be, and blowing bitter cold--the wind jumping over the point of Amen Island on a diagonal and sweeping down the Run. Somewhere to leeward of Candlestick Cove the jam had yielded to the rising pressure of the wind. The floe was outward bound from the Run. It was already moving in the channel, scraping the rocks of both shores--moving faster as the pans below ran off to open water and removed their restraint. As yet the pans and hummocks were in reasonably sure contact all the way from Candlestick Cove to Come-Along Point of Amen Island; but the ice was thinning out with accelerating speed--black water disclosing itself in widening gaps--as the compression was relieved. All the while, thus, as Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail made across, the path was diminishing. * * * * * In the slant of the wind the ice in the channel of Ships' Run was blown lightly against the Candlestick coast. About the urgent business of its escape to the wide water of Great Yellow Bay the floe rubbed the Candlestick rocks in passing and crushed around the corner of Dead Man's Point. Near Amen Island, where the wind fell with less force, there was a perilous line of separation. In the lee of the Amen hills--close inshore--the ice was not disturbed: it hugged the coast as before; but outward of this--where the wind dropped down--a lane of water was opening between the inert shore ice and the wind-blown main floe. As yet the lane was narrow; and there were pans in it--adrift and sluggishly moving away from the Amen shore. When Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail came to this widening breach they were delayed--the course was from pan to pan in a direction determined by the exigency of the moment; and when they had drawn near the coast of Amen--having advanced in a general direction as best they could--they were halted altogether. And they were not then under Come-Along Point, but on a gathering of heavy Arctic ice, to the north, at the limit of Ships' Run, under that exposed head of Amen, called Deep Water Head, which thrusts itself into the open sea. "We're stopped, sir," Billy Topsail declared. "We'd best turn back, sir, while there's time." A way of return was still open. It would be laborious--nothing worse. "One moment----" "No chance, sir." "I'm an agile man, Billy. One moment. I----" Billy Topsail turned his back to a blast of the gale and patiently awaited the issue of Doctor Luke's inspection of the path. "A man can't cross that slush, sir," said he. Past Deep Water Head the last of the floe was driving. There is a wide little cove there--it is called Deep Water Cove; and there is deep water--a drop of ten fathoms (they say)--under Deep Water Cliff. There was open water in both directions beyond the points of the cove. A detour was thus interrupted. Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail confronted the only ice that was still in contact with the shore. At no time had the floe extended far beyond Deep Water Head. A high sea, rolling in from the northeast, had played under the ice; and this had gone on for three days--the seas running in and subsiding: all the while casting the ice ponderously against the rocks. Heavy Arctic ice--fragments of many glacial bergs--had caught the lesser, more brittle drift-pans of the floe against the broken base and submerged face of Deep Water Cliff and ground them slowly to slush in the swells. There were six feet of this slush, perhaps--a depth of six feet and a width of thirty. It was as coarse as cracked ice in a freezer. It was a quicksand. Should a man's leg go deep enough he would not be able to withdraw it; and once fairly caught--both feet gripped--he would inevitably drop through. It would be a slow and horrible descent--like sinking in a quicksand. It was near dark. The snow--falling thicker--was fast narrowing the circle of vision. "I might get across," said Doctor Luke. "You'll not try, sir," Billy Topsail declared, positively. "You'll start back t' Candlestick Cove." "I might----" "You'll not!" There was something in Billy Topsail's tone to make Doctor Luke lift his brows and stare. "What's that?" said he, smiling grimly. "I says you'll not try." Doctor Luke laughed uneasily. "No?" "No, sir." Billy Topsail was a big boy. Doctor Luke measured his length and breadth and power with new interest and recalled that he had always admired the lusty proportions of the lad. Decidedly--Billy Topsail was a big fellow! And Billy Topsail's intentions were plain. "Now----" the Doctor began, argumentatively. "'Tis no use, sir. I knows you." Doctor Luke moved off a step. "But Billy, you see, my dear fellow----" "No, sir!" Billy Topsail moved within reach. "I'm quite sure----" "No." Doctor Luke stared at the breach of slush. He faced away, then, abruptly. "Wel-ll," he admitted, with a shrug, "no doubt you're right, Billy. I----" CHAPTER XXVI _In Which it Seems that an Axe and Terry Lute's Finger Are Surely to Come into Injurious Contact, and Terry Lute is Caught and Carried Bawling to the Block, While His Mother Holds the Pot of Tar_ In Tom Lute's cottage beyond Come-Along Point of Amen Island they were ready for the operation. There was a thick, round billet of birch, upended in the middle of the kitchen floor, to serve as a block for the amputation; and the axe was sharp, at last--at hand, too, but concealed, for the moment, behind the pantry door--and a pot of tar was warming on the kitchen stove. Sandy Lands had reported for duty, whom nothing but a sense of duty had drawn to a hand in the surgical assistance--a bit perturbed, as he contemplated the task of restraining the struggles of a violent little subject, whose temper he knew, but sturdy and resolved, his resolution substantiated by a sort of religious austerity. Black Walt Anderson, a gigantic, phlegmatic fellow, who would have subdivided into half a dozen little Terry Lutes, also awaited the signal to pounce upon the Little Fiddler of Amen Island, imprison his arms, confine his legs, subdue all his little struggles, in short, bear him to the block and flatten his hand and spread his fingers for the severing blow. It was to be a simple operation--a swift descent of the axe and a quick application of hot tar and bandages to stifle the wound. And that was to be the end of the finger and the trouble. There had been a good deal of trouble. Terry Lute's sore finger was a source of brutal agony. There had been many days of this pain--a throbbing torture in the finger and hand and arm. And Terry had practiced deception in an heroic degree. No pain (said he); but, ah, well, a twinge, now an' again--but nothin' at all t' make a man complain. An' sure (said he), 'twas better all the while--improvin' every blessed minute, sir. A day more (said he) would see the boil yield t' mother's poultice; an' a fortnight would see un all healed up an' the finger able for labour again. It was in the night that Terry could conceal the agony no longer--deep in the night, when his mother sat beside the cot; and then he would crawl out of bed, stow his slender little body away in his mother's arms, put his head down and cry and moan without shame until he had exhausted himself and fallen into a fitful sleep. No; it was no trifling agony for Terry Lute to withstand. And he knew all the while, moreover, that the cut of an axe--no more, it might be, than a flash--would eventually relieve him. Terry Lute was not afraid of the pain of the thing they wanted to do. That was not the inspiration of his infuriated rebellion. There was nothing mistaken in the intention of the axe. It was neither cruel nor blundering. Amen Island lies remote: the folk do for themselves--they are nearly sufficient to themselves, indeed, in all the affairs of life; and when they fail (they say) and sorrow comes of it--well, there is failure everywhere, too, and life leaves every man when the spirit is finished with its habitation. "I done the best I could!" It is epitaph honourable enough. There was no horror on Amen Island--no furious complaint of the wrongs of a social arrangement--when catastrophe came through lack of uncommon means to stave it off. And so when Tom Lute told old Bob Likely that when he had a job to do he was accustomed to employ the best means at hand--he expressed in simple terms the lesson of his habitat. This affair of Terry Lute's finger was of gravest moment; had the finger gangrened--it must come off in haste, and the sooner the better; and an axe and a pot of tar were the serviceable instruments according to the teaching of all experience. Doubtless doctors were better provided and more able; but as there was no doctor to be had, and as Terry Lute was loved and greatly desired in the flesh, and as he was apparently in peril of a sudden departure--and as he was in desperate pain--and as---- But Terry Lute would not have his finger off. From the corner, where he stood at bay, roaring in a way to silence the very gale that had now begun to shake the cottage, he ran to his mother's knee, as though for better harbour. And there he sobbed his complaint. "Ah, Terry, lad," his father pleaded; "'tis only a finger!" "'Tis on my left hand!" "You're not left-handed, son," Tom Lute argued, patiently. "You've no real need o' four fingers there. Why, sonny, boy, once I knowed a man----" "'Tis one o' my fiddle fingers." Tom Lute sighed. "Fiddle fingers, son!" said he. "Ah, now, boy! You've said that so often, an' so foolishly, that I----" "I'll not have it off!" "But----" "Isn't no _use_ in havin' it off," Terry complained, "an' I can't spare it. This here boil----" "'Tisn't a boil, son. 'Tis mortification. An'----" "'Tis not mortification." Again Tom sighed. "Is you afeared, Terry?" said he. "Surely you isn't a pullin' little coward, is you? A finger! 'Tis such a simple little thing t' suffer----" "I'm not afeared neither!" "Well, then----" "You may cut any finger you likes off my right hand," Terry boasted, "an' I'll not whimper a peep." "I don't want a finger off your right hand, Terry." "I won't have it!" "'Tis no pleasure t' me t'----" "I won't have a finger off my left hand!" "I tells you, Terry, you isn't left-handed. I've told you that a thousand times. What in the name o'----" "I tells you I won't have it!" Black Walt Anderson looked to Tom Lute for a signal. Sandy Lands rose. "Now?" he seemed to inquire. Tom Lute shook his head. "That's the way we done aboard the _Royal Bloodhound_," the Little Fiddler's grandfather put in. He began to pace the floor. The tap-tap of his wooden leg was furious and his voice was as gusty as the gale outside. "Now, you mark me!" he ran on. "We chopped Cap'n Sam Small's foot off with a axe an' plugged it with b'ilin' tar. 'Twas mortification. I knows mortification when I sees it. An' Sam Small got well." He was bawling, by this time, like a skipper in a gale--being deaf, the old man was accustomed to raise his voice, a gradual _crescendo_, until he had come as near hearing himself as possible. "Yes, sir--you mark me! That's what we done aboard the _Royal Bloodhound_ the year I shipped for the seals along o' Small Sam Small. We chopped it clean off with a meat axe an' plugged it with b'ilin' tar. If Small Sam Small had clung t' that member for another day he would have died. Mark me! Small Sam Small would have been dropped over the side o' the _Royal Bloodhound_ an' left t' shift for hisself in a sack an' a Union Jack!" He paused before Terry Lute and shook a lean finger under the little boy's nose. "Now," he roared, "you mark me!" "I isn't aboard the _Royal Bloodhound_!" Terry sobbed. "Ah, Terry!" This was Terry's mother. She was crying bitterly. "You'll die an you don't have that finger off!" "I'll die an I got to!" "Oh, Terry, Terry!" "I isn't afeared t' die." "Ah, Terry, dear, whatever would I do----" "I'll die afore I gives up one o' my fiddle fingers." "But you isn't got----" "Never you mind about that!" "If you had----" "You jus' wait till I grows up!" Again Sandy Lands inquired for the signal. Tom Lute lifted a hand to forbid. "Terry, son," said he, gravely, "once an' for all, now, will you----" "No!" Terry roared. "Oh, oh, Terry, dear!" the mother wailed, observing the preparations that were making behind Terry's back. "If you'd only----" Terry screamed in a furious passion: "Have done, woman! I tells you I won't have none o' my fiddle fingers cut off!" It was the end. Tom Lute gave the signal. Sandy Lands and Black Walt Anderson pounced upon little Terry Lute and carried him bawling and struggling from his mother's knee towards the block of birch in the middle of the kitchen floor. Tom Lute stood waiting there with the axe. As for Terry Lute's mother, she flew to the stove, tears streaming from her eyes, her mouth grim, and fetched the pot of tar. And then all at once the Little Fiddler of Amen Island wriggled out of the clutches of his captors--they were too tender with him--and dived under the kitchen table. CHAPTER XXVII _In Which Doctor Luke's Flesh Creeps, Billy Topsail Acts Like a Bob-Cat, and the Little Fiddler of Amen Island Tells a Secret_ Confronting the slush of Deep Water Cove, with the finger of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island awaiting his ministration beyond, Doctor Luke had misled the faithful Billy Topsail into the assumption of his acquiescence. It was not in his mind to return to Candlestick Cove that night. It was in his mind to gain the shore and proceed upon his professional call. And there was reason in this. For when the group of Arctic ice--still rhythmically swinging in and out with the great seas from the open--drove down upon the broken base of Deep Water Cliff, it compressed the ice between. At the moment of greatest compression the slush was reasonably solid ground. When the Arctic ice subsided with the wave, the slush expanded in the wider space it was then permitted to occupy. A man could cross--a light, agile man, daring the depth of the slush, might be able to cross--when the slush was compressed. No man could run all the way across. It must be in two advances. Midway he would be caught by the subsidence of the wave. From this he must preserve himself. And from this--from dropping through the field of slush and having it close over his head--he might preserve himself by means of his gaff. "Wel-ll," Doctor Luke had admitted, apparently resigned, "no doubt you're right, Billy. I----" Now the Arctic ice was poised. "Ay, sir. An' you're more reasonable than ever I knowed you t'----" A sea was rolling in. "Wel-ll," the Doctor drawled, "as I grow older----" Then came the moment of advantage. Doctor Luke ran out on the slush before Billy Topsail could reach out a hand to restrain him. It was indiscreet. Doctor Luke had been too eager to escape--he had started too soon; the sea was not down--the slush was not squeezed tight. A foot sank to the ankle. Doctor Luke jerked it out The other foot went down to the calf of the leg. Doctor Luke jerked it--tugged it. It was fast. The slush, in increasing compression, had caught it. He must wait for the wave to subside. His flesh crept with the horror of the thing. He was trapped--caught fast! A moment later the sea was in retreat from the cliff and the slush began rapidly to thin. Doctor Luke employed the stratagem that is familiar to the coast for dealing with such ice as the slush in which he was entrapped. He waited--alert. There would come a moment when the consistency of the ice would be so thin that he would drop through. Precisely before that moment--when his feet were first free--he dropped flat on his gaff. Having in this way distributed his weight--avoided its concentration on a small area--he was borne up. And he withdrew his feet and waited for the sea to fall in again and compress the ice. When the next wave fell in Billy Topsail started across the ice like a bob-cat. Doctor Luke lay inert through two waves. When the third fell he jumped up and ran towards the base of Deep Water Cliff. Again the sea caught him unaware. His flesh was creeping again. Horror of the stuff underfoot--the treacherous insecurity of it--drove him. The shore was close. He was too eager for the shore--he ran too far; and his foot went down again--foot and leg to the thigh. As instinctively he tried violently to extract the leg by stepping up on the other foot--that leg went down to the knee. A fall to the arm-pits impended--a drop clean through and overhead. The drop would inevitably be the result of a flash of hesitation. Doctor Luke cried out. And as he cried he plunged forward--a swift, conscious effort to fall prone on his gaff. There was a blank. Nothing seemed to happen. He was amazed to discover that the gaff upheld him. It occurred to him, then, that his feet were trapped--that he could not withdraw his legs from the sucking slush. Nor could he. They were caught. And he perceived that they were sinking deeper--that he was slowly slipping through the slush. He was conscious of the night--the dark and snow and wind; and he fancied that he heard a voice of warning. "Cotch hold----" It was a voice. "Cotch hold o' the gaff!" Doctor Luke seized the end of Billy Topsail's gaff and drew himself out of the grip of the slush. When the sea came in again he jumped up and joined Billy Topsail on the broken base of Deep Water Cliff. He was breathing hard. He did not look back. Billy Topsail said that they had better make haste--that somebody would "cotch a death o' cold" if they did not make haste. And they made haste. * * * * * An hour or more later Doctor Luke, with Billy Topsail in his wake, thrust into Tom Lute's agitated kitchen and interrupted the amputation of the fiddle finger of the Little Fiddler of Amen Island with a "Well, well, well! What in the name of----" and stood staring--all dusted with snow and shivering and fairly gone purple with cold. They had Terry Lute cornered, then--his back against the wall, his face horrified, his mouth wide open in a bellow of rage; and Sandy Lands and Black Walt Anderson were almost upon him--and Tom Lute was grimly ready with the axe and Terry Lute's mother was standing beside the round birch block with the pot of tar in her hands and her apron over her head. Doctor Luke stood staring at all this--his mouth as wide open, because of a temporary paralysis, due to his amazement, as Terry Lute's mouth was fallen in anger and terror. And it was not long after that--the Doctor being warm and dry, then, and the kitchen quiet and expectant, and Tom Lute and Terry Lute's mother exhibiting relief and the keenest sort of interest--that the Doctor took Terry Lute's fiddle finger in his hand. Then he began to prepare the finger for the healing thrust of a lance. "I'm going to cure it, Terry," said he. "That's good, sir. I'm wonderful glad t' save that finger." "You cherish that finger, Terry?" "I does that, sir! I've need of it, sir." The Doctor was not attending. His attention was on the lance and its object. "Mm-m," he ran on, absently, to make distracting conversation. "You've need of it, eh?" "'Tis one o' my fiddle fingers, sir." "Mm-m? Ah! The Little Fiddler of Amen Island! Well, Terry, lad, you'll be able to play your fiddle again in a fortnight." Terry grinned. "No, sir," said he. "I won't be playin' my fiddle by that time." The Doctor looked up in astonishment. "Yes, you will," he flashed, sharply. "No, sir." "But I tell you----" "I isn't got no fiddle." "What!" "All I got now," said the Little Fiddler of Amen Island, "is a jew's-harp. _But jus' you wait till I grows up!_" * * * * * Billy Topsail had broken into smothered laughter; and Doctor Luke, laughing, too, had already determined that the Little Fiddler of Amen Island should not have to wait until he grew up for his first violin (which came to pass in due course)--this hearty mirth was in progress when there was a loud knock on the door, a trample of feet in the entry, a draught of cold air blowing through the open door, and Billy Topsail had the surprise of his not uneventful career. He stared, helpless with amazement, incredulity, delight; and for a moment he could do nothing more worthy of his manners than keep on staring, as though he had clapped eyes on a ghost. Archie Armstrong had come in. "Archie!" Doctor Luke exclaimed. They shook hands. But Archie Armstrong's eyes were not on Doctor Luke. Doctor Luke might be met anywhere at any time. It was not surprising to find him on Amen Island. Archie was staring at Billy Topsail. "Ye little lobster!" said he, at last, grinning. "Whoop!" Billy yelled. "'Tis you!" They flew at each other. It was like a wrestling bout. Each in the bear-like embrace of the other, they staggered over the floor and eventually fell down exhausted. And then they got up and shook hands in what Archie called "the regular" way. CHAPTER XXVIII _In Which Sir Archibald Armstrong's Son and Heir is Presented for the Reader's Inspection, Highly Complimented and Recommended by the Author, and the Thrilling Adventure, Which Archie and Billy are Presently to Begin, Has its Inception on the Departure of Archie From St. John's Aboard the "Rough and Tumble"_ As everybody in St. John's knew very well (and a good many folk of the outports, to say nothing of a large proportion of the sealing fleet), Archie Armstrong was the son of Sir Archibald Armstrong, who was used to calling himself a fish-dealer, but was, in fact, a deal more than that. Directly or indirectly, Sir Archibald's business interests touched every port in Newfoundland, every cove of the Labrador, the markets of Spain and Portugal, of the West Indies and the South American Republics. His fishing schooners went south to the Banks and north to the gray, cold seas off Cape Chidley; his whalers gave chase in the waters of the Gulf and the Straits; his trading schooners ran from port to port of all that rugged coast; his barques carried cod and salmon and oil to all the markets of the world. And when the ice came down from the north in the spring of the year, his sealing vessels sailed from St. John's on the great adventure. Archie was Sir Archibald's son. There was no doubt about that. He was a fine, hearty lad--robust, as every young Newfoundlander should be; straight, agile, alert, with head carried high; merry, quick-minded, ready-tongued, fearless in wind and high sea, as a good many adventures with Billy Topsail had proved. His hair was tawny, his eyes as blue as Billy Topsail's, and as wide and as clear; and his face was broad and good-humoured. And (every lad has his amiable weakness) Archie was something of a dandy in his dress--a tailored, speckless, polished, fashionable person, to whom the set of his trousers and the knot in his cravat were matters of concern. All in all, from his soles to his crown, and from his rosy skin to the innermost recesses of his good red heart, he was very much of a brave, kindly, self-respecting man. Billy Topsail liked him. That is putting it mildly. And Archie Armstrong liked Billy Topsail. That, too, is putting it mildly. The boys had been through some hard places together, as I have elsewhere recorded; and they had come through the good and the bad of their undertakings with mutual respect and liking. Nobody could help liking Billy Topsail--he was a courageous, decent, jolly, friendly soul; and for the same reasons nobody could help liking Archie Armstrong. It was a good partnership--this friendship between the Colonial knight's son and heir and the outport fisherman's lad. And both had profited. Billy had gained in manners and knowledge of the world, to describe the least gain that he won; and Archie had gained in health and courage and the wisdom of the coast. But that was all. Rich as Archie's prospects were, and as great the wealth and generosity of his father, Billy Topsail had never anticipated a material advantage; and had one been offered him, it would not have been accepted except on terms of a description not to wound Billy Topsail's self-respect. Well, what sort of an education had Archie Armstrong had? It is best described in the incident that sent him off on his first sealing voyage, as elsewhere set down. It was twilight of a blustering February day. Sir Archibald Armstrong sat alone in his office, with his chair drawn close to the low, broad window, which overlooked the wharves and ice-strewn harbour beyond; and while the fire roared and the wind drove the snow against the panes, he lost himself in profound meditation. He stared absently at the swarm of busy men--now almost hidden in the dusk and storm--and at the lights of the sealing fleet, which lay there fitting out for the voyage to the drift-ice of the north; but no sound of the activity on dock or deck could disturb the quiet of the little office where the fire blazed and crackled and the snow fell softly against the window panes. By and by Archie came in. "Come, son," said Sir Archibald, presently, "let us watch them fitting out the fleet." They walked to the window, Sir Archibald with his arm over Archie's shoulder; and in the dusk outside, the wharves and warehouses and ships told the story of the wealth of Sir Archibald's firm. "It will all be yours some day," said Sir Archibald, gravely. After a pause, he continued: "The firm has had an honourable career through three generations of our family. My father gave it to me with a spotless reputation. More than that, with the business he gave me the faith of every man, woman and child of the outports. The firm has dealt with its fishermen and sealers as man with man, not as the exploiter with the exploited. It has never wronged, or oppressed, or despised them. "In September you are going to an English public school, and thence to an English University, when the time comes. You will meet with new ideals. The warehouses and ships, the fish and fat, will not mean so much to you. You will forget. It may be even--for you are something of a dandy, you know--that you will be ashamed to acknowledge that your father is a dealer in fish and seal-oil; and that----" Archie drew breath to protest. "But I want you to remember," Sir Archibald went on, lifting his hand. "I want you to know a man when you meet one, whatever the clothes he wears. The men upon whom the fortunes of this firm are founded are true men. They are strong, brave and true. Their work is toilsome and perilous, and their lives are not unused to deprivation; but they are cheerful, and independent, and fearless, through it all--stout hearts, every one of them. "They deserve respectful and generous treatment at the hands of their employers. For that reason I want you to know them more intimately--to know them as shipmates know one another--that you may be in sympathy with them. I am confident that you will respect them, because I know that you love all manly qualities. And so for your good, and the good of the men, and the good of the firm, I have decided that----" "That I may go sealing?" cried Archie. "That you may go sealing." Archie had gone sealing. And the adventure had made of him the man that he was. * * * * * Archie Armstrong had gone then to an English public school, having made the acquaintance of Billy Topsail on that first voyage, where the friendship had been founded in peril and a narrow escape. And he had come back unspoiled; and he had adventured with Billy Topsail again, and he had gone to England and returned to Newfoundland once more. In St. John's, with an English tutor, because of the illness of his mother, who had by that time recovered, he pleaded with Sir Archibald to be permitted once more to sail with the fleet. There was objection. Archie was importunate. Sir Archibald relented and gave a reluctant consent. And it was determined that Archie should be shipped with Cap'n Saul Galt, commanding the _Rough and Tumble_, a stout ship, well manned, and, in the hands of Cap'n Saul, as safe a berth for a lad as any ship of the fleet could provide. That Archie was delighted goes without saying; and that he was all aflame with interest in the movements of the ice--inquisitive and talkative--goes without saying too. As a matter of fact, a man might hear what he liked on the water-front about the movements of the ice. In the gathering places it was just the same. There were rumours of the ice all the way from the Straits of Belle Isle and the Labrador coast to the Funks and Cape Bonavist'. It was even held by some old sealing dogs that the floes had gone to the east in a spurt of westerly weather and would be found far to sea in the southerly drift. All this while old Cap'n Saul, of the _Rough and Tumble_, with Archie usually at his elbow, cocked an ear and kept his counsel, putting two and two together, and arriving at the correct result of four, according to the old cock's habit. "The ice is inside the Funks, Archie," said he. "I'll twist the _Rough and Tumble_ t' the west an' shake off the fleet in the night. Havin' clung with profit t' my sealin' wisdom these ten sealin' seasons," he went on, "they'll follow me an they're able, an' pester my fellows an' steal my panned fat. They're all bit mad by the notion that the ice drove t' the east with the nor'west puff an' whisper o' wind we had. I'll fiddle their wits this year--mark me!" "_Whisper_ of wind?" Archie exclaimed. "'Twas a whole _gale_ of wind!" "Pt!" "And the ice _did_ drive to the east." "Pt!" says Cap'n Saul. "You'll never make a sealin' skipper, Archie. I smells the ice off the Horse Islands." It was foul weather all the way from St. John's to the floes. The fleet sailed into a saucy head-wind and a great slosh of easterly sea. It was a fair start and no favour, all managed by the law; the fat on the floes was for the first crews of the fleet to find and slaughter it. And there was a mighty crowd on the water-front to wish the fleet well; and there was a vast commotion, too--cheering and waving and the popping of guns. At sea it was a helter-skelter race for the ice. Cap'n Saul touched up the _Rough and Tumble_ beyond St. John's Narrows; and the ship settled to her work, in that rough and tumble of black water, with a big white bone in her teeth--shook her head and slapped her tail and snouted her way along to the northeast. A whisp of fog came with the night. It was thick weather. But Cap'n Saul drove northeast, as before--slap into a smothering sea; and by this the fleet, tagging behind, was befooled and misled. After dark, Cap'n Saul doused the lights and switched full steam to the west; and when day broke the _Rough and Tumble_ was alone, come what might of her isolation--and come it did, in due course, being all a-brew for Cap'n Saul and crew, even then, in the northwest. As for the fleet, it was off on fools' business in the bare seas to the east. CHAPTER XXIX _In Which the Crew of the "Rough and Tumble" is Harshly Punished, and Archie Armstrong, Having Pulled the Wool Over the Eyes of Cap'n Saul, Goes Over the Side to the Floe, Where He Falls in with a Timid Lad, in Whose Company, with Billy Topsail Along, He is Some Day to Encounter His Most Perilous Adventure_ Well, now, two days later, near dusk, with Archie Armstrong on the bridge, the _Rough and Tumble_ was crawling northwest through the first ice of the floe. An hour of drab light was left of the day--no more. And it was mean ice roundabout--small pans and a naughty mess of slush. There was a hummock or two, it might be, and a clumper or two, as well; and a man might travel that ice well enough, sore pinched by need to do so. But it was foul footing for the weight of a full-grown man, and tricky for the feet of a lad; and a man must dance a crooked course, and caper along, or perish--leap from a block that would tip and sink under his feet to a pan that would bear him up until he had time and the wit to leap again, and so come, at last, by luck and good conduct, to a pan stout enough for pause. It was mean ice, to be sure. Yet there was a fine sign of seals drifting by. Here and there was an old dog hood on a hummock; and there and here were a harp and a whitecoat on a flat pan. But the orders of Cap'n Saul were to "leave the swiles be"--to "keep the mouths o' the guns shut" until the _Rough and Tumble_ had run up to the herd that was coming down with the floe. "I'll have no swiles slaughtered in play," he declared. A gun popped forward. It was from the midst of a crowd. And Cap'n Saul leaned over the bridge-rail. "Who done that?" he demanded. There was no answer. "Mm-m?" Cap'n Saul repeated. "Who done that?" No answer. "A dog hood lyin' dead off the port bow!" said Cap'n Saul. "Who killed un?" Still no answer. And Cap'n Saul didn't ask again. Forthwith he stopped the ship. "Mister Knibbs, sir," said he, to the mate, "send the crew after that dead hood." The mate jumped. "Cap'n Saul, sir," he replied, his eyes popping, "the ice----" "Sir?" "This here ice, sir----" "_Sir?_" "This here----" "SIR?" "This----" "Mister Knibbs, sir," said Cap'n Saul, dryly, "this here ice is fit enough for any crew that I commands. An' if the crew isn't fit for the ice, sir, I'll soon have un so, ecod! Put un over the side. We'll waste no swiles on this v'y'ge." "All hands, sir?" "All hands over the side, sir, t' fetch that dead hood aboard." Archie put in: "May I go, Cap'n Saul?" "No!" "Cap'n Saul," Archie began to wheedle, "I'm so wanting to----" "No, sir." "I'm just crazy to----" "'Tis no fit place for you." "But----" Cap'n Saul changed his mind all at once. He sent a call for Archie's old and well-tried friend, Bill o' Burnt Bay. "Stand by the lad," said he. "Ay, sir." Archie left the bridge with Bill o' Burnt Bay, with whom he had sailed before. And over the side they went. And over the side went the crew for punishment. There were more than two hundred men. And not a man was spared. Cap'n Saul sent the ship's doctor after malingerers, and the mate and the haft of a sealing gaff after lurkers; and he kept them capering and balancing for dear life on that dirty floe, sopping and shivering, all in a perilous way, until dusk was in the way of catching some of them unaware. * * * * * It was then that Archie and Bill o' Burnt Bay fell in with old Jonathan Farr of Jolly Harbour. Bill o' Burnt Bay knew the old man well. And he was shocked to find him cavorting over that foul, tricky ice, with the thin blood and dry old bones he had to serve his need--a gray old dog like Jonathan Farr of Jolly Harbour, past his full labour these years gone by, gone stiff and all unfit for the labour and chances of the ice. Still, the old man was blithe enough, as Bill marvelled to see. His eye was lit up with a flicker of fun, sparkling, somehow, through the rheum of age; and his words were mixed with laughter. They came to rest on a pan--the four of them together; old Jonathan Farr and Bill and Archie and a little lad. And Archie marked this in a glance--that the lad, whoever he was, was out of heart with the work he was at. A good deal was to flow from that meeting; and Billy Topsail was to have a part in it all. CHAPTER XXX _In Which a Little Song-Maker of Jolly Harbour Enlists the Affection of the Reader_ "My gran'son, Bill," said Jonathan. Archie pitied the lad--a white, soft-eyed little chap, all taut and woeful with anxiety. "He's young for the ice," Bill observed. "A young dog," Jonathan replied, "masters his tricks with ease." Again Archie pitied the little fellow. "Too young," said Bill, "for man's labour like this." "He'll l'arn all the better for his youth." "Time enough," Bill insisted, "two years hence." "Ah, well, Bill," said Jonathan, then, "I wants t' see my gran'son fit an' able for his labour afore I goes my way." And he clapped the lad on the back. "Eh, Toby?" said he, heartily. The lad was grave and mannerly. "Ay, gran'pa," said he; "you're wonderful careful o' me, you is!" "That I is, Toby!" "Yes, siree!" "I bet I is careful o' you!" Jonathan declared. "An' I'll keep on bein' so. Eh, Toby?" The lad turned to Archie. "I'm havin' a wonderful bringin' up, sir," said he. "My gran'pa is wonderful careful o' me. With the wonderful bringin' up I'm havin' I ought t' turn out a wonderful clever man." "You will!" Archie replied. "That ye will!" said Bill o' Burnt Bay. "Pray God," said the lad, "I'm worthy!" Jonathan gave the lad a little clap on the back. Archie thought it was to thank him for the expression of confidence. And it made the lad squirm and grin like a patted puppie. "What you think of un, Bill?" Jonathan inquired. It was a wistful question. Jonathan seemed to want a word of praise. And Bill gave it with all his heart. "Big as a whale!" said he. "He've the hull of a young whale," said Jonathan; "an' afore this v'y'ge is out he'll have the heart of a bear." Toby chuckled. "Ay--maybe!" said he. "You will!" Archie declared. Well, now, you must know that it is not uncommon to fall in with a timid lad on the coast: a lad given a great deal to music and the making of ballads, and to the telling of tales, too. Such folk are timid when young. It is no shame. By and by they harden to their labour, the softer aspiration forgotten. And then they laugh at what they used to do. I have sometimes thought it a pity. But that's no matter now. Bill o' Burnt Bay knew this lad--knew his weird, sad songs, and had bellowed them in the cabin of the _Cash Down_-- "Oh, the chain 'e parted, An' the schooner drove ashore; An' the wives of the hands Never seed un any more-- No more: Never seed un no mor-or-or-ore!" It was a song weird and sad enough for a little lad like Toby Farr to make. Before a bogie-stove in the forecastle of a schooner at anchor, Toby Farr could yarn of foul weather in a way to set the flesh of a man's back creeping with fear; but it was told of him at Jolly Harbour, and laid to the sad songs he made, that in a pother of northeasterly weather he was no great hand for laughter. "'Tis Toby's first season at the ice, Bill," said Jonathan. "Eh, Toby?" "Ay, sir." "An' gran'pa come along with you, didn't he, Toby? You wanted ol' gran'pa for company, didn't you? Eh, Toby?" "Ay, sir." "Isn't got no father, is you, Toby?" "No, sir." "Isn't got nobody but gran'pa t' fetch you up--is you? Eh, Toby?" "I'm content, sir." "Hear that, Bill! He's content! An' he've been doin' well out here over the side on the ice. Isn't you, Toby?" "Is I, gran'pa?" It was a flash of hope. "_Is_ you!" "Ay--is I, sir?" It was eager. "Is I been doin' well, sir--as you'd have me do?" "That you is!" "Is you tellin' me the truth, gran'pa? It isn't jus' t' hearten me, is it?" "'Tis the truth! You is doin' better, Toby, than your father done at your age. I never knowed a lad t' do so well first time on ice like this. An' you was all on fire t' come t' the ice, wasn't you, Toby?" "I wanted t' come, sir." "An' you've not repented, Toby? Mm-m?" "No, sir." The lad stared about and sighed. "I'm glad I come, sir." Jonathan turned to Archie with his face all in a pucker of joy. "There's spirit, sir!" he declared. "Ay," said Archie; "that's brave enough, God knows!" "I been cronies with Toby, Bill," Jonathan went on, to Bill o' Burnt Bay, "ever since he was born. A ol' man like me plays with children. He've nothin' else t' do. An' I'm enjoyin' it out here at the ice with Toby. 'Tis a pleasure for a ol' man like me t' teach the young. An' I'm wonderful fond o' this here gran'son o' mine. Isn't I, Toby? Eh, lad?" "That you is, gran'pa!" the lad agreed. "You been wonderful good t' me all my life long." "Hear that, Bill!" Jonathan exclaimed. The lad was mannerly and grave. "I wisht, sir," said he, "that my conduct might win your praise." And then Cap'n Saul called them aboard with a saucy toot of the whistle, as though they had been dawdling the day in pranks and play. [Illustration: CAP'N SAUL CALLED THEM ABOARD] CHAPTER XXXI _In Which a Gale of Wind Almost Lays Hands on the Crew of the "Rough and Tumble," Toby Farr is Confronted With the Suggestion of Dead Men, Piled Forward Like Cord-Wood, and Archie Armstrong Joins Bill o' Burnt Bay and Old Jonathan in a Roar of Laughter_ Archie Armstrong and Toby Farr made friends that night. The elder boy was established as the patron of the younger. Toby was aware of Archie's station--son and heir of the great Sir Archibald Armstrong; but being outport born and bred, Toby was not overawed. Before it was time to turn in he was chatting on equal terms with Archie, just as Billy Topsail had chatted, in somewhat similar circumstances, on Archie's first sealing voyage. Toby sang songs that night, too--songs for the crew, of his own making; and he yarned for them--tales of his own invention. It occurred to Archie more than once that Toby possessed a talent that should not be lost--that something ought to be done about it, that something _must_ be done about it; and Archie determined that something should be done about it--Archie was old enough to understand the power of his prospective wealth and his own responsibility with relation to it. * * * * * And that night, below, when Toby Farr was curled up asleep, Archie learned more of this queer matter of Jonathan and the lad. He learned that it was in the mind of old Jonathan Farr that he would not last long in the world--that he was wistful to have the lad hardened before the time of his departure fell. Proper enough: for of all that Jonathan had to leave the lad, which was much, when you come to think it over, he could leave him no better fortune than a store of courage and the will and skill to fend for himself. But the ice was no fit place for Jonathan Farr--a lean, weary old dog like Jonathan Farr. Ah, well, said he, what matter? For his time was on the way, and the lad was heartened and taught in his company; and as for the frost that might bite his old flesh, and as for the winds that might chill the marrow of his old bones, it was nothing at all to suffer that much, said he, in the cause of his own son's son, who was timid, as his father had been, in youth, and his father's father before him. "Ay," said Archie; "but the lad's too young for the ice." "True, Archie--he's tender," said Jonathan; "but I've no certainty o' years. An' I done well with his father, Archie, at his age." "'Twould go hard with a tender lad like Toby in time of trouble." "No, no, Archie----" "He'd never live it through, Jonathan." "Ay," Jonathan replied; "but I'm here, Archie--me! An' that's jus' what I'm here for--t' keep un safe from harm while I teaches un t' fend for hisself." "You!" Bill o' Burnt Bay put in, in banter. "I'm old--true," says Jonathan. "Yet I've a shot left in the locker, Bill, against a time o' need." * * * * * Next day Cap'n Saul found the herds--a patch of harps and new-whelped young. The crew killed all that day. At dusk the men were used to the slaughter, and could bat a seal and travel the ice without fear or awkwardness. There was a pretty prospect indeed of making a quick voyage of it. And this would mean a puff and bouquet of praise for Cap'n Saul in the St. John's newspapers, and a sixty dollar share in the fat for every man and lad of the crew: "_Rough and Tumble_, Cap'n Saul Galt, First Arrival. In With Thirty Thousand!"--all in big, black letters to startle folks' eyes and set the tongues of the town clacking. It would be news of a size to make the town chatter for a fortnight; it would spread to the outports; it would give Cap'n Saul all the sealing glory of that year. There would be great stir and wonder in Water Street when Cap'n Saul went by; and there would be a lively gathering for congratulations in the office of the owners when Cap'n Saul swaggered in to report what everybody knew, that Saul Galt, of the _Rough and Tumble_, was the first of the fleet to come in with a load. Sir Archibald Armstrong himself would be there to clap the skipper on the back. "I congratulate you, Cap'n Saul!" he would say. "I'm proud o' ye, sir!" * * * * * Driving this way and that, and squirming along, nosing and ramming and blasting a course through the floes, the _Rough and Tumble_ loaded fifteen thousand seals in a week. It was still gray weather--no wind to matter; and the sea was flat in the lakes and lanes, and the ice was abroad, and no great frost fell to scorch the crew. Bill o' Burnt Bay was master of the Third Watch--the watch of Jonathan Farr and Toby. At dawn the First Watch filed over the side, every man with a gaff and a tow-rope and a biscuit or two; and all day long they killed and sculped and towed and panned the fat--all smothered in blood. Meanwhile the _Rough and Tumble_ ran away out of sight to land the Second Watch on another field, and beyond that, then, to land the Third Watch; and then she made back through the ice to stand by and pick up the First Watch. And when she had picked up the First Watch, and stowed away the seals, and had gathered the Second Watch, it was dusk and after every night, and sometimes long after, when she got back to pick up Bill o' Burnt Bay's watch, which was the last to leave the floe. Thus it was labour all day and sweat most of the night--torches on the pans where the sculped seal lay; and torches on deck--the decks all red and slippery with blood and fat and ice. And it looked well for them, every one--a load of fat and the first to port with it. Toby Farr killed and sculped and towed and panned a lad's full share of the fat. "Well, sir," said Archie, one day, "how you getting along?" "I thrives, sir," Toby replied. "A cock so soon!" said Bill. "My gran'pa," says Toby, "is teachin' me." Archie laughed. "Is you apt?" Bill inquired. "I've learned courage," Toby replied, "an' 'tis a hard lesson t' learn." "God knows!" Bill agreed. "I'll be jus' 's fit an' able 's anybody, mark me," Toby boasted, "afore this v'y'ge is out!" "I believe you!" said Archie. Foul weather fell with the crews on the floe--a brief northeast gale of cold wind. The floe went crunching to the southwest--jumping along with the wind like a drove of scared white rabbits. And the pans packed; and the lakes began to close--the lanes to close. Bill o' Burnt Bay gathered his watch in haste. Seals? Drop the seals! It was time for caution--quick work for crews and ship. Cap'n Saul snatched the other watches from the ice and footed it back for Bill's watch before the press nipped the _Rough and Tumble_ and caught her fast; and Bill's watch was aboard before dusk, leaving the kill to drift where the wind had the will to drive it. Cap'n Saul was proud of the smart work--smelling out a swift gale of northeasterly wind with that old foul-weather nose of his, and picking his crew from the ice with the loss of not a man. It was a narrow shave, though--narrow enough to keep a man's heart in his mouth until he got a mug of hot tea in his stomach. And that night there was talk of it below--yarns of the ice: the loss of the _Greenland's_ men in a blizzard--poor, doomed men, cut off from the ship and freezing to madness and death; and of how the _Greenland_ steamed into St. John's Harbour with her flag at half-mast and dead men piled forward like cord-wood. Tales of frosty wind and sudden death--all told in whispers to saucer eyes and open mouths. "A sad fate, Toby!" said Jonathan, to test the lad's courage. "Mm-m?" Toby shrugged his shoulders. "Yep," said he. "All them poor dead men in a heap!" "Sad enough, sir." "Cast away in the cold an' all froze stiff!" "Yep." "Hard as stone!" "Yep." "An' piled for'ard like cord-wood!" "Sad sight, sir. Yep." "Oh, dear me!" said Jonathan. Toby put a hand on the old man's shoulder. It was to hearten his grandfather's courage. And Toby smiled. "Cheer up, gran'pa!" said he. "You isn't afeared, is you?" "Hear that, Bill!" cried Jonathan. Toby whistled a tune. "Whistlin'!" said Bill. "Yet afore this v'y'ge is out ye may lie a blue corpse yourself on the ice!" And Toby yawned. "Yep," said he. It was a cure. Archie and Bill and Jonathan burst into a roar of laughter. Toby was timid no longer. He could not be frightened by tales and gruesome suggestions to his imagination. CHAPTER XXXII _In Which Archie Armstrong and Billy Topsail Say Good-bye to Toby Farr for the Present, and, Bound Down to Our Harbour with Doctor Luke, Enter Into an Arrangement, From Which Issues the Discovery of a Mysterious Letter and Sixty Seconds of Cold Thrill_ What happened next was the astonishing meeting of Archie Armstrong and Billy Topsail in Tom Lute's cottage on Amen Island. The rising blast of wind that threatened to interrupt Doctor Luke's passage of Ship's Run, and thus cost Terry Lute the "fiddle finger" he cherished, so dealt with the floe, at sea, where the men of the _Rough and Tumble_ were at work, that Archie was cut off from return to the ship. At first the adventure wore a grave appearance; but Archie knew the coast, and was aware, also, that the land near which the _Rough and Tumble_ had debarked her crew in the morning was the land of Amen Island. That there was an hospitable settlement on Amen Island, Cap'n Saul had told him. It was towards Amen Island, then, that his endeavour was directed, when the shifting ice cut him off from the ship and dusk caught him on the floe. And he had no great difficulty in making the shore. The floe, in the grip of the wind, drifted towards the land and came in contact with it before night fell. Archie had a long, stumbling search for the cottages of Amen. That was the most trying aspect of his experience. In the end, however, pretty well worn out, but triumphant, he caught sight of the light in Tom Lute's cottage; and he knocked on the door and pushed into the kitchen just when Doctor Luke, having lanced Terry Lute's finger, and having been informed that Terry Lute's fiddle was a jew's-harp, had joined Billy Topsail in the hearty laughter that the amazing disclosure excited. It was late then. Archie and Billy and Doctor Luke were all feeling the effect of the physical labour of that stormy night; and when Billy and Archie had exchanged news in sufficient measure to ease their curiosity, and when Doctor Luke and Archie, who were old friends, had accomplished the same satisfying end, and Black Walt and his assistant had departed, and when Terry Lute and Tom Lute and Terry Lute's mother had recovered from their delight, the simple household turned in to sleep as best it could. In the morning--which means almost immediately after dawn--Archie Armstrong insisted upon his own way. And his own way was happy and acceptable. The _Rough and Tumble_ lay offshore. She was within sight from the window of Tom Lute's cottage. Undoubtedly Cap'n Saul had a searching party--probably the whole crew-out after Archie Armstrong; and undoubtedly the old man was in a fever and fury of anxiety--a fury of anxiety because, no great wind having blown, and the ice having been driven against the coast, his alarm for Archie's safety need not be great, whereas the delay caused by Archie's misadventure would surely arouse a furious impatience. Consequently Archie sought to relieve both his anxiety and his impatience; and to this end he set out over the ice, with Billy Topsail and Doctor Luke, to board the _Rough and Tumble_, where Billy Topsail was wanting to shake the hand of his old friend, Bill o' Burnt Bay, and Archie was eager to have Doctor Luke "inspect" Toby Farr and his grandfather. It was in Archie's mind to "make a man" of Toby. "Cap'n Saul," said Archie, by and by, "will you be sailing to the s'uth'ard?" "A mad question!" Cap'n Saul growled. "Yes; but, sir----" "Isn't you got no sense at all? How can I tell where the ice will go?" Archie grinned. "It wasn't very bright, sir," he admitted. "Still, Cap'n Saul, is there any chance----" "Why?" "I want to go down with Doctor Luke, sir, to Our Harbour. But I don't want to be left on the coast until the mail-boat comes north. If you think you _might_ be in the neighbourhood of Our Harbour, and could send a boat ashore for me, sir, I'll take a chance." "I might," Cap'n Saul replied. "An' the way the ice sets, I think I will. Will that do ye?" "It will, sir!" "If the ice goes t' sea----" "You'll leave me. I understand that." "I'll leave ye like a rat!" Archie laughed. "Billy," said he, gleefully, "I'll go south with you!" And to Cap'n Saul: "How long will you give me, sir?" "I'll give you a week." "Make it ten days, sir?" "Archie," Cap'n Saul replied, "I thought you was a b'y o' some sense. How can I say a week or ten days? I'll pick you up if I can. An' that's all I'll say. What I'm here for is _swiles_. An' swiles I'll have, b'y, no matter whether you're left on the coast or not." Archie flushed. "Cap'n Saul, sir," said he, "I beg pardon. You see, sir, I--I----" Cap'n Saul clapped him on the back. "Archie, b'y," said he, putting an arm over the boy's shoulder, "I'll pick you up if I can. An' if I can't"--Cap'n Saul accomplished a heavy wink--"there'll be some good reason why I don't. Now, you mark me!" Upon that understanding Archie packed a seaman's bag and went back to Amen Island with Doctor Luke and Billy Topsail. First, however, he shook the hand of Bill o' Burnt Bay, and shook the hand of Toby Farr, and shook the hand of Jonathan Farr. And Billy Topsail shook hands with them all, too. Billy Topsail liked the quality of Toby Farr. They were to go through a gale of wind together--Archie and Billy and Bill and Jonathan and little Toby Farr. And Billy and Archie were to learn more of the quality of Toby Farr--to stand awed in the presence of the courage and nobility of Jonathan Farr. * * * * * Thus it came about that Doctor Luke, Billy Topsail and Archie Armstrong, near dusk, two days later, drove Doctor Luke's dogs into Bread-and-Butter Tickle, on the way south to Doctor Luke's hospital at Our Harbour. There was sickness near by--at Round Cove and Explosion Bight; and as Doctor Luke was in haste, he was in something of a quandary. Doctor Luke's solution and immediate decision were sufficient. Billy Topsail was to carry medicine and directions, especially directions, which had a good deal to do with the virtues of fresh air, to ease the slight trouble at Explosion Bight, and Doctor Luke would himself attend to the serious case at Round Cove, setting off at once and returning before noon of the next day, all being well. Billy's errand was the longer; it might be two or three days before he could get back--Explosion Bight lay beyond Poor Luck Barrens--but at any rate a start for Our Harbour would be made as soon as he got back. As for Archie Armstrong, he was to kick his heels and feed the dogs at Bread-and-Butter Tickle--a prospect that he did not greatly enjoy, but was disposed to make the best of. As it turned out, the issue of the whole arrangement gave him sixty seconds of thrill that he will never forget. In the operation of the plan, returning from Explosion Bight, where he had executed his directions, dusk of a scowling day caught Billy Topsail on the edge of the woods. And that was a grave matter--Billy Topsail was in driven haste. As the white wilderness day had drawn on, from a drab dawn to a blinding noon, and from noon to the drear, frosty approach of night, the impression of urgency, in the mystery that troubled him, grew large and whipped him faster. When he loped from the timber into the wind, high above the sea, he was dog-tired and breathless. It was offshore weather then; a black night threatened; it was blowing in tepid gray gusts from the southwest; a flutter of wet snow was in the gale. In the pool of ghostly, leaden dark, below Spear Rock, of Yellow Head, the ice of Skeleton Arm was wrenched from the coast; and with an accumulation of Arctic bergs and drift-pans, blown in by the last nor'easter, it was sluggishly moving into the black shadows of the open sea. And having observed the catastrophe, in a swift, sweeping flash, Billy Topsail stopped dead on the ridge of Spear Rock, dismayed and confounded. To camp on Spear Rock was no incident of his dogged intention. Bread-and-Butter Tickle, to which a persistent, feverish impression of urgency, divined from the puzzling character of the incident of the night before, had driven Billy Topsail since the drab dawn of that day, lay across the darkening reaches of Skeleton Arm. In the snug basin, beyond the heads of the narrows, the lamps were lighted in the cottages of the place. It was a twinkling, beckoning hospitality; it invited Billy Topsail to supper and to bed--to the conclusion of his haste and to the relief of his mystification. But on the Labrador coast, as elsewhere, the longest way round is often the shortest way home. It was two miles across Skeleton Arm to Bread-and-Butter Tickle, on a direct line from Spear Head; it was four miles alongshore to Rattle Water Inlet, at the head of Skeleton Arm, and eight from Rattle Water to the lights of Bread-and-Butter. Billy Topsail reflected upon the discrepancy--the flurry of snow, too, and the swift approach and thick quality of the night; and having surveyed the ice, the fragments of which seemed still to be sufficiently in contact for crossing, he clambered down Spear Head to the shore of the sea. "Can I cross?" he wondered. After further reflection: "I don't know," he concluded. What mystified Billy Topsail, and drove and challenged him, as he had never been mystified and driven and challenged before, was a letter. Billy Topsail had come through the scrub timber and barrens beyond the first wild hills of Long-Age Inlet; and having came to the fork in the trail from Run-By-Guess to Poor Luck Barrens, where he was to camp for the night, he had been confronted by a new-cut stick, stoutly upright in the snow of the trail, and a flutter of red flannel rag, and a letter, snapped in the cleft head of the stick. That the solitary wilderness of his journey should be so concerned with the outport world of that coast as to produce a letter was amazing; and that the letter should present itself, in the nick of time, where, probably, no other traveller except the mail-man had passed since the first snow fell, and that a fluttering flannel rag should declare its whereabouts, as though confidently beseeching instant conveyance to its destination, was more stimulating to Billy Topsail's reflection than mere amazement could be. "Now," thought he, "what's this?" It was darkly, vitally mysterious. "'Tis the queerest thing ever I knowed!" The letter was a folded brown paper, sealed tight, doubtless with a paste of flour and water; and it was inscribed in an illiterate scrawl: BREDNBUTR--which Billy Topsail had the wit to decipher at once. Bread-and-Butter--nobody in particular at Bread-and-Butter; anybody at all at Bread-and-Butter. Need was signified; haste was besought--a letter in a cleft stick, left to do its own errand, served by its own resources, with a fluttering red flannel rag to arrest and entreat the traveller. Obviously it was intended for the mail-man. But the mail-man, old Bob Likely, with his long round--the mail-man, where was he? Billy Topsail did not open the letter; it was sealed--it was an inviolate mystery. Fingering it, scrutinizing it, in astonished curiosity, he reflected, however, upon the coincidence of its immediate discovery--the tracks were fresh in the snow and the brown paper was not yet weather-stained; and so remarkable did the coincidence appear that he was presently obsessed with the impulse to fulfill it. He pushed back his cap in bewilderment. "Jus' seems t' me," he reflected, gravely, "as if I was _meant_ t' come along an' find this letter." It was, truly, a moving coincidence. "I ought t' be shot," Billy Topsail determined, "if I doesn't get this here letter t' Bread-and-Butter the morrow night!" CHAPTER XXXIII _In Which the Letter is Opened, Billy and Archie are Confronted by a Cryptogram, and, Having Exercised Their Wits, Conclude that Somebody is in Desperate Trouble_ It was a woman's doing. The signs of a woman were like print--little tracks in the snow--a woman's little foot; and the snow was brushed by a skirt. What woman? A girl? It was a romantic suggestion. Billy Topsail was old enough to respond to the appeal of chivalry. A perception of romance overwhelmed him. He was thrilled. He blushed. Reflecting, thus, his thought tinged with the fancies of romance, his chivalry was fully awakened. No; he would not open the letter. It was a woman's letter. An impulse of delicacy forbade him to intrude. Wrong? Perhaps. Yet it was a fine impulse. He indulged it. He stowed the letter away. And at dawn, still in a chivalrous glow, he set out for Bread-and-Butter Tickle, resolved to deliver the letter that night; and he was caught by dusk on the ridge of Spear Head, with a flurry of wet snow in the wind and the night threatening thick. Having come to the edge of the moving ice, Billy Topsail looked across to the lights of Bread-and-Butter. "Might 's well," he decided. Between Spear Head and Bread-and-Butter Tickle, that night, Billy Topsail had a nip-and-tuck time of it. It was dark. Snow intermittently obscured his objective. The ice was fragmentary--driving and revolving in a slow wind. It was past midnight when he hauled down the heads of Bread-and-Butter and knocked Archie Armstrong out of bed. "Archie," said he, "I found a queer thing." Archie's sleepiness vanished. "Queer?" he demanded, eagerly. "Something queer? What is it?" "'Tis a letter." "A letter! Where is it?" Billy related the circumstances of the discovery of the letter. Then he said: "'Tis a sealed letter. I wants t' show it t' Doctor Luke." "He's not back." "Not back? That's queer!" "Oh, no," said Archie, easily; "the case has turned out to be more serious than he thought and has detained him. Where's the letter?" Billy gave the letter to Archie. "Bread-and-Butter," Archie read. "No other address. That _is_ queer. What shall we do about it?" "I don't know," Billy replied. "What do _you_ say?" "I say open it," said Archie, promptly. "Would you?" "There's nothing else to do. Open it, of course! It is addressed to Bread-and-Butter. Well, we're in Bread-and-Butter. Doctor Luke isn't here. If he were, he'd open it. There is something in this letter that somebody ought to know at once. I'm going to open it." "All right," Billy agreed. Archie opened the letter and stared and frowned and pursed his lips. "What does it say?" said Billy. "I can't make it out. Have a try yourself. Here--read it if you can." Billy was confronted by a cryptogram: _Dokr com quk pops goncras im ferd_ "What do you make of it?" said Archie. "I'm not much of a hand at readin'," Billy replied; "but I knows that first word there or I misses my guess." "What is it?" "D-O-K-R. That means what it sounds like. It means _Doctor_." Archie exclaimed. "That's it!" said he. "And the second word's plain. C-O-M--that's _Come_." "'_Doctor, come_,'" said Billy. "Right. Somebody's in trouble. Deep trouble, too. The third word is _Quick_. '_Doctor, come quick._' We're right so far. P-O-P-S. What's that?" "It means _Father_." "Right. '_Doctor, come quick. Pop's----_' What now? 'G-O-N-C-R-A-S.' What in the world is that? It must be a kind of sickness. Can't you guess it, Billy?" Billy puzzled. "G-O-N-C-R-A-S. I don't know what it means." "Anyhow," Archie put in, "the next word must be _I'm_. Don't you think so, Billy? No? Looks like that. Hum-m! Look here, Billy--what's F-E-R-D? What does it sound like?" "Sounds like _feared_." "Of course it does! That's right! '_I'm afeared._' Billy, this is a pretty serious matter. Why should the writer of this be afraid? Eh? You think a woman wrote the letter? Well, she's afraid of something. And that something must be the sort of sickness her father has. Shake your nut, Billy. What sort of sickness could she be afraid of?" "G-O-N-C-R-A-S. Gon-cras." "Gon-cras. Gon-cras. Gon-cras." "_Gone_," Billy suggested. "_Crazy!_" cried Archie. "Right!" said Billy. "We've got it!" Archie exulted. "'_Doctor, come quick. Pop's gone crazy. I'm afeared._' That's the message. What shall we do?" "We can't do anything now." "How's the ice on the Arm, Billy?" "Movin' out. A man couldn't cross now. I barely made it." "Will the Arm be free in the morning?" "No; it will not. The Arm will be fit for neither foot nor punt in the morning. T' get t' Poor Luck Barrens a man would have t' skirt the Arm t' Rattle Water an' cross the stream." "We'll have to do something, Billy. We can't leave that poor girl alone with a madman." "We'll tell Doctor Luke----" "Yes; but what if Doctor Luke isn't back in the morning?" "We'll go ourselves." Archie started. "Go?" he inquired, blankly. "Go _where_? We don't know where this letter came from. It isn't signed." "Ah, well," said Billy, "somebody in Bread-and-Butter will know. Let's turn in, Archie. If we're t' take the trail the morrow, we must have rest." And they turned in. CHAPTER XXXIV _In Which Archie and Billy Resolve Upon a Deed of Their Own Doing, and are Challenged by Ha-Ha Shallow of Rattle Water_ Neither boy slept very much. In Samuel Jolly's spare bed (it was called a spare bed)--where they had tumbled in together--they did more talking than sleeping. And that could not be helped. It was a situation that appealed to the imagination of two chivalrous boys--a woman all alone on Poor Luck Barrens with a madman. When morning came they were up with the first peep of the light; and they were in a nervous condition of such a sort that neither would hesitate over a reckless chance if it should confront them in an attempt to help the writer of the letter of the cleft stick. "Who is she?" Archie demanded of Samuel Jolly. "Jinny Tulk, sir--Trapper George's daughter." "How does she come to be at Poor Luck Barrens?" "Trapper George has a trappin' tilt there, sir. They're both from this harbour. They goes trappin' on Poor Luck Barrens in the winter. Jinny keeps house for her pop." "All alone?" "Ay, sir; there's nobody livin' near." Archie turned to Billy. "Look here, Billy," said he, anxiously, "we've _got_ to go. I can't bear it here--with that poor girl all alone----" "Doctor Luke----" "We can't wait for Doctor Luke." "That's jus' what I was goin' t' say," said Billy. "We'll leave word for Doctor Luke that we've gone. He can follow. An' when we gets there, we can keep Trapper George quiet until Doctor Luke comes." "When shall we start?" "Now!" * * * * * Outbound from Bread-and-Butter, fortified with instructions, Billy Topsail and Archie Armstrong made along the shore of Skeleton Arm, by the long trail, and were halted before noon at Rattle Water. The ice had gone out of Rattle Water. At the ford the stream was deep, swift, bitter cold--manifestly impassable; and above, beyond Serpent Bend, the water of Ha-ha Shallow, which was the alternative crossing, was in a turmoil, swelling and foaming over the boulders in its wide, shallow bed. Except where the current eddied, black, flecked with froth, Ha-ha Shallow was not deep. A man might cross--submerged somewhat above the knees, no more; but in the clinging grip and tug of the current his footing would be delicately precarious, and the issue of a misstep, a stumble, a lost balance, would be a desperate chance, with the wager heavily on grim Death. It was perilous water--the noisy, sucking white rush of it, frothing over the boulders, and running, icy cold, in choppy, crested waves, where the channel was a bed of stones and gravel. Yet the path to the tilt at Poor Luck Barrens lay across and beyond Ha-ha Shallow of Rattle Water. Billy Topsail and Archie Armstrong surveyed the rapids in a dubious silence. "Hum!" Archie coughed. Billy Topsail chuckled. "You've no fancy for the passage?" he inquired. "I have not. Have you?" "I don't hanker for it, Archie. No, sir--not me!" "Can it be done?" "No, b'y." "No; it can't be done," Archie declared. "You're right." They stared at the tumultuous stream. "Come along," said Archie, with decision, his teeth set; "we'll try that ice below again." Below Ha-ha Shallow, where the stream dropped into a deep, long pool, lying between low cliffs, fringed with the spruce of that stunted wilderness, Rattle Water was bridged with ice. There had been flood water in the early spring break-up--a rush of broken ice, a jam in Black Pool, held by the rocks of its narrow exit; and the ice had been caught and sealed by the frosts of a swift spell of bitter weather. The subsidence of Rattle Water, when the ice below Black Pool ran off with the current into the open reaches of Skeleton Arm, had left the jam suspended. It was a bridge from shore to shore, lifted a little from the water; but in the sunshine and thaw and warm rain of the subsequent interval it had gone rotten. Its heavy collapse was imminent. And of this Billy Topsail and Archie had made sure on the way up-stream from the impassable ford to the impassable white water of Ha-ha Shallow. The ice-bridge could not be crossed. It awaited the last straw--a rain, a squall of wind, another day of sunshine and melting weather. Billy had ventured, on pussy-feet, and had withdrawn, threatened by a crack, his hair on end. A second trial of the bridge had precisely the same result. Archie cast a stone. It plumped through. "Soft 's cheese," said Billy. Another stone was cast. "Hear that, Billy?" "Clean through, Archie." "Yes; clean through. It's all rotten. We can't cross. Give me a hand. I'll try it." With a hand from Billy Topsail, Archie let himself slip over the edge of the cliff to an anxious footing on the ice. He waited--expectant. "Cautious, Archie!" Billy warned. Nothing happened. "Cautious!" Billy repeated. "You'll drop through, b'y!" Archie took one step--and dropped, crashing, with a section of the bridge, which momentarily floated his weight. Billy caught his hand, as the ice disintegrated under his feet, and dragged him ashore. "It can't be done," said Archie. "No, b'y; it can't." "We'll try Ha-ha Shallow again. We've _got_ to get across." A moment, however, Archie paused. A startling possibility possessed his imagination. It was nothing remote, nothing vague; it was real, concrete, imminent. Standing on the brink of the rock at the point where the ice-bridge began, he contemplated the chances of Rattle Water. With a crossing of Ha-ha Shallow immediately in prospect, there was something for affrighted reflection in the current below. And the suggestion was vivid and ugly. There the water was flowing black, spread with creamy puffs of foam; and it ran swift and deep, in strong, straight lines, as it approached the Black Pool ice and vanished beneath. There was a space between the ice and the fallen current--not much: two feet, perhaps; but it occurred to Archie, with sudden, shocking force, that two feet were too much. And the deep, oily, adherent flow of the current, and the space between the ice and the water, and the cavernous shadow beneath the ice, and the gurgle and lapping of the pool, made the flesh of his back uneasy. "A nasty fix," he observed. "What's that, Archie?" "If a man lost his feet in the current." "He'd come down like a chip." "He would. And he'd slip under the ice. Watch these puffs of foam. What would happen to a man under there, Billy?" "He'd drown in the pool. He couldn't get out." "Right, Billy," Archie agreed, shortly. "He'd drown in the pool. He couldn't get out. The current would hold him in there. Come along." "Shall we try it, Archie?" "We'll look it over." "An' if we think----" "Then we'll do it!" Billy laughed. "Archie," said he, "I--I--I _likes_ you!" "Shucks!" said Archie. Archie walked the length of Ha-ha Shallow, from the swift water above Black Pool to Loon Lake, and returned, still searching the rapid for a good crossing, to a point near the Black Pool ice, where a choppy ripple promised a shallow, gravelled bottom. The stream was wide, shelving slowly from the shore--it was prattling water; but there was a fearsomely brief leeway of distance between the stretch of choppy ripple and the deep rush of the current as it swept into the shadows under the Black Pool ice. Directly below the ripple, Rattle Water narrowed and deepened; nearing Black Pool, the banks were steep, and above the rising gorge, which the banks formed, and running the length of it, the current swelled over a scattering of slimy boulders and swirled around them. It was a perilous place to be caught. In the gravel-bottomed ripple, the water was too swift, too deep, for an overbalanced boy to regain his feet; and in the foaming, hurrying, deeper water below, the rough drift to Black Pool was inevitable: for the boulders were water-worn and round, and the surface was as slippery as grease with slime. Having stared long enough at the alluring stretch of choppy ripple, Archie Armstrong came to a conclusion. CHAPTER XXXV _In Which Billy Topsail Takes His Life in His Hands and Ha-Ha Shallow Lays Hold of It With the Object of Snatching It Away_ "Well," said Archie, "I'll try it." "You won't!" said Billy. "I will!" "You won't!" Archie looked Billy in the eye. "Why not?" he inquired. "I'm goin' t' try it myself." "You're not!" "I am!" Both boys burst into a laugh. It was an amiable thing to do. And there could have been no better preparation for the work in hand. "Look here, Billy----" Archie began. "No," Billy insisted; "it won't do. You haves your way always, Archie. An' now I'm goin' t' have my turn at it. I'll try it first. An' if I gets across you can follow." "You might stumble." "I know that." "Look here, Billy----" "No, no, b'y! I'm goin' first. I won't make a fool o' myself. We got t' get across this stream if we can. An' we've got t' get on t' Poor Luck Barrens. But I won't make a fool o' myself, Archie. I promise you that. I'll go jus' as far as I can. I'll go with care--jus' as far as I can. An' if 'tis no use tryin' any more, I'll come back. That's a promise. I'll come back. An' then----" "Ay, Billy?" "I'll try somewhere else." "Billy," said Archie, "I--I--I _likes_ you!" "Stop your jawin'!" said Billy. Then Archie said: "If you fall in the current I'll pull you out, Billy. You trust _me_." Billy spoke gravely: "You'll do no such thing." "What!" cried Archie. "Not try to save----" "No." "Why, Billy," Archie protested, "you're just plain foolish to ask me not to----" "No," said Billy, again; "it isn't foolish. I won't have it." Archie said nothing. "Now," said Billy, "I'll try my hand at it." The gravity and untoward chances of the attempt were not ignored. Both boys were aware of them. A simple thing to splash into the first shallow inches of Rattle Water and there deliberate an advance--true enough; but Billy Topsail was in earnest about crossing. He would venture far and perilously before he turned back--venture to the brink of safety, and tentatively, definitely into the dragging grip of the deeper current beyond. A boy who proposes to go as far as he can is in the way of overreaching himself. Beyond his utmost, whatever his undertaking, lies a mocking, entreating temptation to his courage--an inch or two more. "Billy!" said Archie. "Ay?" "Do you think that if you fall in the current I'll stand by and----" "I hopes you will, Archie, If I loses my feet, I goes down-stream. That's plain. No man could catch his feet in that water. An' if I goes all the way down-stream, I goes clean under Black Pool ice. An' if I goes under Black Pool ice, I can't get out, because the current will hold me there. That's plain, too. You couldn't pull me out o' the stream. If you could do that, I could get out alone. You'd jus' go down with me. So you leave me go." "Billy, I----" "Oh, I isn't goin' t' fall anyhow, Archie. An' if I does, I'll make a fight. If I can grab anything on the way down; an' if I can hang in the stream, we'll talk it over again." "Billy----" "That's all, Archie." With that Billy Topsail, the pack of food on his back (since if he won the other bank he must have sustenance for the chances of his journey to Poor Luck Barrens), waded into the water. * * * * * Presently Billy Topsail was ankle deep in the stream. The water foamed to his calves. Suspense aggravated him. He splashed on--impatient to come to the crisis that challenged him. It was a stony bed--loose, round, slippery stones; and a stone turned--and Billy Topsail tottered in the deeper suck of the current. It was nothing to regain his balance in that shallow. And he pushed on. But by and by--time being relative to suspense, it seemed a long, long time to Archie Armstrong, waiting on the snowy bank--by and by Billy Topsail was knee deep and anxiously engaged; and mid-stream, where the ripple was dancing down in white-capped, choppy waves, was still proportionately far distant. Billy paused, then, to settle his feet. The footing was treacherous; the water was white to his thighs--the swift, dizzy, noisy passage was confusing. For a new advance he halted to make good his grip of the bottom and to brace and balance himself against the insistent push of the current. Archie shouted: "You're doing fine, Billy!" In the bawling rush of the stream it was hard to hear Archie. Still, Billy heard. And he nodded--but did not dare to turn. "Go slow," Archie called, "and you'll make it!" Billy thought so too. He was doing well--it seemed a reasonable expectation. And he ventured his right foot forward and established it. It was slow, cautious work, thrusting through that advance, feeling over the bottom and finding a fixed foundation; and dragging the left foot forward, in resistance to the current, was as slow and as difficult. A second step, accomplished with effort; a third, achieved at greater risk; a fourth, with the hazard still more delicate--and Billy Topsail paused again. It was deeper. The broken waves washed his thighs; the heavy body of the water was above his knees; he was wet to the waist with spray; and in the deeper water, by the law of displacement, he had lost weight. The water tended to lift him: the impulse was up to the surface--the pressure down-stream. In this respect the current was like a wrestler who lifts his opponent off his feet before he flings him down. And in the meantime the current tightened its hold. CHAPTER XXXVI _In Which Ha-Ha Shallow is Foiled, Archie Armstrong Displays Swift Cunning, of Which He is Well Aware, and Billy Topsail, Much to His Surprise, and not Greatly to His Distaste, is Kissed by a Lady of Poor Luck Barrens_ Another advance of the right foot; an increased depth of two inches; a sudden, upward thrust of the water; a rolling stone: Billy Topsail tottered--struggled for balance, like a man on a tight-rope, and caught and held it; but in the wrenching effort his pack had shifted and disturbed his natural poise. He faced up-stream, feet spread, body bent, arms extended; and in this awkward posture, at a disadvantage, he swayed dangerously, incommoded by the pack, his legs quivering in the current. Deliberately, then, Billy contorted himself until the pack slipped from his shoulder to its place on his back; and upright again, established once more, he dragged his left foot by inches against the current, set it above the right, forced it into place, and turned to face the opposite shore. He was fairly mid-stream, now. Another confident, successful step--a moment more of cool behaviour and intelligent procedure--and the grip of the current would begin to fail. All this while the tumbling water had worked its inevitable effect. It was noisy; it ran swift; it troubled Billy Topsail--the speed and clatter of it. And he was now confused and dizzy. Now, too, he was conscious of the roar of the stream below. More clamorously, more vividly, it asserted itself--reiterated and magnified its suggestion of disaster. It could not be ignored. Billy Topsail abstracted his attention. It returned to the menace. There it was--the roar of the stream below: the deep, narrow rush of it, swelling over the boulders, curling around them, plunging irresistibly towards the Black Pool ice, and vanishing into the stifling gloom beneath, in a swift, black, silent stream, flecked with creamy puffs of foam. A misstep, a false stone, a lost balance--a man would then drift fast and helpless, bruised by the bottom, flung against the boulders and stunned, smothered by the water, cast into Black Pool and left to sink in still water. It was the logical incident of failure. Aware of the cumulative effect of fear, conscious of the first creeping paralysis of it, Billy Topsail instantly determined upon the next step. It must be taken--it must be taken at once. Already the weakness and confusion of terror was a crippling factor to be dealt with. He must act--venture. He moved in haste; there was a misstep, an incautious faith in the foothold, a blind chance taken--and the current caught him, lifted him, tugged at him, and he lost his feet, flung his arms in the air, toppled over, drifted off with the current, submerged, and was swept like driftwood into the deep rush below. He rose, gasped, sank--came breathless to the surface; and self-possessed again, and fighting for life against hope, instinctively, but yet with determined intelligence, grasping breath when he could and desperately seeking handhold, foothold--fighting thus he was dragged a bruising course through the narrowing channel towards Black Pool and at last momentarily arrested his drift with a failing grip of a boulder. Archie Armstrong ran down-stream. No expedient was in his horrified mind. The impulse was to plunge in and rescue Billy if he could. That was all. But the current was swifter than he; he was outstripped--stumbling along the rocky, icy shore. When he came abreast of Billy, who was still clinging to the rock in mid-stream, he did plunge in; but he came at once to a full stop, not gone a fathom into the current, and stood staring. Billy Topsail could not catch the bottom in the lee of the rock. Even there the current was too strong, the depth of water too great, the lee too narrow, the rock too small for a wide, sufficient backwater. Black Pool was within twenty fathoms. Billy's clutch was breaking. In a moment he would be torn away. Yet there was a moment--a minute or more of opportunity. And having assured himself of this grace, Archie Armstrong splashed ashore, without a word or a sign, scaled the bank and ran down-stream to the bridge of Black Pool ice. The bridge was rotten. It was rotten from bank to bank. It would not bear the weight of a man. Archie Armstrong knew it. Its fall was imminent. It awaited the last straw--a dash of rain, a squall of wind. The ice was thick; there was a foot of it. And the bridge was heavy; its attachment to the low cliffs was slight; in a day--next day, perhaps--it would fall of its own weight, lie inert in the pool, drift slowly away to the open reaches of Skeleton Arm and drive to sea. Archie Armstrong, hanging by his hands from the edge of the low cliff, broke a great fragment from the rock and thus reduced the stability of the whole; and hanging from the edge of the same low cliff, a few fathoms below, grasping the roots of the spruce, he broke a second fragment loose with his weight--a third and a fourth. And the structure collapsed. It fell in thick, spacious fragments on the quiet water of the pool, buoyant and dry, and covered the face of the water, held imprisoned by the rocks of the narrow exit. When Billy Topsail came drifting down, Archie Armstrong, waiting on the ice, helped him out and ashore. "Better build a fire, Archie," said Billy, presently. "I'm doing that very thing, Billy." "Thanks, Archie." "Cold, b'y?" "I'll take no harm from the wettin'." "Harm! A hardy kid like you! I laugh!" Billy grinned. "When I'm rested," said he, "I'll wring out my clothes. By the time we've had a snack o' soggy grub I'll be dry. An' then we'll go on." "On it is!" Billy looked up. "Archie," said he, "that was marvellous--clever!" "Clever?" inquired Archie. "What was clever?" And Archie Armstrong grinned. He knew well enough what was clever. * * * * * Nobody was mad at Poor Luck Barrens. But somebody was in a raving delirium of fever. And that was big George Tulk--Trapper George of Bread-and-Butter Tickle. It was a tight little tilt on the edge of the timber--winter quarters: a log shanty, with a turf roof, deep in a drift of snow, to which a rising cloud of smoke attracted the attention of Archie and Billy Topsail. No; what was alarming at Poor Luck Barrens was not a frenzy of insanity--it was the delirium of pneumonia. Jinny Tulk was glad enough to receive the help of Billy Topsail and Archie Armstrong. By and by Billy asked: "Was it you put the letter in the cleft stick?" Jinny smiled. "Ay," said she. "I found it," said Billy. With that Jinny Tulk kissed Billy Topsail before he could stop her. She was old enough for that; and she was so wholesome and pretty that when Billy had reflected upon the incident he determined that he would not try to stop her should she attempt it again. "How'd you like it?" Archie teased him, privately, when Doctor Luke had arrived and Trapper George was resting. Billy blushed. "'Twasn't so awful," was his stout reply. Archie burst out laughing. Billy blushed again. Then he, too, laughed. "I 'low I got my reward," said he. By that time Trapper George was doing well. Doctor Luke was watchfully at work. And Doctor Luke and Jinny Tulk, with the help of a spell of frosty weather and an abundance of healing fresh air, and assisted by the determined constitution of Trapper George Tulk himself, who had formed the fixed habit of surviving adverse conditions--Doctor Luke and Jinny Tulk worked an improvement, which passed presently into a state of convalescence and ultimately became a cure. It was no easy matter. Trapper George Tulk put one foot over the border--took a long look into the final shadows. But Doctor Luke was a good fighter. And he happened to win. CHAPTER XXXVII _In Which Archie Armstrong Rejoins the "Rough and Tumble," With Billy Topsail for Shipmate, and They Seem Likely to be Left on the Floe, While Toby Farr, With the Gale Blowing Cold as Death and Dark Falling, Promises to Make a Song About the Ghosts of Dead Men, but is Entreated Not to Do So_ Archie Armstrong and Billy Topsail did not wait with Doctor Luke at Poor Luck Barrens until the cure of Trapper George was accomplished. In view of Archie's wish to return to St. John's with Cap'n Saul aboard the _Rough and Tumble_, it was arranged that the boys should go back to Bread-and-Butter Tickle alone, and thence down the coast to Our Harbour, as best they could manage, carrying news of Doctor Luke's detention and the cause of it. They were sorry to say good-bye to Doctor Luke; and Doctor Luke was sorry to say good-bye to them. When the time came, Billy Topsail, who had come to love and respect the man for his warm qualities and the work that he did, sought for words to express his feeling and his thanks; but being a simple, robust fellow, not accustomed to the frank expression of feeling, not used to conventional forms, he could manage but poorly. Archie Armstrong would have been ready, fluent, and sincere in the same situation. But Billy Topsail could only stutter and flush and come to an awkward full stop. What Billy wanted to say was clear enough in his own mind. He had been with Doctor Luke a good deal. They had been in tight places together. But it was not that. "Tight places" are only relative, after all; what is an adventure in one quarter of the world may be a mild incident in another. And that Billy Topsail and Doctor Luke had been in danger together was not particularly impressive: Billy Topsail was used to danger--to peril of that sort--and had grown to regard it as among the commonplaces of life. That aspect of his experience with Doctor Luke to which Billy Topsail had responded was the habit of service--the instant, willing, efficient answer to the call of helpless need. Indeed, Doctor Luke appeared to Billy Topsail to be a very great man--the greatest man, in his personality and life, Billy Topsail had ever known, not excepting Sir Archibald Armstrong. And Billy Topsail had come definitely to the conclusion that what he wanted to do with his life was precisely what Doctor Luke was doing with his. It was this that he wanted to tell Doctor Luke; and it was this that he failed to tell him. "Good-bye, sir," he said. "Good-bye, Billy." "Th-th-thanks, sir." "Thanks?" cried Doctor Luke. "For what, Billy? _I'm_ the debtor." "Th-th-thanks, sir." "Thank _you_, Billy, boy, for your most excellent company." And so Billy and Archie left Doctor Luke at Poor Luck Barrens--hard at work and happy in his work. They made Bread-and-Butter Tickle; they travelled down the coast without incident; they shook hands with Teddy Brisk, who was still telling his adventures on the ice-floe, his leg as sound as any leg; and they came safe to Our Harbour, where they waited until Cap'n Saul put in with the _Rough and Tumble_. And then Archie would hear of nothing but Billy's company to St. John's--Billy _must_ go to St. John's, and he _would_ go to St. John's on the _Rough and Tumble_, ecod, or Archie would put him in irons and carry him there! Billy had no sound objection. From St. John's he could travel easily to his home at Ruddy Cove and arrive there long before the Labrador mail-boat would be north on her first voyage. And so the boys boarded the _Rough and Tumble_ together, fell in with Bill o' Burnt Bay, Jonathan Farr and little Toby once more, and put to sea. The _Rough and Tumble_ was not loaded; she had more seals to kill and stow away, and Cap'n Saul was resolved to "put back loaded"--a desirable end towards which his active crew, in conjunction with his own sealing wisdom, was fast approaching. "I'll load in a week!" he boasted. And then---- * * * * * Sunday, then--and that a brooding day. It was a dull, dragging time. Not a gaff was out, not a gun; not a man put foot on the floe. The _Rough and Tumble_ killed no seals. It was not the custom. All that day she lay made fast to the ice, fretting for midnight. Cap'n Saul kept to his cabin. Time and quiet weather went wasting away. Quiet weather--quiet enough that day: a draught of westerly wind blowing, the sky overcast and blank, and a flurry of snow in the afternoon, which failed, before dusk, a black, still midnight drawing on. On the first stroke of the midnight bell, for which he had waited since the dawn of that dull day, Cap'n Saul popped out of the cabin, like a jack-in-the-box, and stamped the bridge, growling and bawling his orders, in a week-day temper, until he had dropped the First Watch, and was under way through the floe, a matter of twenty miles, to land the Second Watch and the Third--feeling a way through the lanes. Before dawn Bill o' Burnt Bay's watch, with Archie and Billy Topsail, was on the ice. Cap'n Saul put back to stand by the First Watch. Black dark yet. It was bleak on the floe! They shivered in the frost and dark. And the light lagged, as the light will, when it is waited for. It was a sad dawn. A slow glower and lift of thin, gray light: no warmth of colour in the east--no rosy flush and glow. When day broke, at last, the crew made into the herds, mad to be warm, and began to kill. Still, it was done without heart. There was less blithe slaughter, that day, than unseemly brooding and weather-gazing. It was a queer thing, too. There was no alarm of foul weather that any man could see. A drear, gray day it was, day drawing near noon. Archie and Billy always remembered that. Yet there was no frost to touch a man's heart, no need to cower and whine in the wind, no snow to make a man afraid. A scowl in the northeast--a low, drab, sulky sky, mottled with blue-black and smoky white. They recalled it afterwards. But that was all. And Bill o' Burnt Bay fancied, then, with the lives of his crew in mind, that the weather quarter was doubtless in a temper, but no worse, and was no more than half-minded to kick up a little pother of trouble before day ran over the west. And Bill was at ease about that. "She'll bide as she is," he thought, "'til Cap'n Saul gets back." Bill o' Burnt Bay was wrong. It came on to blow. The wind jumped to the northwest with a nasty notion of misbehaviour. It was all in a moment. A gust of wind, cold as death, went swirling past. They chilled to the bones in it. And then a bitter blast of weather came sweeping down. The floe began to pack and drive. Bill o' Burnt Bay gathered and numbered his watch. And then they waited for the ship. No sign. And the day turned thick. Dusk fell before its time. It was not yet midway of the afternoon. And the wind began to buffet and bite. It began to snow, too. And it was a frosty cloud of snow. It blinded--it stifled. It was flung out of the black northwest like flour from a shaken sack. The men were afraid. They knew that weather. It was a blizzard. There was a night of mortal peril in it. There might be a night and a day--a day and two nights. And they knew what would happen to them if Cap'n Saul failed to find them before the pack nipped him and the night shut down. It had happened before to lost crews. It would happen again. Men gone stark mad in the wind--the floe strewn with drifted corpses. They had heard tales. And now they had visions. Dead men going into port--ship's flag at half-mast, and dead men going into port, frozen stiff and blue, and piled forward like cord-wood. "I'll make a song about this," said Toby Farr. "A song!" Archie Armstrong exclaimed. "'Tis about the gray wraiths o' dead men that squirm in the night." "I'd not do it!" Jonathan protested. "They drift like snow in the black wind," said Toby. "Ah, no!" said Jonathan. "I'd make no songs the night about dead men an' wraiths." "Ay, but I'm well started----" "No, lad!" "I've a bit about cold fingers an' the damp touch----" "I'd not brood upon that." "An it please you, sir----" "No." "Ah, well," Toby agreed, "I'll wait 'til I'm cozy an' warm aboard ship." "That's better," said Archie. Billy Topsail shuddered. Toby's imagination--ghosts and dead men--had frightened him. "It is!" he declared. CHAPTER XXXVIII _In Which the Wind Blows a Tempest, Our Heroes are Lost on the Floe, Jonathan Farr is Encased in Snow and Frozen Spindrift, Toby Strangely Disappears, and an Heroic Fight for Life is Begun, Wrapped in Bitter Dark_ It is well known on this coast, from Cape Race to Norman and the Labrador harbours, what happened to Cap'n Saul that night. It was vast, flat, heavy ice, thick labour for the ship, at best--square miles of pans and fields. In the push of the northwest gale, blowing down, all at once, with vigour and fury, from a new quarter, the big pans shifted and revolved. The movement was like that of a waltz--slow dancers, revolving in a waltz. And then the floe closed. And what was a clear course in the morning was packed ice before dusk. When the day began to foul, Cap'n Saul snatched up the First Watch, where he was standing by, and came driving down after Bill o' Burnt Bay's watch. It was too late. The ice caught him. And there was no shaking free. The men on the floe glimpsed the ship--the bulk of the ship and a cloud of smoke; but Cap'n Saul caught no glimpse of them--a huddle of poor men wrapped in snow and dusk. A blast of the gale canted the _Rough and Tumble_ until her bare yards touched the floe and Cap'n Saul had a hard time to save her alive from the gale. And that was the measure of the wind. It blew a tempest. Rescue? No rescue. The men knew that. A rescue would walk blind--stray and blow away like leaves. They must wait for clear weather and dawn. There had been Newfoundlanders in the same hard case before. The men knew what to do. "Keep movin'!" "No sleep!" "Stick t'gether!" "Nobody lie down!" "Fetch me a buffet, some o' you men, an I gets sleepy." "I gives any man leave t' beat me." "Where's Tom Land?" "Here I is!" "I say, Tom--Long George gives any man leave t' beat un black an' blue!" And a laugh at that. "Mind the blow-holes!" "An a man gets wet, he'll freeze solid." "No sleep!" "Keep movin'!" They kept moving to keep warm. And even they larked. Tag, whilst they could see to chase--and a sad leap-frog. And they wrestled and scuffled until it was black dark and the heart went out of them all. And then they wandered, with no lee to shelter them--a hundred and seventy-three men, stamping and stumbling in the wind, clinging to life, hour after hour, and waiting for the dawn, bitten by frost and near stifled by snow. It was gnawing cold. Twelve below--it was afterwards said. And that's bitter weather. It bit through to the bones and heart. And what they wore to withstand it--no great-coats, to hamper the kill, but only jackets and caps and mitts. The floe was flat and bare to the gale. Nobody knows the pitch of the wind. It was a full tempest. That much is known. And it stung and cut and strove to wrest them from their feet and whisk them away. And there they were--in the grip of the wind, stripped to the strength they had, like lost beasts, and helpless to fend any more. Billy Topsail saw young Simeon Tutt, of Whoopin' Harbour, trip and stagger and fall at his feet; and before Billy could lay hands on him to save him, the wind blew him away, like a leaf, and he was never seen again, but driven into a lake of water in the dark, it was thought, and there perished. [Illustration: LIKE LOST BEASTS] By and by Archie and Billy stumbled on old Jonathan Farr of Jolly Harbour. It was long past midnight then. And they saw no lad with him. Where was Toby? "That you, Jonathan?" said Archie. "'Tis I, Archie." "You living yet?" "No choice. I got t' live." "Where's Toby?" said Billy. "The lad's----" It was hard to hear. The old man's words jumped away with the wind. And still the boys saw no lad. "What say?" said Billy. "I don't see Toby. Where is he?" "In my lee," Jonathan replied. "He's restin'." There stood old Jonathan Farr, in the writhing gloom of that night, stiff and still and patient as the dead, with his back to the gale, plastered with snow and frozen spindrift, his shoulders humped and his head drawn in like a turtle. It was bitter dark--yet not as black as the grave. It is never that on the floe. And the wind streamed past, keen as a blade with frost, thick with crisp snow, and clammy with the spray it caught up from the open lakes and flung off in sheets and mist. Dead bodies lying roundabout then--the boys had stumbled over the dead as they walked. Young men, sprawled stiff, hard as ice to the bones, lying stark in the drifts--Big Sam Tiller, of Thank-the-Lord, he that whipped Paddy of Linger Tickle, in White Bay, when the fleet was trapped by the floe in the Year of the Small Haul, was dead by that time; and Archie had found little Dickie Ring, of Far-Away Cove, dead in his elder brother's dead arms--they were pried apart with a crowbar when the time came. Yet there stood old Jonathan Farr, cased in snow and ice, with the life warm in him--making a lee for little Toby. And Toby was snuggled up to his grandfather, his face close--sheltered and rested from the gale, as much as might be. Billy Topsail bent down. "How does you?" says he. Toby put his head out from its snug harbour, and spoke, in a passion, as though Billy had wronged him, and then ducked back from the smother of wind and snow. "My gran'pa takes care o' _me_!" he flashed. "Will you save him, Jonathan?" Archie asked. "I've a shot in the locker, Archie," Jonathan replied. "I'll save un alive." Out flashed Toby's head; and he tugged at his grandfather--and bawled up. "Is I doin' well?" he wanted to know. "You is!" "Is I doin' as well as my father done at my age?" "You is! Is you rested?" "Ay, sir." "Full steam ahead!" said Jonathan. With that they bore away--playing a game. And Jonathan was the skipper and Toby was the wheelman and engine. "Port!" bawled Jonathan. And "Starboard your helm!" And Billy and Archie lost sight of them in the dark. CHAPTER XXXIX _In Which One Hundred and Seventy-Three Men of the "Rough and Tumble" are Plunged in the Gravest Peril of the Coast, Wandering Like Lost Beasts, and Some Drop Dead, and Some are Drowned, and Some Kill Themselves to be Done With the Torture They Can Bear No Longer_ They kept close, a hundred and seventy-three living men, to start with, and then God knew how many!--kept close for comfort and safety; and they walked warily, drunk and stupid in the wind, in dread of lakes and blow-holes and fissures of water, and in living fear of crusts of snow, wind-cast over pitfalls. And they died fast in the dark. In Archie Armstrong's tortured mind childish visions of hell were revived--the swish and sad complaint of doomed souls, winging round and round and round in a frozen dark. It was like that, he thought. Dawn delayed. It was night forever; and the dark was peopled--the throng stirred, and was not visible; and from the black wraiths of men, moving roundabout, never still, all driven round and round by the torture of the night, came cries of pain--sobbing and wailing, rage and prayer, and screams for help, for God's sake. Many of the men wore out before dawn and were fordone: hands frozen, feet frozen, lips and throat frozen--heart frozen. And many a man dropped in his tracks, limp and spiritless as rags, and lay still, every man in his own drift of snow; and his soul sped away as though glad to be gone. Brothers, some, and fathers and sons--the one beating the other with frozen hands, and calling to him to rouse and stand up lest he die. Dawn came. It was just a slow, dirty dusk. And day was no better than dusk. Still they walked blind and tortured in a frosty smother and driving whirlwind of snow. Hands frozen, feet frozen--and the cold creeping in upon the heart! They were numb and worn and sleepy. And there was no rest for them. To pause was to come into living peril--to rest was to sleep; and to sleep was death. Once more, then, when day was full broken, Archie and Billy came on Jonathan Farr and Toby. The old man was sheathed in snow and frozen spindrift. A hairy old codger he was--icicles of his own frozen breath clinging to his long white beard and icicles hanging from his bushy brows. And he was beating Toby without mercy: for the lad would fall down, worn out, and whimper and squirm; and the old man would jerk and cuff him to his feet, and drive him on with cuffs from behind, stumbling and whimpering and bawling. It was a sad task that he had, done in pity--thus to cuff the little lad awake and keep him moving; and Billy Topsail fancied that it was waste pain. It seemed to him that the lad must die in the gale, soon or late--no doubt about that, with stout men yielding to death roundabout. Billy thought that it would be better to let him sleep and die and suffer no more. "I'm s' sleepy!" Toby complained to his grandfather. "Leave me sleep!" "Get up!" "Ah, jus' a minute, gran'pa!" "Get up!" "You c'n wake me 's easy----" "Get up!" "Ye hurt me, gran'pa!" "Drive on!" "You leave me alone!" Toby bawled, angrily. "Ye hurt!" "Drive on!" By this time the men had been more than twenty-four hours on the ice. And they had no food. Hungry? No. They were cold. No man famished in that gale. And they had yet a night of that gale to win through, though they knew nothing about that at the time. They began to stray wide. And they began to go blind. And some men fell in the water and were drowned. Billy Topsail saw John Temple, of Heart's Island, drop through a crust of snow and go down for good and all; and he saw Tom Crutch, of Seldom-Come-By, stumble over the edge of a pan, and heard him screech for help. They hauled him out--two men of his own harbour; and he was frozen solid in half an hour. Some men chose an end of torture and leaped into the water and killed themselves. And as day drew on, others began to go mad. It was horrible--like a madhouse. They babbled, stark mad--the harbours they came from, and their mothers, their wives, their babies. And they had visions, and were deluded--some saw a blaze of fire and set out to find the glow, and called to the others, as they went off, to come and be warm. And one saw the ship's lights, as in clear, dark weather, and staggered away, bawling that he was coming, with a troop of poor madmen in his wake. This is the naked truth about that gale. CHAPTER XL _In Which Toby Farr Falls in the Water, and, Being Soaked to the Skin, Will Freeze Solid in Half an Hour, in the Frosty Dusk of the Approaching Night, Unless a Shift of Dry Clothes is Found, a Necessity Which Sends Jonathan Farr and Billy Topsail Hunting for Dead Men_ Through all this black confusion and bitter hardship Billy Topsail and Archie Armstrong wandered with the others of the men of the _Rough and Tumble_. They suffered, despaired, hoped, despaired again--but fought desperately for their lives as partners. When Archie wanted to give way to his overwhelming desire for sleep, Billy cuffed and beat him into wakefulness and renewed courage; and when Billy, worn out and numb with cold, entertained the despair that assaulted him, Archie gathered his faculties and encouraged him. Had either been alone on the floe, it is probable that he would have perished; but both together, devoted to each other, resolved to help each other, each watchful of the other, each inspired by the other's need--fighting thus as partners in peril, they were as well off, in point of vitality and determination, as any man on the floe. Afraid? Yes, they were afraid--that is to say, each perceived the peril he was in, knew that his life hung in the balance, and wished with all his might to live; but neither boy whimpered in a cowardly way. Coming on dusk of that day, the boys fell in for the last time with old Jonathan Farr. Jonathan had Toby by the scruff of the neck and was just setting him on his feet by a broken crust of snow. Toby was wide awake then. And he was dripping wet to the waist--near to the armpits. And he was frightened. "I falled in," said he. "I--I stumbled." In that wind and frost it was death. The lad was doomed. And it was but a matter of minutes. "Is you--is you wet through, Toby?" Jonathan asked, blankly. "I is, sir." Jonathan drew off a mitt and felt of the lad's clothes from his calves to his waist. "Wet through!" said he. "Oh, dear me!" "I'm soppin' t' the skin." "Jus' drippin' wet!" "I'm near froze," Toby complained. And he chilled. And his teeth clicked. "I wisht I had a shift o' clothes," said he. "I wisht you had!" said Jonathan. Billy Topsail got to windward of Jonathan to speak his mind in the old man's ear. It seemed to Billy that Toby's case was hopeless. The lad would freeze. There was no help for it. And the sooner his suffering was over--the better. "Let un die," Billy pleaded. Jonathan shook his head and flashed at Billy. Yet Billy had spoken kindness and plain wisdom. But Jonathan was in a rage with him. Billy heard his icicles rattle. And Jonathan glared in wrath through the white fringe of his brows. "Go to!" he exclaimed. "My pants is froze stiff!" said Toby in amazement. "That's comical! I can't move me legs." And then he whimpered with pain and misery and fear. "I'll freeze stiff!" said he. "I'll die!" It was coming fast. "You can't save un," Billy insisted, in Jonathan's ear. "He'll freeze afore dark. Let un go." "I'll never give up," Jonathan protested. "I'm awful mis'able, gran'pa," said Toby. "What'll I do now?" "Ah, have mercy!" Billy begged. "Let un slip away quick an' be gone." Jonathan peered around. "Mus' be some dead men, Billy," said he, "lyin' around here somewheres." Dead men enough in the drifts! "More than a hundred," said Archie. "I counted a hundred and nine through the day." "I'll find one," said Jonathan. "No time, Jonathan." "They're lyin' handy. I fell over Jack Brace somewheres near here." "Night's closin'," said Billy. "No time t' lose," Jonathan agreed. "Speed then!" Billy exclaimed. "He'll freeze fast afore you find one." "Guard the lad," said Jonathan. "I'll not be long. Try his temper. He'll fight if you tease un." With that, then, old Jonathan Farr ran off to dig a dead man from the drifts. The boys could not see him in the snow. All this while the wind was biting and pushing and choking them still--the snow was mixed with the first dusk. Toby was shivering then--cowering from the wind, head down. And he was dull. His head nodded. He swayed in the wind--caught his feet; and he jerked himself awake--and nodded and swayed again. Billy Topsail thought it a pity and a wrong to rouse him. Yet both boys turned to keep him warm. Toby must have the life kept in him, they thought, until his grandfather got back. And they cuffed him and teased him until his temper was hot, poor lad, and he fought them in a passion--stumbling at them, hampered by his frozen clothes, and striking at them with his stiff arms and icy fists. Jonathan came then. "I can't find no dead men," he panted. It was hard for him to breast the wind. He was gasping with haste and fear. "I've hunted," said he, "an' I can't find no dead men." "They're lyin' thick hereabouts," said Billy. "They're all covered up. I can't find un." "Did you kick the drifts?" Archie asked. "We've strayed wide," said Jonathan. "I can't find no dead men. An' I can't walk well no more." "Watch the lad," said Billy. "I'll try my hand." Toby was lying down. Jonathan caught him up from the ice and held him in his arms. "Quick!" he cried. "He've fell asleep. Ah, he's freezin'!" It was coming dark fast. There was no time to waste in the gale that was blowing. The frost was putting Toby to sleep. Billy sped. He searched the drifts like a dog for a dead man. And soon he had luck. He found Long Jerry Cuff, of Providence Arm, a chunk of ice, poor man!--lying in a cuddle, arms folded and knees drawn up, like a child snuggled in bed. Long Jerry had been in the water, soaked to the skin, and he was solid and useless. And then Billy came on a face and a fur cap in a drift of snow. It was George Hunt, of Bullet Bight, with whom Billy had once sailed, in fishing weather, to Thumb-and-Finger of the Labrador. Long Jerry was lying flat on his back with his arms flung out and his legs spread. And he was frozen fast to the floe. Billy could not budge him. No. Billy caught him by the head and lifted--he was stiff as a plank; and Billy failed. And Billy took him by the foot and pried a leg loose--and ripped at it with all his might; and again he failed. Solid as stone! They must all have been solid like that. And then Billy knew that it was no use to try any more--that they could not strip the clothes from a dead man if they had a dead man to strip. And then he went disconsolate to Jonathan. CHAPTER XLI _In Which a Dead Man is Made to Order for Little Toby Farr_ "Couldn't you find none?" cried Jonathan. "Yes." "Where is he?" "No use, Jonathan. He's froze fast t' the ice. I couldn't budge un." "We'll all----" Billy shook his head. "No use, Jonathan," he said again. "He's hard as stone. We couldn't strip un." Jonathan said nothing to that. He was in a muse. Presently he looked up. Then he said: "It don't matter." "How's Toby?" Billy asked. Toby was on his feet. "I'm all right," he answered for himself. "Isn't I doin' pretty well for me, gran'pa?" "You is!" Billy took Jonathan aside. Jonathan was at ease. Billy marvelled. It was queer. "I've warmed un up again," said Jonathan. "Archie an' me done well. We've got un quite warm." "Too bad," said Billy. "He've got t' die." "No," said Jonathan. "I've a shot in the locker, Billy. I've found a way. Heed me, Billy. An' mark well what I says. I 'low a dead man's clothes would be cold an' damp anyhow. The lad needs a shift o' warm clothes. An' I'm warm, Billy. An' my underclothes is dry. I been warm an' dry all day long, an' wonderful strong an' wakeful, too, with the fear o' losin' Toby. I'll jus' go away a little piece an' lie down an' die. I'm tired an' dull. It won't take long. An' you an' Archie will strip me, Billy, while I'm still warm." "It might do." "'Tis the only sensible thing t' do." It was the only thing to do. Billy Topsail knew that. If Toby Farr's life were to be saved, he must have dry clothes at once. Billy did not offer to strip himself for Toby. It would have been mock heroics. Nor did Archie Armstrong when he learned of what Jonathan was to do. Either boy would have risked his life in a moment to save the life of Toby Farr--without a second thought, an instant of hesitation, whatever the risk. Obviously it was the duty of old Jonathan Farr to make the only sacrifice that could save the boy. Had Archie or Billy volunteered, the old man would have thanked them and declined the gift. As old Jonathan had said, to die was the only sensible thing to do. "Nothin' else t' do," said Billy. "No; nothin' else t' do that I can think of right now." "'Tis hard for you, Jonathan," said Billy. "Oh, no!" Jonathan replied. "I don't mind." "Then make haste," Billy advised. "If 'tis t' be done, it must be done quick." "Don't waste no heat," said Jonathan. "Fetch Toby alongside, jus' as soon as I'm gone, an' strip me afore I'm cold." "Ay," Billy agreed. "That's a good idea." "An' you keep Toby alive, somehow, Billy," Jonathan went on. "God help you!" "I will." Jonathan moved away. "Watch where I goes," said he. "Don't lose me. I won't be far." And then Toby, whom Archie had in hand, keeping him moving, spoke in alarm: "Where you goin', gran'pa?" he demanded. Jonathan stopped dead. He turned. And he made back towards Toby. And then he stopped dead again. "I'm jus' goin' t' look for something," said he. "What you goin' t' look for?" "I'm goin' t' find a shift o' warm clothes for you." "A dead man, gran'pa?" "Ay; a dead man." "Don't be long," said Toby. "I'll miss you." "I'm glad o' that," Jonathan replied. "You might get lost in the snow," said Toby. "Hurry up. I'll wait here with Billy an' Archie." "I'll be back jus' as quick as I'm able," Jonathan promised. "You wait here, Toby, an' mind Billy and Archie, won't you, while I'm gone?" "Ay, sir. An' I'll keep movin' jus' the same as if you was here. Hurry up." By and by, when Billy thought it was time, he went to where Jonathan was lying. "Is you dead?" he whispered. "Not yet," said Jonathan. "Come back in a few minutes." Pretty soon Billy went back. "Is you dead?" he asked. "Not yet," said Jonathan. "I'm makin' poor work of it." And Billy went once more. "Is you dead?" "I'm goin' fast." And yet again: "Is you dead?" And Jonathan was dead. * * * * * It was worth doing. It saved Toby Farr alive from that gale. It was no easy thing to clothe him anew in the wind--the little boy weeping for his dead grandfather and wanting to lie down and die by his side. Newfoundland born, however, and used to weather, he lived through the night. And when Cap'n Saul gathered the dead from the ice in the quiet weather of the next morning, the lad was carried aboard and stowed away, frost-bitten in a sad way, yet bound to hang on to life. Toby said never a word about his grandfather then. Nor did he weep any more. Nor did he ask Billy and Archie any questions. But he brooded. And the boys wondered what he was thinking so deeply about. And then they put into port--flag at half-mast and a hundred and twenty-one men piled forward like cord-wood. And Toby Farr came on deck, clad in his grandfather's clothes, and watched the dead go ashore, with Archie and Billy and Sir Archibald, until his grandfather went by, wrapped in a Union Jack. "Billy!" said he. "Ay, Toby?" "Did my gran'pa gimme his clothes?" "He did." "I'll be worthy!" said Toby. And he has grown up since then. And he is worthy. CHAPTER XLII _In Which the Tale Comes to a Good End: Archie and Billy Make Ready for Dinner, Toby Farr is Taken for Good and All by Sir Archibald, and Billy Topsail, Having Been Declared Wrong by Archie's Father, Takes the Path That Leads to a New Shingle, After Which the Author Asks a Small Favour of the Reader_ Well, now, we have come to the end of the tale of Billy Topsail. I need not describe the grief of the Colony when the tragedy of the ice-floes was disclosed. Newfoundlanders are warm-hearted folk; they are easily touched to sympathy--they grieved, indeed, even to the remotest harbours, when news of the death of the men of the _Rough and Tumble_ was spread forth. It was a catastrophe that impended every sealing season--rare, perhaps, in its degree, but forever a thing to be expected. Yet you are not to think of Newfoundland in visions wholly of wind and snow and ice. Newfoundland is not an Arctic country by any means. Nor does the wind blow all the while; nor is the sea all the while in a turmoil. It is a lovely coast after all; and the folk who live there are simple, self-respecting, cheerful--a lovable, admirable folk. To be sure they have summer weather. What is written in this book is of the spring of the year--the tempestuous season, with the ice breaking up. As a matter of fact, Newfoundland seems to me, in retrospect, to be far less a land of tempest and frost than of sunlit hills and a rippling blue sea. Ashore, at last, and making ready for dinner, in Sir Archibald Armstrong's great house, while Archie's mother mothered little Toby Farr, who was to live in the great house thereafter, and be reared by Sir Archibald, like a brother of Archie's own--alone in Archie's rooms, Billy and Archie talked a little while. "Somehow, Archie," said Billy, with a puzzled frown, "it didn't seem nothin' much t' do at the time." "What, Billy?" "What Jonathan done." "No," Archie agreed. "Somehow," Billy went on, "it jus' seemed as if everybody was dyin', or goin' t' die, an' one more wouldn't make no very great difference. Didn't it seem that way t' you, Archie?" "Just that way, Billy." "Queer, isn't it?" "I didn't care very much, Billy, what happened to me." "Nor I what happened t' me." "Sometimes I _wanted_ to die. I just wanted to lie down and----" "Me too, Archie." "Looking back, though, it isn't the same. I'm glad I'm alive." There was a silence. "Archie," said Billy, "that was a pretty fine thing that Jonathan done." "It was, Billy." "An' the way he done it was fine. It was a man's way t' do a thing like that. No fuss about it. Jus' a quiet way--jus' goin' ahead an' doin' what he thought he ought t' do, an' sayin' nothin' about it." "That was the best of it, Billy." "It was a _great_ thing, Archie. I can't get over it. I thinks of it again an' again an' again. I'd like t' be big enough t' do a thing like that in jus' that way." "And I, Billy." "I bet you, Archie, Jonathan was _glad_ t' be able t' do it." "I think he was." "Yes," Billy repeated; "a big thing like that in a big way like that. I'd like t' be man enough. An' I knows only one other man in the world who could do it--in jus' that quiet way." "Who's that, Billy?" "Doctor Luke." "Yes," Archie agreed; "he's big enough for anything." "I'd like t' be like he!" Billy sighed. Then the boys went down to dinner. Archie had something in mind of which Billy Topsail was not aware. * * * * * After dinner, Toby Farr was put to bed. He was a soft little fellow, perhaps, and Archie's mother, too, was tender. At any rate, she was calling Toby "Son" by that time; and Toby didn't mind, and Archie was delighted, and Sir Archibald was smiling as though he enjoyed it. Toby was not happy--not by any means; no prospect of luxury, no new love, could ease the wish for his grandfather's voice and presence. Yet he was as happy as he very well could be--and as safe as any lad ever was. When he said good-night, he said it gravely, in the mannerly way he had--a courteous voice, a serious air, a little bow. Sir Archibald smiled, and Archie clapped him on the back, and Archie's mother put her arms around the lad, smiling, too, and led him off to stow him away. Archie and Billy were then left alone with Sir Archibald. "Dad," Archie began, "Billy and I have been talking." "Well, well!" said Sir Archibald. Billy chuckled. "I mean _really_ talking, dad." "What about, son?" "Well, quite a number of things." "You surprise me!" said Sir Archibald. Archie ignored the banter. "Look here, dad," he said, "I want Billy to do something that he won't do." "Then," said Sir Archibald, "I should recommend you to ask him to do something else." "But that won't do." "Must he do this thing?" "If it's right." "Is it right?" "_I_ think so." "What is it?" Archie explained the matter in dispute, with all its provisions for guarding Billy Topsail's self-respect, and Sir Archibald listened. "I agree with you," said Sir Archibald, promptly, when Archie came to the end. "I think it right." * * * * * And that is how Billy Topsail found a proper way to study medicine--that is how it came about that a new shingle declares to the world of the north Newfoundland Coast the whereabouts of-- WILLIAM TOPSAIL, M. D. You may find Billy Topsail in the surgery (when he happens to be at home) if you land from the mail-boat and follow the road over Tinkle-Tinkle Hill to Broad Cove--a hearty, smiling, rather quiet chap, of a scientific turn, who goes where he is called, and has the reputation of being the most promising physician and surgeon in Newfoundland. He has been advised to go to St. John's, of course; but that he will not do--for reasons of his own, which have to do with the obligations of service. Well, then, there he is--in the surgery, when he is at home; and if you _should_ happen to go ashore from the mail-boat, and if you should take Tinkle-Tinkle Road to Broad Cove, and if your seeking eye should alight upon a new shingle, inscribed WILLIAM TOPSAIL, M. D., and if you should knock on the door, and if a stalwart, fine-looking, rather quiet chap, with a twinkling smile, should open the door, and if you should tell him that you know me, and that I had invited you to call-- He'll laugh. And he'll say: "Come in! Glad t' see you!" And you go in--don't fail to. You'll have a good time. And give Billy my compliments and tell him I'll be up to see him one of these summers. Thanks. I'm much obliged. _Printed in the United States of America_ * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Variations in spelling are kept. Printer errors and punctuation errors are silently corrected. 
29374	----	[Transcriber's note: the groups of four question marks below indicate illegible text in the source page scans] OFFICERS OF THE NATIONAL COUNCIL Honorary President, The HON. WOODROW WILSON Honorary Vice-President, HON. WILLIAM H. TAFT Honorary Vice-President, COLONEL THEODORE ROOSEVELT President, COLIN H. LIVINGSTON, Washington D.C. Vice-President, B. L. DULANY, ????, Tenn. Vice-President, MILTON A. McRAE, ???? Vice-President, DAVID STARR JORDAN, ???? Vice-President, F. L. SEELY, Asheville, N.C. Vice-President, A. STANFORD. WHITE, Chicago, Ill. Chief Scout, ERNEST THOMPSON SETON, ???? National Scout Commissioner, DANIEL CARTER BEARD, ???? FINANCE COMMITTEE ???? NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA THE FIFTH AVENUE BUILDING, 200 FIFTH AVENUE TELEPHONE GRAMERCY 545 NEW YORK CITY ADDITIONAL MEMBERS OF THE EXECUTIVE BOARD ???? July 31, 1913. TO THE PUBLIC-- In the execution of its purpose to give educational value and moral worth to the recreational activities of the boyhood of America, the leaders of the Boy Scout Movement quickly learned that to effectively carry out its program, the boy must be influenced not only in his out-of-door life but also in the diversions of his other leisure moments. It is at such times that the boy is captured by the tales of daring enterprises and adventurous good times. What now is needful in not that his taste should be thwarted but trained. There should constantly be presented to him the books the boy likes best, yet always the books that will be best for the boy. As a matter of fact, however, the boy's taste is being constantly visited and exploited by the great mass of cheap juvenile literature. To help anxiously concerned parents and educators to meet this grave peril, the Library Commission of the Boy Scouts of America has been organized. EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY is the result of their labors. All the books chosen have been approved by them. The commission is composed of the following members: George F. Bowerman, Librarian, Public Library of the District of Columbia, Washington, D.C.; Harrison W. Graver, Librarian, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, Pa.; Claude G. Leland, Superintendent, Bureau of Libraries, Board of Education, New York City; Edward F. Stevens, Librarian, Pratt Institute Free Library, Brooklyn, New York; together with the Editorial Board of our Movement, William D. Murray, George D. Pratt and Frank Presbrey, with Franklin K. Mathiews, Chief Scout Librarian, as Secretary. In selecting the books, the Commission has chosen only such as are of interest to boys, the first twenty-five being either works of fiction or stirring stories of adventurous experiences. In later lists, books of a more serious sort will be included. It is hoped that as many as twenty-five may be added to the library each year. Thanks are due the several publishers who have helped to inaugurate this new department of our work. Without their co-operation in making available for popular priced editions some of the best books ever published for boys, the promotion of EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY would have been impossible. We wish, too, to express out heartfelt gratitude to the Library Commission, who, without compensation, have placed their vast experience and immense resources at the service of our Movement. The commission invites suggestions as to future books to be included in the Library. Librarians, teachers, parents, and all others interested in welfare work for boys, can render a unique service by forwarding to National Headquarters lists of such books as in their judgment would be suitable for EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY. Signed, James E. West. THE GAUNT GRAY WOLF [Illustration: "They were startled by blood-curdling whoops, and a half-dozen Indians, guns levelled, rose upon the shore" (See page 85).] EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY--BOY SCOUT EDITION THE GAUNT GRAY WOLF A TALE OF ADVENTURE WITH "UNGAVA BOB" BY DILLON WALLACE AUTHOR OF UNGAVA BOB, ETC., ETC. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS Made in the United State of America Copyright, 1914, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street CONTENTS I. SHAD TROWBRIDGE OF BOSTON II. THE LURE OF THE WILDERNESS III. UNGAVA BOB MAKES A RESCUE IV. AWAY TO THE TRAILS V. IN THE FAR WILDERNESS VI. OLD FRIENDS VII. WHERE THE EVIL SPIRITS DWELL VIII. AFTER THE INDIAN ATTACK IX. THE INDIAN MAIDEN AT THE RIVER TILT X. THE VOICES OF THE SPIRITS XI. MANIKAWAN'S VENGEANCE XII. THE TRAGEDY OF THE RAPIDS XIII. ON THE TRAIL OF THE INDIANS XIV. THE MATCHI MANITU IS CHEATED XV. THE PASSING OF THE WILD THINGS XVI. ALONE WITH THE INDIANS XVII. CHRISTMAS AT THE RIVER TILT XVIII. THE SPIRIT OF DEATH GROWS BOLD. XIX. THE CACHE ON THE LAKE XX. THE FOLK AT WOLF BIGHT XXI. THE RIFLED CACHE XXII. MANIKAWAN'S SACRIFICE XXIII. TUMBLED AIR CASTLES XXIV. THE MESSENGER XXV. A MISSION OF LIFE AND DEATH XXVI. "GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN THIS" XXVII. SHAD'S TRIBUTE TO THE INDIAN MAIDEN XXVIII. TROWBRIDGE AND GRAY, TRADERS XXIX. THE FRUIT OF MANIKAWAN'S SACRIFICE THE GAUNT GRAY WOLF I SHAD TROWBRIDGE OF BOSTON On a foggy morning of early July in the year 1890, the Labrador mail boat, northward bound from St. Johns, felt her way cautiously into the mist-enveloped harbour of Fort Pelican and to her anchorage. For six days the little steamer had been buffeted by wind and ice and fog, and when at last her engines ceased to throb and she lay at rest in harbour, Allen Shadrach Trowbridge of Boston, her only passenger, felt hugely relieved, for the voyage had been a most unpleasant one, and here he was to disembark. In June, Allen Shadrach Trowbridge--or "Shad" Trowbridge as the fellows called him, and as we shall call him--had completed his freshman year in college. When college closed he set sail at once for Labrador, where he was to spend his summer holiday canoeing and fishing in the wilderness. This was the first extended journey Shad Trowbridge had ever made quite alone. For many months he had been planning and preparing for it, and he promised himself it was to be an eventful experience. He was standing now at the rail, as the ship anchored, peering eagerly through the mist at the group of low, whitewashed buildings which composed Fort Pelican post of the Hudson's Bay Company, and at the dim outline of dark forest behind--a clean-cut, square-shouldered, athletic young fellow, who carried his head with the air of one possessing a fair share of self-esteem and self-reliance, and whose square jaw suggested wilfulness if not determination. The rugged surroundings thrilled him with promise of adventure. The historic post of the old fur traders, the boundless, mysterious forest, and the romantic life of the trappers and dusky tribes which it sheltered, were pregnant with interest. But his wildest dreams could not have foretold the part Shad Trowbridge was destined to play in this primordial land and life before he should bid farewell to its bleak coast. "A rough-looking country," remarked the steward, joining Shad at the rail. "It's glorious!" exclaimed Shad enthusiastically. "A real frontier! And back there is a real wilderness! Just the sort of wilderness I've dreamed about getting into all my life." "The deck of the mail boat's about as near as I want to get to it," said the steward with a deprecatory shrug. "It's a land o' hard knocks and short grub. You'd better leave it to the livyeres and Indians, young man, and go back to God's country with the ship." "No, thank you," said Shad. "I'm going to have a rattling good summer hunting and fishing here before I see the ship again." "When we come on our next voyage, a fortnight from now, you'll be standing out there on the dock looking for us, and mighty glad to see us," laughed the steward. "You'll have all you want of The Labrador by then. Shall I put your things ashore?" "Yes, if you please--all but the canoe. I'll paddle that over, if you'll send a man to help me launch it." "Pooh!" thought Shad, as the steward left him. "'Hard knocks and short grub'! Of course there would be some hard knocks, but he expected that, for he was going to rough it! But with the woods full of game and fish there'd be plenty to eat! He didn't expect any Pullman-car jaunt; he could have had that at home. What kind of a fellow did the steward take him for, anyway?" A half-dozen natives on the boat wharf watched Shad curiously as he paddled to a low stretch of beach adjoining the wharf, and two of them strolled down to inspect his canoe when he lifted it out of the water and turned it upon its side at a safe distance above the lapping waves. "Now she's what I calls a rare fine canoe," observed one, a tall, big-boned, loose-jointed fellow with a straggly red beard, and picturesquely attired in moleskin trousers tucked into the tops of sealskin boots, a flannel shirt, a short jacket, and the peakless cap of the trapper. "That she be, Ed, an' a wonderful sight better'n th' bark canoes th' Injuns uses," agreed the other, a powerful, broad-shouldered, deep-chested man, who wore a light-cloth adicky, but whose dress was otherwise similar to that of his companion. "She have better lines than th' Injun craft," said the one addressed as Ed, eyeing the canoe critically. "An' she's stancher--a wonderful lot stancher," continued the other. "She is a pretty good canoe, and a splendid white-water craft," Shad remarked, to break the ice of reserve, and to give the two trappers the opening for conversation for which they were evidently hedging. "Aye, sir," said the man in the adicky, "they's no doot o' that. Her lines be right, sir. She'd be a fine craft in th' rapids, now--a fine un." "Be you comin' far, an' be you goin' back wi' th' ship?" asked Ed, unable to restrain his curiosity longer. "I came from Boston, and if I can get a guide I shall stay for the summer and take a canoe trip into the country," answered Shad. "I'm thinkin' you can get un in th' shop," suggested Ed. "Get them in the shop?" asked Shad, in astonishment, not quite certain whether he was misunderstood, or whether the trapper was making game of him. Ed's respectful manner, however, quickly satisfied him that the former was the case. "Aye," said Ed. "They keeps a wonderful stock o' things in the shop." "I refer to a man," explained Shad. "I wish to employ a man to go into the country with me to show me about and to assist me." "'Tis a pilot you wants!" exclaimed Ed, light breaking upon him. "O' course 'tis a pilot!" broke in the other, with an intonation that suggested scorn of Ed's ignorance. "A pilot an' a guide be th' same thing. A pilot be a guide, an' a guide be a pilot." "I'd like wonderful well t' pilot you myself, sir, but I couldn't do it nohow," volunteered Ed, in a tone of apology. "You see, I has my nets out, an' I has t' get in firewood for th' wife, t' last she through th' winter whilst I be on th' trail trappin'. An Dick here's fixed th' same. Dick an' me's partners fishin', an' he gives me a hand gettin' out wood, an' I helps he. This be Dick Blake, sir," continued Ed, suddenly remembering that there had been no introduction, "an' I be Ed Matheson." "I'm glad to make your acquaintance, gentlemen," Shad acknowledged. "My name is Trowbridge. Perhaps you may be able to tell me where I can employ a guide. I would appreciate your assistance." "Le'me see," Ed meditated. "Now I'm thinkin' Ungava Bob might go," he at length suggested. "He were home th' winter, an' they hauled a rare lot o' wood out wi' th' dogs, an' his father can 'tend th' nets. What d'you think, Dick?" "Aye, Ungava Bob could sure go, whatever," agreed Dick. "'Ungava Bob' sounds interesting," said Shad. "How old a man is this Ungava Bob, and is that his real name, or is 'Ungava' a title?" "He's but a lad-eighteen year old comin' September--but a rare likely lad--good as a man. Aye, good as a man," declared Ed. "His real name be Bob Gray," explained Dick, "but we calls him 'Ungava Bob' for a wonderful cruise he were makin' two year ago comin' winter." "Seventeen years of age, and already so famous as to have won a title! I'm interested, and I'd like to hear more about him," suggested Shad. "An' you wants t' hear," said Ed. "But now we be a-standin' an' a-keepin' you, when you wants t' see Mr. Forbes." "Yes, I wish to see Mr. Forbes, if he is the factor of the post, but you haven't detained me in the least. I can see him presently," reassured Shad. "Mr. Forbes be wonderful busy till th' ship goes, an' she'll be here for nigh an hour yet," advised Ed. "Very well, I'll not call on him, then, till the ship goes," decided Shad, "and I'd be glad to hear something of Ungava Bob's travels, in the meantime." "We might step into th' men's kitchen, where there be seats an' we can talk in comfort," suggested Ed. "This fog be wonderful chillin' standin' still." "That's a good suggestion," agreed Shad. "The fog is cold." And he followed the two trappers down the long board walk to the men's kitchen. II THE LURE OF THE WILDERNESS "Ungava Bob's father's name be Richard Gray," began Ed, while he cut tobacco from a black plug and stuffed it into his pipe, when they were presently seated in the men's kitchen. "Dick's name, here, be Richard, too, but we calls he 'Dick,' and Richard Gray, Richard,' so's not t' get un mixed up. You see, if we calls un both 'Dick' or both 'Richard,' we'd never be knowin' who 'twas were meant." "I see," said Shad. "Well, Richard were havin' a wonderful streak o' bad luck," continued Ed, striking a match and holding it aloft for the sulphur to burn off, "wonderful hard luck. His furrin' fails he two years runnin', an' then th' fishin' fails he, an' his debt wi' th' Company gets so big he's two year behind, whatever, th' best he does." Ed paused to apply the match to his pipe. "Were you ever noticin', Mr. Toobridge--" "Tumbridge," corrected Dick. "Be it 'Toobridge' or 'Tumbridge,' sir?" asked Ed, unwilling to accept Dick's correction. "Trowbridge." "Leastways Toobridge were nigher right than Tumbridge," declared Ed, looking disdainfully at Dick. "Were you ever noticin' how bad luck, when she strikes a man's trail, follows him like a pack o' hungry wolves? Well, just at th' time I'm speakin' about, Richard's little maid Emily falls off a ledge an' hurts she so she can't walk. They tries all th' cures they knows, but 't weren't no good, an' then they brings Emily here t' Pelican, t' see th' mail-boat doctor when th' ship comes. "Th' mail-boat doctor tells un th' only cure is t' take she t' th' hospital in St. Johns, an' so they fetches Emily back t' Wolf Bight, for a trip t' St. Johns takes a wonderful lot o' money, an' Richard ain't got un. "Bob thinks a wonderful lot o' Emily. He be only sixteen then, but a rare big an' stalwart lad for his years, an' unbeknown t' Richard an' his ma he goes t' Douglas Campbell, an' says t' Douglas, an' he lets he work th' Big Hill trail on shares th' winter, he's thinkin' he may ha' th' luck t' trap a silver fox, an' leastways fur t' pay t' send Emily t' th' hospital." "Who is Douglas Campbell?" asked Shad. "Oh, every one knows he, an' a rare old man he be. He comes t' th' Bay from th' Orkneys nigh forty year ago, workin' as servant for th' Company, an' then leavin' th' Company t' go trappin'. He done wonderful well, buyin' traps an' openin' new trails, which he lets out on shares. Th' Big Hill trail up th' Grand River were a new one. "Well, Bob goes in wi' me an' Dick an' Bill Campbell, Douglas's lad, we workin' connectin' trails, an' he done fine. He starts right in catchin' martens an' silver foxes--a wonderful lot for a lad--" "He only catches one silver, barrin' th' one after he were lost!" broke in Dick. "Now don't go yarnin', Ed." "Leastways, he gets one silver an' a rare lot o' martens an' otters up t' Christmas, an' a plenty t' send Emily t' th' hospital. "Then Micmac John--he were a thievin' half-breed as asks Douglas for th' Big Hill trail, an' feels a grudge ag'in' Bob because Douglas give un t' Bob--Micmac goes in an' steals Bob's tent when Bob were up country after deer. A snow comin' on--'twere wonderful cold--Bob gives out tryin' t' find his tilt, an' falls down, an' loses his senses. When he wakes up he's in a Nascaupee Injun tent, th' Injuns comin' on he where he falls an' takin' he with un. "Bob not knowin' th' lingo they speaks, an' they not knowin' his lingo, an' he not knowin' how far they took he before he wakes up, or rightly how t' find his tilt, he sticks t' the' Injuns, an' they keeps workin' north till they comes t' Ungava." "A wonderful trip that were! A wonderful trip! No man in th' Bay were ever t' Ungava before, so we calls he 'Ungava Bob,'" interrupted Dick. "Then Bob works 'cross th' nu'th'ard country with huskies," continued Ed, "an' up th' coast with huskies, until he goes adrift on th' ice--him an' his two huskies he has with he--an' when they thinks they's lost, or like t' be lost, they comes on a tradin' vessel froze in th' ice an' loaded wi' tradin' goods an' furs, an' not e'er a man aboard she. Bob an' th' huskies sails th' vessel in here, when th' ice breaks up, an' th' ship goes free. "That were just one year ago. Me an' Dick gets out from th' trails th' day Bob gets home, an' Douglas goin' with us, we sails th' vessel, which were 'The Maid o' the North,' t' St. Johns, an' Bob gets fifteen thousand dollars salvage money. A rare lot o' money, sir, that were for any man t' have, let alone a lad." "What happened to the little girl--his sister?" asked Shad. "She goes t' th' hospital, an' comes back t' Wolf Bight in September, cured an' fine. She be a fine little maid, too--a fine little maid," Ed asserted. "What was done to the half-breed Indian--Micmac John, I think you called him?" "Micmac? Oh, he were killed by wolves handy t' th' place th' Injuns finds Bob. Me, wi' Bill an' Dick, here, goes lookin' for Bob an' finds Micmac's bones where th' wolves scatters un, an' handy to un is Bob's flatsled an' thinkin' they's Bob's remains I hauls un out in th' winter, an' his folks buries un proper for his remains before he gets out in th' spring." "What an experience for a kid!" exclaimed Shad. "He must have had some rattling adventures?" "Aye, that he did," said Ed. "'Twould be a long story t' tell un all, but there were one, now--" "Now don't go yarnin', Ed," interrupted Dick, who had stepped out of doors and returned at this moment. "Ed never tells un straight, Mr. Trunbridge." "Troobridge," broke in Ed. "Trowbridge," volunteered Shad. "Mr. Trowbridge," continued Dick. "He makes un a lot worse'n Bob tells un. Fog's clearin', Ed, an' we better be goin' after we eats dinner." "That we had, an' the fog's clearin'," agreed Ed. "But how about Ungava Bob? I'd like to meet him. Do you really think I may be able to engage him to guide me on a two or three weeks' trip?" asked Shad. "Aye," said Ed. "I'm thinkin', now, you might. Bob's not startin' for th' trails for three weeks, whatever, an' he's bidin' home till he goes, an' not wonderful busy. I'm thinkin' Bob could go." "That settles it," Shad decided. "I'll look him up." "You'll be welcome t' a place in our boat," suggested Dick. "'Tis a two-days' sail, wi' fair wind. They's plenty o' room, an' we can tow th' canoe. Me an' Ed lives at Porcupine Cove, an' you can paddle th' canoe over from there t' Wolf Bight in half a day, whatever." "Done!" exclaimed Shad. With the assurance of Mr. James Forbes, the factor, that the rivers flowing into the head of the Bay, a hundred miles inland from Fort Pelican, offered good canoe routes, Shad felt that a kind fate had indeed directed him to Fort Pelican, and that he had been particularly fortunate in meeting the two trappers. "Bob Gray will be a good man for you if you can engage him, and I think you can," said Mr. Forbes. "Bob has had some truly remarkable adventures, and he's an interesting chap. Ed Matheson will probably relate these adventures to you, properly embellished, if you go up the Bay with him and Dick Blake. Take Ed's stories, though, with a grain of salt. He is a good trapper, but he has a vivid imagination." Shad accepted Mr. Forbes's invitation to dine in the "big house," as the factor's residence was called, and when, after dinner, Mr. Forbes accompanied him to the wharf, the trappers had already stowed his outfit into their boat, and the two mean were awaiting his arrival. No time was lost in getting away. Sail was hoisted at once, and with Shad's canoe in tow the boat turned westward into the narrows that connect Eskimo Bay with the ocean. "Th' wind's shifted t' nu'th'ard, and when we gets through th' narrows there'll be no fog," Dick prophesied, and his prophecy proved true. Presently the sky cleared, the sun broke through the mist, the freshening north wind swept away the last lingering fog bank, and as a curtain rises upon a scene, so the lifting fog revealed to Shad Trowbridge the weird, primitive beauty of the rugged northland that he was entering. The atmosphere, so lately clogged with mist, had suddenly become transparent. To the southward, beyond a broad stretch of gently heaving waters, rose a range of snow-capped mountains, extending far to the westward. Reaching up from the nearby northern shore of the bay, and stretching away over gently rolling hills lay the boundless evergreen forest. Somewhere in the distance a wild goose honked. White-winged gulls soared gracefully overhead. Now and again a seal rose to gaze for an inquisitive moment at the passing boat, and once a flock of ducks settled upon the waters. The air was redolent with the pungent odour of spruce and balsam fir--the perfume of the forest--and Shad, lounging contentedly at the bow of the boat, drank in great wholesome lungfuls of it. All this was commonplace to the trappers, and quite unmindful of it Ed Matheson launched upon tales of stirring wilderness adventures in which his imagination was unrestrained, save by an occasional expostulation from Dick. The wild region through which they were passing gave proper setting for Ed's stories, and Shad, a receptive listener, wished that he, too, might battle with nature as these men did. How tame and uneventful his own life seemed. Already the subtle lure of the wilderness was asserting itself. Three days after leaving Fort Pelican, Shad and the two trappers sailed their dory into Porcupine Cove. It was mid-afternoon, and Shad, impatient to reach Wolf Bight and begin his explorations in company with Ungava Bob, prepared for immediate departure, after a bountiful dinner of boiled grouse, bread, and tea in Dick Blake's cabin. "Better 'bide wi' me th' evenin'," invited Dick, "an' take an early start in th' mornin'. Th' wind's veered t' th' nor'-nor'west, an' she's like t' kick up some chop th' evenin', an' 'tis a full half-day's cruise t' Wolf Bight, whatever." "I can make it all right," insisted Shad. "Bob may not be able to give me much time, and I want to take advantage of all he can give me." "Well, if you must be goin', I'd not hinder you; but," continued Dick, "keep clost t' shore, until you reaches that p'int yonder, an' then make th' crossin' for th' south shore, keepin' that blue mountain peak just off your starboard bow, an' you can't be missin' Wolf Bight. If th' wind freshens, camp on th' p'int, an' wait for calm t' make th' crossin' t' th' s'uth'ard shore." "Thank you, I'll follow your advice," said Shad. "Wait, now," called Ed, who had disappeared into the cabin, and reappeared with a rope. "I'm thinkin' I'll lash your outfit t' th' canoe. They's no knowin' what's like t' happen, an' 'tis best t' be sure, whatever." Shad felt truly grateful to the two bronzed trappers as he shook their hands and said adieu to them. It was only his impatience to plunge into the deep forests reaching away to the westward, and a growing curiosity to meet Ungava Bob, that induced him to decline the sincerely extended hospitality of Blake and Matheson. Afternoon was waning into evening when Shad reached the point Dick had indicated, and the rising breeze was beginning to whip the wave crests here and there into white foam. Dick Blake had advised him to camp here if the wind increased. It had increased considerably, but Shad had set his heart upon reaching Wolf Bight that night, and he did not wish to stop. The sun was setting, but there was to be a full moon, and he would be able to see nearly as well as by day. The sea, though a little rougher than it had been during the afternoon, was not, after all, he argued, so bad. "I'll make a try for it, anyhow; I know I can make it," said he, after a little hesitation, and turning his back upon the point he paddled on. Presently, however, he began to regret his decision. With the setting sun the wind increased perceptibly. The sea grew uncomfortably rough. Little by little the canoe began to ship water, and with every moment the situation became more perilous. Now, genuinely alarmed, Shad made a vain attempt to turn about, in the hope that he might gain the lee of the point and effect a landing. But it was too late. He quickly found that it was quite impossible to stem the wind, and he had no choice but to continue upon his course. With full realization of his desperate position, Shad paddled hard and paddled for his life. He was a good swimmer, but he knew well that were his canoe to capsize he could not hope to survive long in these cold waters. The canoe was gradually filling with water, but he dared not release his paddle to bail the water out. With each big sea that bore down upon him he held his breath in fear that it would overwhelm him. Nearer and nearer the south shore loomed in the moonlight, and with every muscle strained Shad paddled for it with all his might. If he could only keep afloat another twenty minutes! But he had taken too desperate a chance. His goal was still a full mile away when a great wave broke over the canoe. Then came another and another in quick succession, and Shad suddenly found himself cast into the sea, struggling in the icy waters, hopelessly far from shore. III UNGAVA BOB MAKES A RESCUE Twilight was settling into gloom, and the first faint stars were struggling to show themselves above the distant line of dark fir and spruce trees that marked the edge of the forest bordering Eskimo Bay. Dark cloud patches scudding across the sky, now and again obscured the face of the rising moon. A brisk northwest breeze was blowing, and though it was mid-July the air had grown chill with the setting of the sun. Ungava Bob, alone in his boat, arose, buttoned his jacket, trimmed sail, and by force of habit stood with his left hand resting upon the tiller while he scanned the moonlit waters of the bay before resuming his seat. He was a tall, square-shouldered, well-developed lad of seventeen, straight and lithe as an Indian, with keen, gray-blue eyes, which seemed ever alert and observant. Exposure to sun and wind had tanned his naturally fair skin a rich bronze, and his thick, dark-brown hair, with a tendency to curl up at the ends, where it fell below his cap, gave his round, full face an appearance of boyish innocence. He was now homeward bound to Wolf Bight from the Hudson's Bay Company's post on the north shore, where he had purchased a supply of steel traps and other equipment preparatory to his next winter's campaign upon the trapping trails of the far interior wilderness; for Bob Gray, though but seventeen years of age, was already an experienced hunter and trapper. Suddenly, as he looked over the troubled sea, a small black object rising upon the crest of a wave far to leeward caught his eye. The small black object was Shad's canoe, and one with less keen vision might have passed it unnoticed, or seeing it have supposed it belated debris cast into the bay by the rivers, for the spring floods had hardly yet fully subsided. But Bob's training as a hunter taught him to take nothing for granted, and, watching intently for its reappearance from the trough of the sea, he presently discerned in the moonlight the faint glint of a paddle. "A canoe!" he exclaimed, as he sat down. "An' what, now, be an Injun doin' out there this time o' night? An' Injuns never crosses where this un be. I'll see, now, who it is, an' what he's up to, whatever," and, suiting the action to the resolve, he shifted his course to bear down upon the stranger. The hunter instinctively attributes importance to every sign, sound, or action that is not in harmony with the usual routine of his world, and by actual investigation he must needs satisfy himself of its meaning. This is not idle curiosity, but an instinct born of necessity and life-long training, and it was this instinct that prompted Ungava Bob's action in turning from his direct course homeward. "'Tis no Injun," he presently said, as with a nearer approach he observed the stroke. "'Tis too long an' slow a paddle-stroke." This puzzled him, for he knew well every white settler of the Bay within a hundred miles of his home, and he knew, too, that only some extraordinary mission could have called one of them abroad so late in the evening, and particularly upon the course this canoe was taking at a season of the year when all were employed upon their fishing grounds. Gradually he drew down upon the canoe, until at length he could make out its lines, and observed that it was not a birch bark, the only sort of canoe in use in the Bay by either Indians or white natives. The canoeist, too, was a stranger in the region. Of this he had no doubt, though he could not see his features. He was well within hailing distance, though it was evident the stranger in the canoe had not yet discovered his approach, when a black cloud passed over the face of the moon, plunging the sea into darkness, and when the moon again lighted the waters canoe and canoeist had vanished as by magic. Like a flash, realising what had happened, Bob seized a coil of rope, made one end fast to the stern of his boat, grasped the coil in his right hand, and, tense and expectant, scanned the sea for the reappearance of the unfortunate stranger. Presently he discovered the submerged canoe directly ahead, and an instant later saw Shad rise to the surface, strike out for it, and catch and cling to the gunwale. Bob poised himself for the effort, and as he scudded past, measuring the distance to a nicety, deftly cast the line directly across the canoe and within the reach of Shad's hand, shouting as he did so: "Make un fast!" Without looking for the result, he sprang forward, lowered sail, shipped the oars, pulled the boat about, and Shad, who had caught the rope, had scarcely time to thrust it under a thwart and secure it before Bob, drawing alongside, caught him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him aboard the boat. Seizing the oars again, and pulling safely free from danger of collision with the canoe, Bob hoisted sail, brought the boat before the wind, and resuming his seat astern had his first good look at his thus suddenly acquired passenger. Shad, amidships, was engaged in drawing off his outer flannel shirt, from which he coolly proceeded to wring, as thoroughly as possible, the excess water, before donning it again. Not a word had passed between them, and neither spoke until Shad had readjusted his shirt, when, by way of opening conversation, Bob remarked: "You'm wet, sir." "Naturally," admitted Shad. "I've been in the Bay, and the bay water is surprisingly wet." "Aye," agreed Bob, "'tis that." "And surprisingly cold." "Aye, 'tis wonderful cold." "And I'm profoundly grateful to you for pulling me out of it." "'Twere fine I comes up before your canoe founders, or I'm thinkin' you'd be handy t' drownded by now." "A sombre thought, but I guess you're right. A fellow couldn't swim far or stick it out long in there," said Shad, waving his arm toward the dark waters. "I'm sure I owe my life to you. It was lucky for me you saw me." "'Tweren't luck, sir; 'twere Providence. 'Twere th' Lord's way o' takin' care o' you." "Well, it was a pretty good way, anyhow. But where did you drop from? I didn't see you till you threw me that line a few minutes ago." "I were passin' t' wind'ard, sir, when I sights you, an' not knowin' who 'twere, I sails close in till I makes you out as a stranger, an' then you goes down an' I picks you up." "That sounds very simple, but it was a good stunt, just the same, to get me the line and come around in this chop the way you did, and then haul me aboard before I knew what you were about--you kept your head beautifully, and knew what to do--and you only a kid, too!" added Shad, in surprise, as the moonlight fell full on Bob's face. "A--kid?" asked Bob, not quite certain what "kid" might be. "Yes--just a youngster--a boy." "I'm seventeen," Bob asserted, in a tone which resented the imputation of extreme youth. "You don't look much older'n that yourself." "But I am--much older--I'm eighteen," said Shad, grinning. "My name's Trowbridge--Shad Trowbridge, from Boston. What is your name? Let's get acquainted," and Shad extended his hand. "I'm Bob Gray, o' Wolf Bight," said Bob, taking Shad's hand. "Not Ungava Bob?" exclaimed Shad. "Aye, they calls me Ungava Bob here-abouts sometimes." "Why, I was on my way to Wolf Bight to see you!" "T' see me, sir?" "Yes, I came up from Fort Pelican to Porcupine Cove with two trappers named Blake and Matheson, and they told me about you. They said I might induce you to take a trip with me." "A trip with you, sir?" "Yes. I want to take a little canoe and fishing trip into the country, and Blake and Matheson suggested that you might have two or three weeks to spare and could go along with me. I'll pay you well for your services. What do you think of it?" "I'm--not just knowin'," Bob hesitated. "I leaves for my trappin' grounds th' first o' August t' be gone th' winter, an'--I'm thinkin' I wants t' stay home till I goes--an' my folks'll be wantin' me home." "Well, let's not decide now. We'll talk it over to-morrow." "You'm cold," said Bob, after a moment's silence, reaching into a locker under his seat and bringing out a moleskin adicky. "Put un on. She's fine and warm." "Thank you. I'm thoroughly chilled," Shad admitted, gratefully accepting the adicky and drawing it on over his wet clothing. "Pull th' hood up," suggested Bob. "'Twill help warm you." "There, that's better; I'll soon be quite comfortable." "We don't seem to be making much headway," Shad remarked, observing the shore after a brief lapse in conversation. "No," said Bob, "th' canoe bein' awash 'tis a heavy drag towin' she, but we'll soon be in th' lee, an' out o' danger o' th' sea smashin' she ag'in' th' boat, an' then I'll haul she alongside an' bring your outfit aboard." They were slowly approaching the south shore and presently, as Bob had predicted, ran under the lee of a long point of land, where in calmer water the canoe was manoeuvred alongside, and Shad's outfit, so fortunately and securely lashed fast by Ed Matheson, was found intact, save the paddle which Shad had been using. The things were quickly transferred to the boat, and, this accomplished, Bob bailed the canoe free of water, dropped it astern, now a light and easy tow, and catching the breeze again in the open, turned at length into Wolf Bight, where he made a landing on a sandy beach. "That's where I lives," said Bob, indicating a little log cabin, sharply silhouetted against the moonlit sky, on a gentle rise above them. When the canoe, quite unharmed, was lifted from the water and all made snug, Shad silently followed up the path and into the door of the darkened cabin, where Bob lighted a candle, displaying a large square room, the uncarpeted floor scoured to immaculate whiteness, as were also the home-made wooden chairs, a chest of drawers, and uncovered table. There were two windows on the south side and one on the north side, all gracefully draped with snowy muslin. A clock ticked cheerfully on a rude mantel behind a large box stove. To the left of the door, a rough stairway led to the attic, and the rear of the room was curtained off into two compartments, the spotlessly clean curtains of a pale blue and white checked print, giving a refreshing touch of colour to the room which, simply as it was furnished, possessed an atmosphere of restfulness and homely comfort that impressed the visitor at once as cosy and wholesome. "My folks be all abed," explained Bob, as he placed the candle on the table, "but we'll put a fire on an' boil th' kettle. A drop o' hot tea'll warm you up after your cold souse." "I would appreciate it," said Shad, his teeth chattering. "Be that you, Bob?" asked a voice from behind the curtain. "Aye, Father," answered Bob, "an' I has a gentleman with me, come t' visit us." "Now that be fine. I'll be gettin' right up," said the voice. "Put a fire on, lad, an' set th' kettle over," suggested a woman's voice, "an' I'll be gettin' a bite t' eat." "Please don't leave your bed," pleaded Shad. "It will make me feel that I am causing a lot of trouble. Bob and I will do very nicely." "'Tis no trouble, sir--'tis no trouble at all," the man's voice assured. "Oh, no, sir; 'tis no trouble," echoed the woman's voice. "'Tis too rare a pleasure t' have a visitor." Both spoke in accents of such honest welcome and hospitality that Shad made no further objection. The fire was quickly lighted, and Shad, as the stove began to send out its genial warmth, had but just removed his borrowed adicky when the curtain parted and Mr. and Mrs. Gray appeared. "Mr. Trowbridge, this be Father and Mother," said Bob; adding as a second thought, "Mr. Trowbridge lives in Boston." "'Tis fine t' see a stranger, sir," welcomed Richard Gray, as he shook Shad's hand warmly, "an' from Boston, too! I have hearn th' fishermen o' th' coast tell o' Boston more'n once, but I never were thinkin' we'd have some one from Boston come t' our house! An' you comes all th' way from Boston, now?" "Yes," admitted Shad, "but I feel sure I'm causing you and Mrs. Gray no end of inconvenience, coming at this time of night." "Oh, no, sir! 'Tis no inconvenience in th' least. We're proud t' have you," assured Mrs. Gray, taking his hand. "Why, you'm wet, sir!" she exclaimed, noticing Shad's clinging garments, and her motherly instinct at once asserted itself. "You must have a change. Bob, lad, hold th' candle, now, whilst I get some dry clothes." "Please don't trouble yourself. I'm very comfortable by the fire; indeed, I am," Shad protested. But Bob nevertheless held the candle while his mother selected a suit of warm underwear, a pair of woollen socks, a flannel outer shirt, and a pair of freshly washed white moleskin trousers from the chest of drawers. "These be Bob's clothes, but they'll be a handy fit for you, I'm thinkin', for Bob an' you be as like in size as two duck's eggs," she commented, looking the two over for comparison. "Now, Bob, light a candle an' show Mr. Trowbridge above stairs. When you're changed, sir, bring your wet things down, an' we'll hang un by th' stove t' dry." "You're very kind, Mrs. Gray," said Shad gratefully, turning to follow Bob. In the attic were three bunks spread with downy Hudson's Bay Company blankets, two stools, and a small table. It contained no other furniture, but was beautifully clean. There was an open window at either end, one looking toward the water, the other toward the spruce forest, and the atmosphere, bearing the perfume of balsam and fir, was fresh and wholesome. "I sleeps here," informed Bob, placing the candle on the table and indicating one of the bunks, "an' you may have either o' th' other beds you wants. Now whilst you changes, sir, I'll bring up th' things from th' boat. Here's a pair o' deerskin moccasins. Put un on," he added, selecting a new pair from several hanging on a peg. Shad made his toilet leisurely, and as he turned to descend the stairs with his wet garments on his arm he met the appetising odour of frying fish, which reminded him that he had eaten nothing since mid-day and was ravenously hungry. In the room below he found the table spread with a white cloth. A plate of bread and a jar of jam were upon it, and at the stove Mrs. Gray was transferring from frying-pan to platter some deliciously browned brook trout. Bob, with his father's assistance, had brought up Shad's belongings from the boat, and Richard was critically examining Shad's repeating rifle. "Let me have un," said he, putting down the gun, and reaching for the wet garments on Shad's arm proceeded at once to spread them upon a line behind the stove. "Set in an' have a bite, now. You must be wonderful hungry after your cruise," invited Mrs. Gray. "'Tis only trout an' a bit o' bread an' jam an' a drop o' tea," Richard apologised, as he joined Shad and Bob at the table, "but we has t' do wi' plain eatin' in this country, an' be content with what th' Lord sends us." "Trout are a real luxury to me," assured Shad. "We are seldom able to get them at home, and a trout supper is a feast to be remembered." "Well, now! Trout a luxury!" exclaimed Richard. "About all we gets t' eat in th' summer is trout an' salmon, an' we're glad enough when th' birds flies in th' fall." "What birds do you get?" asked Shad. "Duck and geese, and there's plenty of partridge in the winter," explained Richard. "An' I were thinkin', now, you might not care for un," said Mrs. Gray. "I'm wonderful glad you likes un." Richard asked the blessing, and then invited Shad to "fall to," and frequently urged him to take more trout and not to be "afraid of un," a quite unnecessary warning in view of Shad's long fast and naturally vigorous appetite. "Mr. Trowbridge wants me t' go on a fortnight's trip up th' country with he," remarked Bob, as they ate. "A trip up th' country?" inquired Richard. "Yes," said Shad, "a fishing and canoeing trip." "But Bob's t' be wonderful busy makin' ready for th' trappin'," Richard objected. "So he tells me," said Shad, "but perhaps if we talk it over to-morrow you can make some suggestion." "Aye," agreed Richard, with evident relief, "we'll talk un over to-morrow." When the meal was finished, Richard devoutly offered thanks, after the manner of the God-fearing folk of the country. The mantel clock struck two as they arose from the table. Dawn was breaking, for at this season of the year the Labrador nights are short, and Shad, at the end of his long and eventful day, was quite content to follow Bob above stairs to his attic bunk. IV AWAY TO THE TRAILS Sunshine was streaming through the open south window of the attic when Shad awoke. Just outside the window a jay was screeching noisily. Bob's bunk was vacant. It was evident that Shad had slept long and that the hour was late, and he sprang quickly from his bed and consulted his watch, but the watch, flooded with water when the canoe capsized the night before, had stopped. He paused for a moment at the open window to look out upon the nearby forest and expand his lungs with delicious draughts of the fragrant air. It was a glorious day, and as he left the window to make a hasty toilet his nerves tingled in eager anticipation, for he was at last at the threshold of the great Labrador wilderness--his land of dreams and romance. He was certain it held for him many novel experiences and perhaps thrilling adventures. And he was not to be disappointed. His clothes, which Richard had hung to dry by the stove the night before, lay on a stool at his bedside, neatly folded. Some one had placed them there while he slept. He donned them quickly, and descending to the living-room found the table spread and Mrs. Gray preparing to set a pot of tea to brew. "Good morning, sir," she greeted, adding solicitously: "I hopes you had a good rest, and feels none the worse for gettin' wet last evenin'." "Good morning," said Shad. "I rested splendidly, thank you, and feel fine and dandy. Whew!" he exclaimed, glancing at the mantel clock. "Twelve o'clock!" "Aye. We was wonderful careful t' be quiet an' not wake you, sir," she explained. "'Tis well t' have plenty o' rest after a wettin' in th' Bay. Dinner's just ready," and going to the open door she called, "Emily! Emily!" A young girl, perhaps twelve years of age, quickly entered in response to the summons. She was clad in a cool, fresh print frock and wore deerskin moccasins upon her feet. Her wavy chestnut-brown hair, gathered with a ribbon, hung down her back; her oval face, lighted by big blue eyes, was tanned a healthy brown, and Shad thought her a rather pretty and altogether wholesome looking child, as she paused in confusion at the threshold upon seeing him. "Emily, dear, get Mr. Trowbridge a basin o' water, now; he's wantin' t' wash up," directed Mrs. Gray. "Mr. Trowbridge, this is our little maid, Emily." "I'm glad to know you, Emily," said Shad courteously. "Have you quite recovered from your injury? When I was at Fort Pelican I heard all about you and your trip to St. Johns." "I's fine now, thank you, sir," answered Emily, flushing to the roots of her hair. "Yes, Emily's fine an' well now, sir," assured Mrs. Gray, as Emily turned to fill the basin of water. "But she were wonderful bad after her fall till she goes t' th' hospital in St. Johns t' be cured. They's a fresh towel on the peg above th' bench, sir, an' a comb on th' shelf under th' mirror by th' window," she continued, as Emily placed a basin of water on a bench by the door. "Thank you," acknowledged Shad, turning to complete his toilet. "Now, Emily, dear, call Father an' Bob," said Mrs. Gray; "dinner's sot." And Emily, glad of a respite from the embarrassing presence of the stranger, ran out, presently to return with her father and Bob. When dinner was disposed of, Richard suggested that it was "wonderful warm so handy t' th' stove," and leaving Mrs. Gray and Emily to clear the table he conducted Shad and Bob to a convenient seat near the boat landing, where they could enjoy a cooling breeze from the bay. Here he drew from his pocket a stick of very black and very strong-looking tobacco, and holding it toward Shad, asked: "Does you smoke, sir?" "No, thank you," declined Shad. "I had just learned to smoke when I entered college, but I was trying for a place on the 'varsity nine, and I had to drop smoking. A fellow can't play his best ball, you know, if he smokes. So I quit smoking before I formed the habit." "Is that a game like snowshoe racin'!" asked Bob. "Oh, no!" and Shad described the game and its tactics minutely, with thrilling detail of battles that his college nine had won and lost upon the diamond. "Well, Bob," Shad asked finally, "have you decided to go with me for a trip into the country?" "I'm not rightly knowin', sir, where you wants t' go," said Bob. Shad stated the object of his journey, and the three talked over the possibilities of making such a trip as he desired within the time at Bob's disposal. "Countin' on bad weather, 'twouldn't be much of a trip you could make in a fortnut, and that'd be th' most time Bob could spare, whatever, with his gettin' ready t' go t' th' trails," Richard finally explained. "His mother an' me be wantin' he home, too, till he goes, for 'twill be a long winter for his mother t' have he away without seein' he. "Now you says you has no hurry t' go away. Dick Blake an' Bill Campbell goes t' th' handiest tilt o' th' Big Hill trail t' help Bob an' Ed Matheson in with their outfit, an' they starts th' first o' August. Then they comes back t' take their outfits up an' they has t' get in before freeze up. "You bein' in no hurry, sir, could go with un on th' first trip, an' come back with un, an' that gives you a fine trip an' a fine view o' th' country. It takes un a month t' go in, but runnin' back light wi' th' rapids they makes un in a week, so you gets back th' first week in September month." "'Twould be grand t' have you along, sir!" exclaimed Bob. "An' I were never thinkin' o' that. Father's wonderful at plannin'." "Done!" said Shad. "I'll do it, but I hope you won't find me a nuisance around here during the three weeks we have to wait." "Oh, no, sir! 'Tis a rare treat t' have you visit us, sir!" protested Richard. And thus it was finally decided. Bob was very busy during the days that followed. Not only his provision and clothing supply for a ten months' absence from home was to be made ready, but also the full equipment for the new trails to be established. The necessary traps had already been purchased, but sheet-iron had to be fashioned into stoves and stove-pipe to heat the tents and log tilts, and one new tent was to be made. It was imperative, too, that each minor necessity that the wilderness itself could not readily supply, he provided in advance, and that nothing be forgotten or overlooked. The establishment of these trails was an event of high importance in the Gray household. Bob's little fortune of a few thousand dollars, derived from the salvage of a trading schooner the previous year, had been deposited in a St. Johns bank, and his thrifty old friend, Douglas Campbell, had suggested that it might be invested to advantage in a small trading venture. "Bob can lay his trails this winter," said Douglas, "an' next year take some tradin' goods in. Knowin' th' Nascaupee an' Mountaineer Injuns, an' a bit o' their lingo, he'll be able t' do a snug bit o' tradin' with un, along with his trappin'. An' if you opens a little store here at th' Bight next summer, th' rest of you can 'tend un when Bob's inside trappin'. "I were thinkin', too," said Douglas, "'twould be fine t' send Emily t' St. Johns t' school th' winter, an' she'd learn t' keep th' books. She's a smart lass, an' she'd learn, now, in a winter or two winters, whatever, an' 'twould pay--an' do th' lass a wonderful lot o' good. I'm wantin' a trip t' St. Johns, an' I'd take she on th' mail boat." There were many long discussions before it was finally decided that Bob should launch upon the venture. Bob's mother opposed it. The terrible winter of suspense when Bob, lost in the snow, was given up for dead, was still a vivid remembrance to her. She recalled those tedious months of grief as one recalls a horrid nightmare, and she declared that another such winter, particularly if she were to be deprived of Emily's society, would be unendurable. But her objections were finally overcome. Emily was to go to school and it was decided Bob should establish two new trails. One of these he was to hunt himself, the other one Ed Matheson had agreed to hunt on a profit-sharing basis. Dick Blake and Bill Campbell--a son of Douglas Campbell--were to occupy adjoining trails, and the four to work more or less in conjunction with one another. Shad and Emily became fast friends at once. On pleasant afternoons she would lead him away to explore the surrounding woods in search of wild flowers, and after supper he would tell her fairy tales from Grimm, but best of all she liked his stories from Greek and Roman mythology. She, and the whole family, indeed, listened with rapt attention when Shad related how Chronos attacked Uranos with a sickle, wounding and driving Uranos from his throne; how from some of the drops that fell from Uranos's wounds sprang giants, the forefathers of the wild Indians; how from still other drops came the swift-footed Furies--the three Erinnyes--who punished those who did wrong, and were the dread of the wicked. Thus the days passed quickly and pleasantly--even the occasional foggy or rainy days, when Bob and his father worked indoors, and Bob, at Emily's request, recounted very modestly his own adventures. Emily particularly liked to have Bob tell of Ma-ni-ka-wan, an Indian maiden who nursed him back to health after Sish-e-ta-ku-shin and Moo-koo-mahn, Manikawan's father and brother, had found him unconscious in the snow and carried him to their skin wigwam. "Th' Nascaupees was rare kind t' me," Bob explained to Shad. "They made me one o' th' tribe, Sishetakushin calls me his son, an' they gives me an Indian name meanin' in our talk 'White Brother o' th' Snow.' They were thinkin' I'd stop with un, an' they were wonderful sorry when I leaves un t' come home with th' huskies. Manikawan were a pretty maid--as pretty as ever I see." "Were she as pretty as Bessie, now?" asked Emily slyly. "Now, Emily, dear, don't go teasin' Bob," warned Mrs. Gray. "I were just askin' he," said Emily; "he's so wonderful fond o' Bessie." "O' course he's fond o' Bessie, and so be all of us. Emily's speakin' o' Bessie Black, sir," Mrs. Gray explained, to Shad. "She's Tom Black's lass. Tom is th' factor's man over t' th' post, an' th' Blacks be great friends of ours. Bessie's but a young maid--a year younger'n Bob. You'll see th' Blacks when you goes over t' th' post with Bob." "I'm immensely interested in your Indian friends," said Shad. "Manikawan was a little brick, and the Nascaupees bully good fellows. Will there be a chance of my meeting them?" "No, they camps on lakes down t' th' n'uth'ard in summer," Bob explained. "If you was stayin' th' winter, now, you'd see un." "I'm almost persuaded to remain on the trails with you all winter, and see something of the life of real, uncivilised Indians," asserted Shad. "I would stay if it were not for college." "'Twould be fine t' have you, now!" exclaimed Bob enthusiastically. "But," he added doubtfully, "I'm fearin' you'd find th' winter wonderful cold, an' th' tilts lonesome places t' stop in, not bein' used to un." "An' your mother would be worryin' about you; now, wouldn't she?" suggested Mrs. Gray. "My mother died when I was a little boy, and Father died two years ago," said Shad. "I have one sister, but she learned long ago that I could take care of myself." "Is she a little sister?" asked Emily. "Oh, no," said Shad, "she's a big, married sister, and has a little girl of her own nearly as old as you are." "'Twould be grand t' have you stay," Bob again suggested. "Thank you, and it would be grand to stay, I'm sure, but," said Shad regretfully, "I can't do it. I must go back to college." At length Bob announced one day that his outfit was completed and that all was in readiness, save a few incidentals to be purchased at the Hudson's Bay Company's trading post, fifteen miles across the bay. Shad, too, found it necessary to make some purchases preparatory to his journey to the interior, and the following morning the two sailed away in Bob's dory. Tom Black, the post servant, welcomed them as they stepped ashore on the sandy beach below the post, and with him was Bob's old friend, Douglas Campbell, who stated that he had arrived at the post an hour earlier. "I'm glad you come over, Bob," said he, as the four walked up toward Black's cabin. "When I comes t' th' post this mornin', I were thinkin' t' go back t' Kenemish by way of Wolf Bight t' have a talk with you, but your comin' saves me th' cruise. Set down here, now, a bit, till dinner's ready. I wants t' hear your plans for th' trails." And while Shad was carried off by Tom to meet Mr. McDonald, the factor, Douglas and Bob seated themselves upon a bench before the cabin and discussed the proposed new trails. "Now, Bob, 'tis this I were wantin' t' say to you, an' I weren't wantin' t' say it when your mother'd hear, an' set her worryn'," said Douglas finally. "Don't forget you're goin' where no white trapper was ever goin' before. You'll have to be a wonderful sight more careful than on th' Big Hill trail. Last year when I goes on th' Big Hill trail some Mingen Injuns come t' th' last tilt an' made some trouble, an' told me they'd never let a white trapper hunt th' country beyond th' Big Hill trail, an' you plans t' go, Bob. Now, if you works west'ard of a line from th' last tilt o' th' Big Hill trail an' th' river, be wonderful careful o' th' Mingens. They's a bad lot of Injuns." "I'll be careful, sir," promised Bob, adding, however, "I'm not fearin' th' Injuns, though." "You never knows what an Injun's goin' t' do," cautioned Douglas. "You was findin' th' Nascaupees friendly, but th' Mingens is different." Presently Tom joined them and invited them to dinner in the crudely furnished but spotlessly clean living-room of the cabin. Mrs. Black, a stout, motherly woman, had countless questions to ask of Douglas and Bob as to how "th' folks t' home" fared, while she and her daughter Bessie served the meal. Shad dined with Mr. McDonald, but directly after dinner joined Bob while they made their purchases in the shop, and prepared for immediate departure to Wolf Bight. When all was ready, Bob left Shad waiting at the boat while he returned to the cabin to say goodbye to Mrs. Black and Bessie. Bessie followed him to the door, and when they were outside where none could see she drew from beneath her apron a buckskin cartridge pouch, upon which she had neatly worked in silk the word "BOB" in the centre of a floral design, doubtless the result of many days' labour. "Here, Bob," said she, "I were makin' it for you, an' when you carries it on th' trail remember we're all thinkin' of you down here, an' wishin' you luck in th' furrin', an' hopin' you're safe." "Oh!--Bessie--'tis--'tis wonderful kind of you--I'll always be rememberin'," Bob stammered in acceptance, for a moment quite overcome with surprise and embarrassment. "Now take care of yourself, Bob. We'll be missin' you th' winter--good-bye, Bob." "Good-bye, Bessie." Bob and Shad quickly hoisted sail, and as they drew away from shore Bob looked back to see Bessie still standing in the cabin door, waving her handkerchief to him, and he regretted that he had not shown more plainly his appreciation of her gift and her thoughtfulness. The following Monday was the day set for the departure of the adventurers, and in accordance with a previous arrangement, late on Sunday afternoon Dick Blake, Ed Matheson, and Bill Campbell, Ungava Bob's trapping companions, joined him and Shad at Wolf Bight, where they were to spend the night. Bill Campbell was a tall, awkward, bashful young man of twenty-one, whose chief physical characteristic was a great shock of curly red hair. Monday morning came all too soon. Breakfast was eaten by candle light, and with the first grey hints of coming dawn the boat and Shad's canoe were loaded for the start. Shad's tent and camping equipment, less heavy and cumbersome than Bob's, together with a limited supply of provisions for daily use upon the journey to the plateau, were carried in the canoe. The bulk of the provisions and the heavier outfit for the trails, made up into easily portaged packs, were stowed in the boat. This arrangement of the outfit was made to avoid the necessity of unpacking and repacking at night camp, and with packs thus always ready for the carry, much time could be saved. The family gathered at the shore to bid the travellers farewell. First, the boat with Dick Blake, Ed Matheson, and Bill Campbell at the oars pulled off into the curtain of heavy morning mist that lay upon the waters. Then Bob kissed his mother and Emily, pressed his father's hand, took his place in the canoe with Shad, and a moment later they, too, were swallowed up by the fog. The long journey, to be followed by a winter of hardship and adventure, was begun, and with heavy hearts the little family upon the shore turned back to their lowly cabin and weary months of misgiving and uncertainty. V IN THE FAR WILDERNESS Beyond the sheltered bight a good breeze was blowing and presently, as the sun arose and the mist lifted from the water, Shad and Bob, keeping close to shore, discovered the boat a half-mile away with sails hoisted, bowling along at good speed. "We'll be makin' rare time, now," said Bob. "We'll be passin' Rabbit Island in an hour, an' makin' the Traverspine t' boil th' kettle for dinner." "No rapids to-day?" asked Shad. "No, th' portage at Muskrat Falls is th' first," answered Bob, adding uncertainly: "I'm 'feared you'll find th' work on th' river wearisome, not bein' used t' un--th' portagin' an' trackin'. I finds un hard." "That's a part of the game," said Shad. "I expect to do my share of the work, old man, and I don't think you'll find me a quitter." "I were knowin', now, you were that kind, ever since I picks you out o' th' Bay," exclaimed Bob. "You weren't losin' your head, an' by th' time I h'ists sail you was wringin' th' water outen your shirt, just as if 'tweren't nothin'. An', Mr. Trowbridge, I likes you ever since." "Thank you, Bob, but if you want me to be your friend drop the handle from my name and call me 'Shad.' We're on an equal footing from this on." "'Twill be wonderful hard, Mr. Trow--" "Shad!" "'Twill be wonderful hard t' call you 'Shad '--it sounds kind of unrespectful, now." "Not in the least," laughed Shad. "All the fellows call me Shad." "I'll try t' think now t' do it, Mr.--I means Shad. But 'tis a rare queer name." "Shadrach is the full name. It is pretty awful, isn't it? But doting parents cast it upon me, and I'll have to hold my head up under it." "'Tis a Bible name, now. I remembers readin' about Shadrach somewheres in th' Book o' Daniel." The canoe and boat had been gradually drawing together and now, within speaking distance, Bob called out: "I'm thinkin' me an' Shad'll go on t' th' Traverspine or handy t' un, an' have th' kettle boiled when you comes up. We ought t' make clost t' th' Traverspine by noon." "You an' who?" bawled Dick. "Me an' Shad--Mr. Trowbridge." "Oh, aye," answered Dick, "'twill save time." "Bob's gettin' wonderful unrespectful, callin' Mr. Toobridge 'Shad!'" remarked Ed. "'Tain't 'Toobridge,' Ed!" exclaimed Dick, in disgust. "Can't you remember, now? 'Tis Towbreg--T-o-w-b-r-e-g. You'll be callin' he wrong t' his face again." "I'm thinkin' you be right this time, Dick," Ed reluctantly admitted. The lighter and swifter canoe had already shot ahead and was out of hearing. Bob's mind filled with plans for the future, Shad enjoying the wide vista of water and wilderness, they paddled in silence. The brilliant sunshine, the low, rocky shores, the spruce-clad hills rising above, with now and again a breath of the perfumed forest wafted to them upon the breeze, inspired and exhilarated the young voyageurs. Shad was conscious of a new sense of freedom and power taking possession of him. The romance of the situation appealed to his imagination. Was he not one of an adventurous band of pioneers going into a vast wilderness, an untamed and unexplored land, to battle with nature and the elements? For several hours they paddled, finally entering the wide river mouth. Here the first indication of a current was encountered, and the northern bank was followed closely that they might take advantage of counter eddies, and thus overcome the retarding effect of the midstream current. "'Twill be noon when th' boat comes, an' we'll stop now t' boil th' kettle," Bob finally suggested. "Th' Traverspine River is handy by. She comes into this river just above here a bit." "Good!" exclaimed Shad. "I'm nearly famished, and I've been hoping for the last hour to hear you say that." "Paddlin' do make for hunger," admitted Bob, as he stepped ashore on a sandy beach near the mouth of a rushing brook. "I'm a bit hungry myself. I'll be puttin' a fire on now, an' you brings up th' things from th' canoe." In an incredibly short time the fire was lighted, and when Shad brought up a kettle of water from the river Bob had already cut a stiff pole about five feet in length. The butt end of this he sharpened, and, jamming it into the ground, inclined it in such manner that the kettle, which he took from Shad and hung by its bail upon the other end of the pole, was suspended directly over the blaze. Bob, who installed himself as cook, now sliced some fat pork to fry, while Shad gathered a quantity of large dry sticks which lay plentifully about and began piling them upon the fire. "Oh, don't make such a big fire, now!" exclaimed Bob, when he discovered what Shad was about. "'Twill be too hot t' cook by. A small bit o' fire's enough;" and he proceeded to pull out of the blaze the large wood which Shad had placed upon it. [Illustration: Two boys cooking over a campfire.] "If there's nothing else for me to do, I'll see if there are any trout in that brook," said Shad. Shad made his first cast in a promising pool a little way from the fire, and the moment the fly touched the water, "zip!" went the reel. The result was a fine big trout. Within twenty minutes he had landed eighteen, and when presently the boat drew up a delicious odour of frying fish welcomed the three hungry men as they sprang ashore and made the painter fast. "Shad got un," explained Bob, in response to an exclamation of pleasure from Ed. "You means Mr. Towbridge, Bob," corrected Dick, with dignity. "No," broke in Shad, "Bob's right. Shad is my front name and I want you fellows to call me Shad; leave the handle off." "An' you wants, sir," agreed Dick. "'Tis a bit more friendly soundin'." "Them trout makes me think," said Ed, as he cut some tobacco from a plug and filled his pipe after dinner, "of onct I were out huntin' pa'tridges. I gets plenty o' pa'tridges, but I finds myself wonderful hungry for trout, when I comes to a pool in a brook where I stops t' cook my dinner an' sees a big un jump. "'Now,' says I, t' myself, 'Ed,' says I, 'you got t' get un somehow,' an' I goes through my pocket lookin' for tackle. All I finds is a piece o' salmon twine an' one fishhook. 'I'll try un, whatever,' says I, an' I cuts a pole an' ties th' salmon twine t' un, an' th' hook t' th' salmon twine, an,' baitin' th' hook with a bit o' pa'tridge skin, throws in. "Quicker'n a steel trap a trout takes un, but he's a little un, an' I'm so disgusted-like I don't pull he right in. Then before I knows it a big trout takes an' swallows th' little un." Ed paused to lend effect to the climax, while he lighted his pipe and began puffing vigorously. "Well?" asked Shad. "Did you land him?" "Not very prompt," continued Ed. "I was so flustrated I just looks at un for a bit, skiddin' around in th' water. Then, while I lets un play, quicker'n I can say 'boo' an old whopper up an' grabs th' big un an' swallows he. Then I yanks, an' I lands th' three of un. "Th' outside un were two foot and a half long an' a fraction over. I measures he. Th' next one were nineteen an' three-quarters inches long, an' th' little un were ten inches long. Th' little un an' th' next weren't hurt much, an' not wantin' they I throws un back, an' th' big un does me for dinner an' supper an' breakfast th' next mornin', an' then I throws a big hunk that were left over away, because I don't want t' pack un any longer." "Ed," said Dick solemnly, "you'll be struck dead some day for lyin' so." "Who? Me lyin'?" asked Ed, with assumed indignation. "Yes, you. You'm always yarnin', Ed. You never seen a trout moren't two foot long, no more'n I have," declared Dick. "Oh, well," sighed Ed, while the others laughed, "they's no use tellin' you of happenin's, Dick, you always were a doubtin' o' me." The following day at noon the Muskrat Falls were reached, and here the real work and hardship of the journey began. Day after day the men were driven to toil with tracking lines up swift currents, more often than not immersed to their waists in the icy waters of the river, or for weary miles they staggered over portages with heavy loads upon their backs. To add to their difficulties a season of rain set in, and hardly a day passed without its hours of drizzle or downpour. But they could not permit rain or weather to retard their progress. Always between sunrise and sunset they were tormented, too, by myriads of black flies and mosquitoes, the pests of the North. There was no protection against the attacks of the insects. The black flies were particularly vicious; not only was their bite poisonous, but a drop of blood appeared wherever one of them made a wound, and in consequence the faces, hands, and wrists of the toiling voyageurs were not alone constantly swollen, but were coated with a mixture of blood and sweat. Shad, less toughened than his companions, suffered more than they. He was actually made ill for a day or two by the poison thus inoculated into his system, though with his characteristic determination, he still insisted, against the protests of the others, upon doing his full share of the work. Dick advised him, finally, to carry a fat pork rind in his pocket and to occasionally apply the greasy side of the rind to his face and hands. This he discovered offered some relief, though, as he remarked, grease, added to blood and sweat, gave him the appearance of a painted savage. With the evening camp-fire, however, came a respite to the weary travellers, and recompense for all the hardship and toil of the day. Here they would relax after supper, and with vast enjoyment smoke and chat or tell stories of wild adventure. Shad contributed tales of college pranks, which never failed to bring forth uproarious laughter, while his vivid descriptions of battles on the gridiron or on the diamond, illustrated with diagrams drawn with a stick upon the ground, and minutely explained, held his hearers in suspense until the final goal was kicked or the last inning played. Dick and Ed described many stirring personal adventures, the latter embellishing his stories with so many fantastic flights of imagination that Shad would scarcely have known where fact ended and fiction began had Dick not made it a point to interject his warnings of the eternal vengeance that awaited Ed if he did not "have a care of his yamin'." One morning during the third week after leaving Wolf Bight, a beautiful sheet of placid water opened before them in a far-reaching vista to the northwest. On either side of the narrow lake rose towering cliffs of granite, their dark faces lighted at intervals by brooklets tumbling in cascades from the heights above. A loon laughed weirdly in the distance, and from the hills above a wolf sounded a dismal howl. It was a scene of rugged, primeval grandeur, and Shad, taken completely by surprise, caught his breath. "'Tis Lake Wanakapow," explained Ed. "There'll be no more trackin' or portagin'. 'Twill be straight sailin' an' paddlin' from this on. Th' first tilt o' th' Big Hill trail's handy, an' if th' wind holds fair we'll reach un by th' end o' th' week, whatever." For the first time since their departure the voyageurs were enabled to don dry clothing, with the assurance that they could remain dry and comfortable throughout the day. The evenings were becoming frosty and exhilarating. The black flies and mosquitoes had ceased to annoy. Wild geese and ducks upon the waters, and flocks of ptarmigans along the shores, gave promise of an abundance and variety of food. With the changed conditions, in marked contrast to the toil and hardships of the preceding weeks, Shad's desire to remain throughout the winter grew. The lure of the wilderness had its power upon him. The first tilt of the Big Hill trail was reached on Saturday, as Ed had predicted. Here camp was pitched, the boat finally unloaded, and preparation made for Dick and Bill to begin their return voyage on Monday morning. When supper was eaten and they were gathered about the evening camp-fire in blissful relaxation, silently watching the aurora borealis work its wild wonders in the sky, Shad suddenly asked: "Are you certain, Bob, I'd not be a burden to you if I remained here all winter, You know, I'm a tenderfoot in the woods." "Oh, no!" Bob assured enthusiastically. "You'd be no burden! An' when your feet gets tender you can bide in th' tilt an' rest un." "I don't mean that my feet are tender in that way," laughed Shad, "but I'm a novice in woodcraft and I've never done any trapping. You'd have to teach me a great deal about these things, and I don't want to stay if I'll hinder your work in the least." "Oh, you'd never be hinderin' th' work! An' you'd be a wonderful lot o' company, whatever! I hopes you'll stay, Shad!" "Thank you, Bob. I'll stay. It will put me back a whole year in college, but I'll stay anyhow. My experience with you will be worth the sacrifice of a year in college, I'm sure." "Now that be grand!" exclaimed Bob, his face beaming pleasure. "An' Shad stays, Ed, he'll give Bob a hand with th' tilts," suggested Dick. "Can't you go back, now, with me an' Bill, t' help us up with our outfits? 'Twill be a wonderful hard an' slow pull for just th' two of us." "Be you thinkin', now, you can manage th' tilts?" asked Ed, turning to Bob. "O' course me an' Shad can manage un," assured Bob. "I'll go back, then, Dick," consented Ed. "'Twould be hard t' manage with just two on th' boat." Arrangements were made for the three trappers to bring Shad some adequate winter clothing upon their return, letters were written home, and at daylight on Monday morning adieus were said. Bob and Shad stood upon the shore watching the boat bearing their friends away, until it turned a bend in the river below and was lost to view. "We'll not see un again for five weeks," said Bob regretfully, as they retraced their steps to the embers of the camp-fire over which breakfast had been cooked. "And in the meantime," began Shad gaily, with a sweep of his arm, "we are monarch, of all--" Suddenly he stopped. His eyes, following the sweep of his arm, had fallen upon two Indians watching them from the shadow of the spruce trees beyond their camp. VI OLD FRIENDS "Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn!" exclaimed Bob. The moment they were recognised the two Indians strode forward, laughing, and grasped Bob's hand in a manner that left no doubt of their pleasure at meeting him, while both voiced their feeling in a torrent of tumultuous words. They were tall, lithe, sinewy fellows, clad in buckskin shirt, tight-fitting buckskin leggings, and moccasins. They wore no hats, but a band of buckskin, decorated in colours, passing around the forehead, held in subjection the long black hair, which fell nearly to their shoulders. In the hollow of his left arm each carried a long, muzzle-loading trade gun, and Mookoomahn, the younger of the two, also carried at his back a bow and a quiver of arrows. "These be th' Injuns I were tellin' you of," Bob finally introduced, when an opportunity offered. "Shake hands with un, Shad. This un is Sishetakushin, an' this un is his son, Mookoomahn. I've been tellin' they you're my friend." In their attitude toward Shad they were dignified and reserved. Neither could speak English, and Bob, who had a fair mastery of the Indian tongue, interpreted. "We are glad to meet the friend of White Brother of the Snow," said Sishetakushin, acting as spokesman. "We welcome him to our country. White Brother of the Snow tells us he will remain for many moons. He will visit our lodge with White Brother of the Snow and eat our meat. He will be welcome." "I thank you," responded Shad. "'White Brother of the Snow has told me how kind you were to him when he was in trouble, and it is a great pleasure to meet you. I will certainly visit your lodge with him and eat your meat." The ceremony of introduction completed, Bob renewed the fire and brewed a kettle of tea for his visitors. They drank it greedily, and at a temperature that would have scalded a white man's throat. "They's wonderful fond o' tea, and tobacco, too," explained Bob, "an' they only gets un when they goes t' Ungava onct or twict a year." Upon Bob's suggestion that, should they meet Indians, it would prove an acceptable gift, Shad had purchased at the post and brought with him a bountiful supply of black plug tobacco, such as the natives used, and with this hint from Bob he gave each of the Indians a half-dozen plugs. The swarthy faces and black eyes of the visitors lighted with pleasure, and from that moment much of the reserve that they had hitherto maintained toward him vanished. "The friend of White Brother of the Snow is generous," said Sishetakushin, in accepting the tobacco. "For four moons we have had nothing to smoke but dried leaves and the bark of the red willow." Each Indian carried at his belt a pipe, the bowl fashioned from soft, red pipe stone, the stem a hollow spruce stick. Squatting upon their haunches before the fire, they at once filled their pipes with tobacco, lighted them with coals from the fire, and blissfully puffed in silence for several minutes. "How are Manikawan and her mother?" Bob presently inquired. "The mother is well, but the maiden has grieved long because White Brother of the Snow never returns," answered Sishetakushin. "She watches for him when the Spirit of the Wind speaks in the tree-tops. She watches when the moon is bright and the shadow spirits are abroad. She watches when the evil spirits of the storm are raging in fury through the forest. She watches always, and is sad. Young men have sought her hand to wife, but she has denied them. White Brother of the Snow will return. He will come again to our lodge, and the maiden will be joyful." Shad was unable to understand a word of this, but Bob's face told him plainly that something not altogether pleasant to the lad had been said. "I cannot go now," said Bob, speaking in the Indian tongue. "We must build our lodges and lay our trails. Winter will soon be upon us and we must have the lodges built before the Frost Spirit freezes the earth." "Sishetakushin's lodge is always open to White Brother of the Snow. It is pitched upon the shores of the Great Lake, two-days' journey to the northward. The trail is plain. It lies through two lakes and along water running to the Great Lake. The maiden is waiting for White Brother of the Snow. He was made one of our people. He is welcome." [Footnote: Lake Michikamau, the Great Lake of the Indians, situated on the Labrador plateau.] The Indians had risen to go, and Bob presented them with a package of tea, as a parting gift, which they accepted. "White Brother of the Snow will come to our lodge soon and bring with him his friend," said Sishetakushin, in accepting the tea, and he and Mookoomahn, like shadows, disappeared into the forest. "Injuns be queer folk, but they were good friends t' me when I were needin' friends," said Bob, when the Indians were gone. VII WHERE THE EVIL SPIRITS DWELL From the river tilt, as they called it, where their camp was pitched, the Big Hill trail led to the northwest for fifteen miles, then fifteen miles to the westward, where it took a sharp turn to the northward, in which direction it continued for nearly thirty miles, then again swung to the westward for fifteen miles, where it terminated on the shores of a small lake. This was the trail previously hunted by Bob. Douglas Campbell had visited the Big Hill trail the preceding winter, but had not remained to hunt, and it had therefore been unoccupied during the winter. For the season at hand it had been transferred to Dick Blake, while Dick's own trail, farther down the river, was to remain untenanted, and the animals given an opportunity to increase. Directly below the Big Hill trail and adjoining it was Bill Campbell's trail. Bob had been informed by Mountaineer Indians who camped during a portion of each summer near the Eskimo Bay post, that by following a stream flowing into the river a short distance above the river tilt of the Big Hill trail, and taking a west-northwesterly direction, he would find a series of lakes running almost parallel with the river, and lying between the river and the Big Hill trail. Tradition said that this stream and series of lakes had at one time been an Indian portage route around the Great Falls of the Grand River, but for many years it had been generally avoided by Indians because of its proximity to the falls, which were supposed to be the abode of evil spirits, a superstition doubtless arising from the fact that Indian canoes may have been caught in the current above the falls and carried to destruction below; and because of the impression and awful aspect of the falls themselves, whose thunderous roar may be heard for many miles, echoing through the solitudes. From the fact that this region had but rarely been traversed, and had certainly not been hunted by Indians for many generations, and that the animals within the considerable territory which it embraced had therefore been permitted to increase undisturbed by man, Bob argued that it must of necessity prove a rich trapping ground for the first who ventured to invade it. It was here, then, that he purposed establishing his first trapping trail. The first step to be taken was to make a survey of the region, and with a quantity of steel traps, a limited supply of provisions, and Shad's light tent, the two young adventurers set forward in the canoe upon their scouting journey within the hour after Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn had left them. A long portage and the ascent of a stream for several miles carried them that evening to the first of the series of lakes, where Bob's trained eye soon discovered unquestionable signs of an abundance of fur-bearing animals, sustaining his hope that the ground would be found virgin and profitable territory. Their camp was pitched by the lake shore. At their back lay the dark forest, before them spread the shimmering lake, and to the westward a high hill lifted its barren peak of weather-beaten, storm-scoured rocks. The atmosphere became cool as evening approached, and when supper was disposed of the fire was renewed, and, weary with their day's work, they reclined before its genial blaze to watch the sun go down in an effulgence of glory and colour. Neither spoke until the colours were well-nigh faded, and the first stars twinkled faintly above. "The most glorious sunset I ever beheld," remarked Shad finally, breaking the silence. "'Twere fine!" admitted Bob. "We sees un often in here, this time o' year. They makes me think o' what the Bible says th' holy place in th' temple was t' be like--'A veil o' blue an' purple an' scarlet.' I'm wonderin', now, if th' Lard weren't makin' these sunsets just t' show what th' holy place be like, an' t' keep us from forgettin' un. I'm wonderin' if 'tisn't a bit o' th' holy place in th' temple o' Heaven, th' Lard's showin' us in them sunsets." "I don't know," said Shad; "I don't remember it. I must confess I never read my Bible very much." "I'll read un to you from my Bible when day comes," promised Bob. Presently the aurora borealis flashed up upon the sky with the effect of a thousand powerful searchlights, the long fingers of light rising from the northern horizon to the zenith and flashing from east to west in a maze of every-changing colour--now white--now red--now yellow. It was a scene not only beautiful, but weird and awe-inspiring. "I'm thinkin', now, o' th' northern lights," remarked Bob, when they had watched them for some time, "that they's flashes o' light from heaven. I'm thinkin' th' Lard sends un t' give us promise o' th' glories we'll have when we dies." "That is a cheerful thought, at least," admitted Shad. "Yes, 'tis cheerin'. Leastways, they always cheers me when I see un," declared Bob. "Whenever I see them after this," said Shad, "I shall remember your suggestion--that they are the reflected glory of heaven, sent to inspire the dwellers upon earth." As they arose to retire to their tent the dead silence of the wilderness was startled by the uncanny cry of a loon. Bob stood for a moment and listened. Then, turning to the tent, he remarked: "'Tis a bad sign, when a loon laughs at night like that!" "In what way?" asked Shad. "'Tis said t' be a warnin' o' danger an' trouble." In a series of portages from lake to lake they passed the next day through six lakes of varying size, caching traps now and again at convenient points for future use. All the afternoon a low, rumbling sound was to be heard. Time and again they halted to listen. It was a changeless, sullen, muffled roar. Finally, when they reached the sixth lake, later in the afternoon, their curiosity got the better of them and they climbed a barren eminence to investigate. As they neared the summit the roar increased in volume, and when they reached the top and looked to the southward they beheld a cloud of vapour. "'Tis th' Great Falls o' th' Injuns!" exclaimed Bob. "Where the evil spirits dwell?" asked Shad. "Aye, where th' evil spirits dwell." Around them lay a rugged scene of sub-Arctic grandeur. To the eastward the country was dotted with a network of small lakes similar to those through which they had been travelling, while to the northward a much larger lake appeared. The shores of these lakes supported a forest of black spruce, but every rise of ground was destitute of other growth than the gray caribou lichen which everywhere carpets the Labrador forest. "There's a grand chance t' lay th' trails," said Bob. "We'll be makin' our trails along th' s'uth'ard lakes an' up t' that big lake, an' Ed's among th' lakes t' th' n'uth'ard." "I'd like to see those falls," suggested Shad. "Can't we take the morning off to visit them?" "An' you wants," agreed Bob. "We'll be buildin' a tilt down where th' canoe is, an' another on th' first lake, an' I'm thinkin' another on th' big lake above." Accordingly the following morning, leaving their camp pitched and their canoe on the lake shore, they turned southward upon an exploring expedition. Their tramp carried them across a series of ridges and bogs and finally into a forest. With every step the roar increased, and at length they could plainly feel the earth tremble beneath their feet. Suddenly they emerged from the forest to behold a scene of wild and sublime grandeur. They stood at the very brink of a mighty chasm. From far above them the river rushed down, a stupendous torrent of foam-crested billows and swirling whirlpools, impatient to make its leap into the depths at their feet where it was presently to be swallowed up in a bank of mist, which shimmered beneath the two adventurers like a giant opal lighted by all the colours of the rainbow. Below the rainbow-coloured mist the river again appeared, rushing in fearful power past beetling, frowning cliffs, which directly hid it from view. The very rocks upon which they stood trembled, and a reverberating roar rose from the canyon at their feet, so loud that conversation was well-nigh impossible. [Footnote: These are the Grand Falls of Labrador. The river falls three hundred and sixteen feet with a single leap.] For half an hour they stood enthralled by the scene, then they turned up the river, walking along its bank. "'Tis an awful place down there," remarked Bob. "I'm not wonderin', now, th' Injuns thinks 'tis possessed by evil spirits." "It is the most sublime scene I ever beheld," declared Shad. "One glimpse of it is worth all the trouble we've had in getting here." The river gradually widened, but always with a strong current, even above the heavy white rapids, until some five miles above the falls it expanded into a large island-dotted lake. At the extreme lower end of this lake the old Indian portage trail was discovered, and following it the explorers late in the day reached their camp. The following weeks were devoted to the erection of tilts--small log cabins to be used in winter as shelter. One was established well up the shores of the large lake expansion above the falls, another upon the shores of the lake from which they had made their excursion to the falls, and still another upon the first lake above the river tilt of the Big Hill trail, while to the northward near other lakes four other tilts were erected, at convenient distances apart, for Ed's use. These tilts were all constructed upon the same general plan. They were on an average about eight by ten feet in size, with a slightly sloping roof so low in the rear Bob could scarcely stand erect. The chinks between the logs were filled with caribou moss. The roof logs were covered with boughs, over which was spread first a blanket of moss and then a coating of six inches of earth. Each was provided with a doorway about four feet in height and two and a half feet wide, which was fitted with a door constructed of lashed saplings covered with bark. Within, a platform of flat stones was arranged to accommodate the sheet-iron stove, with a stove-pipe hole through the roof directly over it. Long, springy saplings were utilised in erecting bunks at the rear and along the side of the tilt opposite the stove. These were later to be covered with spruce boughs, and would serve both as beds and seats, and were elevated some eighteen inches above the earth floor. "They'll be warm an' snug," said Bob. "When frosty weather an' winter comes th' snow soon banks un up an' covers un up, roof and all, and makes un good an' tight." "But how do you get air enough to breathe?" asked Shad. "Th' stove-pipe hole is made plenty big," explained Bob, "an' that lets th' bad air out, an' we mostly has a snow tunnel leadin' t' th' door so th' wind won't strike in, an' leavin' th' door off, th' good air comes in." Nearly four weeks had been consumed in this work, and without waiting for the reappearance of their friends they began at once the distribution of supplies among the tilts, for September was nearly spent and winter would be upon them by mid-October, when ice in the lakes would render the canoe useless. Therefore, with all haste they proceeded with their first canoe-load of provisions to the farthest tilt, built upon the shores of the lake expansion above the falls. It was mid-forenoon of a beautiful, transparent September day when they reached the tilt. The supplies were quickly stowed beneath the bunks, the tent stove erected, and, halting only long enough to make tea, they launched their canoe for the return. "We'll be makin' th' river tilt before we sleeps," said Bob. "They's a moon, an' we'll finish by moonlight, an' to-morrow we'll be gettin' out with th' next load. If we travels fast we can make th' river tilt before midnight, whatever!" The portage trail left the river at a point some ten miles below the tilt, and as previously stated, at the lower end of the lake, where the current began to gather strength for its final tumultuous rush toward the falls. They had paddled the distance in two hours, and were congratulating themselves upon their good progress as they turned the canoe toward the portage landing, when suddenly they were startled by a burst of wild, bloodcurdling whoops, and a half-dozen strange Indians, guns levelled, rose upon the shore. "Mingens!" exclaimed Bob. A warning in the Indian tongue was shouted at them that they must not attempt to land. A shot was fired over their heads to emphasise the fact that the savages were in earnest, and with no alternative, and taken wholly by surprise, Shad at the steersman's paddle astern, swung the canoe out into the stream, still continuing down the river. "Upstream! Upstream! Turn about!" shouted Bob. In the excitement and confusion that followed the first few moments after the attack, much valuable time had been lost in ineffectual manoeuvres, and when the canoe was finally turned about they were far out into the stream, and it was found that the insidious current had caught them. Bob was the first to recognise the danger, and in a sharp, tense voice he commanded: "Quick! Work for your life! If th' rapid gets us, 'twill carry us over th' falls!" Then they paddled--paddled as none had ever paddled before. But already the powerful current had them in its grip. Slowly--slowly--but with increasing speed they were drifting toward the awful cataract. They would have braved the Indians now, and attempted a landing, but from a point directly below the portage trail, and extending to the white water of the heavy rapids the river bank rose in a perpendicular rampart of smooth-scoured rock, a full ten feet in height, offering no possible foothold. For a little while they hoped, as they worked like madmen. Then the full import of their position dawned upon them--that they were hopelessly drifting toward the brink of the awful cataract. Beads of cold perspiration broke out upon their foreheads. A sickening numbness came into their hearts, and as in a dream they heard the derisive, exultant yells of the savages upon the shore. VIII AFTER THE INDIAN ATTACK Below them rose the appalling roar of the hungry rapids and the dull, thunderous, monotonous undertone of the falls themselves. Before their vision a vivid picture passed of the scene they had so recently beheld--the onrushing, white piled billows above the cataract, gathering strength for their mighty leap--the final plunge of the resistless torrent--the bank of rainbow-coloured mist hovering in space over a dark abyss--and far below and beyond the mist-bank the murky chasm, where a white seething flood was beating its wild anger out against jagged rocks in its mad endeavour to fight its way to freedom between narrow canyon walls rising in frowning cliffs on either side. Impotent to resist the power that was drawing them down, Shad Trowbridge and Ungava Bob were certain beyond a doubt that presently they were to be hurled into this awful chasm, and that in all human probability but a few minutes more of life remained to them. Then suddenly there flashed upon Bob's memory the recollection of an island which he had observed when walking along the river bank from the falls to the portage trail. He remembered that this island was of curious formation, with high polished cliffs rising on its upper end and on either side, like bulwarks to guard it from the rushing tide. At its lower end a long, low, gravelly point reached downward, like a pencil point, among the swirling eddies. The gravel which formed this point, he had remarked at the time, had been deposited by the eddies created by the meeting of the waters where they rushed together from either side below the island. With the recollection of the island came also a realisation that here possibly lay a means of escape. A quick estimate of the distance they had already drifted below the portage trail satisfied him that they were still perhaps half a mile above the island, and probably not too far amidstream to enable them to swing in upon it before it was passed, in which case a landing might be made with comparative ease upon the gravelly point. The canoe, as previously stated, was heading upstream, with Bob in the bow, Shad in the stern. It was necessary that they turn around and secure a view of the river in order to avoid possible reefs near the island shore, and to properly pick an available landing place. But to attempt to turn the canoe itself in the swift current would in all probability result in fatal delay. Therefore, acting upon the moment's instinct, Bob ceased paddling, arose, and himself quickly turned, seating himself face to the stern, shouting to Shad as he did so: "Turn! I'll steer!" Shad had no doubt Bob had become demented, but without question obeyed the command. In this position what had previously been the stern of the canoe now became the bow, Shad Trowbridge the bowman and Ungava Bob the steersman. The moment paddling ceased the canoe shot forward in the current, heading toward the white waters of the rapids. The manoeuvre had not been made a moment too soon, for directly before them, a little to the left, lay the island. With a quick, dexterous turn of the paddle Bob swung the canoe toward the island shore farthest from the mainland and, close under the cliffs, caught the retarding shore current. A few seconds later the bow of the little craft ground upon the gravelly point, Shad sprang ashore, Bob at his heels, and the canoe was drawn after them to safety. For a moment Bob and Shad looked at each other in silence, then Shad exclaimed simply: "Thank God!" "Aye," said Bob reverently, "thank th' Lard. He were watchin' an' guardin' us when we were thinkin' we was lost. 'Tis th' Lard's way, Shad." "My God, Bob! Look at that!" exclaimed Shad, pointing toward the mad white waters below them. "If you hadn't thought of this island, Bob, we'd be in there now--in there--dead! My God, what an escape! And such a death!" Shad sank upon a bowlder, white and trembling. He was no coward, but he was highly imaginative at times. During the trying period in the canoe he was cool and brave. He had done his part at the paddle equally as well as Bob. He would have gone to his death without a visible tremor. But now the reaction had come, and his imagination ran riot with his reason. "Why, Shad, what's th' matter now?" asked Bob solicitously. "Were th' strain at th' paddle too much? You looks sick." "No--I'm all right--just foolish. I'm afraid you'll think I'm not game, Bob." "Oh, but I knows you is, Shad. I seen you turned over in th' Bay, Shad--an' I knows you'm wonderful brave." "Thank you, Bob. I hope I deserve your opinion." "I were terrible scairt first, when I finds th' canoe's slippin' back toward th' rapid an' I'm seein' no way t' land," said Bob. "Then I stops bein' scairt an' has a feelin' that I don't care--" "Just as I felt," broke in Shad. "A sort of hopeless speculation on what was going to happen, but not much caring." "Aye," continued Bob. "Then I thinks 'twill be sore hard on Mother--my never goin' home--an' I prays th' Lard t' help us, an' soon's I says 'Amen' I thinks o' this island. 'Twere th' Lard puts un in my head, Shad." "I think," said Shad, "it was your quick wit and resourcefulness, Bob." "No," Bob insisted positively, "'twere th' Lard. An', Shad, we must be thankin' th' Lard now." Then Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge knelt by the side of the boulder, the former reverently, the latter courteously, while Bob prayed aloud: "Dear Lard, Shad and me is wonderful thankful that you p'inted out t' us th' landin' place on this island, an', Lard, we wants t' thank you. We knows, Lard, if you hadn't been p'intin' she out t' us, we'd be dead in th' rapids now, or handy t' un. We'll never be forgettin'. An', Lard, keep clost t' Shad an' me always. Amen." "That," said Shad, when they rose to their feet, "was the most honest, simple, straightforward prayer I ever heard offered. Thank you, Bob, for including me. If the Lord hears prayers, Bob, He heard yours, for it was honest and from the heart and to the point." "He hears un, Shad, an' He answers un." There was a note of conviction in Bob's tone that left no room for doubt. "We're here, because we're here, because we're here--" Shad began to sing. "Bob, I'm feeling all right now, and I guess I've got my nerve back again. Foolish, wasn't it, to get frightened after it was all over? Let's see, now, what the prospects are of getting away." From an eminence in the centre of the island they surveyed their surroundings. The mainland lay not more than a short stone's throwaway, but between it and the island the water ran as swift as a mill race. Some two hundred yards below the point on which they had landed the heavy white rapids began, and with but one exception the perpendicular wall of rock that formed the mainland shore extended to and beyond the white water. This exception occurred about half-way between the island and the heavy rapids, where for a distance of some six or eight yards frost action had caused disintegration of the rock, and the wall sloped down toward the river at an angle of forty-five degrees. At the foot of this slope, and on a level with the water, a narrow platform had been formed by the dislodged portion of the rock. Under the most favourable conditions exceedingly expert canoemen might succeed in making a landing here, but it was plain that the foothold offered was so narrow and so unstable that any attempt to make a landing upon it would prove perilous and more than likely fatal. The island itself was oblong in shape and contained an area of three or four acres. Its rocky surface sustained a scant growth of gnarled black spruce and stunted white birch, with here and there patches of brush. From their vantage point no sign of the Indians who had caused their trouble could be seen, and it was evident they had not descended the river bank below the portage trail. "Well, what do you think of it, Bob?" Shad asked. "I'm thinkin' now, th' Injuns are headin' for th' tilt up th' river, an' that they'll be cleanin' un out an' burnin' un. Th' Injuns t' th' post tells me they never comes below th' portage. They's afraid o' th' evil spirits o' th' falls. But they goes back in th' country sometimes an' circles around by th' Big Hill trail." "But what do you think of trying to cross, and make a landing down there where the rock slopes?" inquired Shad. "We'd never make un, Shad," decided Bob. "I knows th' handlin' o' boats. I'm too uncertain in a canoe, an' so be you, Shad." "What are we to do, then? We can't stay here," insisted Shad. "I'm not knowin' yet. They'll be some way showin'," promised Bob, "but we'll have t' think un out first." "What was the matter with those Indians, anyway? I thought all the Indians were friendly to white men," Shad asked, as they turned down again to the canoe. "They's Mingen Injuns," explained Bob. "I were forgettin' t' tell you, Shad. When we was t' th' post, Douglas Campbell tells me that last fall some Mingens comes t' th' last tilt o' th' Big Hill trail an' tells he they'd not let any white trapper hunt above th' Big Hill trail. They's likely seen our tilt up th' river, an' laid for us. I'm sorry, now, I were bringin' you here an' not tellin' you, Shad." "Oh, don't worry about that, Bob. I'd have come just the same," assured Shad. "In fact, I'd have been all the more ready to come, with the prospect of a scrap with Indians in view. If I'd known, though, I'd have had my eyes open and my rifle ready, and dropped a bullet or two among them before we got caught in the current." "Injuns were never givin' me trouble before, an' I weren't takin' their threatenin' t' Douglas in earnest, so I forgets all about un till I sees th' Injuns at th' portage trail," Bob explained. "'Twouldn't have done t' kill any of un, Shad. If you had, th' rest would have laid in th' bushes an' killed us, for they's no knowin' how many they is of un. Then they'd gone back an' laid for Ed an' Dick an' Bill an' killed they before they'd be knowin' they was any trouble. "Now 'tis more 'n likely th' Injuns is thinkin' we be th' only white men about, an' when we thinks up a way o' gettin' out o' here we'll give warnin' t' Ed an' th' others, an' being on th' lookout one of us can hold off a hull passel o' Injuns, for we has Winchesters, an' all they has is muzzle-loadin' trade guns." "But suppose we don't get off this island before the others come to look for us? What then?" asked Shad. "If they misses us an' goes lookin' for us, they'll be knowin' we're missin' for some cause. Bill Campbell's been hearin' from his father what th' Mingens were sayin' last year, an' they'll suspicion 'tis th' Mingens an' be watchin' for un." "But I don't understand yet what objection the Mingens have to our trapping here. I supposed this was the country of your Nascaupee friends." "'Tis this way," Bob explained. "Th' Nascaupees hunts t' th' n'uth'ard, th' Bay Mountaineers t' th' east'ard, an' th' Mingens t' th' s'uth'ard, an' all of un comes in hereabouts t' get deer's meat, mostly th' Mingens, when deer's scarce t' th' s'uth'ard, an' they thinks if white trappers is about th' deer'll be drove out." "Well, Bob, let's boil the kettle and try to figure out a plan of escape," suggested Shad. "With the reaction from the morning's excitement, I'm developing a vast hunger." "They's not a mouthful o' grub in th' bag, Shad," Bob announced sorrowfully, "only a bit o' tea with th' kettle an' our cups. I leaves un all in th' tilt, thinkin' we'd get back t' th' next tilt an' use th' grub that's there, an' I just leaves th' bit o' tea in th' bag." "No grub!" exclaimed Shad. "Then we've got to try to make a landing down on that wall. We can't stay here and starve!" "An' we can't make th' landin'. 'Twould be sure drownin' t' try." "Then it is just a choice between drowning and starving? For my part, I'd rather drown and have it over with, than starve to death!" "Th' Lard weren't showin' us here just t' have us die right off," said Bob quietly. "He were savin' us because He's wantin us t' live, an' He'll be thinkin' if we tries t' make th' landin' knowin' we can't make un, that we're not wantin' t' live. If we takes time now t' plan un out, th' Lard'll show us how." "I wish I had your faith, Bob, but I haven't, and I'm still in favour of making a try for the shore," insisted Shad. "However, let us make some tea and argue the matter out later." "Aye, we'll boil th' kettle an' talk un over, whatever," agreed Bob, rising from the rock upon which they had seated themselves, and turning into the scant growth to collect dry sticks for a fire. But instead of collecting the sticks he returned to the canoe, secured Shad's doublebarrelled shotgun, and a moment later Shad, who was dipping a kettle of water for their tea and had not noticed the movement, was startled by the report of the gun. Looking up, he saw Bob stoop, reach into a clump of bushes, and bring forth a rabbit. "Well, I'll be jiggered!" exclaimed Shad, as Bob held his game aloft for inspection. "I didn't suppose there was hide or hair or feather on this wind-blasted, forsaken island of desolation!" "I sees th' signs," said Bob, "an' then I looks about an' sees th' rabbit. Where they's one they's like t' be quite a passel of un. They likely crosses over last winter on th' ice an' th' break-up catches un here an' they can't get off." "That's some relief to the situation. But we've only about a dozen shells in the canoe," announced Shad, "and when they are gone we'll be as badly off as ever." "We'll not be wastin' shells, now, on rabbits," said Bob. "They's other ways t' catch un. I uses that shell t' get our dinner. I'll get th' rabbit ready now whilst you puts a fire on." "Very well," agreed Shad, collecting wood for a fire, "and when we've eaten I hope we can think of some way of escape." IX THE INDIAN MAIDEN AT THE RIVER TILT "Well," said Ed Matheson, as the boat rounded a bend in the river, "there's the river tilt, an' she looks good." "That she do," agreed Dick Blake. "I hopes, now, Bob's there an' has a fire on. I'm wet t' th' last rag." "So be I. This snow an' rain comin' mixed always 'pears t' make a wetter wet 'n just rain alone," observed Ed. "Bob's there now," broke in Bill Campbell. "I sees smoke comin' from th' tilt pipe." The voyageurs were returning from Eskimo Bay with their second cargo of winter supplies for the trails. Five weeks had elapsed since the morning Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge had watched them disappear around the river bend, and returning to camp had found Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn awaiting them at the edge of the forest. Since early morning there had been a steady drizzle of snow and rain, accompanied by a raw, searching, easterly wind, a condition of weather that renders wilderness travel most disheartening and disagreeable. This was, however, the first break in a long series of delightfully cool, transparent days, characteristic of Labrador during the month of September, when Nature pauses to take breath and assemble her forces preparatory to casting upon the land the smothering snows and withering blasts of a sub-Arctic winter. Despite the pleasant weather, the whole journey from Eskimo Bay had been one of tremendous effort. With but three, instead of five, as on the previous journey, to transport the boat and carry the loads over portages, the labour had been proportionately increased. It was, then, with a feeling of intense satisfaction and relief that the voyageurs hailed the end of their journey, with its promised rest, when they finally ran their boat to the landing below the river tilt of the Big Hill trail. "I'll be tellin' Bob an' Shad we're here now, an' have un help us up with th' outfit," said Ed Matheson cheerily, stepping ashore and striding up the trail leading to the clearing a few yards above, in the centre of which stood the trail. But at the edge of the clearing he stopped in open-mouthed amazement. Before the open door of the tilt stood a tall, comely Indian maiden, perhaps seventeen years of age. She was clad in fringed buckskin garments, decorated in coloured designs. Her hair hung in two long black braids, while around her forehead she wore a band of dark-red cloth ornamented with intricate beadwork. From her shoulder hung a quiver of arrows, and resting against the tilt at her side was a long bow. She stood motionless as a statue, striking, picturesque and graceful, and for a full minute the usually collected and loquacious Ed gazed at her in speechless surprise. "Good evenin'," said he finally, regaining his composure and his power of speech at the same time. "I weren't expectin' t' find any one here but Ungava Bob an' Shad Toobridge. Be they in th' tilt?" With Ed's words she took a step forward, and in evident excitement launched upon him a torrent of Indian sentences spoken so rapidly and with such vehemence that, though he boasted a smattering of the language, he was unable to comprehend in the least what she was saying. It was evident, however, she was addressing him upon some subject of import. "There now," he interrupted finally, forgetting even his smattering of Indian and addressing her in English, "just 'bide there a bit, lass, whilst I gets Dick Blake. He knows your lingo better'n me. I'll send he up." And, hurrying down the trail, he called: "Dick, come up here. They's a Injun lass at th' tilt, firin' a lot o' lingo at me I can't fathom." "A Injun lass!" exclaimed Dick. "What's she doin' there, now? An' where's Bob an' Shad?" "Yes, a Injun lass," said Ed impatiently, "an' what she's doin' you'll have t' find out. It seems like she's achin' t' tell somethin'. I'm not seein' Bob an' Shad." "They must be somethin' wrong, Ed. Come down an' help Bill get th' cargo ashore, an' I'll find out what 'tis;" and Dick hurried up the trail past Ed, to meet Manikawan, for she it was. She was still standing where Ed had left her, and Dick asked kindly in Indian: "What message does the maiden bring to her white brothers?" "Listen!" she commanded, in a clear, musical voice. "I am Manikawan, the daughter of Sishetakushin, whose lodge is pitched on the shores of the Great Lake, to the north. Yesterday some men of the South visited the lodge of my father." "Mingens!" exclaimed Dick. "They told him," she continued, not heeding the interruption, "that five suns back they had found a lodge built where the big river broadens. The lodge was newly made. It was a white man's lodge, for it was built of trees. The men of the South waited in hiding at the end of the portage that was once used by my people. It is above the place where evil spirits dwell." "How many of the men of the South were there?" asked Dick, again interrupting. "Six," she answered promptly. "While they waited two white men passed with a painted canoe and much provisions. Then, while they still waited, the white men returned with the canoe empty. "They fired their guns at the white men. Then the evil spirits that dwell where the river falls reached up for the canoe and dragged it down to the place of thunder. "I have come to tell you this, and to ask if White Brother of the Snow and his friend are here. All night and all day have I travelled, for I am afraid for White Brother of the Snow. He has lived in the lodge of Sishetakushin, my father. He is one of my people, and I am afraid for him." Her rapid speech, her dramatic pose and gestures, and her intensely earnest manner left no doubt in Dick Blake's mind that she spoke the truth. Neither had he any doubt that she referred to Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge as the two white men, for no other white men were in the region, or, he was sure, within several hundred miles of the place, at the time to which she referred. "No," said he, after a moment's pause, "White Brother of the Snow and his friend are not with us." "They are not here!" she wailed, lifting her arms in a gesture of despair. "Where is he? Tell me! It was not White Brother of the Snow sent to the torment of evil spirits?" "I'm afraid, Manikawan, it was. There were no other white men here than White Brother of the Snow and his friend." Manikawan's hands dropped at her side, and for an instant she stood, a picture of mingled horror and grief. But it was for only an instant. Then her face grew hard and vengeful, and in low, even tones she said: "These men of the South killed White Brother of the Snow. They are no longer of my people. They must die." "They must die," echoed Dick. "Come!" she said laconically, reaching for her bow and slinging it on her back. "No, we will rest to-night, and to-morrow at dawn we will go. Rest to-night and be strong for the chase to-morrow," Dick counselled, kindly, as she turned toward the portage trail leading around the rapids. "I cannot rest," she answered. "I go now;" and like a shadow, and as silently, she melted into the darkening forest. Big Dick Blake's heart was full of vengeance, as he strode down the trail to rejoin his companions. "What speech were th' Injun maid tryin' t' get rid of, now?" asked Ed Matheson, pausing in his work of unloading the canoe as Dick appeared. "Bob an' Shad's dead!" announced Dick bluntly. "Dead! Dead!" echoed Ed and Bill together. "Aye, dead. Drove over th' falls by Mingen Injuns," continued Dick. "Five or six days ago, she's sayin'. They's six o' them Injuns down north o' here, huntin' deer, an' their camp's up th' river somewheres. I'm not knowin' rightly where, but we'll find un, an' we'll shoot them Injuns just like a passel o' wolves. If we don't, they'll sure be layin' for us an' shoot us." "Be you sure, now, th' lads is dead?" insisted Ed. "They's no doubtin' it. She tells th' story straight an' clean as a rifle shot;" and Dick went on to repeat in detail the story he had heard from Manikawan. "It looks bad, now, whatever," commented Ed. "But they's a chanct they gets a ashore. I were caught onct in th' rapids above Muskrat Falls, an' thinks it all up with me--right in th' middle o' th' rapids, too--an'--" "Ed," broke in Dick, with vast impatience, "this be no time for yamin'. You knows you never could be gettin' out o' them rapids an' not goin' over th' falls. An' these rapids is a wonderful sight worse." "Maybe they be," admitted Ed. "Th' poor lad, now, bein' killed in that way. Dick," he continued, raising his tall, awkward figure to its full height and placing his hand on Dick's shoulder, "me an' you's stood by one 'nother for a good many years, an' in all sorts o' hard places, an' if it's fight Injuns with you now, Dick, it's fight un, an' Bill's with us." "Aye," said Bill, "that I am." The boat was unloaded, and with heavy hearts the men prepared and ate their evening meal. Then while they smoked their pipes, light packs were put up and all was made snug for an early start the following morning. With the first blink of dawn the three determined men, armed with their rifles, swung out into the forest, and rapidly but cautiously filed up the old portage trail in the direction Manikawan had taken. X THE VOICES OF THE SPIRITS Heedless of drizzling rain and snow, of driving wind and gathering darkness, Manikawan ran forward on the trail. Hatred was in her heart. Vengeance was crying to her. Every subtle, cunning instinct of her savage race was aroused in her bosom. She was determined that those who had sent her beloved White Brother of the Snow to destruction in the deadly place of evil spirits must die. How she should compass their death she did not yet know; this was a detail for circumstance to decide, but it must be done. White Brother of the Snow was of her tribe; the law of her savage nature told her his death must be avenged. At the end of a mile or so she left the trail and turned sharply to the northward, winding her way deftly through moisture-laden underbrush which scarcely seemed to lessen her pace. Presently she broke out upon the shores of a lake and behind some willow bushes uncovered a small birch-bark canoe, which she had carefully concealed there on her journey to the river tilt. Turning the canoe over her head, with the middle thwart resting upon her shoulders, she took a southwesterly direction until the old portage trail was again encountered, and resuming the trail she at length came upon the first lake of the chain through which the portage route passed. The storm had ceased, and the stars were breaking through the clouds as Manikawan launched her canoe. It was a long, narrow lake, and paddling its length she had no difficulty in locating the place where the stream entered; and not far away a blazed tree, now plainly visible in the light of the rising moon, told her where the trail led out. Here, as she stepped ashore, she discovered the first of the series of tilts which Bob and Shad had built, and, immediately pushing aside the flimsy bark door, entered the tilt and struck a match. Its flare disclosed a half-burned candle on a shelf near the door, and lighting it she held it aloft for a survey of the interior of the tilt. On the bunk at the side were two or three bags evidently containing clothing and other supplies, while on the bunk in the rear were some odds and ends of clothing, a folded tent, a coil of rope, doubtless used by the young adventurers as a tracking line, to assist them in hauling their canoe up the swift stream which connected the lake with the river below, and a rifle in a sealskin case. On beholding this last object, Manikawan gave a low exclamation of pleasure. Taking a chip from the floor she bent the candle over it, permitting some of the hot grease to flow upon it, and setting the candle firmly in the grease placed the improvised candlestick upon the tent stove. Then, reaching for the rifle, she drew it from the case and examined it critically. The magazine proved to be fully charged. Returning the rifle to its case, she now examined the other contents of the tilt, and presently came upon a quantity of cartridges in one of the bags. Several of these she appropriated, and dropping them into a leathern pouch at her belt, restored the remaining contents of the tilt to the position in which she had found them. Then taking the rifle in its case, she blew out the candle, and passed out of the tilt, carefully closing the door behind her. The moon was now sufficiently risen to light the trail, and the blazes which Ungava Bob had made were so clear that Manikawan's progress was rapid. Spectral shadows lay all about her, flitting here and there across her trail as she sped onward and onward through the dark forests that intervened between the lakes. In the distance she heard the voices of the evil spirits so dreaded by her people, speaking in dull, monotonous undertones, like ceaseless, rolling thunder far away, threatening destruction and death to all who fell within their reach. Even to her, whose home was the wilderness, the situation was weird and uncanny. At length she passed another tilt near the end of a lake, but she did not pause to enter it. A little beyond the tilt the trail crossed a rise of ground, and upon reaching the summit she beheld in the distance a long, wide, silvery streak glistening in the moonlight. It was the river, and with a sense of relief she lowered the canoe from her shoulders and concealed it carefully amongst the underbrush. She glanced at the stars and calculated the time until dawn. The region into which she had come was wholly unfamiliar to her, and she must have daylight to reconnoitre and locate the camp of her enemies. There was still ample time for rest, for this was the season of lengthening nights and shortening days, and Manikawan was in much need of rest and food. For nearly thirty-six hours she had been exerting herself to the utmost of her strength. At the river tilt she had made a fire in the stove and brewed herself some tea, but she had eaten nothing. Now, with the moment's relaxation, a feeling of great fatigue came upon her, and for the first time she realised the length of her fast and the extent of her weariness. Slowly she retraced her steps to the tilt which she had passed on the lake shore a little way back. Entering it she struck a match and lighted a candle, as she had done at the other tilt, and with its assistance found the flour, pork, and tea, together with a frying pan and kettle which Ungava Bob had left there the day that he and Shad Trowbridge were attacked by the Indians. She went to the lake for a kettle of water, and returning gathered a handful of birch bark. Using the bark for tinder and appropriating wood which she found split and neatly piled near the stove for ready use, she lighted a fire in the stove, and set the kettle on to heat for tea. This done she cut several thick slices of fat pork, which she fried in the pan, and mixing a quantity of flour and water into dough, browned the dough in the pork grease. It was with a keen appetite that she sat down to her long-deferred banquet; and with vast relief she drank the tea and ate the pork and dough cake. Then, wearied to the last degree, she fell back upon one of the bunks, the rifle by her side; and with the distant rumble of the falls in her ears, fell immediately asleep. It was broad day when Manikawan opened her eyes. She seized the kettle, and hastening to the lake laved her face and head in the cooling water. Then, from a buckskin pouch at her belt, she drew a neat birch-bark case, decorated with porcupine quills, and from the case a rudely fashioned comb, from which dangled by a buckskin thong a tuft of porcupine tail. The lake was her mirror, as she smoothed and rebraided her hair. This done, she ran the comb several times through the tuft of porcupine tail before returning it to its case. Her simple toilet completed, Manikawan mounted a high pinnacle of rock and for several minutes stood silently contemplating the rising sun. The eastern sky was ablaze with red and purple and orange, and she beheld the glory of the scene with deep reverence. Upon her pinnacle of rock she felt herself in the presence of the Mysterious Power which governed her destiny and the world in which she lived, and after the manner of her fathers she besought that Mysterious Presence in unspoken words, to make her pure and noble and generous; to make her worthy to stand in its Presence--worthy to live in the beautiful world which surrounded her. But Manikawan was not a Christian. She knew nothing of the white man's God or of Christ's lessons of forgiveness, and she descended from the rock morally strengthened, perhaps, in her savage way, but no less determined to wreak vengeance upon those whom she deemed her enemies. While she slept she had heard constantly the voice of the evil spirits of the falls, and the spirits themselves had come to her in a dream, and whispering in her ear had urged her on to vengeance, and promised her immunity from their wrath. Manikawan, like all her people, was superstitious in the extreme. She believed absolutely in the supernatural, and her faith in dreams was unwavering. The sun was hour high when she set forth again upon her mission. Mounting the semi-barren ridge where she had hidden her canoe, she crouched low behind the bushes, and catlike and noiselessly descended to the forest on the other side. Here under cover of the trees she proceeded more rapidly to the end of the portage trail. Peering out from her cover, she first studied every foot of the river and surrounding country that lay within the range of her vision; then moving silently forward she removed the rifle, which she still carried, from its sealskin case and laid the case on the ground behind a boulder and the weapon upon it, where it would be completely hidden from view, but still available for instant use. This arranged to her satisfaction, she crossed the trail, and gliding as noiselessly as a shadow through the trees, ascended the river bank to reconnoitre for the Mingen camp. The Indians that visited her father's lodge had said that they were encamped near the river, and not far above the portage trail. XI MANIKAWAN'S VENGEANCE Therefore, Manikawan in her quest advanced cautiously, at the same time making, as she advanced, a thorough study of the ground. She had travelled perhaps two miles, when she discovered a thin curl of smoke rising over the trees a short distance in advance, and dropping upon her hands and knees she crawled stealthily forward until from behind a clump of willow bushes she was afforded a clear view of the fire and its surroundings. A deerskin wigwam stood in a clearing, and near the smouldered embers of a fire two Indians were engaged in making snowshoe frames; but, so far as she could see, they were the only inhabitants of the camp. It was evident that the remainder of the party were absent, probably hunting caribou in the North. As noiselessly as she had approached, Manikawan now retreated to a safe distance. With a full understanding of the conditions, she had quickly and cunningly formulated her plans, and when well out of view she arose to her feet and boldly approached the camp. The Indians, with no sign of alarm or surprise, and not deigning either recognition or greeting, continued at their task, quite ignoring her presence as she approached. For a moment Manikawan stood before them in silence; then she spoke: "I am Manikawan, the daughter of Sishetakushin, whose lodge the men of the South have visited. Manikawan has come to do honour to the men of the South. While they talked with Sishetakushin, her father, she heard how bravely they have guarded the hunting grounds of her people and theirs. They are brave men and she has come to do them honour. "She heard how they drove the two white invaders of our country into the arms of the evil spirits, whose thunderous voices she hears even now. It was well. White men have come into our land and have made the spirits angry. When the spirits are made angry they drive away the caribou. Then the people of the South and Sishetakushin's people are hungry. The white men have built lodges of trees near the potagan (portage) of our fathers. They stored these lodges with much tea and tobacco, flour and pork. Without these things the white man cannot live, for he is not like our people. "Other white men are coming to our country. If these stores are left in the lodges near the potagan of our fathers, the white men will stay. If they do not have these things, they will go away, for without them they will be hungry. "The men of Sishetakushin's people and the men of the South cannot remove them, for the evil spirits dwell there, and would do them harm. "But Manikawan is a maiden. The evil spirits will not harm her. She is too humble for their notice. Manikawan has gone to the lodges of the white men and has removed the things from the lodges, so that the white men will not find them when they come. "The men of the South are brave. They have sent two of the white men into the arms of the evil spirits. They must be rewarded. "Manikawan has carried much tobacco and tea and other stores to the place where the potagan reaches up from the river. These things are for the men of the South. Let them bring their canoe. Manikawan will show them the things and they will take them." The Indians did not deign to reply at once, but presently one of them said: "Let Manikawan bring the things to the lodge of the men of the South. She is a maiden, and it is a maiden's work. It is not the work of a hunter." "Manikawan is not of the lodge of the men of the South, and she will not do this. She will wait at the place where the potagan rises from the river until the sun is there;" and Manikawan pointed to the zenith. "If the men of the South do not come, she will go, for she will believe the men of the South do not need tea and tobacco." "Let the maiden return to the place where the potagan rises from the river. Let her wait there. The men of the South will come," said the spokesman. Manikawan turned away, down the river bank, by the route she had ascended. Her progress was dignified and unhurried so long as she might still be seen by the Indians, but was quickly changed to a run the moment she was beyond their view. Glibly she had lied to them and her conscience was not troubled. She was not a Christian. The savage teaching upheld subterfuge in dealing with the enemy, and she deemed these Indians her enemies, for had they not destroyed White Brother of the Snow? And was he not of her people by adoption. Immediately Manikawan arrived at the portage trail she looked sharply about to make certain she was not observed. Then she examined the rifle behind the bowlder, and, quite satisfied with her inspection, returned it to its resting place and waited. She knew that the two Indians, with due attention to their dignity, would make no haste in their coming, and would doubtless keep her waiting until the noonday hour which she had designated, but nevertheless her lookout up the river was never for a moment relinquished. She watched as a cat watches a hole--from which it expects the mouse to emerge--ready to pounce upon the unwary prey. At last she was rewarded. A birch-bark canoe containing the two Indians came leisurely gliding down the river some hundred yards from shore. Manikawan, like a beautiful statue, stood tall and straight at the end of the portage trail. Two paces from her the rifle lay behind the bowlder. The Indians, unsuspecting, turned the prow of the canoe toward the shore where she stood. Still she did not move. The cat waits for its victim until the victim beyond peradventure is within reach of its spring. Nearer and nearer drew the canoe. Still Manikawan stood, a graven image. She was looking out and beyond her intended victims. The roar of the distant rapids, and the monotonous, thunderous undertone of the falls were in her ears, and they came to her as beautiful music. The canoe was now but a hundred feet from shore. Suddenly, Manikawan sprang, and the astonished Indians beheld the statue with a menacing rifle at its shoulder. Then came a flash and a report. The Indians ducked, and the blade of the steersman's paddle, poised in mid-air, was shattered by a bullet. Manikawan spoke, her voice ringing out in clear, even tones: "The men of the South sent White Brother of the Snow and his friend into the arms of the evil spirits. White Brother of the Snow was of Manikawan's people. The men of the South are the enemies of Manikawan's people. They are cowards and they must die." The Indian at the bow paddled desperately away from shore and the menacing rifle. The Indian at the stern made equally desperate but ineffectual attempts with his broken paddle. Another shot rang out, and the bowman ducked, and ceased paddling as a bullet sang past his head. Immediately the canoe began drifting, and a moment later the strengthening current caught it. Then the Indians, alive to this new danger, disregarding bullets, rose to their feet and paddled desperately, the one in the stern seeming not to know that the broken stick he held was useless. They knew that the evil spirits had reached up for their canoe and were drawing them down--down--to something worse than death. Their faces became drawn and terror-stricken. Faintly, and as a voice far away and unreal, they heard Manikawan's taunts as she ran down the high banks of the river, keeping pace with the doomed canoe and its occupants going headlong to destruction: "The men of the South are cowards. They are afraid to die. The evil spirits are hungry, and soon they will be fed. Their voices are loud. They are crying with hunger. The men of the South will feed them." XII THE TRAGEDY OF THE RAPIDS The two adventurers marooned on the island ate their first meal of rabbit, grilled over the coals, with keen relish, though they had neither salt to season it nor bread to accompany it. "It might be worse," remarked Shad, when the meal was finished. "Rabbit is good, and," he continued, lolling back lazily and contentedly before the fire, "there's always some bright spot to light the darkest cloud--we've no dishes to wash. A rinse of the tea pail, a rinse of our cups, and, presto! the thing's done. I detest dish-washing." "Aye," admitted Bob, "dish-washin' is a putterin' job." "Yes, that's it; a puttering job," resumed Shad. "But now let's come to the important question of the day. Continued banqueting upon rabbit, I've been told, becomes monotonous, and under any conditions imprisonment is sure to become monotonous sooner or later. I have a hunch it will be sooner in our case. I'm beginning to chafe under bonds already. What are we going to do about it?" "I'm not knowin' so soon," confessed Bob, "but I'm thinkin' before this day week Dick an' Ed an' Bill will be huntin' around for us, an' they's like t' find us, an' when they does they'll be findin' a way t' help us. They might build up th' place down there with stones, so's t' make a footin' t' land on, an' then 'twill be easy goin' ashore." "But suppose they don't come around this way and don't find us?" "Then I'm thinkin' we'll be bidin' here till ice forms." "Till ice forms! And when will that be?" "An' she comes on frosty, ice'll begin formin' th' middle of October on th' banks. But th' current's wonderful strong, an' I'll not be expectin' ice t' cross on till New Year, whatever." "January first! October! November! December! Three months on this god-forsaken bit of rock! Great Jehoshaphat, man! That'll be an eternity! We can't endure it!" "I'm not thinkin' we'll have to. I'm thinkin' they'll find us in a fortni't, whatever," reassured Bob, rising and picking up the axe. "We'll be needin' a shelter, an' I'm thinkin' I'll build un now." "And we have no blankets with us!" exclaimed Shad. "Oh, we're going to have a swell time!" "We'll be fair snug with a shelter, now. I'll be cuttin' th' sticks, an' you breaks boughs." "All right, Bob, I'll get the boughs," agreed Shad, languidly rising, and as he went to his task singing: "'Old Noah, he did build an ark, He made it out of hick'ry bark. "'If you belong to Gideon's band, Why here's my heart, and here's my hand, Looking for a home. "'He drove the animiles in two by two, The elephant and the kangaroo. "'And then he nailed the hatches down, And told outsiders they might drown. "'And when he found he had no sail, He just ran up his own coat tail. "'If you belong to Gideon's band, Why here's my heart, and here's my hand, Looking for a home.'" A full stomach sometimes wholly changes one's outlook upon the world. Shad was beginning now to view his adventure from a whimsical standpoint, a result induced partially by his dinner, largely by Bob's philosophical attitude. It was not anticipated the shelter would be required for long, and a comfortable lean-to under the lee of the hill, with back and ends enclosed, and closely thatched with boughs and moss, was considered sufficient. A thick, springy bed of spruce boughs was then arranged, and the temporary home was completed. Then Bob proceeded to set deadfalls, utilising flat stones and raising them on a figure 4, which he baited with tender birch boughs. Several rabbits were started in the course of the afternoon, giving assurance that the deadfalls would yield sufficient food for their needs, though no results could be expected from them until the following morning. "Now for supper, Shad, we'll have t' be usin' some shells," he announced. "Supposin' you tries un. I were goin' t' make a bow an' arrows t' save th' shells, but they's nothin' t' feather th' arrows with, an' no string that'd be strong enough for th' bow." "All right," agreed Shad. "I'll get them;" and within half an hour he returned with a bag of two fat young rabbits. Their fire was built before the lean-to, and a very small blaze was found sufficient to heat it to a cosy warmth. Here they sat and ate their grilled rabbit and drank their tea, quite as comfortably as they would have done in their tent or tilt, though during the night one or the other found it necessary to rise several times to renew the fire. Bivouacking in this manner was more or less of an ordinary circumstance in Ungava Bob's life. He looked upon it as the sort of thing to be expected, and as a matter of course. He felt indeed that they were very fortunately situated, and for the present he had small doubt that their imprisonment would prove but a temporary inconvenience. The deadfalls yielded them the first night three rabbits; another was shot. They had quite enough to eat the next day, and Shad took a brighter view of the matter. "By Jove!" he laughed, after breakfast, "I wonder what the fellows at home would say if they should see me now, playing the part of Robinson Crusoe?" and then he began to sing: "'Fare thee well, for I must leave thee. Do not let the parting grieve thee, And remember that the best of friends must part, must part. Adieu, adieu, kind friends, adieu, adieu, adieu, I can no longer stay with you, stay with you, I'll hang my harp on a weeping-willow tree, And may the world go well with thee.'" But when another morning came, with no sugar remaining for the tea, and no other food than the now monotonous unsalted rabbit, Shad rebelled. "See here, Bob!" he exclaimed irritably, "I can't eat any more rabbit! It nauseates me to even think of it! We've got to do something." "We can't help un, now, Shad," answered Bob soothingly. "Rabbit ain't so bad." "Not once or twice, or even three times in succession--but eternally and forever, I can't go it." "It does get a bit wearisome, but 'tis a wonderful lot better'n no rabbit, when rabbit's all there is." "Wearisome! Wearisome! Confound it, Bob, it's disgusting! Now we've got to do something to get ourselves out of here, and that quick." "I'm not knowin', now, what t' do till th' others comes, an' I'm knowin' they will." "Come, Bob, let's make a try for that wall down there. Even if the canoe does get away from us, we can make the wall--I know we can." "No," and Bob shook his head ominously, "I'm ready t' take any fair chanct, Shad, but they wouldn't be even a fair chanet t' make un." "Oh, bosh!" exclaimed Shad angrily. "I thought you had some nerve." "'Tisn't a matter o' nerve, Shad; 'tis a matter o' what can be done an' what can't." "Oh, yes, it can! Anyone with two legs and two hands and two eyes and just a grain of grit can do it." Bob, quiet and unruffled, grilled his rabbit, refusing to take offence or to be moved at Shad's remarks, evidently intended to goad him into what his experience told him would certainly prove a hopeless and foolhardy venture. It is a psychological phenomenon that men, denied action and confined to limited and solitary surroundings, become highly irascible. They find cause for offence in every word and every action of their companions, and it is not unusual for men situated as Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge were to lapse into such a state of antagonism toward one another that they cease to converse. This was the condition into which Shad Trowbridge quickly lapsed. He soon came to ascribe to timidity and cowardice Bob's opposition to his wish to attempt a crossing to the mainland. He was one who chafed under restraint, and one who, when he had once decided upon a course of action, could not brook opposition from another; and though at heart he knew that Bob was fearless and brave, and that his arguments were sound, yet he would not now admit this, even to himself. Normally Shad was a good fellow, and he would endure hardships cheerfully if the hardships were accompanied by physical activity; but the condition of monotonous existence, accompanied by idleness and inactivity, which they were now experiencing, was too great for him to withstand, and he was prepared to take the most desperate chance to escape from it. When at length the tea and his tobacco were gone, and nothing but the daily ration of unseasoned rabbit remained, the thought of thus continuing indefinitely became unendurable to him. Ungava Bob, on the contrary, had been accustomed to wilderness solitude all his life. This, and a naturally even disposition, coupled with a philosophical temperament, rendered him capable of overlooking Shad's slurs, and when finally Shad ceased to speak to him, or when spoken to by Bob ceased to acknowledge that he heard, Bob permitted the slight to pass unnoticed. At length, one day, when Shad had nursed his supposed grievance to a point where he could no longer endure it, he blurted out brutally: "See here, I've stood this devilish cowardice of yours as long as I'm going to. Do you see where the sun is! It's noon. Now I'll give you until that sun drops half-way to the horizon to decide whether or not you're going across with me. If you say 'No,' I'm going without you, that's all, and you can stay here and eat rabbit, and rot, if you choose." "Now, Shad," Bob placated, "I knows how you feels, an' it's your judgment ag'in mine. But I'm havin' experience with places like that, an' I knows we can't make th' crossin' an' land. Now don't try un, Shad." "Don't 'Shad' me--My God, Bob! Look there!" he suddenly broke off. Shooting past them, half standing in their birch canoe, paddling with the desperation of men facing doom, one with his sound paddle, the other with his broken one, were the Indians that Manikawan had sent adrift. They were very near the island--so near that every outline of their drawn, terrorstricken faces was visible--but too far away to reach the gravelly point upon which Bob and Shad had found refuge. Indeed, they seemed not to see it, or to see anything but the horrible spectral phantom of the evil spirit that they believed had them in its control. On--on--on-they sped, ever faster--faster toward the pounding rapids--impotently, though still desperately, wielding their paddles. Bob and Shad stood spellbound and horror-stricken. The Indians were nearing the first white foam! In a moment their canoe would strike it! It was in the foam! It rose for an instant upon a white crest, the Indians' paddles still working--then was swallowed up in the swirling tumult of waves and whirlpools, never to reappear. Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge stood for a moment in awe-stricken horror. Then they sat down upon the rock on which Shad had sunk when overcome with shock on the day of their escape upon the island. "Bob," said Shad, at last, "that was the most terrible thing I ever beheld!" "'Twere awful!" assented Bob. "It shows us, Bob, what you and I escaped. Bob, I've been very disagreeable lately. Take my hand and forgive me, won't you?" "'Twere th' rabbit meat, Shad," said Bob, taking Shad's hand. "Rabbit meat be wonderful tryin' t' eat steady. I were knowin', now, you'd be all right again, Shad." "I think I've been demented, Bob--I'm sure I have--anyway, believe it, and don't hold it against me." "I'll not be holdin' un ag'in you, Shad. 'Twere natural, and--" Bob ceased speaking and sat staring at the high bank of the mainland. "Manikawan!" he exclaimed, springing up and crossing the island point at a bound. There she stood, joy, wonder, incredulity, written upon her face. She had believed White Brother of the Snow dead, but here she saw him in flesh and alive, and he had spoken her name. "White Brother of the Snow! Oh, White Brother of the Snow! The evil spirits did not devour you, but like hungry wolves they have devoured your enemies." Very quickly Bob explained their predicament, and she listened silently. Then she went to the sloping rock, descended its dangerous angle to the water's edge, and returned. "White Brother of the Snow and his friend would find no lodgment there," said she. "It is a place of deceit. But White Brother of the Snow knows how to be patient. Let him and his friend wait. The evil spirits cannot reach up for them where they are. When the sun returns again to the high point in the heavens Manikawan will stand here. Wait." The next instant she was gone. "What did she say?" asked Shad. "She were sayin'," explained Bob, "that if we has patience an' waits she'll be back by noon to-morrow, or thereabouts. An' she says if we waits here we'll be safe, but we couldn't be makin' a footin' on th' rock. She's thinkin' o' some way o' gettin' us off, but I'm not knowin' what 'tis, now." XIII ON THE TRAIL OF THE INDIANS None of the three trappers had ever penetrated the region lying between the Big Hill trail and the river. They knew that here, somewhere, Ungava Bob was to lay his new trails, but as to the route the trails were to take they had no information, for this was a circumstance that the local evidences of the existence of fur-bearing animals was to have decided for Bob when he entered the country to make his initial survey of conditions. Among the Indians who traded at the Eskimo Bay post there was but one, an old man, who had any personal knowledge of the region. When a small boy this Indian had once traversed with his father the now long disused portage trail; and one day when Ungava Bob and Dick Blake met him at the post he had, at their earnest solicitation, described to them the country as he had seen it with the distorted vision of extreme youth, and as his memory, alloyed with the superstitious tales of nearly threescore years, recalled it. It was, he said, a region of many lakes, over which flitted the phantom canoes of those who had perished in the nearby dwelling place of evil spirits. In the canoes were the ghostly forms of the victims, for ever paddling their phantom crafts around the lakes, vainly striving to escape the torment of mocking, ghoulish spirits which pursued them. Surrounding the lakes were wild marshes and deep black forests, which were peopled by innumerable evil spirits for ever searching for new victims to destroy. Their thunder voices were always to be heard, low and deep, in a terrible frenzy of unceasing anger, ever hungry for men to devour. In analysing this description Dick Blake eliminated the phantom canoes as the wild creation of imagination, and the thunder voices of evil spirits he set down as nothing more nor less than the roar of the great falls of whose existence the Indians had told. With this elimination he accepted as fact the statement that the region was sprinkled with many lakes, and that without the assistance of a canoe these lakes and perhaps some wide marshes would have to be circumvented by him and his companions before they came upon the river above the falls, where it was expected the Mingen Indians would be encountered. While Dick Blake was the first to declare that the Indians must be punished for causing the supposed death of Bob and Shad, he was no more thoroughly in earnest than were his companions. Normally these trappers were quiet, peace-loving men, who would have shuddered at the thought of causing human bloodshed; but now, moved doubtless to a large extent by a natural desire to avenge an outrage committed upon their friends, they also felt it their plain duty to mete out punishment to the guilty ones, in order to insure themselves and other white trappers against further molestation. Unless this were done there was no guarantee against continued raids upon their tilts, and there would always be the danger, and even probability, that sooner or later they would themselves be attacked and shot from ambush by the emboldened savages. The trail that Bob had made, leading up from the river tilt and along the creek which flowed from the first lake, was plainly marked; and they proceeded with the long, swinging stride characteristic of the woodsman, rapidly and without a halt, to the point where the trail entered the lake. Here a wide circuit around the lake shore was necessary, and it was nearly noon when they fell again into the trail at the farther end and came upon the first tilt. "We may's well stop an' boil th' kettle," said Dick, throwing down the light pack of provisions he carried and mopping the perspiration from his forehead, for the mid-day sun was warm. "If we were only havin' a canoe, now, we'd be a rare piece farther. 'Twere a long cruise around the lake." "Aye," agreed Ed, "a canoe'd ha' saved us a good two hours. We may's well put th' fire on outside; 'twill be warm in th' tilt." "Now I'm wonderin' what th' Injun lass is up to," said Dick, as they sat down to their simple meal of fried pork and camp bread. "She's got a canoe. There's her footin' by th' lake, where she makes her landin'." "They's no tellin' what an Injun's goin' t' do, but I'm not thinkin' 'twill be much harm, t' th' Mingens with just a bow an' arrer, an' that's all she has in th' way o' weapons, so far's I makes out," declared Ed, adding: "She were a wonderful fine-lookin' lass; now, weren't she?" "That she were," agreed Dick, "wonderful handsome--an' wonderful wild-lookin', too." "Th' poor lad!" said Ed, after a pause. "He were buildin' th' tilt yonder, thinkin' o' th' good furrin' he were t' have th' winter, an' now he's gone. I'm not knowin', Dick, how t' tell his mother. You'll have t' tell she, Dick; I couldn't stand t' tell she." "No," objected Dick, "you were goin' an' tellin' she th' time we thinks th' wolves gets Bob, an' you knows how. You'm a wonderful sight better breakin' bad news than me, Ed. I'd just be bawlin' with she, an' she cries; an' she sure will, for 'twill break her heart this time, an' Bob sure gone." "Maybe none of us'll be havin' th' chanct," broke in Bill. "They may be a big passel o' Mingens, and whilst we catches some of un, th' others won't be sittin' quiet." "Ed an' me's keepin' a watch for signs," assured Dick, as they arose to continue their journey. "They ain't been no signs so far, exceptin' signs o' th' poor lads an' th' Injun lass, an' she were passin' in th' night, by th' oldness o' her footin'." "They ain't no danger o' findin' Injuns here, Bill," added Ed. "This is what they calls th' ha'nted country, an' they'd be too scairt o' ghosts an' th' devils they thinks is runnin' round loose here t' risk theirselves." The long detours made necessary without the assistance of a canoe so far delayed their progress that, though they had not slackened the rapid pace set in the morning, night found them upon the shores of one of the intermediate lakes, with little more than half the distance to the end of the portage trail behind them. Here they erected a lean-to at the edge of the forest, as a reflector for their camp-fire, and as a protection against a light but chilling breeze that had sprung up with the setting sun; and, all made snug for the night, they cooked and ate their supper. Then they lighted their pipes and lounged back upon the bed of spruce boughs under the lean-to, speculating upon the morrow, and the probability of an encounter with the Indians. "What's that, now?" exclaimed Ed suddenly, and cautiously rising and taking a position beyond the glow of the fire, he stood for several minutes gazing intently out upon the waters of the wide lake not yet lighted by the belated moon. "There 'tis again! Did you make un out, Dick?" he asked, as Dick and Bill, following Ed's example of cautious exit from the range of the fire's glow, joined him. "No, I weren't makin' nothin' out," answered Dick. "There were somethin' there on th' water," Ed stated positively, when they presently returned to the lean-to. "What were it, now? What were it like?" asked Dick. "I seen un twict, an' 'twere lookin' t' me like a canoe, though I'm not sayin' so for sure," explained Ed. "I seen un," corroborated Bill, "but whether 'twere a canoe or no, I'm noways sure--'twere so far out." "If 'twere a canoe, 'twere Injuns," declared Ed, "an' if 'twere Injuns they was seein' our fire, an' they'll be up t' some devilment, now, before day." "Be you sartin', now, you seen something?" asked Dick, a note of scepticism in his voice. "Sure an' sartin'," insisted Ed. "'Twere movin', an' I'm thinkin' 'twere a canoe, though I'm noways sure." "'Twere just a loon or maybe a bunch o' geese," said Dick, still unwilling to believe. "'Twere movin', an' 'twere lookin' like a canoe t' me," said Bill. "'Twere certain no loon nor geese either. 'Twere too big." "An' we better be gettin' out o' here, too," advised Ed. "If 'twere Injuns--an' I'm noways sure 'twere or 'tweren't--they seen th' fire, an' th' dirty devils'll be droppin' us off an' we stays here." "Aye," agreed Dick, "we'll be movin' on. You an' Bill both seein' somethin', they must ha' been somethin' there, though I weren't seein' un." Weary as they were, the three men hastily shouldered their light packs, and with rifles resting in the hollow of their arms, Ed in the lead, they stole noiselessly away into the forest. Two hours of rapid travelling, in the light of the now rising moon, brought them to the end of the lake. Here they paused to fall upon their knees and make a critical examination of the shore. "Here's fresh footin'," Ed finally announced. "A canoe were launched here since sundown. Th' gravel's wet where th' water splashed up. They's one track o' a Injun moccasin, an' from th' smallness of un 'twere a woman." "'Twere sure a woman," both Bill and Dick agreed. "An' there's th' same footin' goin' t'other way, but 'tis an older track," Ed continued. "'Twere th' Injun lass we sees to-night goin' back." "Now I'm wonderin'," said Dick, as they arose, "what she's goin' back for? Maybe now, she's lookin' t' meet us t' help her?" "Maybe," Ed suggested, laughing, "she's finding a hull passel o' Injuns more'n she wants t' tackle wi' just her bow an' arrer. I were thinkin', now, a bow an' arrer weren't much t' run up ag'in a band o' Injuns with, seein' they has guns." "Whatever 'tis she's up to," suggested Bill, "'tisn't lookin' for us. She couldn't ha' missed seein' our fire back here on th' shore, an' she'd ha' known who 'twere an' come over if she's wantin' t' see us." "You're right," agreed Dick. "She must have seen our fire, and if she'd wanted t' see us she'd ha' come over. Now I'm wonderin' why she didn't." At mid-forenoon the following day the tilt on the last lake, where Manikawan had snatched a few hours' sleep, was reached, and mounting the ridge above, the river was discovered beyond. At the end of the portage trail the three trappers held a hurried consultation. At length, carefully concealing their packs among the bushes, and with rifles held in position for instant use, they turned noiselessly up along the river bank, following the water closely, and taking almost exactly the course followed the previous morning by Manikawan. They were aware that they were now beyond the bounds of the region avoided by the Indians, and they also had no doubt that the Indian camp was situated farther up the river, probably at some convenient landing-place for canoes. Finally Ed Matheson, who had the lead, halted and held up his hand. "Smoke," he whispered, sniffing the air. "Aye," whispered Dick, also sniffing. Ed now sank to his hands and knees, pausing frequently in his advance to reconnoitre. Presently he ceased to move, his rifle extended before him, until Dick and Bill drew along side. "There's th' fire," he whispered, "an' there's where they was camped, but it's lookin' t' me as if they's gone." The smouldering embers of a camp-fire in the centre of the open spot where the wigwam had stood the previous day, lay directly in front of them. On a tree hung some unfinished snow-shoe frames, and there were many signs of a hurried departure. "What you think?" Dick whispered. "Th' devils may be hidin' back here," answered Ed. "You an' Bill stay now, an' watch, whilst I looks." Very cautiously Ed stole away, and Dick Blake and Bill Campbell waited patiently for an hour, when they discovered him walking boldly down toward them. "They's gone," he announced. "I seen their canoe makin' a landin' on th' other side where th' river widens, away up above here." An examination of the camping ground confirmed their conclusion that the Indians had in some manner learned of their danger and had fled, evidently in great haste, leaving behind them the snowshoe frames and some other trifles. "That's explainin', now, what that sneakin' Injun lass was up to," declared Ed. "What were she up to, now?" asked Dick. "She were up to this," said Ed: "she were watchin' at th' river tilt for our comin', an' when we comes she up an' tells th' Injuns we're on their trail, an' they gets out quick. That's why she weren't stoppin' when she sees our fire last night, an' we'll never be seein' her again. She's a Nascaupee, an' it's lookin' now as if th' Nascaupees an' Mingens'll be workin' t'gether, an' if they be, they'll be layin' for us, now, an' we got t' look out." "Aye," agreed Dick, "that's what they'll be doin', now, an' we got t' look out." "Well," sighed Ed, as they turned to retrace their steps to the portage trail, "we may's well get back an' lay our plans. Them Injun females is worse'n wolverines; they's no trustin' any of un." XIV THE MATCHI MANITU IS CHEATED "Well," said Shad, at length, "there's the sun about as high as it will get to-day, and where's your pretty Indian girl?" "I been thinkin', now," Bob explained, "she's sure havin' a canoe, an' could make un t' th' river tilt an' back, by travellin' all night. But Dick an' Ed an' Bill ain't havin' a canoe, an' if they comes they has t' walk, an' walkin' they can't make un before some time t'morrer, whatever. 'Tis like, now, she'll wait t' show un th' way t' where we be, an' doin' that she won't be comin' till they does t 'morrer." "Your logic is sound," Shad admitted, "but it's mighty disappointing." "There she be!" exclaimed Bob, a moment later, as Manikawan, quite alone, emerged from the forest hastening toward them, carrying on her arm two coils of rope--one the coil Bob had left in the first tilt of the new trail, and which she had observed at the time she found and carried away Bob's rifle; the other a tracking line which the trappers had used on their last trip up the river, and which she had discovered in the river tilt. "Is it well with White Brother of the Snow and his friend?" she asked, stepping eagerly forward to the river bank. "It is, and they are glad to see Manikawan," answered Bob. "They will do now as Manikawan directs, and they will soon again be free to hunt the atuk (caribou), the amishku (beaver), and the neejuk (otter)," she promised. With this she tied the ropes securely together, end to end, and then producing a quantity of salmon twine, which she had appropriated for the purpose from one of the tilts, tied an end of this to one end of the connected ropes. She now proceeded to coil the twine carefully upon a smooth flat rock at her feet, after which she drew from her quiver a long, blunt-nosed arrow, and directly above the feathered end of the arrow attached the loose end of the twine. These preliminary arrangements completed, and her plan of rescue ready for the test, Manikawan stood erect, bow and arrow in position, and a moment later the arrow flew out across the water and fell upon the gravelly point. Ungava Bob sprang forward, seized the twine, still fast tied to the arrow, and rapidly drew it and the end of the rope attached to the twine to him, while Manikawan played out the coil. "Now," said she, "let White Brother of the Snow make the line which he has received fast and tight to the bow thwart of his canoe. "White Brother of the Snow and his friend will then place their canoe into the water with its bow facing the river as it comes down to meet them. They will paddle hard against the river, for the Matchi Manitu (bad spirit) beneath the waves will draw them backward toward the place where the water is white and angry. "They need not fear. Manikawan holds one end of the rope in her hand. The other end will be fast to the canoe. Manikawan is strong and she will not let the Matchi Manitu draw White Brother of the Snow and his friend down. "While White Brother of the Snow and his friend paddle, their canoe will move toward the place where Manikawan stands. Near the shore the spirits are weaker than where the water is deep. "When their canoe is near the shore, Manikawan will let it go backward very slowly to the place where the bank slopes." Bob ran the end of rope under and around the bow thwart, as Manikawan directed, knotting it securely, leaving sufficient length to extend back to the centre thwart, around which he again wrapped it and finally tied the end. This he did in order that the strain upon the canoe might be more evenly distributed. With Shad's rifle and shotgun and their few other possessions in the canoe, they immediately placed it in the water. Bob held it while Shad took a kneeling position in the stern, then himself stepped lightly to his place in the bow, and in an instant they were afloat in the rushing water, paddling fast and hard in order to relieve the stress upon the long line, and to keep the canoe head on to the current. A few moments later they found themselves close under the mainland bank, with Manikawan letting them slip slowly down to the sloping rock. Though the treacherous footing on the steep, slippery incline rendered it a hazardous undertaking, the landing was safely accomplished, and the canoe brought ashore. When Manikawan saw the young adventurers standing before her, her work of rescue completed and the excitement and uncertainty of the preceding days and nights at an end, she sank upon the ground, weak, dazed, and overcome with fatigue. During sixty hours her only sleep or refreshment had been that snatched the preceding morning in the tilt, and throughout the entire period she had been bending herself to almost superhuman effort. After all, she was but a girl. Human emotions are pretty much the same the world over, irrespective of race, and Manikawan, the Indian maiden, was very human indeed in her emotions and the limit of her physical endurance. She looked faint and weary, indeed, as Shad and Bob bent over her solicitously, but presently she indicated her desire to rise; and slowly, for Manikawan's exhaustion was still apparent, Bob led the way while the three took a direct course to the tilt on the first lake. It was not far, and in the course of an hour, mounting a ridge, they saw the lake shimmering below them and the little tilt nestling among the trees on the shore. "How good it looks! Almost homelike!" said Shad. "Aye, almost homelike," echoed Bob. At the tilt they made a fire under the trees, and Bob quickly brewed a kettle of strong tea, and prepared food; and when Manikawan had taken nourishment, she was sent into the tilt for the rest she so much needed. Bob and Shad were still lingering over their meal when they looked up to find Dick Blake, Ed Matheson, and Bill Campbell staring at them from the edge of the woods. "Hello!" cried Shad, jumping up in pleasure to greet their friends. "Evenin'," said Bob; "set in an' have a drop o' tea an' a bite." "Well, now, I wern't sure I see straight!" exclaimed Ed, and the three strode forward. "Here we was thinkin' never t' see you lads ag'in, an' arguin' who were goin' t' break th' news o' your death t' your folks, an' there you be, eatin'! Bob, I'm never goin' t' break th' news o' your death ag'in till I sees you dead. I were doin' it once, an' now I comes pretty nigh havin' to ag'in;" and Ed nearly shook Bob's arm off in his delight. "Aye," Dick explained, while he and Bill followed Ed in the greeting, "th' Injun lass Manikawan comes an' tells us you lads was drove over th' falls by Mingens." "An' we goes out huntin' Mingens," went on Bill, "tryin' t' kill un, an' would ha' killed un if we'd found un." "Now, what devilment were she up to? That's what I wants t' know, tellin' us that. They's no knowin' what a Injun'll do, leastways a female," declared Ed. "She was about right, now," said Bob, and he proceeded to relate the experiences of the preceding days, while Shad now and again interjected dramatic colour. "Th' lass were doin' rare fine! Rare fine!" said Ed. "An' we was thinkin' she's up t' some devilment. But why wern't you shootin' at th' Injuns from th' canoe when they opens on you? Your repeatin' rifle would ha' scattered un, Bob." "I left un in th' tilt by th' first lake above th' river. Shad were steerin', an' he weren't thinkin' t' use his'n," Bob explained. "In th' first tilt above th' river?" Ed repeated. "We were in th' tilt, now, Dick, when we comes through, an' there weren't any rifle there. Rope an' tent an' other outfit, but no rifle." "No, there weren't none there," corroborated Dick and Bill. "Now, 'tis strange," said Bob. "I left un there, didn't I, Shad?" "Yes, you certainly left it there, on the rear bunk," Shad affirmed positively. This puzzled them long, and they were never to learn the truth, for Manikawan, on her return journey for the ropes, had replaced the rifle exactly as she had found it, and none but herself ever knew the part she had played in the river tragedy. While Manikawan rested in the tilt, and Bill Campbell set out to hunt ptarmigans for supper, Dick Blake and Ed Matheson in Manikawan's canoe, and Bob and Shad in Shad's canoe, left upon a reconnoitering expedition to the tilt from which the two latter were returning on the day of the Indian attack. They had no fear now of an Indian surprise, since Ed Matheson had observed the retreat of the savages to the southern shore, and they proceeded boldly to their destination. As anticipated, the tilt had been rifled of its contents, chiefly flour and pork. The tilt itself, however, had not been burned, and was otherwise undisturbed. "They was thinkin', now, t' have un an' t' use un theirselves when they comes here t' hunt, th' winter," declared Ed. "They thinks Bob an' Shad's done for. Unless they gets scairt out by th' ha'nts in th' water--" "The what?" asked Shad. "Th' ghosts or spirits they thinks is there. They's wonderful easy scairt, Injuns is. Oh, I knows th' Injuns; I been havin' trouble with un before." "When was you havin' trouble with Injuns, now?" asked Dick sceptically. "More'n once," said Ed. "There were th' time, now, I comes t' my tilt an' finds a hull passel o' Mountaineers--they wan't friendly in them days, th' Bay Mountaineers wan 't--so many they eats up a hull barrel o' my flour t' one meal--" "Now, Ed," broke in Dick, in evident disgust, "you been tellin' that yarn so many times you believes un yourself. Now, don't tell un ag'in." "'Tis gospel truth--" Ed began. "'Tis no kind o' truth." "Well, an' you don't want t' hear un, I won't tell un," said Ed, with an air of injured innocence. "'What was it, Ed, that happened you?" asked Shad, laughing, for he had learned to know the peculiarities of these two friends. "Dick's not wantin' t' hear un, Shad. He gets all ruffled up when I tells o' some happenin' I been havin' that's bigger'n any he ever has. I won't tell un now; 'twould make he feel bad, an' I don't want t' make he feel bad, nohow," said Ed, with mock magnanimity. "But there were another time--I'll tell you o' this, Shad, an' Dick don't mind?" "Oh, go ahead an' yarn, if you wants to! But th' Lard'll strike you dead some day, Ed, for lyin';" and Dick turned toward the canoes in disgust. "Now Dick's mad," Ed laughed, "but don't mind he, Shad; he'll get over un." "As I was sayin', now, 'twas when I was layin' my trail t' th' nu'th'ard o' Wanokapow. I gets my tilt built an' all in shape an' stocked up, an' I goes out one mornin' lookin' t' kill a bit o' fresh meat. 'Tis early, an' too soon t' set up th' traps, for th' fur ain't prime. "I gets a porcupine, which is all I wants, an' comin' down t' my second tilt about th' middle o' th' forenoon, finds un all afire an' a band o' twelve Injuns--I counts un, an' they's just a dozen--lookin' on, an' dividin' up my things, which they takes out o' th' tilt before they fires un. "Now I were mad--too mad t' be scairt--an' I steps right down among th' Injuns, an' when they sees me lookin' fierce an' ready t' kill un all, they's too scairt t' do a thing or t' run, an' they just stands lookin' at me. "Well, I keeps on lookin' wonderful fierce, an' jumps about a bit an' hollers. It makes me laugh now t' think how that passel o' Injuns stared! One of un tells me a couple o' years after that they thinks I gone crazy. "'Tisn't long till I gets un all so scairt they thinks I'm goin' t' shoot un all up, an' they's afeared t' run, thinkin' if they does I'll start right in quick. "Then I thinks it's time t' break th' news t' un, an' I tells un if they builds th' tilt up new for me I'll let un off. An' they starts right in t' build un, an' has un all done before th' sun sets. Th' same tilt's standin' there yet--' "Ed!" called Dick, from the canoe, "if you're through yarnin', come on now an' get started back. It'll be dark now before we gets t' th' tilt." It was dark when they reached the tilt. Bill, sitting alone by the camp-fire, had seen nothing of Manikawan while they were gone, and none of them ventured to enter the tilt or to disturb her. But, when they arose from their bed of boughs in the lee of the tent the following I morning, they found that the fire at their feet had been renewed while they slept. Manikawan was not in the tilt, but presently they discovered her, standing upon the pinnacle of rock near the lake shore, looking toward the glowing East, immovable as a statue, picturesque and beautiful in her primitive Indian costume. As the rim of the sun appeared above the horizon and the marvellous colourings of the morning melted into the fuller light of day, Manikawan extended her arms before her for a moment, then descended from her rock, and, observing that her friends were astir, she approached them, her face glowing with the health and freshness of youth, and bearing no trace of the ordeal through which she had passed. "White Brother of the Snow, the matchi manitu has been cheated. You have escaped from his power, and you will live long in the beautiful world," said she, for the first time adopting a more personal and affectionate form of address. "Manikawan's heart is as the rising sun, bright and full of light. It is as the earth, when the sun shines in summer, warm and happy. It soars like the gulls, no longer weighted with trouble." "Manikawan is my good sister, and I am glad she is happy," responded Bob. "White Brother of the Snow and his friend will never forget that she outwitted the Matchi Manitu. They will never forget what she did." Ungava Bob and Bill Campbell, sharing the canoe with Manikawan, Dick Blake and Ed Matheson the canoe with Shad Trowbridge, they reached the river tilt that evening. Manikawan was radiantly happy, but Bob, uncertain as to what course she might decide upon, and well aware that any attempt to send her back to her people would prove quite fruitless if she chose to remain with them, was much disturbed in mind. He sat long by the campfire that night, before he joined his companions in the tent, still undetermined what he should do to rid himself of her. When morning came Manikawan gave no hint of going until breakfast was eaten. Then with her customary promptness of action, standing before Ungava Bob, she announced: "Manikawan will now return to the lodge of Sishetakushin, her father, and wait for White Brother of the Snow. He is safe from the Matchi Manitu. She will wait and be contented. She will know that he is in the country of her people. She will wait for him till the sun grows timid and afraid, till the Spirit of the Frost grows bold and strong. Then White Brother of the Snow will come to the lodge of Sishetakushin, and there he will rest. Manikawan will prepare for him his nabwe (stew) and make for him warm garments from the skin of the atuk." Without further preliminary or adieu, she lifted her canoe upon her head and disappeared as unexpectedly as she had appeared. XV THE PASSING OF THE WILD THINGS It was already too late in the season to attempt further distribution of supplies with the canoe. Therefore, the boat and canoe were carried to a safe distance above the river, and a shelter of logs erected over them, that they might not be crushed under the weight of snow presently to come. Two days later the lakes were clogged with ice, and a week later the first fall of snow that was to remain throughout the winter fell to a depth of several inches. Then came an interval of waiting, but not of idleness, for Ungava Bob or Ed Matheson. Their new tilts were unsupplied with stretching boards for furs and many other necessities, in the preparation of which they occupied themselves at the river tilt, while the others lent a hand; though nearly every day Dick Blake or Bill Campbell accompanied Shad on hunting expeditions which resulted in keeping the larder well supplied with geese, ducks--now in their southward flight--ptarmigans, and an occasional porcupine. The birds were all fat and in splendid condition. The ptarmigans, now changing their mottled brown-and-white coat for the pure white plumage of winter, were gathered into large flocks, and easily had. A considerable number were killed with the first blast of frosty weather, and, together with a few ducks and geese, stored where they would freeze and keep sweet for future use. With the last week of October active trapping began, when fur, though not yet at its best, was in excellent condition. With November winter fell upon the land in all its sub-Arctic rigour. For a day and a night a blizzard raged, so blinding, so terrific, and with the temperature so low that none dared venture out; and when the weather cleared, the snow, grown so deep that snowshoes were essential in travel, no longer melted under the mid-day sun. Socks of heavy woollen duffel were now necessary to protect the feet, and buckskin moccasins, with knee-high leggings, took the place of sealskin boots. In the final distribution of supplies among the tilts, long, narrow Indian toboggans were brought into service, and the loads hauled upon the toboggans. Martens and foxes were the animals chiefly sought at this season. There were two methods followed in setting the marten traps. Where a tree of sufficient diameter was available, it was cut off as high as the trapper could wield his axe above the snow, and a notch about four inches deep and fourteen inches high cut some distance below the top of the stump and several feet above the snow. The bottom of this notch was given a level surface with the axe, the trap set upon it, and the bait hung in the side of the notch a foot above the trap. At other times an enclosure was made with spruce boughs, and in a narrow opening the trap was set, with the bait within the enclosure. Fox traps were set upon the marshes, and baited with rabbits which had been hung in the tilt until they began to smell badly, or with other scraps of flesh. The trap securely fastened by its chain to a block of wood or the base of willow brush, was carefully concealed under a thin crust of snow. The usual routine followed by Ungava Bob, after his trail was once in order and his traps set, was to leave the river tilt on Monday morning, and by a wide circuit around lake shores and marshes, embracing a distance of some fifteen miles, reach his tilt at the far end of the first lake at night. On Tuesday another wide circle of traps around contiguous lakes brought him back again at night to the same tilt. On Wednesday his trail led him to the tilt on the last lake of the old portage trail. His original intention had been to continue from this tilt to the tilt which the Indians had robbed, and thence to the last tilt on Ed Matheson's trail, some fifteen miles to the northeast. But after the appearance of the Indians it had been deemed unsafe and inadvisable to do this, and the tilt on the river above the portage trail was, therefore, temporarily abandoned. With this modification, his Thursday circuit of traps was so arranged that it brought him back at night to the tilt on the last lake, and on Friday he proceeded to Ed Matheson's last tilt. This arrangement carried him during the five days over seventy-five miles of trail along which his traps were distributed. Ed Matheson's trail was so arranged that he also arrived at his last tilt on Friday evening, and he and Bob thus shared the tilt each fortnight from Friday until Monday. Saturdays were occupied in making repairs and in doing the thousand and one odd jobs always at hand, Sunday in rest, and on Monday the return journey began which brought them to the river tilt on the following Friday, unless by chance they were delayed by storms. This was the point of fortnightly rendezvous for the four trappers--the junction point of all their trails. Dick Blake's and Bill Campbell's trails took them in opposite directions, and during their period of absence from the river tilt neither saw any of his companions. The fortnightly reunion at the river tilt was naturally an occasion they all looked forward to. It gave an opportunity to compare notes upon their success, to recount experiences, and to satisfy for a time the human craving for companionship. Shad made the first outward journey with Bob, and returned with Ed Matheson. Then he made a round with Dick Blake, and finally a round with Bill Campbell. Every feature of the work was new and interesting to Shad Trowbridge, and for a time he enjoyed it hugely. But presently it dropped into a dreary, monotonous routine. The vast, unbroken solitude, the endless tramping over endless snow, day after day, and the lack of adventure to which he had looked forward, served presently to make him moody and irritable. Shad had hoped for sport with his rifle, but no big game had been seen--not so much as the track of a caribou. Long before this the last goose and duck had passed southward. Not a bird save the ever-present jay had been encountered in upward of three weeks. Even the rabbits, whose tracks had criss-crossed the early snow in every direction and packed it down along the willow brush, had unaccountably disappeared. The stock of fresh meat, save a pair of geese and three pairs of ptarmigans reserved for a Christmas feast, was exhausted. These were extraordinary conditions. The men declared that never before in their experience had they observed so complete a disappearance of game. Caribou were usually rather numerous in November. In previous years ptarmigans and spruce grouse had been so plentiful that they were easily killed when needed. One year in every nine rabbits were said to vanish, but otherwise the total absence of game was inexplicable. It was a condition, too, that caused uneasiness. The flour and pork brought into the country by the trappers was far from adequate to supply their needs. Sufficient wild game to at least double their provision supply was an absolute essential if they were to continue on the trails. Thus far the early game had supplied their requirements, but the prospects for the future were disquieting. At the end of the first week in December, Bill Campbell and Shad returned from their fortnight on the trail to find their friends already at the river tilt and discussing the situation. "What you havin', this cruise, Bill?" asked Dick, when the greetings were over. "Th' worst cruise I ever has," Bill replied, as he drew off his adicky. "One white fox--nothin' else, an' no footin' now t' speak of. Shad an' me never see a hair or feather barrin' th' fox I catches, an' he were a poor un." "I gets one marten an' a red, up an' back," said Dick. "Ed gets nothin', an' Bob gets one marten. 'Tis a wonderful bad showin'." "Aye, a wonderful bad showin', gettin' never a hair, an' that's what I gets," declared Ed, in disgust. "If th' next cruise don't show a wonderful lot better, I starts for th' Bay th' mornin' after Christmas, an' I'll not be comin' back till th' middle o' February, whatever." The dough bread, fried pork, and tea, which Ed and Bob had been preparing, were ready, and, the meal disposed of, pipes were lighted and the discussion of the all-important question was resumed. "'Tisn't th' havin' a poor cruise now an' again's what's botherin' me," began Ed, "but they ain't no footin'; and where they ain't no footin', they ain't nothin'; an' where they ain't nothin', they ain't no use huntin' it." "They ain't even a pa'tridge t' be killed for th' pot," complained Bill. "No, an' we'll be seein' th' end of our grub, with nothin' t' help out, by th' end o' February, whatever," Ed dolefully prophesied. "Isn't there danger of scurvy if we have nothing but salt pork to eat?" asked Shad. "That they is, sure as shootin'," agreed Ed. "If you'd like to go along with me, Shad," suggested Bob, who up to this time had said little, "we'll take a flat-sled with your tent an' a tent stove, an' a couple weeks' grub, an' go down t' th' nu'th'ard an' see if we can't run onto some deer. Th' deer's somewheres, an' if they ain't here they must be t' th' nu'th'ard." "Of course I'll go with you, Bob," said Shad, delighted with the prospect of individual action and new experiences. "An' you may be runnin' into some o' th' Mountaineers an' Nascaupees down north, an' let un know about th' tradin' next year," suggested Dick. "If you tells one Injun, th' hull passel o' both tribes'll know about un. Things travels wonderful fast among th' Injuns." The following day two toboggans were packed with the provisions and equipment sufficient for a two weeks' absence, together with a considerable quantity of tea in addition to their probable requirements, and some plug tobacco, designed as gifts for the Indians. Long before daylight on Monday morning adieus were said and the two young adventurers turned into the frozen, silent wastes to the northward, Bob in the lead making a rapid pace, Shad following, and each hauling his toboggan. XVI ALONE WITH THE INDIANS At the edge of every frozen marsh and lake Ungava Bob paused to reconnoitre for caribou, but always to be disappointed, and when he and Shad halted at sundown to pitch their night camp, no living thing had they seen. Shad's small wedge tent was stretched between two trees, snow was banked around it on the outside, and a thick bed of boughs spread upon the snow within. Two short butts of logs were placed at proper distance apart near the entrance and inside the tent, the tent stove set upon them, and with an ample supply of wood cut and split, their night shelter, with a roaring fire in the stove, was warm and cosy. The days that followed were equally as disappointing. The smooth white surface of the snow was unmarred by track of beast or bird. No living creature stirred. No sound broke the silence. The frozen world was dead, and the silence was the silence of the sepulchre. "It's so quiet you can hear it," Shad remarked once when they halted to make tea. "Aye," said Bob, "'tis that, and they's no footin' of even rabbits. I can't make un out." On the afternoon of the third day after leaving the river tilt, they came upon the southern shore of the Great Lake of the Indians, and turning westward presently discovered Sishetakushin's wigwam. The travellers received a warm welcome from the Indians. Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn were indeed noisy and effusive in their greeting. Manikawan radiated pleasure, but she and her mother, a large, fat woman, as became their status as women, remained in the background. The Indians had killed some caribou early in the season, and jerked the meat. They had just killed a bear whose winter den they had discovered, and over the fire was a kettle of stewing beaver meat, upon which they feasted their visitors. At the proper time Bob presented them with tea, Shad gave them each some tobacco, and then Bob told them of his proposed trading project. "My people will be glad," said Sishetakushin, "and you will have much trade." It developed in the course of conversation that the Indians were preparing to move at once to the Lake of Willows (Petitsikapau), to the northwest, in the hope of meeting caribou, for none had been seen by them since those they had killed in early fall. They were to cache some of their provisions near the Great Lake; and when they had made a sufficient kill in the North to supply them with food, were to return to their cache near the Great Lake to trap martens, for in the more northerly country, where wide barrens take the place of forests, martens are rarely to be found. "Bob, here's a chance I've been hoping for," said Shad, when Bob interpreted to him the Indians' plan. "Do you think they would be willing to let me go with them until their return here, if I gave them some tobacco?" "They's no tellin', Shad, how long they'll be away," suggested Bob. "But I want to go if they'll let me go. Please ask them," insisted Shad. "But they may not be findin' deer, an' if they don't find un they won't be comin' back here till th' end o' winter. You don't want t' be with un th' rest o' th' winter, Shad; 'twill be rougher cruisin' than with us," Bob warned. "Ask them. I'm going if they'll have me along;" and Shad displayed in his tone a suggestion of resentment that Bob should question the advisability of anything upon which he had determined. The Indians discussed the matter at some length before finally giving Bob an affirmative decision. "They says you can go, Shad, but they'll not promise t' be back here for two months, whatever, an' when they does they'll come t' th' river tilt with you," said Bob. "Good! It'll give me some change of experience, and the chance to study their life and customs that I've wanted;" and Shad was elated with the prospect. Partly because of the earnest solicitation of his Indian friends, but chiefly in the hope of dissuading Shad from his determination, Bob remained in the Indian camp the remainder of the week. While they still maintained a degree of reserve toward Shad, Bob was treated in every respect as one of them. Manikawan made him the object of her particular attention. She waited upon him as the Indian women wait upon their lords, anticipating his needs. In expectation of his coming she had, after her return from the river tilt, made for him a beautiful coat of caribou skins. The hair, left on the skins, made a warm lining, while the outside of the coat, tanned as soft and white as chamois, was decorated with designs painted in colours. Attached to it was a hood of wolfskin. Accompanying the coat was a pair of long, close-fitting buckskin leggings, and a pair of buckskin moccasins, both decorated, and the whole comprising the typical winter suit of a Nascaupee hunter. Manikawan's attentions were extremely irritating to Bob, but he could not well avoid them, and to have declined to accept the gift which she had made especially for him in anticipation of his coming, would have caused her keen disappointment. So he accepted them and donned them, to her evident delight. "Shad," said Bob, on the Sunday evening after their arrival "I has t' start back in th' mornin', an' you better be goin' with me." "No," insisted Shad, "I'll stick to the Indians for a while." The following morning Bob bade them adieu. "Take care of yourself, old man," said Shad. "I'll see you in a month or so." "I hopes so, Shad, an' you take care o' yourself, now. I'm fearin' t' leave you, Shad." "Oh, I know how to look out for myself," declared Shad. "Don't worry about me." Turning to Manikawan, who stood mutely waiting for the word of farewell that she hoped Bob would bestow upon her, he said, in the Indian tongue: "White Brother of the Snow must go to his hunting grounds. He is leaving behind him his friend. Will Manikawan minister to his friend as she would to him? Will she see that no harm comes to him?" "Manikawan will do as White Brother of the Snow directs," she answered. "She will minister to his friend's needs. She will make for his friend the nabwe. His friend will not be hungry. Manikawan will care for him until White Brother of the Snow is weary of hunting and comes again to Sishetakushin's lodge. She will do this because he is the friend of White Brother of the Snow." Then Bob turned into the white, frigid waste to the southward, and Shad was alone with the Indians. XVII CHRISTMAS AT THE RIVER TILT Christmas fell on Thursday that year, and it had been arranged that the trappers, by turning back on their trails the preceding Saturday instead of waiting as was their custom until Monday, and by slighting some of the less important sections of the trails on their return trip, should gather at the river tilt on Wednesday evening, in order to celebrate the holiday with a feast. It was late on Christmas eve when Ungava Bob, returning from the Indian camp, drew his toboggan into the clearing in the centre of which stood the river tilt. Its roof was scarcely visible in the moonlight above the high drifted snow. He had hoped that some of the others might have arrived before him, but no smoke issued from the pipe, and fresh drifted, untrodden snow around the door told him that he was the first. It was fearfully cold. Rime filled the air. The deerskin coat which Manikawan had given him, and which he wore, was thick coated with frost. He paused before the door and stood for a moment to painfully pick away the ice that had accumulated upon his eyelashes, partially closing his eyelids, and discovered that his nose and cheeks were frost-bitten. He drew his right hand from its mitten, and holding his nose in the bare palm, covered the exposed hand with the mittened palm of the other, quickly rubbing the frosted parts with the warm palm to restore circulation. Presently, satisfied that the frost had been removed from nose and cheeks, he kicked off his snowshoes, shovelled the accumulated snow from the doorway with one of them, set the snowshoes on end in the snow at one side, and entering the tilt lighted a candle and kindled a fire in the stove. Taking the kettle from the stove and an axe from a corner, he passed out of the tilt and down to the river, chopped open the water hole, filled the kettle, and returning set it over to heat. Unpacking his toboggan and stowing the things away, he leaned it end up against the tilt, brought a bucket of water from the river for culinary use, removed his deerskin coat, and settled down in the now comfortable tilt to prepare supper and await his friends. Presently he heard a movement outside, and a moment later Dick Blake poked his head in at the door. "Evenin', Bob," he greeted. "Glad t' see you. Th' tilt smells fine an' warm! Where's Shad?" he asked, entering and rubbing his hands over the stove. "Stoppin' wi' th' Injuns. I were tryin' t' get he t' come back, but he thinks he wants t' go huntin' deer with un, an' stays," explained Bob. "Any fur?" "Only one marten an' one otter, but they's good uns. No sign o' foxes. But foxes won't stay when th' rabbits goes;" and Dick went out to unpack. Presently Bill Campbell arrived, and a little later Ed Matheson drew his long form through the low doorway, his red beard laden with ice. "Where's Shad?" he asked, after greetings were exchanged. Bob explained Shad's absence. "Well, now!" he exclaimed. "Shad must ha' been gettin' light-headed t' do that. Well, he's welcome t' 'bide 'long with Injuns if he wants to, but I'm thinkin' by about now he's wishin' he was where he ain't. An' by t'morrer he'll have boiled goose an' fried pa'tridges on his mind, an' wishin' harder 'n ever he were back here in th' river tilt." "He were wantin' th' hunt, an' now he may not find un so bad," said Bob. "He won't be havin' no feather-bed time cruisin' about with Injuns," insisted Ed. "Shad's gettin' wonderful peevish an' sot in his way lately. He's thinkin' o' th' fine grub an' good times he's been havin' t' that college place he talks about, instead o' thinkin' o' how he likes rabbit meat three times a day an' betwixt meals when you an' him was 'bidin' a time on th' island over here because you wasn't havin' wings t' fly off, an' they wa'n't no other way t' get off till th' Injun lass takes you off." "Shad weren't gettin' peeved," objected Bob, ready to defend his absent friend. "He were just disappointed at findin' no huntin', an' he 'bides with th' Injuns t' get some deer." "Maybe so, but Shad'll be glad enough t' get back t' th' river tilt, an' when he is gettin' back he'll be findin' it fine. He'll be thinkin' o' th' tough cruisin' with th' Injuns instead o' th' grub at his college place, an' that'll make he think 'tis fine in th' tilts. That's the way it mostly is with folks. They always wants somethin' they ain't got, an' when they gets un they wants somethin' else. An' like's not then they wants what they was havin' first, because they can't have un now." Ed paused to pour a cup of tea and help himself to pork. "Shad's a good mate, though," he continued magnanimously. "He ain't gettin' used t' th' bush yet. That's all's th' matter with he. He'll get used t' un after a bit, an' then he won't be gettin' peeved like he is now." "I'm wishin' he weren't stayin' back with th' Injuns now. I'm fearin' he'll be havin' a hard time of un--an' I'm fearin' he may be gettin' in trouble not knowin' how t' take un," Bob remarked solicitously. "I'm wonderful sorry, now, he stays wi' th' Injuns. 'Twould be fine t' have he here for Christmas," agreed Ed, as he drew a plug of black tobacco from his pocket and began to shave some of it into the hollow of his hand, preparatory to filling his pipe. "Any fur this trip?" asked Bob. "Two martens--both fine uns. Not so bad. How'd you make un, Dick?" "I gets one marten an' shoots an otter," answered Dick. "You gettin' any, Bill?" asked Ed, turning to Bill, who was reclining in one of the bunks and smoking in luxurious contentment. "Aye, one marten, an' I shoots a wolf last evenin'--a wonderful poor wolf, an' his skin ain't much account. Three of un were after me on th' trail all day, but I only gets one." "Three wolves, now--an' poor uns," commented Dick. "Wolves ain't follerin' a man all day unless they's hungry, an' they ain't like t' be hungry where they's deer." "No," agreed Ed, who had lighted his pipe, one moccasined heel drawn up on the edge of the bunk upon which he lounged, the other long leg stretched out. "Wolves follers th' deer, but when they ain't no deer t' faller they don't faller un. Which means they ain't no deer in this part o' th' country, an' so they just naturally fallers Bill as th' next best meat." "An' bein' poor means they's hungry, an' bein' hungry means they's lickin' their chops for Bill," continued Dick. "Were it night, now?" asked Ed. "No, 'twere broad day," answered Bill, undisturbed. "Now if 'twere night, I'd say they was follerin' you because your red hair lights th' trail up for un." "'Tain't no redder 'n your'n," retorted Bill. "Never mind un, Bill," said Bob sympathetically. "Ed's jealous because your hair's curly an' his 'n ain't." "Now, how about gettin' grub?" suggested Ed, when the laugh had subsided. "They ain't nothin' t' kill, an' we got t' haul grub in from th' Bay. I'm thinkin' t' start down Friday, an' if one o' you wants t' go along, we'll both haul up a load on our flatsleds. How'd you like t' go, Bill? They's a moon, an' by travellin' some at night we'll make th' Bay for th' New Year, goin' light, an' be back by th' first o' February, whatever, with our loads." "I'd like wonderful well t' go!" answered Bill, elated at the prospect of a visit to the Bay, brief as it would be. "What you think of un?" asked Ed, addressing Dick and Bob jointly. "We got t' have grub if we stays on th' trails," agreed Dick, "an' they's no sign o' killin' any meat." "Aye, we'll all have t' leave th' trails by th' first o' March, whatever, unless some of us goes for grub," said Bob. "Bill an' me bein' away'll stretch th' grub we has, for Bill be a wonderful eater--" Bill interjected a protest, but Ed, ignoring it, continued: "An' what we hauls back on th' flatsleds'll carry us over th' spring trappin'. We'll be startin' early on Friday. We'll go down your trail an' spring your traps up on th' way out, Bill." A late breakfast of fried ptarmigans, and a late afternoon dinner of boiled goose, with an evening "snack" of ptarmigan before retiring--the last of the game reserved from the fall shooting--together with camp bread and tea, comprised the Christmas menu. Directly after breakfast Ed and Bill made ready for packing on their toboggans the light outfit which they were to use on their outward trip; and this done, the four held a service of song in which all joined heartily, and spent the remainder of the day luxuriously lounging in the tilt and telling stories. Shad was sincerely missed. He had looked forward keenly to the Christmas feast, and many hearty good wishes were expressed for him--that even among the Indians he might pass a pleasant day--that he would not find the hardships so great as his friends had feared--and that he would soon return to them in safety and none the worse for his experiences. Then the thoughts turned to home, and speculations as to what the far-off loved ones were doing at the moment. "I'm thinkin' a wonderful lot of home now," said Bob. "Tell Mother an' Father, Ed, I'm safe an' thinkin' of un every day, an' of Emily, away off somewheres in St. Johns t' school. It's makin' me rare lonesome t' think o' home without Emily there. An'--an'--tell Mother, Ed--I never forgets my prayers." "That I will, lad!" promised Ed heartily. "An' what you wantin' me t' say t' Bessie, now? Tell she about th' Injun lass an' th' fine deerskin coat she's givin' you?" "Tell Bessie I always carries th' ca'tridge bag she gives me--an' I'm thinkin' how 'tis she that makes un--an' I'll be glad t'--get home t' th' Bay," directed Bob hesitatingly. "Oh, aye. Glad t' get back t' see th' Bay, I'm thinkin'," laughed Ed. As Bob and Dick returned to the tilt an hour before daybreak, after watching Ed and Bill disappear down the trail in the still, bitter cold of the starlit morning, Bob remarked: "I'm feelin' wonderful strange--I'm not knowin' how. 'Tis a lonesomeness--but different--like as if somethin' were goin' t' happen." "An' I has th' same sort o' feelin'," confessed Dick. "'Tis like th' stillness before a big storm breaks at sea--'tis like as if some one was dyin' clost by." XVIII THE SPIRIT OF DEATH GROWS BOLD When Ungava Bob was gone, Shad Trowbridge returned to the deerskin lodge to think. Now that he was alone with the Indians, he was not at all sure that he did not regret his decision to remain with them and share their uncertain fortunes. For a moment the thought occurred to him that he might even yet follow Bob's trail and overtake him in his night camp. But he thrust the impulse aside at once as unworthy consideration. He had come to his decision, and he was determined to remain and play the game to a finish. He craved action and excitement, and the glamour of romance that surrounded the Indians and their nomadic life had attracted him. It was this, together with the human instinct to play at games of chance, and the primordial instinct slumbering in every strong man's breast to throw off restraint and, untrammelled, match his brains and strength against the forces of untamed nature, that had led Shad to adopt the red man's life for a period which he believed would not exceed three or four weeks at most. In preparation for departure the following day, the Indians erected upon an elevated flat rock, which winds had swept bare of snow, a log shelter some five feet square and five feet high. After lining the bottom and sides of this shelter with spruce boughs, a quantity of jerked venison and dried fish was deposited in it, the top covered with boughs, and the roof, consisting of logs laid closely side by side and weighted with stones, was placed in position. This precaution was taken to protect the cache from marauding animals. In the dim light of the cold December morning the deerskin covering of the wigwam was stripped from the poles, folded and packed upon the toboggans, together with the simple housekeeping equipment of the Indians, and a sufficient quantity of fresh bear's meat and jerked venison to sustain them for a fortnight. Immediately the march was begun toward the Lake of Willows, Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn in turn taking the lead and breaking the trail, the others following, single file. Day after day they pushed on and still on through scattered forests, across wide barrens and over frozen lakes, always on the alert for caribou but always disappointed. Once a small flock of ptarmigans was seen along the willow brush that lined a stream. Shad drew his shotgun from his toboggan, but the Indians would not permit him to use it, and in disgust he returned it to its place while he watched Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn kill the birds with bows and arrows. He marvelled at their skill. Indeed, he did not observe a single arrow go astray of its mark. Eleven birds were secured in this way--the first game they had seen, and the last they were to see for several days. A dead, awful cold settled upon the earth. The very atmosphere was frozen. Rime in shimmering, glittering particles hung suspended in space, and covered bushes, trees, and rocks--scintillating in the sunlight and seeming to intensify the cold. The few brief hours of sunshine were disregarded. The sun rose only to tantalise. For three or four hours each day it hung close to the horizon, then dropped again below the southwestern hills; and its rays gave out no warmth. No sign of game was seen near the Lake of Willows, and no halt was made. The life of the Indians depended upon the killing of caribou. The little cache of jerked venison and fish left near the Great Lake would scarcely have sustained them a month. The few ptarmigans killed now and again were of small assistance. The food they hauled was nearly exhausted. Then came a period of storm. For a week snow fell and gales blew with such terrific fury that no living thing could have existed in the open, and during this period a halt was unavoidable. Once a day a small ration was doled out--pitifully small--enough to tantalise appetite, but not to still hunger. Shad was consumed with a craving for food. He could think of nothing but food. His days on the trails and in the tilts with the trappers were remembered as days of luxury and feasting. He wondered if Bob and the others had thought of him when they ate their Christmas dinner of geese and ptarmigans. "Oh, for one delicious meal of pork and camp bread. Oh, for one night of the luxurious warmth of the river tilt!" When the storm abated sufficiently to permit them to continue their journey, he moved his legs mechanically, even forgetting at last that the effort was painful. An insidious weakness was taking possession of him. It was an effort to draw his lightly-laden toboggan. It made him dizzy to swing an axe when he assisted Manikawan to cut wood for the fire. His knees gave way under him when he sat down. Manikawan's plump cheeks were sunken. Her eyes were growing big and staring. Her mother had lost half her bulk, and Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn were also noticeably affected. They no longer laughed and seldom spoke. As one performing a duty that must not under any circumstance or condition be neglected, Manikawan conscientiously looked after Shad's welfare; but still she treated him with the same degree of dignity and reserve, if not aloofness, that she had always maintained toward him. He realised that what she did for him she did because he was the friend of her beloved White Brother of the Snow, and not for his own sake--as a dog will guard the thing which its master directs it to guard, faithfully and untiringly, for the master's sake, but with no other attachment for the thing itself. He wondered why they did not return to their cache on the Great Lake after the long storm, and then it occurred to him that probably their destination was the trading post at Ungava, of which Bob had told him. On the afternoon of the second day after the storm, they came upon a single wigwam. Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn looked into it and passed on. Shad raised the flap, and peering in saw the emaciated figure of an old Indian. He was quite stark and dead, his wide-open eyes staring vacantly into space. He had been abandoned to die. That evening Shad stumbled over an object in the snow. He stooped to examine it in the starlight, and was horrified to discover the dead body of a woman. The following morning, as they plodded wearily forward under the faint light of the stars, they came suddenly upon a group of wigwams. Men, women, and children came out to meet them--an emaciated, starved, unkempt horde that had more the appearance of ghouls and skeletons than human beings. Some of them tottered as they walked, some fell in the snow and with difficulty regained their feet. "Atuk! Atuk! Have you found the atuk?" was the cry from all--a hopeless cry of desperation, as they crowded around the travellers. "We have not found the atuk," answered Sishetakushin. Some heard him stoically, others staggered hopelessly away to their wigwams, others wailed: "The Great Spirit of the Sky is angry. He has sent all the spirits to destroy us. The Spirit of Hunger--the Gaunt Gray Wolf--is at our back. The raven, the Black Spirit of Death, is ready to attack us. The Spirit of the Tempest torments us. The Spirits of the Forest and of the Barrens mock us. The Great Spirit of the Sky has driven away the atuk, and our people are starving. Many of our people are dead. Four of our hunters now lie dead in their lodges." Shad Trowbridge could not understand what was said, but he could not fail to understand the situation. For some inexplicable reason the caribou, upon which the Indians depended for food, had disappeared from the land. All living things save these starving wretches had vanished. For twenty-four hours not a mouthful of food had passed Shad's own lips, and a sickening dread engulfed his soul. [Footnote: This was the winter of 1890-1891, known as "the year of starvation," when for some unknown reason the caribou failed to appear in their accustomed haunts, and as a result one out of every three of the Indians of northern Labrador perished of starvation.] XIX THE CACHE ON THE LAKE Shad Trowbridge stood dazed, as one in a dream--a horrid, awful dream. He looked through a haze, and what he saw was distorted, unreal, terrible. The suffering creatures about him were spectral phantoms of the nether world, the shimmering rime, a symbol of death, the endless snow the white robe of the grave quickly to cover them all. A sudden stillness fell upon the camp, to be presently broken by the agonised scream of a woman, shrill and startling, followed by wailings and melancholy moans. The Spirit of Death had snatched away her favourite son. A sickening nausea overtook Shad, and he sank upon his toboggan, faint and dizzy with an overpowering weakness. His imagination was getting the better of him. It is always dangerous and sometimes fatal for one to permit the imagination to assert itself in seasons of peril. Will power to put away thoughts of to-morrow, to think only of to-day, to do to-day the thing which necessity requires, coupled with a determination never to abandon hope, is a paramount essential for the successful explorer to possess. In this moment of hopeless surrender Shad felt Manikawan's hand rest lightly upon his shoulder for an instant, and looking up he saw her standing before him, tall, straight, commanding, and as she looked that day on the river bank when she bade him and Bob wait for her return to free them from their island prison. "The friend of White Brother of the Snow is not a coward. He is not afraid of the Spirit of Hunger. He is not afraid of the Spirit of Death. He is brave. He once outwitted the Matchi Manitu of the River. He will outwit the Spirit of Hunger. He will outwit the Spirit of Death. The friend of White Brother of the Snow is brave. He is not afraid to die." The words were unintelligible to him, but their import was unmistakable. She, a young Indian maiden, was offering him encouragement, and recalling him to his manhood. He arose to his feet, ashamed that she had read his mind, ashamed that she had found it necessary to recall him from a lapse into his foolish weakness which must have seemed to her like cowardice. But he remembered now that he was a man--a white man--and because he was a white man, the physical equal and mental superior of any savage there. Looking into Manikawan's eyes, he made an unspoken vow that she should never again have cause to chide him. Dawn was breaking, and in the growing light a half-dozen lodges were to be seen. At one side and alone stood a deerskin tent of peculiar form. It was a high tent of exceedingly small circumference, and where the smoke opening was provided and the poles protruded at the top of the ordinary wigwam, this was tightly closed. It was the medicine lodge of the shaman. Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn had entered one of the lodges immediately after the tumult caused by their arrival had subsided, and Manikawan now followed her mother into another lodge. There were no Indians visible. The moans of the grief-stricken mother, rising above the voices of men in the lodge which Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn had entered, were the only sounds. The air was bitterly cold, but the tragedy enacting around him had for a time rendered Shad quite insensible to it. When he did finally realise that, standing inactive, he was numbed and chilled, he still lingered a little before joining Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn, dreading to enter the famine-stricken lodges. At last, however, necessity drove him to do so, and within the lodge he discovered that a council was in progress. In the centre a fire burned, and around it the men, solemn and dignified, sat in a circle. One after another of the Indians spoke in earnest debate. They were considering what action they should take to preserve their lives, and Shad, as deeply interested as any, felt aggrieved that he could not immediately learn the final result of the conference, which came to an end as the sun cast its first feeble rays over the barren ranges that marked the southeastern horizon. When the council closed the Indians filed out of the lodge, and one, a tall old man, fantastically attired in skins, entered the medicine lodge alone, carefully closing the entrance after him to exclude any ray of light. Immediately drum beats were heard within the tent, accompanied by a low groaning and moaning, which gradually increased in volume and pitch until presently it became a high, penetrating, blood-curdling screech. This continued for perhaps half an hour, the drum beats never ceasing their monotonous rat-tat-tat. The shaman, or medicine man, thus working himself into a frenzy, at length believed he saw within the lodge the ghostly form of the particular Matchi Manitu, or evil spirit, responsible for the disappearance of the caribou and the resulting famine. This spirit's wrath it was believed had for some reason unknown to the Indians been aroused against them. Only the shaman could get into communication with the spirit, and learn from it what course the Indians would be required to pursue to placate its wrath, and remove its curse. When the appearance of the spirit was announced, the shaman began to supplicate and implore the Matchi Manitu to withdraw from the people the pursuit of Famine; to return the caribou to the land; and to preserve the lives of the dying. Presently in tones of joy the shaman announced that he had succeeded in enlisting the services of the Matchi Manitu, and with the announcement the din within the lodge ceased, and for several minutes mysterious whisperings were heard. Suddenly the shaman threw over the lodge, and in a state of exhaustion tottered forward. Still under the influence of the paroxysms into which he had worked himself, he delivered in a wandering, disconnected jumble of meaningless sentences the demands of the Matchi Manitu. These consisted of many unreasonable and impossible feats that the people were required to accomplish before the Spirit of Starvation--the Gaunt Gray Wolf--would cease to follow upon their trail. The Indians began at once to break camp. Sishetakushin had reported no caribou to the southward. Their only remaining hope was to reach the haven of Ungava post to the northward; and they were to begin the life-and-death struggle northward at once--a struggle in which many were to fall. A sense of vast relief was experienced by Shad when Sishetakushin resumed the march. Famished and weak as he was, this was inexpressibly preferable to a continuance with the starving crowd, and he turned his back upon the camp, little caring whence their trail led. For a while they continued northward upon the frozen bed of a stream, which they had been following for several days, then a sharp turn was made to the eastward, and as the sun was setting they came upon the ice of a wide lake. At the end of a half-hour of slow plodding across an arm of the lake, they entered the edge of sparsely wooded forest and halted. Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn began at once to remove the snow from the top of what appeared to be a high drift, and a little below the surface uncovered the roof of a cache similar to the one they had made on the shores of the Great Lake of the Indians, where Shad and Ungava Bob had found them. Shad's heart gave a bound when the object of the journey was revealed to him. Here was food and promise of life! And Bob's words, so often repeated when they were stranded on the island, flashed into his mind: "It's th' Lard's way. He's watchin' you when you thinks He's losin' track o' you. He's takin' care o' you an' you does your best t' take care o' yourself." Manikawan and her mother stretched the deerskin cover upon wigwam poles used the previous summer and still standing near the lake, and Shad cleared the snow from the interior of the wigwam, while the women broke boughs and laid the bed. In the meantime, Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn opened the cache and transferred its precious contents to the wigwam. A fire was kindled, and in the cosy warmth of their shelter they broke their fast, which had now extended over a period of thirty-six hours. The small portion of dried caribou meat doled out to each was far from satisfying. Some of the tea which Ungava Bob had given the Indians still remained. A kettle of this was brewed, and it served to stimulate and warm them. Then they lighted their pipes and for a time smoked in silence. At length Sishetakushin, turning to Mookoomahn, began: "On the Lake of the Beaver to the northward we have a small store of atuk weas (deer's meat). We also have there the cover of a lodge. Three suns will pass before we can reach this store of food. On the Great Lake we have another store. "Sishetakushin and the woman will travel to the Lake of the Beaver. With the store of provisions and the lodge which we find on the Lake of the Beaver we will travel northward to the lodge of the white man, where the water of the river joins the big sea water, and where we shall find food. "Mookoomahn and the maiden, with the friend of White Brother of the Snow, will travel southward to the Great Lake. Mookoomahn will show the white man the way to the lodge of White Brother of the Snow. Then he will return to the Great Lake and trap the marten and the mink. "When the sun grows strong, and drives away the Spirit of the Frost, Mookoomahn will travel northward to the Lake of the Beaver. There he will find Sishetakushin and the woman to welcome him. He will take his food from the waters as he travels. "The maiden will remain in the lodge of White Brother of the Snow. Sishetakushin gives her to White Brother of the Snow. She is his. White Brother of the Snow is of our people. He will be glad, and the maiden will be glad. White Brother of the Snow has white man's food in great store. Mookoomahn will not be hungry." "Mookoomahn will do as Sishetakushin directs," answered Mookoomahn. For a time all smoked in silence, then Sishetakushin resumed: "Of the dried meat on the toboggan Mookoomahn and those who are with him will eat but once during each sun. They will eat little. If they eat much, the meat will soon be gone, and the Spirit of Starvation will overtake them and destroy them." "Mookoomahn and those that are with him will do as Sishetakushin directs," said Mookoomahn. A series of signs and pantomime conveyed to Shad the substance of Sishetakushin's remarks. He understood that on the morrow the party was to separate. That he with Mookoomahn and Manikawan were to return to the Great Lake, and that they had been cautioned to husband their provisions. He surveyed the small bundle of jerked venison with misgivings. Even with one light meal a day he calculated that it could not last them above three weeks. Their journey from the cache on the Great Lake to their present position had consumed a month, including a period of one week when they were stormbound. Should they be fortunate and encounter no storms, the food, sparingly doled out, might serve to sustain them. If storms delayed them, it certainly would not. In any case their lives must hang in the balance until the cache was reached, unless game were encountered in the meantime, which seemed highly improbable. A meagre meal was served at an early hour the following morning. As usual, camp was broken long before day, and then came the farewells. The parting between Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn was affecting, that between the women more stoical. Shad regretfully shook the hands of the old Indian and his wife. They had been friends to him, and he had no expectation that he should ever see them again. Then Shad and his companions turned southward into the wide wastes of frozen desolation that lay between him and his friends. It was to be a journey of tragic experiences--a journey that was to try his metal as it had never yet been tried. XX THE FOLK AT WOLF BIGHT The Grays were very lonely and the little cabin at Wolf Bight seemed desolate and deserted indeed during the first days following the departure of the trappers for the interior. Mrs. Gray and Emily cried a little, and often Emily would say: "I wonders where Bob is now, Mother, an' what he's doin'?" "He's workin' up th' river, lass, an' th' dirty weather's makin' th' trackin' an' portagin' wonderful hard for un," she would answer, when it stormed; or, when the sun shone, "They's havin' a fine day for travellin' now." But presently the preparations for Emily's departure for school occupied their attention to the exclusion of all else, and they forgot for a time their loneliness. Her going was to be an event of vast importance. It was an innovation, not only in their household but in the community, for never before had any of the young people of the Bay attended school; and never before, save on the occasion when Emily had been taken to the St. Johns hospital the previous year, to undergo an operation, had any of the girls--or women, either, for that matter--been farther from home than Fort Pelican. When Bob came into his little fortune through the salvage of the trading schooner, "Maid of the North," Mrs. Gray had urged that Richard rest from the trail for one season, and at the same time give the animals an opportunity to increase. This he had done, and during the previous winter, when Bob also was at home, he and Bob had occupied their time in the woods with the axe and pit saw, cutting a quantity of timber and planking. There was no immediate need of this timber, and when Bob was gone Richard determined to utilise it in the construction of a small schooner, in anticipation of the trading operations to begin the following year. Such a vessel would be a necessity in transporting supplies from Fort Pelican to the store at Wolf Bight. Therefore, he began at once the work of laying the keel. There were nearly three months at his disposal before he would go out upon his trapping trail, and in this time, hoping to accomplish much, he remained at his task from early morning until dusk drove him from it. Thus occupied, Mrs. Gray and Emily seldom saw him, save at meal hours and after candle-light in the evening, and this made them doubly lonesome. One day late in August, Douglas Campbell sailed his boat over to Wolf Bight to spend the day with his friends and to announce that a week later he would come for Emily to take her to Fort Pelican, where they were to connect with the mail boat for St. Johns. This recalled the near approach of Emily's departure, and the days that followed passed with amazing rapidity. Emily's new woollen frock--the first woollen frock she had ever possessed--needed still some finishing touches. It was to be her Sunday dress--to be worn at church, where there would be many fine people to see her--and as pretty as the mother's skill and care could make it. Then there were the print frocks for everyday wear, to be freshly laundered and packed with other clothing into a new wooden chest which her father had made for her; and the innumerable last things to be done, which kept Emily and her mother in a continuous state of flurry and excitement. Quite too soon Emily's last day at home dawned, and, true to his appointment, Douglas Campbell arrived during the afternoon. He looked very grand and dignified and altogether unlike himself in his suit of grey tweed. He wore this suit only on those rare occasions--usually at intervals of three or four years--when business called him to St. Johns, and Emily had but once before seen him so strangely attired. He looked so strange and unnatural--so unlike the good old Douglas that she loved, in moleskin trousers and pea-jacket or adicky--that she felt he was somehow different, and that the world was going all topsy-turvy. And then for the first time there came to her a full realisation of the great change that was to take place in her life--that she was going far from home and into a strange land--that for many, many months she was to see neither her father nor her mother--that she was to live among strangers who cared nothing for her--that she would be separated from those who loved her and all that she held dear in the world. A great ache came into her heart--the first heart-hunger of the homesick--and she slipped away behind the curtain to throw herself upon her little white bed and seek relief in stifled sobs. Presently as she lay there, weeping quietly to herself, loud exclamations of hearty welcome from her father and mother as some one entered the door caused her to sit up and listen. Then she recognised Tom Black's voice, and heard Bessie asking: "Where's Emily?" This was splendid! Bessie had come to spend the night! And, quickly drying her tears and forgetting her heartache, Emily rushed out to greet her friend and to find that the whole Black family were there--Tom, the motherly Mrs. Black, and Bessie. "Oh, Emily, I just had t' come t' see you off!" exclaimed Bessie, as the two girls rushed together and hugged each other in delight. "I coaxes, an' coaxes, an' coaxes Father t' bring me over, an' he just teases me an' says he's busy, an' Mr. McDonald can't spare he, till this mornin' he says we're comin'. An' all th' time he an' Mother's plannin' t' come!" "'Twon't do t' tell a maid everything you plans t' do," Tom chuckled. Bessie pursed up her red lips, and tossing her head at him laughed gaily, showing her dimples. "Oh, but you just had t' come anyway, for I'd never give you a bit o' peace if you hadn't." Her cheeks flushed with excitement and her eyes sparkling with pleasure, Tom looked at her proudly, and could not refrain from the remark: "She ain't a very humbly lass, now be she, Richard?" "Now, Father, stop teasin' Bessie," cautioned Mrs. Black. "He's always teasin' th' lass." "I'm just dyin' t' see your things, Emily!" exclaimed Bessie, as Emily took her friend's bonnet and wraps. "An, I couldn't let you go without seein' you. An' I'm goin' t' stay awhile, too, with your mother. She'll be so lonesome without somebody t' talk to when you goes." "Oh, Bessie! How wonderful glad I am o' that! I were just thinkin' how lonesome Mother were goin' t' be with me an' Bob both gone--an'--an' 'twere makin' me feel bad;" and Emily brushed away a tear. "We'll not be lettin' your mother, nor father, either, get lonesome," said Douglas, patting her shoulder gently and looking down in his kindly way into her face. "Bessie'll be 'bidin' here till I comes back in October, an' then she'll be comin' again after th' New Year for a long stop. An' I'll be comin' once every week, whatever." "Oh, I'm hopin' so!" Mrs. Gray exclaimed. "I'm not darin' t' think about how 'twill be when Emily's gone." "Now I knows, an' Tom knows; an' we was talkin' t' Douglas about un when he were over t' th' post, an' we were sayin', 'Now Bessie'll have t' go over an' 'bide awhile with Mary when Emily's gone,'" said Mrs. Black. "An' you never tells me, an' just lets me tease t' come!" pouted Bessie. "We were wantin' t' surprise you, lass. An'," Mrs. Black continued, addressing Mrs. Gray, "I knows what 'tis t' be alone, now, an' th' men folks is all in th' bush. I used t' be alone before Tom takes th' place t' th' post; but now we has plenty o' company." "'Tis wonderful good an' thoughtful of you!" Mrs. Gray exclaimed heartily. "Now set in an' have a cup o' tea an' a bite. You must need un after th' cruise over." The evening was spent in chatting and visiting and looking over Emily's new clothes. Neither Emily nor Bessie--both overcome with excitement--slept much, however, that night, for they had a world to talk about as they lay in bed--but most of all the great and wonderful experiences Emily was to have. Emily and her mother clung to each other, and Bessie to both of them, and cried and cried, when the time for parting came the following morning, until finally Douglas and Richard were compelled to draw Emily gently into the boat. Then motherly Mrs. Black, surreptitiously brushing tears from her own eyes, put her arm around Mrs. Gray and soothingly urged: "Don't be cryin', Mary. Th' maid's goin' t' be all right, an' they's nothin' to cry for. 'Twon't be so long till you has she back." Richard had the hull of the little schooner well under way when the mid-October cold forced him to abandon the work until the following summer, and he was preparing to set out upon his trail when Douglas appeared one evening, fresh from St. Johns, to report Emily comfortably settled in the home of a hospitable family near the school she was attending, and that she was immensely interested in her studies and fairly well contented, though a little lonesome at times for home. Douglas evidently had something on his mind that troubled him. Once Mrs. Gray asked if he were ailing, but he denied anything but the best of health. Finally, however, as a disagreeable duty that he must perform, the kind-hearted old trapper said: "I'm not knowin' just how t' tell you--'twill be a wonderful hard blow t' th' lad--th' bank where Bob were puttin' his money has broke, an' I'm fearin' th' money's all lost." "Lost! Lost!" exclaimed Richard and Mrs. Gray together. "Aye," said Douglas, "lost." Then he explained fully the failure of the bank, in which he also had a small amount on deposit, and the improbability of any of the depositors recovering more than a nominal percentage of their deposits, and even that doubtful. "Well," said Mrs. Gray, "'twill be wonderful hard on th' lad, an' he countin' so on th' tradin' business." "Aye," repeated Richard, "wonderful hard on he. Wonderful hard an' disappointin', After all his plannin' an' hopin' an' thinkin' about un." "An' Emily's schoolin' charge! How now be we goin' t' pay un?" asked Mrs. Gray. "Don't worry about that, now," said Douglas. "I were wantin' she t' go, an' I were th' first t' say for she t' go, an' I'll see, now, about un this year, whatever. Don't worry about th' schoolin', now." "But we can't be havin' you pay un," remonstrated Richard. "Well, now, don't worry about un," insisted Douglas. "We'll see. We'll see." They lapsed into silence for a little, when Bessie remarked: "'Tisn't so bad, now. 'Tis bad t' lose th' money, an' 'twill be hard an' disappointin' t' Bob, but he's a wonderful able lad--they's no other lad in th' Bay so able as Bob. He's a fine lot o' traps on his new trails, an' he'll not be doin' so bad, now." "Yes," agreed Douglas, "he be, now, a wonderful able lad." "And," Richard spoke up, beginning to see the brighter side of the situation, "Bob owns un, an' he's havin' no debt, an' he's payin' up all our debts. They's no other folk o' th' Bay as well off as we be." "I weren't thinkin' of un that way. I were just thinkin' of how hard 'twill be for Bob-givin' up th' tradin'," Mrs. Gray explained. "But we has a lot t' be thankful for, an', as Bessie says, Bob's young an' wonderful able." But nevertheless it was a hard blow--a disheartening blow--to all of them. Bob had planned so much for the future, he was still planning and dreaming of his career as a trader, and building air castles--away up there in the desolate white wilderness. This meant, instead of the realisation of those dreams, a tedious, interminable tramping, year after year, of the fur trails, an always uncertain, a never-ending, struggle for the bare necessities of life. A single bad year would throw them again into debt; two bad years in succession would plunge them so hopelessly into debt that the most earnest effort for the remainder of his life would not relieve Bob of its burden. XXI THE RIFLED CACHE The cold of February, intense, searching, deadly, tightened its grip upon the wilderness, sapping the life of the three struggling human derelicts--for derelicts Shad Trowbridge felt himself and his two companions to be--as they fought their way, now hopefully, now despondently, but ever with slower pace, as strength ebbed, toward the precious cache on the shores of the Great Lake; and with the slower progress that growing weakness demanded, it was quickly found necessary to reduce by half the already minute portion of dried caribou meat allotted to each. Everything in the world save only themselves seemed to have been frozen into oblivion. There was no sound, save the monotonous swish, swish of their own snowshoes, to disturb the silence--a silence otherwise as absolute and vast as the uttermost depths of the grave. Storms overtook them, but they mercifully were storms of short duration, and seldom interfered with hours of travel. Staggering, but ever struggling forward, they forced their way painfully on and on, over pitiless windswept ridges, across life-sapping, desolate barrens, through scarcely less inhospitable forests. Exerting their waning strength to its utmost, they never stopped, save when exhausted nature compelled them to halt for brief intervals of sleep and rest, to recuperate their wasted energies. Shad Trowbridge came finally to wonder vaguely if he were not dead, this another existence, and be doomed to keep going and going through endless ages over endless reaches of snow. To his numbed intellect it seemed that he had been thus going for months and years. Like a vague, pleasant dream of something experienced in a previous life, he remembered Bob and the tilts, Wolf Bight farther back, and the dear old college. What would the fellows say now, if they were to see him--the fellows who had known him in that former, happier life? At other times he fancied he heard Ungava Bob and the others hallooing in the distance, and he would answer in glad, expectant shouts. But there never came a reply. The first time this occurred Manikawan turned and looked inquiringly at him, through eyes sunk deep in their sockets. When it was repeated later--and he came to hear the voices and to shout to the empty snow wastes at least once every day--she would step to his side, solicitously touch his shoulder and say: "The friend of White Brother of the Snow hears the voices of the Matchi Manitu of Hunger. Let him close his ears and be deaf, for the Matchi Manitu is mocking him." Mookoomahn's face was not pleasant to see now; it was horrible--the dark skin was drawn tight over the high cheek bones, the lips shrunken to the gums, and the eyes fallen far back into the skull. His face resembled more than anything else the smoked and dried skull of a mummy. Shad laughed sometimes when he looked at Mookoomahn's ghastly face, framed in a mass of long, straggling black hair; at other times he was overcome with a heart-rending pity for Mookoomahn that brought tears to his eyes. But tears froze, and were annoying and painful. Manikawan, too, had changed woefully. The lean, gaunt figure stalking along uncomplainingly with Shad and Mookoomahn had small resemblance to the beautiful, commanding Manikawan that bade Bob and Shad be patient in their imprisonment on the island until she returned to relieve them; or the glowing, happy Manikawan that accompanied Shad and the others to the river tilt after she had accomplished the rescue. Though there still burned within her an unquenchable fire of energy, and she never lagged on the trail, she was no longer the Manikawan of old. In spite of all the hardships and all the pain, and slowly starving as she was, she never ceased her attention to Shad, and she never once lost her patience with him. When Shad laughed hysterically and derisively at his fate, as he did sometimes, Manikawan would step to his side, touch him lightly with her hand, and say in the same old voice, lower than of old, but even more musical and sweet: "The friend of White Brother of the Snow is brave. He is not a coward. He is not afraid to die." This always had a magical, soothing effect upon Shad. Though he never learned to interpret her language, the touch of the hand, the human note of encouragement in her voice, the light in the eyes that looked into his, never failed to recall him to his manhood and to himself, and to the remembrance of his vow that as a white man he must by mere force of will prove his superiority. All record of time was lost. But the days were visibly lengthening with each sunrise and sunset, and when the wind did not blow to freeze them, and the snow did not drift to blind them, the sunshine gave forth a hint--just a hint--of warmth. One day the dead silence was suddenly startled by the long-drawn-out howl of a wolf. It was a blood-curdling and almost human cry, and Shad likened it to the agonised cry of a lost soul in the depths of eternal torment. Again and again it sounded, then suddenly ceasing, Shad discovered the animal itself trotting leisurely after them far in the rear, and a feeling of fellowship--of pity--welled up in his bosom. But when he discovered the creature still following them the next day, now so near that he could see its lolling red tongue, its lean sides, and ugly fangs, he became possessed with a feeling of revulsion toward it. Then he fancied it the embodied Spirit of Starvation stalking them and awaiting an opportunity to destroy them. This fancy gave birth to a consuming, intense hatred of the thing. Finally it attained the proportions of a mocking, tantalising demon. Cunningly he watched for a moment when it was well within rifle shot, and drawing his rifle from the toboggan he dropped upon a knee, aimed carefully, and pulled the trigger. The frost-clogged firing pin did not respond, and the wolf, seeming to understand its peril, slunk away unharmed. Shad had seen it plainly--its repulsive gray sides so lank that they seemed almost to meet, its red, hungry tongue lolling from its ugly mouth, its cruel white fangs, and its malevolent, gleaming eyes. His hatred for the creature became an obsession, for it appeared again presently, persistently following, but now keeping at a respectful distance. On the third day, however, the wolf had forgotten its temporary timidity, and with increased boldness stole steadily upon their heels. With a patience quite foreign to him Shad waited, glancing behind constantly, but making no demonstration until the wolf, apparently satisfied that it had little to fear from the hunger-stricken plodders, trotted boldly up and took a place behind them, so near that if the rifle failed at the first snap there would be opportunity for a second attempt before the beast could pass out of range. Shad again stopped, and seizing the rifle discovered that the beast had also stopped and stood glaring at him, mocking and unafraid. As though, knowing their weakness, it had lost respect for their power to injure it. A mighty rage took possession of Shad. He fell to his knee again, aimed carefully, and again pulled the trigger. This time there was a report, and in an insane frenzy of delight he beheld the carcass of the tantalising creature stretched upon the snow. [Illustration: Shooting the wolf.] Mookoomahn and Manikawan had halted, and stood in breathless silence watching the result of Shad's shot. Now with an exclamation of pleasure from Mookoomahn the two rushed forward, knives in hand, and in an incredibly short time the carcass of the wolf was quartered, a fire lighted, and some of the meat cooking. It was a lean, scrawny wolf, and the meat tough and stringy, but to the famished travellers it meant life, and Shad thought the half-cooked piece which Mookoomahn doled to him as his share the sweetest morsel he had ever eaten. The wolf meat, carefully husbanded, supplied food until one morning Mookoomahn by a series of signs conveyed the information to Shad that they were within one day's march of the cache. Then they ate the last of it, that it might give them strength for the final effort. It was evening, but not yet dark, when familiar landmarks told Shad that they were nearing the goal, and a little later they halted where the poles of Sishetakushin's lodge stood in the edge of the woods above the lake shore. With furious haste Shad and Mookoomahn rushed to the cache, but suddenly stopped, aghast and stupefied. The cache had been rifled of its contents, and lying near it, half covered with snow, lay the frozen, emaciated body of an Indian. XXII MANIKAWAN'S SACRIFICE An examination of the surroundings made it plain that a band of eastern Mountaineer or Mingen Indians, in a starving condition, had visited the place; that one of them, already too far exhausted to be revived, had died; that the others, taking the food, had left his body uncared for and fled. The disappointment was quite beyond expression. Had they been in good physical condition, a short three days' travel would now have carried them to the river tilt and safety. In their present weakened and starved condition at least twice that time would be consumed in the journey, and no food remained to help them on their way. In deep depression Shad assisted Manikawan to stretch the deerskin covering upon the lodge, while Mookoomahn gathered wood for the fire. Clumsy with weakness, dizzy with disappointment, Shad reached to spread the skin, his snowshoes became entangled, he stumbled and fell. When he attempted to rise he discovered to his dismay that he had wrenched a knee, and when he attempted to walk he was scarcely able to hobble into the lodge. The last bare chance of life fled, the last thread of flickering hope broken, Shad sank down, little caring for the pain, numb with a certainty of quickly impending death. He could not keep the pace of the Indians. He could not travel at all, and he could neither ask nor expect that they do otherwise than proceed as usual after a period of rest, and leave him to his fate. Very early in the morning Shad heard a movement in the lodge, and realised that Mookoomahn and Manikawan were engaged in low and earnest conversation. This meant, he was sure, that they were going. He vaguely wondered whether they would take the lodge with them and leave him to die the more quickly in the intense cold of the open, or whether they would leave it behind them as a weight now too great to be hauled farther upon their toboggan. He did not care much. He was resigned to his fate. He suffered now no pain of body, save an occasional twitch of the knee when he moved. The hunger pain had gone. It would be sweet and restful, after all, to lie there and die peacefully. It would end the struggle for existence. There would be no more weary plodding over boundless snow wastes. The end of hope was the end of trouble and pain. With his acceptance of the inevitable, and resignation to his fate, a great lassitude fell upon him. He was overcome with a drowsiness, and as the swish, swish of retreating snowshoes fell upon his ears he dropped into a heavy sleep. It must have been hours later when Shad opened his eyes to behold sitting opposite him, across the fire, Manikawan. She smiled when she saw that he was awake, and he thought how thin and worn she looked, a mere shadow of the Manikawan he had first known. Then there dawned upon his slowly-waking brain a realisation of the situation. She had resigned her chance of life to remain with him. He could not permit this. It was a useless waste of life. There was still hope that she might reach the tilts and safety. By remaining with him she was deliberately rejecting a possible opportunity to preserve herself. Much perturbed by this discovery, Shad sat up. "Mookoomahn?" he asked, pointing toward the south. "Mookoomahn," she answered, pointing in the same direction. "Manikawan," pointing at the fire, to indicate that Mookoomahn had gone but she had remained. He protested by signs that she should follow Mookoomahn. He passed around the fire to where she sat, and grasped her arm in his bony fingers, in an attempt to compel her to do so; but she stubbornly shook her head, and, forced to submit, he resumed his seat. Both sorry and glad that he should not be left alone, he reached over and pressed her hand as an indication of his appreciation of her self-sacrifice. Then she dipped from a kettle by the fire a cup of liquid, which she handed him. He sipped it, and, discovering that it was a weak broth, drank it. He looked at her inquiringly. Turning again to the pail, she drew forth half a boiled ptarmigan, which she passed him. "Let the friend of White Brother of the Snow eat. It is little, and it will not drive away the Spirit of Hunger, but it will help to keep away the evil Spirit of Starvation until White Brother of the Snow brings food to his friend." He accepted it and ate, not ravenously, for his hunger now was not consuming, but with delicious relish. Manikawan did not eat, but he presumed that she had already had a like portion. Shad was able to hobble, though with considerable pain, in and out of the lodge, and to assist in getting wood for the fire, and so far as she would permit him to do so he relieved her of the task. The following morning and for four successive mornings the cup of broth and the portion of ptarmigan awaited him when he awoke. It was evident Manikawan had killed them with bow and arrow. He never saw her eat. It was quite natural that she should have done so before he awoke of mornings, for he made no attempt at early rising. But he noted with alarm that Manikawan was daily growing weaker. She staggered woefully at times when she walked, like one intoxicated. She was weaker than he, but this he ascribed to his stronger mentality. By sheer force of will he put aside the insistent weakness, which he knew would get the better of him were he to resign himself to it. By the same force of will he injected into his being a degree of physical energy. But he was a white man, she only an Indian, and this could not be expected of her. Then there came a day when he awoke to find her gone, and no broth or ptarmigan awaiting him. Later she tottered into the lodge, and empty-handed laid her bow and arrow aside. The next morning she was lying prone, and the fire was nearly out, for the wood was gone. "Poor girl," he said, "she is tired and has overslept;" and stealthily, that he might not disturb her, he stole out for the needed wood. She was awake when he returned, and she tried to rise, but fell helplessly back upon her bed of boughs. "Manikawan is weak like a little child," she said, in a low, uncertain voice. "But White Brother of the Snow will soon come. The suns are rising and setting. He will soon come. Let the friend of White Brother of the Snow have courage." Shad brewed her some strong tea--a little still remaining. She drank it, and the hot stimulant presently gave her renewed strength. But Shad was not deceived. Manikawan's words had sounded to him a prophecy of the impending end. Her voice and her rapidly failing strength told him that the Spirit of Hunger--the Gaunt Gray Wolf--was conquering; that the spirit most dreaded of all the spirits, Death, stood at last at the portal of the lodge, waiting to enter. XXIII TUMBLED AIR CASTLES With the strengthening cold that came with January and continued into February, the animals ceased to venture far from their lairs in search of food, and the harvest of the trails was therefore light. With the disappearance of rabbits, the fox and lynx had also disappeared. The rabbit is the chief prey of these animals during the tight midwinter months, and as the wolf follows the caribou, so the fox follows the rabbit. With the going of the fox the field of operations was not only narrowed, but the work was robbed of much of its zest. When foxes are fairly numerous the trapper is always buoyed with the hope that a black or silver fox, the most valuable of the fur-bearing animals, may wander into his traps; and this hope renders less irksome the weary tramping of the trails at seasons when the returns might otherwise seem too small a recompense for the hardships and isolation suffered. The two preceding years had yielded rich harvests to Dick Blake, and had more than fulfilled his modest expectations. He was, therefore, though certainly disappointed, far from discouraged with the present outlook, and very cheerfully accepted the few marten and mink pelts that fell to his lot as a half loaf by no means to be despised. While Ungava Bob had looked forward to a successful winter's trapping, his chief object in coming so far into the wilderness had been the establishment of his new trails as a basis for future trading operations; and more particularly, therefore, with a view to the future than to the immediate present. Neither was he, for this reason, in any wise discouraged. His youthful mind, engaged in planning the castles he was to build tomorrow, had no room for the disappointments of to-day. Sishetakushin had given Bob the assurance that the Nascaupees would bring him their furs to barter. He was satisfied, also, that he could secure a large share of the trade of the Eastern, or Bay, Mountaineer Indians, for he would pay a fair and reasonable price for their furs, and they would quickly recognise the advantage of trading with him. And he would have another advantage over the coast traders: he would establish a trading station in the very heart of the wilderness, in the midst of the Indian hunting country. Previous to his coming into his little fortune his father had, as far back as Bob could remember, been struggling under a load of debt. At times the family had been plunged into the very uttermost depths of poverty; and even now a sickening dread stole upon Bob as he recalled some of the winters through which they had passed when the factor at the post had refused them further credit, and the flour barrel at home was empty, and they could scarcely have survived had it not been for the bounty of Douglas Campbell. This was the condition still with many of the families of the Bay. They were always in debt to the Company for advances of provisions, and there was no hope that they could ever emerge from the deplorable condition. It was the policy of the Company that they should not. In accepting credit from the Company, the trapper placed himself under obligation to deliver to the Company every product of his labours until the debt was discharged. The Company allowed the trapper in return for his pelts such an amount as it saw fit. He had no word in the matter, and of necessity was compelled to accept the Company's valuation of his furs, which valuation the Company took good care to place so low as to obviate any probability of his release from debt. At a reasonable valuation of their furs, there was seldom a year that most, if not all, the Bay trappers might not have been freed from their serfdom. Thus when a trapper died his only inheritance to his children was a burden of debt, which sometimes passed down from generation to generation; for the son who refused to assume his father's debt was denied credit or consideration at the Company's stores. The Grays, as we have stated, had felt the heavy hand of this inquisitional system. Now that they were free, Bob's sympathy was poured out to his neighbours, and he was secretly planning how, when he became a trader, he might also compass their release. As rapidly as his profits would permit, Bob was determined to advance, first to one family, then to another, sufficient cash to discharge their debts and relieve them from their obligation to the Company. Then he would advance them the necessary provisions and supplies to sustain them until they returned from their trails with their hunt. He would buy their pelts at as high a price as he could afford with a reasonable profit. This price would always be certainly double, and often four or five times, that which the Company was accustomed to allow. Bob, thus forming his Utopian plans, forgot the tedium of the trail. No person is so happy as when doing something to make some other person happy. And Bob was happy because he believed he was to be the means of bringing happiness to many. Making a comfortable living himself, he would make it possible for his neighbours to make a comfortable living, also. It never occurred to him that failure was possible, or that, with the amount of capital which he believed was still at his disposal, the plan was unpractical. Young, highly optimistic, and somewhat visionary, his dreams assumed the status of reality. Bob's mind was thus pleasantly occupied when at the end of the first week in February he returned to the river tilt to find Ed Matheson and Bill Campbell back from Eskimo Bay, and Dick Blake, just in from his trail, drawing off his frost-encrusted adicky. "An' there's Bob, now!" exclaimed Ed, as Bob appeared in the doorway. "'Tis grand, now, t' see you back," said Bob, his face beaming welcome as he shook the hands of the returned travellers. "Dick an' me's been missin' you wonderful." "'Twere grand, now, t' see th' tilt when Bill an' me comes in last evenin'. 'Twere th' hardest pull up from th' Bay with our loads we ever has, an' we was tired enough t' drop when we gets here. Where's Shad?" "Wi' th' Injuns yet, an' I'm worryin' about he not comin' back. They must ha' gone a long ways down north lookin' for deer, or they'd been back before this. How'd you find th' folks at th' Bay, Ed?" "Fine--all of un fine. Your mother's wantin' wonderful bad t' see you. But when I tells she you'm all right, she stops worryin'. I were forgettin' t' say anything about th' trouble wi' th' Mingens, though;" and Ed grinned. "Forgettin' a purpose?" asked Bob, smiling. "Maybe so," admitted Ed. "What's past don't do nobody no good t' know when they's nothin' for un t' make right. 'Twouldn't ha' helped none for she t' know about th' Mingens, so I just naturally forgets un." "I'm glad o' that. Mother'd 'a' worried an' been thinkin' all sorts o' things happenin' what never would happen;" and, greatly relieved, Bob asked, "An' when'd you make th' Bay?" "'Twere just New Year. Bill an' me cruises along fast, bein' light, an' takin' short sleeps. 'Twere night when we gets t' Wolf Bight, an' I says t' Bill, says I: ''Tis near midnight, an' likewise t' th' New Year. They'll be sleepin', an' le's's wake un up shootin' th' New Year in like all creation.' "Gettin' alongside th' winder, we lets go till our rifles is empty, and then rushin' in th' door yells, 'Happy New Year!' They was awake, all right, wonderin' what in time an' creation were turned loose on un, we yellin' like a passel o' Injuns. They was glad t' see us. "Bill goes home t' Kenemish with daylight, an' your father takes me t' th' post wi' dogs an' komatik, your mother goin' along, an' I gets home th' evenin'." "Were they goin' right back home?" "No, they 'bides t' th' post with Tom Black's folks till th' end o' th' week, an' Bessie goes back with un t' be company with your mother. Oh, I were forgettin'! Here's somethin' your mother were sendin';" and Ed reached under the bunk and drew forth a package. Upon opening the package Bob discovered a quantity of sweet cakes, a loaf of plum bread, and a letter. He passed the cakes around, then drawing up to the candle proceeded at once to read hungrily his mother's letter. It was a message of love and encouragement, closing with the news of the bank failure and consequent loss of the little fortune with which he had planned to do so many things. Presently looking up he said, in a shaking voice: "Why--Ed--Mother's sayin' th' bank's broke--an' all our money's gone." "Aye," admitted Ed, his voice sympathetic and sorrowful. "'Tis broke, lad--I were hopin' she wouldn't write you that, an' you wouldn't know till you gets home. But don't worry about un, now, lad. 'Twon't do no good. If you hadn't known about un now, you wouldn't be worryin' about un. An' now you knows, 'twon't help none." "I suppose you're right, Ed. But 'twill be hard not t' worry. I were plannin' so." "'Tain't so bad as t' have some o' your folks die, now. An' I been noticin' all my life that sometimes things happens t' me I thinks is 'most more'n I can stand, an' I feels like givin' up. Then somethin' comes along that's better'n anything I ever thought o' gettin'. An' then when I thinks un out, I finds th' good couldn't ha' come without me havin' th' trouble first. So don't get feelin' too bad about un, Bob. This may be just openin' th' way for some wonderful good luck better 'n all th' money you loses," soothed Ed. There was a postscript which Bob had overlooked. Now in folding the letter his eye caught it and he read it--a brief line added by Bessie, telling him not to think too much about his loss, for she was sure it would all be well in the end, and not to forget it was the Lord's will or it could not have happened, adding, "Remember, Bob, the Lord is always near you." Nevertheless, Bob was very quiet at supper. He could not forget his tumbled air castles. He could not forget the fact that the returns from the present year's trapping would be insufficient to buy the next year's outfit. "They was a band o' Injuns comes t' th' post just before I leaves, pretty nigh on their last legs," remarked Ed, when they had finished eating and he had lighted his pipe. "They was about as nigh starved as any passel o' men I ever seen, an' if they'd been starved much more they'd been dead. I hears some o' th' band did die before these gets out." "Who were they?" asked Bob. "Mountaineers," answered Ed. "They was back in th' country huntin', but don't find th' deer. They's camped down t' th' post now." "Did you hear where 'bouts they was huntin'?" inquired Dick. "In th' nu'th'ard or s'uth'ard?" "They all comes from th' nu'th'ard and west'ard o' th' post," said Ed. "They tells me they finds it th' worst year for fur an' game up that way they ever seen, an' I tells un 'tis th' same here." "I wonders, now, how Shad an' th' Injuns he's with is makin' out. They'll be wonderful bad off, an' they don't run on th' deer," suggested Dick. "They'll be likely t' find un up where they finds un when I was with un," reassured Bob, "but 'tis a long cruise there an' back." Bob's loss was a keen disappointment to him. For several days it robbed him of ambition, and he tramped along the trails and attended to his traps dully and methodically, with a heavy heart. Then he began to say to himself: "'Tis th' Lard's way. 'Tweren't right for me to go tradin' or t' have th' money, an' th' Lord knowin' it takes th' money away." This thought, with his natural buoyancy of temperament, restored again to a large extent his interest and ambition in his work; and when he remembered that he was, after all, the owner of two unencumbered trails, with all their traps, he almost forgot his disappointment--but not altogether; that was impossible. With the end of February ptarmigans began to reappear among the willows along the river bank. They were welcomed by the trappers, for they supplied a much needed variety to the diet. They offered hope, too, that the period of famine was nearing its end. Ed Matheson's report of the condition of the Indians appearing at the Eskimo Bay post gave the men food for thought. When they gathered again at the river tilt two weeks later, the chief subject of conversation was Shad's continued absence, and many speculations were put forth as to the probable movements of Shad and their Indian friends. Whether or not they were likely to find caribou, where they would go and what they would be likely to do should they fail, were questions which they discussed at length. And they did not conceal from one another the fact that they were deeply concerned for Shad's safety. When the trappers gathered again at the rendezvous on Friday, the sixth of March, they fully expected that Shad would be there to greet them, but they were disappointed. His failure to appear at this late date excited alarm, but no course of action that would be in the least likely to lead to results presented itself. They agreed that the Indians had beyond doubt left a cache at the Great Lake, for Sishetakushin had stated to Bob that he would do so; and upon returning to that point it was believed Shad would have sufficient food to proceed to the river tilt. Any search beyond the Great Lake would be fruitless, for none could know in what direction to search. Still there was no Shad on Friday, the twentieth of March. They ate their supper and resumed their speculations. "I'm thinkin', now, t' make a cruise t' th' place where th' Injuns was camped when I left un," declared Bob. "If they ain't there, I'll come back, unless I sees signs of un. And, anyway, 'twill make me feel better." "An' I'll go along," said Ed. "We'll be startin' in th' mornin' early, an' we may's well get our stuff out t'-night, ready t' pack." They had blown out the candle and were lying in their bunks, discussing still Shad's long absence, when the door of the tilt was pushed quietly open and the figure of a man appeared in the moonlight at the entrance. They sprang from their bunks, and Ed Matheson, striking a match, applied it to a candle. As the light flared up the man entered, and Mookoomahn stood before them. XXIV THE MESSENGER They looked at the Indian in awed and speechless horror. His tale of suffering was told before he spoke. He had come from a land of Tragedy. He had been stalking side by side with Death. This was a mere shadowy caricature of the Mookoomahn Bob had known. The face was fleshless as that of a skeleton head, with the skin of the former inhabitant stretched and dried upon the bones; the lips so shrunken that they scarcely served to cover the two white lines of teeth; the eyes deep fallen into gaping cavities below the frontal bone. Drawing his skeleton hands from their mittens, and raising them in an imploring gesture, Mookoomahn looked, as he stood there in the dim candlelight under the low log ceiling, more a spectre--a ghostly phantom visitor--than a living human being. Then he spoke in a voice low and broken: "White Brother of the Snow, Mookoomahn has long been tormented by the Spirit of Hunger. When he slept the Spirit of Starvation sat by his side, never sleeping. When he travelled the Spirit of Starvation stalked at his heels, never tiring. For many suns the Spirit of Death has had his cold fingers on Mookoomahn's shoulder." Gently Bob removed the caribou-skin coat from the starving and exhausted traveller, and made him comfortable while the others brewed tea and heated some cold boiled ptarmigan in the pan. "'Twon't do t' give he much at first," cautioned Dick Blake, setting before Mookoomahn a small portion of the meat and a small piece of bread with a cup of the hot tea. "He's like t' be wonderful sick, anyway, th' carefullest we is. We'll let he have a small bit at a time, an' let he have un often." No questions were asked until after the Indian had eaten. It seemed almost that no questions were necessary. The man had come alone. He was in the last stages of starvation. These facts spoke loudly enough. They told the tale of wasting strength, of hopeless struggle, of tragic death that had taken place in the bleak wild wastes above. The food revived and the tea stimulated Mookoomahn, and when he spoke again, in answer to Bob's urgent request that he tell them of the fate of Shad and the others, his voice was stronger. He described the journey to the Lake of Willows, and thence to the camp of starving Indians. He told how the shaman had made medicine to the spirits; how the spirits had revealed to the shaman the things that it was required the Indians do; how the Indians in their starved condition were not able to fulfil the requirements laid upon them by the spirits; and how in consequence the wrath of the spirits was not placated. He described the journey to the cache on the northern lake; Sishetakushin's instructions, and gift of Manikawan to White Brother of the Snow; of the parting from Sishetakushin. Vividly he detailed the long and tedious return to the Great Lake; and how the angry spirits reaching up had seized Shad, cast him into the snow, and lamed him. "The friend of White Brother of the Snow could not walk. The Matchi Manitu had wounded his knee. Manikawan, the sister of Mookoomahn, had promised White Brother of the Snow that she would not leave his friend until he came. "Mookoomahn told Manikawan White Brother of the Snow would not hold her to her promise. That White Brother of the Snow did not mean that she should die for his friend. "Manikawan would not listen to Mookoomahn, and she said: 'When White Brother of the Snow comes he will find Manikawan waiting with his friend. She has promised. If the Spirit of Death comes into the lodge, White Brother of the Snow will find Manikawan's body with the body of his friend, and he will know that Manikawan kept her word.' "Seven suns ago Mookoomahn left the lodge. He travelled slowly, for the spirits clung to his feet and made them heavy. The spirits tripped him and made him fall often. He killed three ptarmigans as he travelled, and the flesh of the ptarmigans made him strong to reach the lodge of White Brother of the Snow. "For seven suns the friend of White Brother of the Snow and Manikawan have had no food. The Spirit of Death stood very near the lodge when Mookoomahn left it. The Spirit of Death has entered the lodge and destroyed Manikawan and the friend of White Brother of the Snow." With this sombre prophecy Mookoomahn ceased speaking, and leaned back exhausted. As they looked at him they could appreciate the sufferings of Shad and Manikawan, and no great stretch of the imagination was necessary to picture the gruesome spectacle that they had no doubt awaited them in the lodge on the Great Lake. XXV A MISSION OF LIFE AND DEATH Bob's face had grown pale and tense as he listened. With Mookoomahn's last words he rose from the edge of the bunk where he had seated himself, and turning to Ed Matheson, asked: "Be you goin' with me, Ed? Th' moon's good for travellin', an' I knows th' way." "That I be," Ed responded, beginning his preparation at once. "I couldn't be restin' here a minute knowin' them poor souls was dyin' out there." "I'm goin', too," declared Dick Blake, reaching for his adicky. "Three can travel faster'n two, by changin' off in th' lead." "What you doin', Bill, with your a dicky, now?" Ed suddenly asked, observing that Bill Campbell was also drawing on his adicky. "Goin'," answered Bill laconically. "No, Bill, you better stay here with th' Injun," directed Ed. "Somebody'll have t' stay with he. If they don't, by to-morrer he'll get eatin' so much he'll kill hisself if he ain't watched. "You stay an' keep an eye on he. Give he just a small bit t' a time, till he gets over th' first sickness. He'll be wonderful sick t'-night, an' for a week, but sick's he is, by day after t'-morrer he'll be wonderful hungry, an' want t' eat everything in sight, an' more too, an' if he eats too much 'twill kill he sure. His belly'll be givin' he trouble for a month yet, whatever, two ways--wantin' t' stuff un, an' makin' he sick because he does." Bill Campbell was plainly disappointed, but there was no doubt Ed was right, and laying aside his adicky he uncomplainingly assumed the role of nurse to which Ed had assigned him. The men set forth in haste upon their mission of life and death. The moon, a white, cold patch, lay against the steel-blue sky. The snow, thick coated with frost, glittered and scintillated in the moonlight. A silence impressive, complete, tense, lay upon the frozen white world. It spoke of death, as the bated breath of the storm, before it breaks, speaks of calamity. The three trappers, who had entered the tilt that evening wearied from the day's labour upon the trail, forgot their weariness as they swung forward at a rapid pace toward the camp on the Great Lake. First one, then another, took the lead, breaking the trail and making it easier for those who followed. To men less inured to hardship and less accustomed to wilderness travel, it would have been a killing pace, continued unabated, unvarying, hour after hour. At length the moon, falling near the western horizon, threatened quickly to withdraw her light; and then a halt was called, the tent quickly stretched between two convenient trees, the sheet-iron stove set up, a fire lighted, a few boughs spread for a bed, and the men stretched themselves for a two hours' rest. They were up again before light, a hurried breakfast was eaten, and with daybreak they were away. Seldom was a word spoken. Each was occupied with his own thoughts, and each was stingy of his breath. To have talked would have been to expend energy. Only once during the day did they halt, early in the evening, to make tea and partake of much-needed refreshment, and then were quickly on their way again, continuing by moonlight. It was past midnight when, Ungava Bob in the lead, crossing a barren rise, beheld the smooth white surface of the Great Lake stretching far away to the northward. Descending the ridge and plunging into the thin forest below, he turned with a nameless dread at his heart toward the lodge where, three months before, he had said farewell to Shad and Manikawan. Then they were in the full exuberance of health and strength. How should he find them now? He dared not answer the question. A little farther, and the lodge, a black blot on the snow, loomed up through the trees. Quickening his pace, he peered anxiously ahead for smoke, half hoping, wholly dreading, the result. Yes, there it was! The merest whiff rising above the protruding lodge poles at the top! At least one lived! Bob broke into a run, the others at his heels, and, scarcely halting to drop the hauling rope of his toboggan from his shoulders, he lifted the flap and entered, calling as he did so: "Shad! Shad! Manikawan! Does you hear me?" The place was dark. The smouldering embers of a fire gave out no light, and receiving no answer Bob shouted to the others to bring a candle. Ed Matheson had anticipated the need, and, close at Bob's side, struck a light. XXVI "GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN THIS" As the candle sputtered for a moment and then flared up, it revealed, lying prone on opposite sides of the lodge, feet to the embers of the dying fire, two human wrecks, whose emaciated features and shrunken forms could never have been recognised as those of Shad and Manikawan. Bob stooped, and taking Shad gently by the shoulder shook him, saying as he did so: "Shad! Shad! Shad!" Slowly Shad, awakening from deep and exhausting slumber, opened his cavernous eyes and stared vacantly at Bob. "Shad!" Bob repeated. "'Tis Bob an' Ed an' Dick come for you! Shad! We has grub, Shad!" Still Shad gave no sign of recognition. "Shad! Shad!" pleaded Bob. "Don 't you know me now, Shad?" Then light came into Shad's face, and he forced himself to a sitting position. "Bob! Oh, Bob!" he exclaimed, in a weak voice. "Am I awake or is it just a dream? Oh, Bob! Good old Bob! And Ed! and Dick! I was dreaming of you and the tilts. The dear old tilts! And you've come! You've really come? I heard you calling, Bob--days and days and days I heard you, and I answered. But my voice was too weak, and you couldn't hear. "We've been in hell, Bob! In hell! The devils chased us, Bob--chased us for months and months and months. They looked like wolves, Bob--hungry, ugly wolves. I shot one! Yes, shot it! We ate it, and it was good! Ate the devil, Bob! and Ed! and Dick! Are you angels from heaven, or really you?" "A bit o' tea's what he needs first thing," suggested Ed, in a shaky voice, as Shad paused in his ramblings. "Dick, you cut some wood, now, an' I'll be fillin' th' kettle with ice an' get un over. Bob better be stayin' right here." "Bob!" Shad continued, as Dick and Ed passed out of the lodge. "Is it really you, Bob?" His voice was now more rational, though very weak. "Yes, Shad, 'tis me." "How is Manikawan, Bob? Look after her, won't you? I'm all right now. I've tried to keep her out of the deep sleeps she falls into. I've been afraid she'd die. But I was very tired, and I think I must have been very sound asleep myself--and slept for hours. Leave me, Bob, and wake her up. I'm all right." Bob obediently passed over to Manikawan, leaving Shad sitting and anxiously watching him. It seemed for a time that he was not to succeed in rousing Manikawan from the coma-like sleep into which she had passed. But when Dick placed wood upon the fire, and the lodge began to warm, she displayed symptoms of waking; and Bob lifted her head to his shoulder, chafed her temples, and spoke her name over and over again. At last she opened her eyes, and with almost instant recognition smiled: "White Brother of the Snow--Manikawan is glad you have come. It has--been--long--but Manikawan knew--White Brother of the Snow--would come at last--she did not--leave his friend." Then she paused, exhausted, but presently continued: "Manikawan told--White Brother of the Snow--she would--stay until he came--for his friend." "Manikawan has done well. She has been very brave. She is a Ne-ne-not (Nascaupee), and brave." Bob could trust himself to say no more, for his voice was thick. Manikawan's eyes lighted at these words of praise, and, never taking them from Bob's face, she lay silent upon his shoulder until the food was ready. Ed Matheson gave some tea and a small portion of broiled ptarmigan and bread to Shad, while Bob held the cup for Manikawan, then fed her some morsels of the meat as one would have fed a child. It was difficult for her to eat, though the tea stimulated her temporally, and she began presently to speak again, in a scarcely audible voice: "The Spirit--of Hunger--followed us. The Gaunt Gray--Wolf--was--always--behind--us. The--Spirit--of--Death--stood--at--the--door--of the--lodge. The spirits--were--strong--and cunning--like--the wolverine--Manikawan--was--weak--like a rabbit." She was out of breath again and had to rest, and Bob held the cup of tea to her lips. With renewed strength she continued: "Manikawan--killed--two ptarmigans--with--her--arrow. She--ate--the--entrails--but she--gave--the meat--to the friend--of White Brother of--the Snow. She was--not afraid--to die. She--could--not say to--White Brother--of the Snow--when he came--'The Spirit--of Death--has--entered--the lodge--and--taken--your--friend.'" There was another pause. Bob could see, and Ed and Dick could see that the Spirit of Death was even then in the lodge, and that his cold hand was upon Manikawan's brow. Tears trickled down Bob's cheeks. He could not check them. "White--Brother--of--the--Snow--must--not--feel--bad. He--must--be--strong. Manikawan--is--happy. She--is--warm--as--when--the--sun--grows--brave--in--summer--and-- comes--to--warm--the--earth." A smile played upon her lips. "Manikawan--is--very--happy. She--sees--a--light--like--the--rising--sun. White--Brother--of--the--Snow--" That was the end. Bob's cheeks were wet as he laid the lifeless form upon its couch of boughs, and gently covered it with a deerskin robe; and tears streamed down the weather-beaten cheeks of the two rough trappers standing at his side. Manikawan was not a Christian. She had never heard of Christ and His saving grace. But dare any say He did not welcome her to His Father's house? She had renounced her own hope of life by remaining behind in the lodge when Mookoomahn left them. In the name of love and duty she had made the supreme sacrifice--she had laid down her life for another--and Christ hath said: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." And, after all, did Manikawan not worship the same God that you and I worship? Standing upon the high pinnacle of rock, looking toward the rising sun, she offered a silent prayer to the Great Mystery, that she might be made nobler, braver, and more generous--worthy to stand in the presence of the Great Mystery--the Maker of heaven and earth and all things. We call Him God. Manikawan called Him the Great Mystery. XXVII SHAD'S TRIBUTE TO THE INDIAN MAIDEN Though Shad's weakness caused him to wobble woefully when he walked, his knee had much improved since the day of his injury. The food, given him in small portions at frequent intervals, and the assurance of continued life that the appearance of the rescuers brought, stimulated his body to new strength and restored to him his mental equilibrium. Hope is life, and one possessed of a large degree of hope, coupled with a good physique, may withstand a tremendous amount of hardship and privation. The very presence of Manikawan during the long period of enforced inactivity and waiting, had kept alive in Shad Trowbridge the hope that Mookoomahn might after all reach the river tilt and send his friends to the rescue before it was too late. Had it not been for this, it is scarcely probable he would have survived until they came. The few Indian words which Shad had acquired had not been sufficient to permit him to carry on connected conversation with Manikawan or the other Indians. Denied this privilege for so long, he talked almost incessantly to the three trappers, while the four sat through the hours until daybreak, keeping vigil with Death. He talked of the prospect of continued life, and what a blessed thing it was to know that he was still to be in and of the great and glorious world; of his trying experiences since he had joined the Indians. With dawn the tent was pitched among the trees, not far from the lodge. Then they removed to its more comfortable shelter, with Bob walking at Shad's side to steady his uncertain footsteps. Shad was sick, and suffered severely from nausea that day--and at intervals, indeed, for several days thereafter--a result that always follows the introduction of food into the contracted stomach after a long period of starvation, particularly when the food is of coarse quality and unsuitably prepared. Almost immediately, too, his legs began to swell. But this disturbed him little. It was merely an incident and another result of his long period of starvation, quite to be expected. "Don't worry about un none," advised Ed Matheson, when Shad called attention to the phenomenon. "Injuns as starves always gets swelled legs, an' they stays swelled for quite a bit, too. Just forget un now. You'll be all right so long's you don't get too rapid wi' th' grub, an' set you'm belly swellin' too fast." "Ed," said Shad, "after what I've been through, I think there's nothing would alarm me much. It doesn't disturb me in the least to have my legs swell. I'm rather proud of them. They contrast beautifully with the rest of me, and give me a certain sense of stability that otherwise I should not have, for they're the only part of me that looks in the least natural. Do you hear my bones rattle when I move? I have a presentment that, unless I'm pretty careful, my skeleton will fall apart before I get flesh enough to hold it together." "Now that's th' way I likes t' see folk!" exclaimed Ed. "Not growlin' like a bear because they looks summat like a dead man, an' because they has a bit o' ache in their insides every time they eats. You'm do look as though you'm just rize from th' grave. But you'm a wonderful live corpse yet, Shad. A man may's well be happy even if he do feel like all creation turned inside out, 'specially when he knows he ain't goin' t' keep feelin' that way. A man is just as happy as he's thinkin' he is, an' no happier, an' as miserable as he's thinkin' he is an' no miserabler. I finds bein' happy an' content wi' things is just a matter o' th' way o' lookin' at un." "Yes, Ed, I think you're right," agreed Shad. "I'm finding no fault. I'm thankful to be alive and in the beautiful world, and I'm very much contented with my lot. I would be very happy, too, but for the thought of that poor little Indian girl." The earth, frozen to adamantine hardness, precluded the possibility of digging a grave during the winter season. Therefore, after the manner of her people, a platform of poles, high raised above the snow, was built among the spruce trees to receive Manikawan's body. It was late in the afternoon when the platform was completed and the four weatherbeaten men again entered the silent lodge, where they were to conduct a simple, primitive funeral service, and give Manikawan the rites of Christian burial before raising her body to the platform. Bob, who never was separated from the little Testament his mother had given him years before, drew the book from his pocket when they had seated themselves in the lodge, and opening to John xv, passed it to Shad, who, accepting it, read the chapter aloud in a low but clear voice, while the others reverently listened. [Transcriber's note: John XV:12-13--"This is my commandment: love one another as I love you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends."] "Bob," said Shad at length, closing the Testament, "you knew her first. Tell us about her." Responding, Bob described how Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn, finding him unconscious in the snow, had carried him to their lodge--the very lodge in which they were now sitting; and how upon first opening his eyes to consciousness he had seen her, weaving the web of a snowshoe, opposite him, across the fire--just where she was lying now; and she had looked up and smiled when she discovered he was awake. And then, ever gentle, ever considerate, she had nursed him to health, and ministered to him until he had left them. When Bob had finished, Shad spoke of her never-failing thoughtfulness and consideration. Of the encouragement of her example as, uncomplaining, she followed the weary, endless trail day after day. Of her hand lightly laid upon his shoulder as she looked into his eyes and spoke words of encouragement he could not understand, but which never failed to call him back to himself and his manhood and to banish an impulse which frequently assailed him to give up the fight for life, lie down in the snow and accept the release from suffering which Death offered. "But her crowning sacrifice," said Shad, "came when she refused to leave me alone to die; and I certainly could not have survived had I been left in this lodge without human companionship. "Manikawan could have gone on with Mookoomahn and saved herself. He went to you and told you of our need. He did well, but he did it mainly to save himself. It was the instinct of self-preservation that gave him inspiration to accomplish it. But she remained, and remaining she gave me the only food that fell to her arrow, while she starved. That was divine unselfishness--divine sacrifice." Stepping to the side of Manikawan's lifeless body, he lifted and laid aside the skin robe which covered her face, then kneeling at her side, with tears upon his cheeks, he continued: "Manikawan, your skin was red, but your soul was as white as the driven snow that covers the desolate land of your people. Your features are shrunken with starvation and suffering, but still they are beautiful, for they reflect the beautiful, unselfish soul which they once sheltered. "Your lips smile. Did you see the glory of heaven as you passed from us--a thousand times more beautiful than the brilliant aurora or the gorgeous sunsets that glorify the skies of this land of awful desolation where you existed? Did you see the light of the Eternal City shining through its gates when they were opened to receive you?" As though in answer to Shad's question the last rays of the setting sun dropped through the open top of the lodge and rested upon the upturned face of the dead Indian maiden in a bright, illuminating glow. "Manikawan, you sacrificed your life to duty and to human sympathy. You died a Christ-like death, and your sacrifice shall not be wasted. Your body is dead, but your spirit still lives. "So long as the breath of life is in me, Manikawan, I shall never forget your example of patience and encouragement and self-effacement. It has built for me new ideals. It has taught me that there are other things to live for than the mere attainment of pleasure and the gratification of selfish desires. "You were an Indian, Manikawan, and the world would have called you a pagan and a savage. But you have pointed out to me the way to a nobler and better life." Shad arose and resumed his seat. He had spoken in a voice of tense earnestness, and for a little while all sat in awed silence. Then Ed Matheson began to sing, and the others joined him: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee." With the last notes of the grand old hymn they all knelt, while big Dick Blake, in a voice shaken with emotion, offered a short but fervent prayer. Manikawan's body was wrapped tightly in deerskin robes, and in the darkening twilight of the cold winter evening it was reverently borne to the newly erected platform among the spruce trees. Here it was to lie exposed to winds and storms, but beyond the reach of marauding animals, until the next summer's sun should warm and soften the earth sufficiently to permit Mookoomahn and the trappers to dig a grave and lay it in its final resting-place. XXVIII TROWBRIDGE AND GRAY, TRADERS At the end of a week, when the supply of provisions which the trappers had brought with them was running low, Shad suggested that he was quite able to make the journey to the river tilt. His knee was now so far improved that it caused him but slight inconvenience to walk, and he was rapidly regaining strength. He was anxious indeed to return to the tilt. He thought of it much as one thinks of home; and the thought carried with it visions of rest and comfort. The others could ill afford a longer absence from their trails, and it was therefore with a sense of deep satisfaction to all that the camp on the shore of the Great Lake was broken. Travelling slowly, with Shad following in the well-packed trail which the others made, they arrived at their destination on an afternoon five days later, and were welcomed by Bill Campbell and Mookoomahn. How deeply or how lightly Mookoomahn felt when he learned of Manikawan's death, none knew. He listened in stoical silence while Bob related to him in detail the circumstances of her going and the subsequent happenings in the lodge and in the camp at the Great Lake; but throughout the recital Mookoomahn made no comments, and his countenance betrayed nothing of his sensations. Mookoomahn was recovering rapidly. He was passing, indeed, quite beyond Bill Campbell's control; and not satisfied now with the limited portions of food which Bill, religiously adhering to the advice he had received from Dick Blake and Ed Matheson, doled out to him, he had the day before the return of the travellers stolen away to the willows along the river bank below the tilt, killed some ptarmigans on his own account, and gorged himself upon the flesh to his temporary satisfaction; but nature balanced her account with him in the hours of subsequent agony which he suffered for his indiscretion. Fully a month elapsed after their return before Shad could eat a meal with any assurance that it would not be followed by distress. His normal appetite, however, had begun to return before they broke camp on the Great Lake, and had quickly developed into a highly abnormal appetite. No sooner was one meal finished than his mind was centred upon the next. At night his last thought was his next morning's breakfast, and when he awoke breakfast was still on his mind. Eating during this period of recuperation was to him the all-important object in life. It was nearly a month after his return to the river tilt that Shad first learned of Bob's loss of fortune. It was upon the occasion of the fortnightly rendezvous, when Ed Matheson remarked: "Th' next round's about th' last we can make. Th' fur's 'most too poor t' take, now, an' when I comes back I'll strike up my traps. An' it's been a wonderful poor hunt." "Aye, wonderful poor, an' wonderful disappointin'," sighed Bob. "Th' worst I ever see," continued Ed. "If 'tweren't for you, Bob, clearin' Dick's an' my old debts, we'd be in a bad way gettin' next fall's debt from th' Company. An' now your losin' all your money, th' bad furrin' comes hard on you--wonderful hard. I'm fearin' th' new debt we'll all have t' start off next season with'll be a big un." "What money did you lose, Bob? I hadn't heard of it," asked Shad, as Ed passed out of the tilt to join Dick and Bill, who were cleaning the snow from the roof of the tilt in anticipation of an early thaw. "Th' money I has in th' bank t' St. Johns," explained Bob. "When Ed comes back from th' Bay he brings me a letter from Mother sayin' th' bank broke an' th' money's gone." "That's bad!" Shad sympathised. "How much was there?" "About twelve thousand dollars. But 'tain't so bad. We has th' traps, an' th' new trails laid." "But that was the capital you were to begin trading on?" "Aye, but we'll have t' give th' tradin' up now. I'm thinkin' th' Lard weren't wantin' us t' go tradin' or t' have th' money, an' I'm not complainin', though I were wonderful disappointed when I hears of un first." Shad asked many questions, in the course of which he drew from Bob a description of the air castles which Bob had been building, and which had been so unceremoniously knocked down about his ears by his mother's letter; of the poverty-stricken condition of the Bay folk, which Bob in his big-hearted and youthful enthusiasm had hoped to relieve; and of many other things which he had planned to do with his fortune. Though all this was of the past, and of little importance now, he had intended to keep it a secret. But he and Shad had grown very close together, and somehow Shad had a way of drawing from him even his most sacred thoughts--and before Bob realised it he had bared his heart to his friend. "An' I were thinkin'," said Bob, after the sum-total of his shattered plans had been disclosed, "when we was up on th' Great Lake, what a rare fine thing 'twould ha' been for th' Injuns, if I hadn't ha' lost th' money, t' make a tradin' station an' a cache o' grub up th' other end o' th' Great Lake--seventy or eighty miles in from where Manikawan dies--so when another bad year comes th' Injuns down that way could get grub t' carry un out t' th' Ungava post. If they'd been a cache there this winter, Manikawan wouldn't ha' died, an' a lot o' th' other poor Injuns as must ha' died would ha' got out." "That's so," agreed Shad. "What an amount of suffering it would have saved! And the poor little Indian girl wouldn't have been sacrificed." The others returned at this point, and conversation drifted into other channels--the striking up of the traps--the probability of an early break-up--the hard times that the present season's failure was certain to cause among the people of the Bay. "Bob, if you're going to strike up and make this next trip your last one of the season, I'm going over the trail with you," said Shad, the following day. "I want to see again the trail I helped you lay, and the tilts we built together. It seems a long while ago, and the memory of it is already a pleasant one." So on Monday morning they started on the last round of traps for the season. The days were long now, and the sun was still high when they reached the tilt on the first lake--the tilt where Manikawan had found Bob's rifle, and the first of the series of tilts Bob and Shad had built. They cooked and ate their supper, and then lounged back upon their bunks to chat of their first exploration of the trail, their visit to the falls, and of Manikawan's unexpected appearance when they were on the island. Finally they lapsed into silence, Shad sitting on the edge of his bunk, his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his palms; Bob lying back, his hands folded under his head, his eyes studying the ceiling, but his thoughts far away with the loved ones at home and with Emily at school. Suddenly Shad broke the silence and Bob's thoughts with the question: "How would you like me for a partner, Bob?" "A trappin' partner, Shad? 'Twould be fine, now!" exclaimed Bob, coming back to himself and his surroundings. "But I was thinkin' you'd be weary o' th' trails, Shad, after what you've been through." "No, Bob, a trading partner;" and Shad sat up. "You were going into business, Bob, but your loss, you tell me, has made it impossible, because you have no capital. I'd like to be let in on your plans, for they appeal to me. Such a trading operation as you outlined to me should prove not only profitable, but at the same time would be a practical method of relieving a vast amount of suffering. It would give the Bay people independence and bring them a good many comforts of life they've never enjoyed. "And if your suggestion were carried out to establish two or three trading stations with provision caches attached, up here in the Indian hunting country, there could be no repetition of this year's horrible experience. "Now, Bob, you know the people and their needs, and you're an expert in judging furs, but you haven't the funds to carry out your plan. I don't know much about these things, but I have the funds. Let's come together--your experience and knowledge against my cash--and form a partnership. What do you say?" "Oh, Shad! 'Twould be--'twould be th' grandest thing in th' world, Shad!" and Bob's face flushed with excitement; and then, suddenly, he continued: "But I couldn't do it, Shad. 'Twouldn't be fair for me t' be partners, for I hasn't any money t' put in for a share." "Don't be foolish, now, Bob. Don't talk nonsense. Money without a knowledge of the people and their needs isn't enough. I haven't the knowledge, and I'd make a failure of it alone. But with your knowledge and my money we'd be successful. "You've said a good many times that things don't happen by chance, but are brought about by the direction of the Lord; haven't you, Bob?" asked Shad. "Aye, 'tis th' Lard brings things t' happen," admitted Bob. "Now, Bob, listen to me. I came here in the first place just to enjoy a pleasant summer's outing. Pleasure and good times were all I ever thought of, and I knew nothing of life or life's higher motives. I doubt if I could have earned my own bread if I had been turned loose in the world empty-handed, because I hadn't the power or patience to stick to a thing or to face discouraging conditions for any length of time. "I did not know the meaning of the word toil; I did not know what privation meant, or the suffering that comes through privation. I had always had whatsoever my fancy craved, and had never known want or disappointment. "Here in your country, Bob, I have experienced toil. I have been tried out in the furnace fire of physical suffering and mental agony, and I have learned what sympathy means. "I am living to-day only because Manikawan, an Indian girl, made it possible by the sacrifice of her own life for me to live. I'd have given up and thrown myself down in the snow to die a hundred times but for the encouragement she gave me to keep going, for I was constantly possessed of a desire to seek the rest and peace of death. And those poor Indians shared with me, Bob, the little they had, when they might easily have left me to perish. "Do you know, Bob, there has not been a night since she died that I have not dreamed of Manikawan? She seems to say to me: 'I gave my life for yours. Go forth and make your life useful--offer a helping hand to others. It is in your power to guard my people from starvation.' So, Bob, I've got to do it if I am ever to have peace of mind, and you've got to help me. "Do you think that these things just happened, Bob? Or were they brought about by Divine direction? Don't you think that this combination of incidents points out to us our life work? Don't you think they suggest that we are to unite our talents and so use them that we shall not only help ourselves but help others? Come, Bob, what do you say?" For a moment Bob did not speak, and when he did his voice betrayed deep emotion. "Th' way you puts un, Shad, I'm thinkin', now, you'm right. 'Tis th' Lard's way o' bringin' things about. You'm wonderful good, Shad, t' think o' me for a partner, an' I'll be wonderful proud t' be partners with you, Shad." "That's the way to talk, old man!" exclaimed Shad, grasping Bob's hand. "I'm not knowin' how t' thank you, Shad," replied Bob, his heart overflowing. "That feeling is reciprocated, Bob, so we won't either of us thank the other. Now we've agreed to our partnership, we'll have plenty of time to arrange the details of our business before we go to the Bay, and then I think you'll have to make a trip to St. Johns or Boston with me to have the co-partnership agreement drawn and executed in proper legal form." Shad explained to Bob that at the time of his birth his grandfather set aside one hundred thousand dollars to be held in trust for his benefit. It was provided that the income of this trust fund was to be paid to his guardian annually, upon his birthday, to be applied to his immediate needs, or to constitute an annual allowance of spending money, until he attained his majority, when he was to receive the principal. "But I've never spent any of Grandfather's allowance," said Shad. "Father got me everything I needed and kept me supplied with spending money, and every year when the income from the trust fund came in Father bought government bonds with it and placed the bonds in a safety deposit vault for me. "These bonds amount to more than the principal of the trust fund now--I don't know just how much, but I know there's considerably more than one hundred thousand dollars, for they have been earning interest all these years. "This money is mine to use as I see fit, and I'm going to invest one hundred thousand dollars of it in our partnership and hold the balance as a reserve. Of course my sister will have to act for me until I'm of age. She's ten years older than I am, and has been my guardian since Father died. She'll not object, for she has a great deal of confidence in my judgment. "When Father died, nearly three years ago, he left me a snug fortune, and I have plenty to live on even if our trading venture doesn't prove a money-making business at first." "'Tis a wonderful lot o' money!" declared Bob. "More'n I can think!" "We'll need a pretty fair capital to succeed," said Shad. "We'll have to purchase a vessel of some sort to carry on trade along the outer coast, and bring our supplies to the Bay, and carry to market our furs, fish, and oil. You'll look after the native trade, with the men you employ to help you, but I'll have to engage expert assistance in purchasing the trading goods and disposing of the products to the best advantage until I finish college and learn my end of the business. All will cost money, though I hope when we once get started we'll build up a trade that will warrant it." Bob went to his bunk that night with his head all awhirl. The amount of capital which Shad proposed to put into their partnership, and the extensive business which he proposed to build up, were too big and too wonderful for Bob to comprehend all at once. A substantial structure had indeed taken the place of his tumbled air castles, though it was long before he could bring himself to realise that this structure was not, after all, another and greater air castle than those which had been destroyed. XXIX THE FRUIT OF MANIKAWAN'S SACRIFICE At length the break-up came, much as it always comes in that country. The sun, grown strong and bold, vanquished the Spirit of Frost. The snow became a sea of slush, and water covered the ice of lakes and river. Finally the clouds opened, and for a week rain fell in a deluge. A thousand new streams sprang into being, rushing in white torrents to join the swollen river. Cascades fell from every ledge and parapet. Now and again a great boulder was loosened and went crashing down a hillside with terrifying roar. The river, freed from its ice shackles, overflowed its banks, and in the wild, unrestrained ardour of its new power uprooted trees and washed them away upon its turbulent bosom as it dashed madly seaward. One day, when the rain had ceased and the waters had somewhat subsided, Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge, accompanied by Mookoomahn, turned northward in Shad's canoe to the Great Lake, following the route which Manikawan had taken several months before in her journey to the river tilt. Manikawan's body was found as they had left it, and undisturbed. It was lowered from its rude platform, and they laid it in its final resting-place in a grave among the spruce trees not far from her father's lodge. Over the grave a cairn of boulders was raised, and surmounted by a tablet of wood upon which was carved simply the word "MANIKAWAN." Then they parted, Mookoomahn to turn northward in his long and lonely journey to join his people, Bob and Shad to return to the river tilt, and homeward. It was on an afternoon late in June when the browned and weather-beaten voyageurs turned their boat into Wolf Bight. What a long, long time had elapsed, it seemed to Shad, since that foggy morning in August when they had left the little cabin and said farewell to the tearful group upon the shore; and how homelike and restful the cabin looked now! What an age of experience had passed since that night when Bob pulled him out of the Bay, and introduced him, shivering and wet, to its hospitable shelter and warmth. As they approached the shore a glad shout was heard, and a moment later Emily--who had that very day reached home from St. Johns--and Bessie, who was there to meet her, came running to the landing, with Mrs. Gray and Richard and Douglas Campbell at their heels. Emily laughed and cried with delight, quite smothering Bob with kisses, and when she relinquished him to her mother she kissed each of the other brown faces. Bob was quite impartial, and when his mother released him Bessie was not forgotten in his greeting. The most important, and therefore the first piece of news to be imparted, was the partnership agreement between Shad and Bob. Douglas at once prophesied success, and when, a fortnight later, Bob and Richard took passage with Shad to St. Johns, Douglas accompanied them as expert adviser in the selection of a trading vessel and the necessary supplies for their posts. * * * * * The firm of Trowbridge and Gray began operations with the establishment of stations in the interior, as originally designed. Dick Blake was engaged to take charge of the post at the northerly end of the Great Lake, where he quickly built up a large and lucrative trade with both Nascaupee and Mountaineer Indians. The river tilt was enlarged, and became a trading station and supply base for the interior, over which Ed Matheson presided. Bill Campbell, during the open season of navigation, had command of the brigades of Indians employed to transport goods from Wolf Bight to the interior posts, and during the midwinter months conducted a sub-post and storehouse situated at the southerly end of the Great Lake, not far from Manikawan's grave. With the interior trade in such able hands, Ungava Bob devoted his attention to the Bay trade, and it is needless to say that the trappers of the region prospered. Richard, in command of the trim schooner "Manikawan," also opened a profitable trade with livyeres and Eskimos of the coast. Shad Trowbridge, after graduation from college, quickly developed into an able business man, and personally attended to the purchase of supplies and the sale of products. Trowbridge and Gray made mistakes, as was to be expected, and had their ups and downs, but in the end they succeeded, and the firm is known to-day from Boston to Hudson's Straits as one of the most honourable and substantial concerns in the North. At the very beginning of their career Shad and Bob adopted as their trademark the picture of an Indian maiden with bow raised and arrow poised ready for its flight, and beneath it the word "Manikawan." With this constantly before them Shad declared they could never stray from the original object of their enterprise, and could never forget the lesson taught by Manikawan's heroic sacrifice. And never since the firm began business have Manikawan's people failed to receive relief in times of need, and never has there been a repetition of the awful year of starvation. "'Tis wonderfully strange, Bessie, how things come about," Bob sometimes says to his wife, in their cosy home at St. Johns. "I used to think the Lord had forgotten me sometimes, but I always found later that those were the times He was nearest to me." "The Lord has always been very close to you, Bob," Bessie invariably replies. Emily, at the earnest solicitation of Shad, was permitted to finish her education in Boston under the chaperonage of Shad's sister, and developed into a charming and accomplished woman, though she never lost her love for the little cabin at Wolf Bight. But the failures and successes of Trowbridge and Gray, and the experiences of Emily in the new and greater world which she entered, are stories by themselves, and each would require a volume to relate. THE END PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY BOY SCOUT EDITION The books in this library have been proven by nation-wide canvass to be the one most universally in demand by the boys themselves. Originally published in more expensive editions only they are now re-issued at a lower price so that all boys may have the advantage of reading and owning them. It is the only series of books published under the control of this great organization, whose sole object is the welfare and happiness of the boy himself. Adventures in Beaver Stream Camp, Major A. R. Dugmore Along the Mohawk Trail, Percy Keese Fitzhugh Animal Heroes, Ernest Thompson Seton Baby Elton, Quarter-Back, Leslie W. Quirk Bartley, Freshman Pitcher, William Heyliger Billy Topsail with Doctor Lake of the Labrador, Norman Duncan The Biography of a Grizzly, Ernest Thompson Seton The Boy Scouts of Black Eagle Patrol, Leslie W. Quirk The Boy Scouts of Bob's Hill, Charles Pierce Burton Brown Wolf and Other Stories, Jack London Buccaneers and Pirates of Our Coasts, Frank R. Stockton The Call of the Wild, Jack London Cattle Ranch to College, R. Doubleday College Years, Ralph D. Paine Cruise of the Cachalot, Frank T. Bollen The Cruise of the Dazzler, Jack London Don Strong, Patrol Leader, William Heyliger Don Strong of the Wolf Patrol. William Heyliger For the Honor of the School, Ralph Henry Barbour The Gaunt Gray Wolf, Dillon Wallace Grit-a-Plenty, Dillon Wallace The Half-Back, Ralph Henry Barbour The Horsemen of the Plains, Joseph A. Altsheler Jim Davis, John Masefield Kidnapped, Robert Louis Stevenson Last of the Chiefs, Joseph A. Altsheler The Last of the Mohicans, James Fenimore Cooper Last of the Plainsmen, Zane Grey Lone Bull's Mistake, J. W. Shultz Ranche on the Oxhide, Henry Inman The Ransom of Red Chief and O. Henry Other Stories for Boys, Edited by F. K. Mathiews Scouting With Daniel Boone, Everett T. Tomlinson Scouting With Kit Carson, Everett T. Tomlinson Through College on Nothing a Year, Christian Gauss Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Jules Verne Under Boy Scout Colors, J. B. Ames Ungava Bob, Dillon Wallace GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK THE TOM SLADE BOOKS By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH Author of "Roy Blakeley," "Pee-wee Harris," "Westy Martin," Etc. Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Colors. Every Volume Complete in Itself. "Let your boy grow up with Tom Slade," is a suggestion which thousands of parents have followed during the past, with the result that the TOM SLADE BOOKS are the most popular boys' books published today. They take Tom Slade through a series of typical boy adventures through his tenderfoot days as a scout, through his gallant days as an American doughboy in France, back to his old patrol and the old camp ground at Black Lake, and so on. TOM SLADE, BOY SCOUT TOM SLADE AT TEMPLE CAMP TOM SLADE ON THE RIVER TOM SLADE WITH THE COLORS TOM SLADE ON A TRANSPORT TOM SLADE WITH THE BOYS OVER THERE TOM SLADE, MOTORCYCLE DISPATCH BEARER TOM SLADE WITH THE FLYING CORPS TOM SLADE AT BLACK LAKE TOM SLADE ON MYSTERY TRAIL TOM SLADE'S DOUBLE DARE TOM SLADE ON OVERLOOK MOUNTAIN TOM SLADE PICKS A WINNER TOM SLADE AT BEAR MOUNTAIN TOM SLADE: FOREST RANGER TOM SLADE IN THE NORTH WOODS GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH Author of "Tom Slade," "Pee-wee Harris," "Westy Martin," Etc. Illustrated. Picture Wrappers in Color. Every Volume Complete in Itself. In the character and adventures of Roy Blakeley are typified the very essence of Boy life. He is a real boy, as real as Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. He is the moving spirit of the troop of Scouts of which he is a member, and the average boy has to go only a little way in the first book before Roy is the best friend he ever had, and he is willing to part with his best treasure to get the next book in the series. ROY BLAKELEY ROY BLAKELEY'S ADVENTURES IN CAMP ROY BLAKELEY, PATHFINDER ROY BLAKELEY'S CAMP ON WHEELS ROY BLAKELEY'S SILVER FOX PATROL ROY BLAKELEY'S MOTOR CARAVAN ROY BLAKELEY, LOST, STRAYED OR STOLEN ROY BLAKELEY'S BEE-LINE HIKE ROY BLAKELEY AT THE HAUNTED CAMP ROY BLAKELEY'S FUNNY BONE HIKE ROY BLAKELEY'S TANGLED TRAIL ROY BLAKELEY ON THE MOHAWK TRAIL ROY BLAKELEY'S ELASTIC HIKE ROY BLAKELEY'S ROUNDABOUT HIKE GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH Author of "Tom Slade," "Roy Blakeley," "Westy Martin," Etc. Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Color. Every Volume Complete in Itself. All readers of the Tom Slade and the Roy Blakeley books are acquainted with Pee-wee Harris. These stories record the true facts concerning his size (what there is a it) and his heroism (such as it is), his voice, his clothe his appetite, his friends, his enemies, his victims. Together with the thrilling narrative of how he foiled, baffled, circumvented and triumphed over everything and everybody (except where he failed) and how even when he failed he succeeded. The whole recorded in a series of screams and told with neither muffler nor cut-out. PEE-WEE HARRIS PEE-WEE HARRIS ON THE TRAIL PEE-WEE HARRIS IN CAMP PEE-WEE HARRIS IN LUCK PEE-WEE HARRIS ADRIFT PEE-WEE HARRIS F. O. B. BRIDGEBORO PEE-WEE HARRIS FIXER PEE-WEE HARRIS: AS GOOD AS HIS WORD PEE-WEE HARRIS: MAYOR FOR A DAY PEE-WEE HARRIS AND THE SUNKEN TREASURE GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK 
19981	----	[Illustration: "I've a bad son, the day, Skipper Tommy," said my Mother.--Page 23.] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- DOCTOR LUKE OF THE LABRADOR BY NORMAN DUNCAN GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers--New York ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright, 1904, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 63 Washington Street Toronto: 27 Richmond Street, W London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 30 St. Mary Street ----------------------------------------------------------------------- To My Own Mother and to her granddaughter Elspeth my niece ----------------------------------------------------------------------- To the Reader However bleak the Labrador--however naked and desolate that shore--flowers bloom upon it. However bitter the despoiling sea--however cold and rude and merciless--the gentler virtues flourish in the hearts of the folk.... And the glory of the coast--and the glory of the whole world--is mother-love: which began in the beginning and has continued unchanged to this present time--the conspicuous beauty of the fabric of life: the great constant of the problem. N. D. College Campus, Washington, Pennsylvania, October 15, 1904. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS I. Our Harbour 13 II. The World from the Watchman 17 III. In the Haven of Her Arms 29 IV. The Shadow 35 V. Mary 48 VI. The Man on the Mail Boat 57 VII. The Woman from Wolf Cove 70 VIII. The Blind and the Blind 79 IX. A Wreck on the Thirty Devils 89 X. The Flight 102 XI. The Women at the Gate 110 XII. Doctor and I 115 XIII. A Smiling Face 125 XIV. In the Watches of the Night 133 XV. The Wolf 138 XVI. A Malady of the Heart 150 XVII. Hard Practice 167 XVIII. Skipper Tommy Gets a Letter 182 XIX. The Fate of the Mail-Boat Doctor 191 XX. Christmas Eve at Topmast Tickle 202 XXI. Down North 219 XXII. The Way from Heart's Delight 222 XXIII. The Course of True Love 239 XXIV. The Beginning of the End 258 XXV. A Capital Crime 265 XXVI. Decoyed 287 XXVII. The Day of the Dog 305 XXVIII. In Harbour 320 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- [Illustration: SKETCH MAP of OUR HARBOR] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- DOCTOR LUKE of THE LABRADOR I OUR HARBOUR A cluster of islands, lying off the cape, made the shelter of our harbour. They were but great rocks, gray, ragged, wet with fog and surf, rising bleak and barren out of a sea that forever fretted a thousand miles of rocky coast as barren and as sombre and as desolate as they; but they broke wave and wind unfailingly and with vast unconcern--they were of old time, mighty, steadfast, remote from the rage of weather and the changing mood of the sea, surely providing safe shelter for us folk of the coast--and we loved them, as true men, everywhere, love home. "'Tis the cleverest harbour on the Labrador!" said we. When the wind was in the northeast--when it broke, swift and vicious, from the sullen waste of water beyond, whipping up the grey sea, driving in the vagrant ice, spreading clammy mist over the reefs and rocky headlands of the long coast--our harbour lay unruffled in the lee of God's Warning. Skull Island and a shoulder of God's Warning broke the winds from the north: the froth of the breakers, to be sure, came creeping through the north tickle, when the sea was high; but no great wave from the open ever disturbed the quiet water within. We were fended from the southerly gales by the massive, beetling front of the Isle of Good Promise, which, grandly unmoved by their fuming rage, turned them up into the black sky, where they went screaming northward, high over the heads of the white houses huddled in the calm below; and the seas they brought--gigantic, breaking seas--went to waste on Raven Rock and the Reef of the Thirty Black Devils, ere, their strength spent, they growled over the jagged rocks at the base of the great cliffs of Good Promise and came softly swelling through the broad south tickle to the basin. The west wind came out of the wilderness, fragrant of the far-off forest, lying unknown and dread in the inland, from which the mountains, bold and blue and forbidding, lifted high their heads; and the mist was then driven back into the gloomy seas of the east, and the sun was out, shining warm and yellow, and the sea, lying in the lee of the land, was all aripple and aflash. When the spring gales blew--the sea being yet white with drift-ice--the schooners of the Newfoundland fleet, bound north to the fishing, often came scurrying into our harbour for shelter. And when the skippers, still dripping the spray of the gale from beard and sou'wester, came ashore for a yarn and an hospitable glass with my father, the trader, many a tale of wind and wreck and far-away harbours I heard, while we sat by the roaring stove in my father's little shop: such as those which began, "Well, 'twas the wonderfullest gale o' wind you ever seed--snowin' an' blowin', with the sea in mountains, an' it as black as a wolf's throat--an' we was somewheres off Cape Mugford. She were drivin' with a nor'east gale, with the shore somewheres handy t' le'ward. But, look! nar a one of us knowed where she were to, 'less 'twas in the thick o' the Black Heart Reefs...." Stout, hearty fellows they were who told yarns like these--thick and broad about the chest and lanky below, long-armed, hammer-fisted, with frowsy beards, bushy brows, and clear blue eyes, which were fearless and quick to look. "'Tis a fine harbour you got here, Skipper David Roth," they would say to my father, when it came time to go aboard, "an' here, zur," raising the last glass, "is t' the rocks that make it!" "T' the schooners they shelter!" my father would respond. When the weather turned civil, I would away to the summit of the Watchman--a scamper and a mad climb--to watch the doughty little schooners on their way. And it made my heart swell and flutter to see them dig their noses into the swelling seas--to watch them heel and leap and make the white dust fly--to feel the rush of the wet wind that drove them--to know that the grey path of a thousand miles was every league of the way beset with peril. Brave craft! Stout hearts to sail them! It thrilled me to watch them beating up the suddy coast, lying low and black in the north, and through the leaden, ice-strewn seas, with the murky night creeping in from the open. I, too, would be the skipper of a schooner, and sail with the best of them! "A schooner an' a wet deck for me!" thought I. And I loved our harbour all the more for that. * * * * * Thus, our harbour lay, a still, deep basin, in the shelter of three islands and a cape of the mainland: and we loved it, drear as it was, because we were born there and knew no kinder land; and we boasted it, in all the harbours of the Labrador, because it was a safe place, whatever the gale that blew. II The WORLD From The WATCHMAN The Watchman was the outermost headland of our coast and a landmark from afar--a great gray hill on the point of Good Promise by the Gate; our craft, running in from the Hook-an'-Line grounds off Raven Rock, rounded the Watchman and sped thence through the Gate and past Frothy Point into harbour. It was bold and bare--scoured by the weather--and dripping wet on days when the fog hung thick and low. It fell sharply to the sea by way of a weather-beaten cliff, in whose high fissures the gulls, wary of the hands of the lads of the place, wisely nested; and within the harbour it rose from Trader's Cove, where, snug under a broken cliff, stood our house and the little shop and storehouse and the broad drying-flakes and the wharf and fish-stages of my father's business. From the top there was a far, wide outlook--all sea and rock: along the ragged, treeless coast, north and south, to the haze wherewith, in distances beyond the ken of lads, it melted; and upon the thirty wee white houses of our folk, scattered haphazard about the harbour water, each in its own little cove and each with its own little stage and great flake; and over the barren, swelling rock beyond, to the blue wilderness, lying infinitely far away. I shuddered when from the Watchman I looked upon the wilderness. "'Tis a dreadful place," I had heard my father say. "Men starves in there." This I knew to be true, for, once, I had seen the face of a man who came crawling out. "The sea is kinder," I thought. Whether so or not, I was to prove, at least, that the wilderness was cruel. * * * * * One blue day, when the furthest places on sea and land lay in a thin, still haze, my mother and I went to the Watchman to romp. There was place there for a merry gambol, place, even, led by a wiser hand, for roaming and childish adventure--and there were silence and sunlit space and sea and distant mists for the weaving of dreams--ay, and, upon rare days, the smoke of the great ships, bound down the Straits--and when dreams had worn the patience there were huge loose rocks handy for rolling over the brow of the cliff--and there was gray moss in the hollows, thick and dry and soft, to sprawl on and rest from the delights of the day. So the Watchman was a playground for my mother and me--my sister, my elder by seven years, was all the day long tunefully busy about my father's comfort and the little duties of the house--and, on that blue day, we climbed the broken cliff behind our house and toiled up the slope beyond in high spirits, and we were very happy together; for my mother was a Boston maid, and, though she turned to right heartily when there was work to do, she was not like the Labrador born, but thought it no sin to wander and laugh in the sunlight of the heads when came the blessed opportunity. "I'm fair done out," said I, at last, returning, flushed, from a race to Beacon Rock. "Lie here, Davy--ay, but closer yet--and rest," said she. I flung myself at full length beside her, spreading abroad my sturdy little arms and legs; and I caught her glance, glowing warm and proud, as it ran over me, from toe to crown, and, flashing prouder yet through a gathering mist of tears, returned again. "I knows why you're lookin' at me that way," said I. "And why?" said she. "'Tis for sheer love o' me!" She was strangely moved by this. Her hands, passionately clasped of a sudden, she laid upon her heart; and she drew a sharp, quivering breath. "You're getting so--so--strong and--and--so _big_!" she cried. "Hut!" said I. "'Tis nothin' t' cry about!" "Oh," she sobbed, "I'm _proud_ t' be the mother of a son!" I started up. "I'm that proud," she went on, hovering now between great joy and pain, "that it--it--fair _hurts_ me!" "I'll not have you cry!" I protested. She caught me in her arms and we broke into merry laughter. Then to please her I said that I would gather flowers for her hair--and she would be the stranded mermaid and I the fisherman whom she besought to put her back in the sea and rewarded with three wishes--and I sought flowers everywhere in the hollows and crevices of the bald old Watchman, where, through years, some soil had gathered, but found only whisps of wiry grass and one wretched blossom; whereupon I returned to her very wroth. "God made a botch o' the world!" I declared. She looked up in dismay. "Ay," I repeated, with a stamp of the foot, "a wonderful botch o' the world He's gone an' made. Why, they's but one flower on the Watchman!" She looked over the barren land--the great gray waste of naked rock--and sighed. "But one?" she asked, softly. "An I was God," I said, indignantly, "I'd have made _more_ flowers an' made un _bigger_." She smiled in the way of one dreaming. "Hut!" I went on, giving daring wing to my imagination. "I'd have made a hundred kinds an' soil enough t' grow un all--_every one o' the whole hundred!_ I'd have----" She laid a soft hand on my lips. "'Tis a land," she whispered, with shining eyes, "that grows rosy lads, and I'm well content!" "'Tis a poor way," I continued, disregarding her caress, "t' gather soil in buckets. _I'd_ have made enough t' gather it in _barrows_! I'd have made lots of it--heaps of it. Why," I boasted, growing yet more recklessly prodigal, "I'd have made a _hill_ of it somewheres handy t' every harbour in the world--as big as the Watchman--ay, an' handy t' the harbours, so the folk could take so much as they wanted--t' make potato-gardens--an'--an' t' make the grave-yards deep enough. 'Tis a wonderful poor way," I concluded with contempt, "t' have t' gather it in buckets from the rocks!" My mother was laughing heartily now. "'Twould not be a better world, thinks you?" said I. "Ay, but I could do better than that! Hut!" I cried, at last utterly abandoned to my imagination, "I'd have more things than potatoes grow in the ground an' more things than berries grow on bushes. _What_ would I have grow in the ground, says you? Is you thinkin' I don't _know_? Oh, ay, mum," I protested, somewhat at a loss, but very knowingly, "_I_ knows!" I was now getting rapidly beyond my depth; but I plunged bravely on, wondering like lightning, the while, what else _could_ grow in the ground and on bushes. "I'd have _flour_ grow in the ground, mum," I cried, triumphantly, "an' I'd have sea-boots an' sou'westers grow on the bushes. An', ecod!" I continued, inspired, "I'd have fishes grow on bushes, already split an' cleaned!" What other improvements I would have made on the good Lord's handiwork I do not know. Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, being on the road to Trader's Cove from the Rat Hole, where he lived alone with his twin lads, had spied us from Needle Rock, and now came puffing up the hill to wish my mother good-day: which, indeed, all true men of the harbour never failed to do, whenever they came near. He was a short, marvellously broad, bow-legged old man--but yet straight and full of strength and fine hope--all the while dressed in tight white moleskin (much soiled by the slime of the day's work), long skin boots, tied below the knees, and a ragged cloth cap, which he kept pulled tight over his bushy grey hair. There was a mild twinkle forever lying in the depths of his blue eyes, and thence, at times, overflowing upon his broad brown face, which then rippled with wrinkles, from the roots of his hair to the fringe of white beard under his chin, in a way at once to make one laugh with him, though one could not quite tell why. We lads of the harbour loved him very much, for his good-humour and for his tenderness--never more so, however, than when, by night, in the glow of the fire, he told us long tales of the fairies and wicked elves he had dealt with in his time, twinkling with every word, so that we were sorely puzzled to know whether to take him in jest or earnest. "I've a very bad son, the day, Skipper Tommy," said my mother, laying a fond hand on my head. "Have you, now, mum!" cried the skipper, with a wink. "'Tis hard t' believe. He've been huntin' gulls' nests in parlous places on the cliff o' the Watchman, I'm thinkin'." "'Tis worse than that." "Dear man! Worse than that, says you? Then he've took the punt beyond the Gate all by hisself." "'Tis even worse than that. He's not pleased with the dear Lord's world." Skipper Tommy stopped dead and stared me in the eye--but not coldly, you must know; just in mild wonder, in which, it may be, was mixed some admiration, as though he, too, deep in his guileless old heart, had had some doubt which he dared not entertain. "Ay," said I, loftily, "He've not made flowers enough t' suit _my_ taste." Skipper Tommy rubbed his nose in a meditative way. "Well," he drawled, "He haven't made many, true enough. I'm not sayin' He mightn't have made more. But He've done very well. They's enough--oh, ay, they's enough t' get along with. For, look you! lad, they's no real _need_ o' any more. 'Twas wonderful kind of Un," he went on, swept away by a flood of good feeling, as often happened, "t' make even one little flower. Sure, He didn't _have_ t' do it. He just went an' done it for love of us. Ay," he repeated, delighting himself with this new thought of his Lord's goodness, "'twas wonderful kind o' the Lard t' take so much trouble as that!" My mother was looking deep into Skipper Tommy's eyes as though she saw some lovely thing therein. "Ay," said I, "'twas fair kind; but I'm wishin' He'd been a bit more free." My mother smiled at that. Then, "And my son," she said, in the way of one poking fun, "would have _flour_ grow out of the ground!" "An' did he say that!" cried Skipper Tommy. My mother laughed, and Skipper Tommy laughed uproariously, and loudly slapped his thick thigh; and I felt woefully foolish, and wondered much what depth of ignorance I had betrayed, but I laughed, too, because Skipper Tommy laughed so heartily and opened his great mouth so wide; and we were all very merry for a time. At last, while I wondered, I thought that, perhaps, flour _did_ grow, after all--though, for the life of me, I could not tell how--and that my mother and Skipper Tommy knew it well enough; whereupon I laughed the merrier. "Come, look you!" then said Skipper Tommy, gently taking the lobe of my ear between his thick, hard thumb and forefinger. "Don't you go thinkin' you could make better worlds than the Lard. Why, lad, 'tis but _play_ for _Him_! _He've_ no trouble makin' a world! I'm thinkin' He've made more than one," he added, his voice changing to a knowing whisper. "'Tis my own idea, but," now sagely, "I'm thinkin' He did. 'Tis like that this was the first, an' He done better when He got His hand in. Oh, ay, nar a doubt He done better with the rest! But He done wonderful well with this one. When you're so old as me, lad, you'll know that though the Lard made few flowers He put a deal o' time an' labour on the harbours; an' when you're beatin' up t' the Gate, lad, in a gale o' wind--an' when you thinks o' the quiet place t'other side o' Frothy Point--you'll know the Lard done well by all the folk o' this world when He made safe harbours instead o' wastin' His time on flowers. Ay, lad, 'tis a wonderful well built world; an' you'll know it--then!" We turned homeward--down the long road over the shoulder of the Watchman; for the evening was drawing near. "They's times," said Skipper Tommy, giving his nose a puzzled tweak, "when I wonders how He done it. 'Tis fair beyond me! I wonders a deal, now, mum," turning to my mother, his face lighting with interest, "about they stars. Now, mum," smiling wistfully, "I wonders ... I wonders ... how He stuck un up there in the sky. Ah," with a long sigh, "I'd sure like t' know that! An' wouldn't you, mum? Ecod! but I _would_ like t' know that! 'Twould be worth while, I'm thinkin'. I'm wishin' I could find out. But, hut!" he cried, with a laugh which yet rang strangely sad in my ears, "'tis none o' my business. 'Twould be a queer thing, indeed, if men went pryin' into the Lard's secrets. He'd fix un, I 'low--He'd snarl un all up--He'd let un think theirselves wise an' guess theirselves mad! That's what He'd do. But, now," falling again into a wistful, dreaming whisper, "I wonders ... wonders ... how He _does_ stick them stars up there. I'm thinkin' I'll try t' think that out--some day--so people could know, an' wouldn't have t' wonder no more. I--wonders--if I could!" We walked on in silence--down the last slope, and along the rocky path to Trader's Cove; and never a word was spoken. When we came to the turn to our house we bade the skipper good-evening. "Don't you be forgettin'," he said, tipping up my face with a finger under my chin, "that you'll soon be thinkin' more o' harbours than o' flowers." I laughed. "But, ecod!" he broke out, violently rubbing his nose, until I was fairly concerned for it, so red did it turn, "that was a wonderful good idea about the flour!" My mother looked at him sharply; then her eyes twinkled, and she hid a smile behind her hand. "_'Twould_ be a good thing t' have it grow," the old man continued. "'Twould be far better than--than--well, now--makin' it the way they does. Ecod!" he concluded, letting his glance fall in bewilderment on the ground, "I wonders how they _does_ make flour. I wonders ... wonders ... where they gets the stuff an'--an'--how they makes it!" He went off, wondering still; and my mother and I went slowly home, and sat in the broad window of our house, which overlooked the harbour and fronted the flaring western sky; and then first she told me of the kind green world beyond. III IN THE HAVEN of HER ARMS There was a day not far distant--my father had told my mother with a touch of impatience that it _must_ come for all sons--when Skipper Tommy took me with one of the twin lads in the punt to the Hook-an'-Line grounds to jig, for the traps were doing poorly with the fish, the summer was wasting and there was nothing for it but to take to hook and line: which my father's dealers heartily did, being anxious to add what fish they could to the catch, though in this slower way. And it was my first time beyond the Gate--and the sea seemed very vast and strange and sullen when we put out at dawn--and when the long day was near done the wind blew gray and angry from the north and spread a thickening mist over the far-off Watchman--and before night closed, all that Skipper Tommy had said of harbours and flowers came true in my heart. "We'll be havin' t' beat up t' the Gate," said he, as he hauled in the grapnel. "With all the wind she can carry," added little Jacky, bending to lift the mast into the socket. In truth, yes--as it seemed to my unknowing mind: she had all the wind she could carry. The wind fretted the black sea until it broke all roundabout; and the punt heeled to the gusts and endlessly flung her bows up to the big waves; and the spray swept over us like driving rain, and was bitter cold; and the mist fell thick and swift upon the coast beyond. Jacky, forward with the jib-sheet in his capable little fist and the bail bucket handy, scowled darkly at the gale, being alert as a cat, the while; and the skipper, his mild smile unchanged by all the tumult, kept a hand on the mainsheet and tiller, and a keen, quiet eye on the canvas and on the vanishing rocks whither we were bound. And forth and back she went, back and forth, again and again, without end--beating up to harbour. "Dear man!" said Skipper Tommy, with a glance at the vague black outline of the Watchman, "but 'tis a fine harbour!" "'Tis that," sighed Jacky, wistfully, as a screaming little gust heeled the punt over; "an'--an'--I wisht we was there!" Skipper Tommy laughed at his son. "I does!" Jacky declared. "I--I--I'm not so sure," I stammered, taking a tighter grip on the gunwale, "but I wisht we was--there--too." "You'll be wishin' that often," said Skipper Tommy, pointedly, "if you lives t' be so old as me." We wished it often, indeed, that day--while the wind blustered yet more wildly out of the north and the waves tumbled aboard our staggering little craft and the night came apace over the sea--and we have wished it often since that old time, have Jacky and I, God knows! I had the curious sensation of fear, I fancy--though I am loath to call it that--for the first time in my life; and I was very much relieved when, at dusk, we rounded the looming Watchman, ran through the white waters and thunderous confusion of the Gate, with the breakers leaping high on either hand, sharply turned Frothy Point and came at last into the ripples of Trader's Cove. Glad I was, you may be sure, to find my mother waiting on my father's wharf, and to be taken by the hand, and to be led up the path to the house, where there was spread a grand supper of fish and bread, which my sister had long kept waiting; and, after all, to be rocked in the broad window, safe in the haven of my mother's arms, while the last of the sullen light of day fled into the wilderness and all the world turned black. "You'll be singin' for me, mum, will you not?" I whispered. "And what shall I sing, lad?" said she. "You knows, mum." "I'm not so sure," said she. "Come, tell me!" What should she sing? I knew well, at that moment, the assurance my heart wanted: we are a God-fearing people, and I was a child of that coast; and I had then first come in from a stormy sea. There is a song---- "'Tis, 'Jesus Saviour Pilot Me,'" I answered. "I knew it all the time," said she; and, "'Jesus, Saviour, pilot me, Over life's tempestuous sea,'" she sang, very softly--and for me alone--like a sweet whisper in my ear. "'Unknown waves before me roll, Hiding rock and treacherous shoal; Chart and compass came from Thee: Jesus, Saviour, pilot me!'" "I was thinkin' o' that, mum, when we come through the Gate," said I. "Sure, I thought Skipper Tommy might miss the Way, an' get t'other side o' the Tooth, an' get in the Trap, an' go t' wreck on the Murderers, an'----" "Hush, dear!" she whispered. "Sure, you've no cause to fear when the pilot knows the way." The feeling of harbour--of escape and of shelter and brooding peace--was strong upon me while we sat rocking in the failing light. I have never since made harbour--never since come of a sudden from the toil and the frothy rage of the sea by night or day, but my heart has felt again the peace of that quiet hour--never once but blessed memory has given me once again the vision of myself, a little child, lying on my mother's dear breast, gathered close in her arms, while she rocked and softly sang of the tempestuous sea and a Pilot for the sons of men, still rocking, rocking, in the broad window of my father's house. I protest that I love my land, and have from that hour, barren as it is and as bitter the sea that breaks upon it; for I then learned--and still know--that it is as though the dear God Himself made harbours with wise, kind hands for such as have business in the wild waters of that coast. And I love my life--and go glad to the day's work--for I have learned, in the course of it and by the life of the man who came to us, that whatever the stress and fear of the work to be done there is yet for us all a refuge, which, by way of the heart, they find who seek. * * * * * And I fell asleep in my mother's arms, and by and by my big father came in and laughed tenderly to find me lying there; and then, as I have been told, laughing softly still they carried me up and flung me on my bed, flushed and wet and limp with sound slumber, where I lay like a small sack of flour, while together they pulled off my shoes and stockings and jacket and trousers and little shirt, and bundled me into my night-dress, and rolled me under the blanket, and tucked me in, and kissed me good-night. When my mother's lips touched my cheek I awoke. "Is it you, mama?" I asked. "Ay," said she; "'tis your mother, lad." Her hand went swiftly to my brow, and smoothed back the tousled, wet hair. "Is you kissed me yet?" "Oh, ay!" said she. "Kiss me again, please, mum," said I, "for I wants--t' make sure--you done it." She kissed me again, very tenderly; and I sighed and fell asleep, content. IV THE SHADOW When the mail-boat left our coast to the long isolation of that winter my mother was even more tender with the scrawny plants in the five red pots on the window-shelf. On gray days, when our house and all the world lay in the soggy shadow of the fog, she fretted sadly for their health; and she kept feverish watch for a rift in the low, sad sky, and sighed and wished for sunlight. It mystified me to perceive the wistful regard she bestowed upon the stalks and leaves that thrived the illest--the soft touches for the yellowing leaves, and, at last, the tear that fell, when, withered beyond hope, they were plucked and cast away--and I asked her why she loved the sick leaves so; and she answered that she knew but would not tell me why. Many a time, too, at twilight, I surprised her sitting downcast by the window, staring out--and far--not upon the rock and sea of our harbour, but as though through the thickening shadows into some other place. "What you lookin' at, mum?" I asked her, once. "A glory," she answered. "Glory!" said I. "They's no glory out there. The night falls. 'Tis all black an' cold on the hills. Sure, _I_ sees no glory." "'Tis not a glory, but a shadow," she whispered, "for you!" Nor was I now ever permitted to see her in disarray, but always, as it seemed to me, fresh from my sister's clever hands, her hair laid smooth and shining, her simple gown starched crisp and sweetly smelling of the ironing board; and when I asked her why she was never but thus lovely, she answered, with a smile, that surely it pleased her son to find her always so: which, indeed, it did. I felt, hence, in some puzzled way, that this display was a design upon me, but to what end I could not tell. And there was an air of sad unquiet in the house: it occurred to my childish fancy that my mother was like one bound alone upon a long journey; and once, deep in the night, when I had long lain ill at ease in the shadow of this fear, I crept to her door to listen, lest she be already fled, and I heard her sigh and faintly complain; and then I went back to bed, very sad that my mother should be ailing, but now sure that she would not leave me. Next morning my father leaned over our breakfast table and laid his broad hand upon my mother's shoulder; whereupon she looked up smiling, as ever she did when that big man caressed her. "I'll be havin' the doctor for you," he said. She gave him a swift glance of warning--then turned her wide eyes upon me. "Oh," said my father, "the lad knows you is sick. 'Tis no use tryin' t' keep it from un any more." "Ay," I sobbed, pushing my plate away, for I was of a sudden no longer hungry, "I heared you cryin' las' night." My sister came quickly to my side, and wound a soft arm about my neck, and drew my head close to her heart, and kissed me many times; and when she had soothed me I looked up and found my mother gloriously glad that I had cried. "'Tis nothing," then she said, with a rush of tenderness for my grief. "'Tis not hard to bear. 'Tis----" "Ay, but," said my father, "I'll be havin' the doctor t' see you." My mother pooh-poohed it all. The doctor? For her? Not she! She was not sick enough for _that_! "I'm bent," said my father, doggedly, "on havin' that man." "David," cried my mother, "I'll not have you do it!" "I'll have my way of it," said my father. "I'm bent on it, an' I'll be put off no longer. 'Tis no use, m'am--nar a bit! The doctor's comin' t' see you." "Ah, well!" sighed my mother. "Ay," said my father, "I'll have that man ashore when the mail-boat comes in the spring. 'Tis well on t' December now," he went on, "an' it may be we'll have an early break-up. Sure, if they's westerly winds in the spring, an' the ice clears away in good season, we'll be havin' the mail-boat north in May. Come, now! 'twill not be later than June, I 'low. An' I'll have that doctor ashore in a hurry, mark my words, when the anchor's down. That I will!" "'Tis a long time," said my mother. Every morning, thereafter, she said that she was better--always better--much, much better. 'Twas wonderful, she said, 'twas fair past making out, indeed, that she should so soon grow into a fine, hearty woman again; and 'twould be an easy matter, said she, for the mail-boat doctor to cure _her_--when he came. And she was now more discreet with her moods; not once did I catch her brooding alone, though more than once I lay in wait in dark corners or peered through the crack in the door; and she went smiling about the house, as of old--but yet not as of old; and I puzzled over the difference, but could not discover it. More often, now, at twilight, she lured me to her lap, where I was never loath to go, great lad of nine years though I was; and she sat silent with me, rocking, rocking, while the deeper night came down--and she kissed me so often that I wondered she did not tire of it--and she stroked my brow and cheeks, and touched my eyes, and ran her finger-tips over my eyebrows and nose and lips, ay, and softly played with my lips--and at times she strained me so hard to her breast that I near complained of the embrace--and I was no more driven off to bed when my eyes grew heavy, but let lie in her arms, while we sat silent, rocking, rocking, until long, long after I had fallen asleep. And once, at the end of a sweet, strange hour, making believe to play, she gently pried my eyes wide open and looked far into their depths--so deep, so long, so searchingly, so strangely, that I waxed uneasy under the glance. "Wh-wh-what--what you----" I began, inarticulately. "What am I looking for?" she interrupted, speaking quickly. "Ay," I whimpered, for I was deeply agitated; "what you lookin' for?" "For your heart," said she. I did not know what she meant; and I wondered concerning the fancy she had, but did not ask, for there was that in her voice and eyes that made me very solemn. "'Tis but a child's heart," she sighed, turning away. "'Tis but like the hearts," she whispered, "of all children. I cannot tell--I cannot tell," she sobbed, "and I want--oh, I want so much--to know!" "Don't cry!" I pleaded, thrown into an agony by her tears, in the way of all children. She sat me back in her lap. "Look in your mother's eyes, lad," said she, "and say after me this: 'My mother----'" "'My mother----'" I repeated, very soberly. "'Looked upon my heart----'" "'Looked upon my heart----'" said I. "'And found it brave----'" "'An' found it brave----'" "'And sweet----'" "'An' sweet----'" "'Willing for the day's work----'" said she. "'Willing for the day's work----'" I repeated. "'And harbouring no shameful hope.'" "'An' harbouring--no shameful--hope.'" Again and again she had me say it--until I knew it every word by heart. "Ah," said she, at last, "but you'll forget!" "No, no!" I cried. "I'll not forget. 'My mother looked upon my heart,'" I rattled, "'an' found it brave an' sweet, willing for the day's work an' harbouring no shameful hope.' I've not forgot! I've _not_ forgot!" "He'll forget," she whispered, but not to me, "like all children." But I have not forgotten--I have not forgotten--I have never forgotten--that when I was a child my mother looked upon my heart and found it brave and sweet, willing for the day's work and harbouring no shameful hope. * * * * * The winter fell early and with ominous severity. Our bleak coast was soon too bitter with wind and frost and snow for the folk to continue in their poor habitations. They were driven in haste to the snugger inland tilts, which lay in a huddle at the Lodge, far up Twisted Arm, in the blessed proximity of fire-wood--there to trap and sleep in hardly mitigated misery until the kindlier spring days should once again invite them to the coast. My father, the only trader on forty miles of our coast, as always dealt them salt beef and flour and tea with a free hand, until, at last, the storehouses were swept clean of food, save sufficient for our own wants: his great heart hopeful that the catch of next season, and the honest hearts of the folk, and the mysterious favor of the Lord, would all conspire to repay him. And so they departed, bag and baggage, youngsters and dogs; and the waste of our harbour and of the infinite roundabout was left white and silent, as of death itself. But we dwelt on in our house under the sheltering Watchman; for my father, being a small trader, was better off than they--though I would not have you think him of consequence elsewhere--and had builded a stout house, double-windowed, lined with felt and wainscotted with canvas, so that but little frost formed on the walls of the living rooms, and that only in the coldest weather. "'Tis cozy enough," said my father, chucking my mother under the chin, "even for a maid a man might cotch up Boston way!" Presently came Skipper Tommy Lovejoy by rollicking dog-team from the Lodge to inquire after my mother's health--to cheer us, it may be, I'm thinking, with his hearty way, his vast hope, his odd fancies, his ruddy, twinkling face. Most we laughed when he described his plan (how seriously conceived there was no knowing) for training whales to serve as tugboats in calms and adverse winds. It appeared, too, that a similar recital had been trying to the composure of old Tom Tot, of our harbour, who had searched the Bible for seven years to discover therein a good man of whom it was said that he laughed, and, failing utterly, had thereupon vowed never again to commit the sin of levity. "Sure, I near fetched un," said Skipper Tommy, gleefully, "with me whales. I come near makin' Tom Tot break that scandalous vow, zur, indeed I did! He got wonderful purple in the face, an' choked in a fearsome way, when I showed un my steerin' gear for the beast's tail, but, as I'm sad t' say, zur, he managed t' keep it in without bustin'. But I'll get un yet, zur--oh, ay, zur--just leave un t' me! Ecod! zur, I'm thinkin' he'll capsize with all hands when I tells un I'm t' have a wheel-house on the forward deck o' that wha-a-ale!" But the old man soon forgot all about his whales, as he had forgotten to make out the strange way the Lord had discovered to fasten His stars to the sky; moved by a long contemplation of my mother's frailty, he had a nobler inspiration. "'Tis sad, lass," he said, his face aquiver with sympathy, "t' think that we've but one doctor t' cure the sick, an' him on the mail-boat. 'Tis _wonderful_ sad t' think o' that! 'Tis a hard case," he went on, "but if a man only thunk hard enough he'd find a way t' mend it. Sure, what _ought_ t' be mended _can_ be mended. 'Tis the way o' the world. If a man only thinks hard an' thinks sensible, he'll find a way, zur, every time. 'Tis easy t' think hard, but 'tis sometimes hard," he added, "t' think t' the point." We were silent while he continued lost in deep and puzzled thought. "Ecod!" he burst out. "I got it!" "Have you, now?" cried my father, half amused, half amazed. "Just this minute, zur," said the skipper, in a glow of delighted astonishment. "It come t' me all t' oncet." "An' what is it?" "'Tis a sort o' book, zur!" "A book?" "Ay, 'tis just a book. Find out all the cures in the world an' put un in a book. Get the doctor-women's, an' the healers', an' the real doctor's, an' put un right in a book. Has you got the dip-theria? Ask the book what t' do. 'Dip-theria?' says the book t' you. 'Well, that's sad. Tie a split herring round your neck.' S'pose you got the salt-water sores. What do you do, then? Why, turn t' the book. 'Oh, 'tis nothin' t' cure _that_,' says the book. 'Wear a brass chain on your wrist, lad, an' you'll be troubled no more.' Take it, now, when you got blood-poison in the hand. What is you t' do, you wants t' know? 'Blood-poison in the hand?' says the book. 'Good gracious, that's awful! Cut off your hand.' 'Twould be a wonderful good work," the skipper concluded, "t' make a book like that!" It appeared to me that it would. "I wonder," the skipper went on, staring at the fire, a little smile playing upon his face, "if _I_ couldn't do that! 'Twould surely be a thing worth doin'. I wonder--I wonder--if I couldn't manage--somehow--t' do it!" We said nothing; for he was not thinking of us, any more, as we knew--but only dreaming of the new and beneficent work which had of a sudden appeared to him. "But I isn't able t' write," he muttered, at last. "I--I--_wisht I could_!" "'Twould be a wonderful fine work for a man t' do," said my father. "'Tis a wonder, now," said Skipper Tommy, looking up with a bright face, "that no one ever thought o' doin' that afore. T' my mind," he added, much puzzled, "'tis very queer, indeed, that they's nar a man in all the world t' think o' that--but _me_!" My mother smiled. "I'm thinkin' I'll just _have_ t' try," Skipper Tommy went on, frowning anxiously. "But, ecod!" he cried, "maybe the Lard wouldn't like it. Now, maybe, He wants us men t' mind our business. Maybe, He'd say, 'You keep your finger out o' My pie. Don't you go makin' no books about cures.' But, oh, no!" with the overflow of fine feeling which so often came upon him. "Why, _He_ wouldn't mind a little thing like that. Sure, I wouldn't mind it, meself! 'You go right ahead, lad,' He'd say, 'an' try t' work your cures. Don't you be afeared o' Me. _I'll_ not mind. But, lad,' He'd say, 'when I wants my way I just got t' _have_ it. Don't you forget that. Don't you go thinkin' you can have _your_ way afore I has _Mine_. You just trust Me t' do what's right. I know My business. I'm _used_ t' running worlds. I'm wonderful sorry,' He'd say, 't' have t' make you feel bad; but they's times, b'y,' He'd say, 'when I really _got_ t' have My way.' Oh, no," Skipper Tommy concluded, "the Lard wouldn't mind a poor man's tryin' t' make a book like that! An' I thinks I'll just _have_ t' try." "Sure, Skipper Tommy," said I, "I'll help you." Skipper Tommy stared at me in great amaze. "Ay," said my mother, "Davy has learned to write." "That I have," I boasted; "an' I'll help you make that book." "'Tis the same," cried Skipper Tommy, slapping his thigh "as if 'twas writ already!" * * * * * After a long time, my mother spoke. "You're always wanting to do some good thing, Skipper Tommy, are you not?" said she. "Well," he admitted, his face falling, "I thinks and wonders a deal, 'tis true, but somehow I don't seem t'----" "Ay?" my father asked. "Get--nowhere--much!" Very true: but, even then, there was a man on the way to help him. V MARY In the dead of winter, great storms of wind and snow raged for days together, so that it was unsafe to venture ten fathoms from the door, and the glass fell to fifty degrees (and more) below zero, where the liquid behaved in a fashion so sluggish that 'twould not have surprised us had it withdrawn into the bulb altogether, never to reappear in a sphere of agreeable activity. By night and day we kept the fires roaring (my father and Skipper Tommy standing watch and watch in the night) and might have gone at ease, cold as it was, had we not been haunted by the fear that a conflagration, despite our watchfulness, would of a sudden put us at the mercy of the weather, which would have made an end of us, every one, in a night. But when the skipper had wrought us into a cheerful mood, the wild, white days sped swift enough--so fast, indeed, that it was quite beyond me to keep count of them: for he was marvellous at devising adventures out-of-doors and pastimes within. At length, however, he said that he must be off to the Lodge, else Jacky and Timmie, the twins, who had been left to fend for themselves, would expire of longing for his return. "An' I'll be takin' Davy back with me, mum," said he to my mother, not daring, however, to meet her eye to eye with the proposal, "for the twins is wantin' him sore." "Davy!" cried my mother. "Surely, Skipper Tommy, you're not thinking to have Davy back with you!" Skipper Tommy ventured to maintain that I would be the better of a run in the woods, which would (as he ingeniously intimated) restore the blood to my cheeks: whereupon my mother came at once to his way of thinking, and would hear of no delay, but said--and that in a fever of anxiety--that I must be off in the morning, for she would not rest until I was put in the way of having healthful sport with lads of my age. So, that night, my sister made up three weeks' rations for me from our store (with something extra in the way of tinned beef and a pot of jam as a gift from me to the twins); also, she mended my sleeping-bag, in which my sprouting legs had kicked a hole, and got out the big black wolfskin, for bed covering in case of need. And by the first light of the next day we loaded the komatik, harnessed the joyful dogs and set out with a rush, the skipper's long whip cracking a jolly farewell as we went swinging over the frozen harbour to the Arm. "Hi, hi, b'y!" the skipper shouted to the dogs. Crack! went the whip, high over the heads of the pack. The dogs yelped. "Hi, hi!" screamed I. And on we sped, raising a dust of crisp snow in our wake. It was a famous pack. Fox, the new leader, was a mighty, indomitable fellow, and old Wolf, in the rear, had a sharp eye for lagging heels, which he snapped, in a flash, whenever a trace was let slack. What with Fox and Wolf and the skipper's long whip and my cries of encouragement there was no let up. On we went, coursing over the level stretches, bumping over rough places, swerving 'round the turns. It was a glorious ride. The day was clear, the air frosty, the pace exhilarating. The blood tingled in every part of me. I was sorry when we rounded Pipestem Point, and the huddled tilts of the Lodge, half buried in snow, came into view. But, half an hour later, in Skipper Tommy's tilt, I was glad that the distance had been no greater, for then the twins were helping me thaw out my cheeks and the tip of my nose, which had been frozen on the way. That night the twins and I slept together in the cock-loft like a litter of puppies. "Beef!" sighed Jacky, the last thing before falling asleep. "Think o' that, Timmie!" "An' jam!" said Timmie. They gave me a nudge to waken me. "Thanks, Davy," said they both. Then I fell asleep. * * * * * Our folk slept a great deal at the Lodge. They seemed to want to have the winter pass without knowing more than they could help of the various pangs of it--like the bears. But, when the weather permitted them to stir without, they trapped for fox and lynx, and hunted (to small purpose) with antiquated guns, and cut wood, if they were in the humour; and whatever necessity compelled them to do, and whatever they had to eat (since there was at least enough of it), they managed to have a rollicking time of it, as you would not suppose, without being told. The tilts were built of slim logs, caulked with moss; and there was but one room--and that a bare one--with bunks at one end for the women and a cock-loft above for the men. The stove was kept at red heat, day and night, but, notwithstanding, there was half an inch of frost on the walls and great icicles under the bunks: extremes of temperature were thus to be found within a very narrow compass. In the evening, when we were all gathered close about the stove, we passed the jolliest hours; for it was then that the folk came in, and tales were told, and (what was even more to our taste) the "spurts at religion" occurred. When the argument concerned the pains of hell, Mary, Tom Tot's daughter, who was already bound out to service to the new manager of the store at Wayfarer's Tickle (expected by the first mail-boat), would slip softly in to listen. "What you thinkin' about?" I whispered, once. She sat remote from the company, biting her finger nails, staring, meanwhile, from speaker to speaker, with eyes that were pitifully eager. "Hell," she answered. I was taken aback by that. "Hell, Mary?" I exclaimed. "Ay, Davy," she said, with a shudder, "I'm thinkin' about hell." "What for?" said I. "Sure, 'twill do you no good to think about hell." "I got to," said she. "I'm goin' there!" Skipper Tommy explained, when the folk had gone, that Mary, being once in a south port of our coast, had chanced to hear a travelling parson preach a sermon. "An'," said he, "'tis too bad that young man preached about damnation, for 'tis the only sermon she ever heared, an' she isn't seemin' t' get over it." After that I tried to persuade Mary that she would not go to hell, but quite dismally failed--and not only failed, but was soon thinking that I, too, was bound that way. When I expressed this fear, Mary took a great fancy to me, and set me to getting from Skipper Tommy a description of the particular tortures, as he conceived they were to be inflicted; for, said she, he was a holy man, and could tell what she so much wished to know. Skipper Tommy took me on his knee, and spoke long and tenderly to me, so that I have never since feared death or hell; but his words, being repeated, had no effect upon Mary, who continued still to believe that the unhappy fate awaited her, because of some sin she was predestined to commit, or, if not that, because of her weight of original sin. "Oh, Davy, I got t' go!" she moaned, tearing one of her nails to the quick. "No, no!" I cried. "The Lard 'll never be so mean t' you." "You don't know Him," she said, mysteriously. "You don't know what He's up to." "Bother Him!" I exclaimed, angered that mortals should thus be made miserable by interference. "I wisht He'd leave us be!" "Hush!" she said, horrified. "What's He gone an' done, now?" I demanded. "He've not elected me," she whispered, solemnly. "He've left _me_ with the goats." And so, happily, I accumulated another grudge against this misconception of the dear Lord, which Skipper Tommy's sweet philosophy and the jolly companionship of the twins could not eliminate for many days. But eventually the fresh air and laughter and tenderness restored my complacency. I forgot all about hell; 'twas more interesting to don my racquets and make the round of the fox traps with the twins, or to play pranks on the neighbours, or to fashion curious masques and go mummering from tilt to tilt. In the end, I emerged from the unfortunate mood with one firm conviction, founded largely, I fear, upon a picture which hung by my bed at home: that portraying a rising from the dead, the grave below, a golden, cloudy heaven above, wherefrom a winged angel had descended to take the hand of the free, enraptured soul. And my conviction was this, that, come what might to the souls of the wicked, the souls of the good were upon death robed in white and borne aloft to some great bliss, yet lingered, by the way, to throw back a tender glance. I had never seen death come. * * * * * In three weeks my rations were exhausted, and, since it would have been ungenerous in me to consume Skipper Tommy's food, I had the old man harness the dogs and take me home. My only regret was that my food did not last until Skipper Tommy had managed to make Tom Tot laugh. Many a night the old man had tried to no purpose, for Tom Tot would stare him stolidly in the eye, however preposterous the tale to be told. The twins and I had waited in vain--ready to explode at the right moment: but never having the opportunity. The last assault on Tom Tot's composure had been disastrous to the skipper. When, with highly elaborate detail, he had once more described his plan for training whales, disclosing, at last, his intention of having a wheel-house on what he called the forward deck---- "What about the fo'c's'le?" Tom Tot solemnly asked. "Eh?" gasped the skipper. "Fo'c's'le?" "Ay," said Tom Tot, in a melancholy drawl. "Isn't you give a thought t' the crew?" Skipper Tommy was nonplussed. "Well," sighed Tom, "I s'pose you'll be havin' t' fit up Jonah's quarters for them poor men!" * * * * * At home, in the evening, while my mother and father and sister and I were together in the glow of the fire, we delighted to plan the entertainment of the doctor who was coming to cure my mother. He must have the armchair from the best room below, my mother said, that he might sit in comfort, as all doctors should, while he felt her pulse; he must have a refreshing nip from the famous bottle of Jamaica rum, which had lain in untroubled seclusion since before I was born, waiting some occasion of vast importance; and he must surely not take her unaware in a slatternly moment, but must find her lying on the pillows, wearing her prettiest nightgown, which was thereupon newly washed and ironed and stowed away in the bottom drawer of the bureau against his unexpected coming. But while the snow melted from the hills, and the folk returned to the coast for the seal fishing, and the west winds carried the ice to sea, and we waited day by day for the mail-boat, our spirits fell, for my mother was then fast failing. And I discovered this strange circumstance: that while her strength withered, her hope grew large, and she loved to dwell upon the things she would do when the doctor had made her well; and I wondered why that was, but puzzled to no purpose. VI The MAN on The MAIL-BOAT It was in the dusk of a wet night of early June, with the sea in a tumble and the wind blowing fretfully from the west of north, that the mail-boat made our harbour. For three weeks we had kept watch for her, but in the end we were caught unready--the lookouts in from the Watchman, my father's crew gone home, ourselves at evening prayer in the room where my mother lay abed. My father stopped dead in his petition when the first hoarse, muffled blast of the whistle came uncertain from the sea, and my own heart fluttered and stood still, until, rising above the rush of the wind and the noise of the rain upon the panes, the second blast broke the silence within. Then with a shaking cry of "Lord God, 'tis she!" my father leaped from his knees, ran for his sea-boots and oilskins, and shouted from below for my sister to make ready his lantern. But, indeed, he had to get his lantern for himself; for my mother, who was now in a flush of excitement, speaking high and incoherently, would have my sister stay with her to make ready for the coming of the doctor--to dress her hair, and tidy the room, and lay out the best coverlet, and help on with the dainty nightgown. "Ay, mother," my sister said, laughing, to quiet her, "I'll not leave you. Sure, my father's old enough t' get his own lantern ready." "The doctor's come!" I shouted, contributing a lad's share to the excitement. "He've come! Hooray! He've come!" "Quick, Bessie!" cried my mother. "He'll be here before we know it. And my hair is in a fearful tangle. The looking-glass, lassie----" I left them in the thick of this housewifely agitation. Donning my small oilskins, as best as I could without my kind sister's help--and I shed impatient tears over the stiff button-holes, which my fingers would not manage--I stumbled down the path to the wharf, my exuberant joy escaping, the while, in loud halloos. There I learned that the mail-boat lay at anchor off the Gate, and, as it appeared, would not come in from the sea, but would presently be off to Wayfarer's Tickle, to the north, where she would harbour for the night. The lanterns were shining cheerily in the dark of the wharf; and my father was speeding the men who were to take the great skiff out for the spring freight--barrels of flour and pork and the like--and roundly berating them, every one, in a way which surprised them into unwonted activity. Perceiving that my father's temper and this mad bustle were to be kept clear of by wise lads, I slipped into my father's punt, which lay waiting by the wharf-stairs; and there, when the skiff was at last got underway, I was found by my father and Skipper Tommy Lovejoy. "Ashore with you, Davy, lad!" said my father. "There'll be no room for the doctor. He'll be wantin' the stern seat for hisself." "Leave the boy bide where he is," Skipper Tommy put in. "Sure, he'll do no harm, an'--an'--why, zur," as if that were sufficient, "he's _wantin_' t' go!" I kept silent--knowing well enough that Skipper Tommy was the man to help a lad to his desire. "Ay," said my father, "but I'm wantin' the doctor t' be comfortable when he comes ashore." "He'll be comfortable enough, zur. The lad'll sit in the bow an' trim the boat. Pass the lantern t' Davy, zur, an' come aboard." My father continued to grumble his concern for the doctor's comfort; but he leaned over to pat my shoulder while Skipper Tommy pushed off: for he loved his little son, did my big father--oh, ay, indeed, he did! We were soon past the lumbering skiff--and beyond Frothy Point--and out of the Gate--and in the open sea, where the wind was blowing smartly and the rain was flying in gusts. My father hailed the steamer's small-boat, inbound with the mail, to know if the doctor was in verity aboard; and the answer, though but half caught, was such that they bent heartily to the oars, and the punt gave a great leap and went staggering through the big waves in a way to delight one's very soul. Thus, in haste, we drew near the steamer, which lay tossing ponderously in the ground-swell, her engines panting, her lamps bright, her many lights shining from port-hole and deck--all so cozy and secure in the dirty night: so strange to our bleak coast! At the head of the ladder the purser stood waiting to know about landing the freight. "Is you goin' on?" my father asked. "Ay--t' Wayfarer's Tickle, when we load your skiff." "'Twill be alongside in a trice. But my wife's sick. I'm wantin' t' take the doctor ashore." "He's aft in the smokin'-room. You'd best speak t' the captain first. Hold her? Oh, sure, _he'll_ hold her all night, for sickness!" They moved off forward. Then Skipper Tommy took my hand--or, rather, I took his; for I was made ill at ease by the great, wet sweep of the deck, glistening with reflections of bright lights, and by the throng of strange men, and by the hiss of steam and the clank of iron coming from the mysterious depths below. He would show me the cabin, said he, where there was unexampled splendour to delight in; but when we came to a little house on the after deck, where men were lounging in a thick fog of tobacco smoke, I would go no further (though Skipper Tommy said that words were spoken not meet for the ears of lads to hear); for my interest was caught by a giant pup, which was not like the pups of our harbour but a lean, long-limbed, short-haired dog, with heavy jaws and sagging, blood-red eyelids. At a round table, whereon there lay a short dog-whip, his master sat at cards with a stout little man in a pea-jacket--a loose-lipped, blear-eyed, flabby little fellow, but, withal, hearty in his own way--and himself cut a curious figure, being grotesquely ill-featured and ill-fashioned, so that one rebelled against the sight of him. A gust of rain beat viciously upon the windows and the wind ran swishing past. "'Tis a dirty night," said the dog's master, shuffling nervously in his seat. At this the dog lifted his head with a sharp snarl: whereupon, in a flash, the man struck him on the snout with the butt of the whip. "That's for you!" he growled. The dog regarded him sullenly--his upper lip still lifted from his teeth. "Eh?" the man taunted. "Will you have another?" The dog's head subsided upon his paws; but his eyes never once left his master's face--and the eyes were alert, steady, hard as steel. "You're l'arnin'," the man drawled. But the dog had learned no submission, but, if anything, only craft, as even I, a child, could perceive; and I marvelled that the man could conceive himself to be winning the mastery of that splendid brute. 'Twas no way to treat a dog of that disposition. It had been a wanton blow--taken with not so much as a whimper. Mastery? Hut! The beast was but biding his time. And I wished him well in the issue. "Ecod!" thought I, with heat. "I hopes he gets a good grip o' the throat!" Whether or not, at the last, it was the throat, I do not know; but I do know the brutal tragedy of that man's end, for, soon, he came rough-shod into our quiet life, and there came a time when I was hot on his trail, and rejoiced, deep in the wilderness, to see the snow all trampled and gory. But the telling of that is for a later page; the man had small part in the scene immediately approaching: it was another. When the wind and rain again beat angrily upon the ship, his look of triumph at once gave place to cowardly concern; and he repeated: "'Tis a dirty night." "Ay," said the other, and, frowning, spread his cards before him. "What do you make, Jagger?" My father came in--and with him a breath of wet, cool air, which I caught with delight. "Ha!" he cried, heartily, advancing upon the flabby little man, "we been waitin' a long time for _you_, doctor. Thank God, you've come, at last!" "Fifteen, two----" said the doctor. My father started. "I'm wantin' you t' take a look at my poor wife," he went on, renewing his heartiness with an effort. "She've been wonderful sick all winter, an' we been waitin'----" "Fifteen, four," said the doctor; "fifteen, six----" "Doctor," my father said, touching the man on the shoulder, while Jagger smiled some faint amusement, "does you hear?" It was suddenly very quiet in the cabin. "Fifteen, eight----" said the doctor. My father's voice changed ominously. "Is you listenin', zur?" he asked. "Sick, is she?" said the doctor. "Fifteen, ten. I've got you, Jagger, sure ... 'Tis no fit night for a man to go ashore ... Fifteen, ten, did I say? and one for his nibs ... Go fetch her aboard, man ... And two for his heels----" My father laid his hand over the doctor's cards. "Was you sayin'," he asked, "t' fetch her aboard?" "The doctor struck the hand away. "Was you sayin'," my father quietly persisted, "t' fetch her aboard?" I knew my father for a man of temper; and, now, I wondered that his patience lasted. "Damme!" the doctor burst out. "Think I'm going ashore in this weather? If you want me to see her now, go fetch her aboard." My father coughed--then fingered the neck-band of his shirt. "I wants t' get this here clear in my mind," he said, slowly. "Is you askin' me t' fetch that sick woman aboard this here ship?" The doctor leaned over the table to spit. "Has I got it right, zur?" In the pause the spectators softly withdrew to the further end of the cabin. "If he won't fetch her aboard, Jagger," said the doctor, turning to the dog's master, "she'll do very well, I'll be bound, till we get back from the north. Eh, Jagger? If he cared very much, he'd fetch her aboard, wouldn't he?" Jagger laughed. "Ay, she'll do very well," the doctor repeated, now addressing my father, "till we get back. I'll take a look at her then." I saw the color rush into my father's face. Skipper Tommy laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Easy, now, Skipper David!" he muttered. "Is I right," said my father, bending close to the doctor's face, "in thinkin' you says you _won't_ come ashore?" The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Is I right," pursued my father, his voice rising, "in thinkin' the gov'ment pays you t' tend the sick o' this coast?" "That's my business," flashed the doctor. "That's my business, sir!" Jagger looked upon my father's angry face and smiled. "Is we right, doctor," said Skipper Tommy, "in thinkin' you knows she lies desperate sick?" "Damme!" cried the doctor. "I've heard that tale before. You're a pretty set, you are, to try to play on a man's feelings like that. But you can't take _me_ in. No, you can't," he repeated, his loose under-lip trembling. "You're a pretty set, you are. But you can't come it over me. Don't you go blustering, now! You can't come your bluster on me. Understand? You try any bluster on me, and, by heaven! I'll let every man of your harbour die in his tracks. I'm the doctor, here, I want you to know. And I'll not go ashore in weather like this." My father deliberately turned to wave Skipper Tommy and me out of the way: then laid a heavy hand on the doctor's shoulder. "You'll not come?" "Damned if I will!" "By God!" roared my father. "I'll take you!" At once, the doctor sought to evade my father's grasp, but could not, and, being unwise, struck him on the breast. My father felled him. The man lay in a flabby heap under the table, roaring lustily that he was being murdered; but so little sympathy did his plight extract, that, on the contrary, every man within happy reach, save Jagger and Skipper Tommy, gave him a hearty kick, taking no pains, it appeared, to choose the spot with mercy. As for Jagger, he had snatched up his whip, and was now raining blows on the muzzle of the dog, which had taken advantage of the uproar to fly at his legs. In this confusion, the Captain flung open the door and strode in. He was in a fuming rage; but, being no man to take sides in a quarrel, sought no explanation, but took my father by the arm and hurried him without, promising him redress, the while, at another time. Thus presently we found ourselves once more in my father's punt, pushing out from the side of the steamer, which was already underway, chugging noisily. "Hush, zur!" said Skipper Tommy to my father. "Curse him no more, zur. The good Lard, who made us, made him, also." My father cursed the harder. "Stop," cried the skipper, "or I'll be cursin' him, too, zur. God made that man, I tells you. He _must_ have gone an' made that man." "I hopes He'll damn him, then," said I. "God knowed what He was doin' when he made that man," the skipper persisted, continuing in faith against his will. "I tells you I'll _not_ doubt His wisdom. He made that man ... He made that man ... He made that man...." To this refrain we rowed into harbour. * * * * * We found my mother's room made very neat, and very grand, too, I thought, with the shaded lamp and the great armchair from the best-room below; and my mother, now composed, but yet flushed with expectation, was raised on many snow-white pillows, lovely in the fine gown, with one thin hand, wherein she held a red geranium, lying placid on the coverlet. "I am ready, David," she said to my father. There was the sound of footsteps in the hall below. It was Skipper Tommy, as I knew. "Is that he?" asked my mother. "Bring him up, David. I am quite ready." My father still stood silent and awkward by the door of the room. "David," said my poor mother, her voice breaking with sudden alarm, "have you been talking much with him? What has he told you, David? I'm not so very sick, am I?" "Well, lass," said my father, "'tis a great season for all sorts o' sickness--an' the doctor is sick abed hisself--an' he--couldn't--come." "Poor man!" sighed my mother. "But he'll come ashore on the south'ard trip." "No, lass--no; I fear he'll not." "Poor man!" My mother turned her face from us. She trembled, once, and sighed, and then lay very quiet. I knew in my childish way that her hope had fled with ours--that, now, remote from our love and comfort-alone--all alone--she had been brought face to face with the last dread prospect. There was the noise of rain on the panes and wind without, and the heavy tread of Skipper Tommy's feet, coming up the stair, but no other sound. But Skipper Tommy, entering now, moved a chair to my mother's bedside, and laid a hand on hers, his old face illumined by his unfailing faith in the glory and wisdom of his God. "Hush!" he said. "Don't you go gettin' scared lass. Don't you go gettin' scared at--the thing that's comin'--t' you. 'Tis nothin' t' fear," he went on, gloriously confident. "'Tis not hard, I'm sure--the Lard's too kind for that. He just lets us think it is, so He can give us a lovely surprise, when the time comes. Oh, no, 'tis not _hard_! 'Tis but like wakin' up from a troubled dream. 'Tis like wakin' t' the sunlight of a new, clear day. Ah, 'tis a pity us all can't wake with you t' the beauty o' the morning! But the dear Lard is kind. There comes an end t' all the dreamin'. He takes our hand. 'The day is broke,' says He. 'Dream no more, but rise, child o' Mine, an' come into the sunshine with Me.' 'Tis only that that's comin' t' you--only His gentle touch--an' the waking. Hush! Don't you go gettin' scared. 'Tis a lovely thing--that's comin' t' you!" "I'm not afraid," my mother whispered, turning. "I'm not afraid, Skipper Tommy. But I'm sad--oh I'm sad--to have to leave----" She looked tenderly upon me. VII The WOMAN from WOLF COVE My mother lay thus abandoned for seven days. It was very still and solemn in the room--and there was a hush in all the house; and there was a mystery, which even the break of day could not dissolve, and a shadow, which the streaming sunlight could not drive away. Beyond the broad window of her room, the hills of Skull Island and God's Warning stood yellow in the spring sunshine, rivulets dripping from the ragged patches of snow which yet lingered in the hollows; and the harbour water rippled under balmy, fragrant winds from the wilderness; and workaday voices, strangely unchanged by the solemn change upon our days, came drifting up the hill from my father's wharves; and, ay, indeed, all the world of sea and land was warm and wakeful and light of heart, just as it used to be. But within, where were the shadow and the mystery, we walked on tiptoe and spoke in whispers, lest we offend the spirit which had entered in. * * * * * By day my father was occupied with the men of the place, who were then anxiously fitting out for the fishing season, which had come of a sudden with the news of a fine sign at Battle Harbour. But my mother did not mind, but, rather, smiled, and was content to know that he was about his business--as men must be, whatever may come to pass in the house--and that he was useful to the folk of our harbour, whom she loved. And my dear sister--whose heart and hands God fashioned with kind purpose--gave full measure of tenderness for both; and my mother was grateful for that, as she ever was for my sister's loving kindness to her and to me and to us all. One night, being overwrought by sorrow, it may be, my father said that he would have the doctor-woman from Wolf Cove to help my mother. "For," said he, "I been thinkin' a deal about she, o' late, an' they's no tellin' that she wouldn't do you good." My mother raised her eyebrows. "The doctor-woman!" cried she. "Why, David!" "Ay," said my father, looking away, "I s'pose 'tis great folly in me t' think it. But they isn't no one else t' turn to." And that was unanswerable. "There seems to be no one else," my mother admitted. "But, David--the doctor-woman?" "They _does_ work cures," my father pursued. "I'm not knowin' _how_ they does; but they does, an' that's all I'm sayin'. Tim Budderly o' the Arm told me--an' 'twas but an hour ago--that she charmed un free o' fits." "I have heard," my mother mused, "that they work cures. And if----" "They's no knowin' what she can do," my father broke in, my mother now listening eagerly. "An' I just wish you'd leave me go fetch her. Won't you, lass? Come, now!" "'Tis no use, David," said my mother. "She couldn't do anything--for me." "Ay, but," my father persisted, "you're forgettin' that she've worked cures afore this. I'm fair believin'," he added with conviction, "that they's virtue in some o' they charms. Not in many, maybe, but in some. An' she might work a cure on you. I'm not sayin' she will. I'm only sayin' she might." My mother stared long at the white washed rafters overhead. "Oh," she sighed, plucking at the coverlet, "if only she could!" "She might," said my father. "They's no tellin' till you've tried." "'Tis true, David," my mother whispered, still fingering the coverlet. "God works in strange ways--and we've no one else in this land to help us--and, perhaps, He might----" My father was quick to press his advantage. "Ay," he cried, "'tis very _likely_ she'll cure you." "David," said my mother, tearing at the coverlet, "let us have her over to see me. She might do me good," she ran on, eagerly. "She might at least tell me what I'm ailing of. She might stop the pain. She might even----" "Hush!" my father interrupted, softly. "Don't build on it, dear," said he, who had himself, but a moment gone, been so eager and confident. "But we'll try what she can do." "Ay, dear," my mother whispered, in a voice grown very weak, "we'll try." * * * * * Skipper Tommy Lovejoy would have my father leave _him_ fetch the woman from Wolf Cove, nor, to my father's impatient surprise, would hear of any other; and he tipped me a happy wink--which had also a glint of mystery in it--when my father said that he might: whereby I knew that the old fellow was about the business of the book. And three days later, being on the lookout at the window of my mother's room, I beheld the punt come back by way of North Tickle, Skipper Tommy labouring heavily at the oars, and the woman, squatted in the stern, serenely managing the sail to make the best of a capful of wind. I marvelled that the punt should make headway so poor in the quiet water--and that she should be so much by the stern--and that Skipper Tommy should be bent near double--until, by and by, the doctor-woman came waddling up the path, the skipper at her heels: whereupon I marvelled no more, for the reason was quite plain. "Ecod! lad," the skipper whispered, taking me aside, the while wiping the sweat from his red face with his hand; "but she'll weigh five quintal if a pound! She's e-_nar_-mous! 'Twould break your heart t' pull _that_ cargo from Wolf Cove. But I managed it, lad," with a solemn wink, "for the good o' the cause. Hist! now; but I found out a wonderful lot--about cures!" Indeed, she was of a bulk most extraordinary; and she was rolling in fat, above and below, though it was springtime! 'Twas a wonder to me, with our folk not yet fattened by the more generous diet of the season, that she had managed to preserve her great double chin through the winter. It may be that this unfathomable circumstance first put me in awe of her; but I am inclined to think, after all, that it was her eyes, which were not like the eyes of our folk, but were brown--dog's eyes, we call them on our coast, for we are a blue-eyed race--and upon occasion flashed like lightning. So much weight did she carry forward, too, that I fancied (and still believe) she would have toppled over had she not long ago learned to outwit nature in the matter of maintaining a balance. And an odd figure she cut, as you may be sure! For she was dressed somewhat in the fashion of men, with a cloth cap, rusty pea-jacket and sea-boots (the last, for some mysterious reason, being slit up the sides, as a brief skirt disclosed); and her grizzled hair was cut short, in the manner of men, but yet with some of the coquetry of women. In truth, as we soon found it was her boast that she was the equal of men, her complaint that the foolish way of the world (which she said had gone all askew) would not let her skipper a schooner, which, as she maintained in a deep bass voice, she was more capable of doing than most men. "I make no doubt o' that, mum," said Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, to whom, in the kitchen, that night, she propounded her strange philosophy; "but you see, mum, '_tis_ the way o' the world, an' folks just _will_ stick t' their idees, an', mum," he went on, with a propitiating smile, "as you is only a woman, why----" "_Only_ a woman!" she roared, sitting up with a jerk. "Does you say----" "Why, ay, mum!" Skipper Tommy put in, mildly. "You _isn't_ a man, is you?" She sat dumb and transfixed. "Well, then," said Skipper Tommy, in a mildly argumentative way, "'tis as I says. You must do as the women does, an' not as a man might want to----" "Mm-a-an!" she mocked, in a way that withered the poor skipper. "No, I isn't a man! Was you hearin' me _say_ I was? Oh, you _wasn't_, wasn't you? An' is you thinkin' I'd _be_ a man an I could? What!" she roared. "You isn't _sure_ about that, isn't you? Oh, my! Isn't you! Well, well! He isn't _sure_," appealing to me, with a shaking under lip. "Oh, my! There's a man--_he's_ a man for you--there's a _man_--puttin' a poor woman t' scorn! Oh, my!" she wailed, bursting into tears, as all women will, when put to the need of it. "Oh, dear!" Skipper Tommy was vastly concerned for her. "My poor woman," he began, "don't you be cryin', now. Come, now----" "Oh, his _poor_ woman," she interrupted, bitingly. "_His_ poor woman! Oh, my! An' I s'pose you thinks 'tis the poor woman's place t' work in the splittin' stage an' not on the deck of a fore-an'-after. You does, does you? Ay, 'tis what I _s'posed_!" she said, with scorn. "An' if _you_ married _me_," she continued, transfixing the terrified skipper with a fat forefinger, "I s'pose you'd be wantin' me t' split the fish you cotched. Oh, you would, would you? Oh, my! But I'll have you t' know, Skipper Thomas Lovejoy," with a sudden and alarming change of voice, "that I've the makin's of a better ship's-master than _you_. An' by the Lord Harry! I'm a better _man_," saying which, she leaped from her chair with surprising agility, and began to roll up her sleeves, "an' I'll prove it on your wisage! Come on with you!" she cried, striking a belligerent attitude, her fists waving in a fashion most terrifying. "Come on an you dare!" Skipper Tommy dodged behind the table in great haste and horror. "Oh, dear!" cried she. "He won't! Oh, my! _There's_ a man for you. An' I'm but a woman, is I. His poor woman. Oh, _his_ woman! Look you here, Skipper Thomas Lovejoy, you been stickin' wonderful close alongside o' me since you come t' Wolf Cove, an' I'm not quite knowin' what tricks you've in mind. But I'm thinkin' you're like all the men, an' I'll have you t' know this, that if 'tis marriage with me you're thinkin' on----" But Skipper Tommy gasped and wildly fled. "Ha!" she snorted, triumphantly. "I was _thinkin_' I was a better man than he!" "'Tis a shame," said I, "t' scare un so!" Whereat, without uttering a sound, she laughed until the china clinked and rattled on the shelves, and I thought the pots and pans would come clattering from their places. And then she strutted the floor for all the world like a rooster once I saw in the South. VIII THE BLIND and The BLIND Ah, well! at once she set about the cure of my mother. And she went tripping about the house--and tripping she went, believe me, stout as she was, as lightsome as one of Skipper Tommy's fairies--with a manner so large and confident, a glance so compelling, that 'twas beyond us to doubt her power or slight her commands. First of all she told my mother, repeating it with patience and persuasive insistence, that she would be well in six days, and must believe the words true, else she would never be well, at all. And when my mother had brightened with this new hope, the woman, muttering words without meaning, hung a curious brown object about her neck, which she said had come from a holy place and possessed a strange and powerful virtue for healing. My mother fondled it, with glistening eyes and very tenderly, and, when the doctor-woman had gone out, whispered to me that it was a horse-chestnut, and put her in mind of the days when she dwelt in Boston, a little maid. "But 'tis not healin' you," I protested, touching a tear which had settled in the deep hollow of her cheek. "'Tis makin' you sad." "Oh, no!" said she. "'Tis making me very happy." "But you is cryin'," said I. "An' I'm thinkin' 'tis because you wisht you was in Boston." "No, no!" she cried, her lip trembling. "I'm not wishing that. I've _never_ wished _that_! I'm glad your father found me and took me where he wished. Oh, I'm glad of that--glad he found and loved me--glad I gave myself to his dear care! Why, were I in Boston, to-day, I would not have my dear, big David, your father, lad, and I would not have your sister, and I would not have----" "Me?" I put in, archly. "Ay," she said, with infinite tenderness, "_you,_ Davy, dear!" For many days, thereafter, the doctor-woman possessed our house, and I've no doubt she was happy in her new estate--at table, at any rate, for there she was garrulent and active, and astoundingly active, with less of garrulence, on feast days, when my father had pork provided. And she had a way with the maids in the kitchen that kept the young men from the door (which my sister never could manage); and I have since been led to think 'twas because she sought to work her will on Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, undisturbed by the clatter and quick eyes of young folk. For Skipper Tommy, to my increasing alarm and to the panic of the twins, who wished for no second mother, still frequented the kitchen, when the day's work was done, and was all the while in a mood so downcast, of a manner so furtive, that it made me sad to talk with him. But by day our kitchen was intolerable with smells--intolerable to him and to us all (save to my sister, who is, and ever has been, brave)--while the doctor-woman hung over the stove, working with things the sight of which my stomach would not brook, but which my mother took in ignorance, hoping they would cure her. God knows what medicines were mixed! I would not name the things I saw. And the doctor-woman would not even have us ask what use she made of them: nor have I since sought to know; 'tis best, I think, forgotten. But my mother got no better. "Skipper David," said the doctor-woman, at last, "I'm wantin' four lump-fish." "Four lump-fish!" my father wondered. "Is you?" "Oh, my!" she answered, tartly. "Is I? Yes, I is. An' I'll thank you t' get un an' ask no questions. For _I'm_ mindin' _my_ business, an' I'll thank _you_ t' mind _yours_. An' if _you_ thinks _you_ can do the doctorin'----" "I'm not seekin' t' hinder you," said my father, flushing. "You go on with your work. I'll pay; but----" "Oh, will you?" she cried, shrilly. "He'll pay, says he. Oh, my! He'll _pay_! Oh, dear!" "Come, now, woman!" said my father, indignantly. "I've had you come, an' I'll stand by what you does. I'll get the lump-fish; but 'tis the last cure you'll try. If it fails, back you go t' Wolf Cove." "Oh, my!" said she, taken aback. "Back I goes, does I! An' t' Wolf Cove? Oh, dear!" My father sent word to the masters of the cod-traps, which were then set off the heads, that such sculpin as got in the nets by chance must be saved for him. He was overwrought, as I have said, by sorrow, overcome, it may be, by the way this woman had. And soon he had for her four green, prickly-skinned, jelly-like, big-bellied lump-fish, which were not appetizing to look upon, though I've heard tell that starving folk, being driven to it, have eaten them. My sister would not be driven from the kitchen, though the woman was vehement in anger, but held to it that she must know the character of the dose my mother was to take. So they worked together--the doctor-woman scowling darkly--until the medicine was ready: which was in the late evening of that day. Then they went to my mother's room to administer the first of it. "'Tis a new medicine," my mother said, with a smile, when she held the glass in her hand. "Ay," crooned the doctor-woman, "drink it, now, my dear." My mother raised the glass to her lips. "And what is it?" she asked, withdrawing the glass with a shudder. "Tut, tut!" the doctor-woman exclaimed. "'Tis but a soup. 'Twill do you good." "I'm sure it will," my mother gently said. "But I wonder what it is." Again she raised the glass with a wry face. But my sister stayed her hand. "I'll not have you take it," said she, firmly, "without knowin' what it is." The doctor-woman struck her arm away. "Leave the woman drink it!" she screamed, now in a gust of passion. "What's--this you're--giving me?" my mother stammered, looking upon the glass in alarm and new disgust. "'Tis the eyes o' four lump-fish," said my sister. My mother dropped the glass, so that the contents were spilled over the coverlet, and fell back on the pillows, where she lay white and still. "Out with you!" said my sister to the doctor-woman. "I'll have no more o' your cures!" "Oh, my!" shrilled the woman, dropping into her most biting manner. "_She_ won't have no more o' my cures! Oh, dear, she----" "Out with you!" cried my sister, as she smartly clapped her hands under the woman's nose. "Out o' the house with you!" "Oh, 'tis _out_ with me, is it? Out o' the _house_ with me! Oh, dear! Out o' the house with _me_! I'll have you t' know----" My sister ignored the ponderous fist raised against her. She stamped her small foot, her eyes flashing, the blood flushing her cheeks and brow. "Out you go!" she cried. "_I'm_ not afeared o' you!" I stood aghast while the doctor-woman backed through the door. Never before had I known my gentle sister to flash and flush with angry passion. Nor have I since. * * * * * Next morning, my father paid the woman from Wolf Cove a barrel of flour, with which she was ill content, and traded her two barrels more for the horse-chestnut, which my mother wished to keep lying on her breast, because it comforted her. To Skipper Tommy Lovejoy fell the lot of taking the woman back in the punt; for, as my father said, 'twas he that brought her safely, and, surely, the one who could manage that could be trusted to get her back without accident. "An' 'tis parlous work, lad," said the skipper, with an anxious shrug, while we waited on the wharf for the woman to come. "I'm very much afeared. Ay," he added, frowning, "I is that!" "I'm not knowin' why," said I, "for the wind's blowin' fair from the sou'west, an' you'll have a fine time t' Wolf Cove." "'Tis not that," said he, quietly. "Hist!" jerking his head towards our house, where the woman yet was. "'Tis _she_!" "I'd not be afeared o' _she_," said I. "'Twas but last night," I added, proudly, "my sister gave her her tea in a mug." "Oh, ay," said he, "I heared tell o' that. But 'tis not t' the point. Davy, lad," in an undertone which betrayed great agitation, "she've her cap set for a man, an' she's desperate." "Ay?" said I. He bent close to my ear. "An' she've her eye on _me_!" he whispered. "Skipper Tommy," I earnestly pleaded, "don't you go an' do it." "Well, lad," he answered, pulling at his nose, "the good Lard made me what I is. I'm not complainin' o' the taste He showed. No, no! I would not think o' doin' that. But----" "He made you kind," I broke in, hotly, "an' such as good folk love." "I'm not knowin' much about that, Davy. The good Lard made me as He willed. But I'm an obligin' man. I've turned out, Davy, most wonderful obligin'. I'm always doin' what folks wants me to. Such men as me, lad," he went on, precisely indicating the weakness of his tender character, "is made that way. An' if she tells me she's a lone woman, and if she begins t' cry, what is I to do? An' if I has t' pass me word, Davy, t' stop her tears! Eh, lad? Will you tell me, David Roth, _what_ is I t' do?" "Turn the punt over," said I, quickly. "They's wind enough for that, man! An' 'tis your only chance, Skipper Tommy--'tis the only chance _you_ got--if she begins t' cry." He was dispirited. "I wisht," he said, sadly, "that the Lard hadn't made me _quite_ so obligin'!" "'Tis too bad!" "Ay," he sighed, "'tis too bad I can't trust meself in the company o' folk that's givin' t' weepin'." "I'll have the twins pray for you," I ventured. "Do!" he cried, brightening. "'Tis a grand thought! An' do you tell them two dear lads that I'll never give in--no, lad, their father'll never give in t' that woman--till he's just _got_ to." "But, Skipper Tommy," said I, now much alarmed, so hopeless was his tone, stout as his words were, "tell my father you're not wantin' t' go. Sure, he can send Elisha Turr in your stead." "Ay," said he, "but I _is_ wantin' t' go. That's it. I'm thinkin' all the time o' the book, lad. I'm wantin' t' make that book a good book. I'm wantin' t' learn more about cures." "I'm thinkin' _her_ cures isn't worth much," said I. He patted me on the head. "You is but a lad," said he, indulgent with my youth, "an' your judgment isn't well growed yet. Some o' they cures is bad, no doubt," he added, "an' some is good. I wants no bad cures in my book. I'll not _have_ them there. But does you think I can't _try_ un all on _meself_ afore I has un _put_ in the book?" * * * * * When the punt was well through North Tickle, on a free, freshening wind, I sped to the Rat Hole to apprise the twins of their father's unhappy situation, and to beg of them to be constant and importunate in prayer that he might be saved from the perils of that voyage. Then, still running as fast as my legs would go, I returned to our house, where, again, I found the shadow and the mystery, and the hush in all the rooms. "Davy!" "Ay, Bessie," I answered. "'Tis I." "Our mother's wantin' you, dear." I tiptoed up the stair, and to the bed where my mother lay, and, very softly, I laid my cheek against her lips. "My sister sent me, mum," I whispered. "Yes," she sighed. "I'm--just wanting you." Her arm, languid and light, stole round my waist. IX A WRECK on The THIRTY DEVILS Fog--thick, stifling, clammy! A vast bank of it lay stranded on the rocks of our coast: muffling voices, making men gasp. In a murky cloud it pressed against my mother's windows. Wharves, cottages, harbour water, great hills beyond--the whole world--had vanished. There was nothing left but a patch of smoking rock beneath. It had come--a grey cloud, drifting low and languidly--with a lazy draught of wind from the east, which had dragged it upon the coast, spread it broadcast and expired of the effort to carry it into the wilderness. "Wonderful thick, b'y!" was the salutation for the day. "'S mud," was the response. Down went the barometer--down, down, slowly, uncompromisingly down! 'Twas shocking to the nerves to consult it. "An' I'm tellin' you this, lads," said a man on my father's wharf, tugging uneasily at his sou'wester, "that afore midnight you'll be needin' t' glue your hair on!" This feeling of apprehension was everywhere--on the roads, in the stages, in the very air. No man of our harbour put to sea. With the big wind coming, 'twas no place for punt, schooner or steamer. The waters off shore were set with traps for the unwary and the unknowing--the bluffs veiled by mist, the drift ice hidden, the reefs covered up. In a gale of wind from the east there would be no escape. * * * * * Through the dragging day my mother had been restless and in pain. In the evening she turned to us. "I'm tired," she whispered. Tired? Oh, ay! She was tired--very, very tired! It was near time for her to rest. She was sadly needing that. "An' will you try t' sleep, now?" my sister asked. "Ay," she answered, wanly, "I'll sleep a bit, now, if I can. Where's Davy?" "Sure, mama," said I, in surprise, "I'm sittin' right by the bed!" "Ah, Davy!" she whispered, happily, stretching out a hand to touch me. "My little son!" "An' I been sittin' here all the time!" said I. "All the time?" she said. "But I've been so sick, dear, I haven't noticed much. And 'tis so dark." "No, mum; 'tis not so very. 'Tis thick, but 'tis not so very dark. 'Tis not lamp-lightin' time yet." "How strange!" she muttered. "It seems so very dark. Ah, well! Do you go out for a run in the air, dear, while your mother sleeps. I'm thinking I'll be better--when I've had a little sleep." My sister busied herself with the pillows and coverlet; and she made all soft and neat, that my mother might rest the better for it. "You're so tender with me, dear," said my mother "Every day I bless God for my dear daughter." My sister kissed my mother. "Hush!" she said. "Do you go t' sleep, now, little mother. Twill do you good." "Yes," my mother sighed, "for I'm--so very--tired." * * * * * When she had fallen asleep, I slung my lantern over my arm and scampered off to the Rat Hole to yarn with the twins, making what speed I could in the fog and untimely dusk, and happy, for the moment, to be free of the brooding shadow in our house. The day was not yet fled; but the light abroad--a sullen greyness, splashed with angry red in the west, where the mist was thinning--was fading fast and fearfully. And there was an ominous stirring of wind in the east: at intervals, storm puffs came swirling over the hills from the sea; and they ran off inland like mad, leaving the air of a sudden once more stagnant. Fresh and cool they were--grateful enough, indeed, blowing through the thick, dead dusk--but sure warning, too, of great gusts to come. We were to have weather--a gale from the northeast, by all the lore of the coast--and it would be a wild night, with the breakers of Raven Rock and the Thirty Black Devils leaping high and merrily in the morning. As I ran down the last hill, with an eye on the light glowing in the kitchen window of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy's cottage, I made shift to hope that the old man had made harbour from Wolf Cove, but thought it most unlikely. He had. "You got home, Skipper Tommy," I cried, shouldering the door shut against a gust of wind, "an' I'm glad o' that! 'Tis goin' t' blow most awful, I'm thinkin'." My welcome was of the gloomiest description. I observed that the twins, who lay feet to feet on the corner-seat, did not spring to meet me, but were cast down; and that Skipper Tommy, himself, sitting over the fire with a cup of tea on the table at his elbow, was glum as a deacon. "Oh," said he, looking up with the ghost of a laugh, "I got in. You wasn't frettin' about _me_, was you, Davy? Oh, don't you ever go frettin' about me, lad, when--ah, well!--when they's nothin' but fog t' fear. Sure, 'twasn't no trouble for _me_ t' find North Tickle in the fog. Ah, me! If 'twas only that! Sure, I bumped her nose agin the point o' God's Warning, an' rattled her bones a bit, but, lad, me an' the punt is used t' little things like that. Oh, ay," he repeated, dismally, "I got _in_." Evidently the worst had happened. "Did you?" said I, blankly. "An' was you--was you--_cotched_?" "Is you thinkin' o' _she_, Davy?" he answered. "Well," in a melancholy drawl, smoothing his stubble of grey beard, his forehead deeply furrowed, "I'm not admittin' I is. But, Davy," he added, "she cast a hook, an'--well, I--I nibbled. Yes, I did, lad! I went an' nibbled!" One of the twins started up in alarm. "Hark!" he whispered. We listened--but heard nothing. A gust of wind rattled the window, and, crying hoarsely, swept under the house. There was nothing more than that. "Hist!" said the twin. We heard only the ominous mutter and sigh of the gust departing. "Jacky," said the skipper, anxiously, "what was you thinkin' you heared, b'y?" Jacky fidgetted in his seat. "'Twas like the mail-boat's whistle, zur," he answered, "but 'twas sort o' hoarser." "Why, lad," said the skipper, "the mail-boat's not handy by two hundred miles! 'Twas but the wind." But he scratched his head in a puzzled way. "Ay, maybe, zur," Jacky replied, still alert for a sound from the sea, "but 'twas not _like_ the wind." Skipper Tommy held up his hand. "Ay," said he, when we had listened a long time, "'twas but the wind." "Ay," said we all, "'twas but the wind." "Ah, well, Davy," the skipper resumed, "she cast a hook, as I was sayin', an' I nibbled." The twins groaned in concert. "But the good Lard, Davy," the skipper went on, "had sent a switch o' wind from the sou'west. So they was a bit o' lop on the sea, an' 'twas t' that I turned, when the case got desperate. An' desperate it soon got, lad. Ah, indeed! 'long about Herring Head it got fair desperate. 'Skipper Thomas,' says she, 'we're gettin' old, you an' me,' says she. 'Sure, mum,' says I, 'not _you_, mum! I'll never give in t' that,' says I." Our faces fell. "'Twas what I done," the skipper persisted, with an air of guilt and remorse. "I just, felt like doin' it, an' so I done it. 'I'll never give in to it, mum,' says I, 'that _you're_ gettin' old.'" I groaned with the twins--and Skipper Tommy made a dismal quartette of it--and the wind, rising sharply at that moment, contributed a chorus of heartrending noises. "Ay," the skipper continued, "'twas a sad mistake. 'Twas floutin' Providence t' say a word like that to a woman like she. But I just felt like it. Then, 'Oh, dear,' says she, ''tis barb'rous lonely t' Wolf Cove,' says she. ''Tis too bad, mum,' says I. An' I throwed the bow o' the punt plump into a wave, Davy, lad, an' shipped a bucket o' water. 'An',' says she, 'it must be lonely for you, Skipper Thomas,' says she, 'livin' there at the Rat Hole.'" Skipper Tommy paused to sigh and tweak his nose; and he tweaked so often and sighed so long that I lost patience. "An' what did you do then?" I demanded. "Took in more water, Davy," he groaned, "for they wasn't nothin' else I could think of. 'An',' says she, 'is it not lonely, Skipper Thomas,' says she, 'at the Rat Hole?' 'No, mum,' says I, takin' aboard another bucket or two, 'for I've the twins,' says I. With that she put her kerchief to her eyes, Davy, an' begun t' sniffle. An' t' relieve me feelin's, lad, for I was drove desperate, I just _had_ t' let the top of a wave fall over the bow: which I done, Davy, an' may the Lard forgive me! An' I'm not denyin' that 'twas a sizable wave she took." He stared despondently at the floor. "She gathered up her skirts," he went on. "An', 'Ah, Skipper Thomas,' says she, 'twins,' says she, 'is nothin'. 'Sure,' says she, 'twins is no good on a cold winter's night.' I'm not denyin', Davy," said the skipper, solemnly, looking me straight in the eye, "that she scared me with that. I'm not denyin' that me hand slipped. I'm not denyin' that I put the tiller over a _wee bit_ too far--maybe a foot--maybe a foot an' a half, in the excitement o' the moment--I isn't quite sure. No, no! I'm far, lad, from denyin' that I near swamped the boat. ''Tis gettin' rough,' says she. 'Ay,' says I, 'an' we'll be gettin' along a deal better, mum,' says I, 'if you bail.' So I kep' her bailin', Davy," the skipper concluded, with a long sigh and a sad wag of the head, "from Herring Head t' Wolf Cove. An', well, lad, she didn't quite cotch me, for she hadn't no time t' waste, but, as I was sayin', she cast a hook." "You're well rid o' she," said I. Timmie rose to look out of the window. "Hear the wind!" said he, turning in awe, while the cottage trembled under the rush of a gust. "My! but 'twill blow, the night!" "Ah, Timmie," sighed the skipper, "what's a gale o' wind t' the snares o' women!" "Women!" cried I. "Sure, she'll trouble you no more. You're well rid o' she." "But I _isn't_ rid o' she, Davy," he groaned, "an' that's what's troublin' the twins an' me. I isn't rid o' she, for I've heared tell she've some l'arnin' an' can write a letter." "Write!" cried I. "She won't write." "Ah, Davy," sighed the skipper, his head falling over his breast, "you've no knowledge o' women. They never gives in, lad, that they're beat. They never _knows_ they're beat. An' that one, lad, wouldn't know it if she was told!" "Leave her write so much as she wants," said I. "'Twill do you no harm." "No harm?" said he, looking up. "No harm in writin'?" "No," said I. "Sure, you can't read!" The twins leaped from the corner-seat and emitted a shrill and joyful whoop. Skipper Tommy threw back his head, opened his great mouth in silent laughter, and slapped his thigh with such violence that the noise was like a pistol shot. "No more I can," he roared, "an' I'm too old t' l'arn!" Laughter--a fit of it--seized him. It exploded like a thunder-clap, and continued, uproariously, interrupted by gasps, when he lost his breath, and by groans, when a stitch made him wince. There was no resisting it. The twins doubled up in the corner-seat, miserably screaming, their heels waving in the air; and Davy Roth collapsed on the floor, gripping his sides, his eyes staring, his mouth wide open, venting his mirth, the while, in painful shrieks. Skipper Tommy was himself again--freed o' the nets o' women--restored to us and to his own good humour--once again boon comrade of the twins and me! He jumped from his chair; and with a "Tra-la-la!" and a merry "Hi-tum-ti-iddle-dee-um!" he fell into a fantastic dance, thumping the boards with his stockinged feet, advancing and retreating with a flourish, bowing and balancing to an imaginary partner, all in a fashion so excruciatingly exaggerated that the twins screamed, "Don't, father!" and Davy Roth moaned, "Oh, stop, zur, please, zur!" while the crimson, perspiring, light-footed, ridiculously bow-legged old fellow still went cavorting over the kitchen floor. * * * * * But I was a child--only a child--living in the shadow of some great sorrow, which, though I did not know it, had pressed close upon us. There flashed before me a vision of my mother lying wan and white on the pillows. And I turned on my face and began to cry. "Davy, lad!" said the skipper, tenderly, seeking to lift my head. "Hush, lad! Don't cry!" But I sobbed the harder. "Ah, Davy," the twins pleaded, "stop cryin'! Do, now!" Skipper Tommy took me on his knee; and I hid my face on his breast, and lay sobbing hopelessly, while he sought to sooth me with many a pat and "Hush!" and "Never mind!" "I'm wantin' t' go home," I moaned. He gathered me closer in his arms. "Do you stay your grief, Davy," he whispered, "afore you goes." "I'm wantin' t' go home," I sobbed, "t' my mother!" Timmie and Jacky came near, and the one patted my hand, and the other put an arm around me. "Sure, the twins 'll take you home, Davy," said the skipper, softly, "when you stops cryin'. Hush, lad! Hush, now!" They were tender with me, and I was comforted; my sobs soon ceased, but still I kept my head against the skipper's breast. And while there I lay, there came from the sea--from the southwest in a lull of the wind--breaking into the tender silence--the blast of a steam whistle, deep, full-throated, prolonged. "Hist!" whispered Jacky. "Does you not hear?" Skipper Tommy stood me on my feet, and himself slowly rose, listening intently. "Lads," he asked, his voice shaking, "was it the mail-boat?" "No, zur!" the twins gasped. "Is you sure?" "'Tis not the way she blows, zur!" "'Tis surely not she," the skipper mused. "In the sou'west she'd be out of her course. Hark!" Once more the long, hoarse roar broke the silence, but now rising again and again, agonized, like a cry for help. "Dear Lard!" skipper Tommy cried, putting his hands to his face. "'Tis a big steamer on the Thirty Black Devils!" "A wreck!" shouted Jacky, leaping for his jacket. "A wreck! A wreck!" Distraction seized the skipper. "'Tis a wreck!" he roared. "My boots, lads! Wreck! Wreck!" We lads went mad. No steamer had been wrecked on the coast in our time. There were deeds to do! There was salvage to win! "Wreck!" we screamed. "Wreck! Wreck! Wreck!" Then out we four ran. It was after dark. The vault was black. But the wind had turned the fog to thin mist. The surrounding hills stood disclosed--solid shadows in the night. Half a gale was blowing from the sea: it broke over the hills; it swooped from the inky sky; it swept past in long, clinging gusts. We breasted it heads down. The twins raised the alarm. Wreck! Wreck! Folk joined us as we ran. They were in anxious haste to save life. They were gleeful with the hope of salvage. What the sea casts up the Lord provides! Wreck! Wreck! Far-off cries answered us. The cottage windows were aglow. Lanterns danced over the flakes. Lights moved over the harbour water. Wreck! Wreck! On we stumbled. Our feet struck the road with thud and scrape. Our lanterns clattered and buzzed and fluttered. Wreck! Wreck! We plunged down the last hill and came gasping to my father's wharf. Most of our folk were already vigorously underway towards South Tickle. "Lives afore salvage, lads!" my father shouted from his punt. My sister caught my arm. "'Tis a big steamer, Bessie!" I cried, turning. "Ay," she said, hurriedly. "But do you go stay with mother, Davy. She've sent me t' Tom Turr's by the path. They're t' fetch the wrecked folk there. Make haste, lad! She've been left alone." I ran up the path to our house. X THE FLIGHT It was late in the night. My mother and I sat alone in her dim-lit room. We were waiting--both waiting. And I was waiting for the lights of the returning punts. "Davy!" my mother called. "You are still there?" "Ay, mother," I answered. "I'm still sittin' by the window, lookin' out." "I am glad, dear," she sighed, "that you are here--with me--to-night." She craved love, my love; and my heart responded, as the knowing hearts of children will. "Ah, mother," I said, "'tis lovely t' be sittin' here--all alone with you!" "Don't, Davy!" she cried, catching her breath. "I'm not able to bear the joy of it. My heart----" "'Tis so," I persisted, "'cause I loves you so!" "But, oh, I'm glad, Davy!" she whispered. "I'm glad you love your mother. And I'm glad," she added, softly, "that you've told me so--to-night." By and by I grew drowsy. My eyes would not stay open. And I fell asleep with my head on the window-sill. I do not know how long I slept. "Davy!" my mother called. "Ay?" I answered, waking. "Sure, I been asleep!" "But you're not wanting to go to bed?" she asked, anxiously. "You'll not leave your mother all alone, will you?" "No, no, mama!" "No," she said. "Do not leave your mother, now." Again I fell asleep. It may be that I wasted a long, long time in sleep. "Davy!" she called. I answered. And, "I cannot stay awake," I said. "Sure, 'tis quite past me t' do it, for I'm so wonderful sleepy." "Come closer," she said. "Tired lad!" she went on, when she had my hand in hers. "Sleepy head! Lie down beside me, dear, and go to sleep. I'm not afraid--not afraid, at all--to be left alone. Oh, you're so tired, little lad! Lie down and sleep. For your mother is very brave--to-night. And tell your father, Davy--when he comes and wakes you--and tell your sister, too--that your mother was happy, oh, very happy and brave, when...." "When you fell asleep?" I asked. "Yes," she answered, in a voice so low I could but hear it. "That I was happy when--I fell asleep." I pulled off my jacket. "I'm wanting to hear you say your prayers, Davy," she said, "before you go to sleep. I'm wanting once again--just once again--to hear you say your prayers." I knelt beside the bed. "My little son!" my mother said. "My--little--son!" "My mother!" I responded, looking up. She lifted my right hand. "Dear Jesus, lover of children," she prayed, "take, oh, take this little hand!" And I began to say my prayers, while my mother's fingers wandered tenderly through my curls, but I was a tired child, and fell asleep as I prayed. And when I awoke, my mother's hand lay still and strangely heavy on my head. * * * * * Then the child that was I knew that his mother was dead. He leaped from his knees with a broken cry, and stood expectant, but yet in awe, searching the dim, breathless room for a beatified figure, white-robed, winged, radiant, like the angel of the picture by his bed, for he believed that souls thus took their flight; but he saw only shadows. "Mama," he whispered, "where is you?" There was no answer to the child's question. The risen wind blew wildly in the black night without. But it was still dim and breathless in the room. "Mama," said the child, "is your soul hidin' from me?" Still the child was left unanswered. He waited, listening--but was not answered. "Don't hide," he pleaded. "Oh, don't hide, for I'm not wantin' to play! Oh, mother, I'm wantin' you sore!" And, now, he knew that she would come, for, "I'm wantin' you, mother!" he had been used to crying in the night, and she had never failed to answer, but had come swiftly and with comfort. He waited for a voice and for a vision, surely expecting them in answer to his cry; but he saw only shadows, heard only the scream of the wind, and a sudden, angry patter of rain on the roof. Then the child that was I fancied that his mother's soul had fled while yet he slept, and, being persuaded that its course was heavenward, ran out, seeking it. And he forgets what then he did, save that he climbed the broken cliff behind the house, crying, "Wait, oh, wait!" and that he came, at last, to the summit of the Watchman, where there was a tumult of wind and rain. "Mama!" he screamed, lifting his hands in appeal to the wide, black sky. "You forgot t' kiss me good-bye! Oh, come back!" He flung himself prone on the naked rock, for the soul of his mother did not come, though patiently he had watched for the glory of its returning flight. "She've forgot me!" he moaned. "Oh, she've forgot me!" * * * * * When, trembling and bedraggled, I came again to the room where my mother's body lay, my sister was kneeling by the bed, and my father was in converse with a stranger, who was not like the men of our coast. "Not necessarily mortal," this man was saying. "An operation--just a simple operation--easily performed with what you have at hand--would have saved the woman." "Saved her, Doctor?" said my father passionately. "Is you sayin' _that_?" "I have said so. It would have saved her. Had we been wrecked five days ago she would have been alive." A torrent of rain beat on the house. "Alive?" my father muttered, staring at the floor. "She would have been alive!" The stranger looked upon my father in pity. "I'm sorry for you, my man," he said. "'Tis strange," my father muttered, still staring at the floor. "'Tis strange--how things--comes about. Five days--just five...." He muttered on. "Yes," the stranger broke in, stirring nervously. "Had I come but five days ago." A sudden rising of the gale--the breaking of its fury--filled the room with a dreadful confusion. "Indeed--I'm--sorry--very sorry," the stranger stammered; his lips were drawn; in his eyes was the flare of some tragedy of feeling. My father did not move--but continued vacantly to stare at the floor. "Really--you know--I am!" "Is you?" then my father asked, looking up. "Is you sorry for me an' Davy an' the lass?" The stranger dared not meet my father's eyes. "An' you could have saved her," my father went on. "_You_ could have saved her! She didn't have t' go. She died--for want o' you! God Almighty," he cried, raising his clenched hand, "this man come too late God Almighty--does you hear me, God Almighty?--the man you sent come too late! An' you," he flashed, turning on the stranger, "could have saved her? Oh, my dear lass! An' she would have been here the night? Here like she used t' be? Here in her dear body? Here?" he cried, striking his breast. "She would have lain here the night had you come afore? Oh, why didn't you come?" he moaned. "You hold life an' death in your hands, zur, t' give or withhold. Why didn't you come--t' give the gift o' life t' she?" The stranger shrank away. "Stop!" he cried, in agony. "How was I to know?" "Hush, father!" my sister pleaded. In a flash of passion my father advanced upon the man. "How was you t' know?" he burst out. "Where you been? What you been doin'? Does you hear me?" he demanded, his voice rising with the noise of wind and rain. "What you been doin'?" "Stop it, man! You touch me to the quick! You don't know--you don't know--" "What you been doin'? We're dyin' here for want o' such as you. What you been doin'?" There was no answer. The stranger had covered his face with his hands. "O God," my father cried, again appealing to Heaven, "judge this man!" "Stop!" It was a bitter cry--the agony sounding clear and poignant above the manifold voices of the storm--but it won no heed. "O God, judge this man!" "Will no one stop him?" the stranger moaned. "For God's sake--stop him--some one!" "O God, judge this man!" The stranger fled.... * * * * * "Oh, my dear wife!" my father sobbed, at last, sinking into the great armchair, wherein the mail-boat doctor had not sat. "Oh, my dear wife!" "Father!" my dear sister whispered, flinging her soft arms about his neck and pressing her cheek against his brow. "Dear father!" And while the great gale raged, she sought to comfort my father and me, but could not. XI The WOMEN at The GATE By and by my sister put me in dry clothes, and bidding me be a good lad, sat me in the best room below, where the maids had laid a fire. And Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, finding me there disconsolate, took me to the seaward hills to watch the break of day: for the rain had ceased, the wind fallen away; and the gray light of dawn was in the eastern sky. "I'm wantin' t' tell you, Davy," he said, in a confidential way, as we trudged along, "about the gate o' heaven." I took his hand. "An' I _been_ wantin' t' tell you," he added, giving his nose a little tweak, "for a long, long time." "Is you?" "Ay, lad; an' about the women at the gate." "Women, Skipper Tommy?" said I, puzzled. "An', pray, who is they?" "Mothers," he answered. "Just mothers." "What they doin' at the gate? No, no! They're not _there_. Sure, they're playin' harps at the foot o' the throne." "No," said he, positively; "they're at the gate." "What they doin' there?" "Waitin'." We were now come to the crest of a hill; and the sea was spread before us--breaking angrily under the low, black sky. "What's they waitin' for?" I asked. "Davy, lad," he answered, impressively, "they're waitin' for them they bore. _That's_ what they're waitin' for." "For their sons?" "Ay; an' for their daughters, too." While I watched the big seas break on the rocks below--and the clouds drift up from the edge of the world--I pondered upon this strange teaching. My mother had never told me of the women waiting at the gate. "Ah, but," I said, at last, "I'm thinkin' God would never allow it t' go on. He'd want un all t' sing His praises. Sure, they'd just be wastin' His time--waitin' there at the gate." Skipper Tommy shook his head--and smiled, and softly patted my shoulder. "An' He'd gather un there, at the foot o' the throne," I went on, "an' tell un t' waste no more, but strike up their golden harps." "No, no!" "Why not?" "They wouldn't go." "But He'd _make_ un go." "He couldn't." "Not _make_ un!" I cried, amazed. "Look you, lad," he explained, in a sage whisper, "they're all mothers, an' they'd be _wantin_' t' stay where they was, an', ecod! they'd find a way." "Ah, well," I sighed, "'tis wearisome work--this waitin'." "I'm thinkin' not," he answered, soberly, speaking rather to himself than to me. "'Tis not wearisome for such as know the good Lard's plan." "'Tis wonderful hard," said I, "on the mothers o' wicked sons." The old man smiled. "Who knows," he asked, "that 'tis wonderful hard on they?" "But then," I mused, "the Lord would find a way t' comfort the mother o' such." "Oh, ay!" "I'm thinkin', maybe," I went on, "that He'd send an angel t' tell her they wasn't worth the waitin' for. 'Mind un not,' He'd say. 'They're nothin' but bad, wicked boys. Leave un go t' hell an' burn.'" "An', now, what, lad," he inquired with deep interest, "is you thinkin' the mother would do?" "She'd take the angel's hand," I sighed. "Ay?" "An' go up t' the throne--forgettin' them she'd left." "An' then?" "She'd praise the Lard," I sobbed. "Never!" the skipper cried. I looked hopefully in his face. "Never!" he repeated. "'Lard,' she'd say, 'I loves un all the more for their sins. Leave me wait--oh, leave me wait--here at the gate. Maybe--sometime--they'll come!'" "But some," said I, in awe, "would wait forever--an' ever--an' ever----" "Not one!" "Not one?" "Not one! 'Twould break the dear Lard's heart t' see un waitin' there." I looked away to the furthest clouds, fast changing, now, from gray to silver; and for a long time I watched them thin and brighten. "Skipper Tommy," I asked, at last, "is _my_ mother at the gate?" "Ay," said he confidently. "Waitin'?" "Ay." "An' for me?" He gave me an odd look--searching my very soul with his mild old eyes. "Doesn't you think she is?" he asked. "I knows it!" I cried. * * * * * Far off, at the horizon, the sky broke--and the rift broadened--and the clouds lifted--and the east flamed with colour--and all at once the rosy, hopeful light of dawn flushed the frowning sea. "Look!" the skipper whispered. "Ay," said I, "the day is broke." "A new day!" said he. XII DOCTOR AND I How the _St. Lawrence_ came to stray from her course down the Strait I do not remember. As concerns such trivial things, the days that followed my mother's death are all misty in my mind; but I do recall (for when Skipper Tommy had made my mother's coffin he took me to the heads of Good Promise to see the sight) that the big seas of that day pounded the vessel to a shapeless wreck on the jagged rocks of the Reef of the Thirty Black Devils: where she lay desolate for many a day thereafter. But the sea was not quick enough to balk our folk of their salvage: all day long--even while the ship was going to pieces--they swarmed upon her; and they loaded their punts again and again, fearlessly boarding, and with infinite patience and courage managed to get their heavensent plunder ashore. 'Twas diverting to watch them; and when the twins, who had been among the most active at the wreck, came at last to their father, I laughed to know that, as Timmie said, they had food enough ashore to keep the wrinkles out of their stomachs all winter. * * * * * Our harbour was for many days crowded with wrecked folk--strange of speech, of dress, of manners--who went about in flocks, prying into our innermost concerns, so that we were soon wearied of their perverse and insatiable curiosity, though we did not let them know it. They were sorry for my father and sister and me, I know, for, one and all, when they came to see my mother lying dead, they _said_ they were. And they stood soberly by her shallow grave, when we laid her dear body away, and they wept when old Tom Tot spoke of the dust and ashes, which we are, and the stony earth rattled hopelessly on the coffin. Doubtless they were well-intentioned towards us all, and towards me, a motherless lad, more than any other, and doubtless they should be forgiven much, for they were but ignorant folk, from strange parts of the world; but I took it hard that they should laugh on the roads, as though no great thing had happened, and when, at last, the women folk took to praising my hair and eyes, as my mother used to do, and, moreover, to kissing me in public places, which had been my mother's privilege, I was speedily scandalized and fled their proximity with great cunning and agility. My father, however, sought them out, at all times and places, that he might tell them the tragic circumstances of my mother's death, and seemed not to remember that he had told them all before. "But five days!" he would whisper, excitedly, when he had buttonholed a stranger in the shop. "Eh, man? Have you heared tell o' my poor wife?" "Five days?" "Ay; had you folk been wrecked five days afore--just five, mark you--she would have been alive, the day." "How sad!" "Five days!" my father would suddenly cry, wringing his hands. "My God! _Only five days_!" A new expression of sympathy--and a glance of the sharpest suspicion--would escape the stranger. "Five days!" my father would repeat, as though communicating some fact which made him peculiarly important to all the world. "That, now," with a knowing glance, "is what I calls wonderful queer." My father was not the same as he had been. He was like a man become a child again--interested in little things, dreaming much, wondering more: conceiving himself, like a child, an object of deepest interest to us all. No longer, now, did he command us, but, rather, sought to know from my sister (to whom he constantly turned) what he should do from hour to hour; and I thought it strange that he should do our bidding as though he had never been used to bidding us. But so it was; and, moreover (which I thought a great pity), he forgot that he was to kill the mail-boat doctor when the steamer put into our harbour on the southward trip--a purpose from which, a week before, Skipper Tommy Lovejoy could not dissuade him, though he tried for hours together. Ay, with his bare hands, my father was to have killed that man--to have wrung his neck and flung him overboard--but now there was no word of the deed: my father but puttered about, mildly muttering that the great ship had been wrecked five days too late. I have said that my father loved my mother; it may be that he loved her overmuch--and, perhaps, that accounts for what came upon him when he lost her. I have since thought it sad that our hearts may contain a love so great that all the world seems empty when chance plucks it out; but the thought, no doubt, is not a wise one. * * * * * The doctor whom I had found with my father in my mother's room was not among the folk who babbled on the roads and came prying into the stages with tiresome exclamations of "Really!" and "How in-tres-ting!" He kept aloof from them and from us all. All day long he wandered on the heads and hills of our harbour--a melancholy figure, conspicuous against the blue sky of those days: far off, solitary, bowed. Sometimes he sat for hours on the Watchman, staring out to sea, so still that it would have been small blame to the gulls had they mistaken him for a new boulder, mysteriously come to the hill; sometimes he lay sprawling on the high point of Skull Island, staring at the sky, lost to knowledge of the world around; sometimes he clambered down the cliffs of Good Promise to the water's edge, and stood staring, forever staring, at the breakers (which no man should do). Often I was not content with watching him from afar, but softly followed close, and peered at him from the shelter of a boulder or peeped over the shoulder of a hill; and so sad did he seem--so full of sighs and melancholy attitudes--that invariably I went home pitying: for at that time my heart was tender, and the sight of sorrow hurt it. Once I crept closer and closer, and, at last, taking courage (though his clean-shaven face and soft gray hat abashed me), ran to him and slipped my hand in his. He started; then, perceiving who it was, he withdrew his hand with a wrench, and turned away: which hurt me. "You are the son," said he, "of the woman who died, are you not?" I was more abashed than ever--and wished I had not been so bold. "I'm Davy Roth, zur," I whispered, for I was much afraid. "My mother's dead an' buried, zur." "I saw you," said he, "in the room--that night." There was a long pause. Then, "What's _your_ name, zur?" I asked him. "Mine?" "Ay." "Mine," said he, "is Luke--" He stopped--and thoughtfully frowned. I waited; but he said no more. "Doctor Luke?" I ventured. "Well," he drawled, "that will serve." Then I thought I must tell him what was in my heart to say. Why not? The wish was good, and his soft, melancholy voice irresistibly appealed to my raw and childish sympathies. "I wisht, zur," I whispered, looking down at my boots, through sheer embarrassment, "that you----" My tongue failed me. I was left in a sad lurch. He was not like our folk--not like our folk, at all--and I could not freely speak my mind. "Yes?" he said, to encourage me. "That you wasn't so sad," I blurted, with a rush, looking swift and deep into his gray eyes. "Why not?" said he, taking my hand. "I'm not wantin' you t' be." He put his arm over my shoulder. "Why not?" he asked. "Tell me why not, won't you?" The corners of my mouth fell. It may have been in sympathetic response to the tremolo of feeling in his voice. I was in peril of unmanly tears (as often chanced in those days)--and only women, as I knew, should see lads weep. I hid my face against him. "Because, zur," I said, "it makes me sad, too!" He sat down and drew me to his knee. "This is very strange," he said, "and very kind. You would not have me sad?" I shook my head. "I do not understand," he muttered. "It is very strange." (But it was not strange on our coast, where all men are neighbours, and each may without shame or offense seek to comfort the other.) Then he had me tell him tales of our folk, to which he listened with interest so eager that I quickly warmed to the diversion and chattered as fast as my tongue would wag. He laughed at me for saying "nar" for not (and the like) and I at him for saying "cawm" for calm; and soon we were very merry, and not only merry, but as intimate as friends of a lifetime. By and by I took him to see the Soldier's Ear, which is an odd rock near the Rat Hole, and, after that, to listen to the sea coughing and gurgling at the bottom of Satan's Well. And in all this he forgot that he was sad--and I that my mother was dead. "Will you walk with me to-morrow, Davy?" he asked, when I said that I must be off home. "That I will, zur," said I. "After breakfast." "Ay, zur; a quarter of five." "Well, no," he drawled. "Half after nine." "'Tis a sheer waste o' time," I protested. "But 'twill suit me, zur, an it pleases you. My sister will tell _me_ the hour." "Your sister?" he asked, quickly. "Bessie," said I. "Ah," he exclaimed, "she was your sister. I saw her there--that night. And she is your sister?" "You got it right," cried I, proudly. "_That's_ my sister!" He slapped me on the back (which shocked me, for our folk are not that playful); and, laughing heartily as he went, he took the road to Tom Tot's, where he had found food and housing for a time. I watched him from the turn in the road, as he went lightly down the slope towards South Tickle--his trim-clad, straight, graceful figure, broad-shouldered, clean-cut, lithe in action, as compared with our lumbering gait; inefficient, 'tis true, but potentially strong. As I walked home, I straightened my own shoulders, held my head high, lifted my feet from the ground, flung bold glances to right and left, as I had seen him do: for, even then, I loved him very much. All the while I was exultantly conscious that a new duty and a new delight had come to me: some great thing, given of God--a work to do, a happiness to cherish. And that night he came and went in my dreams--but glorified: his smile not mirthless, his grave, gray eyes not overcast, his face not flabby and flushed, his voice not slow and sad, but vibrant with fine, live purpose. My waking thought was the wish that the man of the hills might be the man of my vision; and in my simple morning petition it became a prayer. "Dear mama," I prayed, "there's something wrong along o' the man who come the night you died. He've managed somehow t' get wonderful sick. I'm not knowin' what ails un, or where he cotched it; but I sees it plain in his face: an' 'tis a woeful sickness. Do you make haste t' the throne o' God, please, mum, an' tell Un I been askin' you t' have un cured. You'd want un well, too, an you was here; an' the Lard 'll surely listen t' you, an' take your word for 't. Oh, do you pray the Lard, with all your might an' main, dear mama, t' heal that man!" * * * * * In our land the works of the Lord are not obscured by what the hands of men have made. The twofold vision ranges free and far. Here are no brick walls, no unnatural need or circumstance, no confusing inventions, no gasping haste, no specious distractions, no clamour of wheel and heartless voices, to blind the soul, to pervert its pure desires, to deaden its fears, to deafen its ears to the sweeter calls--to shut it in, to shrivel it: to sicken it in every part. Rock and waste of sea and the high sweep of the sky--winds and rain and sunlight and flying clouds--great hills, mysterious distances, flaming sunsets, the still, vast darkness of night! These are the mighty works of the Lord, and of none other--unspoiled and unobscured. In them He proclaims Himself. They who have not known before that the heavens and the earth are the handiwork of God, here discover it: and perceive the Presence and the Power, and are ashamed and overawed. Thus our land works its marvel in the sensitive soul. I have sometimes thought that in the waste is sounded the great keynote of life--with which true hearts ever seek to vibrate in tune. XIII A SMILING FACE "Doctor Luke, zur," I said, as we walked that day, "I dreamed o' you, last night." "Pleasantly, I hope?" I sighed. "What," said he, gravely, "did you dream of me?" 'Twas hard to frame a reply. "I been thinkin', since," I faltered, floundering in search of a simile, "that you're like a--like a----" "Like what?" he demanded. I did not know. My eye sought everywhere, but found no happy suggestion. Then, through an opening in the hills, I caught sight of the melancholy wreck on the Reef of the Thirty Black Devils. "I fear t' tell," said I. He stopped. "But I wish to know," he persisted. "You'll tell me, Davy, will you not? It means so much." "Like a wrecked ship," said I. "Good God!" he exclaimed, starting from me. At once he sent me home; nor would he have me walk with him that afternoon, because, as he said, my sister would not allow me to bear him company, did she know as much as I had in some strange way divined. * * * * * Next day, armed with my sister's express permission, I overcame his scruples; and off we went to Red Indian Cave. Everywhere, indeed, we went together, while the wrecked folk waited the mail-boat to come--Doctor Luke and I--hand in hand--happy (for the agony of my loss came most in the night, when I lay wakeful and alone in my little bed) as the long, blue days. We roamed the hills, climbed the cliffs, clambered along shore; and once, to my unbounded astonishment and alarm, he stripped to the skin and went head first into the sea from the base of the Good Promise cliffs. Then nothing would content him but that I, too, should strip and plunge in: which I did (though you may think it extraordinary), lest he think me afraid to trust his power to save me. Thus the invigourating air, the yellow sunlight, the smiling sea beyond the rocks, the blue sky overhead, were separate delights in which our friendship ripened: so that at times I wondered what loneliness would overtake me when he had gone. I told him I wished he would not go away on the mail-boat, but would stay and live with us, that, being a doctor, as he had said, he might heal our folk when they fell sick, and no one would die, any more. He laughed at that--but not because of merriment--and gripped my hand tighter, and I began to hope that, perhaps, he would not go away; but he did not tell me whether he would or not. * * * * * When the mail-boat was near due, my sister said that I must have the doctor to tea; for it would never do, said she, to accept his kindnesses and show no hospitality in return. In reply to this Doctor Luke said that I must present his compliments to my sister (which I thought a curious way of putting it), and say that he accepted the invitation with great pleasure; and, as though it were a matter of grave moment, he had me repeat the form until I knew it perfectly. That evening my sister wore a long skirt, fashioned in haste from one of my mother's gowns, and this, with my mother's keys, which she kept hanging from her girdle, as my mother used to do, made her very sweetly staid. The doctor came speckless, wearing his only shirt, which (as Tom Tot's wife made known to all the harbour) he had paid one dollar to have washed and ironed in three hours for the occasion, spending the interval (it was averred) in his room. While we waited for the maids to lay the table, my sister moved in and out, directing them; and the doctor gazed at her in a way so marked that I made sure she had forgotten a hook or a button, and followed her to the kitchen to discover the omission. "Sure, Bessie, dear," I began, very gingerly, "I'm fair dreadin' that you're--you're----" She was humming, in happy unconsciousness of her state; and I was chagrined by the necessity of disclosing it: but resolutely continued, for it must be done. "Loose," I concluded. She gave a little jump--a full inch, it may be--from the floor. "Davy!" she cried, in mixed horror and distress. "Oh, dear! Whereabouts?" "Do you turn around," said I, "an' I'll soon find out." She whirled like a top. But I could find nothing awry. She was shipshape from head to toe. "'Tis very queer," said I. "Sure, I thought you'd missed a button, for the doctor is lookin' at you all the time." "At _me_!" she cried. "Ay, at you." She was then convinced with me that there was something amiss, and called the maids to our help, for, as she said, I was only a boy (though a dear one), and ill schooled in such matters. But it turned out that their eyes were no sharper than mine. They pronounced her hooked and buttoned and pinned to the Queen's taste. "'Tis queer, then," I persisted, when the maids had gone, "that he looks at you so hard." "Is you sure he does?" she asked, much puzzled, "for," she added, with a little frown, "I'm not knowin' why he should." "Nor I," said I. At table we were very quiet, but none the less happy for that; for it seemed to me that my mother's gentle spirit hovered near, content with what we did. And after tea my father sat with the doctor on our platform, talking of disease and healing, until, in obedience to my sister's glance, I took our guest away to the harbour, to see (as I said) the greatest glories of the sunset: for, as I knew, my sister wished to take my father within, and change the current of his thought. Then I rowed the doctor to North Tickle, and let the punt lie in the swell of the open sea, where it was very solemn and quiet. The sky was heavy with drifting masses of cloud, aflare with red and gold and all the sunset colours, from the black line of coast, lying in the west, far into the east, where sea and sky were turning gray. Indeed, it was very still, very solemn, lying in the long, crimson swell of the great deep, while the dusk came creeping over the sea. "I do not wonder," the doctor muttered, with a shudder, "that the people who dwell here fear God." There was something familiar to me in that feeling; but for the moment I could not make it out. "Zur?" I said. His eyes ranged timidly over the sombre waste--the vasty, splendid heavens, the coast, dark and unfeeling, the infinite, sullen sea, which ominously darkened as he looked--and he covered his face with his hands. "No," he whispered, looking up, "I do not wonder that you believe in God--and fear Him!" Then I knew that roundabout he felt the presence of an offended God. "And fear Him!" he repeated. I levelled my finger at him. "You been wicked!" I said, knowing that my accusation was true. "Yes," he answered, "I have been wicked." "Is you goin' t' be good?" "I am going to try to be good--now." "You isn't goin' away, is you?" I wailed. "I am going to stay here," he said, gravely, "and treat the people, who need me, and try, in that way, to be good." "I'd die t' see it!" cried I. He laughed--and the tension vanished--and we went happily back to harbour. I had no thought that the resolution to which he had come was in any way extraordinary. * * * * * I ran to the Rat Hole, that night, to give the great news to Skipper Tommy Lovejoy and the twins. "Ecod!" the old man cried, vastly astounded. "Is he t' stay, now? Well, well! Then they's no need goin' on with the book. Ecod! now think o' that! An' 'tis all because your mother died, says you, when he might have saved her! Ah, Davy, the ways o' God is strange. He manages somehow t' work a blessin' with death an' wreck. 'I'm awful sorry for they poor children,' says He, 'an' for the owners o' that there fine ship; but I got t' have My way,' says He, 'or the world would never come t' much; so down goes the ship,' says He, 'an' up comes that dear mother t' my bosom. 'Tis no use tellin' them why,' says He, 'for they wouldn't understand. An', ecod!' says He, 'while I'm about it I'll just put it in the mind o' that doctor-man t' stay right there an' do a day's work or two for Me.' I'm sure He meant it--I'm sure He meant t' do just that--I'm sure 'twas all done o' purpose. We thinks He's hard an' a bit free an' careless. Ecod! they's times when we thinks He fair bungles His job. He kills us, an' He cripples us, an' He starves us, an' He hurts our hearts; an' then, Davy, we says He's a dunderhead at runnin' a world, which, says we, we could run a sight better, if we was able t' make one. But the Lard, Davy, does His day's work in a seamanlike way, usin' no more crooked backs an' empty stomachs an' children's tears an' broken hearts than He can help. 'Tis little we knows about what _He's_ up to. An' 'tis wise, I'm thinkin', not t' bother about tryin' t' find out. 'Tis better t' let Him steer His own course an' ask no questions. I just _knowed_ He was up t' something grand. I said so, Davy! 'Tis just like the hymn, lad, about His hidin' a smilin' face behind a frownin' providence. Ah, Davy, _He'll_ take care o' _we_!" All of which, as you know, was quite characteristic of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy. XIV In The WATCHES of The NIGHT At once we established the doctor in our house, that he might be more comfortably disposed; and this was by my sister's wish, who hoped to be his helper in the sweet labour of healing. And soon a strange thing happened: once in the night--'twas late of a clear, still night--I awoke, of no reason; nor could I fall asleep again, but lay high on the pillow, watching the stars, which peeped in at my window, companionably winking. Then I heard the fall of feet in the house--a restless pacing: which brought me out of bed, in a twinkling, and took me tiptoeing to the doctor's room, whence the unusual sound. But first I listened at the door; and when I had done that, I dared not enter, because of what I heard, but, crouching in the darkness, must continue to listen ... and listen.... * * * * * By and by I crept away to my sister's room, unable longer to bear the awe and sorrow in my heart. "Bessie!" I called, in a low whisper. "Ay, Davy?" "Is you awake?" "Ay, I'm wakeful." I closed the door after me--then went swiftly to her bedside, treading with great caution. "Listenin'?" I asked. "T' the doctor," she answered, "walkin' the floor." "Is you afraid?" I whispered. "No." "I is." She sat up in bed--and drew me closer. "An' why, dear?" she asked, stroking my cheek. "Along o' what I heared in the dark, Bessie--at his door." "You've not been eavesdroppin', Davy?" she chided. "Oh, I wisht I hadn't!" "'Twas not well done." The moon was up, broadly shining behind the Watchman: my sister's white little room--kept sweet and dainty in the way she had--was full of soft gray light; and I saw that her eyes were wide and moist. "He's wonderful restless, the night," she mused. "He've a great grief." "A grief? Oh, Davy!" "Ay, a great, great grief! He've been talkin' to hisself, Bessie. But 'tis not words; 'tis mostly only sounds." "Naught else?" "Oh, ay! He've said----" "Hush!" she interrupted. "'Tis not right for me t' know. I would not have you tell----" I would not be stopped. "He've said, Bessie," I continued, catching something, it may be, of his agony, "he've said, 'I pay! Oh, God, I pay!' he've said. 'Merciful Christ, hear me--oh, I pay!'" She trembled. "'Tis some great grief," said I. "Do you haste to his comfort, Davy," she whispered, quickly. "'Twould be a kind thing t' do." "Is you sure he's wantin' me?" "Were it me I would." When I had got to the doctor's door again, I hesitated, as before, fearing to go in; and once more I withdrew to my sister's room. "I'm not able t' go in," I faltered. "'Tis awful, Bessie, t' hear men goin' on--like that." "Like what?" "Cryin'." A little while longer I sat silent with my sister--until, indeed, the restless footfalls ceased, and the blessed quiet of night fell once again. "An', Bessie," said I, "he said a queer thing." She glanced a question. "He said your name!" She was much interested--but hopelessly puzzled. For a moment she gazed intently at the stars. Then she sighed. "He've a great grief," I repeated, sighing, "an' he've been wicked." "Oh, no--not wicked!" "Ay," I persisted, gently, "wicked; for he've told me so with his own tongue." "Not wicked!" "But he've _said_ so," I insisted, nettled, on the instant, by my sister's perversity. "I'm thinkin' he couldn't be," she said. "Sure, why not?" I demanded. She looked away for a moment--through the window, into the far, starlit sky, which the light of the moon was fast paling; and I thought my question forgot. "Why not, sister?" "I--don't know--why not!" she whispered. * * * * * I kissed my sister good-night, while yet she puzzled over this, and slipped off to my own room, lifting my night-dress, as I tiptoed along, lest I trip and by some clumsy commotion awake my friend to his bitterness. Once back in my bed--once again lying alone in the tranquil night--I found the stars still peeping in at my window, still twinkling companionably, as I had left them. And I thought, as my mother had taught me, of these little watchmen, serene, constant, wise in their great remoteness--and of him who lay in unquiet sleep near by--and, then, understanding nothing of the mystery, nor caring to know, but now secure in the unquestioning faith of childhood, I closed my eyes to sleep: for the stars still shone on, flashing each its little message of serenity to the troubled world. XV THE WOLF In course of time, the mail-boat cleared our harbour of wrecked folk; and within three weeks of that day my father was cast away on Ill Wind Head: being alone on the way to Preaching Cove with the skiff, at the moment, for fish to fill out the bulk of our first shipment to the market at St. John's, our own catch having disappointed the expectation of us every one. My sister and I were then left to manage my father's business as best we could: which we must determine to do, come weal or woe, for we knew no other way. My sister said, moreover, that, whether we grew rich or poor, 'twas wise and kind to do our best, lest our father's folk, who had ever been loyal to his trade, come upon evil times at the hands of traders less careful of their welfare. Large problems of management we did not perceive, but only the simple, immediate labour, to which we turned with naively willing heads and hands, sure that, because of the love abroad in all the world, no evil would befall us. "'Twill be fortune," my sister said, in her sweet and hopeful way; "for the big world is good, Davy," said she, "to such as are bereft." "I'm not so sure o' that." "Ay," she repeated, unshaken, "the world is kind." "You is but a girl, Bessie," said I, "an' not well acquaint with the way o' the world. Still an' all," I mused, "Skipper Tommy says 'tis kind, an' he've growed wonderful used t' livin'." "We'll not fear the world." "No, no! We'll not fear it. I'll be a man, sister, for your sake." "An' I a true woman," said she, "for yours." To Tom Tot we gave the handling of the fish and stores, resolving, also, to stand upon his judgment in the matter of dealing supplies to the thriftless and the unfortunate, whether generously or with a sparing hand, for the men of our harbour were known to him, every one, in strength and conscience and will for toil. As for the shop, said we, we would mind it ourselves, for 'twas but play to do it; and thus, indeed, it turned out: so hearty was the sport it provided that my sister and I would hilariously race for the big key (which hung on a high nail in the dining-room) whenever a customer came. I would not have you think us unfeeling. God knows, we were not that! 'Twas this way with us: each hid the pain, and thus thought to deceive the other into a happier mood. We did well enough in the shop; but we could make neither head nor tail of the books in my father's safe; and when our bewilderment and heartache came to ears of the doctor he said that he would himself manage the letters and keep the books in the intervals of healing the sick: which, with a medicine chest they had brought ashore from the wreck, he had already begun to practice. It seemed, then, to my sister and me, that the current of our life once more ran smooth. * * * * * And Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle--the same who sat at cards with the mail-boat doctor and beat his dog with the butt of a whip--having got news of my father's death, came presently to our harbour, with that in mind which jumped ill with our plans. We had dispiriting weather: a raw wind bowled in from the northeast, whipping the fog apace; and the sea, as though worried out of patience, broke in a short, white-capped lop, running at cross purposes with the ground swell. 'Twas evil sailing for small craft: so whence came this man's courage for the passage 'tis past me even now to fathom; for he had no liking to be at sea, but, rather, cursed the need of putting out, without fail, and lay prone below at such unhappy times as the sloop chanced to toss in rough waters, praying all the time with amazing ferocity. Howbeit, across the bay he came, his lee rail smothered; and when he had landed, he shook his gigantic fist at the sea and burst into a triumphant bellow of blasphemy, most thrilling (as we were told) to hear: whereafter, with a large air (as of prospective ownership), he inspected the flakes and storehouses, heartily condemned them, wished our gaping crew to perdition, and, out of breath at last, moved up the path to our house, his great dog hanging like a shadow at his heels--having come and gone on the wharves, as Tom Tot said, like a gale o' wind. My sister and I sat dreaming in the evening light--wherein, of soft shadows and western glory, fine futures may by any one be fashioned. "'Tis rich," said I, "that _I'm_ wantin' t' be." "Not I," said she. "Not you?" "Not rich," she answered, "but helpful t' such as do the work o' the world." "T' me, Bessie?" "Ay," with a smile and half a sigh, "t' you." "An' only me? I'd not be selfish with you. Is you wishin' t' be helpful--only t' me?" "No." "T' him?" "An it please you," she softly answered. "An' we t' you, Bessie!" I cried, in a rapture, kissing her plump little hand, which lay over my shoulder, convenient to my lips. "Ay, for your loving-kindness, my sister!" "'Tis t' you, first of all, Davy," she protested, quickly, "that I'm wishin' t' be helpful; an' then t' him, an' then t'----" "T' who?" I demanded, frowning. "All the world," said she. "Very well," said I, much relieved to find that the interloper was no more to be dreaded. "I'll not mind _that_. 'Tis as you like. You'll help whomso you please--an' as many. For I'm t' be rich. Rich--look you! I'll have seven schooners t' sail the northern Labrador, as the doctor says. I'll never be content with less. Seven I'll have, my dear, t' fish from the Straits t' Chidley. I'll have the twins t' be masters o' two; but I'll sail the big one--the swift one--the hundred-tonner--ay, lass, I'll sail she, with me own hands. An', ecod! Bessie, _I'll_ crack it on!" "You'll not be rash, dear?" said she, anxiously. "Rash!" laughed I. "I'll cut off the reef points! Rash? There won't be a skipper can carry sail with me! I'll get the fish--an' I'll see to it that my masters does. Then I'll push our trade north an' south. Ay, I will! Oh, I knows what I'll do, Bessie, for I been talkin' with the doctor, an' we got it split an' dried. Hard work an' fair dealing, mum; that's what's t' do it. Our father's way, mum: honest scales on the wharf an' full weight at the counter. 'Twill be that or bust----" "Why, Davy," she exclaimed, her eyes flashing, "you're talkin' like a growed man!" "Ay, ecod!" I boasted, flattered by the inference, "'twill not be many years afore we does more trade in our harbour than they does at the big stores o' Wayfarer's Tickle." A low growl, coming from the shadows in the hall, brought me to a full stop; and upon the heels of that a fantastic ejaculation: "Scuttle me!" So sudden and savage the outburst, so raucous the voice, so charged with angry chagrin--the whole so incongruous with soft dreams and evening light--that 'twas in a shiver of terror my sister and I turned to discover whose presence had disturbed us. * * * * * The intruder stood in the door--a stubby, grossly stout man, thin-legged, thick-necked, all body and beard: clad below in tight trousers, falling loose, however, over the boots; swathed above in an absurdly inadequate pea-jacket, short in the sleeves and buttoned tight over a monstrous paunch, which laboured (and that right sturdily) to burst the bonds of its confinement, but succeeded only in creating a vast confusion of wrinkles. His attitude was that of a man for the moment amazed beyond utterance: his head was thrown back, so that of his face nothing was to be seen but a short, ragged growth of iron-gray beard and a ridge of bushy eyebrow; his hands were plunged deep in his trousers pockets, which the fists distended; his legs, the left deformed (being bent inward at the knee), were spread wide. In the shadows beyond lurked a huge dog--a mighty, sullen beast, which came stepping up, with lowered head, to peer at us from between his master's legs. "I'll be scuttled," said the man, bringing his head forward with a jerk, "if the little cock wouldn't cut into the trade o' Wayfarer's Tickle!" Having thus in a measure mastered his amazement (and not waiting to be bidden), he emerged from the obscurity of the doorway, advanced, limping heavily, and sat himself in my father's chair, from which, his bandy legs comfortably hanging from the table, where he had disposed his feet, he regarded me in a way so sinister--with a glance so fixed and ill-intentioned--that his great, hairy face, malformed and mottled, is clear to me to this day, to its last pimple and wrinkle, its bulbous, flaming nose and bloodshot eyes, as though 'twere yesterday I saw it. And there he sat, puffing angrily, blowing his nose like a whale, scowling, ejaculating, until (as I've no doubt) he conceived us to have been reduced to a condition of trepidation wherein he might most easily overmaster us. "Scuttled!" he repeated, fetching his paunch a resounding thwack. "Bored!" Thereupon he drew from the depths of his trousers pocket a disreputable clay pipe, filled it, got it alight, noisily puffed it, darting little glances at my sister and me the while, in the way of one outraged--now of reproach, now of righteous indignation, now betraying uttermost disappointment--for all the world as though he had been pained to surprise us in the thick of a conspiracy to wrong him, but, being of a meek and most forgiving disposition, would overlook the offense, though 'twas beyond his power, however willing the spirit, to hide the wound our guilt had dealt him. Whatever the object of this display, it gave me a great itching to retreat behind my sister's skirts, for fear and shame. And, as it appeared, he was quick to conjecture my feeling: for at once he dropped the fantastic manner and proceeded to a quiet and appallingly lucid statement of his business. "I'm Jagger o' Wayfarer's Tickle," said he, "an' I'm come t' take over this trade." "'Tis not for sale," my sister answered. "I wants the trade o' this harbour," said he, ignoring her, "on my books. An' I got t' have it." "We're wantin' my father's business," my sister persisted, but faintly now, "for Davy, when he's growed." "I'm able t' buy you out," Jagger pursued, addressing the ceiling, "or run you out. 'Tis cheaper an' quicker t' buy you out. Now," dropping his eyes suddenly to my sister's, "how much are you askin' for this here trade?" "'Tis not for sale." "Not for sale?" roared he, jumping up. "No, zur," she gasped. "If I can't buy it," he cried, in a rage, driving the threat home with an oath peculiarly unfit for the ears of women, "I'll break it!" Which brought tears to my tender sister's eyes; whereupon, with a good round oath to match his own, I flew at him, in a red passion, and, being at all times agile and now moved to extraordinary effort, managed to inflict some damage on his shins before he was well aware of my intention--and that so painful that he yelped like a hurt cur. But he caught me by the arms, which he jammed against my ribs, lifted me high, cruelly shaking me, and sat me on the edge of the table in a fashion so sudden and violent that my teeth came together with a snap: having done which, he trapped my legs with his paunch, and thus held me in durance impotent and humiliating, so that I felt mean, indeed, to come to such a pass after an attack impetuously undertaken and executed with no little gallantry and effect. And he brought his face close to mine, his eyes flaring and winking with rage, his lips lifted from his yellow, broken teeth; and 'twas in his mind, as I perceived, to beat me as I had never been beaten before. "Ye crab!" he began. "Ye little----" "The dog!" my sister screamed. 'Twas timely warning: for the dog was crouched in the hall, his muscles taut for the spring, his king-hairs bristling, his fangs exposed. "Down!" shrieks Jagger. The diversion released me. Jagger sprang away; and I saw, in a flash, that his concern was not for me, but for himself, upon whom the dog's baleful glance was fastened. There was now no ring of mastery in his voice, as there had been on the mail-boat, but the shiver of panic; and this, it may be, the dog detected, for he settled more alertly, pawing the floor with his forefeet, as though seeking firmer foothold from which to leap. As once before, I wished the beast well in the issue; indeed, I hoped 'twould be the throat and a fair grip! But Jagger caught a billet of wood from the box, and, with a hoarse, stifled cry--frightful to hear--drew back to throw. Then the doctor's light step sounded in the hall, and in he came, brushing past the dog, which slunk away into the shadows. For a moment he regarded us curiously, and then, his brows falling in a quick frown, he laid his medicine case on my sister's sewing-machine, with never a word, and went to the window, where he stood idle, gazing out over the darkening prospect of sea and rock and upon great clouds flushed with lurid colour. There was silence in the room--which none of us who waited found the will to break. "Jagger"--said the doctor. The voice was low--almost a drawl--but mightily authoritative: being without trace of feeling, but superior to passion, majestic. "Ay, sir?" "Go!" The doctor still stood with his back to us, still gazed, continuing tranquil, through the broad window to the world without. And Jagger, overmastered by this confident assumption of authority, went away, as he was bidden, casting backward glances, ominous of machinations to come. * * * * * What Jagger uttered on my father's wharf--what on the deck of the sloop while he moored his dog to the windlass for a beating--what he flung back while she gathered way--strangely moved Tom Tot, who hearkened, spellbound, until the last words of it (and the last yelp of the dog) were lost in the distance of North Tickle: it impelled the old man (as he has said many a time) to go wash his hands. But 'tis of small moment beside what the doctor said when informed of the occurrences in our house: being this, that he must have a partnership in our firm, because, first, it was in his heart to help my sister and me, who had been kind to him and were now like sheep fallen in with a wolf-pack, and second, because by thus establishing himself on the coast he might avert the suspicion of the folk from such good works as he had in contemplation. "More than that," said he, "we will prove fair dealing possible here as elsewhere. It needs but courage and--money." "I'm thinkin'," my sister said, "that Davy has the courage." "And I," said he, "have the money." I was very glad to hear it. XVI A MALADY of The HEART In the firelight of that evening--when the maids had cleared the cozy room and carried away the lamp and we three sat alone together in my father's house--was planned our simple partnership in good works and the fish business. 'Tis wonderful what magic is abroad at such times--what dreams, what sure hopes, lie in the flickering blaze, the warm, red glow, the dancing shadows; what fine aspirations unfold in hearts that are brave and hopeful and kind. Presently, we had set a fleet of new schooners afloat, put a score of new traps in the water, proved fair-dealing and prosperity the selfsame thing, visited the sick of five hundred miles, established a hospital--transformed our wretched coast, indeed, into a place no longer ignorant of jollity and thrift and healing. The doctor projected all with lively confidence--his eyes aflash, his lean, white hand eloquent, his tongue amazingly active and persuasive--and with an insight so sagacious and well-informed, a purpose so pure and wise, that he revealed himself (though we did not think of it then) not only as a man of heart but of conspicuous sense. It did not enter our minds to distrust him: because our folk are not sophisticated in polite overreaching, not given to the vice of suspicion, and because--well, he was what he was. My sister's face was aglow--most divinely radiant--with responsive faith and enthusiasm; and as for me---- "Leave me get down," I gasped, at last, to the doctor, "or I'll bust with delight, by heaven!" He laughed, but unclasped his hands and let me slip from his knee; and then I began to strut the floor, my chest puffed out to twice its natural extent. "By heaven!" I began. "If that Jagger----" The clock struck ten. "David Roth," my sister exclaimed, lifting her hands in mock horror, "'tis fair scandalous for a lad o' your years t' be up 't this hour!" "Off to bed with you, you rascal!" roared the doctor. "I'll not go," I protested. "Off with you!" "Not I." "Catch un, doctor!" cried my sister. "An you can, zur!" I taunted. If he could? Ecod! He snatched at me, quick as a cat; but I dodged his hand, laughed in his face and put the table between us. With an agility beyond compare--with a flow of spirits like a gale of wind--he vaulted the broad board. The great, grave fellow appeared of a sudden to my startled vision in midair--his arms and legs at sixes and sevens--his coat-tails flapping like a loose sail--his mouth wide open in a demoniacal whoop--and I dropped to the floor but in the bare nick of time to elude him. Uproarious pursuit ensued: it made my sister limp and pain-stricken and powerless with laughter; it brought our two maids from the kitchen and kept them hysterically screaming in the doorway, the lamp at a fearsome angle; it tumbled the furniture about with rollicking disregard, led the doctor a staggering, scrambling, leaping course in the midst of upturned tables and chairs, and, at last, ran the gasping quarry to earth under the sofa. I was taken out by the heels, shouldered, carried aloft and flung sprawling on my bed--while the whole house rang again with peal upon peal of hearty laughter. "Oh, zur," I groaned, "I never knowed you was so jolly!" "Not so?" "On my word, zur!" He sighed. "I fancied you was never but sad." "Ah, well," said he, "the Labrador, Davy, is evidently working a cure." "God be thanked for that!" said I, devoutly. He rumpled my hair and went out. And I bade him send my sister with the candle; and while I lay waiting in the dark a glow of content came upon me--because of this: that whereas I had before felt woefully inadequate to my sister's protection, however boastfully I had undertaken it, I was now sure that in our new partnership her welfare and peace of heart were to be accomplished. Then she came in and sat with me while I got ready for bed. She had me say my prayers at her knee, as a matter of course, but this night hinted that an additional petition for the doctor's well-doing and happiness might not be out of place. She chided me, after that, for the temper I had shown against Jagger and for the oath I had flung at his head, as I knew she would--but did not chide me heartily, because, as she said, she was for the moment too gratefully happy to remember my short-comings against me. I thanked her, then, for this indulgence, and told her that she might go to bed, for I was safely and comfortably bestowed, as she could see, and ready for sleep; but she would not go, and there sat, with the candle in her hand, her face flushed and her great blue eyes soulfully glowing, while she continued to chatter in an incoherent and strangely irrelevant fashion: so that, astonished into broad wakefulness by this extraordinary behaviour, I sat bolt upright in bed, determined to discover the cause. "Bessie Roth," said I, severely, "what's come upon you?" "I'm not knowin', Davy," she answered, softly, looking away. "'Tis somewhat awful, then," said I, in alarm, "for you're not lookin' me in the eye." She looked then in her lap--and did not raise her eyes, though I waited: which was very strange. "You isn't sick, is you?" "No-o," she answered, doubtfully. "Oh, you _mustn't_ get sick," I protested. "'Twould _never_ do. I'd fair die--if _you_ got sick!" "'Tisn't sickness; 'tis--I'm not knowin' what." "Ah, come," I pleaded; "what is it, dear?" "Davy, lad," she faltered, "I'm just--dreadful--happy." "Happy?" cried I, scornfully. "'Tis not happiness! Why, sure, your lip is curlin' with grief!" "But I _was_ happy." "You isn't happy now, my girl." "No," she sobbed, "I'm wonderful miserable--now." I kicked off the covers. "You've the fever, that's what!" I exclaimed, jumping out of bed. "'Tis not that, Davy." "Then--oh, for pity's sake, Bessie, tell your brother what's gone wrong along o' you!" "I'm thinkin', Davy," she whispered, despairingly, "that I'm nothin' but a sinful woman." "A--what! Why, Bessie----" "Nothin'," she repeated, positively, "but a sinful, wicked person." "Who told you that?" said I, dancing about in a rage. "My own heart." "Your heart!" cried I, blind angry. "'Tis a liar an it says so." "What words!" she exclaimed, changed in a twinkling. "An' to your sister! Do you get back in bed this instant, David Roth, an' tell her that you're sorry." I was loath to do it, but did, to pacify her; and when she had carried away the candle I chuckled, for I had cured her of her indisposition for that night, at any rate: as I knew, for when she kissed me 'twas plain that she was more concerned for her wayward brother than for herself. * * * * * Past midnight I was awakened by the clang of the bell on my father's wharf. 'Twas an unpleasant sound. Half a gale--no less--could do it. I then knew that the wind had freshened and veered to the southeast; and I listened to determine how wild the night. Wild enough! The bell clanged frequently, sharply, jangling in the gusts--like an anxious warning. My window was black; there was no light in the sky--no star shining. Rain pattered on the roof. I heard the rush of wind. 'Twas inevitable that I should contrast the quiet of the room, the security of my place, the comfort of my couch and blankets, with a rain-swept, heaving deck and a tumultuous sea. A gusty night, I thought--thick, wet, with the wind rising. The sea would be in a turmoil on the grounds by dawn: there would be no fishing; and I was regretting this--between sleep and waking--when the bell again clanged dolefully. Roused, in a measure, I got ear of men stumbling up the path. I was into my breeches before they had trampled half the length of the platform--well on my way down the dark stair when they knocked on the door--standing scared in the light of their lantern, the door open, before they found time to hail. I was addressed by a gray old man in ragged oilskins. "We heared tell," said he, mildly, wiping his dripping beard, "that you got a doctor here." I said that we had. "Well," he observed, in a dull, slow voice, "we got a sick man over there t' Wreck Cove." "Ay?" said I. "An' we was sort o' wonderin', wasn't we, Skipper Tom," another put in, "how much this doctor would be askin' t' go over an' cure un?" "Well, ay," the skipper admitted, taking off his sou'wester to scratch his head, "we _did_ kind o' have that idea." "'Tis a wild night," said I: in my heart doubting--and that with shame--that the doctor would venture out upon the open sea in a gale of wind. "'Tis _not_ very civil," said the skipper frankly. "I'm free t' say," in a drawl, "that 'tis--well--rather--dirty." "An' he isn't got used t' sailin' yet. But----" "No?" in mild wonder. "Isn't he, now? Well, we got a stout little skiff. Once she gets past the Thirty Devils, she'll maybe make Wreck Cove, all right--if she's handled proper. Oh, she'll maybe make it if----" "Davy!" my sister called from above. "Do you take the men through t' the kitchen. I'll rouse the doctor an' send the maids down t' make tea." "Well, now, thank you kindly, miss," Skipper Tom called up to the landing. "That's wonderful kind." It was a familiar story--told while the sleepy maids put the kettle on the fire and the fury of the gale increased. 'Twas the schooner _Lucky Fisherman_, thirty tons, Tom Lisson master, hailing from Burnt Harbour of the Newfoundland Green Bay, and fishing the Labrador at Wreck Cove, with a tidy catch in the hold and four traps in the water. There had been a fine run o' fish o' late; an' Bill Sparks, the splitter--with a brood of ten children to grow fat or go hungry on the venture--labouring without sleep and by the light of a flaring torch, had stabbed his right hand with a fish bone. The old, old story--now so sadly threadbare to me--of ignorance and uncleanliness! The hand was swollen to a wonderful size and grown wonderful angry--the man gone mad of pain--the crew contemplating forcible amputation with an axe. Wonderful sad the mail-boat doctor wasn't nowhere near! Wonderful sad if Bill Sparks must lose his hand! Bill Sparks was a wonderful clever hand with the splittin'-knife--able t' split a wonderful sight o' fish a minute. Wonderful sad if Bill Sparks's family was to be throwed on the gov'ment all along o' Bill losin' his right hand! Wonderful sad if poor Bill Sparks---- The doctor entered at that moment. "Who is asking for me?" he demanded, sharply. "Well," Skipper Tom drawled, rising, "we was thinkin' we'd sort o' like t' see the doctor." "I am he," the doctor snapped. "Yes?" inquiringly. "We was wonderin', doctor," Skipper Tom answered, abashed, "what you'd charge t' go t' Wreck Cove an'--an'--well, use the knife on a man's hand." "Charge? Nonsense!" "We'd like wonderful well," said the skipper, earnestly, "t' have you----" "But--_to-night_!" "You see, zur," said the skipper, gently, "he've wonderful pain, an' he've broke everything breakable that we got, an' we've got un locked in the fo'c's'le, an'----" "Where's Wreck Cove?" "'Tis t' the s'uth'ard, zur," one of the men put in. "Some twelve miles beyond the Thirty Devils." The doctor opened the kitchen door and stepped out. There was no doubt about the weather. A dirty gale was blowing. Wind and rain drove in from the black night; and, under all the near and petty noises, sounded the great, deep roar of breakers. "Hear that?" he asked, excitedly, closing the door against the wind. "Ay," the skipper admitted; "as I was tellin' the young feller, it _isn't_ so _very_ civil." "Civil!" cried the doctor. "No; not so civil that it mightn't be a bit civiller; but, now----" "And twelve miles of open sea!" "No, zur--no; not accordin' t' my judgment. Eleven an' a half, zur, would cover it." The doctor laughed. "An', as I was sayin', zur," the skipper concluded, pointedly, "we just come through it." My sister and I exchanged anxious glances: then turned again to the doctor--who continued to stare at the floor. "Just," one of the crew repeated, blankly, for the silence was painful, "come through it." The doctor looked up. "Of course, you know," he began, quietly, with a formal smile, "I am not--accustomed to this sort of--professional call. It--rather--takes my breath away. When do we start?" Skipper Tom took a look at the weather. "Blowin' up wonderful," he observed, quietly, smoothing his long hair, which the wind had put awry. "Gets real dirty long about the Thirty Devils in the dark. Don't it, Will?" Will said that it did--indeed, it did--no doubt about that, _what_ever. "I s'pose," the skipper drawled, in conclusion, "we'd as lief get underway at dawn." "Very good," said the doctor. "And--you were asking about my fee--were you not? You'll have to pay, you know--if you can--for I believe in--that sort of thing. Could you manage three dollars?" "We was 'lowin'," the skipper answered, "t' pay about seven when we sold the v'y'ge in the fall. 'Tis a wonderful bad hand Bill Sparks has got." "Let it be seven," said the doctor, quickly. "The balance may go, you know, to help some poor devil who hasn't a penny. Send it to me in the fall if----" The skipper looked up in mild inquiry. "Well," said the doctor, with a nervous smile, "if we're all here, you know." "Oh," said the skipper, with a large wave of the hand, "_that's God's_ business." They put out at dawn--into a sea as wild as ever I knew an open boat to brave. The doctor bade us a merry good-bye; and he waved his hand, shouting that which the wind swept away, as the boat darted off towards South Tickle. My sister and I went to the heads of Good Promise to watch the little craft on her way. The clouds were low and black--torn by the wind--driving up from the southwest like mad: threatening still heavier weather. We followed the skiff with my father's glass--saw her beat bravely on, reeling through the seas, smothered in spray--until she was but a black speck on the vast, angry waste, and, at last, vanished altogether in the spume and thickening fog. Then we went back to my father's house, prayerfully wishing the doctor safe voyage to Wreck Cove; and all that day, and all the next, while the gale still blew, my sister was nervous and downcast, often at the window, often on the heads, forever sighing as she went about the work of the house. And when I saw her thus distraught and colourless--no warm light in her eyes--no bloom on her dimpled cheeks--no merry smile lurking about the corners of her sweet mouth--I was fretted beyond description; and I determined this: that when the doctor got back from Wreck Cove I should report her case to him, whether she liked it or not, with every symptom I had observed, and entreat him, by the love and admiration in which I held him, to cure her of her malady, whatever the cost. * * * * * On the evening of the third day, when the sea was gone down and the wind was blowing fair and mild from the south, I sat with my sister at the broad window, where was the outlook upon great hills, and upon sombre water, and upon high, glowing sky--she in my mother's rocker, placidly sewing, as my mother used to do, and I pitifully lost in my father's armchair, covertly gazing at her, in my father's way. "Is you better, this even, sister, dear?" I asked. "Oh, ay," she answered, vehemently, as my mother used to do. "Much better." "You're wonderful poorly." "'Tis true," she said, putting the thread between her white little teeth. "But," the strand now broken, "though you'd not believe it, Davy, dear, I'm feeling--almost--nay, quite--well." I doubted it. "'Tis a strange sickness," I observed, with a sigh. "Yes, Davy," she said, her voice falling, her lips pursed, her brows drawn down. "I'm not able t' make it out, at all. I'm feelin'--so wonderful--queer." "Is you, dear?" "Davy Roth," she averred, with a wag of the head so earnest that strands of flaxen hair fell over her eyes, and she had to brush them back again, "I never felt so queer in all my life afore!" "I'm dreadful worried about you, Bessie." "Hut! as for that," said she, brightly, "I'm not thinkin' I'm goin' t' _die_, Davy." "Sure, you never can tell about sickness," I sagely observed. "Oh, no!" said she. "I isn't got that--kind o'--sickness." "Well," I insisted, triumphantly, "you're wonderful shy o' eatin' pork." She shuddered. "I wished I knowed what you had," I exclaimed impatiently. "I wished you did," she agreed, frankly, if somewhat faintly. "For, then, Davy, you'd give me a potion t' cure me." She drew back the curtain--for the hundredth time, I vow--and peered towards South Tickle. "What you lookin' for?" I asked. "I was thinkin', Davy," she said, still gazing through the window, "that Skipper Zach Tupper might be comin' in from the Last Chance grounds with a fish for breakfast." The Last Chance grounds? 'Twas ignorance beyond belief! "Bessie," I said, with heat, "is you gone mad? Doesn't you know that no man in his seven senses would fish the Last Chance grounds in a light southerly wind? Why----" "Well," she interrupted, with a pretty pout, "you knows so well as me that Zach Tupper haven't _got_ his seven senses." "Bessie!" She peeked towards South Tickle again; and then--what a wonder-worker the divine malady is!--she leaned eagerly forward, her sewing falling unheeded to the floor; and her soft breast rose and fell to a rush of sweet emotion, and her lips parted in delicious wonderment, and the blood came back to her cheeks, and her dimples were no longer pathetic, but eloquent of sweetness and innocence, and her eyes turned moist and brilliant, glowing with the glory of womanhood first recognized, tender and pure. Ah, my sister--lovely in person but lovelier far in heart and mind--adorably innocent--troubled and destined to infinitely deeper distress before the end--brave and true and hopeful through all the chequered course of love! You had not known, dear heart, but then discovered, all in a heavenly flash, what sickness you suffered of. "Davy!" she whispered. "Ay, dear?" "I'm knowin'--now--what ails me." I sat gazing at her in love and great awe. "'Tis not a wickedness, Bessie," I declared. "No, no!" "'Tis not that. No, no! I knows 'tis not a sin." "'Tis a holy thing," she said, turning, her eyes wide and solemn. "A holy thing?" "Ay--holy!" I chanced to look out of the window. "Ecod!" I cried. "The Wreck Cove skiff is in with Doctor Luke!" Unfeeling, like all lads--in love with things seen--I ran out. * * * * * The doctor came ashore at the wharf in a state of wild elation. He made a rush for me, caught me up, called to the crew of the skiff to come to the house for tea--then shouldered me, against my laughing protest, and started up the path. "I'm back, safe and sound," cried he. "Davy, I have been to Wreck Cove and back." "An' you're wonderful happy," cried I, from the uncertain situation of his shoulder. "Happy? That's the word, Davy. I'm happy! And why?" "Tell me." "I've done a good deed. I've saved a man's right hand. I've done a good deed for once," he repeated, between his teeth, "by God!" There was something contagious in all this; and (I say it by way of apology) I was ever the lad to catch at a rousing phrase. "A good deed!" I exclaimed. "By God, you'll do----" He thrashed me soundly on the spot. XVII HARD PRACTICE I bore him no grudge--the chastisement had been fairly deserved: for then, being loosed from parental restraint, I was by half too fond of aping the ways and words of full-grown men; and I was not unaware of the failing. However, the prediction on the tip of my tongue--that he would live to do many another good deed--would have found rich fulfillment had it been spoken. It was soon noised the length of the coast that a doctor dwelt in our harbour--one of good heart and skill and courage: to whom the sick of every station might go for healing. In short space the inevitable came upon us: punts put in for the doctor at unseasonable hours, desperately reckless of weather; schooners beat up with men lying ill or injured in the forecastles; the folk of the neighbouring ports brought their afflicted to be miraculously restored, and ingenuously quartered their dying upon us. A wretched multitude emerged from the hovels--crying, "Heal us!" And to every varied demand the doctor freely responded, smiling heartily, God bless him! spite of wind and weather: ready, active, merry, untiring--sad but when the only gift he bore was that of tender consolation. * * * * * One night there came a maid from Punch Bowl Harbour. My sister sent her to the shop, where the doctor was occupied with the accounts of our business, myself to keep him company. 'Twas a raw, black night; and she entered with a gust of wind, which fluttered the doctor's papers, set the lamp flaring, and, at last, escaped by way of the stove to the gale from which it had strayed. "Is you the doctor?" she gasped. She stood with her back against the door, one hand still on the knob and the other shading her eyes--a slender slip of a girl, her head covered with a shawl, now dripping. Whisps of wet black hair clung to her forehead, and rain-drops lay in the flushed hollows of her cheeks. "I am," the doctor answered, cheerily, rising from his work. "Well, zur," said she, "I'm Tim Hodd's maid, zur, an' I'm just come from the Punch Bowl in the bait-skiff, zur--for healin'." "And what, my child," asked the doctor, sympathetically, "may be the matter with you?" Looking back--with the added knowledge that I have--it seems to me that he had no need to ask the question. The flush and gasp told the story well enough, quite well enough: the maid was dying of consumption. "Me lights is floatin', zur," she answered. "Your lights?" "Ay, zur," laying a hand on her chest. "They're floatin' wonderful high. I been tryin' t' kape un down; but, zur, 'tis no use, at all." With raised eyebrows the doctor turned to me. "What does she mean, Davy," he inquired, "by her 'lights'?" "I'm not well knowin'," said I; "but if 'tis what _we_ calls 'lights,' 'tis what _you_ calls 'lungs.'" The doctor turned sadly to the maid. "I been takin' shot, zur, t' weight un down," she went on; "but, zur, 'tis no use, at all. An' Jim Butt's my man," she added, hurriedly, in a low voice. "I'm t' be married to un when he comes up from the Narth. Does you think----" She paused--in embarrassment, perhaps: for it may be that it was the great hope of this maid, as it is of all true women of our coast, to live to be the mother of sons. "Go on," the doctor quietly said. "Oh, does you think, zur," she said, clasping her hands, a sob in her voice, "that you can cure me--afore the fleet--gets home?" "Davy," said the doctor, hoarsely, "go to your sister. I must have a word with this maid--alone." I went away. * * * * * We caught sight of the _Word of the Lord_ beating down from the south in light winds--and guessed her errand--long before that trim little schooner dropped anchor in the basin. The skipper came ashore for healing of an angry abscess in the palm of his hand. Could the doctor cure it? To be sure--the doctor could do _that_! The man had suffered sleepless agony for five days; he was glad that the doctor could ease his pain--glad that he was soon again to be at the fishing. Thank God, he was to be cured! "I have only to lance and dress it," said the doctor. "You will have relief at once." "Not the knife," the skipper groaned. "Praise God, I'll not have the knife!" It was the doctor's first conflict with the strange doctrines of our coast. I still behold--as I lift my eyes from the page--his astonishment when he was sternly informed that the way of the Lord was not the way of a surgeon with a knife. Nor was the austere old fellow to be moved. The lance, said he, was an invention of the devil himself--its use plainly a defiance of the purposes of the Creator. Thank God! he had been reared by a Christian father of the old school. "No, no, doctor!" he declared, his face contorted by pain. "I'm thankin' you kindly; but I'm not carin' t' interfere with the decrees o' Providence." "But, man," cried the doctor, "I _must_----" "No!" doggedly. "I'll not stand in the Lard's way. If 'tis His will for me t' get better, I'll get better, I s'pose. If 'tis His blessed will for me t' die," he added, reverently, "I'll have t' die." "I give you my word," said the doctor, impatiently, "that if that hand is not lanced you'll be dead in three days." The man looked off to his schooner. "Three days," the doctor repeated. "I'm wonderful sorry," sighed the skipper, "but I got t' stand by the Lard." And he _was_ dead--within three days, as we afterwards learned: even as the doctor had said. * * * * * Once, when the doctor was off in haste to Cuddy Cove to save the life of a mother of seven--the Cuddy Cove men had without a moment's respite pulled twelve miles against a switch of wind from the north and were streaming sweat when they landed--once, when the doctor was thus about his beneficent business, a woman from Bowsprit Head brought her child to be cured, incredulous of the physician's power, but yet desperately seeking, as mothers will. She came timidly--her ailing child on her bosom, where, as it seemed to me, it had lain complaining since she gave it birth. "I'm thinkin' he'll die," she told my sister. My sister cried out against this hopelessness. 'Twas not kind to the dear Lord, said she, thus to despair. "They says t' Bowsprit Head," the woman persisted, "that he'll die in a fit. I'm--I'm--not wantin' him," she faltered, "t' die--like that." "No, no! He'll not!" She hushed the child in a mechanical way--being none the less tender and patient the while--as though her arms were long accustomed to the burden, her heart used to the pain. "There haven't ever been no child," said she, looking up, after a moment, "like this--afore--t' Bowsprit Head." My sister was silent. "No," the woman sighed; "not like this one." "Come, come, ma'm!" I put in, confidently. "Do you leave un t' the doctor. _He'll_ cure un." She looked at me quickly. "What say?" she said, as though she had not understood. "I says," I repeated, "that the doctor will cure that one." "Cure un?" she asked, blankly. "That he will!" She smiled--and looked up to the sky, smiling still, while she pressed the infant to her breast. "They isn't nobody," she whispered, "not nobody, ever said that--afore--about my baby!" Next morning we sat her on the platform to wait for the doctor, who had now been gone three days. "He does better in the air," said she. "He--he-_needs_ air!" It was melancholy weather--thick fog, with a drizzle of rain: the wind in the east, fretful and cold. All morning long she rocked the child in her arms: now softly singing to him--now vainly seeking to win a smile--now staring vacantly into the mist, dreaming dull dreams, while he lay in her lap. "He isn't come through the tickle, have he?" she asked, when I came up from the shop at noon. "He've not been sighted yet." "I'm thinkin' he'll be comin' soon." "Ay; you'll not have t' wait much longer." "I'm not mindin' _that_," said she, "for I'm used t' waitin'." The doctor came in from the sea at evening--when the wind had freshened to a gale, blowing bitter cold. He had been for three days and nights fighting without sleep for the life of that mother of seven--and had won! Ay, she had pulled through; she was now resting in the practiced care of the Cuddy Cove women, whose knowledge of such things had been generously increased. The ragged, sturdy seven still had a mother to love and counsel them. The Cuddy Cove men spoke reverently of the deed and the man who had done it. Tired? The doctor laughed. Not he! Why, he had been asleep under a tarpaulin all the way from Cuddy Cove! And Skipper Elisha Timbertight had handled the skiff in the high seas so cleverly, so tenderly, so watchfully--what a marvellous hand it was!--that the man under the tarpaulin had not been awakened until the nose of the boat touched the wharf piles. But the doctor was hollow-eyed and hoarse, staggering of weariness, but cheerfully smiling, as he went up the path to talk with the woman from Bowsprit Head. "You are waiting for me?" he asked. She was frightened--by his accent, his soft voice, his gentle manner, to which the women of our coast are not used. But she managed to stammer that her baby was sick. "'Tis his throat," she added. The child was noisily fighting for breath. He gasped, writhed in her lap, struggled desperately for air, and, at last, lay panting. She exposed him to the doctor's gaze--a dull-eyed, scrawny, ugly babe: such as mothers wish to hide from sight. "He've always been like that," she said. "He's wonderful sick. I've fetched un here t' be cured." "A pretty child," said the doctor. 'Twas a wondrous kind lie--told with such perfect dissimulation that it carried the conviction of truth. "What say?" she asked, leaning forward. "A pretty child," the doctor repeated, very distinctly. "They don't say that t' Bowsprit Head, zur." "Well--_I_ say it!" "I'll tell un so!" she exclaimed, joyfully. "I'll tell un you said so, zur, when I gets back t' Bowsprit Head. For nobody--nobody, zur--ever said that afore--about my baby!" The child stirred and complained. She lifted him from her lap--rocked him--hushed him--drew him close, rocking him all the time. "Have you another?" "No, zur; 'tis me first." "And does he talk?" the doctor asked. She looked up--in a glow of pride. And she flushed gloriously while she turned her eyes once more upon the gasping, ill-featured babe upon her breast. "He said 'mama'--once!" she answered. In the fog--far, far away, in the distances beyond Skull Island, which were hidden--the doctor found at that moment some strange interest. "Once?" he asked, his face still turned away. "Ay, zur," she solemnly declared. "I calls my God t' witness! I'm not makin' believe, zur," she went on, with rising excitement. "They says t' Bowsprit Head that I dreamed it, zur, but I knows I didn't. 'Twas at the dawn. He lay here, zur--here, zur--on me breast. I was wide awake, zur--waitin' for the day. Oh, he said it, zur," she cried, crushing the child to her bosom. "I heared un say it! 'Mama!' says he." "When I have cured him," said the doctor, gently, "he will say more than that." "What say?" she gasped. "When I have taken--something--out of his throat--with my knife--he will be able to say much more than that. When he has grown a little older, he will say, 'Mama, I loves you!'" The woman began to cry. * * * * * There is virtue for the city-bred, I fancy, in the clean salt air and simple living of our coast--and, surely, for every one, everywhere, a tonic in the performance of good deeds. Hard practice in fair and foul weather worked a vast change in the doctor. Toil and fresh air are eminent physicians. The wonder of salty wind and the hand-to-hand conflict with a northern sea! They gave him health, a clear-eyed, brown, deep-breathed sort of health, and restored a strength, broad-shouldered and lithe and playful, that was his natural heritage. With this new power came joyous courage, indomitability of purpose, a restless activity of body and mind. He no longer carried the suggestion of a wrecked ship; however afflicted his soul may still have been, he was now, in manly qualities, the man the good God designed--strong and bonnie and tender-hearted: betraying no weakness in the duties of the day. His plans shot far beyond our narrow prospect, shaming our blindness and timidity, when he disclosed them; and his interests--searching, insatiable, reflective--comprehended all that touched our work and way of life: so that, as Tom Tot was moved to exclaim, by way of an explosion of amazement, 'twas not long before he had mastered the fish business, gill, fin and liver. And he went about with hearty words on the tip of his tongue and a laugh in his gray eyes--merry the day long, whatever the fortune of it. The children ran out of the cottages to greet him as he passed by, and a multitude of surly, ill-conditioned dogs, which yielded the road to no one else, accepted him as a distinguished intimate. But still, and often--late in the night--my sister and I lay awake listening to the disquieting fall of his feet as he paced his bedroom floor. And sometimes I crept to his door--and hearkened--and came away, sad that I had gone. * * * * * When--autumn being come with raw winds and darkened days--the doctor said that he must go an errand south to St. John's and the Canadian cities before winter settled upon our coast, I was beset by melancholy fears that he would not return, but, enamoured anew of the glories of those storied harbours, would abandon us, though we had come to love him, with all our hearts. Skipper Tommy Lovejoy joined with my sister to persuade me out of these drear fancies: which (said they) were ill-conceived; for the doctor must depart a little while, else our plans for the new sloop and little hospital (and our defense against Jagger) would go all awry. Perceiving, then, that I would not be convinced, the doctor took me walking on the bald old Watchman, and there shamed me for mistrusting him: saying, afterwards, that though it might puzzle our harbour and utterly confound his greater world, which must now be informed, he had in truth cast his lot with us, for good and all, counting his fortune a happy one, thus to come at last to a little corner of the world where good impulses, elsewhere scrawny and disregarded, now flourished lustily in his heart. Then with delight I said that I would fly the big flag in welcome when the returning mail-boat came puffing through the Gate. And scampering down the Watchman went the doctor and I, hand in hand, mistrust fled, to the very threshold of my father's house, where my sister waited, smiling to know that all went well again. Past ten o'clock of a dismal night we sat waiting for the mail-boat--unstrung by anxious expectation: made wretched by the sadness of the parting. "There she blows, zur!" cried Skipper Tommy, jumping up. "We'd best get aboard smartly, zur, for she'll never come through the Gate this dirty night." The doctor rose, and looked, for a strained, silent moment, upon my dear sister, but with what emotion, though it sounded the deeps of passion, I could not then conjecture. He took her hand in both of his, and held it tight, without speaking. She tried, dear heart! to meet his ardent eyes--but could not. "I'm wishin' you a fine voyage, zur," she said, her voice fallen to a tremulous whisper. He kissed the hand he held. "T' the south," she added, with a swift, wondering look into his eyes, "an' back." "Child," he began with feeling, "I----" In some strange passion my sister stepped from him. "Call me that no more!" she cried, her voice broken, her eyes wide and moist, her little hands clinched. "Why, child!" the doctor exclaimed. "I----" "I'm _not_ a child!" The doctor turned helplessly to me--and I in bewilderment to my sister--to whom, again, the doctor extended his hands, but now with a frank smile, as though understanding that which still puzzled me. "Sister----" said he. "No, no!" 'Twas my nature, it may be, then to have intervened; but I was mystified and afraid--and felt the play of some great force, unknown and dreadful, which had inevitably cut my sister off from me, her brother, keeping her alone and helpless in the midst of it--and I quailed and kept silent. "Bessie!" She took his hand. "Good-bye, zur," she whispered, turning away, flushed. "Good-bye!" The doctor went out, with a new mark upon him; and I followed, still silent, thinking it a poor farewell my sister had given him, but yet divining, serenely, that all this was beyond the knowledge of lads. I did not know, when I bade the doctor farewell and Godspeed, that his heart tasted such bitterness as, God grant! the hearts of men do seldom feel, and that, nobility asserting itself, he had determined never again to return: fearing to bring my sister the unhappiness of love, rather than the joy of it. When I had put him safe aboard, I went back to the house, where I found my sister sorely weeping--not for herself, she sobbed, but for him, whom she had wounded. XVIII SKIPPER TOMMY GETS A LETTER It came from the north, addressed, in pale, sprawling characters, to Skipper Tommy Lovejoy of our harbour--a crumpled, greasy, ill-odoured missive: little enough like a letter from a lady, bearing (as we supposed) a coy appeal to the tender passion. But---- "Ay, Davy," my sister insisted. "'Tis from _she_. Smell it for yourself." I sniffed the letter. "Eh, Davy?" "Well, Bessie," I answered, doubtfully, "I'm not able t' call t' mind this minute just how she _did_. But I'm free t' say," regarding the streaks and thumb-marks with quick disfavour, "that it _looks_ a lot like her." My sister smiled upon me with an air of loftiest superiority. "Smell it again," said she. "Well," I admitted, after sniffing long and carefully, "I does seem t' have got wind o'----" "There's no deceivin' a woman's nose," my sister declared, positively. "'Tis a letter from the woman t' Wolf Cove." "Then," said I, with a frown, "we'd best burn it." She mused a moment. "He never got a letter afore," she said, looking up. "Not many folk has," I objected. "He'd be wonderful proud," she continued, "o' just gettin' a letter." "But she's a wily woman," I protested, in warning, "an' he's a most obligin' man. I fair shiver t' think o' leadin' un into temptation." "'Twould do no harm, Davy," said she, "just t' _show_ un the letter." "'Tis a fearful responsibility t' take." "'Twould please un so!" she wheedled. "Ah, well!" I sighed. "You're a wonderful hand at gettin' your own way, Bessie." * * * * * When the punts of our folk came sweeping through the tickles and the Gate, in the twilight of that day, I went with the letter to the Rat Hole: knowing that Skipper Tommy would by that time be in from the Hook-an'-Line grounds; for the wind was blowing fair from that quarter. I found the twins pitching the catch into the stage, with great hilarity--a joyous, frolicsome pair: in happy ignorance of what impended. They gave me jolly greeting: whereupon, feeling woefully guilty, I sought the skipper in the house, where he had gone (they said) to get out of his sea-boots. I was not disposed to dodge the issue. "Skipper Tommy," said I, bluntly, "I got a letter for you." He stared. "'Tis no joke," said I, with a wag, "as you'll find, when you gets t' know where 'tis from; but 'tis nothin' t' be scared of." "Was you sayin', Davy," he began, at last, trailing off into the silence of utter amazement, "that you--been--gettin'--a----" "I was sayin'," I answered, "that the mail-boat left you a letter." He came close. "Was you sayin'," he whispered in my ear, with a jerk of his head to the north, "that 'tis from----" I nodded. "_She?_" "Ay." He put his tongue in his cheek--and gave me a slow, sly wink. "Ecod!" said he. I was then mystified by his strange behaviour: this occurring while he made ready for the splitting-table. He chuckled, he tweaked his long nose until it flared, he scratched his head, he sighed, he scowled, he broke into vociferous laughter; and he muttered "Ecod!" an innumerable number of times, voicing, thereby, the gamut of human emotions and the degrees thereof, from lowest melancholy to a crafty sort of cynicism and thence to the height of smug elation. And, presently, when he had peered down the path to the stage, where the twins were forking the fish, he approached, stepping mysteriously, his gigantic forefinger raised in a caution to hush. "Davy," he whispered, "you isn't got that letter _aboard_ o' you, is you?" My heart misgave me; but--I nodded. "Well, well!" cried he. "I'm thinkin'," he added, his surprise somewhat mitigated by curiosity, "that you'll be havin' it in your jacket pocket." "Ay," was my sharp reply; "but I'll not read it." "No, no!" said he, severely, lifting a protesting hand, which he had now encased in a reeking splitting-mit. "I'd not _have_ you read it. Sure, I'd never 'low _that_! Was you thinkin', David Roth," now so reproachfully that my doubts seemed treasonable, "that I'd _want_ you to? Me--that nibbled once? Not I, lad! But as you _does_ happen t' have that letter in your jacket, you wouldn't mind me just takin' a _look_ at it, would you?" I produced the crumpled missive--with a sigh: for the skipper's drift was apparent. "My letter!" said he, gazing raptly. "Davy, lad, I'd kind o'--like t'--just t'--_feel_ it. They wouldn't be no hurt in me _holdin'_ it, would they?" I passed it over. "Now, Davy," he declared, his head on one side, the letter held gingerly before him, "I wouldn't read that letter an I could. No, lad--not an I could! But I've heared tell she had a deal o' l'arnin'; an' I'd kind o'--like t'--take a peek inside. Just," he added, hurriedly, "t' see what power she had for writin'." This pretense to a purely artistic interest in the production was wondrously trying to the patience. "Skipper Davy," he went on, awkwardly, skippering me with a guile that was shameless, "it bein' from a woman--bein' from a _woman_, now, says I--'twould be no more 'n po-lite t' open it. Come, now, Davy!" he challenged. "You wouldn't _say_ 'twould be more 'n po-lite, would you? It bein' from a lone woman?" I made no answer: for, at that moment, I caught sight of the twins, listening with open-mouthed interest from the threshold. "I wonders, Davy," the skipper confided, taking the leap, at last, "what she've gone an' writ!" "Jacky," I burst out, in disgust, turning to the twins, "I just _knowed_ he'd get t' wonderin'!" Skipper Tommy started: he grew shamefaced, all in a moment; and he seemed now first conscious of guilty wishes. "Timmie," said Jacky, hoarsely, from the doorway, "she've writ." "Ay, Jacky," Timmie echoed, "she've certain gone an' done it." They entered. "I been--sort o'--gettin' a letter, lads," the skipper stammered: a hint of pride in his manner. "It come ashore," he added, with importance, "from the mail-boat." "Dad," Timmie asked, sorrowfully, "is you been askin' Davy t' read that letter?" "Well, no, Timmie," the skipper drawled, tweaking his nose; "'tisn't quite so bad. But I been wonderin'----" "Oh, is you!" Jacky broke in. "Timmie," said he, grinning, "dad's been wonderin'!" "Is he?" Timmie asked, assuming innocence. "Wonderin'?" "Wasn't you sayin' so, dad?" "Well," the skipper admitted, "havin' _said_ so, I'll not gainsay it. I _was_ wonderin'----" "An' you _knowin'_," sighed Timmie, "that you're an obligin' man!" "Dad," Jacky demanded, "didn't the Lard kindly send a switch o' wind from the sou'east t' save you oncet?" The skipper blushed uneasily. "Does you think," Timmie pursued, "that He'll turn His hand _again_ t' save you?" "Well----" "Look you, dad," said Jacky, "isn't you got in trouble enough all along o' wonderin' too much?" "Well," the skipper exclaimed, badgered into self-assertion, "I _was_ wonderin'; but since you two lads come in I been _thinkin'_. Since them two twins o' mine come in, Davy," he repeated, turning to me, his eyes sparkling with fatherly affection, "I been thinkin' 'twould be a fine plan t' tack this letter t' the wall for a warnin' t' the household agin the wiles o' women!" Timmie and Jacky silently embraced--containing their delight as best they could, though it pained them. "Not," the skipper continued, "that I'll have a word said agin' that woman: which I won't," said he, "nor no other. The Lard knowed what He was about. He made them with His own hands, an' if _He_ was willin' t' take the responsibility, us men can do no less than stand by an' weather it out. 'Tis my own idea that He was more sot on fine lines than sailin' qualities when He whittled His model. 'I'll make a craft,' says He, 'for looks, an' I'll pay no heed,' says He, 't' the cranks she may have, hopin' for the best.' An' He done it! That He did! They're tidy craft--oh, ay, they're wonderful tidy craft--but 'tis Lard help un in a gale o' wind! An' the Lard made _she_," he continued, reverting to the woman from Wolf Cove, "after her kind, a woman, acquaint with the wiles o' women, actin' accordin' t' nature An'," he declared, irrelevantly, "_'tis_ gettin' close t' winter, an' _'twould_ be comfortable t' have a man t' tend the fires. She _do_ be of a designin' turn o' mind," he proceeded, "which is accordin' t' the nature o' women, puttin' no blame on her, an' she's not a wonderful lot for looks an' temper; but," impressively lifting his hand, voice and manner awed, "she've l'arnin', which is ek'al t' looks, if not t' temper. So," said he, "we'll say nothin' agin' her, but just tack this letter t' the wall, an' go split the fish. But," when the letter had thus been disposed of, "I wonder what----" "Come on, dad!" He put an arm around each of the grinning twins, and Timmie put an arm around me; and thus we went pell-mell down to the stage, where we had an uproarious time splitting the day's catch. * * * * * You must know, now, that all this time we had been busy with the fish, dawn to dark; that beyond our little lives, while, intent upon their small concerns, we lived them, a great and lovely work was wrought upon our barren coast: as every year, unfailingly, to the glory of God, who made such hearts as beat under the brown, hairy breasts of our men. From the Strait to Chidley, our folk and their kin from Newfoundland with hook and net reaped the harvest from the sea--a vast, sullen sea, unwilling to yield: sourly striving to withhold the good Lord's bounty from the stout and merry fellows who had with lively courage put out to gather it. 'Twas catch and split and stow away! In the dawn of stormy days and sunny ones--contemptuous of the gray wind and reaching seas--the skiffs came and went. From headland to headland--dodging the reefs, escaping the shifting peril of ice, outwitting the drifting mists--little schooners chased the fish. Wave and rock and wind and bergs--separate dangers, allied with night and fog and sleety rain--were blithely encountered. Sometimes, to be sure, they wreaked their purpose; but, notwithstanding, day by day the schooners sailed and the skiffs put out to the open, and fish were cheerily taken from the sea. Spite of all, the splitting-knives flashed, and torches flared on the decks and in the mud huts ashore. Barren hills--the bleak and uninhabited places of the northern coast--for a season reflected the lurid glow and echoed the song and shout. Thanks be to God, the fleet was loading! In the drear autumn weather a cloud of sail went to the s'uth'ard--doughty little schooners, decks awash: beating up to the home ports. XIX The FATE of The MAIL-BOAT DOCTOR My flag flapped a welcome in the sunny wind as the mail-boat came creeping through the Gate and with a great rattle and splatter dropped anchor in the basin off my father's wharf: for through my father's long glass I had from the summit of the Watchman long before spied the doctor aboard. He landed in fine fettle--clear-eyed, smiling, quick to extend his strong, warm hand: having cheery words for the folk ashore, and eager, homesick glances for the bleak hills of our harbour. Ecod! but he was splendidly glad to be home. I had as lief fall into the arms of a black bear as ever again to be greeted in a way so careless of my breath and bones! But, at last, with a joyous little laugh, he left me to gasp myself to life again, and went bounding up the path. I managed to catch my wind in time to follow; 'twas in my mind to spy upon his meeting with my sister; nor would I be thwarted: for I had for many days been troubled by what happened when they parted, and now heartily wished the unhappy difference forgot. So from a corner of the hillside flake I watched lynx-eyed; but I could detect nothing amiss--no hint of ill-feeling or reserve: only frank gladness in smile and glance and handclasp. And being well content with this, I went back to the wharf to lend Tom Tot a hand with the landing of the winter supplies, the medical stores, the outfit for the projected sloop: all of which the doctor had brought with him from St. John's. * * * * * "And not only that," said the doctor, that night, concluding his narrative of busy days in the city, "but I have been appointed," with a great affectation of pomposity, "the magistrate for this district!" We were not impressed. "The magistrate?" I mused. "What's that?" "What's a magistrate!" cried he. "Ay," said I. "I never seed one." "The man who enforces the law, to be sure!" "The law?" said I. "What's that?" "The law of the land, Davy," he began, near dumbfounded, "is for the----" My sister got suddenly much excited. "I've heard tell about magistrates," she interrupted, speaking eagerly, the light dancing merrily in her eyes. "Come, tell me! is they able t'----" She stuttered to a full stop, blushing. "Out with it, my dear," said I. "Marry folk?" she asked. "They may," said the doctor. "Oh, Davy!" "Whoop!" screamed I, leaping up. "You're never tellin' me that! Quick, Bessie! Come, doctor! They been waitin' this twenty year." I caught his right hand, Bessie his left; and out we dragged him, paying no heed to his questions, which, by and by, he abandoned, because he laughed so hard. And down the path we sped--along the road--by the turn to Cut-Throat Cove--until, at last, we came to the cottage of Aunt Amanda and Uncle Joe Bow, whom we threw into a fluster with our news. When the doctor was informed of the exigency of the situation, he married them on the spot, improvising a ceremony, without a moment's hesitation, as though he had been used to it all his life: a family of six meanwhile grinning with delight and embarrassment. "You sees, zur," Uncle Joe explained, when 'twas over, "we never had no chance afore. 'Manda an' me was down narth when the last parson come this way. An' 'Manda she've been wantin'----" "T' have it done," Aunt Amanda put in, patting the curly head of the smallest Bow, "afore----" "Ay," said Uncle Joe, "wantin' t' have it done, shipshape, afore she----" "Died," Aunt Amanda concluded. By this time the amazing news had spread. Far and near the guns were popping a salute--which set the dogs a-howling: so that the noise was heartrending. Presently the neighbours began to gather: whereupon (for the cottage was small) we took our leave, giving the pair good wishes for the continuance of a happy married life. And when we got to our house we found waiting in the kitchen Mag Trawl, who had that day brought her fish from Swampy Arm--a dull girl, slatternly, shiftless: the mother of two young sons. "I heared tell," she drawled, addressing the doctor, but looking elsewhere, "that you're just after marryin' Aunt Amanda." The doctor nodded. "I 'low," she went on, after an empty pause, "that I wants t' get married, too." "Where's the man?" "Jim he 'lowed two year ago," she said, staring at the ceiling, "that we'd go south an' have it done this season if no parson come." "Bring the man," said the doctor, briskily. "Well, zur," said she, "Jim ain't here. You couldn't do it 'ithout Jim bein' here, could you?" "Oh, no!" "I 'lowed you might be able," she said, with a little sigh, "if you tried. But you couldn't, says you?" "No." "Jim he 'lowed two year ago it ought t' be done. You couldn't do it nohow?" The doctor shook his head. "Couldn't make a shift at it?" "No." "Anyhow," she sighed, rising to go, "I 'low Jim won't mind now. He's dead." * * * * * Within three weeks the mail-boat touched our harbor for the last time that season: being then southbound into winter quarters at St. John's. It chanced in the night--a clear time, starlit, but windy, with a high sea running beyond the harbour rocks. She came in by way of North Tickle, lay for a time in the quiet water off our wharf, and made the open through the Gate. From our platform we watched the shadowy bulk and warm lights slip behind Frothy Point and the shoulder of the Watchman--hearkened for the last blast of the whistle, which came back with the wind when the ship ran into the great swell of the sea. Then--at once mustering all our cheerfulness--we turned to our own concerns: wherein we soon forgot that there was any world but ours, and were content with it. Tom Tot came in. "'Tis late for you, Tom," said my sister, in surprise. "Ay, Miss Bessie," he replied, slowly. "Wonderful late for me. But I been home talkin' with my woman," he went on, "an' we was thinkin' it over, an' she s'posed I'd best be havin' a little spell with the doctor." He was very grave--and sat twirling his cap: lost in anxious thought. "You're not sick, Tom?" "Sick!" he replied, indignantly. "Sure, I'd not trouble the doctor for that! I'm troubled," he added, quietly, looking at his cap, "along--o' Mary." It seemed hard for him to say. "She've been in service, zur," he went on, turning to the doctor, "at Wayfarer's Tickle. An' I'm fair troubled--along o' she." "She've not come?" my sister asked. For a moment Tom regarded the floor--his gaze fixed upon a protruding knot. "She weren't aboard, Miss Bessie," he answered, looking up, "an' she haven't sent no word. I been thinkin' I'd as lief take the skiff an' go fetch her home." "Go the morrow, Tom," said I. "I was thinkin' I would, Davy, by your leave. Not," he added, hastily, "that I'm afeared she've come t' harm. She's too scared o' hell for that. But--I'm troubled. An' I'm thinkin' she might--want a chance--home." He rose. "Tom," said I, "do you take Timmie Lovejoy an' Will Watt with you. You'll need un both t' sail the skiff." "I'm thankin' you, Davy, lad," said he. "'Tis kind o' you t' spare them." "An' I'm wishin' you well." He picked at a thread in his cap. "No," he persisted, doggedly, "she were so wonderful scared o' hell she fair _couldn't_ come t' harm. I brung her up too well for that. But," with a frown of anxious doubt, "the Jagger crew was aboard, bound home t' Newf'un'land. An'--well--I'm troubled. They was drunk--an' Jagger was drunk--an' I asked un about my maid--an'...." "Would he tell you nothing?" the doctor asked. "Well," said Tom, turning away, "he just laughed." We were at that moment distracted by the footfall of men coming in haste up the path from my father's wharf. 'Twas not hard to surmise their errand. My sister sighed--I ran to the door--the doctor began at once to get into his boots and greatcoat. But, to our surprise, two deck-hands from the mail-boat pushed their way into the room. She had returned (said they) and was now waiting off the Gate. There was need of a doctor aboard. Need of a doctor! What of the mail-boat doctor? Ah, 'twas he who was in need. My heart bounded to hear it! And how had he come to that pass? He had essayed to turn in--but 'twas rough water outside--and he had caroused with Jagger's crew all the way from Wayfarer's Tickle--and 'twas very rough water--and he had fallen headlong down the companion--and they had picked him up and put him in his berth, where he lay unconscious. 'Twas sweet news to me. "You'll not go?" I whispered to the doctor. He gave me a withering glance--and quietly continued to button his greatcoat. "Is you forgot what I told you?" I demanded, my voice rising. He would not reply. "Oh, don't go!" I pleaded. He turned up the collar of his coat--picked up his little black case of medicines. Then I feared that he meant indeed to go. "Leave un die where he lies, zur!" I wailed. "Come along, men!" said he to the deck-hands. I sprang ahead of them--flung the door shut--put my back against it: crying out against him all the while. My sister caught my wrist--I pushed her away. Tom Tot laid his hand on my shoulder--I threw it off with an oath. My heart was in a flame of rage and resentment. That this castaway should succour our enemy! I saw, again, a great, wet sweep of deck, glistening underfoot--heard the rush of wind, the swish of breaking seas, the throb and clank of engines, the rain on the panes--once again breathed the thick, gray air of a cabin where two men sat at cards--heard the curse and blow and outcry--saw my mother lying on the pillows, a red geranium in her thin, white hand--heard her sigh and whisper: felt anew her tender longing. "You'll _not_ go!" I screamed. "Leave the dog t' die!" Very gently, the doctor put his arm around me, and gave me to my sister, who drew me to her heart, whispering soft words in my ear: for I had no power to resist, having broken into sobs. Then they went out: and upon this I broke roughly from my sister, and ran to my own room; and I threw myself on my bed, and there lay in the dark, crying bitterly--not because the doctor had gone his errand against my will, but because my mother was dead, and I should never hear her voice again, nor touch her hand, nor feel her lips against my cheek. And there I lay alone, in deepest woe, until the doctor came again; and when I heard him on the stair--and while he drew a chair to my bed and felt about for my hand--I still sobbed: but no longer hated him, for I had all the time been thinking of my mother in a better way. "Davy," he said, gravely, "the man is dead." "I'm glad!" I cried. He ignored this. "I find it hard, Davy," said he, after a pause, "not to resent your displeasure. Did I not know you so well--were I less fond of the real Davy Roth--I should have you ask my pardon. However, I have not come up to tell you that; but this: you can, perhaps, with a good heart hold enmity against a dying man; but the physician, Davy, may not. Do you understand, Davy?" "I'm sorry I done what I did, zur," I muttered, contritely. "But I'm wonderful glad the man's dead." "For shame!" "I'm glad!" He left me in a huff. "An' I'll _be_ glad," I shouted after him, at the top of my voice, "if I got t' go 't hell for it!" 'Twas my nature. * * * * * Tom Tot returned downcast from Wayfarer's Tickle: having for three days sought his daughter, whom he could not find; nor was word of her anywhere to be had. Came, then, the winter--with high winds and snow and short gray days: sombre and bitter cold. Our folk fled to the tilts at the Lodge; and we were left alone with the maids and Timmie Lovejoy in my father's house: but had no idle times, for the doctor would not hear of it, but kept us at work or play, without regard for our wishes in the matter. 'Twas the doctor's delight by day to don his new skin clothes (which my sister had finished in haste after the first fall of snow) and with help of Timmie Lovejoy to manage the dogs and komatik, flying here and there at top speed, with many a shout and crack of the long whip. By night he kept school in the kitchen, which we must all diligently attend, even to the maids: a profitable occupation, no doubt, but laborious, to say the least of it, though made tolerable by his good humour. By and by there came a call from Blister Harbour, which was forty miles to the north of us, where a man had shot off his hand--another from Red Cove, eighty miles to the south--others from Backwater Arm and Molly's Tub. And the doctor responded, afoot or with the dogs, as seemed best at the moment: myself to bear him company; for I would have it so, and he was nothing loath. XX CHRISTMAS EVE at TOPMAST TICKLE Returning afoot from the bedside of Long John Wise at Run-by-Guess--and from many a bedside and wretched hearth by the way--the doctor and I strapped our packs aback and heartily set out from the Hudson's Bay Company's post at Bread-and-Water Bay in the dawn of the day before Christmas: being then three weeks gone from our harbour, and, thinking to reach it next day. We were to chance hospitality for the night; and this must be (they told us) at the cottage of a man of the name of Jonas Jutt, which is at Topmast Tickle. There was a lusty old wind scampering down the coast, with many a sportive whirl and whoop, flinging the snow about in vast delight--a big, rollicking winter's wind, blowing straight out of the north, at the pitch of half a gale. With this abeam we made brave progress; but yet 'twas late at night when we floundered down the gully called Long-an'-Deep, where the drifts were overhead and each must rescue the other from sudden misfortune: a warm glimmer of light in Jonas Jutt's kitchen window to guide and hearten us. The doctor beat the door with his fist. "Open, open!" cried he, still furiously knocking. "Good Lord! will you never open?" So gruff was the voice, so big and commanding--and so sudden was the outcry--and so late was the night and wild the wind and far away the little cottage--that the three little Jutts, who then (as it turned out) sat expectant at the kitchen fire, must all at once have huddled close; and I fancy that Sammy blinked no longer at the crack in the stove, but slipped from his chair and limped to his sister, whose hand he clutched. "We'll freeze, I tell you!" shouted the doctor. "Open the---- Ha! Thank you," in a mollified way, as Skipper Jonas opened the door; and then, most engagingly: "May we come in?" "An' welcome, zur," said the hearty Jonas, "whoever you be! 'Tis gettin' t' be a wild night." "Thank you. Yes--a wild night. Glad to catch sight of your light from the top of the hill. We'll leave the racquets here. Straight ahead? Thank you. I see the glow of a fire." We entered. "Hello!" cried the doctor, stopping short. "What's this? Kids? Good! Three of them. Ha! How are you?" The manner of asking the question was most indignant, not to say threatening; and a gasp and heavy frown accompanied it. By this I knew that the doctor was about to make sport for Martha and Jimmie and Sammy Jutt (as their names turned out to be): which often he did for children by pretending to be in a great rage; and invariably they found it delicious entertainment, for however fiercely he blustered, his eyes twinkled most merrily all the time, so that one was irresistibly moved to chuckle with delight at the sight of them, no matter how suddenly or how terribly he drew down his brows. "I like kids," said he, with a smack of the lips. "I eat 'em!" Gurgles of delight escaped from the little Jutts--and each turned to the other: the eyes of all dancing. "And how are _you_?" the doctor demanded. His fierce little glance was indubitably directed at little Sammy, as though, God save us! the lad had no right to be anything _but_ well, and ought to be, and should be, birched on the instant if he had the temerity to admit the smallest ache or pain from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. But Sammy looked frankly into the flashing eyes, grinned, chuckled audibly, and lisped that he was better. "Better?" growled the doctor, searching Sammy's white face and skinny body as though for evidence to the contrary. "I'll attend to _you_!" Thereupon Skipper Jonas took us to the shed, where we laid off our packs and were brushed clean of snow; and by that time Matilda Jutt, the mother of Martha and Jimmie and Sammy, had spread the table with the best she had--little enough, God knows! being but bread and tea--and was smiling beyond. Presently there was nothing left of the bread and tea; and then we drew up to the fire, where the little Jutts still sat, regarding us with great interest. And I observed that Martha Jutt held a letter in her hand: whereupon I divined precisely what our arrival had interrupted, for I was Labrador born, and knew well enough what went on in the kitchens of our land of a Christmas Eve. "And now, my girl," said the doctor, "what's what?" By this extraordinary question--delivered, as it was, in a manner that called imperatively for an answer--Martha Jutt was quite nonplussed: as the doctor had intended she should be. "What's what?" repeated the doctor. Quite startled, Martha lifted the letter from her lap. "He's not comin', zur," she gasped, for lack of something better. "You're disappointed, I see," said the doctor. "So he's not coming?" "No, zur--not this year." "That's too bad. But you mustn't mind it, you know--not for an instant. What's the matter with him?" "He've broke his leg, zur." "What!" cried the doctor, restored of a sudden to his natural manner. "Poor fellow! How did he come to do that?" "Catchin' one o' they wild deer, zur." "Catching a deer!" the doctor exclaimed. "A most extraordinary thing. He was a fool to try it. How long ago?" "Sure, it can't be more than half an hour; for he've----" The doctor jumped up. "Where is he?" he demanded, with professional eagerness. "It can't be far. Davy, I must get to him at once. I must attend to that leg. Where is he?" "Narth Pole, zur," whispered Sammy. "Oh-h-h!" cried the doctor; and he sat down again, and pursed his lips, and winked at Sammy in a way most peculiar. "I _see_!" "Ay, zur," Jimmie rattled, eagerly. "We're fair disappointed that he's not----" "Ha!" the doctor interrupted. "I see. Hum! Well, now!" And having thus incoherently exclaimed for a little, the light in his eyes growing merrier all the time, he most unaccountably worked himself into a great rage: whereby I knew that the little Jutts were in some way to be mightily amused. "The lazy rascal!" he shouted, jumping out of his chair, and beginning to stamp the room, frowning terribly. "The fat, idle, blundering dunderhead! Did they send you that message? Did they, now? Tell me, did they? Give me that letter!" He snatched the letter from Martha's lap. "Sammy," he demanded, "where did this letter come from?" "Narth Pole, zur!" Jonas Jutt blushed--and Matilda threw her apron over her head to hide her confusion. "And _how_ did it come?" "Out o' the stove, zur." The doctor opened the letter, and paused to slap it angrily, from time to time, as he read it. _North poll_ DEER MARTHA few lines is to let you know on acounts of havin broke me leg cotchin the deer Im sory im in a stat of helth not bein able so as to be out in hevy wether. hopin you is all wel as it leves me yrs respectful SANDY CLAWS Fish was poor and it would not be much this yere anyways. tel little Sammy "Ha!" shouted the doctor, as he crushed the letter to a little ball and flung it under the table. "Ha! That's the kind of thing that happens when one's away from home. There you have it! Discipline gone to the dogs. System gone to the dogs. Everything gone to the dogs. Now, what do you think of that?" He scowled, and gritted his teeth, and puffed, and said "Ha!" in a fashion so threatening that one must needs have fled the room had there not been a curiously reassuring twinkle in his eyes. "What do you think of that?" he repeated, fiercely, at last. "A countermanded order! I'll attend to _him_!" he burst out. "I'll fix that fellow! The lazy dunderhead, I'll soon fix him! Give me pen and ink. Where's the paper? Never mind. I've some in my pack. One moment, and I'll----" He rushed to the shed, to the great surprise and alarm of the little Jutts, and loudly called back for a candle, which Skipper Jonas carried to him; and when he had been gone a long time, he returned with a letter in his hand, still ejaculating in a great rage. "See that?" said he to the three little Jutts. "Well, _that's_ for Santa Claus's clerk. That'll fix _him_. That'll blister the stupid fellow." "Please, zur!" whispered Martha Jutt. "Well?" snapped the doctor, stopping short in a rush to the stove. "Please, zur," said Martha, taking courage, and laying a timid hand on his arm. "Sure, I don't know what 'tis all about. I don't know what blunder he've made. But I'm thinkin', zur, you'll be sorry if you acts in haste. 'Tis wise t' count a hundred. Don't be too hard on un, zur. 'Tis like the blunder may be mended. 'Tis like he'll do better next time. Don't be hard----" "_Hard_ on him?" the doctor interrupted. "Hard on _him_! Hard on that----" "Ay, zur," she pleaded, looking fearlessly up. "Won't you count a hundred?" "Count it," said he, grimly. Martha counted. I observed that the numbers fell slower--and yet more slowly--from her lips, until (and she was keenly on the watch) a gentler look overspread the doctor's face; and then she rattled them off, as though she feared he might change his mind once more. "----an' a hundred!" she concluded, breathless. "Well," the doctor drawled, rubbing his nose, "I'll modify it," whereupon Martha smiled, "just to 'blige _you_," whereupon she blushed. So he scratched a deal of the letter out; then he sealed it, strode to the stove, opened the door, flung the letter into the flames, slammed the door, and turned with a wondrously sweet smile to the amazed little Jutts. "There!" he sighed. "I think that will do the trick. We'll soon know, at any rate." We waited, all very still, all with eyes wide open, all gazing fixedly at the door of the stove. Then, all at once--and in the very deepest of the silence--the doctor uttered a startling "Ha!" leaped from his chair with such violence that he overturned it, awkwardly upset Jimmie Jutt's stool and sent the lad tumbling head over heels (for which he did not stop to apologize); and there was great confusion: in the midst of which the doctor jerked the stove door open, thrust in his arm, and snatched a blazing letter straight from the flames--all before Jimmie and Martha and Sammy Jutt had time to recover from the daze into which the sudden uproar had thrown them. "There!" cried the doctor, when he had managed to extinguish the blaze. "We'll just see what's in this. Better news, I'll warrant." You may be sure that the little Jutts were blinking amazement. There could be no doubt about the authenticity of _that_ communication. And the doctor seemed to know it: for he calmly tore the envelope open, glanced the contents over, and turned to Martha, the broadest of grins wrinkling his face. "Martha Jutt," said he, "will you _please_ be good enough to read _that_." And Martha read: _North Pole_, Dec. 24, 10:18 P.M. _To Captain Blizzard,_ _Jonas Jutt's Cottage, Topmast Tickle_, _Labrador Coast._ RESPECTED SIR: Regret erroneous report. Mistake of a clerk in the Bureau of Information. Santa Claus got away at 9:36. Wind blowing due south, strong and fresh. SNOW, Chief Clerk. Then there was a great outburst of glee. It was the doctor who raised the first cheer. Three times three and a tiger! And what a tiger it was! What with the treble of Sammy, which was of the thinnest description, and the treble of Martha, which was full and sure, and the treble of Jimmie, which dangerously bordered on a cracked bass, and what with Matilda's cackle and Skipper Jonas's croak and my own hoorays and the doctor's gutteral uproar (which might have been mistaken for a very double bass)--what with all this, as you may be sure, the shout of the wind was nowhere. Then we joined hands--it was the doctor who began it by catching Martha and Matilda--and danced the table round, shaking our feet and tossing our arms, the glee ever more uproarious--danced until we were breathless, every one, save little Sammy, who was not asked to join the gambol, but sat still in his chair, and seemed to expect no invitation. "Wind blowing due south, strong and fresh," gasped Jimmie, when, at last, we sat down. "He'll be down in a hurry, with they swift deer. My! but he'll just _whizz_ in this gale!" "But 'tis sad 'tis too late t' get word to un," said Martha, the smile gone from her face. "Sad, is it?" cried the doctor. "Sad! What's the word you want to send?" "'Tis something for Sammy, zur." Sammy gave Martha a quick dig in the ribs. "'N' mama," he lisped, reproachfully. "Ay, zur; we're wantin' it bad. An' does you think us could get word to un? For Sammy, zur?" "'N' mama," Sammy insisted. "We can try, at any rate," the doctor answered, doubtfully. "Maybe we can catch him on the way down. Where's that pen? Here we are. Now!" He scribbled rapidly, folded the letter in great haste, and dispatched it to Santa Claus's clerk by the simple process of throwing it in the fire. As before, he went to his pack in the shed, taking the candle with him--the errand appeared to be really most trivial--and stayed so long that the little Jutts, who now loved him very much (as I could see), wished that the need would not arise again. But, all in good time, he returned, and sat to watch for the reply, intent as any of them; and, presently, he snatched the stove door open, creating great confusion in the act, as before; and before the little Jutts could recover from the sudden surprise, he held up a smoking letter. Then he read aloud: "Try Hamilton Inlet. Touches there 10:48. Time of arrival at Topmast Tickle uncertain. No use waiting up. SNOW, Clerk." "By Jove!" exclaimed the doctor. "That's jolly! Touches Hamilton Inlet at 10:48." He consulted his watch. "It's now 10:43 and a half. We've just four and a half minutes. I'll get a message off at once. Where's that confounded pen? Ha! Here we are. Now--what is it you want for Sammy and mama?" The three little Jutts were suddenly thrown into a fearful state of excitement. They tried to talk all at once; but not one of them could frame a coherent sentence. It was most distressful to see. "The Exterminator!" Martha managed to jerk out, at last. "Oh, ay!" cried Jimmie Jutt. "Quick, zur! Write un down. Pine's Prompt Pain Exterminator. Warranted to cure. Please, zur, make haste." The doctor stared at Jimmie. "Oh, zur," groaned Martha, "don't be starin' like that! Write, zur! 'Twas all in the paper the prospector left last summer. Pine's Prompt Pain Exterminator. Cures boils, rheumatism, pains in the back an' chest, sore throat, an' all they things, an' warts on the hands by a simple application with brown paper. We wants it for the rheumatiz, zur. Oh, zur----" "None genuine without the label," Jimmie put in, in an excited rattle. "Money refunded if no cure. Get a bottle with the label." The doctor laughed--laughed aloud, and laughed again. "By Jove!" he roared, "you'll get it. It's odd, but--ha, ha!--by Jove, he has it in stock!" The laughter and repeated assurance seemed vastly to encourage Jimmie and Martha--the doctor wrote like mad while he talked--but not little Sammy. All that he lisped, all that he shouted, all that he screamed, had gone unheeded. As though unable to put up with the neglect any longer, he limped over the floor to Martha, and tugged her sleeve, and pulled at Jimmie's coat-tail, and jogged the doctor's arm, until, at last, he attracted a measure of attention. Notwithstanding his mother's protests--notwithstanding her giggles and waving hands--notwithstanding that she blushed as red as ink (until, as I perceived, her freckles were all lost to sight)--notwithstanding that she threw her apron over her head and rushed headlong from the room, to the imminent danger of the door-posts--little Sammy insisted that his mother's gift should be named in the letter of request. "Quick!" cried the doctor. "What is it? We've but half a minute left." Sammy began to stutter. "Make haste, b'y!" cried Jimmie. "One--bottle--of--the--Magic--Egyptian--Beautifier," said Sammy, quite distinctly for the first time in his life. The doctor looked blank; but he doggedly nodded his head, nevertheless, and wrote it down; and off went the letter at precisely 10:47.45, as the doctor said. * * * * * Later--when the excitement had all subsided and we sat dreaming in the warmth and glow--the doctor took little Sammy in his lap, and told him he was a very good boy, and looked deep in his eyes, and stroked his hair, and, at last, very tenderly bared his knee. Sammy flinched at that; and he said "Ouch!" once, and screwed up his face, when the doctor--his gruffness all gone, his eyes gentle and sad, his hand as light as a mother's--worked the joint, and felt the knee-cap and socket with the tips of his fingers. "And is this the rheumatiz the Prompt Exterminator is to cure, Sammy?" he asked. "Ith, zur." "Ah, is _that_ where it hurts you? Right on the point of the bone, there?" "Ith, zur." "And was there no fall on the rock, at all? Oh, there _was_ a fall? And the bruise was just there--where it hurts so much? And it's very hard to bear, isn't it?" Sammy shook his head. "No? But it hurts a good deal, sometimes, does it not? That's too bad. That's very sad, indeed. But, perhaps--perhaps, Sammy--I can cure it for you, if you are brave. And are you brave? No? Oh, I think you are. And you'll try to be, at any rate, won't you? Of course! That's a good boy." And so, with his sharp little knives, the doctor cured Sammy Jutt's knee, while the lad lay white and still on the kitchen table. And 'twas not hard to do; but had not the doctor chanced that way, Sammy Jutt would have been a cripple all his life. * * * * * "Doctor, zur," said Matilda Jutt, when the children were put to bed, with Martha to watch by Sammy, who was still very sick, "is you really got a bottle o' Pine's Prompt?" The doctor laughed. "An empty bottle," said he. "I picked it up at Poverty Cove. Thought it might come useful. I'll put Sammy's medicine in that. They'll not know the difference. And you'll treat the knee with it as I've told you. That's all. We must turn in at once; for we must be gone before the children wake in the morning." "Oh, ay, zur; an'----" she began: but hesitated, much embarrassed. "Well?" the doctor asked, with a smile. "Would you mind puttin' some queer lookin' stuff in one o' they bottles o' yours?" "Not in the least," in surprise. "An' writin' something on a bit o' paper," she went on, pulling at her apron, and looking down, "an' gluin' it t' the bottle?" "Not at all. But what shall I write?" She flushed. "'Magic Egyptian Beautifier,' zur," she answered; "for I'm thinkin' 'twould please little Sammy t' think that Sandy Claws left something--for me--too." * * * * * If you think that the three little Jutts found nothing but bottles of medicine in their stockings, when they got down-stairs on Christmas morning, you are very much mistaken. Indeed, there was much more than that--a great deal more than that. I will not tell you what it was; for you might sniff, and say, "Huh! That's little enough!" But there _was_ more than medicine. No man--rich man, poor man, beggarman nor thief, doctor, lawyer nor merchant chief--ever yet left a Hudson's Bay Company's post, stared in the face by the chance of having to seek hospitality of a Christmas Eve--no right-feeling man, I say, ever yet left a Hudson's Bay Company's post, under such circumstances, without putting something more than medicine in his pack. I chance to know, at any rate, that upon this occasion Doctor Luke did not. And I know, too--you may be interested to learn it--that as we floundered through the deep snow, homeward bound, soon after dawn, the next day, he was glad enough that he hadn't. No merry shouts came over the white miles from the cottage of Jonas Jutt, though I am sure that they rang there most heartily; but the doctor did not care: he shouted merrily enough for himself, for he was very happy. And that's the way _you'd_ feel, too, if you spent _your_ days hunting good deeds to do. XXI DOWN NORTH When, in my father's house, that night, the Christmas revel was over--when, last of all, in noisy glee, we had cleared the broad kitchen floor for Sir Roger De Coverly, which we danced with the help of the maids' two swains and Skipper Tommy Lovejoy and Jacky, who had come out from the Lodge for the occasion (all being done to the tune of "Money Musk," mercilessly wrung from an ancient accordion by Timmie Lovejoy)--when, after that, we had all gathered before the great blaze in the best room, we told no tales, such as we had planned to tell, but soon fell to staring at the fire, each dreaming his own dreams. * * * * * It may be that my thoughts changed with the dying blaze--passing from merry fancies to gray visions, trooping out of the recent weeks, of cold and hunger and squalid death in the places from which we had returned. "Davy!" said my sister. I started. "What in the world," she asked, "is you thinkin' so dolefully of?" "I been thinkin'," I answered, sighing, "o' the folk down narth." "Of the man at Runner's Woe?" the doctor asked. "No, zur. He on'y done murder. 'Twas not o' he. 'Twas o' something sadder than that." "Then 'tis too sad to tell," he said. "No," I insisted. "'Twould do well-fed folk good t' hear it." "What was it?" my sister asked. "I was thinkin'----" Ah, but '_twas_ too sad! "O' what?" "O' the child at Comfort Harbour, Bessie, that starved in his mother's arms." Timmie Lovejoy threw more billets on the fire. They flamed and spluttered and filled the room with cheerful light. "Davy," said the doctor, "we can never cure the wretchedness of this coast." "No, zur?" "But we can try to mitigate it." "We'll try," said I. "You an' me." "You and I." "And I," my sister said. Lying between the sturdy little twins, that night--where by right of caste I lay, for it was the warmest place in the bed--I abandoned, once and for all, my old hope of sailing a schooner, with the decks awash. "Timmie!" I whispered. He was sound asleep. I gave him an impatient nudge in the ribs. "Ay, Davy?" he asked. "You may have my hundred-tonner," said I. "What hundred-tonner?" "The big fore-an'-after, Timmie, I'm t' have when I'm growed. You may skipper she. You'll not wreck her, Timmie, will you?" He was asleep. "Hut!" I thought, angrily. "I'll have Jacky skipper that craft, if Timmie don't look out." At any rate, she was not to be for me. XXII The WAY From HEART'S DELIGHT It chanced in the spring of that year that my sister and the doctor and I came unfortuitously into a situation of grave peril: wherein (as you shall know) the doctor was precipitate in declaring a sentiment, which, it may be, he should still have kept close within his heart, withholding it until a happier day. But for this there is some excuse: for not one of us hoped ever again to behold the rocks and placid water of our harbour, to continue the day's work to the timely close of the day, to sit in quiet places, to dream a fruitful future, to aspire untroubled in security and ease: and surely a man, whatever his disposition and strength of mind, being all at once thus confronted, may without blame do that which, as a reward for noble endeavour, he had hoped in all honour to do in some far-off time. * * * * * Being bound across the bay from Heart's Delight of an ominously dull afternoon--this on a straight-away course over the ice which still clung to the coast rocks--we were caught in a change of wind and swept to sea with the floe: a rising wind, blowing with unseasonable snow from the northwest, which was presently black as night. Far off shore, the pack was broken in pieces by the sea, scattered broadcast by the gale; so that by the time of deep night--while the snow still whipped past in clouds that stung and stifled us--our pan rode breaking water: which hissed and flashed on every hand, the while ravenously eating at our narrow raft of ice. Death waited at our feet.... We stood with our backs to the wind, my sister and I cowering, numb and silent, in the lee of the doctor.... Through the long night 'twas he that sheltered us.... By and by he drew my sister close. She sank against his breast, and trembled, and snuggled closer, and lay very still in his arms.... I heard his voice: but was careless of the words, which the wind swept overhead--far into the writhing night beyond. "No, zur," my sister answered. "I'm not afraid--with you." A long time after that, when the first light of dawn was abroad--sullen and cheerless--he spoke again. "Zur?" my sister asked, trembling. He whispered in her ear. "Ay, zur," she answered. Then he kissed her lips.... * * * * * Late in the day the snow-clouds passed. Ice and black water mercilessly encompassed us to the round horizon of gray sky. There was no hope anywhere to be descried.... In the dead of night a change of wind herded the scattered fragments of the pack. The ice closed in upon us--great pans, crashing together: threatening to crush our frailer one.... We were driven in a new direction.... Far off to leeward--somewhere deep in the black night ahead--the floe struck the coast. We heard the evil commotion of raftering ice. It swept towards us. Our pan stopped dead with a jolt. The pack behind came rushing upon us. We were tilted out of the water--lifted clear of it all--dropped headlong with the wreck of the pan.... I crawled out of a shallow pool of water. "Bessie!" I screamed. "Oh, Bessie, where is you?" The noise of the pack passed into distance--dwindling to deepest silence. "Davy," my sister called, "is you hurt?" "Where is you, Bessie?" "Here, dear," she answered, softly. "The doctor has me safe." Guided by her sweet voice, I crept to them; and then we sat close together, silent all in the silent night, waiting for the dawn.... * * * * * We traversed a mile or more of rugged, blinding ice--the sky blue in every part, the sun shining warm, the wind blowing light and balmy from the south. What with the heat, the glare, the uneven, treacherous path--with many a pitfall to engulf us--'twas a toilsome way we travelled. The coast lay white and forsaken beyond--desolate, inhospitable, unfamiliar: an unkindly refuge for such castaways as we. But we came gratefully to the rocks, at last, and fell exhausted in the snow, there to die, as we thought, of hunger and sheer weariness. And presently the doctor rose, and, bidding us lie where we were, set out to discover our whereabouts, that he might by chance yet succour us: which seemed to me a hopeless venture, for the man was then near snow-blind, as I knew.... * * * * * Meantime, at our harbour, where the world went very well, the eye of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy chanced in aimless roving to alight upon the letter from Wolf Cove, still securely fastened to the wall, ever visible warning to that happy household against the wiles o' women. I fancy that (the twins being gone to Trader's Cove to enquire for us) the mild blue eye wickedly twinkled--that it found the tender missive for the moment irresistible in fascination--that the old man approached, stepping in awe, and gazed with gnawing curiosity at the pale, sprawling superscription, his very name--that he touched the envelope with his thick forefinger, just to make sure that 'twas tight in its place, beyond all peradventure of catastrophe--that, merely to provide against its defilement by dust, he removed and fondled it--that then he wondered concerning its contents, until, despite his crying qualms of conscience (the twins being gone to Trader's Cove and Davy Roth off to Heart's Delight to help the doctor heal the young son of Agatha Rundle), this fateful dreaming altogether got the better of him. At any rate, off he hied through the wind and snow to Tom Tot's cottage: where, as fortune had it, Tom Tot was mending a caplin seine. "Tom Tot," said he, quite shamelessly, "I'm fair achin' t' know what's in this letter." The harbour was cognizant of Skipper Tommy's state and standing temptation: much concerned, as well, as to the outcome. "Skipper Tommy," Tom Tot asked, and that most properly, "is you got leave o' the boss's son?" "Davy?" "Ay, Davy." "I is not," the skipper admitted, with becoming candour. "Is you spoke t' the twins?" "I is not." "Then," Tom Tot concluded, "shame on you!" Skipper Tommy tweaked his nose. "Tom Tot," said he, "you got a wonderful power for readin'. Don't you go tellin' _me_ you hasn't! I _knows_ you has." "Well," Tom Tot admitted, "as you're makin' a p'int of it, I'm fair on print, but poor on writin'." "Tom Tot," Skipper Tommy went on, with a wave (I fancy) of uttermost admiration, "I'll stand by it that you is as good at writin' as print. That I will," he added, recklessly, "agin the world." Tom Tot yielded somewhat to this blandishment. He took the proffered letter. "I isn't denyin', Skipper Tommy," he said, "that I'm able t' make out your name on this here letter." "Ecod!" cried Skipper Tommy, throwing up his hands. "I knowed it!" "I isn't denyin'," Tom Tot repeated, gravely, "that I'm _fair_ on writin'. Fair, mark you! No more." "Ay," said the skipper, "but I'm wantin' you t' know that this here letter was writ by a woman with a wonderful sight o' l'arnin'. I'll warrant you can read _it_. O' course," in a large, conclusive way, "an you _can't_----" "Skipper Tommy," Tom interrupted, quickly, "I isn't _sayin'_ I can't." "Isn't you?" innocently. "Why, Tom Tot, I was thinkin'----" "No, zur!" Tom answered with heat. "I isn't!" "Well, you wouldn't----" "I will!" "So be," said the skipper, with a sigh of infinite satisfaction. "I'm thinkin', somehow," he added, his sweet faith now beautifully radiant (I am sure), as was his way, "that the Lard is mixed up in this letter. He's mixed up in 'most all that goes on, an' I'd not be s'prised if He had a finger in this. 'Now,' says the Lard, 'Skipper Tommy,' says He, 'the mail-boat went t' the trouble o' leavin' you a letter,' says He, 'an'----'" "Leave the Lard out o' this," Tom Tot broke in. "Sure, an' why?" Skipper Tom mildly asked. "You've no call t' drag Un in here," was the sour reply. "You leave Un alone. You're gettin' too wonderful free an' easy with the Lard God A'mighty, Thomas Lovejoy. He'll be strikin' you dead in your tracks an you don't look out." "Tom Tot," the skipper began, "the Lard an' me is wonderful----" "Leave the Lard alone," Tom Tot snapped. "Come, now! Is you wantin' this here letter read?" "I is." Without more ado, Tom Tot opened the letter from Wolf Cove. I have no doubt that sensitive blood flushed the bronzed, wrinkled cheeks of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, and that, in a burst of grinning modesty, he tweaked his nose with small regard for that sorely tried and patient member. And I am informed that, while my old friend thus waited in ecstasy, Tom Tot puzzled over the letter, for a time, to make sure that his learning would not be discomfited in the presence of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, before whom he had boasted. Then---- "Skipper Tommy," he implored, in agony, "how long--oh, how long--is you had this letter?" Skipper Tommy stared. "How long, oh, how long?" Tom Tot repeated. "What's gone amiss?" Skipper Tommy entreated, touching Tom Tot's shaking hand. "It come in the fall o' the year, Tom, lad. But what's gone amiss along o' you?" "She've been waitin'--since then? Oh, a wretched father, I!" "Tom, lad, tell me what 'tis all about." "'Tis from she--Mary! 'Tis from my lass," Tom Tot cried. "'Twas writ by that doctor-woman--an' sent t' you, Skipper Tommy--t' tell me--t' break it easy--that she'd run off from Wayfarer's Tickle--because o' the sin she'd found there. I misdoubt--oh, I misdoubt--that she've been afeared I'd--that I'd mistook her, poor wee thing--an' turn her off. I call the Lard God A'mighty t' witness," he cried, passionately, "that I'd take her home, whatever come t' pass! I calls God t' witness that I loves my lass! She've done no wrong," he continued. "She've but run away from the sin t' Wayfarer's Tickle. She've taken shelter t' Wolf Cove--because--she've been afeared that--I'd mistook--an' cast her off!" "An' she's waitin' there for you?" "Ay--for me--t' bring her home." "For her father t' come?" "Her father." There was a moment of silence. "Tom Tot," Skipper Tommy declared, fetching his thigh a resounding slap, "that letter's been tacked t' my wall the winter long. Is you hearin' me, Tom Tot? It's been lyin' idle agin my wall. While she've been waitin', Tom! While she've been waitin'!" "Oh, ay!" "I'm fair glad you're hearin' me," said the skipper. "For I calls you t' witness this: that when I cotches them twins o' mine I'll thwack un till they're red, Tom Tot--till they're red and blistered below decks. An' when I cotches that young Davy Roth--when I cotches un alone, 'ithout the doctor--I'll give un double watches." "We'll get underway for Wolf Cove, Skipper Tommy," said Tom Tot, "when the weather lightens. An' we'll fetch that lass o' mine," he added, softly, "home." "That we will, Tom Tot," said Skipper Tommy Lovejoy. And 'twas thus it came about that we were rescued: for, being old and wise, they chose to foot it to Wolf Cove--over the 'longshore hills--fearing to chance the punt at sea, because of the shifting ice. Midway between our harbour and Wolf Cove, they found the doctor sitting blind in the snow, but still lustily entreating the surrounding desolation for help--raising a shout at intervals, in the manner of a faithful fog-horn. Searching in haste and great distress, they soon came upon my sister and me, exhausted, to be sure, and that most pitiably, but not beyond the point of being heartily glad of their arrival. Then they made a tiny fire with birch rind and billets from Tom Tot's pack--and the fire crackled and blazed in a fashion the most heartening--and the smutty tin kettle bubbled as busily as in the most immaculate of kitchens: and presently the tea and hard-bread were doing such service as rarely, indeed, save in our land, it is their good fortune to achieve. And having been refreshed and roundly scolded, we were led to the cove beyond, where we lay the night at the cottage of Tiltworthy Cutch: whence, in the morning, being by that time sufficiently restored, we set out for our harbour, under the guidance of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, whose continued separation from the woman at Wolf Cove I made sure of by commanding his presence with us. "You may beat me, Skipper Tommy," said I, "when you gets me home, an' I wish you joy of it. But home you goes!" "But, Davy, lad," he protested, "there's that poor Tom Tot goin' on alone----" "Home you goes!" "An' there's that kind-hearted doctor-woman. Sure, now, Davy," he began, sweetly, "I'd like t' tell she----" "That's just," said I, "what I'm afeared of." Home the skipper came; and when the twins and I subsequently presented ourselves for chastisement, with solemn ceremony, gravely removing whatever was deemed in our harbour superfluous under the circumstances, he was so affected by the spectacle that (though I wish I might write it differently) he declared himself of opinion, fixed and unprejudiced, that of all the works of the Lord, which were many and infinitely blessed, none so favoured the gracious world as the three contrite urchins there present: and in this ecstasy of tenderness (to our shame) quite forgot the object of our appearance. * * * * * When Tom Tot brought Mary home from Wolf Cove, my sister and the doctor and I went that night by my sister's wish to distinguish the welcome, so that, in all our harbour, there might be no quibble or continuing suspicion; and we found the maid cutting her father's hair in the kitchen (for she was a clever hand with the scissors and comb), as though nothing had occurred--Skipper Tommy Lovejoy meanwhile with spirit engaging the old man in a discussion of the unfailing topic; this being the attitude of the Lord God Almighty towards the wretched sons of men, whether feeling or not. In the confusion of our entrance Mary whispered in my ear. "Davy lad," she said, with an air of mystery, "I got home." "I'm glad, Mary," I answered, "that you got home." "An', hist!" said she, "I got something t' tell you," said she, her eyes flashing, "along about hell." "Is you?" I asked, in fear, wishing she had not. She nodded. "Is you _got_ t' tell me, Mary?" "Davy," she whispered, pursing her lips, in the pause regarding me with a glance so significant of darkest mystery that against my very will I itched to share the fearful secret, "I got t'." "Oh, why?" I still protested. "I been there!" said she. 'Twas quite enough to entice me beyond my power: after that, I kept watch, all in a shiver of dread, for some signal; and when she had swept her father's shorn hair from the floor, and when my sister had gone with Tom Tot's wife to put the swarm of little Tots to bed, and when Tom Tot had entered upon a minute description of the sin at Wayfarer's Tickle, from which his daughter, fearing sudden death and damnation, had fled, Mary beckoned me to follow: which I did. Without, in the breathless, moonlit night, I found her waiting in a shadow; and she caught me by the wrist, clutching it cruelly, and led me to the deeper shadow and seclusion of a great rock, rising from the path to the flake. 'Twas very still and awesome, there in the dark of that black rock, with the light of the moon lying ghostly white on all the barren world, and the long, low howl of some forsaken dog from time to time disturbing the solemn silence. I was afraid. "Davy, lad," she whispered, bending close, so that she could look into my eyes, which wavered, "is you listenin'?" "Ay," I answered, breathless. Her voice was then triumphant. "I been t' hell," said she, "an' back!" "What's it like, Mary?" She shuddered. "What's it like," I pleaded, lusting for the unholy knowledge, "in hell?" For a moment she stared at the moonlit hills. Her grasp on my wrist relaxed. I saw that her lips were working. "What's it like," I urged, "in hell?" for I devoutly wished to have the disclosure over with. "'Tis hell," she answered, low, "at Wayfarer's Tickle. The gate t' hell! Rum an' love, Davy, dear," she added, laying a fond hand upon my head, "leads t' hell." "Not love!" I cried, in sudden fear: for I had thought of the driving snow, of my dear sister lying in the doctor's arms, of his kiss upon her lips. "Oh, love leads t' heaven!" "T' hell," said she. "No, no!" "T' hell." I suffered much in the silence--while, together, Mary and I stared at the silent world, lying asleep in the pale light. "'Twas rum," she resumed, "that sent the crew o' the _Right an' Tight_ t' hell. An' 'twas a merry time they had at the gate. Ay, a merry time, with Jagger fillin' the cups an' chalkin' it down agin the fish! But they went t' hell. _They went t' hell_! She was lost with all hands in the gale o' that week--lost on the Devil's Fingers--an' all hands drunk! An' Jack Ruddy o' Helpful Harbour," she muttered, "went down along o' she. He was a bonnie lad," she added, tenderly, "an' he kissed me by stealth in the kitchen." Very sorrowfully she dreamed of that boisterous kiss. "But," she concluded, "'twas love that put Eliza Hare in th' etarnal fires." "Not love!" I complained. "Davy," she said, not deigning to answer me, "Davy," she repeated, her voice again rising splendidly triumphant, "I isn't goin' t' hell! For I've looked in an' got away. The Lard'll never send me, now. Never!" "I'm glad, Mary." "I'm not a goat," she boasted. "'Twas all a mistake. I'm a sheep. That's what I is!" "I'm wonderful glad." "But you, Davy," she warned, putting an arm about my waist, in sincere affection, "you better look out." "I isn't afeared." "You better look out!" "Oh, Mary," I faltered, "I--I--isn't _much_ afeared." "You better look out!" "Leave us go home!" I begged. "The Lard'll ship you there an you don't look out. He've no mercy on little lads." "Oh, leave us go home!" "He'll be cotchin' you!" I could bear it no longer: nor wished to know any more about hell. I took her hand, and dragged her from the black shadow of the rock: crying out that we must now go home. Then we went back to Tom Tot's cheerful kitchen; and there I no longer feared hell, but could not forget, try as I would, what Mary Tot had told me about love. * * * * * Skipper Tommy Lovejoy was preaching what the doctor called in his genial way "The Gospel According to Tommy." "Sure, now, Tom Tot," said he, "the Lard is a Skipper o' wonderful civil disposition. 'Skipper Tommy,' says He t' me, 'an you only does the best----'" "You're too free with the name o' the Lard." Skipper Tommy looked up in unfeigned surprise. "Oh, no, Tom," said he, mildly, "I isn't. The Lard an' me is----" "You're too free," Tom Tot persisted. "Leave Un be or you'll rue it." "Oh, no, Tom," said the skipper. "The Lard an' me gets along wonderful well together. We're _wonderful_ good friends. I isn't scared o' _He_!" As we walked home, that night, the doctor told my sister and me that, whatever the greater world might think of the sin at Wayfarer's Tickle, whether innocuous or virulent, Jagger was beyond cavil flagrantly corrupting our poor folk, who were simple-hearted and easy to persuade: that he was, indeed, a nuisance which must be abated, come what would. XXIII The COURSE of TRUE LOVE Symptoms of my dear sister's previous disorder now again alarmingly developed--sighs and downcast glances, quick flushes, infinite tenderness to us all, flashes of high spirits, wet lashes, tumultuously beating heart; and there were long dreams in the twilight, wherein, when she thought herself alone, her sweet face was at times transfigured into some holy semblance. And perceiving these unhappy evidences, I was once more disquieted; and I said that I must seek the doctor's aid, that she might be cured of the perplexing malady: though, to be sure, as then and there I impatiently observed, the doctor seemed himself in some strange way to have contracted it, and was doubtless quite incapable of prescribing. My sister would not brook this interference. "I'm not sayin'," she added, "that the doctor couldn't cure me, an he had a mind to; for, Davy, dear," with an earnest wag of her little head, "'twould not be the truth. I'm only sayin' that I'll not have un try it." "Sure, why, Bessie?" Her glance fell. "I'll not tell you why," said she. "But I'm wantin' t' know." She pursed her lips. "Is you forgettin'," I demanded, "that I'm your brother?" "No," she faltered. "Then," said I, roughly, "I'll have the doctor cure you whether you will or not!" She took my hand, and for a moment softly stroked it, looking away. "You're much changed, dear," she said, "since our mother died." "Oh, Bessie!" "Ay," she sighed. I hung my head. 'Twas a familiar bitterness. I was, indeed, not the same as I had been. And it seems to me, now--even at this distant day--that this great loss works sad changes in us every one. Whether we be child or man, we are none of us the same, afterwards. "Davy," my sister pleaded, "were your poor sister now t' ask you t' say no word----" "I would not say one word!" I broke in. "Oh, I would not!" That was the end of it. * * * * * Next day the doctor bade me walk with him on the Watchman, so that, as he said, he might without interruption speak a word with me: which I was loath to do; for he had pulled a long face of late, and had sighed and stared more than was good for our spirits, nor smiled at all, save in a way of the wryest, and was now so grave--nay, sunk deep in blear-eyed melancholy--that 'twas plain no happiness lay in prospect. 'Twas sad weather, too--cold fog in the air, the light drear, the land all wet and black, the sea swishing petulantly in the mist. I had no mind to climb the Watchman, but did, cheerily as I could, because he wished it, as was my habit. When we got to Beacon Rock, there was no flush of red in the doctor's cheeks, as ever there had been, no life in his voice, which not long since had been buoyant; and his hand, while for a moment it rested affectionately on my shoulder, shook in a way that frightened me. "Leave us go back!" I begged. "I'm not wantin' t' talk." I wished I had not come: for there was in all this some foreboding of wretchedness. I was very much afraid. "I have brought you here, Davy," he began, with grim deliberation, "to tell you something about myself. I do not find it," with a shrug and a wry mouth, "a pleasant----" "Come, zur," I broke in, this not at all to my liking, "leave us go t' the Soldier's Ear!" "Not an agreeable duty," he pursued, fixing me with dull eyes, "for me to speak; nor will it be, I fancy, for you to hear. But----" This exceeded even my utmost fears. "I dare you, zur," said I, desperate for a way of escape, "t' dive from Nestin' Ledge this cold day!" He smiled--but 'twas half a sad frown; for at once he puckered his forehead. "You're scared!" I taunted. He shook his head. "Oh, do come, zur!" "No, Davy," said he. I sighed. "For," he added, sighing, too, "I have something to tell you, which must now be told." Whatever it was--however much he wished it said and over with--he was in no haste to begin. While, for a long time, I kicked at the rock, in anxious expectation, he sat with his hands clasped over his knee, staring deep into the drear mist at sea--beyond the breakers, past the stretch of black and restless water, far, far into the gray spaces, which held God knows what changing visions for him! I stole glances at him--not many, for then I dared not, lest I cry; and I fancied that his disconsolate musings must be of London, a great city, which, as he had told me many times, lay infinitely far away in that direction. "Well, Davy, old man," he said, at last, with a quick little laugh, "hit or miss, here goes!" "You been thinkin' o' London," I ventured, hoping, if might be, for a moment longer to distract him. "But not with longing," he answered, quickly. "I left no one to wish me back. Not one heart to want me--not one to wait for me! And I do not wish myself back. I was a dissipated fellow there, and when I turned my back on that old life, when I set out to find a place where I might atone for those old sins, 'twas without regret, and 'twas for good and all. This," he said, rising, "is my land. This," he repeated, glancing north and south over the dripping coast, the while stretching wide his arms, "is now my land! I love it for the opportunity it gave me. I love it for the new man it has made me. I have forgotten the city. I love _this_ life! And I love you, Davy," he cried, clapping his arm around me, "and I love----" He stopped. "I knows, zur," said I, in an awed whisper, "whom you love." "Bessie," said he. "Ay, Bessie." There was now no turning away. My recent fears had been realized. I must tell him what was in my heart. "Mary Tot says, zur," I gasped, "that love leads t' hell." He started from me. "I would not have my sister," I continued, "go t' hell. For, zur," said I, "she'd be wonderful lonesome there." "To hell?" he asked, hoarsely. "Oh, ay!" I groaned. "T' the flames o' hell!" "'Tis not true!" he burst out, with a radiant smile. "I know it! Love--my love for her--has led me nearer heaven than ever I hoped to be!" I troubled no more. Here was a holy passion. Child that I was--ignorant of love and knowing little enough of evil--I still perceived that this love was surely of the good God Himself. I feared no more for my dear sister. She would be safe with him. "You may love my sister," said I, "an you want to. You may have her." He frowned in a troubled way. "Ay," I repeated, convinced, "you may have my dear sister. I'm not afraid." "Davy," he said, now so grave that my heart jumped, "you give her to the man I am." "I'm not carin'," I replied, "what you was." "You do not know." Apprehension grappled with me. "I'm not wantin' t' know," I protested. "Come, zur," I pleaded, "leave us go home." "Once, Davy," he said, "I told you that I had been wicked." "You're not wicked now." "I was." "I'm not carin' what you was. Oh, zur," I cried, tugging at his hand, "leave us go home!" "And," said he, "a moment ago I told you that I had been a dissipated fellow. Do you know what that means?" "I'm not _wantin_' t' know!" "You must know." I saw the peril of it all. "Oh, tell me not!" I begged. "Leave us go home!" "But I _must_ tell you, Davy," said he, beginning, now in an agony of distress, to pace the hilltop. "It is not a matter of to-day. You are only a lad, now; but you will grow up--and learn--and know. Oh, God," he whispered, looking up to the frowning sky, laying, the while, his hand upon my head, "if only we could continue like this child! If only we _need_ not know! I want you, Davy," he continued, once more addressing me, "when you grow up, to know, to recall, whatever happens, that I was fair, fair to you and fair to her, whom you love. You are not like other lads. It is your _place_, I think, in this little community, that makes you different. _You_ can understand. I _must_ tell you." "I'm scared t' know," I gasped. "Take my sister, zur, an' say no more." "Scared to know? And I to tell. But for your sister's sake--for the sake of her happiness--I'll tell you, Davy--let me put my arm around you--ay, I'll tell you, lad, God help me! what it means to be a dissipated fellow. O Christ," he sighed, "I pay for all I did! Merciful God, at this moment I pay the utmost price! Davy, lad," drawing me closer, "you will not judge me harshly?" "I'll hearken," I answered, hardening. Then, frankly, he told me as much, I fancy, as a man may tell a lad of such things.... * * * * * In horror--in shame--ay, in shame so deep I flushed and dared not look at him--I flung off his arms. And I sprang away--desperately fingering my collar: for it seemed I must choke, so was my throat filled with indignation. "You wicked man!" I cried. "You kissed my sister. You--_you_--kissed my sister!" "Davy!" "You wicked, wicked man!" "Don't, Davy!" "Go 'way!" I screamed. Rather, he came towards me, opening his arms, beseeching me. But I was hot-headed and willful, being only a lad, without knowledge of sin gained by sinning, and, therefore, having no compassion; and, still, I fell away from him, but he followed, continuing to beseech me, until, at last, I struck him on the breast: whereupon, he winced, and turned away. Then, in a flash--in the still, illuminating instant that follows a blow struck in blind rage--I was appalled by what I had done; and I stood stiff, my hands yet clinched, a storm of sobs on the point of breaking: hating him and myself and all the world, because of the wrong he had done us, and the wrong I had done him, and the wrong that life had worked us all. I took to my heels. "Davy!" he called. The more he cried after me, the more beseechingly his voice rang in my ears, the more my heart urged me to return--the harder I ran. * * * * * I wish I had not struck him ... I wish, I say, I had not struck him ... I wish that when he came towards me, with his arms wide open, his grave, gray eyes pleading--wretched soul that he was--I wish that then I had let him enfold me. What poor cleverness, what a poor sacrifice, it would have been! 'Twas I--strange it may have been--but still 'twas I, Davy Roth, a child, Labrador born and bred, to whom he stretched out his hand. I should have blessed God that to this remote place a needful man had come. 'Twas my great moment of opportunity. I might--I might--have helped him. How rare the chance! And to a child! I might have taken his hand. I might have led him immediately into placid waters. But I was I--unfeeling, like all lads: blind, too, reprehensible, deserving of blame. In all my life--and, as it happens (of no merit of my own, but of his), it has thus far been spent seeking to give help and comfort to such as need it--never, never, in the diligent course of it, has an opportunity so momentous occurred. I wish--oh, I wish--he might once again need me! To lads--and to men--and to frivolous maids--and to beggars and babies and cripples and evil persons--and to all sorts and conditions of human kind! Who knows to whom the stricken soul--downcast whether of sin or sorrow--may appeal? Herein is justification--the very key to heaven, with which one may unlock the door and enter, claiming bliss by right, defiant of God Himself, if need were: "I have sinned, in common with all men, O God, but I have sought to help such as were in sorrow, whether of sin or the misfortunes incident to life in the pit below, which is the world. You dare not cast me out!" Oh, men and women, lads and maids, I speak because of the wretchedness of my dear folk, out of their sorrow, which is common to us all, but here, in this barren place, is unrelieved, not hidden. Take the hand stretched out! And watch: lest in the great confusion this hand appear--and disappear. If there be sin, here it is: that the hand wavered, beseeching, within reach of such as were on solid ground, and was not grasped. * * * * * Ah, well! to my sister I ran; and I found her placidly sewing in the broad window of our house, which now looked out upon a melancholy prospect of fog and black water and vague gray hills. Perceiving my distress, she took me in her lap, big boy though I was, and rocked me, hushing me, the while, until I should command my grief and disclose the cause of it. "He's a sinful man," I sobbed, at last. "Oh, dear Bessie, care no more for him!" She stopped rocking--and pressed me closer to her soft, sweet bosom--so close that she hurt me, as my loving mother used to do. And when I looked up--when, taking courage, I looked into her face--I found it fearsomely white and hopeless; and when, overcome by this, I took her hand, I found it very cold. "Not sinful," she whispered, drawing my cheek close to hers. "Oh, not that!" "A sinful, wicked person," I repeated, "not fit t' speak t' such as you." "What have he done, Davy?" "I'd shame t' tell you." "Oh, what?" "I may not tell. Hug me closer, Bessie, dear. I'm in woeful want o' love." She rocked me, then--smoothing my cheek--kissing me--hoping thus to still my grief. A long, long time she coddled me, as my mother might have done. "Not sinful," she said. "Ay, a wicked fellow. We must turn un out o' here, Bessie. He've no place here, no more. He've sinned." She kissed me on the lips. Her arms tightened about me. And there we sat--I in my sister's arms--hopeless in the drear light of that day. "I love him," she said. "Love him no more! Bessie, dear, he've sinned past all forgiving." Again--and now abruptly--she stopped rocking. She sat me back in her lap. I could not evade her glance--sweet-souled, confident, content, reflecting the bright light of heaven itself. "There's no sin, Davy," she solemnly said, "that a woman can't forgive." * * * * * I passed that afternoon alone on the hills--the fog thickening, the wind blowing wet and cold, the whole world cast down--myself seeking, all the while, some reasonable way of return to the doctor's dear friendship. I did not know--but now I know--that reason, sour and implacable, is sadly inadequate to our need when the case is sore, and, indeed, a wretched staff, at best: but that fine impulse, the sure, inner feeling, which is faith, is ever the more trustworthy, if good is to be achieved, for it is forever sanguine, nor, in all the course of life, relentless. But, happily, Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, who, in my childhood, came often opportunely to guide me with his wiser, strangely accurate philosophy, now sought me on the hill, being informed, as it appeared, of my distress--and because, God be thanked! he loved me. "Go 'way!" I complained. "Go 'way?" cried he, indignantly. "I'll not go 'way. For shame! To send me from you!" "I'm wantin' t' be alone." "Ay; but 'tis unhealthy for you." "I'm thrivin' well enough." "Hut!" said he. "What's this atween the doctor an' you? You'd cast un off because he've sinned? Ecod! I've seldom heard the like. Who is you? Even the Lard God A'mighty wouldn't do that. Sure, _He_ loves only such as have sinned. Lad," he went on, now, with a smile, with a touch of his rough old hand, compelling my confidence and affection, "what's past is done with. Isn't you l'arned that yet? Old sins are as if they never had been. Else what hope is there for us poor sons of men? The weight o' sin would sink us. 'Tis not the dear Lard's way t' deal so with men. To-day is not yesterday. What was, has been; it is not. A man is not what he was--he is what he is. But yet, lad--an' 'tis wonderful queer--to-day _is_ yesterday. 'Tis _made_ by yesterday. The mistake--the sin--o' yesterday is the straight course--the righteous deed--o' to-day. 'Tis only out o' sin that sweetness is born. That's just what sin is for! The righteous, Davy, dear," he said, in all sincerity, "are not lovable, not trustworthy. The devil nets un by the hundred quintal, for _'tis_ such easy fishin'; but sinners--such as sin agin their will--the Lard loves an' gathers in. They who sin must suffer, Davy, an' only such as suffer can _know_ the dear Lard's love. God be thanked for sin," he said, looking up, inspired. "Let the righteous be damned--they deserve it. Give _me_ the company o' sinners!" "Is you sure?" I asked, confounded by this strange doctrine. "I thank God," he answered, composedly, "that _I_ have sinned--and suffered." "Sure," said I, "_you_ ought t' know, for you've lived so awful long." "They's nothin' like sin," said he, with a sure smack of the lips, "t' make good men. I knows it." "An' Bessie?" "Oh, Davy, lad, _she'll_ be safe with him!" Then I, too, knew it--knew that sin had been beneficently decreed by God, whose wisdom seems so all-wise, once our perverse hearts are opened to perceive--knew that my dear sister would, indeed, be safe with this sinner, who sorrowed, also. And I was ashamed that I had ever doubted it. "Look!" Skipper Tommy whispered. Far off--across the harbour--near lost in the mist--I saw my sister and the doctor walking together. * * * * * My sister was waiting for me. "Davy," she asked, anxiously, "where have you been?" "On the hills," I answered. For a moment she was silent, fingering her apron; and then, looking fearlessly into my eyes--"I love him," she said. "I'm glad." "I cannot help it," she continued, clasping her hands, her breast heaving. "I love him--so _hard_--I cannot tell it." "I'm glad." "An' he loves me. He loves me! I'm not doubtin' that. He _loves_ me," she whispered, that holy light once more breaking about her, in which she seemed transfigured. "Oh," she sighed, beyond expression, "he loves me!" "I'm glad." "An' I'm content t' know it--just t' know that he loves me--just t' know that I love him. His hands and eyes and arms! I ask no more--but just t' know it. Just once to have--to have had him--kiss me. Just once to have lain in his arms, where, forever, I would lie. Oh, I'm glad," she cried, joyously, "that the good Lord made me! I'm glad--just for that. Just because he kissed me--just because I love him, who loves me. I'm glad I was made for him to love. 'Tis quite enough for me. I want--only this I want--that he may have me--that, body and soul, I may satisfy his love--so much I love him. Davy," she faltered, putting her hands to her eyes, "I love--I _love_--I love him!" Ecod! 'Twas too much for me. Half scandalized, I ran away, leaving her weeping in my dear mother's rocking-chair. * * * * * My sister and I were alone at table that evening. The doctor was gone in the punt to Jolly Harbour, the maids said; but why, they did not know, for he had not told them--nor could we guess: for 'twas a vexatious distance, wind and tide what they were, nor would a wise man undertake it, save in case of dire need, which did not then exist, the folk of Jolly Harbour, as everybody knows, being incorruptibly healthy. But I would not go to sleep that night until my peace was made; and though, to deceive my sister, I went to bed, I kept my eyes wide open, waiting for the doctor's step on the walk and on the stair: a slow, hopeless footfall, when, late in the night, I heard it. I followed him to his room--with much contrite pleading on the tip of my tongue. And I knocked timidly on the door. "Come in, Davy," said he. My heart was swelling so--my tongue so sadly unmanageable--that I could do nothing but whimper. But---- "I'm wonderful sad, zur," I began, after a time, "t' think that I----" "Hush!" said he. 'Twas all I said--not for lack of will or words, but for lack of breath and opportunity; because all at once (and 'twas amazingly sudden) I found myself caught off my feet, and so closely, so carelessly, embraced, that I thought I should then and there be smothered: a death which, as I had been led to believe, my dear sister might have envied me, but was not at all to my liking. And when I got my breath 'twas but to waste it in bawling. But never had I bawled to such good purpose: for every muffled howl and gasp brought me nearer to that state of serenity from which I had that day cast myself by harsh and willful conduct. Then--and 'twas not hard to do--I offered my supreme propitiation: which was now no more a sacrifice, but, rather, a high delight. "You may have my sister, zur," I sobbed. He laughed a little--laughed an odd little laugh, the like of which I had never heard. "You may have her," I repeated, somewhat impatiently. "Isn't you hearin' me? I _give_ her to you." "This is very kind," he said. "But----" "You're _wantin'_ her, isn't you?" I demanded, fearing for the moment that he had meantime changed his mind. "Yes," he drawled; "but----" "But what?" "She'll not have me." "Not have you!" I cried. "No," said he. At that moment I learned much wisdom concerning the mysterious ways of women. XXIV The BEGINNING of The END From this sad tangle we were next morning extricated by news from the south ports of our coast--news so ill that sentimental tears and wishes were of a sudden forgot; being this: that the smallpox had come to Poor Luck Harbour and was there virulently raging. By noon of that day the doctor's sloop was underway with a fair wind, bound south in desperate haste: a man's heart beating glad aboard, that there might come a tragic solution of his life's entanglement. My sister and I, sitting together on the heads of Good Promise, high in the sunlight, with the sea spread blue and rippling below--we two, alone, with hands clasped--watched the little patch of sail flutter on its way--silently watched until it vanished in the mist. "I'm not knowin'," my sister sighed, still staring out to sea, "what's beyond the mist." "Nor I." 'Twas like a curtain, veiling some dread mystery, as an ancient tragedy--but new to us, who sat waiting: and far past our guessing. "I wonder what we'll see, dear," she whispered, "when the mist lifts." "'Tis some woeful thing." She leaned forward, staring, breathing deep, seeking with the strange gift of women to foresee the event; but she sighed, at last, and gave it up. "I'm not knowin'," she said. We turned homeward; and thereafter--through the months of that summer--we were diligent in business: but with small success, for Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle, seizing the poor advantage with great glee, now foully slandered and oppressed us. * * * * * Near midsummer our coast was mightily outraged by the sailings of the _Sink or Swim_, Jim Tall, master--Jagger's new schooner, trading our ports and the harbours of the Newfoundland French Shore, with a case of smallpox in the forecastle. We were all agog over it, bitterly angered, every one of us; and by day we kept watch from the heads to warn her off, and by night we saw to our guns, that we might instantly deal with her, should she so much as poke her prow into the waters of our harbour. Once, being on the Watchman with my father's glass, I fancied I sighted her, far off shore, beating up to Wayfarer's Tickle in the dusk: but could not make sure, for there was a haze abroad, and her cut was not yet well known to us. Then we heard no more of her, until, by and by, the skipper of the _Huskie Dog_, bound north, left news that she was still at large to the south, and sang us a rousing song, which, he said, had been made by young Dannie Crew of Ragged Harbour, and was then vastly popular with the folk of the places below. "Oh, _have_ you seed the skipper o' the schooner _Sink or Swim_? We'll use a rope what's long an' strong, when we cotches him. He've a case o' smallpox for'ard, An' we'll hang un, by the Lord! For he've traded every fishin' port from Conch t' Harbour Rim. "T' save the folk that dreads it, We'll hang the man that spreads it, They's lakes o' fire in hell t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!" My sister, sweet maid! being then in failing health and spirits, I secretly took ship with the skipper of the _Bonnie Betsy Buttercup_, bound south with the first load of that season: this that I might surely fetch the doctor to my sister's help, who sorely needed cheer and healing, lest she die like a thirsty flower, as my heart told me. And I found the doctor busy with the plague at Bay Saint Billy, himself quartered aboard the _Greased Lightning_, a fore-and-after which he had chartered for the season: to whom I lied diligently and without shame concerning my sister's condition, and with such happy effect that we put to sea in the brewing of the great gale of that year, with our topsail and tommy-dancer spread to a sousing breeze. But so evil a turn did the weather take--so thick and wild--that we were thrice near driven on a lee shore, and, in the end, were glad enough to take chance shelter behind Saul's Island, which lies close to the mainland near the Harbourless Shore. There we lay three days, with all anchors over the side, waiting in comfortable security for the gale to blow out; and 'twas at dusk of the third day that we were hailed from the coast rocks by that ill-starred young castaway of the name of Docks whose tale precipitated the final catastrophe in the life of Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle. * * * * * He was only a lad, but, doubtless, rated a man; and he was now sadly woebegone--starved, shivering, bruised by the rocks and breaking water from which he had escaped. We got him into the cozy forecastle, clapped him on the back, put him in dry duds; and, then, "Come, now, lads!" cried Billy Lisson, the hearty skipper of the _Greased Lightning_, "don't you go sayin' a word 'til I brew you a cup o' tea. On the Harbourless Shore, says you? An' all hands lost? Don't you say a word. Not one!" The castaway turned a ghastly face towards the skipper. "No," he whispered, in a gasp, "not one." "Not you!" Skipper Billy rattled. "You keep mum. Don't you so much as _mutter_ 'til I melts that iceberg in your belly." "No, sir." Perchance to forestall some perverse attempt at loquacity, Skipper Billy lifted his voice in song--a large, rasping voice, little enough acquainted with melody, but expressing the worst of the rage of those days: being thus quite sufficient to the occasion. "Oh, _have_ you seed the skipper o' the schooner _Sink or Swim_? We'll use a rope what's long an' strong, when we cotches him. He've a case o' smallpox for'ard, An' we'll hang un, by the Lord! For he've traded every fishin' port from Conch t' Harbour Rim. "T' save the folk that dreads it, We'll _hang_ the man that spreads it, They's lakes o' fire in hell t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!" "Skipper Billy, sir," said Docks, hoarsely, leaning into the light of the forecastle lamp, "does you say _hang_? Was they goin' t' hang Skipper Jim if they cotched him?" "_Was_ we?" asked Skipper Billy. "By God," he roared, "we _is_!" "My God!" Docks whispered, staring deep into the skipper's eyes, "they was goin' t' hang the skipper!" There was not so much as the drawing of a breath then to be heard in the forecastle of the _Greased Lightning_. Only the wind, blowing in the night--and the water lapping at the prow--broke the silence. "Skipper Billy, sir," said Docks, his voice breaking to a whimper, "was they goin' t' hang the crew? They wasn't, was they? Not goin' t' _hang_ un?" "Skipper t' cook, lad," Skipper Billy answered, the words prompt and sure. "Hang un by the neck 'til they was dead." "My God!" Docks whined. "They was goin' t' hang the crew!" "But we isn't cotched un yet." "No," said the boy, vacantly. "Nor you never will." The skipper hitched close to the table. "Lookee, lad," said he, leaning over until his face was close to the face of Docks, "was _you_ ever aboard the _Sink or Swim_?" "Ay, sir," Docks replied, at last, brushing his hair from his brow. "I was clerk aboard the _Sink or Swim_ two days ago." For a time Skipper Billy quietly regarded the lad--the while scratching his beard with a shaking hand. "Clerk," Docks sighed, "two days ago." "Oh, _was_ you?" the skipper asked. "Well, well!" His lower jaw dropped. "An' would mind tellin' us," he continued, his voice now touched with passion, "what's _come_ o' that damned craft?" "She was lost on the Harbourless Shore, sir, with all hands--but me." "Thank God for that!" "Ay, thank God!" Whereupon the doctor vaccinated Docks. XXV A CAPITAL CRIME "You never set eyes on old Skipper Jim, did you, Skipper Billy?" Docks began, later, that night. "No? Well, he was a wonderful hard man. They says the devil was abroad the night of his bornin'; but I'm thinkin' that Jagger o' Wayfarer's Tickle had more t' do with the life he lived than ever the devil could manage. 'Twas Jagger that owned the _Sink or Swim_; 'twas he that laid the courses--ay, that laid this last one, too. Believe me, sir," now turning to Doctor Luke, who had uttered a sharp exclamation, "for I _knowed_ Jagger, an' I _sailed_ along o' Skipper Jim. 'Skipper Jim,' says I, when the trick we played was scurvy, 'this here ain't right.' 'Right?' says he. 'Jagger's gone an' laid _that_ word by an' forgot where he put it.' 'But you, Skipper Jim,' says I, '_you_; what _you_ doin' this here for?' 'Well, Docks,' says he, 'Jagger,' says he, 'says 'tis a clever thing t' do, an' I'm thinkin',' says he, 'that Jagger's near right. Anyhow,' says he, 'Jagger's my owner.'" Doctor Luke put his elbows on the forecastle table, his chin on his hands--and thus gazed, immovable, at young Docks. "Skipper Jim," the lad went on, "was a lank old man, with a beard that used t' put me in mind of a dead shrub on a cliff. Old, an' tall, an' skinny he was; an' the flesh of his face was sort o' wet an' whitish, as if it had no feelin'. They wasn't a thing in the way o' wind or sea that Skipper Jim was afeard of. I like a brave man so well as anybody does, but I haven't no love for a fool; an' I've seed _him_ beat out o' safe harbour, with all canvas set, when other schooners was reefed down an' runnin' for shelter. Many a time I've took my trick at the wheel when the most I hoped for was three minutes t' say my prayers. "'Skipper, sir,' we used t' say, when 'twas lookin' black an' nasty t' win'ard an' we was wantin' t' run for the handiest harbour, ''tis like you'll be holdin' on for Rocky Cove. Sure, you've no call t' run for harbour from _this here_ blow!' "'Stand by that mainsheet there!' he'd yell. 'Let her off out o' the wind. We'll be makin' for Harbour Round for shelter. Holdin' on, did you say? My dear man, they's a whirlwind brewin'!' "But if 'twas blowin' hard--a nor'east snorter, with the gale raisin' a wind-lop on the swell, an' the night comin' down--if 'twas blowin' barb'rous hard, sometimes we'd get scared. "'Skipper,' we couldn't help sayin', ''tis time t' get out o' this. Leave us run for shelter, man, for our lives!' "'Steady, there, at the wheel!' he'd sing out. 'Keep her on her course. 'Tis no more than a clever sailin' breeze.' "Believe _me_, sir," Docks sighed, "they wasn't a port Skipper Jim wouldn't make, whatever the weather, if he could trade a dress or a Bible or a what-not for a quintal o' fish. 'Docks,' says he, 'Jagger,' says he, 'wants fish, an' _I_ got t' get un.' So it wasn't pleasant sailin' along o' him in the fall o' the year, when the wind was all in the nor'east, an' the shore was a lee shore every night o' the week. No, sir! 'twasn't pleasant sailin' along o' Skipper Jim in the _Sink or Swim_. On no account, 'twasn't pleasant! Believe _me_, sir, when I lets my heart feel again the fears o' last fall, I haven't no love left for Jim. No, sir! doin' what he done this summer, I haven't no love left for Jim. "'It's fish me an' Jagger wants, b'y,' says he t' me, 'an' they's no one'll keep un from us.' "'Dear man!' says I, pointin' t' the scales, 'haven't you got no conscience?' "'Conscience!' says he. 'What's that? Sure,' says he, 'Jagger never _heared_ that word!' "Well, sir, as you knows, there's been a wonderful cotch o' fish on the Labrador side o' the Straits this summer. An' when Skipper Jim hears a Frenchman has brought the smallpox t' Poor Luck Harbour, we was tradin' the French shore o' Newfoundland. Then he up an' cusses the smallpox, an' says he'll make a v'y'ge of it, no matter what. I'm thinkin' 'twas all the fault o' the cook, the skipper bein' the contrary man he was; for the cook he says he've signed t' cook the grub, an' he'll cook 'til he drops in his tracks, but he _haven't_ signed t' take the smallpox, an' he'll be jiggered for a squid afore he'll sail t' the Labrador. 'Smallpox!' says the skipper. 'Who says 'tis the smallpox? Me an' Jagger says 'tis the chicken-pox.' So the cook--the skipper havin' the eyes he had--says he'll sail t' the Labrador all right, but he'll see himself hanged for a mutineer afore he'll enter Poor Luck Harbour. 'Poor Luck Harbour, is it?' says the skipper. 'An' is that where they've the--the--smallpox?' says he. 'We'll lay a course for Poor Luck Harbour the morrow. I'll prove 'tis the chicken-pox or eat the man that has it.' So the cook--the skipper havin' the eyes he had--says _he_ ain't afraid o' no smallpox, but he knows what'll come of it if the crew gets ashore. "'Ho, ho! cook,' says the skipper. '_You'll_ go ashore along o' _me_, me boy.' "The next day we laid a course for Poor Luck Harbour, with a fair wind; an' we dropped anchor in the cove that night. In the mornin', sure enough, the skipper took the cook an' the first hand ashore t' show un a man with the chicken-pox; but I was kep' aboard takin' in fish, for such was the evil name the place had along o' the smallpox that we was the only trader in the harbour, an' had all the fish we could handle. "'Skipper,' says I, when they come aboard, '_is_ it the smallpox?' "'Docks, b'y,' says he, lookin' me square in the eye, 'you never yet heard me take back my words. I _said_ I'd eat the man that had it. But I tells you what, b'y, I ain't hankerin' after a bite o' what I seed!' "'We'll be liftin' anchor an' gettin' t' sea, then,' says I; for it made me shiver t' hear the skipper talk that way. "'Docks, b'y,' says he, 'we'll be liftin' anchor when we gets all the fish they is. Jagger,' says he, 'wants fish, an' I'm the boy t' get un. When the last one's weighed an' stowed, we'll lift anchor an' out; but not afore.' "We was three days out from Poor Luck Harbour, tradin' Kiddle Tickle, when Tommy Mib, the first hand, took a suddent chill. 'Tommy, b'y,' says the cook, 'you cotched cold stowin' the jib in the squall day afore yesterday. I'll be givin' _you_ a dose o' pain-killer an' pepper.' So the cook give Tommy a wonderful dose o' pain-killer an' pepper an' put un t' bed. But 'twas not long afore Tommy had a pain in the back an' a burnin' headache. 'Tommy, b'y,' says the cook, 'you'll be gettin' the inflammation, I'm thinkin'. I'll have t' put a plaster o' mustard an' red pepper on _your_ chest.' So the cook put a wonderful large plaster o' mustard an' red pepper on poor Tommy's chest, an' told un t' lie quiet. Then Tommy got wonderful sick--believe _me_, sir, wonderful sick! An' the cook could do no more, good cook though he was. "'Tommy,' says he, 'you got something I don't know nothin' about.' "'Twas about that time that we up with the anchor an' run t' Hollow Cove, where we heard they was a grand cotch o' fish, all dry an' waitin' for the first trader t' pick it up. They'd the smallpox there, sir, accordin' t' rumour; but we wasn't afeard o' cotchin' it--thinkin' we'd not cotched it at Poor Luck Harbour--an' sailed right in t' do the tradin'. We had the last quintal aboard at noon o' the next day; an' we shook out the canvas an' laid a course t' the nor'ard, with a fair, light wind. We was well out from shore when the skipper an' me went down t' the forecastle t' have a cup o' tea with the cook; an' we was hard at it when Tommy Mib hung his head out of his bunk. "'Skipper,' says he, in a sick sort o' whisper, 'I'm took.' "'What's took you?' says the skipper. "'Skipper,' says he, 'I--I'm--took.' "'What's took you, you fool?' says the skipper. "Poor Tommy fell back in his bunk. 'Skipper,' he whines, 'I've cotched it!' "''Tis the smallpox, sir,' says I. 'I seed the spots.' "'No such nonsense!' says the skipper. ''Tis the measles. That's what _he've_ got. Jagger an' me says so.' "'But Jagger ain't here,' says I. "'Never you mind about that,' says he. 'I knows what Jagger thinks.' "When we put into Harbour Grand we knowed it wasn't no measles. When we dropped anchor there, sir, _we knowed what 'twas_. Believe _me_, sir, we _knowed_ what 'twas. The cook he up an' says he ain't afraid o' no smallpox, but he'll be sunk for a coward afore he'll go down the forecastle ladder agin. An' the second hand he says he likes a bunk in the forecastle when he can have one comfortable, but he've no objection t' the hold _at times_. 'Then, lads,' says the skipper, 'you'll not be meanin' t' look that way agin,' says he, with a snaky little glitter in his eye. 'An' if you do, you'll find a fist about the heft o' _that_,' says he, shakin' his hand, 't' kiss you at the foot o' the ladder.' After that the cook an' the second hand slep' in the hold, an' them an' me had a snack o' grub at odd times in the cabin, where I had a hammock slung, though the place was wonderful crowded with goods. 'Twas the skipper that looked after Tommy Mib. 'Twas the skipper that sailed the ship, too,--drove her like he'd always done: all the time eatin' an' sleepin' in the forecastle, where poor Tommy Mib lay sick o' the smallpox. But we o' the crew kep' our distance when the ol' man was on deck; an' they was no rush for'ard t' tend the jib an' stays'l when it was 'Hard a-lee!' in a beat t' win'ard--no rush at all. Believe _me_, sir, they was no rush for'ard--with Tommy Mib below. "'Skipper Jim,' says I, one day, 'what _is_ you goin' t' do?' "'Well, Docks,' says he, 'I'm thinkin' I'll go see Jagger.' "So we beat up t' Wayfarer's Tickle--makin' port in the dusk. Skipper Jim went ashore, but took nar a one of us with un. He was there a wonderful long time; an' when he come aboard, he orders the anchor up an' all sail made. "'Where you goin'?' says I. "'Tradin',' says he. "'Is you?' says I. "'Ay,' says he. 'Jagger says 'tis a wonderful season for fish.'" Docks paused. "Skipper Billy," he said, breaking off the narrative and fixing the impassive skipper of the _Greased Lightning_ with an anxious eye, "did they have the smallpox at Tops'l Cove? Come now; did they?" "Ay, sir," Skipper Billy replied; "they had the smallpox at Tops'l Cove." "Dear man!" Docks repeated, "they had the smallpox at Tops'l Cove! We was three days at Tops'l Cove, with folk aboard every day, tradin' fish. An' Tommy Mib below! We touched Smith's Arm next, sir. Come now, speak fair; did they have it there?" "They're not rid of it yet," said Doctor Luke. "Smith's Arm too!" Docks groaned. "An' Harbour Rim," the skipper added. "Noon t' noon at Harbour Rim," said Docks. "And Highwater Cove," the doctor put in. "Twenty quintal come aboard at Highwater Cove. I mind it well." "They been dyin' like flies at Seldom Cove." "Like flies?" Docks repeated, in a hoarse whisper. "Skipper Billy, sir, who--who died--like that?" Skipper Billy drew his hand over his mouth. "One was a kid," he said, tugging at his moustache. "My God!" Docks muttered. "One was a kid!" In the pause--in the silence into which the far-off, wailing chorus of wind and sea crept unnoticed--Skipper Billy and Docks stared into each other's eyes. "An' a kid died, too," said the skipper. Again the low, wailing chorus of wind and sea, creeping into the silence. I saw the light in Skipper Billy's eyes sink from a flare to a glow; and I was glad of that. "'Twas a cold, wet day, with the wind blowin' in from the sea, when we dropped anchor at Little Harbour Deep," Docks continued. "We always kep' the forecastle closed tight an' set a watch when we was in port; an' the forecastle was tight enough that day, but the second hand, whose watch it was, had t' help with the fish, for 'tis a poor harbour there, an' we was in haste t' get out. The folk was loafin' about the deck, fore an' aft, waitin' turns t' weigh fish or be served in the cabin. An' does you know what happened?" Docks asked, tensely. "Can't you see how 'twas? Believe _me_, sir, 'twas a cold, wet day, a bitter day; an' 'tis no wonder that one o' they folk went below t' warm hisself at the forecastle stove--went below, where poor Tommy Mib was lyin' sick. Skipper, sir," said Docks, with wide eyes, leaning over the table and letting his voice drop, "I seed that man come up--come tumblin' up like mad, sir, his face so white as paint. He'd seed Tommy Mib! An' he yelled, sir; an' Skipper Jim whirled about when he heard that word, an' I seed his lips draw away from his teeth. "'Over the side, every man o' you!' sings he. "But 'twas not the skipper's order--'twas that man's horrid cry that sent un over the side. They tumbled into the punts and pushed off. It made me shiver, sir, t' see the fright they was in. "'Stand by t' get out o' this!' says the skipper. "'Twas haul on this an' haul on that, an' 'twas heave away with the anchor, 'til we was well under weigh with all canvas spread. We beat out, takin' wonderful chances in the tickle, an' stood off t' the sou'east. That night, when we was well off, the cook says t' me that he _thinks_ he've nerve enough t' be boiled in his own pot in a good cause, but he've no mind t' make a Fox's martyr of hisself for the likes o' Skipper Jim. "'Cook,' says I, 'we'll leave this here ship at the next port.' "'Docks,' says he, ''tis a clever thought.' "'Twas Skipper Jim's trick at the wheel, an' I loafed aft t' have a word with un--keepin' well t' win'ward all the time; for he'd just come up from the forecastle. "'Skipper Jim,' says I, 'we're found out.' "'What's found out?' says he. "'The case o' smallpox for'ard,' says I. 'What you goin' t' do about it?' "'Do!' says he. 'What'll I do? Is it you, Docks, that's askin' me that? Well,' says he, 'Jagger an' me fixed _that_ all up when I seed him there t' Wayfarer's Tickle. They's three ports above Harbour Deep, an' I'm goin' t' trade un all. 'Twill be a v'y'ge by that time. Then I'm goin' t' run the _Sink or Swim_ back o' the islands in Seal Run. Which done, I'll wait for Tommy Mib t' make up his mind, one way or t' other. If he casts loose, I'll wait, decent as you like, 'til he's well under weigh, when I'll ballast un well an' heave un over. If he's goin' t' bide a spell longer in this world, I'll wait 'til he's steady on his pins. But, whatever, go or stay, I'll fit the schooner with a foretopmast, bark her canvas, paint her black, call her the _Prodigal Son_, an' lay a course for St. Johns. They's not a man on the docks will take the _Prodigal Son_, black hull, with topmast fore an' aft an' barked sails, inbound from the West Coast with a cargo o' fish--not a man, sir, will take the _Prodigal Son_ for the white, single-topmast schooner _Sink or Swim_, up from the Labrador, reported with a case o' smallpox for'ard. For, look you, b'y,' says he, 'nobody knows _me_ t' St. Johns.' "'Skipper Jim,' says I, 'sure you isn't goin' t' put this fish on the market!' "'Hut!' says he. 'Jagger an' me is worryin' about the price o' fish already.' "We beat about offshore for three days, with the skipper laid up in the forecastle. Now what do you make o' that? The skipper laid up in the forecastle along o' Tommy Mib--an' Tommy took the way he was! Come, now, what do you make o' that?" We shook our heads, one and all; it was plain that the skipper, too, had been stricken. "Well, sir," Docks went on, "when Skipper Jim come up t' give the word for Rocky Harbour, he looked like a man risin' from the dead. 'Take her there,' says he, 'an' sing out t' me when you're runnin' in.' Then down he went agin; but, whatever, me an' the cook an' the second hand was willin' enough t' sail her t' Rocky Harbour without un, for 'twas in our minds t' cut an' run in the punt when the anchor was down. 'A scurvy trick,' says you, 't' leave old Skipper Jim an' Tommy Mib in the forecastle, all alone--an' Tommy took that way?' A scurvy trick!" cried Docks, his voice aquiver. "Ay, maybe! But you ain't been aboard no smallpox-ship. You ain't never knowed what 'tis t' lie in your bunk in the dark o' long nights shiverin' for fear you'll be took afore mornin'. An' maybe you hasn't seed a man took the way Tommy Mib was took--not took _quite_ that way." "Yes, I has, b'y," said Skipper Billy, quietly. "'Twas a kid that I seed." "Was it, now?" Docks whispered, vacantly. "A kid o' ten years," Skipper Billy replied. "Ah, well," said Docks, "kids dies young. Whatever," he went on, hurriedly, "the old man come on deck when he was slippin' up the narrows t' the basin at Rocky Harbour. "''Tis the last port I'll trade,' says he, 'for I'm sick, an' wantin' t' get home.' "We was well up, with the canvas half off her, sailin' easy, on the lookout for a berth, when a punt put out from a stage up alongshore, an' come down with the water curlin' from her bows. "'What's the meanin' o' that, Docks?' sings the skipper, pointin' t' the punt. 'They're goin' out o' the course t' keep t' win'ard.' "'Skipper Jim,' says I, 'they knows us.' "'Sink us,' says he, 'they does! They knows what we is an' what we got for'ard. Bring her to!' he sings out t' the man at the wheel. "When we had the schooner up in the wind, the punt was bobbin' in the lop off the quarter. "'What ship's that?' says the man in the bow. "'_Sink or Swim_,' says the skipper. "'You get out o' here, curse you!' says the man. 'We don't want you here. They's news o' you in every port o' the coast.' "'I'll bide here 'til I'm ready t' go, sink you!' says the skipper. "'Oh, no, you won't!' says the man. 'I've a gun or two that says you'll be t' sea agin in half an hour if the wind holds.' "So when we was well out t' sea agin, the cook he says t' me that he've a wonderful fondness for a run ashore in a friendly port, but he've no mind t' be shot for a mad dog. 'An' we better bide aboard,' says the second hand; 'for 'tis like we'll be took for mad dogs wherever we tries t' land.' Down went the skipper, staggerin' sick; an' they wasn't a man among us would put a head in the forecastle t' ask for orders. So we beat about for a day or two in a foolish way; for, look you! havin' in mind them Rocky Harbour rifles, we didn't well know what t' do. Three days ago it blew up black an' frothy--a nor'east switcher, with a rippin' wind an' a sea o' mountains. 'Twas no place for a short-handed schooner. Believe _me_, sir, 'twas no place at all! 'Twas time t' run for harbour, come what might; so we asked the cook t' take charge. The cook says t' me that he'd rather be a cook than a skipper, an' a skipper than a ship's undertaker, but he've no objection t' turn his hand t' anything t' 'blige a party o' friends: which he'll do, says he, by takin' the schooner t' Broad Cove o' the Harbourless Shore, which is a bad shelter in a nor'east gale, says he, but the best he can manage. "So we up an' laid a course for Broad Cove; an' they was three schooners harboured there when we run in. We anchored well outside o' them; an', sure, we thought the schooner was safe, for we knowed she'd ride out what was blowin', if it took so much as a week t' blow out. But it blowed harder--harder yet: a thick wind, squally, too, blowin' dead on shore, where the breakers was leapin' half-way up the cliff. By midnight the seas was smotherin' her, fore an' aft, an' she was tuggin' at her bow anchor chain like a fish at the line. Lord! many a time I thought she'd rip her nose off when a hill o' suddy water come atop of her with a thud an' a hiss. "'She'll go ashore on them boilin' rocks,' says the cook. "We was sittin' in the cabin--the cook an' the second hand an' me. "''Tis wonderful cold,' says the second hand. "'I'm chillin', meself,' says the cook. "'Chillin'!' thinks I, havin' in mind the way poor Tommy Mib was took. 'Has you a pain in your back?' says I. "They was shiverin' a wonderful lot, an' the cook was holdin' his head in his hands, just like Tommy Mib used t' do. "'Ay, b'y,' says he. "'Ay, b'y,' says the second hand. "'Been drilled too hard o' late,' says the cook. 'We're all wore out along o' work an' worry.' "I didn't wait for no more. 'H-m-m!' says I, 'I thinks I'll take a look outside.' "It was dawn then. Lord! what a sulky dawn it was! All gray, an' drivin' like mad. The seas was rollin' in, with a frothy wind-lop atop o' them. They'd lift us, smother us, drop us, toss the schooners ridin' in our lee, an' go t' smash on the big, black rocks ashore. Lord! how they pulled at the old _Sink or Swim_! 'Twas like as if they wanted her bad for what she done. Seems t' me the Lord God A'mighty must 'a' knowed what He was about. Seems to me the Lord God A'mighty said t' Hisself: 'Skipper Jim,' says He, 'I'm through usin' _you_. I've done all the damage I want done along o' you. I've sent some o' the wicked t' beds they chose t' lie on; an' the good folk--all the good folk an' little kids I couldn't wait no longer for, I loved un so--I've took up here. Ay, Jim,' says the Lord God A'mighty, 'I'm through usin' you; an' I got t' get rid o' the old _Sink or Swim_. I'm sorry for the cook an' the second hand an' poor Tommy Mib,' says He, 'wonderful sorry; but I can't run My world no other way. An' when you comes t' think it over,' says He, 'you'll find 'tis the best thing that could happen t' they, for they're took most wonderful bad.' Oh ay," said Docks, with a gentle smile, "the Lord God A'mighty knowed what He was about. "I went for'ard t' have a look at the chain. Skipper Jim hisself was there, watchin' it close. "'She's draggin',' says he. But I wouldn't 'a' knowed that voice for Skipper Jim's--'twas so hollow and breathless. 'She's draggin',' says he. 'Let her drag. They's a better anchorage in there a bit. She'll take the bottom agin afore she strikes them craft.' "We was draggin' fast--bearin' straight down on the craft inside. They was a trader an' two Labrador fishin'-craft. The handiest was a fishin' boat, bound home with the summer's cotch, an' crowded with men, women, an' kids. We took the bottom an' held fast within thirty fathom of her bow. I could see the folk on deck--see un plain as I sees you--hands an' lips an' eyes. They was swarmin' fore an' aft like a lot o' scared seal--wavin' their arms, shakin' their fists, jabberin', leapin' about in the wash o' the seas that broke over the bows. "'Docks,' says the skipper, 'what's the matter with they folk, anyhow? We isn't draggin', is we?' says he, half cryin'. 'We isn't hurtin' _they_, is we?' "An old man--'tis like he was skipper o' the craft--come runnin' for'ard, with half a dozen young fellows in his wake. 'Sheer off!' sings the old one. He jabbered a bit more, all the while wavin' us off, but a squall o' wind carried it all away. 'We'll shoot you like dogs an you don't!' says one o' the young ones; an' at that I felt wonderful mean an' wicked an' sorry. Back aft they went. There they talked an' talked; an' as they talked they pointed--pointed t' the breakers that was boilin' over the black rocks; pointed t' the spumey sea an' t' the low, ragged clouds drivin' across it; pointed t' the _Sink or Swim_. Then the skipper took the wheel, an' the crew run for'ard t' the windlass an' jib sheets. "'Skipper, sir,' says I, 'they're goin' t' slip anchor an' run!' "'Ay,' says Skipper Jim, 'they knows us, b'y! They knows the _Sink or Swim_. We lies t' win'ard, an' they're feared o' the smallpox. They'll risk that craft--women an' kids an' all--t' get away. They isn't a craft afloat can beat t' sea in this here gale. They'll founder, lad, or they'll drive on the rocks an' loss themselves, all hands. 'Tis an evil day for this poor old schooner, Docks,' says he, with a sob, 'that men'll risk the lives o' kids an' women t' get away from her; an' 'tis an evil day for my crew.' With that he climbed on the rail, cotched the foremast shrouds with one hand, put the other to his mouth, an' sung out: 'Ahoy, you! Bide where you is! Bide where you is!' Then he jumped down; an' he says t' me, 'tween gasps, for the leap an' shout had taken all the breath out of un, 'Docks,' says he, 'they's only one thing for a man t' do in a case like this. Get the jib up, b'y. I'm goin' aft t' the wheel. Let the anchor chain run out when you sees me wave my hand. See, lad,' says he, pointin' t' leeward, 'they're waitin', aboard that fishin' craft, t' see what we'll do. We'll show un that we're men! Jagger be damned,' says he; 'we'll show un that we're men! Call the hands,' says he; 'but leave Tommy Mib lie quiet in his bunk,' says he, 'for he's dead.' "'Skipper Jim,' says I, lookin' in his blood-red eyes, an' then t' the breakers, 'what you goin' t' do?' "'Beach her,' says he. "'Is you gone an' forgot,' says I, 'about Jagger?' "'Never you mind about Jagger, Docks,' says he. 'I'll see _him_,' says he, 'later. Call the hands,' says he, 'an' we'll wreck her like men!'" Docks covered his face with his hands. Place was once more given to the noises of the gale. He looked up--broken, listless; possessed again by the mood of that time. "An' what did _you_ say, lad?" Skipper Billy whispered. "I hadn't no objection," sighed the lad. The answer was sufficient. * * * * * "So I called the hands," Docks went on. "An' when the second hand cotched sight o' the rocks we was bound for, he went mad, an' tumbled over the taffrail; an' the cook was so weak a lurch o' the ship flung him after the second hand afore we reached the breakers. I never seed Skipper Jim no more; nor the cook, nor the second hand, nor poor Tommy Mib. But I'm glad the Lord God A'mighty give Jim the chance t' die right, though he'd lived wrong. Oh, ay! I'm fair glad the good Lord done that. The Labradormen give us a cheer when the chain went rattlin' over an' the _Sink or Swim_ gathered way--a cheer, sir, that beat its way agin the wind--God bless them!--an' made me feel that in the end I was a man agin. She went t' pieces when she struck," he added, as if in afterthought; "but I'm something of a hand at swimmin', an' I got ashore on a bit o' spar. An' then I come down the coast 'til I found you lyin' here in the lee o' Saul's Island." After a pause, he said hoarsely, to Skipper Billy: "They had the smallpox at Tops'l Cove, says you? They got it yet at Smith's Arm? At Harbour Rim an' Highwater Cove they been dyin'? How did they die at Seldom Cove? Like flies, says you? An' one was a kid?" "_My_ kid," said Skipper Billy, quietly still. "My God!" cried Docks. "_His_ kid! How does that there song go? What about they lakes o' fire? Wasn't it, "'They's lakes o' fire in hell t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!' you sung? Lord! sir, I'm thinkin' I'll have t' ship along o' Skipper Jim once more!" "No, no, lad!" cried Skipper Billy, speaking from the heart. "For you was willin' t' die right. But God help Jagger on the mornin' o' the Judgment Day! I'll be waitin' at the foot o' the throne o' God t' charge un with the death o' my wee kid!" Doctor Luke sat there frowning. XXVI DECOYED Despite Skipper Billy's anxious, laughing protest that 'twas not yet fit weather to be at sea, the doctor next day ordered the sail set: for, as he said, he was all of a maddening itch to be about certain business, of a professional and official turn, at our harbour and Wayfarer's Tickle, and could no longer wait the pleasure of a damned obstinate nor'east gale--a shocking way to put it, indeed, but vastly amusing when uttered with a fleeting twinkle of the eye: vastly convincing, too, followed by a snap of the teeth and the gleam of some high, heroic purpose. So we managed to get the able little _Greased Lightning_ into the thick of it--merrily into the howl and gray frown of that ill-minded sea--and, though wind and sea, taking themselves seriously, conspired to smother her, we made jolly reaches to the nor'ard, albeit under double reefs, and came that night to Poor Luck Harbour, where the doctor's sloop was waiting. There we bade good-bye to the mood-stricken Docks, and a short farewell to Skipper Billy, who must return into the service of the Government doctors from St. Johns, now, at last, active in the smallpox ports. And next morning, the wind having somewhat abated in the night, the doctor and I set sail for our harbour, where, two days later, with the gale promising to renew itself, we dropped anchor: my dear sister, who had kept watch from her window, now waiting on my father's wharf. * * * * * It seemed to me then--and with utmost conviction I uttered the feeling abroad, the while perceiving no public amusement--that the powers of doctors were fair witchlike: for no sooner had my sweet sister swallowed the first draught our doctor mixed--nay, no sooner had it been offered her in the silver spoon, and by the doctor, himself--than her soft cheek turned the red of health, and her dimples, which of late had been expressionless, invited kisses in a fashion the most compelling, so that a man of mere human parts would swiftly take them, though he were next moment hanged for it. I marvel, indeed, that Doctor Luke could resist them; but resist he did: as I know, for, what with lurking and peeping (my heart being anxiously enlisted), I took pains to discover the fact, and was in no slight degree distressed by it. For dimples were made for kissing--else for what?--and should never go unsatisfied; they are so frank in pleading that 'twould be sheer outrage for the lips of men to feel no mad desire: which, thank God! seldom happens. But, then, what concern have I, in these days, with the identical follies of dimples and kissing? "'Tis a wonderful clever doctor," said I to my sister, my glance fixed in amazement on her glowing cheeks, "that we got in Doctor Luke." "Ah, yes!" she sighed: but so demure that 'twas not painful to hear it. "An', ecod!" I declared, "'tis a wonderful clever medicine that he've been givin' you." "Ecod! Davy Roth," she mocked, a sad little laugh in her eyes, "an' how," said she, "did you manage to find it out?" "Bessie!" cried I, in horror. "Do you stop that swearin'! For an you don't," I threatened, "I'll give you----" "Hut!" she flouted. "'Tis your own word." "Then," I retorted, "I'll never say it again. Ecod! but I won't." She pinched my cheek. "An' I'm wonderin'," I sighed, reverting to the original train of thought, which was ever a bothersome puzzle, "how he can keep from kissin' you when he puts the spoon in your mouth. Sure," said I, "he've such a wonderful good chance t' do it!" It may have been what I said; it may have been a familiar footfall in the hall: at any rate, my sister fled in great confusion. And, pursuing heartily, I caught her in her room before she closed the door, but retreated in haste, for she was already crying on the bed. Whereupon, I gave up the puzzle of love, once and for all; and, as I sought the windy day, I was established in the determination by a glimpse of the doctor, sitting vacant as an imbecile in the room where my sister and I had been: whom I left to his own tragedy, myself being wearied out of patience by it. "The maid that turns _me_ mad," was my benighted reflection, as I climbed the Watchman to take a look at the weather, "will be a wonderful clever hand." * * * * * Unhappily, there had been no indictable offense in Jagger's connection with the horrid crimes of the _Sink or Swim_ (as the doctor said with a wry face): for Docks would be but a poor witness in a court of law at St. Johns' knowing nothing of his own knowledge, but only by hearsay; and the bones of Skipper Jim already lay stripped and white in the waters of the Harbourless Shore. But, meantime, the doctor kept watch for opportunity to send frank warning to the man of Wayfarer's Tickle; and, soon, chance offered by way of the schooner _Bound Down_, Skipper Immerly Swat, whom the doctor charged, with a grim little grin, to inform the evil fellow that he was to be put in jail, out of hand, when first he failed to walk warily: a message to which Jagger returned (by the skipper of the _Never Say Die_) an answer of the sauciest--so saucy, indeed, that the doctor did not repeat it, but flushed and kept silent. And now the coast knew of the open war; and great tales came to us of Jagger's laughter and loose-mouthed boasting--of his hate and ridicule and defiant cursing: so that the doctor wisely conceived him to be upon the verge of some cowardly panic. But the doctor went about his usual work, healing the sick, quietly keeping the helm of our business, as though nothing had occurred: and grimly waited for the inevitable hour. Jonas Jutt, of Topmast Tickle, with whom we had passed a Christmas Eve--the father of Martha and Jimmie and Sammy Jutt--came by stealth to our harbour to speak a word with the doctor. "Doctor Luke," said he, between his teeth, "I'm this year in service t' Jagger o' Wayfarer's Tickle; an' I've heared tell o' the quarrel atween you; an'...." "Yes?" the doctor inquired. "I've took sides." "I rather think," the doctor observed, "that you can tell me something I very much want to know." "I've no wish, God knows!" Jonas continued, with deep feeling, "t' betray my master. But you--_you_, zur--cured my child, an' I'm wantin' t' do you a service." "I think you can." "I knows I can! I know--I _knows_--that which will put Jagger t' makin' brooms in the jail t' St. Johns." "Ah!" the doctor drawled. "I wish," said he, "that I knew that." "I knows," Jonas pursued, doggedly, though it went against the grain, "that last week he wrecked the _Jessie Dodd_ on the Ragged Edge at Wayfarer's Tickle. I knows that she was insured for her value and fifteen hundred quintal o' Labrador fish. I knows that they wasn't a fish aboard. I knows that every fish is safe stowed in Jagger's stores. I knows that the schooner lies near afloat at high tide. I knows that she'll go t' pieces in the winter gales. I knows----" The doctor lifted his hand. He was broadly smiling. "You have told me," said he, "quite enough. Go back to Wayfarer's Tickle. Leave me," he added, "to see that Jagger learns the worthy trade of broom-making. You have done me--great service." "Ah, but," cried Jonas, gripping the doctor's hand, "_you_ cured my little Sammy!" The doctor mused. "It may be difficult," he said, by and by, "to fix this wreck upon Jagger." "Hist!" Jonas replied, stepping near. "The skipper o' the _Jessie Dodd_," he whispered, pointedly, solemnly closing one eye, "is wonderful weak in the knees." Doctor and I went then in the sloop to Wayfarer's Tickle (the wind favouring us); and there we found the handsome _Jessie Dodd_ lying bedraggled and disconsolate on the Ragged Edge, within the harbour: slightly listed, but afloat aft, and swinging with the gentle lift and fall of the water. We boarded her, sad at heart that a craft so lovely should come to a pass like this; and 'twas at once plain to us sailor-men that 'twas a case of ugly abandonment, if not of barratry--plain, indeed, to such as knew the man, that in conspiracy with the skipper Jagger had caused the wreck of the schooner, counting upon the isolation of the place, the lateness of the season, the simplicity of the folk, the awe in which they held him--upon all this to conceal the crime: as often happens on our far-off coast. So we took the skipper into custody (and this with a high hand) unknown to Jagger--got him, soon, safe into the sloop: so cowed and undone by the doctor's manner that he miserably whined for chance to turn Queen's evidence in our behalf. 'Twas very sad--nauseating, too: so that one wished to stop the white, writhing lips with a hearty buffet; for rascals should be strong, lest their pitiful complaints distress the hearts of honest men, who have not deserved the cruel punishment. Jagger came waddling down to the landing, his great dog at his heels. "What you doin'," he demanded, scowling like a thunder-storm, "with that man?" "I next call your attention," the doctor answered, with a smile of the most engaging sort, like a showman once I saw in the South, "to the most be-_witch_ing exhibit in this vast concourse of wonders. We have here--don't crowd, _if_ you please--we have here the skipper of the schooner _Jessie Dodd_, cast away on the Ragged Edge at Wayfarer's Tickle. He is--and I direct your particular attention to the astounding fact--under arrest; being taken by a magistrate duly appointed by the authorities at St Johns. Observe, if you will, his--ah--rather abject condition. Mark his penitent air. Conceive, if you can, the--ah--ardour with which he will betray----" Jagger turned on his heel--and went wearily away. And I have never forgiven the doctor his light manner upon this wretched occasion: for it seems to me (but I am not sure of it) that rascals, also, are entitled to the usual courtesy. At any rate, in uttermost despair we paid for the lack of it. * * * * * I copy, now, from the deposition of Allworthy Grubb, master of the schooner _Jessie Dodd_, Falmouth, England, as taken that night at our harbour: "The 'Jessie Dodd' was chartered by Thomas Jagger, doing business at Wayfarer's Tickle, to load fish for across.... I do hereby make a voluntary statement, with my own free will, and without any inducement whatever.... Thomas Jagger offered me, if I would put the 'Jessie Dodd' ashore, he would give me half the profits realized on ship and cargo. This he promised me on a Sunday morning in his fish stage opposite to where the ship was put ashore. After the ship was put ashore he no longer discussed about the money I was to receive.... Two days before the 'Jessie Dodd' was put ashore I broke the wheel chain and tied the links with spunyarn. I showed the broken links to Mr. Jagger. The day we were starting there was rum served out to the crew. Mr. Jagger supplied it. When the vessel started, nearly all the crew were drunk. I had the wheel. About five minutes after she started I cut the spunyarn. The vessel began to go on the rocks. One of the crew shouted, 'Hard-a-starboard!' I shouted that the port wheel chain was broken. Then the vessel went ashore.... Mr. Jagger sent a kettle of rum aboard, which I had served to the crew. No attempt was made to get the vessel off.... When I saw Mr. Jagger he told me I was a seven kinds of a fool for putting her ashore where I did. He said it would be all right, anyhow. He said they were all afraid of him. He said no one would give it away.... I am guilty of putting the 'Jessie Dodd' ashore, for which I am extremely sorry of being prompted to do so by Thomas Jagger, and to be so sadly led away into such depravity. Had it not been for such an irreproachable character, which I have held previous to this dreadful act, ten minutes after the occurrence I would have given myself up. Not one hour since but what I have repented bitterly...." I present this that the doctor may not appear unfairly to have initiated a prosecution against his enemy: though that were a blessing to our coast. "Davy," said the doctor, briskily, when the writing was done, "I must leave Captain Grubb to your hospitality for a time. It will be necessary for me to go south to the cable station at Chateau. The support of Lloyds--since Jagger has influence at St. Johns--will be invaluable in this case." He set sail in the sloop next day. It was now late in the fall of the year. Young slob ice was forming by night in the quiet places of the harbour. The shiver of winter was everywhere abroad.... For a week the weather continued ominous--with never a glint of sunshine to gladden us. Drear weather, treacherous--promising grief and pain. Off shore, the schooners of the great fleet crept by day to the s'uth'ard, harbouring by night: taking quick advantage of the variable winds, as chance offered. 'Twas thus that the doctor returned to our harbour; and there he was held, from day to day, by vicious winds, which the little sloop could not carry, by great, black seas, which she could not ride.... One day, being ill at ease, we went to the Watchman, that we might descry the first favourable sign. In the open, the wind was still to the north of east--but wildly capricious: blowing hither and thither; falling, too, to a sigh, rising, all at once, to a roaring gust, which tore at the whisps of grass and fairly sucked the breath from one's body. Overhead, the sky was low and tumultuous; great banks of black cloud, flecked with gray and white--ragged masses--went flying inland, as in a panic. There was no quiet light in the east, no clean air between; 'twas everywhere thick--everywhere sullen.... We left the Watchman downcast--each, too, preoccupied. In my heart was the heavy feeling that some sad thing was about to befall us.... * * * * * I must tell, now, that, before the smallpox came to Poor Luck Harbour, the doctor had chartered the thirty-ton _Trap and Seine_ for our business: with which Skipper Tommy Lovejoy and the twins, with four men of our harbour, had subsequently gone north to Kidalik, where the fishing was reported good beyond dreams. 'Twas time for the schooner to be home. She was long overdue; and in great anxiety we awaited her return or news of her misfortune: the like of which often happens on our coast, where news proceeds only by word of mouth. 'Twas in part in hope of catching sight of her barked topsail that we had gone to the Watchman. But at that moment the _Trap and Seine_ lay snug at anchor in Wayfarer's Tickle: there delayed for more civil weather in which to attempt the passage of the Bay, for she was low in the water with her weight of fish, and Skipper Tommy had a mind to preserve his good fortune against misadventure. And, next day, the wind being still unfavourable, he had Timmie row him ashore, that he might pass an hour in talk with the men on Jagger's wharf: for there was nothing better to do, and the wreck of the _Jessie Dodd_ was food of the choicest for water-side gossip. To him, by and by, came Jagger's clerk: begging that the _Trap and Seine_ might be got under weigh for our harbour within the hour, for Jagger lay near death (having been taken in the night) and sorely needed the doctor, lest he die. "Die!" cried Skipper Tommy, much distressed. "That's fair awful. Poor man! So sick as that?" "Ay," the clerk replied, with a sharp little look into Skipper Tommy's mild eyes, "he'll die." "Ecod!" the skipper declared. "'Twill make the doctor sad t' know it!" Skipper Tommy remembers that the clerk turned away, as if, for some strange reason, to get command of himself. "That he will," said the clerk. "'Tis awful!" the skipper repeated. "I'll get the schooner t' sea this minute. She's wonderful low in the water," he mused, pulling at his nose; "but I'm thinkin' the doctor would rather save a life than get a cargo o' green fish t' harbour." "Dying, tell him," the clerk urged, smoothing his mouth with a lean hand. "Dying--and in terror of hell." "Afeared o' hell?" "Gone mad with fear of damnation." Skipper Tommy raised his hands. "That's awful!" he muttered, with a sad shake of the head. "Tell that poor man the doctor will come. Tell un, oh, tell un," he added, wringing his hands, "_not_ t' be afeared o' hell!" "Yes, yes!" the clerk exclaimed, impatiently. "Don't forget the message. Jagger lies sick, and dying, and begging for help." Skipper Tommy made haste to the small boat, the while raising a cry for Timmie, who had gone about his own pleasure, the Lord knew where! And Timmie ran down the path, as fast as his sea-boots would go: but was intercepted by Jonas Jutt, who drew him into the lower fish-stage, as though in fear of observation, and there whispered the circumstances of the departure of the _Trap and Seine_. "But do you tell your father," he went on, "that Jagger's not sick." "Not sick?" cried Timmie, under his breath. "Tell your father that I heared Jagger say he'd prove the doctor a coward or drown him." Timmie laughed. "Tell un," Jonas whispered, speaking in haste and great excitement, "that Jagger's as hearty drunk as ever he was--loaded t' the gunwale with rum an' hate--in dread o' the trade o' broom-makin'--desperate t' get clear o' the business o' the _Jessie Dodd_. Tell un he wants t' drown the doctor atween your harbour an' Wayfarer's Tickle. Tell un t' give no heed t' the message. Tell un t'----" "Oh, Lard!" Timmie gurgled, in a spasm of delight. "Tell un t' have the doctor stay at home 'til the weather lifts. Tell un----" In response to an urgent call from the skipper, who was waiting at the small-boat, Timmie ran out. As he stumbled down the path, emitting guffaws and delicious chuckles, he conceived--most unhappily for us all--an infinitely humorous plan, which would still give him the delight of a rough passage to our harbour: for Timmie loved a wet deck and a reeling beat to windward, under a low, driving sky, with the night coming down, as few lads do. Inform the skipper? Not Timmie! Nor would he tell even Jacky. He would disclose the plot at a more dramatic moment. When the beat was over--when the schooner had made harbour--when the anchor was down--when the message was delivered--in the thick of the outcry of protest against the doctor's high determination to venture upon the errand of mercy--_then_ Timmie Lovejoy, the dramatic opportunity having come, would, with proper regard for his own importance, make the astounding revelation. It would be quite thrilling (he thought); moreover, it would be a masterly joke on his father, who took vast delight in such things. "The wind's veerin' t' the s'uth'ard," said the skipper, anxiously, while they put a double reef in the mainsail. "'Twill be a rough time across." "Hut! dad," Timmie answered. "Sure, _you_ can make harbour." "Ecod!" Jacky added, with a grin. "You're the man t' do it, dad--_you're_ the man t' drive her!" "Well, lads," the flattered skipper admitted, resting from the wrestle with the obstinate sail, and giving his nose a pleased sort of tweak, "I isn't sayin' I'm not." So, low as she was--sunk with the load in her hold and the gear and casks and what-not on her deck--they took the _Trap and Seine_ into the gale. And she made brave weather of it--holding her own stoutly, cheerily shaking the frothy water from her bows: though 'twas an unfair task to put her to. Skipper Tommy put the first hand at the mainsail halliards, the second hand at the foresail, with orders to cut away at the lift of his hand, lest the vessel get on her beam's ends and capsize. 'Twas thus that they drove her into the wind--stout hearts and stout timber: no wavering or weak complaint, whatever the wind and sea. But night caught them off our harbour--deep night: with the headlands near lost in the black sky; no more than the looming, changing shadow of the hills and the intermittent flash of breakers to guide the way. They were now beating along shore, close to Long Cove of the mainland, which must then have lain placid in the lee of Naked Point. At the cry of "Hard-a-lee!"--sung out in terror when the breakers were fair under the bow--the ship came about and fell off towards the open sea. Then came three great waves; they broke over the bow--swept the schooner, stem to stern, the deck litter going off in a rush of white water. The first wrenched Jacky from his handhold; but Skipper Tommy, standing astern, caught him by the collar as the lad went over the taffrail. Came, then, with the second wave, Timmie, whom, also, the skipper caught. But 'twas beyond the old man's power to lift both to the deck: nor could he cry for help, nor choose whom to drop, loving them alike; but desperately clung to both until the rush of the third wave tore one away. It was Timmie. * * * * * Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, making into our harbour, by way of the Gate, in the depths of that wild night--poor old Skipper Tommy, blind and broken by grief--ran his loaded schooner into the Trap and wrecked her on the Seven Murderers, where she went to pieces on the unfeeling rocks. But we managed to get the crew ashore, and no man lost his life at that time. And Skipper Tommy, sitting bowed in my father's house, told us in a dull, slow way--made tragic, from time to time, by the sweet light in his eye, by the flitting shadow of a smile--told us, thus, that Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle lay at the point of death, in fear of hell, crying for the help of his enemy: and then put his arm about Jacky, and went with him to the Rat Hole, there to bury his sorrow, that it might not distress us the more, who sorrowed, also. XXVII The DAY of The DOG I was awakened at dawn. 'Twas by a gentle touch of the doctor's hand. "Is it you, zur?" I asked, starting from sad dreams. "Hush!" he whispered. "'Tis I, Davy." I listened to the roar of the gale--my sleepy senses immediately aroused by the noise of wind and sleet. The gathered rage was loosed, at last. "'Tis a bitter night," I said. "The day is breaking." He sat down beside me, gravely silent; and he put his arm around me. "You isn't goin'?" I pleaded. "Yes." I had grown to know his duty. 'Twas all plain to me. I would not have held him from it, lest I come to love him less. "Ay," I moaned, gripping his hand, "you're goin'!" "Yes," he said. We sat for a moment without speaking. The gale went whipping past--driving madly through the breaking day: a great rush of black, angry weather. 'Twas dim in the room. I could not see his face--but felt his arm warm about me: and wished it might continue there, and that I might fall asleep, serene in all that clamour, sure that I might find it there on waking, or seek it once again, when sore need came. And I thought, even then, that the Lord had been kind to us: in that this man had come sweetly into our poor lives, if but for a time. "You isn't goin' alone, is you?" "No. Skipper Tommy is coming to sail the sloop." Again--and fearsomely--the gale intruded upon us. There was a swish of wind, rising to a long, mad shriek--the roar of rain on the roof--the rattle of windows--the creaking of the timbers of our house. I trembled to hear it. "Oh, doctor!" I moaned. "Hush!" he said. The squall subsided. Rain fell in a monotonous patter. Light crept into the room. "Davy!" "Ay, zur?" "I'm going, now." "Is you?" He drew me very close. "I've come to say good-bye," he said. My head sank in great misgiving against him. I could not say one word. "And you know, lad," he continued, "that I love your sister. Tell her, when I am gone, that I love her. Tell her----" He paused. "An' what, zur," I asked, "shall I tell my sister for you?" "Tell her--that I love her. No!" he cried. "'Tis not that. Tell her----" "Ay?" "That I loved her!" "Hist!" I whispered, not myself disquieted by this significant change of form. "She's stirrin' in her room." It may be that the doctor loved my sister through me--that I found some strange place in his great love for her, to which I had no title, but was most glad to have. For, then, in the sheltering half-light, he lifted me from my bed--crushed me against his breast--held me there, whispering messages I could not hear--and gently laid me down again, and went in haste away. And I dressed in haste: but fumbled at all the buttons, nor could quickly lay hands on my clothes, which were scattered everywhere, by my sad habit; so that, at last, when I was clad for the weather, and had come to my father's wharf, the sloop was cast off. Skipper Tommy sat in the stern, his face grimly set towards North Tickle and the hungry sea beyond: nor did he turn to look at me. But the doctor waved his hand--and laughed a new farewell. * * * * * I did not go to the hills--because I had no heart for that (and had no wish to tell my sister what might be seen from there): but sat grieving on a big box, in the lee of the shop, drumming a melancholy refrain with my heels. And there I sat while the sad light of day spread over the rocky world; and, by and by, the men came out of the cottages--and _they_ went to the hills of God's Warning, as I knew they would--and came back to the wharf to gossip: but in my presence were silent concerning what they had seen at sea, so that, when I went up to our house, I did not know what the sloop was making of the gale. And when I crossed the threshold, 'twas to a vast surprise: for my breakfast was set on a narrow corner of the kitchen table (and had turned cold); and the whole house was in an amazing state of dust and litter and unseasonable confusion--the rugs lifted, the tables and chairs awry, the maids wielding brooms with utmost vigour: a comfortless prospect, indeed, but not foreign to my sister's way at troublous times, as I knew. So I ate my breakfast, and that heartily (being a boy); and then sought my sister, whom I found tenderly dusting in my mother's room. "'Tis queer weather, Bessie," said I, in gentle reproof, "for cleanin' house." She puckered her brow--a sad little frown: but sweet, as well, for, downcast or gay, my sister could be naught else, did she try it. "Is you thinkin' so, Davy?" she asked, pulling idly at her dust-rag. "Ah, well!" she sighed. "Why," I exclaimed, "'tis the queerest I ever knowed!" "I been thinkin'," she mused, "that I'd get the house tidied up--while the doctor's away." "Oh, _was_ you?" "Ay," she said, looking up; "for he've such a wonderful distaste for dust an' confusion. An' I'll have the house all in order," she added, with a wan smile, "when he gets back." 'Tis the way of women to hope; but that my clever sister should thus count sure that which lay in grave doubt--admitting no uncertainty--was beyond my understanding. "Does you think," she asked, looking away, "that he will be back"--she hesitated--"the morrow?" I did not deign to reply. "May be," she muttered, "the day after." 'Twas hard to believe it of her. "Bessie," I began, ignoring her folly, "afore the doctor went, he left a message for you." Her hands went swiftly to her bosom. "For me?" she whispered. "Ah, tell me, Davy!" "I'm just about t' tell," said I, testily. "But, sure, 'tis nothin' t' put you in a state. When he come t' my room," I proceeded, "at dawn, t' say good-bye, he left a message. 'Tell her,' said he, 'that I love her.'" It seemed to me, then, that she suffered--that she felt some glorious agony: of which, as I thought, lads could know nothing. And I wondered why. "That he loves me!" she murmured. "No," said I. "'Tell her not that,' said he," I went on. "'Tell her that I loved her.'" "Not that!" she cried. "'Twas that he loves me--_not_ that he loved me!" "'Twas that he loved you." "Oh, no!" "I got it right." "Ah, then," she cried, in despair, "he've no hope o' comin' back! Oh," she moaned, clasping her hands, "if only I had----" But she sighed--and turned again to her womanly task; and I left her tenderly caring for my mother's old room. And when, at midday, I came up from the wharf, I found the house restored to order and quiet: my sister sitting composed in my mother's place, smiling a welcome across the table, as my mother used to do. And I kissed her--for I loved her! * * * * * It blew up bitter cold--the wind rising: the sea turned white with froth. 'Twas a solemn day--like a sad Sunday, when a man lies dead in the harbour. No work was done--no voice was lifted boisterously--no child was out of doors: but all clung peevishly to their mothers' skirts. The men on the wharf--speculating in low, anxious voices--with darkened eyes watched the tattered sky: the rushing, sombre clouds, still in a panic fleeing to the wilderness. They said the sloop would not outlive the gale. They said 'twas a glorious death that the doctor and Skipper Thomas Lovejoy had died; thus to depart in the high endeavour to succour an enemy--but shed no tears: for 'tis not the way of our folk to do it.... Rain turned to sleet--sleet to black fog. The smell of winter was in the air. There was a feeling of snow abroad.... Then came the snow--warning flakes, driving strangely through the mist, where no snow should have been. Our folk cowered--not knowing what they feared: but by instinct perceiving a sudden change of season, for which they were not ready; and were disquieted.... What a rush of feeling and things done--what rage and impulsive deeds--came then! The days are not remembered--but lie hid in a mist, as I write.... Timmie Lovejoy crawled into our harbour in the dusk of that day: having gone ashore at Long Cove with the deck-litter of the _Trap and Seine_; which surprised us not at all, for we are used to such things. And when he gave us the message (having now, God knows! a tragic opportunity, but forgetting that)--when he sobbed that Jagger, being in sound health, would prove the doctor a coward or drown him--we determined to go forthwith by the coast rocks to Wayfarer's Tickle to punish Jagger in some way for the thing he had done. And when I went up the path to tell my poor sister of the villany practiced upon the doctor, designed to compass his very death--ah! 'tis dreadful to recall it--when I went up the path, my mother's last prayer pleading in my soul, the whitening world was all turned red; and my wish was that, some day, I might take my enemy by the throat, whereat I would tear with my naked fingers, until my hands were warm with blood.... But it came on to snow; and for two days and nights snow fell, the wind blowing mightily: so that no man could well move from his own house. And when the wind went down, and the day dawned clear again, we put the dogs to my father's komatik and set out for Wayfarer's Tickle: whence Jagger had that morning fled, as Jonas Jutt told us. "Gone!" cried Tom Tot. "T' the s'uth'ard with the dogs. He's bound t' the Straits Shore t' get the last coastal boat t' Bay o' Islands." "Gone!" we repeated, blankly. "Ay--but ten hours gone. In mad haste--alone--ill provisioned--fleein' in terror.... He sat on the hills--sat there like an old crag--in the rain an' wind--waitin' for the doctor's sloop. 'There she is, Jutt!' says he. 'No,' says I. 'Thank God, Jagger, that's a schooner, reefed down an' runnin' for harbour!' ... 'There she is!' says he. 'No,' says I. 'Thank God, that's the same schooner, makin' heavy weather o' the gale!' ... 'There she is, Jutt!' says he. 'Ay,' says I, 'God help her, that's the doctor's sloop! They've wrecked the _Trap an' Seine_'.... An' there he sat, watchin', with his chin on his hand, 'til the doctor's sloop went over, an' the fog drifted over the sea where she had been.... An' then he went home; an' no man seed un agin 'til he called for the dogs. An' he went away--in haste--alone--like a man gone mad...." The lean-handed clerk broke in. He was blue about the lips--his eyes sunk in shadowy pits--and he was shivering. "'Timmons,' says he to me," he chattered, "'I'm going home. I done wrong,' says he. 'They'll kill me for this.'" "An' when he got the dogs in the traces," Jonas proceeded, "I seed he wasn't ready for no long journey. 'Good Lord, Jagger,' says I, 'you isn't got no grub for the dogs!' 'Dogs!' says he. 'I'll feed the dogs with me whip.' 'Jagger,' says I, 'don't you try it. They won't _eat_ a whip. They can't _live_ on it.' 'Never you fear,' says he. 'I'll feed them ugly brutes when they gets me t' Cape Charles Harbour.' 'Jagger,' says I, 'you better look out they don't feed theirselves afore they gets you there. You got a ugly leader,' says I, 'in that red-eyed brute.' 'Him?' says he. 'Oh, I got _him_ broke!' But he _didn't_ have----" "And with that," said the clerk, "off he put." "Men," cried Tom Tot, looking about upon our group, "we'll cotch un yet!" So we set out in pursuit of Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle, who had fled over the hills--I laugh to think of it--with an ugly, red-eyed leader, to be fed with a whip: which dog I knew.... No snow fell. The days were clear--the nights moonlit. Bitter cold continued. We followed a plain track--sleeping by night where the quarry had slept.... Day after day we pushed on: with no mercy on the complaining dogs--plunging through the drifts, whipping the team up the steeper hills, speeding when the going lay smooth before us.... By and by we drew near. Here and there the snow was significantly trampled. There were signs of confusion and cross purposes. The man was desperately fighting his dogs.... One night, the dogs were strangely restless--sniffing the air, sleepless, howling; nor could we beat them to their beds in the snow: they were like wolves. And next day--being then two hours after dawn--we saw before us a bloody patch of snow: whereupon Tom Tot cried out in horror. "Oh, dear God!" he muttered, turning with a gray face. "They've eat him up!" Then--forgetting the old vow--he laughed. * * * * * ... And this was true. They had eaten him up. The snow was all trampled and gory. They had eaten him up. Among the tatters of his garments, I found a hand; and I knew that hand for the hand of Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle.... They had turned wolves--they had eaten him up. From far off--the crest of a desolate hill--there came a long howl. I looked towards that place. A great dog appeared--and fled. I wondered if the dog I knew had had his day. I wondered if the first grip had been upon the throat.... * * * * * When we came again to our harbour--came close again to the grief we had in rage and swift action forgot--when, from the inland hills, we caught sight of the basin of black water, and the cottages, snuggled by the white water-side--we were amazed to discover a schooner lying at anchor off my father's wharf: the wreck of a craft, her topmast hanging, her cabin stove in, her jib-boom broke off short. But this amazement--this vast astonishment--was poor surprise as compared with the shock I got when I entered my father's house. For, there--new groomed and placid--sat the doctor; and my dear sister was close to him--oh, so joyfully close to him--her hand in his, her sweet face upturned to him and smiling, glowing with such faith and love as men cannot deserve: a radiant, holy thing, come straight from the Heart of the dear God, who is the source of Love. "Oh!" I ejaculated, stopping dead on the threshold. "Hello, Davy!" the doctor cried. I fell into the handiest chair. "You got home," I observed, in a gasp. "Didn't you?" He laughed. "Sure," I began, vacantly, "an', ecod!" I exclaimed, with heat, "what craft picked _you_ up?" "The _Happy Sally_." "Oh!" said I. 'Twas a queer situation. There seemed so little to say. "Was you drove far?" I asked, politely seeking to fill an awkward gap. "South o' Belle Isle." "Ah!" The doctor was much amused--my sister hardly less so. They watched me with laughing eyes. And they heartlessly abandoned me to my own conversational devices: which turned me desperate. "Is you goin' t' get married?" I demanded. My sister blushed--and gave me an arch glance from behind her long, dark lashes. But-- "We are not without hope," the doctor answered, calmly, "that the Bishop will be on our coast next summer." "I'm glad," I observed, "that you've both come t' your senses." "Oh!" cried my sister. "Ecod!" the doctor mocked. "Ay," said I, with a wag. "I is _that_!" The doctor spoke. "'Twas your sister," said he, "found the way. She discovered a word," he continued, turning tenderly to her, his voice charged with new and solemn feeling, "that I'd forgot." "A word!" said I, amazed. "Just," he answered, "one word." 'Twas mystifying. "An' what word," I asked, "might that word be?" "'Expiation,'" he replied. I did not know the meaning of that word--nor did I care. But I was glad that my dear sister--whose cleverness (and spirit of sacrifice) might ever be depended upon--had found it: since it had led to a consummation so happy. "Skipper Tommy saved?" I enquired "He's with the twins at the Rat Hole." "Then," said I, rising, "as you're both busy," said I, in a saucy flash, "I'll be goin'----" "You'll not!" roared the doctor. And he leaped from his seat--bore down upon me, indeed, like a mad hurricane: my sister laughing and clapping her little hands. So I knew I must escape or have my bones near crack under the pressure of his affection; and I was agile--and eluded him. * * * * * I found Skipper Tommy and the twins at the Rat Hole--the skipper established in comfort by the stove, a cup of tea at his hand, his stockinged feet put up to warm: the twins sitting close, both grinning broadly, each finely alert to anticipate the old man's wants, who now had acquired a pampered air, which sat curiously upon him. "Seems t' me, Davy," he said, in a solemn whisper, at the end of the tale, new told for me, "that the dear Lard took pity. 'You done pretty well, Tommy,' says He, 't' put out t' the help o' Jagger in that there gale. I'm thinkin' I'll have t' change my mind about you,' says He. 'The twins, Tommy,' says He, 'is well growed, an' able lads, both, as I knowed when I started out t' do this thing; but I'm thinkin',' says He, 'that I'll please you, Tommy,' says He, 'by lettin' you live a little longer with them dear lads.' Oh," the skipper concluded, finding goodness in all the acts of the Lord, the while stretching out his rough old hand to touch the boys, his face aglow, "'twas wonderful kind o' Him t' let me see my lads again!" The twins heartily grinned. XXVIII IN HARBOUR When the doctor was told of the tragic end of Jagger of Wayfarer's Tickle, he shuddered, and sighed, and said that Jagger had planned a noble death for him: but said no more; nor has he since spoken the name of that bad man. And we sent the master of the _Jessie Dodd_ to St. Johns by the last mail-boat of that season--and did not seek to punish him: because he had lost all that he had, and was most penitent; and because Jagger was dead, and had died the death that he did.... The last of the doctor's small patrimony repaired the damage done our business by the wreck of the _Trap and Seine_: and brought true my old dream of an established trade, done with honour and profit to ourselves and the folk of our coast, and of seven schooners, of which, at last, the twins were made masters of two.... And that winter my sister was very happy--ay, as happy (though 'tis near sin to say it) as her dear self deserved. Sweet sister--star of my life!... The doctor, too, was happy; and not once (and many a cold night I shivered in my meagre nightgown at his door to discover it)--not once did he suffer the old agony I had known him to bear. And when, frankly, I asked him why this was---- "Love, Davy," he answered. "Love?" said I. "And labour." "An' labour?" "And the Gospel according to Tommy." "Sure," I asked, puzzled, "what's that?" "Faith," he answered. "'Tis queer!" I mused. "Just faith," he repeated. "Just faith in the loving-kindness of the dear God. Just faith--with small regard for creeds and forms." This he said with a holy twinkle. * * * * * But that was long ago. Since then I have been to the colleges and hospitals of the South, and have come back, here, in great joy, to live my life, serving the brave, kind folk, who are mine own people, heartily loved by me: glad that I am Labrador born and bred--proud of the brave blood in my great body, of the stout purpose in my heart: of which (because of pity for all inlanders and the folk of the South) I may not with propriety boast. Doctor Davy, they call me, now. But I have not gone lacking. I am not without realization of my largest hope. The decks are often wet--wet and white. They heave underfoot--and are wet and white--while the winds come rushing from the gray horizon. Ah, I love the sea--the sweet, wild sea: loveliest in her adorable rage, like a woman!... And my father's house is now enlarged, and is an hospital; and the doctor's sloop is now grown to a schooner, in which he goes about, as always, doing good.... And my sister waits for me to come in from the sea, in pretty fear that I may not come back; and I am glad that she waits, sitting in my mother's place, as my mother used to do. And Skipper Tommy Lovejoy this day lies dying.... * * * * * I sit, a man grown, in my mother's room, which now is mine. It is springtime. To-day I found a flower on the Watchman. Beyond the broad window of her room, the hills of Skull Island and God's Warning stand yellow in the sunshine, rivulets dripping from the ragged patches of snow which yet linger in the hollows; and the harbour water ripples under balmy, fragrant winds from the wilderness; and workaday voices, strangely unchanged by the years that are passed, come drifting up the hill from my father's wharves; and, ay, indeed, all the world of sea and land is warm and wakeful and light of heart, just as it used to be, when I was a lad, and my mother lay here dying. But there is no shadow in the house--no mystery. The separate sorrows have long since fled. My mother's gentle spirit here abides--just as it used to do: touching my poor life with holy feeling, with fine dreams, with tender joy. There is no shadow--no mystery. There is a glory--but neither shadow nor mystery. And my hand is still in her dear hand--and she leads me: just as she used to do. And all my days are glorified--by her who said good-bye to me, but has not left me desolate. * * * * * Skipper Tommy died to-day. 'Twas at the break of dawn. The sea lay quiet; the sky was flushed with young, rosy colour--all the hues of hope. We lifted him on the pillows: that from the window he might watch--far off at sea--the light chase the shadows from the world. "A new day!" he whispered. 'Twas ever a mystery to him. That there should come new days--that the deeds of yesterday should be forgot in the shadows of yesterday--that as the dawn new hope should come unfailing, clean, benignant. "A new day!" he repeated, turning his mild old face from the placid sea, a wondering, untroubled question in his eyes. "Ay, zur--a new day." He watched the light grow--the hopeful tints spread rejoicing towards the higher heavens. "The Lard," he said, "give me work. Blessed be the name o' the Lard!" All the world was waking. "The Lard give me pain. Blessed be the name o' the Lard!" And a breeze came with the dawn--a rising breeze, rippling the purple sea. "The Lard give me love," he continued, turning tenderly to the stalwart twins. "Blessed be the name o' the Lard!" The wind swept calling by--blue winds, fair winds to the north: calling at the window, all the while. "The Lard showed Himself t' me. Oh, ay, that He did," he added, with a return to his old manner. "'Skipper Tommy,' says the Lard," he whispered, "'Skipper Tommy,' says He, 'leave you an' Me,' says He, 'be friends. You'll never regret it, b'y,' says He, 'an you make friends with Me.' Blessed," he said, his last, low voice tremulous with deep gratitude, "oh, blessed be the name o' the Lard!" The wind called again--blithely called: crying at the window. In all the harbours of our coast, 'twas time to put to sea. "I wisht," the skipper sighed, "that I'd been--a bit--wickeder. The wicked," he took pains to explain, "knows the dear Lard's love. An', somehow, I isn't _feelin'_ it as I should. An' I wisht--I'd sinned--a wee bit--more." Still the wind called to him. "Ecod!" he cried, impatiently, his hand moving feebly to tweak his nose, but failing by the way. "There I been an' gone an' made another mistake! Sure, 'tis awful! Will you tell me, Davy Roth, an you can," he demanded, now possessed of the last flicker of strength, "how I could be wicked without hurtin' some poor man? Ecod! I'm woeful blind." He dropped my hand--suddenly: forgetting me utterly. His hands sought the twins--waving helplessly: and were caught. Whereupon the father sighed and smiled. "Dear lads!" he whispered. The sun rose--a burst of glory--and struck into the room--and blinded the old eyes. "I wonder----" the old man gasped, looking once more to the glowing sky. "I wonder...." Then he knew. * * * * * How unmomentous is the death we die! This passing--this gentle change from place to place! What was it he said? "'Tis but like wakin' from a troubled dream. 'Tis like wakin' t' the sunlight of a new, clear day. He takes our hand. 'The day is broke,' says He. 'Dream no more, but rise, child o' Mine, an' come into the sunshine with Me.' 'Tis only that that's comin' t' you--only His gentle touch--an' the waking. Hush! Don't you go gettin' scared. 'Tis a lovely thing--that's comin' t' you!" ... And I fancy that the dead pity the living--that they look upon us, in the shadows of the world, and pity us ... And I know that my mother waits for me at the gate--that her arms will be the first to enfold me, her lips the first to touch my cheek. "Davy, dear, my little son," she will whisper in my ear, "aren't you glad that you, too, are dead?" And I shall be glad. * * * * * Ha! but here's a cheery little gale of wind blowing up the path. 'Tis my nephew--coming from my father's wharf. Davy, they call him. The sturdy, curly-pated, blue-eyed lad--Labradorman, every luscious inch of him: without a drop of weakling blood in his stout little body! There's jolly purpose in his stride--in his glance at my window. 'Tis a walk on the Watchman, I'll be bound! The wind's in the west, the sun unclouded, the sea in a ripple. The day invites us. Why not? The day does not know that an old man lies dead.... He's at the door. He calls my name. "Uncle Davy! Hi, b'y! Where is you?" Ecod! but the Heavenly choir will never thrill me so.... He's on the stair. I must make haste. In a moment his arms will be round my neck. And---- Here's a large period to my story! The little rascal has upset my bottle of ink! THE END ----------------------------------------------------------------------- FAMOUS COPYRIGHT BOOKS IN POPULAR PRICED EDITIONS Re-issues of the great literary successes of the time. Library size. Printed on excellent paper--most of them with illustrations of marked beauty--and handsomely bound in cloth. Price, 75 cents a volume, postpaid. BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK. By George Barr McCutcheon. 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It is a fascinating tale and told with real enthusiasm and charm. The unusual stage of action and the chivalrous quality of the hero, once known, lay hold upon the imagination and will not let go." _Fifth Edition_ By DR. WILFRED T. GRENFELL THE HARVEST OF THE SEA 16 Illustrations, Cloth, $1.00 net. _New York Sun_: "Relates the life of the North Sea fisherman on the now famous Dogger Bank: the cruel apprenticeship, the bitter life, the gallant deeds of courage and of seamanship, the evils of drink, the work of the deep sea mission. These are real sea tales that will appeal to every one who cares for salt water, and are told admirably." _N. Y. Tribune_: "Dr. Grenfell tells, in fiction form, but with strict adherence to fact, how the mission to deep sea fishermen came to be founded among the fishing fleets that frequent the Dogger Bank that has figured prominently in the recent international complication. It is a story rich in adventure and eloquent of accomplishments for the betterment of the men." _Chicago Tribune_: "It is a plain unvarnished tale of the real life of the deep sea fishermen and of the efforts which Grenfell's mission makes to keep before their minds the words of Him who stilled the waters and who chose His bosom disciples from men such as they." _Brooklyn Eagle_: "A robust, inspiring book, making us better acquainted with a man of the right sort, doing a man's work." _Fifth Edition_ ----------------------------------------------------------------------- NORMAN DUNCAN THE ADVENTURES OF BILLY TOPSAIL Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50 A ripping story of adventure by sea is regarded by every true-hearted boy as the very best story of all. The yarn--that's the thing! 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In a word, as the lads say, he's "all right, all right!" He sails, fishes, travels the ice, goes whaling, is swept to sea with the ice, captures a devil-fish, hunts a pirates' cave, gets lost on a cliff, is wrecked, runs away to join a sealer, and makes himself interesting in a hundred ways. He's a good chum, in calm or gale, on water, ice or shore--that's what Billy Topsail o' Ruddy Cove is. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- By NORMAN DUNCAN _Doctor Luke of The Labrador_ 12mo, Cloth, $1.50. _N. Y. Evening Post_: "Mr. Duncan is deserving of much praise for this, his first novel.... In his descriptive passages Mr. Duncan is sincere to the smallest detail. His characters are painted in with bold, wide strokes.... Unlike most first novels, 'Dr. Luke' waxes stronger as it progresses." _Henry van Dyke_: "It is a real book, founded on truth and lighted with imagination, well worth reading and remembering." _Review of Reviews_: "Mr. Duncan has added a new province to the realm of literature. This strong, beautiful love story moves with a distinctive rhythm that is as fresh as it is new. One of the season's two or three best books." _Hamilton W. Mabie, in the Ladies' Home Journal_: "Full of incidents, dramatically told, of the heroism and romance of humble life: strong, tender, pathetic; one of the most wholesome stories of the season." _Current Literature_: "Beyond a peradventure, ranks as one of the most remarkable novels issued in 1904. Stands out so prominently in the year's fiction that there is little likelihood of its being overshadowed." _London Punch_: "Since Thackeray wrote the last word of 'Colonel Newcome,' nothing finer has been written than the parting scene where Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, the rugged old fisherman, answers the last call." _Saturday Evening Post_: "There is enough power in this little volume to magnetize a dozen of the popular novels of the winter." _Sir Robert Bond, Premier of Newfoundland_: "I shall prize the book. It is charmingly written, and faithfully portrays the simple lives of the noble-hearted fisher folk." _Brooklyn Eagle_: "Norman Duncan has fulfilled all that was expected of him in this story; it establishes him beyond question as one of the strong masters of present-day fiction." _26th 1000_ ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE HUBBARD EXPLORING EXPEDITION By DILLON WALLACE _The Lure of the Labrador Wild_ ILLUSTRATED 8vo CLOTH $1.50 NET. _New York Sun_: "A remarkable story, and we are much mistaken if it does not become a classic among tales of exploration." _Chicago Evening Post_: "Two continents became interested in the stories that came out of the wild about the hardships of the Hubbard expedition. Wallace's story and record--they are inseparable--possesses in its naked truth more of human interest than scores of volumes of imaginative adventure and romance of the wild." _Review of Reviews_: "The chronicle of high, noble purpose and achievement and it appeals to the finest, best, and most virile in man." _Chicago Record-Herald_: "One of the most fascinating books of travel and adventure in the annals of recent American exploration. Every man or boy who has ever heard the 'red gods' of the wilderness calling will revel in these graphic pages, in which the wild odor of the pines, the roar of rapids, the thrill of the chase and of thickening dangers come vividly to the senses." _New York Evening Post_: "The story is told simply and well. It may be added that for tragic adventure it has scarcely a parallel except in Arctic exploration." _New York Evening Mail_: "A chronicle of the expedition from first to last, and a fine tribute to the memory of Hubbard, whose spirit struggled with such pitiable courage against the ravages of a purely physical breakdown. The story itself is well told." _Chicago Inter-Ocean_: "In the records of the explorations of recent years there is no more tragic story than that of Hubbard's attempt to cross the great unexplored and mysterious region of the northeastern portion of the North American continent. Wallace himself narrowly escaped death in the Labrador wild, but, having been rescued, he has brought out of that unknown land a remarkable story." _Brooklyn Eagle_: "One of the very best stories of a canoe trip into the wilds ever written." _FOURTH EDITION_ ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Transcriber's Notes: 1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards. 2. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. 3. Unusual formatting of chapter titles in text has been retained. 
15342	----	NOTES OF A TWENTY-FIVE YEARS' SERVICE IN THE HUDSON'S BAY TERRITORY. BY JOHN M'LEAN. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, Publisher in Ordinary to her Majesty. 1849. PREFACE. The writer's main object in first committing to writing the following Notes was to while away the many lonely and wearisome hours which are the lot of the Indian trader;--a wish to gratify his friends by the narrative of his adventures had also some share in inducing him to take up the pen. While he might justly plead the hacknied excuse of being urged by not a few of those friends to publish these Notes, in extenuation of the folly or presumption, or whatever else it may be termed, of obtruding them on the world, in these days of "making many books;" he feels that he can rest his vindication on higher grounds. Although several works of some merit have appeared in connexion with the subject, the Hudson's Bay territory is yet, comparatively speaking, but little known; no faithful representation has yet been given of the situation of the Company's servants--the Indian traders; the degradation and misery of the many Indian tribes, or rather remnants of tribes, scattered throughout this vast territory, is in a great measure unknown; erroneous statements have gone abroad in regard to the Company's treatment of these Indians; as also in regard to the government, policy, and management of the Company's affairs;--on these points, he conceives that his plain, unvarnished tale may throw some new light. Some of the details may seem trivial, and some of the incidents to be without much interest to the general reader; still as it was one chief design of the writer to draw a faithful picture of the Indian trader's life,--its toils, annoyances, privations, and perils, when on actual service, or on a trading or exploring expedition; its loneliness, cheerlessness, and ennui, when not on actual service; together with the shifts to which he is reduced in order to combat that ennui;--such incidents, trifling though they may appear to be, he conceives may yet convey to the reader a livelier idea of life in the Hudson's Bay Company's territories than a more ambitious or laboured description could have done. No one, indeed, who has passed his life amid the busy haunts of men, can form any just idea of the interest attached by the lonely trader to the most trifling events, such as the arrival of a stranger Indian,--the coming of a new clerk,--a scuffle among the Indians,--or a sudden change of weather. No one, unaccustomed to their "short commons," can conceive the intense, it may be said fearful, interest and excitement with which the issue of a fishing or hunting expedition is anticipated. Should his work contribute, in any degree, to awaken the sympathy of the Christian world in behalf of the wretched and degraded Aborigines of this vast territory; should it tend in any way to expose, or to reform the abuses in the management of the Hudson's Bay Company, or to render its monopoly less injurious to the natives than hitherto it has been; the writer's labour will have been amply compensated. Interested as he still is in that Company, with a considerable stake depending on its returns, it can scarcely be supposed that he has any intention, wantonly or unnecessarily, to injure its interests. GUELPH, CANADA WEST, _1st March, 1849._ CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. CHAPTER I. The Hudson's Bay Company and Territories CHAPTER II. I enter the Hudson's Bay Company's Service--Padre Gibert CHAPTER III. On Service--Lake of Two Mountains--Opposition--Indians--Amusements at the Posts CHAPTER IV. Portage des Chats--Tactics of our Opponents--Treachery of an Iroquois--Fierce yet ludicrous nature of the Opposition CHAPTER V. Arrival at the Chats--Installed as Bourgeois--First Trading Excursion--Bivouac in the Woods--Indian Barbarity CHAPTER VI. Trip to Fort Coulonge--Mr. Godin--Natives CHAPTER VII. Superseded--Feelings on the Occasion--More Opposition--Æ. Macdonell--Tactics--Melancholy Death of an Indian CHAPTER VIII. Activity of our Opponents--Violent Conduct of an Indian--Narrow Escape--Artifice--Trip to Indian's Lodge--Stupidity of Interpreter CHAPTER IX. Expedition to the Bear's Den--Passage through the Swamp--Cunning of the Indians--A Scuffle--Its Results CHAPTER X. Père Duchamp--Mr. S.'s Instructions--Unsuccessful--Trading Excursion--Difficulties of the Journey--Lose our way--Provisions fail--Reach the Post--Visit to an Algonquin Chief--His abusive Treatment--Success CHAPTER XI. Success of the Iroquois Traders--Appointed to the Charge of the Chats--Canadian disputes Possession--Bivouac without a Fire--Ruse to baffle my Opponents--Roman Catholic Bigotry CHAPTER XII. Journey to Montreal--Appointment to Lac de Sable--Advantages of this Post--Its Difficulties--Governor's flattering Letter--Return from Montreal--Lost in the Woods--Sufferings--Escape CHAPTER XIII. Narrowly escape Drowning--Accident to Indian Guide--Am nearly Frozen to Death--Misunderstanding between Algonquins and Iroquois--Massacre at Hannah Bay CHAPTER XIV. Fall through the Ice--Dangerous Adventure at a Rapid--Opponents give in--Ordered to Lachine--Treatment on my Arrival--Manners, Habits, and Superstitions of the Indians--Ferocious Revenge of a supposed Injury--Different Methods of the Roman Catholic and Protestant Missionary--Indian Councils--Tradition of the Flood--Beaver Hunting--Language CHAPTER XV. Embark for the Interior--Mode of Travelling by Canoes--Little River--Lake Nipissing--French River--Old Station of Indian Robbers--Fort Mississaga--Indians--Light Canoe-Men--Sault Ste. Marie--Lake Superior--Canoe-men desert--Re-taken--Fort William--M. Thibaud--Lac la Pluie and River--Indians--White River--Narrow Escape--Conversation with an Indian about Baptism CHAPTER XVI. Continuation of the Voyage--Run short of Provisions--Dogs Flesh--Norway House--Indian Voyageurs--Ordered to New Caledonia--Lake Winnipeg--McIntosh's Island submerged--Cumberland House--Chippewayan and Cree Indians--Portage La Loche--Scenery--Athabasca--Healthiness of the Climate CHAPTER XVII. Arrival of Mr. F. from Caledonia--Scenery--Land-slip--Massacre at Fort St. John's--Rocky Mountain Portage--Rocky Mountains--Magnificent Scenery--McLeod's Lake--Reception of its Commander by the Indians CHAPTER XVIII. Arrival at New Caledonia--Beautiful Scenery--Indian Houses--Amusements at the Fort--Threatened Attack of Indians--Expedition against them--Beefsteaks--New Caledonian Fare--Mode of catching Salmon--Singular Death of native Interpreter--Indian Funeral Rites--Barbarous Treatment of Widows CHAPTER XIX. Indian Feast--Attempt at Dramatic Representation--Religion--Ordered to Fort Alexandria--Advantages of the Situation--Sent back to Fort St. James--Solitude--Punishment of Indian Murderer--Its Consequences--Heroic Adventure of Interpreter CHAPTER XX. Appointed to the Charge of Fort George--Murder of Mr. Yale's Men--Mysterious Loss of Mr. Linton and Family--Adventures of Leather Party--Failure of Crops--Influenza CHAPTER XXI. Climate of New Caledonia--Scenery--Natural Productions--Animals--Fishes--Natives--Their Manners and Customs--Duelling--Gambling--Licentiousness--Language NOTES OF A TWENTY-FIVE YEARS' SERVICE AT THE HUDSON'S BAY TERRITORY. CHAPTER I. THE HUDSON'S BAY COMPANY AND TERRITORIES. That part of British North America known by the name of the Hudson's Bay territory extends from the eastern coast in about 60° W. long. to the Russian boundary in 142° W.; and from the Gulf of St. Lawrence, along the Ottawa River and the northern shores of Lakes Huron and Superior, and thence to the boundary line of the United States; extending in latitude thence to the northern limit of America; being in length about 2,600 miles, and in breadth about 1,400 miles. This extensive space may be divided into three portions, each differing most materially in aspect and surface. The first and most extensive is that which is on the east, from the Labrador coast, round Hudson's Bay, northward to the Arctic region, and westward to the Rocky Mountains. This is entirely a wooded district, affording that plentiful supply of timber which forms so large a branch of the Canadian export trade. These interminable forests are principally composed of pines of large size, but which towards the northern boundary are of a very stinted growth. Another portion is the prairie country, reaching from Canada westward to the Rocky Mountains, and intersected by the boundary line of the United States. In general, the soil is rich alluvial, which being covered with luxuriant herbage, affords pasturage for the vast herds of wild buffaloes which roam over these extensive plains. The western part is that which lies between the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Ocean, including the Oregon territory, which was likely to have led to a serious misunderstanding between Great Britain and the United States. These extensive portions are divided by the Hudson's Bay Company into four departments, and these departments are again subdivided into districts. At the head of each department and district a chief factor or chief trader generally presides, to whom all the officers within their respective jurisdictions are amenable. Those in charge of posts, whatever may be their rank, are subject to the authority of the person at the head of the district; and that person receives his instructions from the superintendent of the department. The whole affairs of the country at large are regulated by the Governor and Council, and their decisions again are referred, for final adjustment, to the Governor and Committee in London. The Montreal department comprehends all the districts and posts along the Gulf and River St. Lawrence; also the different posts along the banks of the Ottawa and the interior country. The depôt of the department is at Lachine, where all the returns are collected, and the outfits prepared. The southern department has its depôt at Moose Factory, in James's Bay; it includes the districts of Albany, Rupert's House, Temiscamingue, Lake Huron, and Lake Superior, together with several isolated posts along the shores of the Bay. The northern department is very extensive, having for its southern boundary the line which divides the British from the American territories, sweeping east and west from Lac La Pluie, in 95° W. long, and 49° N. lat. to the Rocky Mountains in 115° W. long.; then, with the Rocky Mountains for its western boundary, it extends northward to the Arctic Sea. The whole of this vast country is divided into the following districts: Norway House, Rainy Lake, Red River, Saskatchewan, English River, Athabasca, and McKenzie's River. The depôt of this department is York Factory, in Hudson's Bay, and is considered the grand emporium; here the grand Council is held, which is formed of the Governor and such chief factors and chief traders as may be present. The duty of the latter is to sit and listen to whatever measures the Governor may have determined on, and give their assent thereto, no debating or vetoing being ever thought of; the Governor being absolute, his measures therefore more require obedience than assent. Chief traders are also permitted to sit in council as auditors, but have not the privilege of being considered members. The Columbia department is bounded on the east by the Rocky Mountains, and on the west by the Pacific Ocean. An ideal line divides it on the south from the province of California, in lat. 41° 30'; and it joins the Russian boundary in lat. 55°. This, although a very extensive department, does not consist of many districts; New Caledonia is the principal, situated among the Rocky Mountains, and having several of its posts established along the banks of the Fraser River, which disembogues itself into the Gulf of Georgia in nearly 49° lat. and 122° W. long. The next is Colville, on the Columbia River, along with some isolated posts near the confluence of the same river. The _forts_, or trading posts, along the north-west coast, have each their respective commander. The shipping business is conducted by a person appointed for that purpose, who is styled, _par excellence_, the head of the "Naval department." The Company have a steamboat and several sailing vessels, for the purpose chiefly of trading with the natives along the coast. The primary object, however, is not so much the trade, as to keep brother Jonathan in check, (whose propensity for encroaching has of late been "pretty much" exhibited,) and to deter him from forming any establishments on the coasts; there being a just apprehension that if once a footing were obtained on the coast, an equal eagerness might be manifested for extending their locations into the interior. Strong parties of hunters are also constantly employed along the southern frontier for the purpose of destroying the fur-bearing animals in that quarter; the end in view being to secure the interior from the encroachments of foreign interlopers. The depôt of this department is at Fort Vancouver, on the Columbia River. The Hudson's Bay Company, as it at present exists, was incorporated in the winter of 1820-21, a coalition having been then formed with the North-West Company. Upon this taking place, an Act of Parliament was obtained which gave them not only the possession of the territory they had originally held by virtue of their royal charter, but also investing them with the same rights and privileges conferred by that charter in and over all the territories that had been settled by the North-West Company for a term of twenty-one years. The Governor, Deputy-Governor, and managing Committee, are, properly speaking, the only capitalists. The stock is divided into one hundred shares; sixty of which their Honours retain for themselves; and the remaining forty are divided among the chief traders and chief factors, who manage the affairs in the Indian country. A chief factor holds two of these shares, and a chief trader one; of which they retain the full interest for one year after they retire, and half interest for the six following years. These cannot be said to be stock-holders, for they are not admitted to any share in the executive management; but according to the present system they are termed Commissioned Officers, and receive merely the proceeds of the share allotted to them. They enjoy, however, one very superior advantage,--they are not subjected to bear their share in any losses which the Company may sustain. It is generally reckoned that the value of one share is on an average about 350l. sterling a-year. By the resignation of two chief traders, one share is at the Company's disposal the year after, which is then bestowed on a clerk. When two chief factors retire, a chief trader is promoted in like manner. Promotion also take place when the shares of the retired partners fall in. CHAPTER II. I ENTER THE HUDSON'S BAY COMPANY'S SERVICE--PADRE GIBERT. I entered the service of the Company in the winter of 1820-21, and after passing my contract at Montreal in the month of January, I took up my residence for the remainder of the season with a French priest, in the parish of Petit le Maska, for the purpose of studying the French language. The Padre was a most affable, liberal-minded man, a warm friend of England and Englishmen, and a staunch adherent to their government, which he considered as the most perfect under the sun. The fact is, that the old gentleman, along with many others of his countrymen who had escaped from the horrors of the French Revolution, had found an asylum in our land of freedom, which they could find nowhere else; and the personal advantages that had accrued to him from that circumstance, naturally induced a favourable disposition towards his benefactors, their laws, and their institutions. Though the Padre was extremely liberal in his political opinions, his management of his worldly affairs bore the stamp of the most sordid parsimony. He worshipped the golden calf, and his adoration of the image was manifest in everything around him. He wore a cassock of cloth which had in former times been of a black colour, but was now of a dusky grey, the woollen material being so completely incorporated with dust as to give it that colour. His table was furnished with such fare as his farm produced, with the addition, on particular occasions, of a bottle of _black strap_. A charming nymph, of some fifty years of age or so, had the management of the household, and discharged all her duties with strict decorum and care. I have the beauties of her person in my mind's eye to this day. She was hump-backed, short-necked, and one-eyed, and squinted bewitchingly with the remaining one: she had a short leg and a long one, a high shoulder and a low. In short, the dear creature seemed to be formed, or rather deformed, by the hand of nature on purpose to fill the situation of housekeeper for a priest,--so that whatever might be his age, no scandal could possibly attach itself to him from such a housekeeper. The man-servant was directly the counterpart of the charming Marguerite; he also was far advanced in the vale of years, and was of a most irascible temper. To stir up Joseph to the _grinning point_ was a very easy matter; and his frantic gesticulations, when thus goaded to wrath by our teasing pleasantries, (there were two other young gentlemen beside myself,) were of the most extraordinary description, and afforded infinite amusement. We never failed to amuse ourselves at Joseph's expense, when the Padre's absence permitted our doing so with impunity,--especially as a small present of tobacco, which was always kept at hand for such occasions, soon made us friends again. But it sometimes happened that such jokes were carried too far, so as to render the offering of _incense_ quite unacceptable, when the touch of _metal_ could alone produce the desired effect. I remained with Father Gibert until spring, and shall take leave of him by relating an anecdote or two illustrative of his loyalty and benevolence. Some time during Madison's unprovoked war with Great Britain, an alarm came from the upper part of the parish of which Father Gibert was _curé_, that a party of Americans had been seen marching down the country. The _Capitaine_ of militia, who was the _curé's_ next door neighbour, was immediately sent for, and by their joint influence and authority a considerable number of _habitans_ were soon assembled under arms, such as they were. The Father then shouldering his musket, and placing himself at the head of his parishioners, led them into his garden, which was enclosed by a picket fence, and bordered on the highway. Here the loyal band took their stand under cover of the fence, waiting to give Jonathan a warm reception the moment he came within reach. The supposed Americans proved to be a small detachment of British troops, and thus the affair ended. On another occasion during the same period the Padre's loyalty and good humour were manifested, though in a different manner. While amusing himself in the garden one day, he overheard two Irish soldiers engaged in conversation to this effect:-- "You know that the ould boy asks every body afore he gives any praties, if they belong to St. Patrick; well, is it a hard matter to tell him we do, agrah?" "Sure you'd be telling a lie, Paddy!" "Never mind that," said Paddy, "I'll spake." The old gentleman immediately returned to the house, and entering by a back door, was snugly seated in his arm-chair, book in hand, when the two Hibernians were admitted. "Well, my boys, what is your business with me?" "We would be wanting a few praties, if your Riverence could spare them." "Aha! you are from Ireland, I perceive. Irishmen very fond of potatoes! Well, my boys, I have a few remaining, and you shall have some if you belong to St. Patrick." "Faith, and it is all as your honour says; we are Irishmen, and we belong to St. Patrick." The old gentleman ordered Joseph to supply them with the "blessed root," without any further parley. Then addressing the speaker in a voice of assumed choler, exclaimed:-- "You are a great raskail! does your religion teach you to tell lies? You are Protestant both of you. However, if you do not belong to St. Patrick, you belong to the King of England, and I give my potatoes for his sake. But you must never try to impose upon an old priest again, or you may not come so well off." CHAPTER III. ON SERVICE--LAKE OF TWO MOUNTAINS--OPPOSITION--INDIANS--AMUSEMENTS AT THE POSTS. I arrived at Montreal about the beginning of May, and soon learnt that I was appointed to the post at Lake of Two Mountains. The Montreal department was headed at that time by Mr. Thane, a man of rather eccentric character, but possessed of a heart that glowed with the best feelings of humanity. I was allowed to amuse myself a few days in town, having directions however to call at the office every day, in case my services should be required. The period of departure at length arrived. I was one evening accosted by Mr. Thane in these terms:--"I say, youngster, you have been trifling away your time long enough here; you must hold yourself ready to embark for your destination to-morrow morning at five o'clock precisely. If you delay one moment, you shall have cause to remember it." Such positive injunctions were not disregarded by me. I was of course ready at the time appointed, and after all the hurry, had the honour of breakfasting with my commander before departing; but the woful and disheartening accounts of the hardships and privations I was to suffer in the country to which I was to proceed, fairly spoiled my appetite. I was told that my only lodging was to be a tent, my only food Indian corn, _when I could get it_; and many other _comforts_ were enumerated with the view of producing a certain effect, which my countenance no doubt betrayed, whilst he chuckled with the greatest delight at the success of his jokes. I took leave, and found myself that evening at the Lake of Two Mountains. On my arrival, a large building was pointed out to me as the Company's establishment, to which I soon found admittance, and was, to my great surprise, ushered into a large well furnished apartment. Tea had just been served, with a variety of substantial accompaniments, to which I felt heartily disposed to do ample justice, after my day's abstinence. This was very different entertainment from what I had been led to expect in the morning; would it had been my lot to be always so agreeably deceived! The village of the Lake of Two Mountains is inhabited by two distinct tribes of the aborigines--viz. the Iroquois and the Algonquins; the latter are a tribe of the Sauteux nation, or Ojibbeway, and live principally by the chase. The former cultivate the soil, and engage as voyageurs, or in any other capacity that may yield them the means of subsistence. They are a very hardy industrious race; but neither the habits of civilized life, nor the influence of the Christian religion, appear to have mitigated, in any material degree, the ferocity that characterized their pagan ancestors. Although they do not pay great deference to the laws of God, they are sufficiently aware of the consequences of violating the laws of man, and comport themselves accordingly. The Catholic seminary and church, along with the gardens of the establishment, almost divide the village into two equal parts; yet this close proximity does not appear to encourage any friendly intercourse between the two tribes. They in fact seldom pass their respective limits, and, with few exceptions, cannot converse together, the language of the one being unintelligible to the other. The Company established a post here in the spring of 1819, and when I arrived it was in charge of Mr. Fisher, then a senior clerk. He had two other clerks under him, besides myself, a like number of _attachés_, two interpreters, two servants, and a horse to ride upon. With such an establishment to rule over, need it be matter of surprise that our _bourgeois_ was in his own estimation a magnate of the first order? _N'importe_,--whatever might be his vanity, he possessed those qualities which constitute a first-rate Indian trader, and he required them to fill successfully his present situation. A number of petty traders were settled in the village, who, whenever the Company entered the lists against them, laid aside the feuds that subsisted among themselves, and joined to oppose their united efforts against the powerful rival that threatened to overwhelm them all. The spring fur campaign was about to open when I made my _début_ at the post. The natives being daily expected from the interior, all parties watched their arrival night and day. This was not a very harassing duty to us, as we relieved each other; but the situation of our superior was exceedingly irksome and annoying. The moment an Indian canoe appeared (the Indians always arrived at night), we were ordered to apprize him of it; having done so, he was immediately at the landing-place, our opponents being also there, attending to their own interests. Some of the natives were supplied by the Company, others by the petty traders; and according as it happened to be the customers of either that arrived, the servants assisted in unloading the canoes, conveying the baggage to their houses, and kindling a fire. Provisions were furnished in abundance by both parties. While these preliminary operations were being performed by the servants, the traders surrounded the principal object of their solicitude--the hunter; first one, then another, taking him aside to persuade him of the superior claims each had on his love and gratitude. After being pestered in this manner for some time, he, (the hunter,) eventually allowed himself to be led away to the residence of one of the parties, where he was treated to the best their establishment afforded; the natives, however, retaining their furs, and visiting from house to house, until satiated with the good cheer the traders had to give them, when they at length gave them up, but not always to the party to whom they were most indebted. They are generally great rogues; the sound of the dollars, which the Company possessed in abundance, often brought the furs that were due to the petty trader to the Company's stores; while some of our customers were induced by the same argument to carry their furs to our rivals. For a period of six weeks or so, the natives continued to arrive; sometimes in brigades, sometimes in single canoes; during the whole of this period we were occupied in the manner now described, day and night. So great was the pressure of business, that we had scarcely time to partake of the necessary refreshment. When they had at length all arrived, we enjoyed our night's rest, if indeed our continually disturbed slumbers could be called rest:--what with the howling of two or three hundred dogs, the tinkling of bells with which the horses the Indians rode were ornamented, the bawling of the squaws when beaten by their drunken husbands, and the yelling of the savages themselves when in that beastly state, sleep was impossible,--the infernal sounds that continually rent the air, produced such a _symphony_ as could be heard nowhere else out of Pandemonium. No liquors were sold to the natives at the village, but they procured as much as they required from the opposite side of the lake. Some wretches of Canadians were always ready, for a trifling consideration, to purchase it for them; thus the law prohibiting the sale of liquor to the Indians was evaded. After wallowing in intemperance for some time, they ultimately submitted to the authority of the priests, confessed their sins, received absolution, and became _good Christians_ for the remainder of the season. If any indulged in the favourite vice--a few always did--they were confined to their quarters by their families. After attending mass on Sundays, they amused themselves playing at ball, or running foot races; and it was only on such occasions they were seen to associate with their neighbours the Iroquois. They took opposite sides in the games; small stakes were allowed, merely to create an interest in the issue of the contest. The chiefs of both tribes sat smoking their pipes together, viewing the sports in silent gravity, and acting as umpires in all cases of doubt between the parties. They, in fact, led a glorious life during the three months they remained at the village; that period was to them a continued carnival. The best fare the country afforded--the best attire that money could procure--all that sensuality, all that vanity could desire--their means permitted them to enjoy. Their lands not having been hunted on during the war, the beaver multiplied at an extraordinary rate, and now swarmed in every direction. Every individual belonging to the tribe might then have acquired an independent fortune. They arrived at the village, their canoes laden with furs; but the characteristic improvidence of their race blinded them to future consequences. Such was their wasteful extravagance, that the money obtained by the sale of their furs was dissipated ere half the summer season was over. The traders supplied them afterwards with all requisites at a _moderate_ per centage; and when they embarked in autumn for their hunting grounds, they found themselves deeply involved in debt, a few only excepted. In the course of this summer, some of our opponents foreseeing the probable issue of the contest they were engaged in, proposed terms of capitulation, which were in most instances readily assented to by the Company; the inventories and outstanding debts were assumed at a certain valuation. They retired from the field, some with annuities for a stipulated period, while to others a round sum of money was granted; in either case the party bound himself, under certain penalties, not to interfere in the trade for a stated period of time. In this manner the Company got rid of all petty opponents, with the exception of two who continued the unequal contest. By the latter end of August the natives had all started for the interior, leaving behind only a few decrepit old men and women. The scene was now completely changed; a death-like stillness prevailed where but a few days before all was activity, bustle and animation. Two of my brother scribes were ordered to the interior; one[1] to the distant Lake Nipissingue, the other to the Chats. Mr. Fisher set off to enjoy himself in Montreal, Mr. Francher, the accountant, being appointed _locum-tenens_ during his absence. Another young Scot and myself, together with two or three non-descripts, formed the winter establishment. Having just quitted the scenes of civilized life, I found my present solitude sufficiently irksome; the natural buoyancy of youthful spirits, however, with the amusements we got up amongst us, conspired to banish all gloomy thoughts from my mind in a very short time. We--my friend Mac and myself--soon became very intimate with two or three French families who resided in the village, who were, though in an humble station, kind and courteous, and who, moreover, danced, fiddled and played whist. [1] This gentleman's name was Cockburn;--he met his end a few years afterwards in a very melancholy manner, while on his way to Montreal (having retired from the service). He rolled over the canoe on a dark night, and disappeared for ever! There was another family of a different status from the others, that of Capt. Ducharme, the king's interpreter, a kind-hearted, hospitable man, who frequently invited us to his house, where we enjoyed the charms of polished society and good cheer. The captain's residence was in the Iroquois division of the village; this circumstance led us to form another acquaintance that for some time afforded us some amusement, _en passant_. We discovered that a very ugly old widow, who resided in that quarter, had two very pretty young daughters, to whom we discoursed in Gaelic; they answered in Iroquois; and in a short time the best _understanding_ imaginable was established between us, (Mac and myself, be it always understood.) No harm came of it, though; I vow there did not; the priests, it seems, thought otherwise. Our acquaintance with the girls having come to their knowledge, we were one day honoured with a visit from the Iroquois padre; the severe gravity of whose countenance convinced us at a glance of the nature of his mission. I must do him the justice to say, however, that his address to us was mild and admonitory, rather than severe or reproachful. I resolved from that moment to speak no more Gaelic to the Iroquois maidens; Mac continued his visits. We always amused ourselves in the evenings with our French _confrères_, (whom I have mentioned as "nondescripts," from the circumstance of their being under no regular engagement with the Company,) playing cards or fiddling and dancing. We were on one occasion engaged in the latter amusement _en pleine midi_--our _Deputy_ Bourgeois being one of the party, and all of us in the highest possible glee, when lo! in the midst of our hilarity, the hall door flew open and the _great man_ stood sternly before us. The hand-writing on the wall could scarcely have produced a more startling effect on the convivial party of old, than did this unexpected apparition upon us. We listened to the reprimand which followed in all due humility, none more crest-fallen than our worthy Deputy. Mr. Fisher then opened his portmanteau and drew forth a letter, which he presented to my friend Mac, exclaiming in a voice of thunder, "Read that, gentlemen, and hear what Mr. Thane thinks of your conduct." We read and trembled; Mac's defiance of the authority of the priests offended them mortally; a formal complaint was consequently preferred against the innocent and the guilty, (although there was no guilt in fact, unless _speaking Gaelic_ to the wood-nymphs could be so construed,) and drew upon us the censures this dreadful missive conveyed. The magnate remained a few days, and on his departure for town, we resumed our usual pastimes, but selected a different _path_ to Captain Ducharme's. The Fathers had requested, when this establishment was first formed, that some of the Company's officers should attend church on Sundays for the purpose of showing a good example to the natives. I did so, on my part, very regularly until Christmas Eve, when having witnessed the ceremonies of the midnight mass, I determined on remaining at home in future. I shuddered with horror at the idolatrous rites, as they appeared to me, which were enacted on that occasion. The ceremonies commenced with the celebration of mass; then followed the introduction of the "Infant Jesus," borne by four of the choristers, attired in surplices of white linen. The image being placed by them on a sofa in front of the altar, the superior of the seminary made his début, retiring to the railing that surrounds the altar, when he knelt, and bending low his head apparently in devout adoration, he arose, then advanced two steps towards the altar and knelt again; he knelt the third time close to the side of the image, which he devoutly embraced, then withdrew: the younger priests performed the same ceremonies; and after them every one of their congregation: yet these people protest that their religion has no connexion with idolatry, and that the representations of Protestants regarding it are false and calumnious. If we credit them, however, we must belie the evidence of our own senses; but the fact is, there are not a few Roman Catholics who speak with very little _respect_ themselves of some of these mummeries. CHAPTER IV. PORTAGE DES CHATS--TACTICS OF OUR OPPONENTS--TREACHERY OF AN IROQUOIS--FIERCE, YET LUDICROUS NATURE OF THE OPPOSITION. MR. Fisher returned from town in the month of March; he had learnt that our opponents intended to shift the scene of operations to the Chats, (where the greater number of the Indians pass on their way going to or returning from their hunting grounds,) and were making preparations of a very extensive nature for the spring competition. The Company were not tardy in adopting such measures as were deemed the most efficient to meet them on their own terms. We understood that they had hired two _bullies_ for the purpose of deciding the matter _par voie de fait_. Mr. Fisher hired two of the same description, who were supposed to be more than a match for the opposition party. On the 28th of April, 1822, our opponents set off in two large canoes, manned by eight men in each; we followed in three canoes with twenty-four men, under the command of three leaders--namely, Captain Ducharme, who had volunteered on the occasion, Mr. Lyons, a retired trader, and myself. Nothing occurred worthy of description on our passage to the Chats. The Ottawa is at this point interrupted by a ledge of rock, which extends across its whole breadth. In forcing a passage for itself through this barrier, it is divided into several channels, which form as many beautiful cascades as they fall into the extensive basin that receives them below. On one of the islands thus formed, the natives make a portage. Here, then, we took our station close to a cascade: our opponents commenced building a hut on one side of the path, we on the other. While this operation was in progress, basilisk looks denoted the strength of feeling that pervaded the breasts of either party, but not a word was exchanged between us. Our hut was first completed, when our champion clambered aloft, and crowed defiance; three times he crowed (aloud), but no responding voice was heard from the opposite camp. This act was altogether voluntary on the part of our man, but it did not displease us, as the result convinced us that we stood on safe ground, should any violence be attempted. Our opponents were enraged at the want of spirit evinced by their men, and determined on being revenged upon _us_ in a manner that showed the virulence of their animosity. A number of lumber men were making up their rafts within a short distance of us at the time, who were for the most part natives of the Emerald Isle. Paddy's "knocking down for love" is proverbial. Our opponents immediately sent them word that the Hudson's Bay Company had brought up a _bully_ from Montreal who defied "the whole of the Grand River." "By my faith, does he thin," said Pat; "let us have a look at him, any how." On the succeeding evening (after the occurrence of the circumstance above related) we were surprised to see the number of canoes that arrived at the portage from all directions. The crew of each canoe as they landed went direct to our opponents, where they appeared to be liberally supplied with spirits. Their object was sufficiently evident, as the potent agent they had employed, in a short time, produced the desired effect. Oaths and execrations were heard amid crowing and yelling. Our Canadians all took to their heels, except our noble game-cock and two others; and now the drama opened. A respectable good looking fellow stept out from the crowd, accompanied by another man, a Canadian, and advancing to our champion, asked him "if he would not sell his feathers" (his hat being decorated with them). It is unnecessary to state the reply. An altercation ensued, and blows would undoubtedly have succeeded, had I not then interfered. I invited the stranger to my tent, and having opened my _garde de vin_, produced some of the good things it contained. A little conversation with my guest, proved him to be a shrewd sensible man; and when I explained the nature of our dispute with our rivals, he comprehended in an instant the object they had in view in circulating the reports which induced him and others to assemble at the portage. The consanguinity of the sons of Erin and Caledonia was next touched upon, and the point settled to our mutual satisfaction; in short, my brother Celt and I parted as good friends as half-an-hour's acquaintance and a bottle of wine could make us. At the conclusion of our interview he departed, and meeting our champion, cordially shook him by the hand; then addressing his companions, remarked, "This, my lads, is a quarrel between the traders, in which we have no right to interfere at all; for my own part, I am very much obliged to the jintlemin on both sides o' the road, for traiting me so jintaily; but Jack Hall shall not be made a tool of by anybody whatsumdever." Jack Hall embarked with his crew, and was soon afterwards followed by the others. Both parties were thus again in their previous positions, and a little tact saved us from the fatal consequences that might have ensued, had their villainous design proved successful. The daring insult was keenly felt by us all, and accordingly one of our trio despatched a message to the only individual of the opposite party who had any pretension to the title of gentleman, soliciting the pleasure of his company to take the air next morning. The invitation was accepted. Our party kept the appointment, and remained for two hours on the ground, awaiting the arrival of their _friends_; but the friends allowed them the sole enjoyment of the morning air. A few days afterwards the natives began to make their appearance, and scenes of a revolting nature were of frequent occurrence. Rum and brandy flowed in streams, and dollars were scattered about as if they had been of no greater value than pebbles on the beach. The expenses incurred by both parties were very great; but while this lavish expenditure seriously affected the resources of the petty traders, the coffers of the Company were too liberally filled to be sensibly diminished by such outlay. Nevertheless, the natives would not dispose of their furs until they reached the village. We remained at the portage until the 7th of June, when the natives having all passed, we embarked, and arrived at the lake on the 10th, where we were shocked to learn that our Bourgeois[1] had had a very narrow escape from the treachery of an Iroquois during our absence, the particulars of which were thus related to us. Mr. Fisher had advanced a sum to this scoundrel two years before, and seeing him pass his door the ensuing spring after the debt had been contracted, with his furs, which he carried to our opponents, he watched his return, and calling him in, demanded payment; an insolent reply was the return for his kindness, which so much exasperated him, that he kicked him out in presence of several other Indians. The insult was not forgotten. Soon after his arrival this spring, he sent for Mr. Fisher, who complied with the invitation, expecting payment of his debt. The moment he entered the house, however, he discovered that he had been inveigled. The Indian stood before him, his face painted, and a pistol in his hand, which he presented. In an instant Mr. Fisher bared his breast, and staring his enemy fiercely in the face, exclaimed, "Fire, you black dog! What! did you imagine you had sent for an old woman?" [1] The term Bourgeois is used for Master throughout the Indian country. Mr. Fisher's knowledge of the Indian character saved his life; had he betrayed the slightest symptom of fear, he was a dead man; but the undaunted attitude he assumed staggered the resolution of the savage; a new bias seemed to operate on his mind, probably through a feeling of respect for the determined courage displayed by his intended victim. He could not brace his nerves to a second effort; his hand dropped listlessly by his side; his gaze was fixed on Mr. Fisher for a moment; then dashing the pistol violently on the ground, he beckoned him to withdraw.[1] [1] At that period some of the Iroquois made good hunts, trapping beaver along the main rivers and outskirts of the Algonquin lands. Immediately after the close of the spring trade, the most formidable of our opponents _hinted_ that he might be induced to quit the field; a negotiation was accordingly opened with him, which soon terminated in a favourable issue, on very advantageous terms to the retiring party. The solitary being who remained behind was thus thrown upon his own resources, and his efforts to maintain the unequal contest unaided, were so feeble and ineffectual, that the Company might be said to hold a monopoly of the fur-trade at this period; but thereafter they paid dearly for their triumph, as further sacrifices had yet to be made ere they could enjoy it in quiet. A Canadian merchant, in easy circumstances, who dwelt opposite to the village, having learned the advantageous terms obtained by the petty traders from the Company, addressed a very polite note to Mr. Fisher, stating his intention to try his fortune as a trader, but that he would have no objection to postpone the attempt for five years, provided the Company would allow him 150l. per annum, during that period. The proposal was submitted to Mr. Thane, who laconically replied, "Let him do his worst, and be...." Accordingly, St. Julien immediately commenced operations. He hired one end of an Indian house, which he fitted up as a trader's shop: Fisher hired the other end. St. Julien then removed to another: Fisher occupied the other end of that house also. St. Julien next rented a _whole_ house: Fisher purchased a house, placed it upon rollers, and wheeled it directly in front of that of his rival, rearwards, scarcely leaving sufficient room for one person to pass between the premises. This caused great amusement to the Indians; not so to St. Julien, who had not anticipated so excessive a desire on the part of any of the Company's officers for so close an intimacy; and at the end of six weeks he took his departure without pay or pension from the Company. In the course of this summer our Algonquins received a visit from a party of Ottawas, (this tribe occupies the hunting grounds in the vicinity of Michimmakina or Makinaw, and speaks the Sauteaux language,) which created considerable alarm in the village, as they came for the purpose of demanding satisfaction for the murder of one of their tribe, which had been perpetrated two years before by an Algonquin. The details of the atrocious deed were communicated to me as follows. The Ottawas and Algonquins, with their families, were proceeding in company to the Lake, in the spring of 1819, when being encamped in the neighbourhood of the long Sault rapid, the Algonquin sprang upon his unsuspecting companion, and cleft his skull with his tomahawk, without the least apparent provocation; then dragging the body to the water's edge, he cut it up into small pieces, and threw them in. He next despatched the woman, and mutilated her body in the same savage manner, having first committed the most horrible barbarity on her person; (the recital of which curdled my blood; and yet our Christianized (?) Algonquins laughed heartily on hearing it!) The demon in human form, with the yet reeking tomahawk raised over the heads of his wife and children, made them swear that they would never divulge the horrid deed; but they did disclose it; and it was from the wife the tale of horror was elicited. The object of the Ottawas was not revenge. Compensation to the full estimated value of the lives of a man and woman was all they demanded; and that they received to an amount that far exceeded their expectations. Had the murderer been in the village the chiefs declared they would have given him up; but they had already delivered him over to the proper authorities, and he was then in prison waiting his sentence. It has been already mentioned, that the Company had assumed the outstanding debts of the petty traders. When the accounts were closed this autumn, the aggregate amount of liabilities due to the Company exhibited the enormous sum of seventy-two thousand dollars--not a shilling of that sum has ever been repaid. Soon after the departure of the natives for the interior, I was notified of my appointment to the charge of the Chats post. My friend Mac also received marching orders; and after parting with him I took leave of the Lake of Two Mountains on the 20th of August. CHAPTER V. ARRIVAL AT THE CHATS--INSTALLED AS BOURGEOIS--FIRST TRADING EXCURSION--BIVOUAC IN THE WOODS--INDIAN BARBARITY. I ARRIVED at the Chats on the 26th of August, 1822. As we approached the establishment, the crew struck up a song which soon attracted the notice of its only inmate; a tall gaunt figure, who was observed moving toward the landing-place, where it remained stationary. With the exception of this solitary being, no sign of animation was perceptible. We landed, and found the recluse to be the gentleman whom I was to succeed. The men belonging to the post were at the time employed elsewhere; fire-arms were therefore discharged, to summon them to return. An old interpreter and two men, constituting the force at this station, soon made their appearance. Such an uncommon event as an _arrival_ seemed to produce an exhilarating effect upon them. Immediately after my landing the charge was made over to me; and on the following day my predecessor, Mr. Macdonald, took his departure, leaving me to the fellowship of my own musings, which for a time assumed but sombre hues; but I was then young, and the hopes and aspirations of an ardent mind threw a halo around the gloomy path that lay before me, and resting upon the bright spots that glimmered in the distant background, concealed from my view the toils and miseries I had to experience in the intermediate passage. On assuming the responsibility of this post, I found myself in a position which gratified my vanity. I was Bourgeois of the Chats; had an interpreter and two men subject to my orders; and could make such arrangements as my own inclinations dictated, without the surveillance of a superior. I was, in fact, master of my own time and of my own actions; could fiddle when I pleased, and dance when I had a mind with my own shadow; no person here dared to question my actions. About the beginning of September the natives began to pass for the interior, and to my great surprise appeared to be in want of further supplies, although they had left the Lake amply provided with everything necessary. Some of them took advances here again to a considerable amount. I learned from them that a petty trader who had just then sprung into existence, intended to establish a couple of posts in the interior of the district--(this post being subject to the Lake of Two Mountains.) This was rather an unpleasant piece of intelligence, and quite unexpected by my superiors or myself. I despatched a messenger to head-quarters to give the alarm, and was soon joined by a reinforcement of men conducted by a junior clerk and an interpreter. Preparations were then made to follow up this new competitor the moment he appeared. He did not allow us to remain long in suspense. A few days afterwards his party was observed passing in two canoes; our people were immediately in their wake, and I remained with but one man and the old interpreter during the winter. I had only two Indian hunters to attend to; one in the immediate vicinity of the post, the other about three days' journey distant. Late in autumn I was gratified by a visit from the superintendent of the district, who expressed himself perfectly satisfied with my arrangements. As soon as the river _set fast_ with ice, I resolved on paying a visit to my more remote customer, and assumed the snow-shoes for the first time. I set out with my _only_ man, leaving the old interpreter sole occupier of the post. My man had visited the Indian on several occasions during the previous winter, and told me that he usually halted at a Chantier,[1] on the way to his lodge. We arrived late in the evening at the locality in question, and finding a quantity of timber collected on the ice, concluded that the _shanty_ must be close at hand. We accordingly followed the lumber-track until we reached the hut which had formerly afforded such comfortable accommodation to my companion. Great was our disappointment, however, to find it now tenantless, and almost buried in snow. I had made an extraordinary effort to reach the spot in the hope of procuring good quarters for the night, and was now so completely exhausted by fatigue that I could proceed no further. The night was dark, and to make our situation as cheerless as possible, it was discovered that my companion had left his "fire-works" behind--a proof of his inexperience. Under these circumstances our preparations were necessarily few. Having laid a few boughs of pine upon the snow, we wrapped ourselves up in our blankets, and lay down together. I passed the night without much rest; but my attendant--a hardy Canadian--kept the wild beasts at bay by his deep snoring, until dawn. I found myself completely benumbed with cold; a smart walk, however, soon put the blood in circulation, and ere long we entered a shanty where we experienced the usual hospitality of these generous folks. Here we borrowed a "smoking-bag," containing a steel, flint, and tinder. With the aid of these desiderata in the appointments of a voyageur, we had a comfortable encampment on the following night. [1] The hut used by the lumbermen, and the root of the well-known "shanty." The mode of constructing a winter encampment is simply this:--you measure with your eye the extent of ground you require for your purpose, then taking off your snow-shoes, use them as shovels to clear away the snow. This operation over, the finer branches of the balsam tree are laid upon the ground to a certain depth; then logs of dry wood are placed at right angles to the feet at a proper distance, and ignited by means of the "fire-works" alluded to. In such an encampment as this, after a plentiful supper of half-cooked peas and Indian corn--the inland travelling fare of the Montreal department--and a day's hard walking, one enjoys a repose to which the voluptuary reclining on his bed of down is a perfect stranger. We reached our destination on the following day about noon, where we found but little to recompense us for our journey. Both our own people from the outpost and our opponents had already traded all the furs the Indian had to dispose of, although his supplies at the Lake of Two Mountains and at my post amounted to a sum that would have required his utmost exertions to pay. We remained that night at his lodge, and very early on the succeeding morning, started on our return. With the exception of a couple of trips I made to the inland posts, nothing disturbed the monotony of my avocations during the remaining part of the winter. Petty traders swarmed all over the country; the posts which were established in the interior to cope with them traded freely with the natives, in order to secure their furs from competitors. Thus the immense sacrifices which the Company had made to obtain a monopoly, as they imagined, yielded them no advantage whatever; and repeated defalcations on the part of the natives, induced them to curtail their advances at their principal station. The natives, however, found no difficulty in procuring their requisites in exchange for their furs, either from the posts belonging to the Company in the interior, or from the opposition; for they were, with few exceptions, of the same character as the individual already alluded to. The Indian whom I mentioned as residing in the neighbourhood of the establishment arrived, late in autumn, from the Lake, where he could not obtain a charge of ammunition on credit. I supplied all his wants liberally, knowing him to be a good hunter, though a notorious rogue; and he set out for his hunting grounds, to all appearance well pleased. In the course of the winter a Yankee adventurer opened a "grog shop," within a short distance of the depôt, who appeared to have no objection to a beaver's skin in exchange for his commodities. My Indian debtor returned in the month of March, with a tolerable "hunt," and pitched his tent midway between the post and my Yankee neighbour. I called upon the Indian immediately for payment, which he told me I should receive on the morrow. I went accordingly at the time appointed, and was annoyed to find that he had already disposed of a part of his furs for the Yankee's whiskey; and I therefore demanded payment in a tone of voice which clearly indicated that I was in earnest. To-morrow was mentioned again; but having come with the determination of being satisfied on the spot, I seized, without further ceremony, what furs remained, and throwing them out of the wigwam to my man, who was placed there to receive them, I remained within, to bear the brunt of the Indian's resentment, should he show any, until my man had secured the prize. I was well prepared to defend myself, in case of any violence being offered. Nothing of the kind was attempted, however; and I took my leave, after sustaining a volley of abuse, which did me no harm. The Indian paid me a visit next morning, for the purpose of settling accounts, a small balance being due to him, which, at his own request, was paid in rum. I soon after received another visit, for nectar, on credit; this request I granted. The visits, however, were repeated so often for the same purpose, that I at length found it advisable to give a denial, by proxy, not wishing to part on bad terms with him, if possible, on account of the spring hunt. I absented myself from the house, having instructed my interpreter how to act. I took my station in a small grove of pines, close by, watching for the appointed signal to apprise me of the departure of the Indian. My attention was suddenly arrested by most doleful cries at the house; and presently the voice of my interpreter was heard, calling me loudly by name. I ran at the top of my speed, and arrived just in time to save the life of a poor old woman, who had been making sugar in my neighbourhood. I found the father and two sons, both approaching manhood, in a complete state of nudity, dancing round the body of their victim (to all appearance dead), their bodies besmeared with blood, and exulting in the barbarous deed they had committed. My interpreter informed me, that as soon as they observed the old woman approaching the house, the Christian father told his sons that now was the time to take revenge for the death of their brother, whose life had been destroyed by this woman's "bad medicine." We drove the wretches away, and carried the miserable woman into the house; and so dreadfully bruised and mangled were her head and face, that not the least trace of her features could be distinguished. At the end of a month she recovered sufficiently to crawl about. Her son passed in the spring, with an excellent hunt. When I related to him the manner his mother had been treated by the Indians, and the care I had taken of her, he coolly replied that he was sure they were bad Indians. "It was very charitable of you," said he, "to have taken so much care of the old woman. Come to my wigwam next winter, and I shall trade with you, and treat you well." In the meantime every skin he had went to our opponents, although he was deeply indebted to the Company. CHAPTER VI. TRIP TO FORT COULONGE--MR. GODIN--NATIVES. A large canoe arrived from Montreal about the latter end of June, by which I received orders to proceed to Fort Coulonge, situated about eighty miles higher up the Ottawa, to relieve the person then in charge of that post. I accordingly embarked in the same canoe, accompanied by my young friend Mr. MacDougal, who joined me last autumn, and who kindly volunteered to proceed along with me to my destination. This canoe was under the charge of people hired for the trip, and directed by the bowsman, or guide. I soon discovered that I was considered merely as a piece of live lumber on board. My companion and myself were reduced to the necessity of cooking our own victuals, or of going without them. We pitched our tent as best we could, and packed it up in the morning without the slightest offer of assistance from the crew. No incident worthy of notice occurred until we reached the Grand Calumet Portage, the longest on the Ottawa River. The crew slept at the further end of the portage, whither the canoe and part of the cargo had been carried during the day, and we pitched our tent there also in the usual awkward manner. The weather was very fine in the evening, but soon after night-fall a tremendous storm burst upon us: our tent was blown about our ears in an instant. We endeavoured to compose ourselves to rest underneath, but found it impracticable. We then attempted to pitch it anew, but our strength and ingenuity were not sufficient for the purpose. We tried afterwards to find shelter under the canoe (the rain pouring in torrents), but the crew were already in possession, and so closely packed, that not an inch was unoccupied. Thus baffled on every hand, we passed the night completely exposed to the "pelting of the pitiless storm," learning a lesson of practical philosophy which I have not yet forgotten. We arrived at Fort Coulonge early the next day, when a portly old gentleman, bearing a paunch that might have done credit to an Edinburgh baillie, came puffing down to the landing-place to receive us. We soon discovered that Mr. Godin was only "nominally" in charge of the establishment, for that his daughter, a stout, masculine-looking wench, full thirty summers blown, possessed what little authority was required for the management of affairs. We arrived on Wednesday. The father proposed setting out for Montreal on Friday; the daughter objected the ill luck of the day: it was finally determined that they should embark on Thursday, however late. The necessary preparations were immediately commenced under her ladyship's superintendence, and being completed late in the evening, they embarked, leaving me perfectly alone. The contracts with the men had just expired, which I proposed to renew, but the answer from one and all was, "I shall follow my bourgeois." This was the result of the old gentleman's arrangements (having been ordered off contrary to his wishes), and which might have been anticipated by those who appointed me to the situation; but it would have been derogatory to the exalted rank of their highnesses to bestow any consideration on such trivial matters as related to the comfort or convenience of a paltry apprentice! Their neglect, however, might have been attended on this occasion with serious consequences to the Company's interests, as I had never seen any of the Indians of that quarter before, and knew very little of their mode of trading. It was a fortunate circumstance for myself that I understood the language sufficiently well to converse with the natives, otherwise my situation would have been disagreeable in the extreme. I remained alone until the latter end of July, when I was joined by an English lad, whom I induced by the promise of high wages to leave his former employers (lumbermen) and share my solitude. The history of my predecessor being rather singular, a few words here regarding him may perhaps not be considered out of place. He commenced his career as a hired servant, or Voyageur, as they are termed in the country, and was thirty years of age before he knew a letter of the alphabet. Being a man possessed of strong natural parts, and great bodily strength withal, he soon distinguished himself as an under trader of uncommon tact,--his prowess as a pugilist also gave him a very decided advantage in the field of competition. Endowed with such qualifications, his services were duly appreciated by the traders, and he knew full well how to turn them to his own advantage. He served all parties alike; that is, he served each in turn, and cheated and deceived them all. After the organization of the North-West Company, he entered their service; and returning to the same quarter, Temiscamingue, where he had wintered for his last employer, he passed the post unperceived, and falling in with a band of Indians, whom he himself had supplied the preceding autumn, told them he still belonged to the same party, and traded all their furs on the spot. The North-West Company gave him charge of a post, when his subtle management soon cleared the country of opposition. The natives of Temiscamingue were in those times very treacherous, as they would be at this day, did they not dread the consequences; several men had been murdered by them, and they at length became exceedingly bold and daring in deeds of violence. One example is sufficient:--Godin happened, on one occasion, to remain at his post with only one man, who attended the nets,--fish being the staff of life in that quarter. Visiting them regularly every day to procure his own and his master's subsistence, his return was one morning delayed much beyond the usual time. Godin felt so anxious, that he determined on going to the fishery to learn the cause; and just as he had quitted the house with that intention, he met an Indian who had been for some time encamped in the vicinity, and asked him-- "What news?" "I have killed a white dog this morning," was the reply. "Indeed!" said Godin, feigning ignorance of the Indian's meaning: "Pray, to whom did he belong?" "He was a stray dog, I believe." Conversing with him in this strain, he threw the Indian completely off his guard, while he approached him until he was sufficiently near him for his purpose, when, raising his powerful arm, he struck the savage a blow under the ear that felled him to the ground,--he fell to rise no more. The next moment, a couple of well-disposed Indians came to inform Godin of the murder of his man, which it appeared they could not prevent. "My children," said he, with the utmost composure, "the Master of life has punished your kinsman on the spot for taking the life of a white man; he told me just now that he had killed a white dog, and had scarcely finished the sentence when he fell down dead at my feet. Feel his body, it must be still warm; examine it, and satisfy yourselves that he has suffered no violence from me, and you see that I have no weapons about me." Godin was soon afterwards removed to Fort Coulonge, and was allowed a high salary by the North-West Company. Here he learned to read and write, and married a fair countrywoman of his own, who resided the greater part of the time in Montreal, where, to make the gentleman's establishment complete, he had the good taste to introduce his mistress. A circumstance that presents his character in its true colours made his wife acquainted with his infidelity. Writing to both his ladies at the same time, he unwittingly addressed his mistress's letter to his wife, by which she learnt, with other matters, that a present of ten prime otters had been sent to her rival. The enraged wife carried the letter to Mr. Thane, from whom, however, she met with a very different reception to what she had anticipated. After perusing the letter, he ordered her immediately out of his presence. "Begone, vile woman!" he exclaimed: "What! would you really wish to see your husband hanged?" The Company were well aware of Godin's tricks, but winked at them on account of his valuable services. He was removed from Fort Coulonge in consequence of mismanagement, (occasioned by aberration of his mental faculties,) and was allowed by the Company to retire with a pension of 100l. per annum. The transcript of a public letter, addressed to Mr. Thane, will show his attainments in literature; and, with this I shall close my sketch of Mr. Godin:-- "Mon'r Tane, "Cher Mon'r, "Vot letre ma té livie par Guiaume dean aisi qui le butin tout a bon ord le Shauvages on ben travaié set anne et bon aparans de bon retour st. anne Dieu merci je ne jami vu tant de moustique et de maragoen com il en a st anne je pens desend st anne ver le meme tan com l'anné pasé. "Je sui, "Cher Mon'r, &c. "JOSEPH GODIN." The Indians attached to this post speak the Sauteux language, and are denominated "Tetes des Boules" by the French, and "Men of the Woods" by the other Indians. Although so near to priests and ministers, they are still Pagans, but are nevertheless a quiet harmless race, and excellent hunters. The greater part of them originally belonged to Temiscamingue, and were drawn to this quarter by Mr. Godin. A considerable number of Algonquins also trade here, where they pass the greater part of their lives without visiting the Lake. The people appear to me to differ in no respect from their heathen brethren, save in the very negligent observance of certain external forms of worship, and in being more enlightened in the arts of deceiving and lying. About the middle of August, I was gratified by the arrival of Mr. Godin's interpreter, and three men, by whom I received letters from head-quarters, informing me that my neighbours of last winter intended to establish posts in this quarter also, and that I should soon be joined by a strong reinforcement of men, to enable me to cope successfully with them. We complain of solitude in the Indian forests, yet the vicinity of such a neighbour is considered the greatest evil; and instead of cherishing the feelings enjoined in the Decalogue, one hates his neighbour as the d----l, and employs every means to get rid of him. The natives having been all supplied, had taken their departure for their hunting-grounds by the latter end of August; I then commenced making the arrangements requisite for the coming contest. CHAPTER VII. SUPERSEDED--FEELINGS ON THE OCCASION--MORE OPPOSITION--Æ. MACDONELL--TACTICS--MELANCHOLY DEATH OF AN INDIAN. About the middle of September, I observed a north canoe paddling in for the landing-place, having a gentleman passenger on board, who immediately on landing ordered his servant to carry his baggage up to the Fort. On his entering the house, the apparent mystery was soon unfolded. Mr. Siviright handed me a letter from Mr. Thane, conveying the agreeable Intelligence of my being superseded by the bearer,--commanding me to obey him as my bourgeois, and to conduct myself in such a manner as to give Mr. S. every satisfaction. The latter injunction I felt very little inclination to comply with at the time; in fact, the slight put upon me caused my northern blood to rise to fever heat; and in this excited frame of mind I sat down to reply to the "great man's" communication, in which I gave vent to my injured feelings in very plain language. What he may have thought of the epistle, I know not, as he never deigned to reply. It was inconsiderate in me, however, to have so acted; but prudence had not yet assumed her due influence over me. Mr. S. had been at that time twenty-four years in the service, I only three; he had therefore a superior claim to any I could advance: but why not inform me at once that my appointment to the charge was merely temporary? This double dealing manifested a distrust of me, for which no cause could possibly be assigned: that excited my resentment, and not the circumstance of being superseded. Towards the latter end of the month of September, our opponents made their appearance in three small canoes, while I embarked in pursuit with the same number. One of my north canoes was in charge of three men, the others contained two, counting myself as a man. Having become rather expert as an amateur voyageur, I considered myself capable of undertaking the real duty now, and accordingly volunteered my services as steersman, as no additional hand could be spared, without great inconvenience to my bourgeois. A little experience convinced me, however, that my zeal exceeded my ability. My opponent was in a light canoe, and moved, about with a celerity that my utmost exertions could not cope with; for as soon as an Indian canoe appeared, he paddled off for it; I of course attempted to compete, but generally arrived just in time to find that he had already concluded his transaction with the hunters. We reached Black River on the third day from Fort Coulonge, where it appeared my opponent's intention to remain for some time, to await the arrival of certain Indians who were expected down by that river. I determined therefore to despatch a canoe to Fort Coulonge, to acquaint Mr. S with the particulars above related; and sent back therewith such of the property as I thought could be dispensed with at the time, as it was quite evident we could not keep up with our opponent in the portages with such a quantity of baggage as we then had, and we could obtain no information that could be depended upon as to their ultimate destination--it might be at the distance of a hundred miles, or only ten. My messengers were but two days absent; and I was not a little mortified to learn from them, that Mr. S., instead of attending to my suggestions, not only returned all the property I had sent, but nearly an equal quantity in addition. He wrote me his reasons for doing so; but I felt assured that he had no other object in view than to show me that he was the superior, I the subordinate; and I resolved from that moment, to perform no more extra duty. After continuing a fortnight at our encampment, we again embarked, when I ordered the third man in the large canoe into my own, and tossing my paddle down stream, took my station in the middle of my canoe. A few hours' paddling brought us to an old shanty in the island of Allumette, where, to my great joy, I perceived my opponent intended to fix his winter quarters. We accordingly commenced erecting a couple of huts, a store, and dwelling-house, in close proximity to him. This being the best season of the year for the natives to hunt, it was the interest of all parties not to molest them; and we therefore employed our time in preparing suitable accommodation for the winter. On the completion of our arrangements, I set out, about the beginning of October, on a visit to Fort Coulonge; and on the day after my arrival there we observed a north canoe paddling slowly past, and distinguished the features of every individual on board through a telescope, but could recognise no one: however, to clear up the doubt, the interpreter was sent after them in a small canoe, with instructions to make a close scrutiny. They no sooner discovered that he was in pursuit, than they ceased paddling. After a long confabulation he learned that they were proceeding to Sault St. Marie, where they intended to settle. I passed two days with my bourgeois, and returned home, where we--our opponents and ourselves--watched each other's movements, being our only occupation until the end of November, when Mr. S. paid me a visit, which proved anything but gratifying. He (Mr. S.) had learned from some lumbermen, that the "Settlers for the Sault Ste. Marie" were an opposition party conducted by Mr. Æneas Macdonell, my predecessor at the Chats; and that he purposed to _settle_ for the winter near Lac des Allumettes. This gentleman's engagement had been cancelled at the earnest solicitation of his father, whom death had lately deprived of another son; and who now, to requite the favour granted to him by the Company, sent this son in opposition! We had barely a sufficient number of men to perform the necessary duties of the two posts already established; we were, therefore, completely at a loss to meet this emergency. Mr. S. could spare one man only from his own post, whom he brought up to me. I embarked early next morning with one of my own men, in search of the "settler." On reaching Lac des Allumettes on the same evening, our attention was arrested by the voices of Indians, singing on an island. We immediately pulled in for the spot, and found a large camp of Algonquins, men, women and children, all in a state of intoxication; from whom I learned, though with much difficulty, the whereabouts of Macdonell's retreat. Quitting this disgusting scene as speedily as possible, we resumed our paddles, and soon afterwards discovered the opposition post. When we landed, my quondam mess-mate advanced to receive me, and, after a cordial shake of the hand, kindly invited me to pass the night with him. I gladly accepted the offer; and was not a little concerned to perceive that his preparations for winter were already complete; a circumstance which gave him a decided advantage. Happening in the course of conversation to express my surprise at seeing him in the character of an opponent, he told me that nothing could be farther from his intention than to oppose the Company. He came to this quarter for the purpose of preparing timber for the Quebec market; in provincial phrase, "to make a shanty." But I knew well enough his designs. I started early next morning on my return, and immediately thereafter prepared a small outfit; and re-embarked next evening with five men in two canoes, leaving the interpreter in charge of the post, with one man to assist him. Having experienced very bad weather on our way, and consequently some delay, we did not reach our new station until late in the evening of the fourth day. I immediately sent back two of the men to the interpreter, and retained three with myself, which placed me on a par with my opponent in point of numbers. But he was now ready for active operations, while I had every thing to prepare. I resolved, however, to forego every personal comfort and convenience rather than allow him to enjoy any advantage over me. I accordingly assisted in erecting a small hut, which I intended should serve for dwelling-house for myself and men, trading-shop, store and all. A couple of days after our arrival, Macdonell was seen walking down to the water's edge with a very cautious step, accompanied by one of his men, bearing his canoe, basket fashion, on one arm, and a large bundle on the other, from which, notwithstanding his steady pace, the jumbling sound of liquor was distinctly heard. "Holla, Mac, where are you going with your basket?" "Why, I am going across to Herd's shanty, to get my axes ground." "My dear fellow, how can you think of risking yourself in such a gimcrack contrivance as that? I must absolutely send a couple of my men along with you to see no accident happens to you." Having a parcel of goods ready for emergencies of this kind, my men started in a moment, and embarked at the same time as my neighbour. I continued with my only man completing my castle; but the earth being already hard frozen, no clay could be obtained for the purpose of plastering; the interstices between the logs were therefore caulked with moss; a large aperture being left in the roof to serve the double purpose of chimney and window. I had formerly seen houses so constructed--somewhere--but let no one dare to imagine that I allude to "my own, my native land." Stones were piled up against the logs, to protect them from the fire. The timber required for floor, door, and beds, was all prepared with the axe; our building being thus rendered habitable without even going to the extent of Lycurgus' frugal laws, for the axe was our only implement. My opponent returned in four days, having been at an Indian camp, not far distant, where both he and our people traded a considerable quantity of furs. This was our only trip by open water. As soon as the river became ice-bound, we were again in motion. To enter into minute details of our various movements would but prove tedious; I shall therefore present a general sketch of our mode of life at this period, and such occurrences as I may consider worthy of note. Macdonell had chosen his situation with great judgment. The majority of the Algonquins take their start from the Grand River at this place for their hunting-grounds. Some of them not being more than a day's journey distant from us, the joyful intelligence soon spread amongst them that an opposition party had been established in their neighbourhood; they accordingly flocked about us as soon as travelling became practicable on the ice, and generally brought with them the means of ensuring a friendly reception. One party came in at this early season with all their fall hunts, which they bartered for liquors and provisions, and encamped close by, enjoying themselves, until an event occurred that alarmed them so much, (being with some reason considered by them as a punishment for the wicked life they had led,) that with the utmost precipitation they struck their camp. I was joined early in the month of January by a party of men and a clerk, whom Mr. S. had ordered, or rather "requested," from Montreal; and having, on the day of their arrival, received an invitation from one of our Algonquin chiefs to pay him a _trading_ visit, I started next day, leaving Mr. Lane in charge, accompanied by two men, and reached the chief's wigwam late in the evening. As soon as I was seated, he asked me if I had not met the Matawin Indians. On my replying in the negative, he informed me that they had passed his place early in the morning, loaded with furs, and that they expressed their intention of proceeding to the post before they halted. These Indians had all been supplied by myself in autumn to a large amount; so that the intelligence acted on my nerves like an electric shock. I felt much fatigued on entering the lodge, but I now sprung to my feet, as fresh for the journey as when I had commenced it; and ordering one of my men to return with me, left the other, an experienced hand, to manage affairs with the chief. I arrived at my post about two next morning, when I found the Indians, some at our hut, some at our opponent's, all of them approaching the climax of Indian happiness, and Mr. Lane in a state of mind bordering on distraction. Neither he nor any of the men had ever seen any of these Indians before, nor did they understand a word of the language. The Indians were honest enough, however, to give him their furs in charge till my return; reserving only a small quantity to dispose of at discretion. My arrival was soon announced at my neighbour's, and brought the whole bevy about me in an instant, only one individual remaining behind. On inquiring into the cause of his absence, his companions replied that he had fallen asleep immediately after he had supped, and that they did not wish to disturb him. A few hours afterwards I was not a little surprised to see my neighbour entering our hut hurriedly, who addressed me thus:-- "My dear Mac, it is true we are in opposition, but no enmity exists between us. A dreadful misfortune happened in my house last night.--Come and see!" I instantly complied with his request; proceeded to his hut, and saw the Indian who was said to be asleep, with his eyes closed--for ever; a sad spectacle, for it was evident that the death of the poor wretch had been caused by intemperance; he was found in the morning lying on his face, and his body already stiff. We were both alike involved in the same awful responsibility, for the Indians drank as much at one house as the other, though his death occurred at the establishment of the other party. The Company only permit the sale of liquors to the natives when the presence of opponents renders it an indispensable article of trade, as it is by this unhallowed traffic that the petty traders realize their greatest profit. Yet this plea of necessity, however satisfactory it may appear in a certain quarter, will not, I feel assured, be accepted in our vindication by the world, nor hereafter in our justification at that tribunal where worldly considerations have no influence. Information soon reached the camp of the calamity that had happened, which promptly silenced the clamorous mirth that prevailed; and the voice of mourning succeeded--the Indians being all in good crying trim, that is, intoxicated; for I have never seen an Indian shed a tear when sober. No more liquor was traded; the relatives of the deceased departed with the body to the Lake of Two Mountains, and the other Indians started for their hunting-grounds--thus granting us a short respite from the arduous duties in which we had been engaged. While the Indians remained about us we never enjoyed a moment's refreshing rest, our hut being crowded with them night and day. It was at times with difficulty we could prepare our victuals, or, when cooked, command sufficient time to partake of a hasty meal, in the midst of the "living mass" that environed us. All this was extremely annoying; but other comforts must be added ere this picture of the life we then led is complete. The motions of our opponents must needs be attended to, at dawn of day; each morning every path was carefully examined, to ascertain that no one had started during night: these precautions were also punctually taken by our opponents; and every stratagem that could be devised to elude each other's vigilance put in practice, it being the "interest" of each party to reach the Indians alone. CHAPTER VIII. ACTIVITY OF OUR OPPONENTS--VIOLENT CONDUCT OF AN INDIAN--NARROW ESCAPE--ARTIFICE--TRIP TO INDIAN'S LODGE--STUPIDITY OF INTERPRETER. When we discovered that our opponents had outwitted us, we would despatch messengers in pursuit; and I need scarcely add, the same means were resorted to by our neighbours, when inquisitive about our movements. We had now the advantage in point of numbers, being nearly two to one; yet it so happened that we seldom could perform a trip unattended; very frequently by a single man against two or three--still he got his share; for the system of trade in this quarter does not allow violent means being employed to obtain possession of the products of the hunt. The mode of procedure is this:--On entering the lodge of an Indian, you present him with a small keg of nectar, as a propitiatory offering; then, in suppliant tones, request payment of the debt he may owe you, which he probably defers to a future day--the day of judgment. If your opponent be present, you dare not open your lips in objection to the delay; for you may offend his dignity, and consequently lose all his furs. This you are aware of, and accordingly proceed to untie your pack, and exposing its contents to view, solicit him to give, at least, the preference in trade. Your opponent, on the other side of the fire-place, having also poured out his libation, imitates your example in every respect; and most probably he may secure the wife, while you engage the husband as customers. A few weeks elapsed without the arrival of any hunters, and we were beginning to recover from the effects of our late fatigues, when a numerous band arrived from a considerable distance, and encamped on the same spot that had been occupied by those lately noticed, and the same riotous scenes were again enacted, although these new comers were fully aware of the misfortune that had already occurred in consequence of similar disgusting intemperance. Among this band was a son of the principal sachem of the Algonquins, who was acknowledged heir apparent to his _dad's vermin_, and who assumed the airs of a man of great consequence, in virtue of his prospective dignity. The father bore a respectable character; the son was a sot. In consideration of his furs, however, I paid him some little attentions, though much against my inclination. He came one evening reeling into our hut, more than "half-seas over," having been thus far advanced on his voyage to Elysium through the insinuating influences of my opponent's "fire-water;" and seating himself on a three-legged stool, close to the fire-place, he soon began to nod; then, losing his equilibrium, ultimately fell at full length on the floor. I could not suppress a smile at sight of his copper highness's prostrate position, when springing up in a furious passion, he seized an axe, and proceeded to demolish the seat. I wrested the axe from his grasp, and reprimanded him sharply for his insolence. This exasperated him to the utmost: he swore I was in league with the stool to insult him; but that he should be revenged on us both before morning. Uttering these menaces, he set out for the camp. It so happened that a strong party of men arrived on that evening from Fort Coulonge with supplies, and were huddled together with myself and my men, all under the same roof. The greater part of them lay down to rest; but a few still continued the vigil, indulging in the favourite luxury of smoking, and chatting about the enjoyments of "Mont-rial,"--when, all of a sudden, the dread-inspiring war-whoop echoed through our little hut; the next instant the door flew off its wooden hinges, and fell with a crash on the floor, exhibiting to view the person of the Indian, standing on the threshold, holding a double-barrelled gun in his hand, with blackened face and his eyes flashing fire. The men had now all started to their feet, as well as myself. The moment the eyes of the savage fell upon me, in the midst of the crowd, he brought the piece to bear upon me, or at least attempted to do so; but I sprang upon him with a bound, and beat the muzzle down; instantly the discharge followed: we then struggled for the possession of the gun, which I quickly wrested from his grasp; and, applying the butt end of it "gently" to his ear, laid him sprawling at my feet. On the discharge of the gun, I heard a voice calling out, "Mon Dieu!" and another, in a plaintive tone, exclaiming, "Ah mon garçon!" This was all I heard distinctly, when every voice joined in one cry, "Tueons le crapaud;" and presently the wretched Indian was kicked and cuffed by as many as could press round him. I called on them to desist--as well have spoken to the wind!--not a soul heeded my orders. At length one of them observed, "What occasion is there for more beating of him--the black dog is dead enough." I looked about for the person whom I supposed to have been wounded, in vain--the whole mass was in motion. As soon as the tumult had subsided, however, I was glad to find that no one had received any serious injury; the ball had grazed the thigh of a youth (who had arrived from Montreal on a visit to his father), and lodged in a log of the building. The uproar occasioned by the men soon brought the Indians from the camp about the hut; and perceiving the apparently lifeless body stretched on the floor, they raised a yell that was reverberated by the surrounding hills. "Revenge! revenge!" shouted every savage present. We mustered too strong, however, to permit their threats being put into execution without great hazard to themselves; which fact pressed itself so powerfully on their minds, that for the present they discreetly vented their rage in abuse, and returned to their quarters. Satisfied by the feeble beating of the Indian's pulse that the vital spark was not extinct, I would not allow his kinsmen to remove him. Towards morning, recovering the use of speech, he inquired, in a voice scarcely audible, if he "had shed the blood of a white man?" I replied in the affirmative. "Then," said he, "it would have been better had you despatched me at once, for I shall certainly be hanged." With the view of pacifying the natives, I deemed it advisable to represent the young man's wound as very severe, and exercised my wits to give my representation the semblance of truth. I caused the young man's leg to be carefully bandaged; and, luckily, happening to have a fresh beaver in the house, the bandage was speedily besmeared with its blood, and the sound patient placed in bed, with instructions how to act his part. The Indians returned early on the following morning to inquire after their young chief, and being all perfectly sober, I descanted on the calamity of the previous night, describing _my_ young man's case to be of such a serious nature as to induce the apprehension that death, or at least amputation of the limb, would be the consequence. In confirmation of the veracity of this statement, the afflicted leg was exposed to view, while the patient's groans, which impressed on the minds of the bystanders the conviction of the pain he endured, prevented too close a scrutiny. "Alas!" they exclaimed, "it is all very true. Wagh! this is indeed a sad business; but the bad fire-water is to blame for it all." My stratagem had succeeded. Most of the natives acknowledged the justice of the punishment inflicted on their young chief, who had a brother present, however, whose sullen countenance betrayed the vindictive feelings in his breast, although he maintained a profound silence. The Fort Coulonge party started early next day, dragging their wounded companion on a sled, until they were out of sight. The relatives of the chief removed him to the camp, where he soon recovered. All the other Indians took their departure on the day following the affray. Shortly afterwards we were favoured with a visit from one whose hunting-grounds bordered on Rice Lake, a distance of 150 miles. I had advanced this Indian all the supplies he required previous to Mr. Siviright's arrival, which formed a pretty large amount. On examining the books, he animadverted upon the advance in terms of disapprobation, as being very imprudent to risk so much with an Indian. Most gratified and happy was I then to learn from the hunter that he had sufficient to liquidate the debt, and nearly as much more to trade. On making out his requisition for the latter purpose, it was found that four sleds at least would be required for the transport of all the property. To employ this number in one direction, however, would leave my neighbour at liberty to prosecute his views in another quarter without the necessary attendance. Still, I determined on risking a point, and securing at all hazards the valuable prize now offered. Obtaining a _piece_ at the sacrifice of a _pawn_ is considered good play. I proceeded accordingly with the Indian, accompanied by four men, all with heavily laden sleds, with a pack of goods strapped over my shoulders weighing eighty pounds. Macdonell did not follow, as the Indian gave him no encouragement. We reached the Indian's lodge on the eleventh day from the post, when the abundant display of furs I beheld gave assurance of being amply remunerated for my trip. There were eleven packs of beaver piled upon a scaffold, besides some others, amounting to at least 600l. sterling. My hospitable customer detained me two days with him to partake of his good cheer. After settling accounts with him, together with payment of the sum he owed, seven of the eleven packs were placed in my possession, with which I started on my return, as proud as if I had been advanced to a share in the Company. We arrived at the post after an absence of twenty-five days; and I was mortified to learn that my substitute had most stupidly bungled affairs. A number of Indians had come in during my absence who were considered our best friends, and entering our hut without noticing our opponent, threw down their bundles, thereby clearly indicating, according to the usual custom, their intention of trading with one party only. On the other hand, should they leave a bundle at the door, it shows that they intend to divide its contents between two parties. With these particulars the interpreter's experience rendered him perfectly well acquainted, but he "cau'd na be fasht." It is customary when the Indians arrive, to present each with a pipe, a plug of tobacco, and, though last, not least in their estimation, "a dram." The usual _politesse_ was expected as a matter of course on this occasion. Seeing it was not forthcoming, the Indians demanded it. They were answered that no instructions had been left to that effect. "Very well," said they, "we shall soon find it elsewhere." And away they went. Macdonell received them with open arms. His reception not only induced them to trade every skin they had brought with them, but they also invited him to their camp; and he consequently returned with his own and his men's sleds laden with furs. I learnt all these particulars from himself; for he and I were on as good terms as the nature of our occupation and our relative positions would admit. I was, moreover, made acquainted through him that the Indians had expressed regret at my absence, and that an immense quantity of "beaver" still remained at their camp. The spring was now fast approaching, the ice so bad as to render travelling dangerous, and but little snow on the ground. Still, I determined on paying a visit to these Indians, in order to retrieve the loss, if possible, sustained through the mismanagement of the interpreter. They might yet be in want of some supplies, poor fellows; and we were all so anxious they should want for nothing we could spare for their accommodation;--we, therefore, good, humane souls, supplied them even at the hazard of our lives. CHAPTER IX. EXPEDITION TO THE BEAR'S DEN--PASSAGE THROUGH THE SWAMP--CUNNING OF THE INDIANS--A SCUFFLE--ITS RESULTS. I set off on this trip accompanied by another interpreter recently sent from Montreal, and one of my men, all with heavy burdens on our backs, the season not allowing the use of sledges. The second day we arrived at an Indian lodge about half-way to the Bear's Camp, where I learned that our opponent at the lower outpost had given our people the slip, but had been induced to return from the supposition that the extensive swamp in his way was impassable, being so inundated as to present the appearance of a lake. Urged on, however, by youthful ardour and ambition, I determined to make at least one attempt ere I relinquished the enterprise; although I acknowledge that the idea of overcoming difficulties deemed insurmountable by an opponent, had as much to do with the resolution as the desire of doing my duty. Followed by my men, I accordingly plunged in, along the margin of the marsh; the water reached our middle, but we found it to decrease in depth as we proceeded, though never below the knee. The water being very cold, our legs soon became quite benumbed; nevertheless we moved onward. A certain passage in history occurred to my mind, which records the perseverance of a great man in a like situation. I too persevered, though with a different object in view. We all have our hobbies. I waded for furs, he for glory. We occasionally met with large trunks of trees as we proceeded, on which we mounted, and restored the circulation to our limbs by stamping upon them; and thus, after five or six hours' painful exertion we reached dry land, where a rousing fire and a hearty breakfast made us soon forget the miseries of the swamp. We reached the old _bear's den_ next evening, who, with his party, expressed much surprise to see me at such a season, and in recompense for my exertions, "traded"[1] every article of goods I had. [1] _Anglicè_,--bought. There were here seven Indians, who, notwithstanding the frequent visits that had been paid them, in the course of the winter, by the people of the lower posts, had still upwards of forty packs of beaver. I got one pack, with which I set off on my return, pleased enough. We found the water in the swamp so far subsided as to permit an easy passage; but the ice on the Grand River was so much worse that we were compelled to travel in the woods the greater part of the way. On arriving at the post, I found the opposition party in active preparation for their departure, Macdonell having received orders from his father to that effect. He embarked as soon as the navigation became practicable. Opponent as he was, I experienced some painful sensations at parting with him; but soon had the _consolation_ to see our opponent at the lower post occupy his place,--a measure which he ought to have adopted at a much earlier period, as even then it gave him a much better chance for a share of the spring trade than below, where he might be said to be placed between two fires. His removal, however, enabled us to concentrate our whole strength against him, so that he could not move a foot without a strong party at his heels. Thus circumstanced, he chose to await the arrival of the natives quietly at his post, and we were happy to follow his example. The spring passed in a happy state of quiescence, which was scarcely disturbed by the arrival of the Indians, who, this year, had all taken a fancy to visit their ghostly fathers at the Lake,[1] and had, consequently, no time to spend with us; some intending to get married, some having children to be baptized, and some carrying their dead, in order that the last sacred rites for the benefit of their departed spirits might be performed upon them. A few _têtes de boules_ remained for some time, but under so strict a surveillance that they could seldom communicate with our opponents without being observed, and the discovery subjected them to some chastisement. [1] Of the Two Mountains. I shall here relate a circumstance that occurred at this time, as an example of the cunning of the Indians in devising plans to evade us. Soon after their arrival, an old squaw brought to our house several casseaux[1] of sugar, and pointing out one, which she said was left open for immediate consumption, said she would return for it presently. She came next day and took the casseaux down to the tent of the Algonquin chief, who had passed the spring close by, and was now building a canoe, preparatory to his departure for the Lake. Soon after I went to have a chat with the chief, and found only his squaw at home. I observed the casseau, and asked for what purpose it was brought there. "Mine hostess" smiled, and answered, "You ought to know everything about it, when it has just quitted your house and passed the night with you. You whites pretend to be very cunning," she continued, "but when an Indian, or even an old squaw tries to cheat you, your 'white' knowledge is no match for her. Now look into that casseau, Anamatik,[2] and see what is in it." [1] Packages made of bark. [2] My Indian cognomen. I looked, and found, instead of sugar, a very valuable bundle of furs. "What do you think of the sugar?" "Oh, it is very fine indeed; so much finer than any that I have, that I must take it along with me." "Your white neighbour will be angry with you, for it is left here for him." "Let him come to my house if he wants any." I set off with my prize, and as soon as it was deposited in a place of safety, took up a favourable position to watch my opponent, whom I soon perceived making for the tent with long and rapid strides. I could not help laughing heartily at the idea of his disappointment, when told what had happened. The "fair deceiver," to whom the bone of contention had belonged, soon made her appearance with downcast looks, humbly entreating payment for her furs, and I paid her the full amount, after lecturing her severely on the treachery of her conduct _in doing "what she willed with her own._" My opponent embarked on the 10th June, and I immediately followed him to the lower post, which he left in charge of one man, and then set off for Montreal. I kept him company as far as Fort Coulonge, where I met with a very friendly reception from my bourgeois,--the collected trade of the different posts having far exceeded his most sanguine expectations. He set out for Montreal with returns of the value of 5,000l. sterling, and left me in charge for the summer at Fort Coulonge, and Mr. Lane at the outpost. Only one family of Algonquins passed the summer inland,--the same miscreants that had nearly murdered the old woman at the Chats; a deed which I had neither forgotten, nor could divest myself of the feelings of indignation it had awakened in my breast. In the course of the summer, the interpreter of the post being in want of some paddles, employed this exemplary father to make them, and paid for them in rum. The quantity was so small, however, that it only had the effect of exciting their thirst, and they returned early in the night for more, which was peremptorily refused. The doors were bolted, and we retired to rest; but rest they were determined we should not have that night; and they continued knocking at the doors and windows, and bawling out at the top of their lungs, "Rum,--more rum!" until daylight next morning. I rose very early, in not the best humour possible, and taking the key of the store in my hand--I know not for what purpose--went out, and was followed by the Indian, still demanding more rum. I told him he should have none from me. "But I must have some." "Then you shall go elsewhere for it;" and without more ado, I turned him out, pushing him with some violence from the door. He fell on his face on the platform that ran in front of the building, and leaving him there to recover his footing at leisure, I returned towards the dwelling-house; but had scarcely reached the end of the platform, when the yell of defiance, "Hee-eep, hoo-aw!" resounded in my ears. I instantly wheeled round, and found myself face to face with the Indian. The old villain attempted to collar me, but, enraged to madness, I now grappled with him, and with all my might hurled him from the platform to the ground. I stood for a moment hesitating whether I should strike him while down, but had little time to deliberate,--the savage was again on his legs. He rushed towards a gun that stood against a fur-press hard by; I instantly comprehended his intention, and finding a stick at hand, in the twinkling of an eye, I struck him a blow that laid him senseless on the ground. Being scarcely aware of what I was doing, I was about to repeat the blow, when I found the uplifted weapon seized from behind. It was Primeau, my interpreter, who addressed me in a soothing tone, telling me I had already "done for" the Indian. This startling announcement restored me to reason. Was I indeed guilty of the blood of a fellow-creature? The thought chilled me with horror. I dashed the stick to the ground. It was instantly picked up by one of his three sons, whom the noise of the scuffle had now brought all up; brandishing it aloft, he aimed a blow at my head, which I parried with my arm, the limb dropping senseless to my side. My men, however, were now on the spot to defend me, and a fierce scuffle took place between them and the Indian's sons. Had they been the stronger party on this occasion, my fur-trading career would have terminated that morning. They, however, got a sound drubbing; while their wretched father, who had been the cause of the disturbance, lay unheeded and unconscious on the spot where he had fallen, not exhibiting the least sign of life. A place of temporary accommodation being prepared by his family, he was borne thither on a blanket, and I retired to my quarters in a state of mind not easy to be described. Soon after, the interpreter came in with a message from the Indians, entreating me to come and advise with them touching the manner in which they should dispose of their father's body. I went, and just as I stepped within the camp, to the astonishment of all present, the dead man sprang upon his feet. Seeing me at his side, he exclaimed, "You shall have cause to repent this!" The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when he sank down again, and for a period of six weeks after he remained as helpless as an infant. He was subsequently carried down to the Lake of Two Mountains, where he recovered from the effects of this castigation, to die, two years after, in a fit of drunkenness. CHAPTER X. PÈRE DUCHAMP--MR. S.'s INSTRUCTIONS--UNSUCCESSFUL--TRADING EXCURSION--DIFFICULTIES OF THE JOURNEY--LOSE OUR WAY--PROVISIONS FAIL--REACH THE POST--VISIT TO AN ALGONQUIN CHIEF--HIS ABUSIVE TREATMENT--SUCCESS. Mr. Siviright arrived about the latter end of August, accompanied by another junior clerk, and a few days afterwards the opposition were seen passing. I embarked with my fellow-scribe, and arrived next day at the lower outpost, when I was much disappointed to find my old interpreter, whom I had with me at the Chats, in the service of our opponents. He was my Indian tutor, and took every pains, not only to teach me the language, but to initiate me in the mysteries of the trade, in which he was justly considered an adept. Our opponents offered him a high salary, which he would not accept until he had previously made a tender of his valuable services to the Company, whom he had faithfully served for a period of thirty years and upwards. He requested a small addition to his salary, which was refused. My regard for the worthy old man, however, was not in the least diminished by the circumstance of his being in opposition. Père Duchamp and I had still our friendly _tête-à-tête_ whenever we had an opportunity. The autumn passed without any incident having occurred worthy of note, I and my opponent being occupied in the usual way,--watching each other night and day, chasing each other, and circumventing each other when we could. Late in the month of October, I was surprised to observe a couple of middle-sized canoes, deeply laden, put ashore at our opponent's, where the crews, five in number, passed the night. Next morning, as soon as they were gone, I called on my old friend, who happened to be alone at the time, to inquire about his visitors. He demurred for a little, and at length said: "For your sake, and to you only, would I disclose the secret of these people's object and destination. They called at Fort Coulonge yesterday, and gave themselves out for a party of hunters, bound for the Temiscamingue quarter;--they are a party of Iroquois, supplied with a valuable assortment of goods for trade, and their destination is Lac de la Vieille, in the very centre of the Algonquin hunting-grounds." This was a most important piece of intelligence: some of these Indians had been supplied at Fort Coulonge, some at my post, and all of them were deeply indebted at the Lake of Two Mountains. I passed the day in the anxious expectation of seeing Mr. S., or at least receiving instructions from him with reference to these people. No one coming, I resolved to proceed to Fort Coulonge, and communicate _viva voce_ the information I had received. Late in the evening, I embarked in a small canoe, with two men, and reached the Fort at early dawn; and rousing Mr. S. from his slumbers, I at once announced the object of my visit. "Well," said he, "this requires consideration: retire to rest, and I shall think about it." I retired accordingly, and slept till breakfast-time, when the subject was discussed; and his decision was, that I should send one of the two young men who were at my post in pursuit of the Iroquois, with instructions to follow them up, until the season should be so far advanced as merely to admit of his return by open water, unless the Iroquois pitched their tent before then. I volunteered myself to go after them with an outfit; but no; it would be dividing our forces, thereby allowing an advantage to our more formidable opponents; besides, we had not much to apprehend from the Iroquois with their trifling means. "_Très bien_," I said to myself, and set off on my return forthwith. I of course lost no time in executing the orders I had received. My bourgeois had his opinion of the matter, and I had mine; I knew that the Iroquois, when left to themselves, would make their own prices for their goods, and thus, even with the small outfit they had, fleece the Indians of the principal part of their furs. Among the Indians whom I had supplied, was an individual whose advances amounted to a heavy sum. I felt extremely anxious about him, and resolved to pay him a visit as soon as travelling was practicable; meantime, Swanston, who had been in pursuit of the Iroquois, returned from his disagreeable voyage on the 28th November, having learned nothing more than we already knew. I set off the next day, ostensibly on a visit to Mr. S., but really with the intention of starting from his post on my intended "derouine,"[1] arrived at Fort Coulonge among the drift ice, and on the 1st December started, accompanied by the interpreter Primeau and another man, all of us with heavy burdens on our backs. This proved the most toilsome trip I had yet undertaken; the smaller lakes only were passable on the ice, and the rivers were nearly all open. The difficulties we thus encountered necessarily retarded our progress, and occupied so much more time than we had calculated upon, that our provisions were nearly consumed by the time we reached the first Indian camp, where we expected to procure a guide to conduct us to the party we were in search of. We succeeded in hiring a young man, but we only obtained a small supply of flour, the Indians having no other kind of provision to spare. [1] "Derouine,"--a trading visit to the Indians. Three days travelling brought us to the borders of the Indian's lands, where we soon discovered one of his early winter encampments; had we been a few days sooner we could have easily traced him from this spot, but the snow, which had recently fallen to a great depth, had nearly obliterated the marks he had left behind him.[1] My interpreter, accustomed to "tracking," followed the _scent_ for two days; our guide, discontented with the short allowance, gave no assistance, till coming to an extensive "brulé,"[2] he was completely _at fault_, as no marks of any kind could be discovered. [1] When Indians remove in winter, in passing on rivers and lakes, they stick, at intervals, in the snow, branches of balsam, inclining in the direction they may have gone. In the woods, small saplings are cut or broken down; if there is no underwood, an occasional "blaze" serves as a sign-post to the experienced woodsman. [2] "Brulé," a part of the forest consumed by fire. Our situation was now extremely critical; we were reduced to one solitary meal of flour and water per diem, and but a few handfuls of this poor fare remained; to return by the way we came was out of the question, to proceed to the post was in truth our only alternative, and none of us was sufficiently acquainted with that part of the country to be sure of finding it; while the Indian, positively refusing to keep us company any longer, turned back, and left us to get out of our difficulties as we best could. The interpreter proposed that another attempt should be made to find the Indian's encampment, and volunteered to go alone; this proved the poor fellow's zeal, but he returned to our encampment next morning unsuccessful; we therefore resolved to go back, and, finding our way without much difficulty for a couple of days, we reached the upper end of a long portage leading to the Ottawa River, where we encamped late in the evening, and supped on the _hope_ of getting to the post next forenoon. We started early in the morning, the Canadian leading, and about noon fell on fresh snow-shoe tracks--the tracks, we supposed, of some of our people who had come to seek us; and feeling assured that our sufferings would terminate with the day, we pursued our route with renovated vigour and speed; when lo! our encampment of the preceding night came in view, the excitement of our minds having prevented us from discerning our mistake, as we might have done, sooner. The sun was still high, but the circumstance of the encampment being already prepared, induced us to put up there again for the night. It was a sad disappointment, and I felt it as such, though I affected a gaiety that was far from my heart; while with downcast looks and heavy hearts my poor fellows betook themselves to rest at a very early hour. Next morning we set off determined to be more cautious; the mistake of the previous day was ascribed to the sound of a high cascade at the head of the rapid, which we had mistaken for another considerably farther down; our Canadian still acted as guide--the blind leading the blind--and after two hours' walk we fell upon our own tracks again;--the poor fellow had yielded so completely to despair, that he walked about mechanically, scarcely knowing or caring whither he went; he was therefore ordered to the rear, and Primeau succeeded as leader. We saw nothing more of our tracks, but encamped in the evening with much the same prospects as before. I felt extremely weak, having carried Primeau's pack along with my own, as the old man could scarcely move when beating the track in the deep snow. Having a few fresh beaver skins, we cut off the thicker parts about the head and legs, and made a _bouillon_ of them, which we drank, and then turned in. In the morning it became a subject of serious debate what direction we should proceed in; the sky, however, having been clear the preceding evening, I observed the sun setting, and determined in my own mind the proper course; both my companions differed from me, but readily agreed to follow me. I therefore took the lead, and was so fortunate as to discover an old track, soon after leaving our encampment, which we followed until it brought us in sight of the Grand River--the long looked-for object of our fast failing hopes. Tears of joy burst from my eyes, as I beheld before me the wide expanse of the noble stream: although covered with ice and divested of the beauties of summer, it never appeared more lovely to me. We reached the post after night-fall; opening the door cautiously, I threw in my snow-shoes, then bolting in myself, was gratified with the sight of a table garnished with the best things the country afforded, which my two friends had prepared for their Christmas dinner; the sight, however, was all that prudence allowed us for the present to enjoy, our long abstinence rendering it necessary to confine ourselves, for a time, to a very weak diet. Next day I despatched a messenger to Fort Coulonge with the narrative of my adventures; and as soon as my strength was sufficiently recruited I set off again, accompanied by a _tête de boule_ as my guide, who led us direct to the camp of the Indian I had so long been in search of; where I had the mortification to learn, that on my first attempt I had returned from within a day's journey of him, and that if I had then succeeded in finding him, I should have secured the whole of the valuable hunts of him and his people, which were now in possession of the Iroquois traders. On my return to the post I communicated my sentiments freely to Mr. S. in writing, regarding the oversight that had led to consequences so injurious to the Company, and went afterwards, at his own request, to talk over the matter with him. It was now decided that I should go with a party of men to establish a post against them, i.e. to shut the stable-door after the steed was stolen. To accomplish this object supplies of every kind must be hauled on sledges by the men, at an enormous expense, and after all we could not furnish the means of competing with the Iroquois with any prospect of advantage. I however lost no time in executing the orders of my superior, and set off with as many men as could be spared for the purpose. On arriving at our destination, we built a temporary hut for our own accommodation, and a small store for the goods; but I soon discovered that the Iroquois had not only already secured all the Indians' furs, but had so completely ingratiated themselves with them that we were scarcely noticed. I remained two months in this wretched situation, and, as Mr. S.'s instructions left me in some measure to the exercise of my own judgment, I resolved on transferring the _honourable_ charge to persons less sanguine than myself, and returned to my post, where I knew my services could be turned to better account. In returning I happened to fall in with a small band of Indians, who had not yet been visited by the Iroquois, one of whom was the brother of the Algonquin chief, who had been so severely chastised the preceding winter. At his lodge I passed the night, and was not only treated with the usual Indian hospitality, but received a very pressing invitation to return with a supply of goods, which he promised to trade. Such invitations are never neglected. The moment I arrived at my post I laid aside the articles required by the Indians, and after one day's rest, started, myself and two men, carrying everything on our backs. It being late in the season, we encountered every possible difficulty on our way: the small streams overflowed, and the ice was so bad on the rivers as to preclude travelling on them. We were therefore under the necessity of taking to the woods, through a horridly rugged country, now ascending hills so steep that we could only scramble up their sides by holding on by the branches and underwood, the descent on the opposite side being equally difficult and laborious; now forcing our way through deep ravines overgrown with underwood, all but impervious; sinking to the ground at every step, and raising on our snow-shoes a load of half-melted snow, which strained the tendons of the legs and caused acute pain. Early in the morning of the sixth day we arrived at the camp, but, to our astonishment, neither heard the voice nor saw the form of a human being, though there were infallible signs that the camp was inhabited. It was the sugar season. I entered the great man's hut with a cautious step, and found every soul in it fast asleep. I marked with surprise the confusion that prevailed around,--sugar kettles upset, pots, pans, wearing apparel, blankets, and other articles, scattered about in every direction;--what could it mean? I awoke the chief, and the mystery was solved. He appeared to be just recovering from the effects of the night's debauch,--the Iroquois were in the camp. Mine host "grinned horribly a ghastly smile" as he placed himself, rather unsteadily, in a sitting posture in his bed, and in a hoarse tremulous voice bade me welcome, at the same time rousing his better-half, who appeared to be in the same _happy_ state as himself. A clatter ensued that soon set the whole household in motion, and I hastened to make the customary offering of a small keg of rum to the chief, and another of shrub to the squaw, who immediately ordered a young woman (the family drudge) to prepare my breakfast. Meanwhile the chief, along with two of his relatives, amused himself quaffing his nectar, which evidently began to have its usual effects, and from the expressions I overheard, I could gather that he had neither forgotten his brother's treatment last winter, nor forgiven me the part I had acted on the occasion. I listened with affected indifference for a time to the taunts he began to throw out, and at last, to get rid of them, went to visit the other huts, where I found the Iroquois preparing for their departure; they had several parcels of beaver, which they took no pains to conceal from me, but there was still much more remaining. After seeing them depart I returned to my chief, who received me with a volley of abuse, in which he was joined by his associates. The women, who were sober, observing by my looks that I was getting excited, requested me to withdraw. I did so, but was followed by the chief to the next hut, which I quitted immediately; I found myself still pursued by the same insufferable insolence. My philosophy being unequal to so severe a trial, I turned upon my tormentor, and seizing him by the throat, dashed him to the ground, and left him there speechless. I then made for a hut a short distance apart from the others, belonging to a _tête de boule_, where I remained in quietness for about the space of fifteen minutes; when suddenly my Canadian came rushing into the hut, his countenance betraying the utmost alarm, and staring me wildly in the face, he stammered out, "Les sauvages! les sauvages, monsieur, prennent leurs armes! Sauvons-nous! Sauvons-nous!" The Iroquois, coming in the next instant, confirmed his report; but I had, in fact, been flying the whole morning, and thought it now high time to take my stand. My Iroquois appearing quite calm, I told him I was determined not to stir from the spot, and asked if he would remain with me. "I came here for that purpose," said he, "and shall stand by you to the last." Our _tête de boule_ had two guns, which he loaded; Sabourin had his, which he promised to use in his own defence: thus prepared, we awaited the expected attack. The remainder of the day, however, passed without molestation, and after night-fall, I sent out my trusty Iroquois to reconnoitre; he soon returned with the welcome intelligence that the Indians had all retired to rest. We did the same. Next morning I went to the chief's lodge, and found him perfectly sober; I saluted him according to custom, which he returned with a scowl, repeating my words in a contemptuous manner; this exasperated my yet excited feelings to the highest degree. I felt assured that the fellow had invited me on purpose to insult me, if not for a worse purpose; and, addressing him in language that plainly bespoke my feelings, I immediately ordered my men to prepare for our departure. He remained silent for a moment, and then whispered in his wife's ear; she turned round to me, smiling, and asked if I had not brought the goods, my men were packing up, to trade? "Yes," I replied. "Then," said she, "you must not be in such a hurry to go away." The husband now spoke to me in a conciliatory tone, begging me to place all that had happened to the account of the "fire-water," and for heaven's sake not to acquaint his father with his conduct. This I readily assented to; we entered upon business, and nearly all the goods I had were exchanged for their full value in beaver. We found the travelling much better on our return, the small streams having subsided, and the snow so much diminished, that we could walk without snow-shoes. CHAPTER XI. SUCCESS OF THE IROQUOIS TRADERS--APPOINTED TO THE CHARGE OF THE CHATS--CANADIAN DISPUTES POSSESSION--BIVOUAC WITHOUT A FIRE--RUSE TO BAFFLE MY OPPONENTS--ROMAN CATHOLIC BIGOTRY. The Iroquois passed early in spring with eighteen Indian packs in their canoes,--each pack might be estimated at 60l.,--our other opponent started for Montreal about the same time as last year, and I was ordered down to Fort Coulonge to take Mr. S.'s place for the summer. He returned from Montreal about the end of August, and I was much gratified to learn from him that I had been again appointed to the charge of the Chats, so that all the merit or demerit of good or bad management would now be entirely my own. A few days after, a middle-sized canoe arrived, manned by three Canadians, with whom I embarked for the scene of my first essay as an Indian trader. On arriving at the post, I was surprised to find an old Canadian and his _cara sposa_ in possession,--a circumstance of which I had had no previous intimation. This worthy pair seemed determined to maintain their position in defiance of me; and not wishing to employ violent means to dispossess them if it could possibly be done otherwise, I passed the night in the hall. Having, however, obtained possession of the outworks, I was determined to carry the citadel; and, summoning the contumacious occupants into my presence next morning, I demanded, in a peremptory tone, the immediate surrender of the keys. "Show me your authority," said he. "If I do not show it, you shall feel it presently!" Seeing that I ordered my men to put my threat into execution, Jean Baptiste assumed a more humble attitude, and requested me, as a favour, to permit him to remain in the kitchen until he could find a passage to Montreal;--with this request I willingly complied. My old opponent had still a post in this district, and I was directed to send a party in opposition to him; which being done, I remained quiet until the winter communication became practicable, when I determined on paying a visit to my friends in the Fort Coulonge district. The distance being short, and my object having no connexion with the Company's interests, I set off on my pleasure jaunt alone. I put up the first night at a sort of tavern just then opened by an American at the upper end of the Chats' Lake, the only habitation at that time in the quarter, whence I started at early dawn, expecting to reach Fort Coulonge before night. The lumbermen having commenced sledging their winter supplies, the road formed by these vehicles presented a hard, smooth surface, on which I made good speed, as I had nothing to encumber me, save my blanket and tomahawk. Arriving at a long bend of the river about 2 P.M., I put on my snow-shoes to cut across the point and meet the road again, flattering myself that I should thus shorten the distance some two or three miles. The weather being mild, and the sun overcast, I was as much at a loss to find my way in the woods as if I had been blindfolded; I nevertheless continued my onward course, and again came on the road. I proceeded in high spirits for a considerable time, when I perceived a man before me going in the same direction with myself; quickening my pace I soon came up with him, and asked him if he was bound for the Fort? "I guess I don't know of any fort in this part of the world," said he. "What! not know of Fort Coulonge, and you so near to it? are you not going there?" "I have heard of such a place," said Jonathan; "but I'd take a tarnation long time to get to it, I calculate, if I followed my nose as it points now." I told him who I was, whither bound, and where I slept last night. "I guess then you had better sleep there again, for it is not quite three miles off." This was the result of making a short cut, and I resolved to follow the long and sure road in future. A shanty that had been recently occupied, afforded me comfortable lodgings for the night, and I arrived at Fort Coulonge about noon next day, where I passed the night, and started for the outpost. Here I remained two days, and would have remained still longer, had it not been discovered one morning that our opponents were off in the direction of my outpost on the Bonne Chere. As the Indians in that quarter were excellent hunters, and owed me much, I deemed it advisable to follow them; my friends, too, sent an interpreter and three men along with me, for the purpose of trading what they could on account of their own post--_chacun pour soi_ being the order of the day. We soon overtook our opponents, and I resolved, if possible, to give them the slip by the way. Accordingly, when within a day's journey of the establishment, I pretended to have sprained my foot so badly, that I walked with the greatest seeming difficulty. My men, who were aware of the ruse, requested me to place my bundle on their sledges, to enable me to keep up with them. This farce commenced in the evening. Next morning my leg was worse than ever, until we came on the river at about ten miles' distance from the post. I was delighted to find but little snow upon the ice, so that I had a fair opportunity of putting the metal of my legs to the test, and the opposition party having sledges heavily laden, I walked hard, my foot on a sudden becoming perfectly sound, in order to tire them as much as possible before I bolted. Having apparently effected my purpose, I set off at the top of my speed, and never looked behind me until I had cleared the first long reach, when turning round, I saw a man in pursuit about half-way across; I started again, and saw no more of my pursuer. On arriving at the post I was gratified to learn that the Indians, whom I was so anxious about, had been in a few days previously, while our opponents were off in another direction; so that they had been seen by none save our own people. Finding two men at home, I proceeded with them to the Indian camp, and arrived at dawn of day. I met with a very friendly reception, and had the good fortune to prevail upon the Indians to deliver me their furs upon the spot, which formed a very heavy load for both myself and men. We met our opponents in returning; but though they had ocular proof of my success, they nevertheless went on to the camp. Having arrived at the post, I found some Indians there all intoxicated; I was also mortified to find the person in charge in the same state. I immediately displaced him, and made over the charge, _pro tempore_, to one of the men. The conduct of my worthless deputy hurt me so much that I could not remain another night under the same roof with him. I therefore set off on my return to the Chats, although already late in the afternoon, expecting to reach the first shanty in the early part of the night. The Bonne Chere river is very rapid in the upper part, and does not "set fast"[1] until late in the season, unless the cold be very intense. I arrived at this part soon after night-fall, and perceiving by the clear light of the moon the dangers in my way, I deemed it imprudent to proceed farther; and having nothing to strike fire with, I cut a few branches of balsam and strewed them under the spreading boughs of a large cedar, and wrapping myself up in my blanket, lay down. The weather being mild, I thought I could sleep comfortably without fire; but was mistaken. When I awoke from my first sleep, which must have been sound, I found my limbs stiff with cold, while my teeth chattered violently in my head. To remain in this condition till daylight was almost certain death; I resolved, therefore, at all hazards to find my way to the shanty, which might be about ten miles distant. The light of the moon being very bright, enabled me to avoid the openings in the ice, and by moving on cautiously, about three o'clock in the morning I reached the shanty; which belonged to a warm-hearted son of Erin, who received me with the characteristic hospitality of his countrymen, placing before me the best his cabin afforded, and with his own blankets and those of his men making up a comfortable bed, on which I slept till late in the day, and next night in my own bed. [1] Freeze. As the greater part of my customers wintered in the vicinity of the outpost, and I had no longer any confidence in the person in charge there, I resolved on passing the remainder of the winter at it myself; I therefore requested that a person should be sent up from the Lake of Two Mountains to take care of the establishment during my absence. On the arrival of this person, I proceeded to the outpost, but shall pass over the transactions that occurred there, being similar in all respects to those already narrated. One circumstance, however, occurred, which, though not in my vocation, I think worthy of notice. Two itinerant missionaries called at the Lake of Two Mountains and distributed a number of religious tracts among the natives, together with a few copies of the Gospel according to St. John, in the Indian language. My Algonquin interpreter happened to get one of the latter, and took much pleasure in reading it. Towards the latter end of the season I received a packet from my superior at the Lake, and, to my surprise, found in it a letter with the seal of the Church affixed, addressed to my interpreter, which I put into his hands, and observed him perusing very attentively. Soon after he called me aside, and told me that the letter in question conveyed a peremptory command from the priest to destroy the bad book he had in his possession, or else his child that died in autumn would be denied the rites of Christian sepulture. We are told that the age of bigotry is past: facts like this prove the contrary. I asked him if he intended to obey the commands of his ghostly father. "Not exactly," said he; "I shall send the book to him, and let him do with it what he pleases; for my part, I have read it over and over again, and find it all good, very good; why the 'black coat' should call it bad is a mystery to me." CHAPTER XII. JOURNEY TO MONTREAL--APPOINTMENT TO LAC DE SABLE--ADVANTAGES OF THIS POST--ITS DIFFICULTIES--GOVERNOR'S FLATTERING LETTER--RETURN FROM MONTREAL--LOST IN THE WOOD--SUFFERINGS--ESCAPE. Early in spring I returned to the Chats, and after the close of the trade took my departure for Montreal, having finished my apprenticeship. I renewed my contract for three years, and was appointed to the charge of Lac de Sable, a post situated on a tributary of the Ottawa, called _Rivière aux Lièvres_, two hundred miles distant from Montreal. I embarked on the 15th August, 1826, and arrived at the post on the 1st September; where I was gratified to find a comfortable dwelling-house, and a large farm with pigs, poultry, and cattle in abundance. All this was very well, but there was also a powerful opposition, and I had experience enough to know that the enjoyment of any kind of comfort is incompatible with the life we lead in opposition. The difficulties of my situation, moreover, were from various causes extremely perplexing. The old North-West agents, acting for the Hudson's Bay Company in Canada, had declared a bankruptcy the preceding winter; the principal manager having quitted the country rather precipitately, as was supposed, and forgotten to appoint a successor; the management devolved in consequence upon the head accountant, Mr. C----e, who, however well he might be qualified for the duties of the situation, felt the responsibility of acting without authority to be too great, and confined himself accordingly to such measures only as he was confident would subject him to no inconvenience when the day of reckoning arrived. Meantime the business of this department sustained a serious check; the old hands of the post, having been tampered with by the opposition in the course of last winter, quitted the service to a man, and I now found the establishment to consist of a clerk, interpreter, and one man only. I was given to understand that three men additional would join me as soon as they could, and that I must not expect any more; thus our number would be seven against twenty-two. A disparity so vast precluded all hopes of maintaining the contest with advantage to the Company or credit to myself. Fortune, however, declared in our favour; dissensions arose in the ranks of our opponents, clerks and men deserted, supplies for trade ran short, and from being the weaker party we were now the stronger. Governor Simpson having taken up his residence at La Chine in autumn, men and goods were furnished in abundance, and the petty traders were made to see, ere the winter passed, the futility of entering the lists in competition with a Company possessing so vast resources. Mr. MacD----l having wintered two years at this post, and being consequently well acquainted with the natives, I entrusted the direction of affairs against the opposition entirely to him, and remained quietly at home, having only the few Indians that wintered in the neighbourhood of the post to attend to; my situation, however, was often far from agreeable, being frequently reduced to the company of my pigs and poultry for weeks together, and obliged to act as trader, cook, hewer of wood, and drawer of water. In the course of the winter I was favoured with a visit from Mr. F----r, to whose district this post had just been annexed, and had the gratification to receive, through him, a letter from Governor Simpson, conveying, in very flattering terms, his approbation of my conduct. I was told that I was in the direct road to preferment--that my merits should be represented to the Council on his arrival in the interior--and that he should be happy to have an opportunity of recommending me to the Governor and Committee, when he returned to England. We shall see, in the sequel, how these promises were fulfilled. I embarked, on the 15th June, 1827, for Montreal, and found Mr. K----h, a chief factor in the service, at the head of affairs; and my outfit being prepared in a few days, I re-embarked, taking my passage, as formerly, on board of a large canoe, deeply laden. The last rapid and portage on the Rivière aux Lièvres is within eight miles of the establishment, and generally takes the men a day to pass it. Arriving at this place late in the evening, I resolved on going on a-foot; it being fine moonlight, I felt confident of finding my way without difficulty. The weather having been immoderately hot for some time past, I had sat in the canoe divested of my upper garments, and thought I might, without inconvenience, dispense with them now, as I expected to reach the house ere the night air could prove injurious to me. Setting off, therefore, in "light marching order," I immediately gained the high grounds, in order to keep clear of the underwood that covers the banks of the river; and just as the moon appeared above the surrounding hills, arrived on the banks of a small stream, where I observed a portage path sunk deep in the ground, a circumstance which proved it to be much frequented--by whom or for what purpose I could not say, for I had seldom passed the limits of my farm during last winter, and was nearly as ignorant of the topography of the environs as the first day I arrived. I had not heard of the existence of a river in the quarter, nor did I imagine there was any; the conclusion I arrived at therefore was, that I had lost my way, and that my most eligible course was, to endeavour to find the main stream, and by following it, retrace my course to the portage. I soon fell on the river, but my retrograde march proved exceedingly toilsome; at every step I was obliged to bend the branches of the underwood to one side and another, or pressing them down under my feet, force my way through by main strength: some short spaces indeed intervened, that admitted of an easier passage; still my progress was so slow that the sun appeared before I reached the upper end of the portage. Finding an old canoe here, belonging to the post, I resolved on crossing to the opposite side of the river, where I knew there was a path that led to the house, by which the Indians often passed when travelling in small canoes. I accordingly ran to the lower end of the portage for a paddle, where I found my men still asleep; and having heard that the lower end of this path came out exactly opposite to the upper end of the portage, I struck out into the woods the moment I landed, fancying that I could not fail to discover it. The sun got higher and higher as I proceeded, and I went faster and yet faster, to no purpose;--no path appeared; and I at length became convinced that I was lost--being equally in difficulty to find my way back to the river as forward to the post. The weather was very sultry; and such had been the drought of the season that all the small creeks were dried up, so that I could nowhere procure a drop of water to moisten my parched lips. The sensations occasioned by thirst are so much more painful than those we feel from hunger, that although I had eaten but little the preceding day, and nothing on that day, I never thought of food. While my inner man was thus tortured by thirst, my outer man scarcely suffered less from another cause. The country through which I passed being of a marshy nature, I was incessantly tormented by the venomous flies that abound in such situations,--my shirt, and only other habiliment, having sustained so much damage in my nocturnal expedition, that the insects had free access _partout_.[1] [1] There are three different kinds of these tormenting insects, viz. the mosquito, the black-fly, and the gnat--the latter the same as the midge in N. Britain--who relieve each other regularly in the work of torture. The mosquitoes continue at their post from dawn to eight or nine o'clock, A.M.; the black-flies succeed, and remain in the field till near sunset; the mosquitoes again mount guard till dark, and are finally succeeded by the gnats, who continue their watch and incessant attacks till near sunrise. I came to the foot of a high hill about two o'clock P.M., which I ascended, and got a very good view of the surrounding country from its summit; hills and lakes appeared in every direction; but the sight of these objects only served to impress my mind with the conviction, that, unless Providence should direct my steps to the establishment, the game was up with me. Having descended, I sauntered about the remainder of the day, my ideas becoming more and more bewildered, and my strength declining; and passed the night sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, sometimes moving about;--but sitting, standing, or moving about, subjected to the same tortures. I endeavoured during the night to compose my mind as much as possible; some happy thought might perchance suggest itself, which might lead to my deliverance. Nor were my efforts without some success: I called to mind the position of the post with respect to the rising and setting sun; another circumstance of importance also recurred to me. A Canadian hunter, who received his supplies at my post, had told me that such Indians as did not wish to pay their debts at the post, frequently passed unperceived by a chain of small lakes that ran parallel to the river, and extended from Lac de Sable to somewhere near the rapid, whence I had taken my departure. I recollected, too, his having mentioned that some Indian families occasionally made sugar on the borders of these lakes, and that a good path lay from their camp to the post. Having passed the night in a deep valley, the sun did not appear until late in the morning, when I shaped my course, to the best of my judgment, for the post. Two or three hours' walk brought me to the foot of a high hill, nearly destitute of wood on one side; and expecting that some discovery might be made from the top which might be of use to me, I resolved on attempting the ascent--an undertaking of no small difficulty in my enfeebled state. I succeeded in gaining the top, and to my unspeakable joy, perceived a chain of lakes within about two miles of me, exactly corresponding to the description given me by the Canadian hunter. I also heard the reports of guns, but so indistinctly that I could not determine the direction the report came from. Noting with the utmost care the course that would lead me to the lakes, I descended the steep declivity with a degree of speed that surprised myself,--such is the powerful influence the mind exercises over the body. I expected an hour's walk would bring me to the lakes, but the sun being in the zenith, and my way lying through a dense forest of pine, I could not keep a straight course. I proceeded onward, however, as well as _reason_ could direct me, and most willingly would I have exchanged a little of that _faculty_ for the _instinct_ that leads the brute creation with unerring certainty through the pathless depths of the forest. The sun was rapidly declining, and my hopes with it, when suddenly I fancied I heard the murmuring sound of running water. Could it be really so? What a delightful feast I should have! for I had passed the day, like the preceding, without a drop of water to allay my raging thirst. I listened; the sound became more distinct--it was no illusion. I quickened my pace, and soon came upon a charming rivulet, flowing rapidly over a bed of white pebbles, its water clear as crystal. I rushed into the midst of it, and fervently thanking the Giver of all good, threw myself on my knees, and drank draught after draught till my thirst was quenched. I felt refreshed to an extraordinary degree, and concluding that the stream would lead me to the river, or to some lake communicating with it, I followed its course, wading in the water that there might be "no mistake," and soon came out on the border of a small lake, where I had the additional satisfaction of hearing the report of guns so distinctly as to convince me that the party firing them could be at no great distance. I walked round the lake, and at its far end fell on a portage path that soon conducted me to another lake. This, then, must be the chain of lakes I was in search of! I was transported at the thought. But an incident soon occurred that served to damp at once my spirits and my person: a distant peal of thunder was heard; peal after peal succeeded; the heavens were obscured, and heavy drops of rain, the harbingers of an approaching storm, fell from the dark clouds. I strained every nerve to reach the firing party ere the storm should burst upon me. I reached the foot of the hill, but the firing had ceased. I nevertheless ascended as quickly as my wearied limbs would carry me, but on reaching the spot found no one there. The storm now burst upon me in all its fury. Flash followed flash in quick succession, and the rain fell in torrents, which, however, as the few clothes that still adhered to my person were already saturated by the previous rain, caused me but little additional inconvenience. I descended to the lake, and by the time I reached the far end of it the darkness had increased so much, that I could proceed no farther. Perceiving an old encampment--a few half-decayed branches of balsam, at the foot of a large hemlock--I took up my quarters there for the night. The tufted branches of this tree render it a much more secure retreat in a thunder-storm than the pine, whose pointed branches and spiral shaped top frequently attract the electric fluid. Towards morning the storm seemed to have expended its fury; and, strange to say, in the midst of it I enjoyed two or three hours' sleep. Nature had been so exhausted by protracted sufferings, that (though the flies were driven to their covert) I believe I could have slept upon a bed of thorns, covered with gnats and mosquitoes. As soon as it was sufficiently clear to enable me to find my way, I quitted my hemlock and fell on the portage path, which soon led me to another small lake, and which I proceeded to circumambulate as usual, keeping a sharp look-out for the path that led to the post; when suddenly the report of a gun burst from an adjoining hill. At the same instant, I observed a net pole standing in the water at the bottom of a small bay close by, and directed my steps towards it; when on approaching it I discovered a broad path ascending from the water's edge, and immediately after the buildings of a sugar camp. Allowing the party on the hill to blaze away, I followed the path, and in less than half-an-hour came out upon the Rivière aux Lièvres, immediately opposite the house. I perceived the men of the establishment, with some Indians, all in a bustle; some preparing to embark in a canoe, others firing. I sat down to gaze for a moment on the most interesting scene I had ever witnessed, and then gave a loud cry, which it was evident nobody heard, although the river is not more than a stone-cast across. I made a second effort with better success. The Indians raised a shout of triumph; the men hallooed, "Le voilà! le voilà! Je le vois! Je le vois à l'autre bord! Embarquez! embarquez!" A few minutes more, and I found myself restored to at best a prolonged life of misery and exile. Let it not be inferred from this expression that I felt ungrateful for my deliverance; on the contrary, my escape from a death so lingering and terrible made a deep impression upon my mind. I afterwards gave a holiday to my men in remembrance of it, and made them all happy for one day. CHAPTER XIII. NARROWLY ESCAPE DROWNING--ACCIDENT TO INDIAN GUIDE--AM NEARLY FROZEN TO DEATH--MISUNDERSTANDING BETWEEN ALGONQUINS AND IROQUOIS--MASSACRE AT HANNAH BAY. Nothing occurred this year out of the usual routine, save an accident that happened to myself, and had nearly proved fatal. A couple of hounds had been presented to me by a friend, for the purpose of hunting the deer that abounded in the neighbourhood. The dogs having one day broken loose from the leash, betook themselves to the hills; and the first intimation we had of their being at liberty, was the sound of their voices in full cry on an adjacent hill. I instantly seized my gun, and following a beaten track that led to a small lake at the base of the hill, I perceived a deer swimming towards an island in the middle of the lake, and only a little beyond the range of gun-shot. An old fishing-canoe happening to be at hand, I immediately launched it, and gave chase, without examining the condition it was in. I proceeded but a short distance, however, when I perceived that it leaked very much. I continued, nevertheless, to paddle, till I got nearly half-way across to the island; but by this time the quantity of water in the canoe had increased so much, that my ardour for the chase began to give way to anxiety for my own safety. I perceived a large hole in the stern of the canoe, now almost level with the surface of the lake, through which the water gushed with every stroke of the paddle. The fore-part appearing free from injury, I immediately inverted my position,--a movement necessarily effected with much difficulty in so small a craft; and having thus placed myself, the stern was consequently raised a little higher. I then paddled gently towards a long point projecting from the mainland, much nearer me than the island; and although I used the utmost caution in paddling, the canoe sunk under me some distance from the shore. The lake, however, was fortunately shallow at this place, so that I soon found bottom. Had there been the least ripple on the water, I could not have escaped; but the weather was perfectly calm, and the lake smooth as glass. In the early part of next winter, I went again in pursuit of the deer; and although I incurred no great risk of losing my life, I yet experienced such inconveniences as seldom fall to the lot of amateur hunters in other parts of the world. I left the house early in the morning, and, starting a deer close by, gave chase, following the track over hill and dale, until I reached a high ridge bordering on Lac de Sable. Here the deer slackened his pace, and appeared, by his track, to have descended slowly into a valley, where he remained until I started him a second time. I still continued the pursuit, without thinking of time or distance from the establishment. At length the night evidently began to close, and I felt faint and exhausted from want of food, and the exertions I had made during the day. I therefore gave up the chase; but to retrace my steps by the devious path by which I had pursued the deer, would have occupied the greater part of the night; I therefore resolved on returning by a more direct course; but the upshot was, that, after wandering about for some time, and repeatedly falling on my own tracks, I passed the night in the woods. Although nearly overcome with fatigue, I durst not think of lying down, well knowing what the consequence would be; I therefore walked backwards and forwards, on a beaten track, the whole night; and next morning adopted the sure course of finding my way by my tracks of the preceding day. Meeting an Indian by the way, who had been sent in search of me, he led me by a short cut, and we arrived at the house about two o'clock, P.M. In the autumn of 1829, another opponent entered the lists against us,--an enterprising Canadian, who had been for a long time in the Company's service. This adventurer proceeded some distance inland, and I need scarcely say that a party was sent to keep him company. Understanding that the new competitor gave our people more trouble than had been anticipated, I determined on taking an active part in the game; and as I had only two men with me at Lac de Sable, whose services were required there, I set off alone, intending to take with me an Indian who had an encampment by the way, as I was unacquainted with the route. I slept at the Indian's wigwam, who readily accompanied me next morning; but the weather being intolerably cold, the poor fellow got both his ears frozen, _et aliud quidquam præterea_, in crossing a large lake not far from his camp. The moment he perceived his mishap, he assailed me in the most abusive terms, and swore that he would accompany me no farther; which, being conscious that I was partly the cause of his misfortune, I bore with as much equanimity as I could; and arriving at the opposite side of the lake, we kindled a fire, and I proceeded to treat his case according to the usual practice; that is, rubbing the part affected with snow, or bathing it with cold water until it is thawed, and the circulation restored. Having happily succeeded, I forthwith dismissed him, and determined to find my way alone; and having a tolerable idea of the direction in which I should go, and the weather being clear, I entertained no doubt of falling somewhere on the river whereon the post is situated. I came upon it, as it seemed to me, a considerable distance below the establishment, just as the sun was setting. Having travelled in deep snow the whole day, I felt so much fatigued that I could scarcely exert myself sufficiently to keep my body warm, the cold being intense. I walked as briskly as my diminished strength would allow; but at length became so weak, that I was obliged to lay myself down at short intervals. In this wretched state,--my limbs benumbed with cold, and thinking I should never see daylight,--I suddenly came upon a hard beaten path: this inspired me with new vigour, as it indicated the close vicinity of a shanty. I soon discovered the desired haven, and crawling up the steep bank that led to it, I knocked at the door with my snow-shoes, and was immediately admitted. The noise I made roused the inmates, who had been sound asleep; and who, seeing my helpless condition, exerted themselves in every possible way to relieve me. I was nearly in the last stage of exhaustion, being unable to take off my snow-shoes, or even articulate a word. One of these noble woodsmen guided me next day to the post; when, as a small mark of gratitude for his generous kindness, I presented him and his companions with what is always acceptable to a shanty-man, a liberal allowance of the "crathur," to enjoy themselves withal. If it be asked why I did not make a fire, when I had the necessary apparatus; I answer, that I had but a very small axe, quite unfit for felling so large timber as grew on the banks of this river; and I was, besides, so benumbed and exhausted as to be unequal to the task even of lighting a fire. Sometime after my return from Montreal in the autumn of 1830, I went to pay a visit to one of my customers whose lands were at a considerable distance. I was accompanied by one man in a small canoe; and as it was necessary that one of us should carry the canoe over the portages, and the other the property, I chose the former, being the lightest though by far the most inconvenient load. I found it very oppressive at first, but use rendered it more easy. This was the first time I carried a canoe. On our return from the Indian's camp we met with rather a disagreeable accident, while ascending a small and very rapid river. In pushing forward the canoe against the stream, my pole happened to glance off a stone, and the canoe swinging round came in contact with the trunk of a tree projecting from the bank, and we, or at least I, was upset in an instant. Fortunately the current, though strong, was smooth and free from whirlpools; so that, after swimming down a short distance in search of a landing-place, I rejoined my companion, whom I found standing on the bank perfectly dry. On inquiring of him how he happened to avoid a ducking, he told me he sprang ashore while I was attempting to parry off the tree; doubtless his having done so was in a great measure the cause of the accident. He, however, acted a very prudent part after landing, having caught hold of the canoe in the act of upsetting, and thus preserved the goods from being lost or damaged. In the course of this year, the Iroquois and Algonquins were nearly coming to blows on account of the hunting-grounds. This quarrel originated from a speech which Colonel McKay, then at the head of the Indian department, had addressed to the Iroquois, in which, making use of the metaphorical language of the people, he observed that Indians of all tribes ought to live together in the utmost concord and amity, seeing they inhabited the same villages, "and ate out of the same dish." This the Iroquois interpreted in a way more suitable to their own wishes than consistent with its real meaning. "Our father," said they, "tells us we eat out of the same dish with the Algonquins;--he means that we have an equal right to the hunting-grounds." They proceeded, accordingly, to avail themselves of the supposed privilege. The consequence was a very violent quarrel, in which Government was ultimately obliged to interfere. The Indians informed us, this spring, of a dreadful murder that had been committed in the early part of the winter by some of the natives of Hudson's Bay. The particulars of this tale of blood I since learned from an individual that escaped from the massacre. The Indians attached to the posts established along the shores of Hudson's Bay are comparatively civilized; most of them speak English, and are employed as voyageurs by the Company. Few or no precautions are taken at these posts to guard against treachery; the gates are seldom shut, and some of the posts are destitute of palisades or defence of any kind. Of this description was the post where the catastrophe occurred which I am about to relate. The post of Hannah Bay is situated about sixty miles to the north of Moose Factory, and was at this time under the charge of a Mr. Corrigal. His establishment consisted of two or three half-breeds, and an Indian who had been brought up by the whites. He and some of the men had families. In the course of the winter five Indians came in with their "hunts," and agreeably to their usual practice encamped close by. Those Indians are designated "Home Guards,"--a term generally applied to the Indians attached to a trading post; they hunt in winter at a convenient distance from the post, and are employed in summer as voyageurs, or in performing any other necessary duty. Notwithstanding their thus being frequently in company with white men and Christians, they still retain many of the barbarous habits, and much of the superstitious belief of their forefathers, aggravated, I regret to say, by some of the vices of the whites. Among the number of those just mentioned was an individual who had acquired considerable influence among his tribe, from his pretending to be skilled in the art of divination. This man told his fellows that he had had a communication from the Great Spirit, who assured him that he would become the greatest man in Hudson's Bay if he only followed the course prescribed to him, which was, first, to cut off their own trading post, and then with the spoil got there to hire other Indians, who should assist in destroying all the other posts the Company possessed in the country. Accordingly, it was determined to carry their design into execution, whenever a favourable opportunity occurred. This was not long in presenting itself. They came one day to the establishment, and told the people that the "man of medicine" had come for the purpose of performing some extraordinary feat that would astonish them all. The silly creatures believed the story, and went to the borders of the lake, where they observed the sorcerer showing off a variety of antics very much to their amusement. The conspirators, seeing this part of the stratagem succeed, rushed into the house, and immediately despatched Mr. Corrigal and his family. The men, hearing the report of the guns, hastened back towards the house. The two that first arrived were saluted by a volley of balls; the one fell dead, the other fled. The third, seeing what had happened, seized his youngest child, and also fled. The murderers pursued. The poor fellow, encumbered by the weight of his child, necessarily fell behind. A ball from the pursuers killed the child, and wounded him in the hand. Dropping, then, the lifeless body, he soon came up with his fellow, and both escaped without further injury. It was about noon when they began their flight. One of them reached Moose Factory next day about noon, the other soon after. The distance--nearly sixty miles--travelled in so short a space of time, may appear incredible; but fear gave them wings, they fled for their lives and never halted. One of them, my informant, lost all the toes of one of his feet by the frost. Measures were immediately adopted to frustrate the further diabolical designs of the Indians, as well as to avenge the innocent blood that had been shed. Messengers were despatched with all possible haste to Rupert's house, the nearest post, to give the alarm, and a party of men, under an efficient leader, was sent to seize the murderers. This expedition, however, proved unsuccessful, as the Indians could not be found in that direction; but, in the meantime, two of them who had come to Rupert's house to "spy the land," were seized and sent bound to Moose Factory, and one of them was compelled to act as guide to another party. Led by him, they approached the camp without being perceived, and found the "man of medicine" sitting very composedly in his tent, surrounded by the spoils he had taken from the fort. He was secured, and the rest of his associates, who were absent hunting, were soon "tracked," and secured likewise. They then all underwent the punishment they deserved. The fort presented a horrible spectacle. Men, women, and children shared the same fate, and the mangled limbs of their victims were scattered among the articles of property which the wretches, not being able to carry off with them, had attempted to destroy. CHAPTER XIV. FALL THROUGH THE ICE--DANGEROUS ADVENTURE AT A RAPID--OPPONENTS GIVE IN--ORDERED TO LA CHINE--TREATMENT ON MY ARRIVAL--MANNERS, HABITS, AND SUPERSTITIONS OF THE INDIANS--FEROCIOUS REVENGE OF A SUPPOSED INJURY--DIFFERENT METHODS OF THE ROMAN CATHOLIC AND PROTESTANT MISSIONARY--INDIAN COUNCILS--TRADITION OF THE FLOOD--BEAVER-HUNTING-- LANGUAGE. Finding that my presence was more wanted at the outpost than elsewhere, I resolved on taking up my residence there for the winter 1831-32. Our active opponent gave us much annoyance, causing great expense to the Company, without any benefit to himself; on the contrary, it ultimately ruined him. While accompanying our party on a trading excursion in the beginning of winter, I had a very narrow escape. We were travelling on the Gatineau, a very rapid stream that joins the Ottawa, a little below Hull. A young lad, interpreter to the opposition, and I, had one morning gone considerably in advance of the others, walking smartly to keep ourselves warm, when I suddenly broke through the ice. The current here running strong, I should soon have been swept under the ice, had I not, by extending my arms upon it on either side of me, kept my head above water. At the hazard of his own life, my companion came to my assistance; but the ice was too weak to admit of his approaching sufficiently near to reach me his hand; he therefore cut a long pole, and tying his belt to it, threw it to me; and laying hold of it, I dragged myself on the sound ice. But the danger was not yet over; the weather was intensely cold, so that my clothes were soon frozen solid upon me, and having no means of lighting a fire, I ran into the woods; and in order to keep my body from being frozen into the same mass with my clothes, continued running up and down with all my might, till the rest of the party arrived. I had a still more narrow escape in the month of March ensuing. I had been on a visit to the post under my own immediate charge, termed head-quarters _par excellence_; returning to the post alone, I came to a place where our men, in order to avoid a long detour occasioned by a high and steep hill coming close to the river, were accustomed to draw their sledges upon the ice along the edge of a rapid. About the middle of the rapid, where the torrent is fiercest, the banks of the river are formed of rocks rising almost perpendicularly from the water's edge; and here they had to pass on a narrow ledge of ice, between the rock on the one side, and the foaming and boiling surge on the other. The ledge, at no time very broad, was now reduced, by the falling in of the water, to a strip of ice of about eighteen inches, or little more, adhering to the rock. The ice, however, seemed perfectly solid, and I made no doubt that, with caution, I should succeed in passing safely this formidable strait. The weather having been very mild in the fore-part of the day, my shoes and socks had been saturated with wet, but were now frozen hard by the cold of the approaching night. Overlooking this circumstance, I attempted the dangerous passage; and had proceeded about halfway, when my foot slipped, and I suddenly found myself resting with one hip on the border of ice, while the rest of my body overhung the rapid rushing fearfully underneath. I was now literally in a state of agonizing suspense: to regain my footing was impossible; even the attempt to move might precipitate me into the rapid. My first thought indeed was to throw myself in, and endeavour by swimming to reach the solid ice that bridged the river a short distance below; a glance at the torrent convinced me that this was a measure too desperate to be attempted;--I should have been dashed against the ice, or hurried beneath it by the current. But my time was not yet come. Within a few feet of the spot where I was thus suspended _in sublimis_, the rock projected a little outward, so as to break the force of the current. It struck me that a new border of ice might be formed at this place, under and parallel to that on which I was perched; exploring cautiously, therefore, with a stick which I fortunately had in my hand, all along and beneath me, I found my conjecture well founded; but whether the ice were strong enough to bear me, I could not ascertain. But it was my only hope of deliverance; letting myself down therefore gently, I planted my feet on the lower ledge, and clinging with the tenacity of a shell-fish to the upper, I crept slowly along till I reached land. This autumn, I had the satisfaction of seeing all my opponents quit the field, some of whom had maintained a long and obstinate struggle; yet, although I had reason to congratulate myself on their departure, as it promised me relief from the painfully toilsome life I had led, I must do one of the parties, at least, the justice to say, that, in different circumstances, I should have beheld their departure with regret. Dey and McGillivray carried on the contest longer than the others, and did so without showing any of that rancorous feeling which the other petty traders manifested towards the Company. MacGillivray and myself, when travelling together, often shared the same blanket, and the same kettle; and found, that while this friendly feeling was mutually advantageous to ourselves, it did not in any way compromise the interests of our employers. I parted from him, wishing him every success in _any other_ line of business he might engage in. After the removal of my competitors, I found the time to hang heavily on my hands; and the ease I had so often sighed for, I now could scarcely endure; but I was not allowed long time to sigh for a change. On the 5th of April an Iroquois came up from Montreal with a packet conveying orders to me to proceed forthwith to Lachine, whence I should embark by the opening of the navigation for the northern department. I was alone at the post when these unexpected orders came to hand, all the men being absent at the outpost; and as it behoved me to use the utmost diligence in order to get away ere winter travelling should break up, leaving an old squaw in charge, I set out for the outpost in quest of Mr. Cameron, who was appointed my successor; and on the 7th of April took my departure. On arriving at the Grand River, I found travelling on the ice to be attended with great danger, and several accidents had already happened; but I had the good fortune to reach Grenville at the head of the Long Sault in safety; here, however, my farther progress was arrested for a fortnight, the roads being impassable. I arrived at Lachine in the end of April, and after handing in the documents relative to my late charge, Mr. K---- toldme I was at liberty to spend the intervening time until the embarkation, where and how I pleased. Gratified by this indulgence, I was about to frame a speech expressive of my gratitude, when he continued,--"for, Sir, you are to understand we do not keep a boarding-house here." This stopped my mouth, and I reserved my thanks for a future occasion; for I could not but feel, that being an officer of the Company, it was robbing me of a part of my pay under the pretext of an indulgence. Availing myself, however, of this ungenerous grant of freedom, I spent some halcyon days in the company of relatives most dear to me, and expected no interruption to my enjoyment until the time appointed for the embarkation: but a few days after I had joined my relatives in the vicinity of Montreal, I received a letter, commanding me, in the most peremptory manner, to repair to Lachine,--"circumstances not foreseen at my arrival from the interior required my departure without further delay." I accompanied the bearer of Mr. K----'s letter, and found, on arriving at Lachine, that I had been appointed to conduct some of Captain Back's party, who proved rather troublesome to him at Montreal, to the Chats, and there to await my passage to the north by the Brigade. I had now served the Hudson's Bay Company faithfully and zealously for a period of twelve years, leading a life of hardship and toil, of which no idea can be formed except by those whose hard lot it may be to know it by experience. How enthusiastically I had laboured for them, may be better gathered from the foregoing narrative than from any statement I could here make. And what was my reward? I had no sooner succeeded in freeing my district from opposition, than I was ordered to resign my situation to another, who would enjoy the fruits of my labour:--when I arrived at the Company's head-quarters to take my departure for a remote district, I was ordered to provide for myself until I embarked; and when enjoying myself in the bosom of my family, to suit the convenience of one of their correspondents, I was torn away from them prematurely, and without warning,--treatment, which caused one of them so severe a shock as nearly to prove fatal! Before I take leave of the Montreal department, it may be well to allude more particularly to the manners and customs of the natives. The mode of life the Algonquins lead, while at their village, has been already touched upon; within these few years a great change has taken place, not in their morals, but in their circumstances. The southern and western parts of their hunting-grounds are now nearly all possessed by the white man, whose encroachments extend farther and farther every year. Beaver meadows are now to be found in place of beaver dams; and rivers are crossed on bridges formed by the hand of man, where the labours of the beaver afforded a passage for the roving Indian and hunter only a few years before. Happy change, it may be said; but so say not the Indians; the days of happiness are gone for them, at least for those of the present generation; though I have no doubt that their posterity may, in course of time, become reconciled to, and adopt those habits of life which their altered circumstances may require. A few have done so already, but many of them still remain on the most remote parts of their lauds, having no longer the means of enjoying themselves at their village, or of satisfying the avarice of priests and traders. Here they pursue, without restraint or interruption, the mode of life most congenial to their habits. I have already observed, that I could discover but little difference between the (so called) Christian Indians, and their unbaptized countrymen, when beyond the surveillance of their priests. They practise all the superstitious rites of their forefathers, and place implicit confidence in the power of magic, although they admit that the same results cannot be obtained now, as formerly, in consequence, as they say, "of the Cross having come in contact with the Medicine." They have their genii of lakes, rivers, mountains, and forests, to whom they offer sacrifice. I was present at the sacrifice of a beaver, made by an Algonquin to his familiar, or "totem," in order to propitiate him, because he had been unsuccessful in hunting. The beaver was roasted without being skinned, the fur only being appropriated to the spirit, whilst the flesh afforded a luxurious feast to the sacrificer; and in this part of the ceremony I willingly participated. When any of them is taken ill, the indisposition is ascribed to the effects of "bad medicine;" and the person is mentioned whom they suspect of having laid the disease upon them. Many violent deeds are committed to revenge these supposed injuries. An Algonquin, who had lost a child, blamed a _tête de boule_, who was domiciled at Lac de Sable, for his death. The ensuing spring the _tête de boule_ took a fancy to visit the Lake of Two Mountains, and set off in company with the Algonquins. On arrival of the party at the Grand River, he who had lost his child invited the _tête de boule_ to his tent, and entertained him in the most friendly manner for a time, then suddenly drawing his knife, he plunged it into the side of his unsuspecting guest. The poor wretch fled, and concealed himself in a pig-sty, where his groans soon discovered him to the Algonquin, who, again seizing him, thrust his knife into his throat, and did not withdraw it until he ceased to live. "Now," exclaimed his murderer, "I am avenged for the death of my child. You wanted to go to the Lake to be baptized, and here I have baptized you in your own blood." Many other instances might be adduced to prove that the savage disposition of these Indians has not been greatly ameliorated by their profession of Christianity; they have, in fact, all the vices with but few of the virtues of their heathen countrymen. They are immoderately fond of ardent spirits, men, women and--shocking to say--children. This hateful vice, which contributes more than any other to the debasement of human nature, seems to produce more baneful effects upon the Indian, both physically and morally, than upon the European. The worst propensities of his nature are excited by it. While under the influence of this demon he spares neither friend nor foe; and in many instances the members of his own family become the victims either of his fury or his lust. The crime of incest is by no means unknown among them; rum, the greatest scourge and curse of the Indian race, is undoubtedly the principal cause of this dreadful corruption: but is it not strange that religion should have so little effect in reforming their manners? The Mississagays, the neighbours of the Algonquins, who speak the same language, were only converted a few years ago by the Methodists, and from being the most dissipated and depraved of Indians, are now become sober, industrious and devout. It seems, therefore, impossible even for the most unprejudiced to avoid the conclusion that the difference in manners must in a great measure be ascribed to the different methods adopted by the Roman Catholic and Protestant missionaries in converting the natives. The Roman Catholic convert is first baptized, then instructed in the forms of worship, taught to repeat Pater nosters and Ave Marias, to make the sign of the cross, and to confess. He is now a member of the Church, and is dismissed to his woods--a Christian, can we say? The Methodists pursue a different course. Their converts must not only reform their lives, but give indubitable proofs that they are reformed; they are taught so as to understand thoroughly the sound principles of Christianity; and they must give an account of their faith, and a reason for the hope that is in them, before they are admitted as members of the Christian community. "The tree is known by its fruits." The Sachems, or chiefs of the Algonquins, possess little or no authority, but their advice is of some weight There are gradations of rank in the chieftainship; the Kitchi Okima, or great chief, takes precedence at the Council, and propounds the subject of discussion; the inferior chiefs (Okimas) speak in turn, according to seniority; every old man, however, whether chief or not, is allowed to give his opinion, and the general voice of the assembly decides the question at issue. It is seldom, however, that any question arises requiring much deliberation in the present times of peace. When a party of strange Indians arrives at the village, a council is called to ascertain the means the community may possess of discharging properly the rites of hospitality; each individual states the modicum he is willing to contribute, in cash or in kind, and the proceeds, which are always sufficient to entertain the guests sumptuously, according to Indian ideas, while they remain, are placed at the disposal of the Kitchi Okima. Councils are held and harangues delivered when they receive their annual presents from Government; these consist of blankets, cloth, ammunition, and a variety of small articles, all of which in their present impoverished state are highly valued by them. They profess an attachment to the British Government; but, like certain more civilized nations, they will fight for the cause that is likely to yield them most advantage. Their loyalty to Britain, therefore, is less to be depended on than their hatred to America. A general idea has gone abroad regarding their taciturnity which does not accord with my experience. Far from being averse to colloquial intercourse, they delight in it; none more welcome to an Indian wigwam than one who can talk freely. They pass the winter evenings in relating their adventures, hunting being their usual theme, or in telling stories; and often have I heard the woods resound with peals of laughter excited by their wit, for they too are witty in their own way. Their tradition of the flood (_kitchi a tesoka_, or "great tale,") is somewhat remarkable. The world having been overflowed by water, all mankind perished but one family, who embarked in a large canoe, taking a variety of animals along with them. The canoe floated about for some time, when a musk-rat, tired of its confinement, jumped overboard and dived; it soon reappeared, with a mouthful of mud, which it deposited on the surface of the water, and from this beginning the new world was formed. When the veracity of an Indian is doubted, he points to heaven with his forefinger, and exclaims:-- "He to whom we belong knows that what I say is true." No white man trusts more firmly in the validity of a solemn oath than the Indian in this asseveration. Still it must be confessed that they are prone to falsehood; but they seem to allow themselves a much greater licence in this respect in their intercourse with the whites than amongst themselves. When an Indian is about to enter a wigwam, he utters the word or sound "Quay" in a peculiar tone; the word repeated from within is considered as an invitation to enter. Should he neglect to announce himself in this way he is considered as ill-bred--an unmannerly boor. The left-hand side of the wigwam as you enter is considered the place of honour; here the father of the family and chief squaw take their station, the young men on the opposite side, and the women next to the door, or at the upper end of the fire-place, both ends being alike plebeian. When a person of respectability enters, the father, moving towards the door, resigns his place to his guest, places skins under him, and otherwise pays every attention to his comfort. They are extremely hospitable, and cheerfully share their last morsel with the stranger who may be in want. Hospitality, however, is a virtue which civilization rarely improves. A good hunter always leaves his lodge by dawn of day, and seldom tastes food till he returns late at night. Hunting beavers is a most laborious occupation, and becomes more so in proportion to the scarcity of these animals; for this reason, that when a great number of beavers occupy a lake, their places of retreat are in closer proximity to each other, and for the most part inhabited; if the number be reduced, it is likely they will have the same places of retreat, and the hunter must bore through the ice, before he can ascertain whether they are inhabited or not. The sagacity of their dogs is truly surprising. The beaver house being first destroyed by the hunter, the dogs are urged by a peculiar call to scent out their retreats, which they never fail to do, whatever may be the thickness of the ice. They keep running about the borders of the lake, their noses close to the ground, and the moment they discover a retreat, begin to bark and jump on the ice; the hunter then cuts a hole with his trench, and with a stick which he carries along with him feels for the beaver; should he find one, he introduces his bare arm into the hole, and seizing his prey by the tail, drags it out on the ice, where it is dispatched with a spear. There is less danger in this operation than one would imagine, for the beaver allows itself to be seized without a struggle, but sometimes inflicts severe wounds on his captor after he is taken out of the water. When the retreat is not inhabited, the entrance to it is barred by sticks, and the hunter proceeds to chisel again, and continues his operations until the beaver is either taken, or shut out from all his haunts, in which case he is compelled to return to the house to take breath, where he is either shot or caught in a trap. The language of these Indians is a dialect of the Sauteux or Bungee, intermixed with Cree, and a few words of French derivation. The greater part of them have a smattering of French or English; but the acquisition of a foreign language is extremely difficult to them, from the peculiar formation of their own, which wants the letter r. An Algonquin pronounces the word "marrow" "manno" or "mallo." Their dialect has all the softness of the Italian, but is extremely poor and defective. CHAPTER XV. EMBARK FOR THE INTERIOR--MODE OF TRAVELLING BY CANOES--LITTLE RIVER--LAKE NIPISSING--FRENCH RIVER--OLD STATION OF INDIAN ROBBERS--FORT MISSISSAGA--INDIANS--LIGHT CANOE-MEN--SAULT STE. MARIE--LAKE SUPERIOR--CANOE-MEN DESERT--RE-TAKEN--FORT WILLIAM--M. THIBAUD--LAC LA PLUIE AND RIVER--INDIANS--WHITE RIVER--NARROW ESCAPE--CONVERSATION WITH AN INDIAN ABOUT BAPTISM. On the 25th April, 1833, I embarked on board of a steamboat at Lachine, and reached Hull on the 27th. Here the regular conveyance by land carriages and steamboat ended, and the traveller in those days was obliged to wait his passage by the canoes of shanty men, or hire a boat or canoe for himself. I had recourse to the latter expedient, and reached the post of the Chats, then in charge of my esteemed friend Mr. McD----l, on the 30th. Captain Back arrived on the 1st of May, put ashore for a few supplies and my wards, and immediately re-embarked. The brigade arrived on the 2d, and the guide delivered me a letter from Mr. K----, informing me that I was to consider myself merely as a passenger, the command of the men being entrusted to the guide by Governor Simpson's orders. This arrangement relieved me of much anxiety and trouble; though I would rather have preferred undergoing any personal inconvenience to being placed under the command of an ignorant Canadian, who might use his "brief" authority in a way very offensive to my feelings, without being guilty of anything that I could complain of. My fears, however, were disappointed, as he showed every deference to my wishes, as well as the utmost courtesy to the other passengers, most of whom were of a rank not likely to find much consideration from a Canadian boatman; they consisted of a young priest not yet ordained, an apprentice clerk, three youths who had been at their education in Lower Canada, and myself. The brigade consisted of three Montreal canoes, laden with provisions for the trip, and some tobacco for the southern department; and manned by sixty Iroquois and Canadians, the latter engaged to winter, the former for the trip. The day was far spent when we left the portage of the Chats, and we encamped in the evening near the head of the rapids. The mode of travelling in canoes being now well known, I shall not detail the occurrences of each day, but confine myself to the narration of such incidents as may be most worthy of notice throughout the voyage. The moment we landed the tent was pitched by men employed for the purpose; the other men unloaded the canoes, and carried the goods beyond high-water mark, where it was piled and covered with oil-cloths. It is the particular duty of the bowsman to attend to the canoe, to repair and pitch it when necessary, and to place it in security when the cargo is discharged. In consideration of these services he is exempt from the duty of loading or unloading, his wages are higher than those of the steersman, and he ranks after the guide. The latter generally messes with the gentlemen, his canoe always takes the lead in the rapids, but in still water the post of honour is held by the best going canoe. The guide rouses the men in the morning; the moment the call is heard, "Lève, lève!" the passengers spring upon their feet, tie up their beds, and if they are not smart about it, the tents go down about their ears, and they must finish the operation in the open air. Several of our men having already deserted, we encamped upon islands, when they could be found, or kept watch on the mainland. Our hour of departure was three o'clock, A.M.; when the weather permitted we breakfasted at seven, dined at one or two o'clock, P.M., and encamped at sunset. In calm weather the canoes went abreast, singing in chorus and keeping time with the paddles. All was then gaiety, and, to appearance, happiness; but this is one of those bright spots in a voyageur's life which are few and far between. We reached Fort Coulonge on the 3d, and it being late, I took up my quarters with my worthy old bourgeois, Mr. S. Here we received some additional supplies of provisions for the crews and passengers. We arrived at Lac des Allumettes on the 5th, where I put ashore merely to say _bon jour_ to an old acquaintance. We encamped rather early this evening, to allow the men a little extra rest, on account of the laborious duty they had performed for some days before. Next day, when ascending the rapid of Roche Capitaine, the canoe in which I was passenger came in violent contact with another; but mine only sustained damage. The bow being stove in, the canoe began to fill; we however gained the shore, to which fortunately we were close, at a leap, and lost no time in discharging the cargo. Drying the goods and repairing the canoe occupied us a good part of the day. We reached the Forks of Mattawin on the 8th, where we found a small outpost belonging to the Fort Coulonge district, recently established for the purpose of securing the hunts of the Indians of this quarter, who were in the habit of trading with shanty men. Being no longer under any apprehensions of the men deserting, we now discontinued the watch and slept in comfort. The passage of the Little River was effected with much toil and difficulty, from the shallowness of the water. We entered Lake Nipissing on the 10th; descended French River, a rapid and dangerous stream, without accident, and entered Lake Huron on the morning of the 12th. The guide pointed out to me a place near the mouth of the river where the Indians used to waylay the canoes on their passage to and from the interior; a sort of rude breastwork still marks the spot. After much destruction of life and property by the savages, they were eventually caught in their own toil; the voyageurs, instead of descending the river at this place, passed by land, and coming unawares on the Indians killed them all. We reached the post of the Cloche early on the 13th, and spent two hours in the company of Mr. McB----u, who entertained us most kindly; and on the 14th looked in at Mississaga post, an establishment which appeared to possess but few attractions as a place of residence; consisting of a few miserable log buildings, surrounded by a number of pine-bark wigwams, the temporary residence of the natives; several of whom came reeling into the house after our arrival, there being an opposition party there. These Indians were, without comparison, the most uncouth, savage-looking beings I ever beheld; mouth from ear to ear, cheek-bones remarkably high, low projecting forehead, hair like a horse's mane, and eyes red and swollen by continual intoxication. American whisky had no doubt contributed to increase their natural deformity. After leaving this post we had a strong breeze of adverse wind for the remainder of the day, and encamped in consequence earlier than usual. On the following morning we were very early roused from our slumbers by the call of "Canot à lège," (light canoe). Our beds were tied up, tents packed, canoes launched and loaded in an instant; and we set off in pursuit of the mail, which we overtook at breakfast time, and found Mr. G. K----th in charge, who had just returned from England, and was now proceeding to assume the charge of Lake Superior district. Mr. K----th exchanged some of his men, who were found incapable of performing light canoe duty, for some of our best; an arrangement that did not appear to please our guide much. The duty which the crew of a light canoe have to perform is laborious in the extreme, and requires men of the greatest strength and vigour to stand it. They are never allowed to remain more than four hours ashore by night, often only two or three; during the day they are constantly urged on by the guide or person in command, and never cease paddling, unless during the few moments required to exchange seats, or while they take their hasty meals ashore. They are liberally plied with grog, well paid, and well fed, and seldom quit the service until it is hinted to them that the duty is become too hard for them. A light canoe-man considers it quite a degradation to be employed in loaded craft. We arrived early on the 16th at the Company's establishment at Sault Sainte Marie, where there is a large depôt of provisions for the purpose of supplying the canoes passing to and from the interior and the surrounding districts. The south side of the river is occupied by the Americans as a military post, and it was gratifying to see the friendly intercourse that subsisted between the American officers and the gentlemen in the Company's service. Would that the same good feeling were more universal between two nations of one blood and the same language! The rapid which unites the waters of Lakes Huron and Superior is avoided by making a portage. The carrying of the canoes and goods to the upper end of this portage occupied the men till about noon, when we embarked on the "Sea of Canada," having Messrs. Bethune and McKenzie on board as passengers. We proceeded about fifteen miles and encamped. We were ready to embark at the usual hour next morning, but being prevented by the high wind, to make the best of the time we turned in again, and after a most refreshing nap got up to breakfast. The weather moderating soon after, all hands were ordered to embark, but all hands were not there; four of them had deserted during the night, and were not missed until the crews mustered for embarkation. While we were holding a consultation regarding this unpleasant matter, an Indian canoe luckily cast up, and it was determined to despatch a party of Iroquois, conducted by a passenger in disguise, in pursuit of the fugitives. Another party was sent by land, and after an absence of about three hours returned with their prisoners. No criminals ever appeared more dejected than they; so humble did they seem, that they got off with a slight reprimand. We reached the post of Michipikoton early on the morning of the 19th, and passed the remainder of the day waiting for despatches which Mr. K---- was preparing for the interior. We left on the 20th, put ashore at the Pic on the 23d, where we dined with Mr. McMurray, and after experiencing much bad weather, adverse winds, together with showers of snow, we reached Fort William on the 28th, about noon. We found the grand depôt of the North-West Company falling rapidly to decay, presenting in its present ruinous state but a shadow of departed greatness. It is now occupied as a petty post, a few Indians and two or three old voyageurs being the sole representatives of the crowded throngs of former times. It must have been a beautiful establishment in its days of prosperity; but the buildings certainly do not appear to have been erected with a view to durability. We here exchanged our large Montreal canoes for those of the North, (the former carrying seventy packages of ninety pounds, the latter twenty-five, exclusive of provisions;) and each of the passengers had a canoe for his own accommodation--an arrangement that seemed to increase in no small degree the self-importance of some of our number. Our guide was now obliged to perform the duty of bowsman, still, however, retaining his authority over the whole brigade. We bade adieu to Fort William and its hospitable commander on the 29th. Mr. McI----h had supplied all our wants most liberally, but the men were now allowed only Indian corn and a small quantity of grease;--a sad and unpleasing change for poor Jean Baptiste; but he had no help but to submit, though not perhaps with the utmost "Christian resignation." Our men being now well disciplined, and our canoes comparatively light, we sped over our way at an excellent rate. We encamped on the 4th of June at one of the Thousand Lakes, and the canoes were drawn up before M. Thibaud (the priest) arrived. I was surprised to observe his frowning aspect on landing, and ascribed it to the circumstance of his being the "harse," or harrow, a term of derision applied to the slowest canoe. Calling me aside, however, he explained the cause of his discontent, which was very different from what I had surmised: his crew, whenever they found themselves sufficiently far in the rear to be out of hearing, invariably struck up an obscene song, alike unmindful of his presence and remonstrances; and this day had not only sung, but indulged in conversation the most indecent imaginable. This announcement appeared to me the more strange, that most of these young men had never before quitted home; and I had always understood the authority of the priest to be, at least, equal to that of the parent. Although, therefore, I never had any very great reverence for the (so-called) successors of St. Peter, I yet felt for my fellow-traveller, and addressed the miscreants who had insulted him in terms of grave reprehension, threatening them with severe punishment if such conduct should again be repeated. We arrived at the post of Lac de la Pluie, on the 8th of June; and, after a short halt, and carrying our _impedimenta_ across the portage on which the fort is situated, commenced the descent of Lac de la Pluie river,--a beautiful stream, running with a smooth, though strong current, and maintaining a medium breadth of about 200 yards. Its banks, which are clothed with verdure to the water's edge, recede by a gradual slope until they terminate in a high ridge, running parallel to the river on both sides. This ridge yields poplar, birch, and maple, with a few pines, proving the excellence of the soil. The interior, however, is said to be low and swampy. We passed the residence of an old retired servant of the Company, on the 9th, who, if I may judge from the appearance of his farm and the number of his cattle, must vegetate very much at his ease. Observing in the evening a large Indian camp, I requested the guide to put ashore for a little. We were received kindly, but in a manner quite different to what I had been accustomed. The young men were drawn up on the shore, and eyed us with a savage _fierté_ in their looks, returning our salutation in a way that convinced us that we were at length among the "wild men of the woods." The weather being extremely hot, we found them in almost a complete state of nudity, with only a narrow shred of cloth around their loins. They speak the Sauteux language; and I had much difficulty in making myself understood by them. In their physiognomy and personal appearance they exhibit all the characteristic features of the genuine aboriginal race; and this party certainly appeared, one and all, to be "without a cross;" but there had been long a trading post at Lac la Pluie, and I noticed, in a neighbouring camp, a lass with brown hair and pretty blue eyes. Where did she get them? After bartering some sturgeon with the Indians, and presenting them with a little tobacco, we parted good friends, and encamped so near them as to be annoyed the whole night by the sound of their drum. On the following morning we entered the Lake of the Woods, and next morning White River, a very violent stream, full of falls and dangerous rapids. The portages are innumerable, and often close together. After crossing one of these portages, we observed, with astonishment, a number of people on the next portage, La Cave, about pistol-shot distance from us. They proved to be Mr. Hughes, formerly partner of the North-West Company; Mr. Berens, a member of Committee, and suite: they were painfully situated, in consequence of the loss of their bowsman, who, by missing a stroke with his pole, fell into the rapid, and was drowned: the steersman was saved with great difficulty. We got safe through this dangerous river, on the 15th; but two of the men had a narrow escape in one of the last portages. Our guide here, as everywhere else, having a picked crew, pushed on, and left us considerably in the rear. Approaching a fall, Le Bonnet, where no traces of a portage could be discovered, the men unloaded the canoes, and commenced carrying the goods through the woods; but the _boutes_ (bowsmen and steersmen) determined on wading down with the canoes, the water being shallow, until they should come close to the fall; where, by lifting them across a narrow point, they could place them in the smooth water beneath. The attempt was made accordingly, by the leading canoe; but the rock over which the current flows being smooth, and covered with a slimy moss, the men slipped, and were in an instant precipitated over the fall. When we saw the canoe rushing over the brink, with the poor fellows clinging to it, we all concluded they had reached the end of their voyage. Running down to the foot of the fall, which was about eleven feet high, having previously ordered a canoe to be carried across the point, and some shots to be fired to recall the guide, who was now nearly out of sight, I was astonished to find the canoe had not upset, although the men had got into it, and it was half full of water, and so near the shore that I extended my arm to lay hold of the bow. The next moment, however, the stern having come within the influence of a whirlpool, it was hurried out into the middle of the stream, and dashed with such violence against a rock, that the crashing of the timbers was distinctly heard from the shore. This shock, which had nearly proved fatal to the men, threw the canoe into an eddy, or counter-current, which whirled it to the opposite shore, where it was about to sink when assistance came. In the evening, we arrived at the post of Bas de la Rivière, in charge of an Orkney-man, by name Clouston, who had risen from the ranks, and who, seeing what small fry he had to deal with, treated us somewhat superciliously. Our stock of provisions being exhausted, we applied to _Maister_ Clouston for a fresh supply: he granted us what I thought very inadequate to our wants; but he said it was all that was allowed by the Governor for the passage of the Lake. Here M. Thibaud found two men with a small canoe, who had been sent by the Bishop of Red River to convey him to his destination, waiting his arrival. We parted with feelings of mutual regret. We left this post late on the 16th, and had proceeded but a short distance on the Lake, when a strong head wind compelled us to put ashore. We now experienced constant bad weather, never completing a day's sailing without interruption from some cause or other; and in consequence of these delays, it was found necessary to curtail our allowance of provisions. On the 20th, we pitched our tents near a camp of Sauteux, from whom the men procured a small quantity of sturgeon, in exchange for some articles of clothing. I was surprised to find Indians, in a quarter so remote from those tribes with whom I had hitherto been conversant, speaking a dialect which I understood perfectly: their erratic habits, and intercourse with the Crees and Algonquins, may perhaps account for this similarity of dialect. I entered into conversation with a shrewd old fellow, who had been often at Red River settlement. Among other questions, I asked him whether he had not been baptized? "Baptized!" he exclaimed; "don't speak of it, my brother. Baptized--that I may go to the devil! Indians think a good Indian goes to the good place when he dies; but the priests send _all_ to the evil one." I asked him how he made that out? "Why, I learned it from the priests themselves. When I first went to Red River, I met a French priest, who earnestly besought me to be converted. I heard him attentively, and his words had a great effect upon me; but I had been told there was another priest there, who had different thoughts about religion, and I thought I would go to him too. He was very kind to me, and spoke nearly the same words as the French priest; so that I thought there was no difference in their religions. He asked me if I would be baptized? and I told him that I would; but I wanted to learn the French prayer. 'Ah! my son,' he said, 'that must not be: if you adopt that bad religion, you will be burned for certain.' And he spoke so strong, that I almost thought he was right. But before I would do anything, I went to the French priest again, and told him what the English priest said to me; and then said I would learn the English prayer. 'Ah! my son,' said he, 'if you do so, it will lead you to perdition: all that pray after the English manner go to the fire.' And he said much more, and his words were very strong too; so I saw that I could be no better by forsaking the belief of my fathers, and I have not gone to French or English priest since." This is by no means a solitary case; and it is one of the sore evils which arise from the corruption of Christianity, and the divisions of Christians. Nor, in the case of creeds so opposite as those of Protestants and Roman Catholics--creeds as opposite as light and darkness--is it easy to point out a remedy. After all, it is surely better for these poor Indians to adopt some form of Christianity, however corrupt, than to remain in the darkness and debasement of heathenism. And if our missionaries would act upon the noble maxim of the greatest of the Apostles--"never to enter upon the sphere of another man's labours,"--consequences so injurious would be avoided. If they have not so much Christianity and good sense as to do so of themselves, where there is the power, they should be compelled to do it. The Company have the power, but are too much occupied with matters which they deem more momentous, to waste a thought upon this. CHAPTER XVI. CONTINUATION OF THE VOYAGE--RUN SHORT OF PROVISIONS--DOGS' FLESH--NORWAY HOUSE--INDIAN VOYAGEURS--ORDERED TO NEW CALEDONIA--LAKE WINNIPEG--MACINTOSH'S ISLAND SUBMERGED--CUMBERLAND HOUSE--CHIPPEWEYAN AND CREE INDIANS--PORTAGE LA LOCHE--SCENERY--ATHABASCA--HEALTHINESS OF THE CLIMATE. High winds detained us in camp on the 21st. The crews of two canoes, having finished their last meal to-day, bartered some more of their clothes for dogs. We reached a small outpost called Berens House on the 23d, where we procured a couple of sturgeon, and a dog valued at ten shillings, for which I gave my note of hand. I had a _preein_ of this cynic mutton at breakfast; and could not help thinking it would have made a most appropriate and _philosophical_ addition to the larder of the wise man of the tub. The men, however, having been for some time on short commons, seemed to relish it. We supped lightly enough on the remainder of Mr. Clouston's bountiful supply, giving a share to the men. After a most tedious and miserable passage, we reached the outlet of Lake Winnipeg on the 24th, and arrived next morning at Norway House. Here the men were liberally supplied; and I found myself at breakfast with a number of chief factors and chief traders, just arrived from their respective districts, and on their way with their valuable returns to York Factory. Captain Back was also here, having sent on his men and baggage under the command of Dr. King, intending himself to follow in a light canoe, after having forwarded his despatches to Europe. The day after my arrival, I was notified by one of the officials, that it was arranged that I should pass the summer here, giving such assistance to the gentleman in charge as might be required of me; and that my future destination should be determined upon at York Factory. I now passed my time very agreeably, having just enough employment in the day-time to keep off _ennui_, and the company of several gentlemen, and, what I thought still better, that of a fair countrywoman,[1] in the evening. I was gratified to find that there existed here a far greater degree of intimacy between gentlemen of different ranks in the service, than in the Montreal department, where a clerk is considered as a mere hireling; here, on the contrary, commissioned officers look upon clerks as candidates for the same rank which themselves hold, and treat them accordingly. [1] Mistress of the establishment. The Governor, having taken up his residence for some years past in England, crosses the Atlantic once a year, and during his brief sojourn, Norway House forms his head-quarters. Here it is that the sham Council is held, and everything connected with the business of the interior arranged. Here also is the depôt for the districts of Athabasca and McKenzie's River, which supplies all the provisions required for inland transport. These provisions are furnished by the Saskatchewan district, or are purchased by the Company from the colonists of Red River, who have no other customers. The natives of this quarter speak a jargon of Cree and Sauteux, which sounds very harshly. They all understand English, and some of them speak it fluently. Many of them are constantly employed as voyageurs between Norway House and York Factory; and none perform the trip more expeditiously, or render their cargoes in better condition than they. Of Christianity, they have learned just as much as enables them to swear; in other respects, they are still Pagans. On the 20th of July, I received a letter from Mr. Chief Factor Cameron, who acted as President of the Council in the Governor's absence, conveying orders for me to proceed to New Caledonia; Mr. Charles being instructed to furnish me with a passage to Athabasca, and to forward me afterwards to Fort Dunvegan, on Peace River, where I was to wait the arrival of the party sent annually from New Caledonia for a supply of leather. The brigade having been despatched on the 27th, Mr. C. and I embarked on the 28th, and overtook it at the entrance of Lake Winnipeg. The crews being ashore, and enjoying themselves, we passed on; but did not proceed far, ere the wind blew so violently as to compel us to put ashore. After a delay of about four hours, we "put to sea" again; and the wind gradually abating as we proceeded, we encamped in the evening nearly opposite to McIntosh's Island. This island, some years ago, presented an extensive surface of land covered with wood: there is not now a vestige of land to be seen; the spot where it existed being only known to voyagers by a shoal which is visible at low water. But not only have the islands been swept away, but the mainland along the west end of the lake seems gradually being encroached upon and engulphed by the waves; an undeniable proof of which is, that the old post of Norway House, which formerly stood at a considerable distance from the water's edge, is now close to it, and the burial-ground is nearly all submerged. We arrived at the foot of Grand Rapid late on the 29th of July, and passed the portage on the 30th, assisted by the natives--Sauteux, Crees, and half-breeds. These live luxuriously on sturgeon, with little toil. Among them I observed two or three old Canadians, who could scarcely be distinguished from the natives by language, manners, or dress; such persons, when young, having formed an attachment to some of the Indian young women, betake themselves to their half-savage mode of life, and very soon cannot be persuaded to quit it. We arrived on the 5th of August at Rivière du Pas, where an old Canadian, M. Constant, had fixed his abode, who appeared to have an abundance of the necessaries of life, and a large family of half-Indians, who seemed to claim him as their sire. We breakfasted sumptuously on fish and fowl, and no charge was made; but a gratuity of tea, tobacco, or sugar is always given; so that M. Constant loses nothing by his considerate attentions to his visitors. We reached Cumberland House on the 8th. Here I was cheered by the sight of extensive corn-fields, horned cattle, pigs and poultry, which gave the place more the appearance of a farm in the civilized world, than of a trading post in the far North-West; and I could not help envying the happy lot of its tenant, and contrasting it with my own, which led me to the wilds of New Caledonia--to fare like a dog, without knowing how long my exile might be protracted. We arrived at the post of Isle à la Crosse, where we were detained a day in consequence of bad weather. This post is also surrounded by cultivated fields, and I observed a few cattle; but the voice of the grunter was not heard. The Indians who frequent this post are chiefly Chippeweyans, with a few families of Crees. The former differ in features, language, and manners from any I had yet seen. Their face is of a peculiar mould, broad; the cheekbone remarkably prominent, chin small, mouth wide, with thick lips, the upper covered with beard; the body strongly built and muscular. They appear destitute of the amiable qualities which characterise the Crees. Whenever we met any of them on our route, and asked for fish or meat, "Budt hoola,"[1] was the invariable answer; yet no Indians were ever more importunate than they in begging for tobacco. On the contrary, when we fell in with Crees, they allowed us to help ourselves freely, and were delighted to see us do so, receiving thankfully whatever we gave them in return. The features of the Crees are not so strongly marked as those of the Sauteux, although they are a kindred people; yet they are as easily distinguishable from each other, as an Englishman from a Frenchman. [1] There is none. We left Isle à la Crosse on the 12th, and without meeting with any adventure worthy of notice, reached the end of Portage la Loche about two o'clock P.M. of the following day, with canoe and baggage. In this, as in every other part of their territories, the Company use boats for the transport of property; but by a very judicious arrangement, much time and labour are saved at this portage, which is said to be twelve miles in length. Boats are placed at the upper and lower ends, so that the men have only to carry across the property, which, in truth, of itself is a sufficiently laborious operation for human beings. The people from the district of McKenzie's River come thus far with their returns, and receive their outfit in boats manned by half-breeds, who are hired at Red River for the trip. The prospect which the surrounding country presents from the upper end of the portage is very striking; and the more so from the sudden manner in which it bursts upon the view. You suddenly arrive at the summit of a remarkably steep hill, where, on looking around, the first object that attracts attention is a beautiful green hill standing on the opposite side of the deep glen, through which the clear Water River flows, forming the most prominent feature of an extensive range, cut up by deep ravines, whose sides are clothed with wood, presenting already all the beautiful variety of their autumnal hues; while, at intervals, a glimpse was caught of the river meandering through the valley. In former times these hills were covered with herds of buffaloes, but not one is to be seen now. We once more proceeded down the stream, and arrived at Athabasca on the 21st of August, where we found Dr. King, who had been delayed some days repairing his boats; Capt. Back having proceeded onwards in a light canoe to fix on a winter residence. Fort Chippeweyan was, in the time of the North-West Company, next in importance to Fort William. Besides having several detached posts depending immediately upon itself, and carrying on a very extensive trade with the Chippeweyans, (the best hunters in the Indian country,) it served as depôt for the districts of McKenzie's River, and Peace River. The trade of this district, although it bears no comparison to that of former times, is yet pretty extensive. It is still the depôt for Peace River, and commands the trade with the Chippeweyans. Trade is carried on in this quarter solely by barter, which secures the Company from loss, and is apparently attended with no inconvenience to the natives, who used formerly to take their supplies on credit. Beaver is the standard according to which all other furs are rated; so many martens, so many foxes, &c., equal to one beaver. The trader, on receiving the Indian's hunt, proceeds to reckon it up according to this rule, giving the Indian a quill for each beaver; these quills are again exchanged at the counter for whatever articles he wants. The people of this post subsist entirely on the produce of the country, fish, flesh, and fowl, of which there is the greatest abundance. Both soil and climate are said to be unfavourable to the cultivation of grain or vegetables; the attempt is made, however, and sometimes with success. I took my departure from Athabasca on the 24th of August, accompanied by Mr. Charles Ross, who had passed the summer there as _locum tenens_, and was now proceeding to assume the charge of his own post, Fort Vermillion, where we arrived on the 1st of September. This post is agreeably situated on the right bank of Peace River, having the river in front, and boundless prairies in the rear. The Indians attached to it are designated Beaver Indians, and their language is said to have some affinity to the Chippeweyan. This is, however, the only point of resemblance between them. The Beavers are a more diminutive race than the Chippeweyans, and their features bear a greater resemblance to those of the Crees. They are allowed to be generous, hospitable and brave; and are distinguished for their strict adherence to truth. Most Indians boast of the murder of white men as a glorious exploit; these, on the contrary, glory in never having shed the blood of one, although they often imbrue their hands in the blood of their kindred; being very apt to quarrel among themselves, chiefly on account of their gallantry. When an illicit amour is detected, the consequence is frequently fatal to one of the parties; but the unmarried youth, of both sexes, are generally under no restraint whatever. I bade adieu to Mr. Ross, a warm-hearted Gael, on the 3d, and arrived at Fort Dunvegan on the 10th of September, then under the charge of Mr. McIntosh, chief factor, where I met with a Highland welcome, and passed the time most agreeably in the company of a well educated gentleman. The Indians here are of the same tribe as those of Fort Vermillion, but are not guiltless of the blood of the whites. This post is also surrounded by prairies. A large farm is cultivated, yielding in favourable seasons a variety of vegetables and grain: but the crops are subject to injury from frost; sometimes are altogether destroyed. When the wind blows for some time from the west, it cools in its passage across the glaciers of the Rocky Mountains, to such a degree, that the change of temperature caused by it is not only severely felt in the vicinity of the mountains, but at a great distance from them, as far even as Red River. From the great age attained by many of the retired servants of the Company, who pass their lives in this country, the salubrity of the climate may fairly be inferred. Meeting a brigade of small canoes between Fort Vermillion and this place, and observing an old man with a white head and wrinkled face, sitting in the centre of one of them, I made up to him, and after saluting him _à la Française_, presented him with a piece of tobacco--the Indian letter of introduction. I inquired of him how long it was since he had left home. "Sixty-two years, Monsieur," was the reply; and as the canoes assembled around us, he pointed out to me his sons, and his sons' sons, to the third and fourth generation. I heard of no malady which the white inhabitants are liable to, except the goîtres; caused, it is presumed, in part by the use of snow-water, and in part by the use of the river-water, which is strongly impregnated with clay, so much so, as sometimes to resemble a solution of the earth itself. CHAPTER XVII. ARRIVAL OF MR. F. FROM CALEDONIA--SCENERY--LAND-SLIP--MASSACRE AT FORT ST. JOHN'S--ROCKY MOUNTAIN PORTAGE--ROCKY MOUNTAINS--MAGNIFICENT SCENERY--M'LEOD'S LAKE--RECEPTION OF ITS COMMANDER BY THE INDIANS. Mr. Paul Fraser, a senior clerk, arrived from Caledonia with three canoes, on the 26th of September, and on the 28th we took our departure. Above Fort Dunvegan the current becomes so strong that the canoes are propelled by long poles, in using which the men had acquired such dexterity that we made much better progress than I could have expected. As we ascended the river, the scenery became beautifully diversified with hill and dale and wooded valleys, through which there generally flowed streams of limpid water. I observed at one place a tremendous land-slip, caused by the water undermining the soil. Trees were seen in an inverted position, the branches sunk in the ground and the roots uppermost; others with only the branches appearing above ground; the earth rent and intersected by chasms extending in every direction; while piles of earth and stones intermixed with shattered limbs and trunks of trees, contributed to increase the dreadful confusion of the scene. The half of a huge hill had tumbled into the river, and dammed it across, so that no water escaped for some time. The people of Dunvegan, seeing the river suddenly dry up, were terrified by the phenomenon, but they had not much time to investigate the cause: the river as suddenly reappeared, presenting a front of nearly twenty feet in height, and foaming and rushing down with the noise of thunder. On the 3d of October we reached the tenantless Fort of St. John's, where a horrid tragedy was enacted some years ago--the commander of the post with all his men having been cut off by the Indians. The particulars of this atrocious deed, as related to me by the gentleman at the head of the district at the time, were as follows:-- It had been determined that the post of St. John's should be abandoned, and the establishment removed to the Rocky Mountain portage, for the convenience of the Tsekanies, who were excellent hunters, but who could not be well supplied from this post, on account of the greatness of the distance. Unfortunately a quarrel had arisen about this time between the Indians of St. John's and the Tsekanies. The former viewed the removal of the post from their lands as an insult, and a measure that gave their enemies a decided superiority over them, and they took a very effectual method of disappointing them. Mr. Hughes, having sent off his men with a load of property for the new post, remained alone. This was the opportunity the Indians sought for, and they did not fail to take advantage of it. The unfortunate man had been in the habit of walking daily by the river side, and was taking his usual promenade the day after the departure of his men, when he was shot down by two of the assassins. They then carried his body to his room and left it, and his blood still marks the floor. The men, altogether unconscious of the fate that awaited them, came paddling toward the landing-place, singing a voyageur's song, and just as the canoe touched the shore a volley of bullets was discharged at them, which silenced them for ever. They were all killed on the spot. The post has remained desolate ever since. Fort Dunvegan was also abandoned for some years, which reduced the natives to the greatest distress. As soon as intelligence was received of the catastrophe, a party of half-breeds and Crees, under the command of one of the clerks, was fitted out in order to inflict deserved punishment on the murderers; but just as the party had got on the trail, and within a short distance of the camp, they received orders from the superintendent to return. These orders were no doubt dictated by feelings of humanity, as Mr. McIntosh had learned that some Indians, who were not concerned in the murder, were in the same camp, and he was apprehensive the innocent might be involved in the same punishment with the guilty. The most of them, however, were afterwards starved to death; and the country having been abandoned by the Company, gave the natives occasion to remark, that the measure was dictated more by fear of them than by motives of humanity. The Rocky Mountains came in view on the 8th of October, and we reached the portage bearing their name on the 10th, the crossing of which took us eight days, being fully thirteen miles in length, and excessively bad road, leading sometimes through swamps and morasses, then ascending and descending steep: hills, and for at least one-third of the distance so obstructed by fallen trees as to render it all but impassable. I consider the passage of this portage the most laborious duty the Company's servants have to perform in any part of the territory; and, as the voyageurs say, "He that passes it with his share of a canoe's cargo may call himself a man." In the passage we came upon a large camp of Tsekanies, Mr. Eraser's customers. Their dialect is similar to that of the Beaver Indians, but they understand the Cree, which is the medium of communication between Mr. F. and them. It thus appears that this language is understood from the shores of Labrador to the foot of the Rocky Mountains. After passing the portage, the Rocky Mountains reared their snow-clad summits all around us, presenting a scene of gloomy grandeur, that had nothing cheering in it. One scene, however, struck me as truly sublime. As we proceeded onward the mountains pressed closer on the river, and at one place approached so near that the gap seemed to have been made by the river forcing a passage through them. We passed in our canoes at the base of precipices that rose almost perpendicularly above us on either side to the height of 3,000 or 4,000 feet! After passing through these magnificent portals, the mountains recede to a considerable distance, the space intervening between them and the river being a flat, yielding timber of a larger growth than I expected to find in such a situation. We arrived at McLeod's Lake--Mr. Fraser's post--on the 25th, where a number of Indians were waiting their supplies. They received us quite in a military style, with several discharges of fire-arms, and appeared delighted at the arrival of their chief. They seemed to be on the best possible terms together--the white chief and his _red "tail"_. They are Tsekanies, and are reputed honest, industrious, and faithful. The outfit for this post is conveyed on horse-back from Stuart's Lake. A more dreary situation can scarcely be imagined, surrounded by towering mountains that almost exclude the light of day, and snow storms not seldom occurring, so violent and long continued as to bury the establishment. I believe there are few situations in the country that present such local disadvantages; but there is the same miserable solitude everywhere; and yet we find natives of England, Scotland, and Ireland devoting their lives to a business that holds forth such prospects! I remained with my new friend one day, enjoying the comforts of his _eyry_, and then set off for the goal of my long course, where I arrived on the 28th of October. CHAPTER XVIII. ARRIVAL AT NEW CALEDONIA--BEAUTIFUL SCENERY--INDIAN HOUSES--AMUSEMENTS AT THE FORT--THREATENED ATTACK OF INDIANS--EXPEDITION AGAINST THEM--BEEF-STEAKS--NEW CALEDONIAN FARE--MODE OF CATCHING SALMON--SINGULAR DEATH OF NATIVE INTERPRETER--INDIAN FUNERAL RITES--BARBAROUS TREATMENT OF WIDOWS. Fort St. James, the depôt of New Caledonia district, stands near the outlet of Stuart's Lake, and commands a splendid view of the surrounding country. The lake is about fifty miles in length, and from three to four miles in breadth, stretching away to the north and north-east for about twenty miles; the view from the Fort embraces nearly the whole of this section of it, which is studded with beautiful islands. The western shore is low, and indented by a number of small bays formed by wooded points projecting into the lake, the back-ground rising abruptly into a ridge of hills of varied height and magnitude. On the east the view is limited to a range of two or three miles, by the intervention of a high promontory, from which the eye glances to the snowy summits of the Rocky Mountains in the distant back-ground. I do not know that I have seen anything to compare with this charming prospect in any other part of the country; its beauties struck me even at this season of the year, when nature having partly assumed her hybernal dress, everything appeared to so much greater disadvantage. The Indian village is situated in a lovely spot at the outlet of the lake, and consists of only five or six houses, but every house is occupied by several families. These buildings are of a very slight and simple construction, being merely formed of stakes driven into the ground; a square piece of timber runs horizontally along the top of this wall, to which the stakes are fastened by strips of willow bark. This inclosure, which is of a square form, is roofed in by placing two strong posts at each gable, which support the ridge pole, on which the roof sticks are placed, one end resting on the ridge pole, and the other on the wall, the whole being covered with pine bark: there is generally a door at each end, which is cut in the wall after the building is erected. These apertures are of a circular form, and about two and a half feet in diameter, so that a stranger finds it very awkward to pass through them. In effecting a passage you first introduce a leg, then bending low the body you press in head and shoulders; in this position you will have some difficulty in maintaining your equilibrium, for if you draw in the rest of the body too quickly, it is a chance but you will find yourself with your head undermost: the natives bolt through them with the agility of a weasel. For some time after my arrival here, I had very little employment, there being a scribe already in the establishment, whose experience and industry required no assistance from me. I thus found myself a supernumerary--a character that did not suit me, but I was obliged to content myself for the present. We were joined early in winter by some of the gentlemen in charge of posts, when we managed to pass the time very agreeably. Mr. D----, superintendent of the district, played remarkably well on the violin and flute, some of us "wee bodies" could also do something in that way, and our musical soirees, if not in melody, could at least compete in noise, numbers taken into account, with any association of the kind in the British dominions. Chess, backgammon, and whist, completed the variety of our evening pastimes. In the daytime each individual occupied himself as he pleased. When together, smoking, "spinning yarns" about _dog_ racing, canoe sailing, and _l'amour_; sometimes politics; now and then an animated discussion on theology, but without bitterness; these made our days fly away as agreeably as our nights. While thus pleasantly occupied, a piece of intelligence was received, which caused the breaking up of our little society, and created some alarm. A party of seven or eight Indians having been drowned on their way to Alexandria, in autumn, their relatives imputed the misfortune to the whites. "Had there been no whites at Alexandria," said they, "our friends would not have gone there to trade; and if they had not gone there, they would not have been drowned:" _ergo_--the white men are the cause of their death, and the Indians must be avenged. Nothing, however, was known of their hostile intentions until winter, when Mr. F. had occasion to send a man to Stuart's Lake with despatches, who, on arriving opposite to the Indian camp, found himself suddenly surrounded by the natives. They advanced rapidly upon him, brandishing their arms, and uttering horrid yells, and would have dispatched him on the spot but for the interference of one of themselves, who nobly threw himself between the Canadian and the muzzles of the guns that were levelled at him, and beckoned him to flee. He took to his heels accordingly, and never looked behind him till he reached the fort. A little before Mr. Fisher had learned from his home guards that an attack on the fort was intended, and that they had been solicited by their neighbours to join in it, but had refused. So far, indeed, from wishing to injure the whites, they consented to carry the despatches which conveyed the information I have just mentioned. As Mr. F. urgently requested that assistance should be afforded him with as little delay as possible, it was determined that I should forthwith proceed to Alexandria, accompanied by Waccan, the interpreter, and eight men well armed. Passing Fraser's Lake and Fort George posts, we arrived at the Indian winter camp, which we found abandoned; but a well beaten track led from it in the direction of Alexandria, a circumstance which made us apprehensive that our aid might come too late, and prompted us to redouble our speed. Our party consequently was soon very much scattered--a most unmilitary procedure--which might have proved fatal to ourselves, while we thought of relieving our friends. The interpreter, myself, and two Iroquois, forming the advanced guard of the _grand army_, which consisted of full six men, still considerably in the rear, on turning a point found ourselves immediately in front of the camp. We were thus as much taken by surprise as those whom we wished to surprise; but without hesitating a moment we rushed up the bank, and were instantly in the midst of the camp. The uproar was tremendous, the Indians seized their arms with the most threatening gestures and savage yells, and it would have been impossible for us to execute our orders--which were to seize the ringleader only--without a fierce struggle and bloodshed on both sides; and though more resolute, perhaps, than our enemies, we were by far the weaker party, their numbers being at least ten to one of ours. Happily, however, there was an Indian (one of our friends) from Alexandria, in the camp, who, as soon as he could make himself heard, informed us that the affair had been already arranged to the satisfaction of both parties. Thus terminated our expedition, without bloodshed and without laurels. A few days earlier it might have been otherwise; nor was Mr. F. without blame in neglecting to advise us of the arrangement. We continued our course towards Fort Alexandria, and reached it late in the evening. My unexpected appearance gave my old bourgeois of Two Mountains an agreeable surprise. Having eaten nothing since morning, we made sad havoc of his beefsteaks and potatoes. "Well, Mac," said he, "to judge from your appetite, the air of New Caledonia seems to agree wonderfully with you. Pray how do you like the beef-steaks?" "Never tasted anything better," said I. Next morning he requested me to accompany him to the store, as he said, to see a hind-leg of the steer which had furnished me with my steaks. I approached it, and lo! it was the hind-leg of a horse! The beef-steaks, or rather _horse_-steaks, were again presented at breakfast, and I confess I had not the same relish for them as at supper, but my repugnance--such is the effect of habit--was soon overcome. I remained a few days here for the sake of repose, and then returned. On the approach of spring, my fellow-subordinate, Mr. McKenzie, dissatisfied with the service, left for the east side of the mountains, and I took his place at the desk, the duties of which, although by no means harassing, left me but little leisure. The accounts of all the posts in the district, eight in number, were made up here; I had also to superintend the men of the establishment, accompany them on their winter trips, and attend to the Indian trade. But even if the duty had been more toilsome, I had every inducement to perform it cheerfully, as Mr. Dease was one of the kindest and most considerate of men. On the 5th of May Mr. Dease took his departure for Fort Vancouver, with the returns of his district, which might he valued at 11,000l. The outfit, together with servants' wages and incidental expenses, amounted to about 3,000l., leaving to the Company a clear profit of about 8,000l. I was appointed to the charge of Stuart's Lake during the summer, with four men to perform the ordinary duties of the establishment--making hay, attending to gardens, &c. A few cattle were introduced in 1830, and we now began to derive some benefit from the produce of the dairy. Our gardens (a term applied in this country to any piece of ground under cultivation) in former times yielded potatoes; nothing would now grow save turnips. A few carrots and cabbages were this year raised on a piece of new ground, which added to the luxuries of our table. Heaven knows, they were much wanted, for the other fare was scarcely fit for dogs! In the early part of the season it consisted entirely of salmon, which this year was of the worst quality, having been two years in the store. A few sturgeon, however, of enormous[1] size, were caught, whose flesh was the most tender and delicious I had ever eaten, and would have been considered a delicacy by Apicius himself; it need not be wondered at then that the capture of one caused universal joy. [1] Belluga? The salmon (the New Caledonian staff of life) ascend Frazer's River and its tributaries, from the Pacific in immense shoals, proceeding towards the sources of the streams until stopped by shallow water. Having deposited their spawn, their dead bodies are seen floating down the current in thousands; few of them ever return to the sea; and in consequence of the old fish perishing in this manner, they fail in this quarter every fourth year. The natives display a good deal of ingenuity in catching them. Where the current and depth of water permit, they bar it across by means of stakes driven into the bottom with much labour, and standing about six inches apart; these are strongly bound to a piece of timber, or "plate," running along the top; stays, or supporters, are placed at intervals of ten or twelve feet, the upper end bearing against the plate so as to form an angle with the stream. Gaps are left in the works of sufficient size to admit the _varveaux_, or baskets, in which the fish are taken. After the whole is finished, square frames of wicker-work, called keys, are let down against the upper side, to prevent the fish from ascending, and at the same time to allow the water a free passage. The keys must be kept entirely free from filth, such as branches, leaves, &c., otherwise the whole works would soon be swept away. The baskets are of a cylindrical form, about two and a half feet in diameter at the mouth, and terminate in a point of four or, five inches. When the fishing is over, all the materials are removed, and replaced the ensuing year with equal labour. To preserve the fish for future consumption the following process is adopted. The back being split up, and the back-bone extracted, it is hung by the tail for a few days; then it is taken down and distended on splinters of wood; these are attached to a sort of scaffold erected for the purpose, where the fish remains till sufficiently dry for preservation. Even in dry seasons, during this process, the ground all round the scaffold is thickly covered with large maggots; but in wet seasons the sight becomes much more loathsome. I have already observed that the salmon fail periodically, and the natives would consequently be reduced to the utmost distress, did not the goodness of Providence furnish them with a substitute. Rabbits are sent to supply the place of the salmon; and, singular as it may appear, these animals increase in number as the salmon decrease, until they swarm all over the country. When the salmon return, they gradually disappear, being destroyed or driven away by their greatest enemy, the lynx, which first appear in smaller, then in greater numbers;--both they and their prey disappearing together. As to the _cause_ that induces those animals to appear and disappear in this manner, I cannot take upon myself to explain. In the course of this summer one of our interpreters, a native, lost his life in rather a singular manner. He had made a bear-trap, and wishing to ascertain how it would work, tried his own weight on the spring, which yielded but too readily, and crushed him in so dreadful a manner that he only survived his experiment but a few hours. As he had withdrawn from the Company's service this year, his body was disposed of after the manner of his own people, except that it was buried instead of being burned; this, however, was the first instance of an interment, it being introduced through our influence in pity to the unfortunate widows, who are exposed to the cruellest tortures at the burning of the body. I never beheld a more affecting scene than the present. Immediately as the coffin was lowered into the grave, the widow threw herself upon it, shrieking and tearing her hair, and could only be removed by main force: several other females, relatives of the deceased, were also assembled in a group hard by, and evinced all the external symptoms of extreme grief, chanting the death-song in a most lugubrious tone, the tears streaming down their cheeks, and beating their breasts. The men, however, even the brothers of the deceased, showed no emotion whatever, and as soon as the rites were ended, moved off the ground, followed by the female mourners, who soon after were seen as gay and cheerful as if they had returned from a wedding. The widow, however, still remained by the grave, being obliged to do so in conformity with the customs of her nation, which required that she should mourn day and night, until the relatives of the deceased should collect a sufficiency of viands to make a feast in honour of his bones. As already observed, the bodies were formerly burned; the relatives of the deceased, as well as those of the widow, being present, all armed; a funeral pile was erected, and the body placed upon it. The widow then set fire to the pile, and was compelled to stand by it, anointing her breast with the fat that oozed from the body until the heat became insupportable: when the wretched creature, however, attempted to draw back, she was thrust forward by her husband's relatives at the point of their spears, and forced to endure the dreadful torture until either the body was reduced to ashes, or she herself almost scorched to death. Her relatives were present merely to preserve her life; when no longer able to stand they dragged her away; and this intervention often led to bloody quarrels! The body being burned, the ashes were collected in a box and given in charge to the widow, who carried them about with her until the feast was prepared, when they were taken from her, and deposited in a small hut or placed upon the top of a wooden pillar neatly carved, as their final resting-place. During this interval she was in a state of the most wretched slavery; every child in the village might command her and beat her unmercifully if they chose, no one interfered. After the feast, however, she regained her freedom, and along with that the privilege of incurring the risk of another scorching. Our interference relieved them from the most cruel part of the ceremony; the temporary state of slavery is still continued. CHAPTER XIX. INDIAN FEAST--ATTEMPT AT DRAMATIC REPRESENTATION--RELIGION--ORDERED TO PORT ALEXANDRIA--ADVANTAGES OF THE SITUATION--SENT BACK TO FORT ST. JAMES--SOLITUDE--PUNISHMENT OF INDIAN MURDERER--ITS CONSEQUENCES--HEROIC ADVENTURE OF INTERPRETER. Mr. Dease arrived from Fort Vancouver on the 5th of September, and expressed himself highly gratified with the appearance our "gardens" presented; an ample stock of salmon had also been laid in, so that we had nothing to fear from want, which sometimes had been severely felt. In the beginning of November, our despatches from the east side of the mountains came to hand, usually a joyful event, but saddened this year by the intelligence we received, that our excellent superintendent was about to leave us, having obtained permission to visit the civilized world for medical advice;--the doctor was only 5,000 miles off! In the beginning of the winter we were invited to a feast held in honour of a great chief, who died some years before. The person who delivered the invitation stalked into the room with an air of vast consequence, and strewing our heads with down, pronounced the name of the presiding chief, and withdrew without uttering another syllable. To me the invitation was most acceptable: although I had heard much of Indian feasts, I never was present at any. Late in the evening we directed our steps towards the "banqueting house," a large hut temporarily erected for the occasion. We found the numerous guests assembled and already seated around "the festive board;" our place had been left vacant for us, Mr. Dease taking his seat next to the great chief, Quaw, and we, his Meewidiyazees (little chiefs), in succession. The company were disposed in two rows: the chiefs and elders being seated next the wall, formed the outer, and the young men the inner row; an open space of about three feet in breadth intervening between them. Immense quantities of roasted meat, bear, beaver, siffleu or marmot, were piled up at intervals, the whole length of the building; berries mixed up with rancid salmon oil, fish roe that had been buried underground a twelve-month, in order to give it an _agreeable_ flavour, were the good things presented at this feast of gluttony and flow of oil. The berry mixture, and roes were served in wooden troughs, each having a large wooden spoon attached to it. The enjoyments of the festival were ushered in with a song, in which all joined:-- "I approach the village, Ya ha he ha, ya ha ha ha; And hear the voices of many people, Ya ha, &c. The barking of dogs, Ya ha, &c. Salmon is plentiful, Ya ha, &c. The berry season is good, Ya ha, &c. After the song commenced the demolition of the mountains of meat, which was but slowly effected, notwithstanding the unremitting and strenuous exertions of the guests. The greatest order, however, was maintained; the relatives of the deceased acted as stewards, each of them seizing a roasted beaver, or something else, squatted himself in front of one of the guests, and presenting the meat, which he held with both his hands (males and females officiating), desired him to help himself. If the guest appeared backward in the attack, he was pressed, in the politest terms, to eat. "Now, I pray you, tear away with a good will;"--"I am glad to see you eat so strongly;"--"Come now, stuff yourself with this fine piece of fat bear." And stuff himself he must, or pay a forfeit, to avoid a catastrophe. But having paid thus, and acknowledged himself fairly overcome by his host's politeness, he is spared any further exertions, and his viands are no longer presented to him in this way, but placed in a dish beside him. Well aware of our inability to maintain the honour of our country in a contest of this kind, we paid our forfeit at the commencement of the onslaught, reserving our portions to be disposed of at home. The gormandizing contest ended as it began, with songs and dances; in the latter amusement, however, few were now able to join; afterwards ensued a rude attempt at dramatic representation. Old Quaw, the chief of Nekaslay, first appeared on the stage, in the character of a bear--an animal he was well qualified to personate. Rushing from his den, and growling fiercely, he pursued the huntsman, the chief of Babine portage, who defended himself with a long pole; both parties maintained a running fight, until they reached the far end of the building, where they made their exit. Enter afterwards a jealous husband and his wife, wearing masks (both being men). The part these acted appeared rather dull; the husband merely sat down by the side of his "frail rib," watching her motions closely, and neither allowing her to speak to nor look at any of the young men. As to the other characters, one personated a deer, another a wolf, a third a strange Tsekany. The bear seemed to give the spectators most delight. The scene was interesting, as exhibiting the first rude attempts at dramatic representation of a savage people; and it served, in some measure, to efface the impression made by the somewhat disgusting spectacle previously witnessed. The affair concluded by an exchange of presents, and the party broke up. Two young men, natives of Oregon, who had received a little education at Red River, had, on their return to their own country, introduced a sort of religion, whose groundwork seemed to be Christianity, accompanied with some of the heathen ceremonies of the natives. This religion spread with amazing rapidity all over the country. It reached Fort Alexandria, the lower post of the district, in the autumn; and was now embraced by all the Nekaslayans. The ceremonial consisted chiefly in singing and dancing. As to the doctrines of our holy religion, their minds were too gross to comprehend, and their manners too corrupt to be influenced by them. They applied to us for instruction, and our worthy chief spared no pains to give it. But, alas! it is for the most part labour in vain. Yet, an impression seemed to have been made on a few; and had there been missionaries there at the time, their efforts might have proved successful. But the influence of the "men of medicine," who strenuously withstand a religion which exposes their delusive tricks, and consequently deprives them of their gains,--together with the dreadful depravity everywhere prevalent,--renders the conversion of the Tekallies an object most difficult to accomplish. It is a general opinion among Christians, that there exists no nation or people on earth who are entirely ignorant of a Supreme Being. I shall contrast the language of this tribe with that of the Sauteux or Ojibbeway, and let the reader judge for himself. I have heard a heathen Ojibbeway, when giving a feast, express himself thus: "The great Master of Life, he who sees us and whom we cannot see, having done me charity, I invite you, my brother, to partake of it." On a like occasion, a Takelly describes the manner in which he killed his game, but never alludes to a deity. When an Ojibbeway wishes to confirm the truth of what he says beyond a doubt, he points to heaven and exclaims, "He to whom we belong hears that what I say is true." The Takelly says, "The toad hears me." You ask a Takelly what becomes of him after death, he replies, "My life shall be _extinct_, and I shall be dead." Not an idea has he of the soul, or of a future state of rewards and punishments. The Ojibbeway answers, "After death my soul goes either to a happy land, abounding with game and every delight; or to a land of misery, where I shall suffer for ever from want. Whether it go to the good or bad place depends on my good or bad conduct here." In fact the Takelly language has not a term in it to express the name of Deity, spirit, or soul. When the Columbia religion was introduced among them, our interpreters had to invent a term for the Deity--Yagasita--the "Man of Heaven." The only expression I ever heard them use that conveyed any idea whatever of a superior Being is, that when the salmon fail, they say, "The Man who keeps the mouth of the river has shut it up with his red keys, so that the salmon cannot get up." One of our gentlemen, a member of the Roman Catholic Church, teaching the Takellies to make the sign of the cross, with the words used on the occasion, his interpreter translated them, "Au nom du Père, de son Frère, et puis de son petit Garçon!" (In the name of the Father, his Brother, and his little Boy!) The accompts and despatches for head-quarters being finished in the beginning of March, I was ordered to convey them to Fort Alexandria, to the charge of which post I was now appointed. This post is agreeably situated on the banks of Frazer's River, on the outskirts of the great prairies. The surrounding country is beautifully diversified by hill and dale, grove and plain; the soil is rich, yielding abundant successive crops of grain and vegetable, unmanured; but the crops are sometimes destroyed by frost. The charming locality, the friendly disposition of the Indians, and better fare, rendered this post one of the most agreeable situations in the Indian country. In spring, moreover, the country swarms with game--pheasants and a small species of curlieu in the immediate vicinity, and ducks and geese within a short distance. The sport was excellent, and, with the amusement the cultivation of my garden afforded me, enabled me to vegetate in great comfort--a comfort I was not destined long to enjoy. Mr. Ogden, chief factor, arrived from Fort Vancouver about the end of May, and Mr. Fisher from Stuart's Lake a few days afterwards; and having consulted together, determined that I should retrace my steps to Stuart's Lake without delay. When I arrived at Fort St. James its dreadful solitude almost drove me to despair. I found myself sitting alone in the hall where my late excellent bourgeois and friends had passed the time so happily, and I felt a depression of spirits such as I never experienced before. Fortunately for me, my old friend Mr. Fraser, a gentleman of a gay and lively disposition, arrived soon after, and continued with me for the remainder of the season, and his company soon drove melancholy away. The particulars of an affair which had occurred here some years before, and threatened the most serious consequences to the post, were about this time related to me by Waccan, the interpreter. A native of Frazer's Lake had murdered one of the Company's servants, and, strange to say, no steps were taken to punish him; he concealed himself some time, and finding he had nothing to apprehend, returned to his village. At length he was led by his evil genius to visit Stuart's Lake, then under the command of a Douglas. Douglas heard of his being in the village, and though he had but a weak garrison, determined that the blood of the white man should not be unavenged. The opportunity was favourable, the Indians of the village were out on a hunting excursion, the murderer was nearly alone. He proceeded to the camp accompanied by two of his men, and executed justice[1] on the murderer. On their return in the evening, the Indians learned what had happened, and enraged, determined to retaliate. Aware, however, that Douglas was on his guard, that the gates were shut and could not be forced, they resolved to employ Indian stratagem. [1] "Wild justice,"--Bacon. The old chief accordingly proceeded to the Fort alone, and knocking at the gate desired to be admitted, which was granted. He immediately stated the object of his visit, saying that a deed had been done in the village which subjected himself and his people to a heavy responsibility to the relatives of the dead; that he feared the consequences, and hoped that a present would be made to satisfy them; and continuing to converse thus calmly, Mr. Douglas was led to believe that the matter could easily be arranged. Another knock was now heard at the gate: "It is my brother," said the chief, "you may open the gate; he told me he intended to come and hear what you had to say on this business." The gate was opened, and in rushed the whole Nekasly tribe, the chief's brother at their head; and the men of the Fort were overpowered ere they had time to stand on their defence. Douglas, however, seized a wall-piece that was mounted in the hall, and was about to discharge it on the crowd that was pouring in upon him, when the chief seized him by the arms, and held him fast. For an instant his life was in the utmost peril. Surrounded by thirty or forty Indians, their knives drawn, and brandishing them over his head with frantic gestures, and calling out to the chief, "Shall we strike? shall we strike?" The chief hesitated; and at this critical moment the interpreter's wife[1] stepped forward, and by her presence of mind saved him and the establishment. [1] This woman is the daughter of Mr. James MacDougal, a gentleman who had a chief hand in the settlement of the district. He served the Company for a period of thirty-five years, enduring all the hardships that were in his time inseparable from an Indian trader's life; and was dismissed from their service, in old age, without a pension, to starve on such little savings as he had effected out of his salary. He is still alive (1841), struggling with adversity. Observing one of the inferior chiefs, who had always professed the greatest friendship for the whites, standing in the crowd, she addressed herself to him, exclaiming, "What! you a friend of the whites, and not say a word in their behalf at such a time as this! Speak! you know the murderer deserved to die; according to your own laws the deed was just; it is blood for blood. The white men are not dogs; they love their kindred as well as you; why should they not avenge their murder?" The moment the heroine's voice was heard the tumult subsided; her boldness struck the savages with awe; the chief she addressed, acting on her suggestion, interfered; and being seconded by the old chief, who had no serious intention of injuring the whites, was satisfied with showing them that they were fairly in his power. Mr. Douglas and his men were set at liberty; and an amicable conference having taken place, the Indians departed much elated with the issue of their enterprise. A personal adventure of Waccan's is worth recording. An interpreter, a Cree half-breed, had been murdered by the Indians of Babine post with circumstances of great barbarity; and the perpetrators of the deed were allowed to exult in the shedding of innocent blood with impunity, one feeble, ineffectual attempt only having been made to chastise them. Waccan, however, determined that the matter should not end thus, the victim being his adopted brother. Having been sent to Babine post with an Indian lad, he learned from him that the murderers were encamped in a certain bay on Stuart's Lake, and resolved to seize the long wished-for opportunity of revenge; but fearing for his companion's safety more than his own, he landed him at a considerable distance from the camp, directing him to make the best of his way home if he should hear many shots. He then paddled down as near the camp as he could without being discovered, and landing, threw off every article of clothing save a shred round his loins; and with his gun in the one hand, and dagger in the other, proceeded to the spot. Having approached sufficiently near to see all that passed in the encampment, he squatted among the bushes, and watching his opportunity, "picked off" the ringleader; then rushing from his covert, and giving the war whoop, he planted his dagger in his heart almost before the Indians had time to know what had happened. Seeing the infuriated "avenger of blood" in the midst of them, they fled precipitately to the woods. Waccan dared them to revenge the death of the "dead dog" who had murdered his brother. "Come," said he, "you that were so brave at Babine Lake, and danced round the body of him whom you did not face, but knocked down when his back was to you, now is your time to show yourselves _men_." No one answering the challenge, he shouldered his gun, walked along the beach to his canoe, and paddling leisurely off from the shore, sang the Cree song of triumph. CHAPTER XX. APPOINTED TO THE CHARGE OF FORT GEORGE--MURDER OF MR. YALE'S MEN--MYSTERIOUS LOSS OF MR. LINTON AND FAMILY--ADVENTURES OF LEATHER PARTY--FAILURE OF CROPS--INFLUENZA. In the beginning of September, Mr. Ogden arrived from Fort Vancouver, and I was appointed by him to the charge of Fort George, whither I proceeded forthwith. Mr. Linton, my predecessor, was directed to wait the arrival of the party sent to Jasper's house for a supply of leather, ere he took his departure for Chilcotin, an outpost of Fort Alexandria. Fort George was established a few years ago, and passed through the bloody ordeal ere yet the buildings were completed. The gentleman in charge, Mr. Yale, had left his men at work, and gone on a visit to Fort St. James, where he only remained a few days; on his return he found his men had been treacherously murdered by the Indians during his absence. Their mangled bodies were found in one of the houses, with one of their own axes by their side, which evidently had been the instrument of their destruction. The poor men were in the habit of retiring to rest during the heat of the day, and were despatched while they slept. A great change has come over this people since that time; they are now justly considered the best disposed and most industrious Indians in the district. The situation of the post is exceedingly dreary, standing on the right bank of Frazer's River, having in front a high hill that shades the sun until late in the morning, and in the midst of "woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom" is saddening enough. Yet it has its _agrémens_, its good returns,--the _ne plus ultra_ of an Indian trader's happiness,--its good Indians, and its good fare; the produce of the soil and dairy. Poor Linton had remained with me till late in autumn; when the cold weather setting in with unusual rigour, the ice began to drift on the river, rendering the navigation already dangerous; and no accounts having been received of the leather party, he determined to embark for his destination without further loss of time. He, alas! had already waited too long. Having occasion in the beginning of winter to send down a messenger to Fort Alexandria, I was surprised to see him two days after enter the fort, accompanied by one of Mr. Fisher's men, who brought me the melancholy tidings of Mr. L.'s death, part of his baggage having been found by the natives among the ice. Eight souls had perished, no one knows how; Mr. L., his wife and three children, an interpreter, his wife and one child. Some suspicions attached to a disreputable family of Indians who were known to be encamped on the banks of the river at the time; but it is more probable that the catastrophe occurred in a rapid not far from this post, as a dog which the party had with them came back at an early hour the day after their departure. This misfortune threw a gloom over the whole district, where Linton was much beloved, and his death, so sudden and mysterious, made the blow be felt more severely. Before this sad intelligence reached us, the safety of the leather party had become a source of deep anxiety. They had been expected in October, and no accounts had been received of them in the month of December. Having forwarded Mr. Fisher's despatches to head-quarters, I received orders from Mr. Ogden to proceed to Jasper's house, in order, if possible, to obtain information regarding them; which I eagerly obeyed, setting off with five men, and sledges loaded with provisions, drawn by dogs. We had not proceeded far, however, when we met the truants all safe and sound. Their non-arrival in the fall was occasioned by the winter setting in unprecedentedly early. They experienced the utmost difficulty in crossing the Rocky Mountains, from the great depth of snow that had already fallen; and when they reached the heights of Frazer's River, they found the ice beginning to form along its shores. They persevered, however; sometimes forcing their way through the ice, sometimes carrying the canoes and property overland where the passage was blocked up by the ice. But all their efforts proved unavailing, for they were at length completely frozen in. Their prospects were now most disheartening. Their remaining provisions would only suffice for four days on short allowance, and they had a journey of fifteen days before them, whichever way they should direct their course. Some of the men yielded to despair, but the greater part cheerfully embraced Mr. Andersen's views. Those only who are unacquainted with the Canadian voyageurs will deny them the possession of qualities, of the highest value in this country--ready obedience to their superiors, patience of fatigue and hardship, and unyielding perseverance under the most trying difficulties, so long as their leaders show them the way. Mr. Anderson having secured the property _en cache_, determined to return to Jasper's house, in order to procure at least a part of the much wanted supply of leather. On their way back they had the good fortune to light upon a stray horse, which they converted into provender: they also shot a moose deer; and thus providentially supplied, they suffered little from want. On arriving at the post, they found to their sad disappointment that nothing could be got there, except some provisions; it was therefore necessary to proceed to Fort Edmonton, at least 400 miles distant, with but one intermediate post. They succeeded in reaching it, though in a most deplorable condition, half starved and half frozen, none of the party being provided with winter clothing; but they were most hospitably received by the kind-hearted bourgeois Mr. Rowand; and, after remaining a few days to recruit their strength in this land overflowing with fat and pemmican, and receiving their supplies, they set off on their return, and reached their destination without accident. Farming on a small scale had been attempted here by my predecessor, and the result was such as to induce more extensive operations. I received orders, therefore, to clear land, sow and plant, forthwith. These orders were in part carried into effect in the autumn. Four acres of land were put in a condition to receive seed, and about the same quantity at Fort Alexandria. Seed was ordered from the Columbia, and handmills to grind our grain. Pancakes and hot rolls were thenceforward to be the order of the day; Babine salmon and dog's flesh were to be sent--"to Coventry!" The spring, however, brought with it but poor prospects for pancakes; the season was late beyond all precedent; the fields were not sown until the 5th of May; they, nevertheless, promised well for some time, but cold weather ensued, and continued so long that the crops could not recover before the autumn frosts set in, and thus our hopes were blasted. The farm at Alexandria had not much better success, owing to the neglect of the good people themselves;--not having enclosed their fields, the cattle destroyed the greater part of the crops. Here, however, notwithstanding the failure of our grain crops, we had abundance of vegetables and a large stock of cattle, so that our fare was far superior to that of the other _exiles_ in the district. Mr. Ogden returned from Fort Vancouver about the usual time, and was mortified to find that our grand agricultural experiment had so completely failed. He, however, had brought a supply of flour sufficient to afford each commander of posts a couple of bags, and thus the inconvenience arising from our disappointment was, in some degree, obviated. From his first arrival amongst us, Mr. Ogden evinced the most earnest desire to ameliorate the condition of his subordinates in this wretched district, and all felt grateful to him for his benevolent intentions. To Mr. Dease, however, the praise is due of having introduced this new order of things: he it was who first introduced cattle from Fort Vancouver; it was he who first introduced farming, and recommended it to others. Late in autumn, the natives being all about the post, the dread influenza, that had made such fearful havoc among the Indians in other quarters, broke out here also. The poor creatures had a great deal of confidence in my medical skill, from the circumstance of my having saved the life of a boy who had eaten some poisonous root, when despaired of by their own mountebanks. On the present occasion I tried my skill on one of the subjects best able to bear my experiments, by administering a strong emetic and purge, and causing him afterwards to drink a decoction of mint. He was cured, and I afterwards prescribed the same medicine to many others with a like success; so that my reputation as a disciple of Æsculapius became firmly established. Having last year applied to the Governor for permission to visit head-quarters, for a purpose which will be noticed hereafter, I received a favourable answer, and, in the month of February, set off for the depôt of the district preparatory to my departure, where I remained for a month in company with Mr. Ogden and several fellow-scribes. CHAPTER XXI. CLIMATE OF NEW CALEDONIA--SCENERY--NATURAL PRODUCTIONS--ANIMALS--FISHES--NATIVES--THEIR MANNERS AND CUSTOMS--DUELLING--GAMBLING--LICENTIOUSNESS--LANGUAGE. Ere I proceed on my long journey, I must pause for a little to describe more particularly the country, which I am about to quit, perhaps for ever, and the manners of its savage inhabitants. The climate of New Caledonia is exceedingly variable at all seasons of the year. I have experienced at Stuart's Lake, in the month of July, every possible change of weather within twelve hours; frost in the morning, scorching heat at noon; then rain, hail, snow. The winter season is subject to the same vicissitudes, though not in so extreme a degree: some years it continues mild throughout. These vicissitudes may, I think, be ascribed to local causes--proximity to, or distance from the glaciers of the Rocky Mountains, the direction of the winds, the aspect of the place, &c. Fort St. James is so situated as to be completely exposed to the north-east wind, which wafts on its wings the freezing vapours of the glaciers. The instant the wind shifts to this quarter, a change of temperature is felt; and when it continues to blow for a few hours, it becomes so cold that, even in midsummer, small ponds are frozen over. The surrounding country is mountainous and rocky. Frazer's Lake is only about thirty miles distant from Fort St. James (on Stuart's Lake), yet there they raise abundance of vegetables, potatoes and turnips, and sometimes even wheat and barley. The post stands in a valley open to the south-west,--a fine champaign country, of a sandy soil; it is protected from the north-east winds by a high ridge of hills. The winter seldom sets in before December, and the navigation is generally open about the beginning of May. Few countries present a more beautiful variety of scenery than New Caledonia. Stuart's Lake and its environs I have already attempted to describe, but many such landscapes present themselves in different parts of the country, where towering mountains, hill and dale, forest and lake, and verdant plains, blended together in the happiest manner, are taken in by the eye at a glance. Some scenes there are that recall forcibly to the remembrance of a son of Scotia, the hills and glens and "bonnie braes" of his own poor, yet beloved native land. New Caledonia, however, has the advantage over the Old, of being generally well wooded, and possessed of lakes of far greater magnitude; unfortunately, however, the woods are decaying rapidly, particularly several varieties of fir, which are being destroyed by an insect that preys on the bark: when the country is denuded of this ornament, and its ridges have become bald, it will present a very desolate appearance. In some parts of the country, the poplar and aspen tree are to be found, together with a species of birch, of whose bark canoes are built; but there is neither hard wood nor cedar. Such parts of the district as are not in the immediate vicinity of the regions of eternal snow, yield a variety of wild fruit, grateful to the palate, wholesome, and nutritious. Of these, the Indian pear is the most abundant, and most sought after, both by natives and whites; when fully ripe, it is of a black colour, with somewhat of a reddish tinge, pear-shaped, and very sweet to the taste. The natives dry them in the sun, and afterwards bake them into cakes, which are said to be delicious; for my own part, having seen the process of manufacturing them, I could not overcome my prejudices so far as to partake of a delicacy in whose composition filth formed so considerable an ingredient. When dried, the cakes are placed in wooden vessels to receive the juice of green fruit, which is expressed by placing weights upon it, in wooden troughs, from which spouts of bark draw off the liquid into the vessels containing the dry fruit; this being thoroughly saturated, is again bruised with the unclean hand, then re-formed into cakes, and dried again; and these processes are repeated alternately, until the cakes suit the taste of the maker. Blue berries are plentiful in some parts of the district; there is a peculiar variety of them, which I preferred to any fruit I ever tasted; it is about the size of a musket-ball, of a purple colour, translucid, and in its taste sweet and acid are deliciously blended. The district is still rich in fur-bearing animals, especially beavers and martens, which are likely to continue numerous for many years to come, as they find a safe retreat among the fastnesses of the Rocky Mountains, where they multiply undisturbed. This is the great beaver nursery, which continues to replace the numbers destroyed in the more exposed situations; there is, nevertheless, a sensible decrease in the returns of the fur since the introduction of steel traps among the natives: there are also otters, musk-rats, minxes, and lynxes. Of the larger quadrupeds bears only are numerous, and in all their varieties, grizzled, black, brown, and chocolate: numbers of them are taken by the natives in wooden traps. A chance moose or reindeer is sometimes found. The mountain sheep generally keeps aloft in the most inaccessible parts of the mountains, and is seldom "bagged" by a Carrier, but often by the Tsekanies. I have before observed that rabbits sometimes abound. Another small animal, whose flesh is delicious in season, the marmot, is found in great numbers. In the neighbourhood of Fort Alexandria, the jumping deer, or chevreuil, is abundant. To these add dog and horse flesh, and you have all the varieties of animal food the country affords to its inhabitants, civilized or savage. A most destructive little animal, the wood-rat, infests the country, and generally nestles in the crevices of the rocks, but prefers still more human habitations; they domicile under the floors of out-buildings, and not content with this, force their way into the inside, where they destroy and carry off every thing they can; nor is there any way of securing the property in the stores from their depredations but by placing it in strong boxes. When fairly located, it is almost impossible to root them out. They are of a grey colour, and of nearly the size and form of the common rat, but the tail resembles that of the ground squirrel. The birds of this country are the same as in Canada. I observed no strange variety, except a species of curlieu that frequents the plains of Fort Alexandria in the summer. Immense flocks of cranes are seen in autumn and spring, flying high in the air; in autumn directing their flight towards the south, and in spring towards the north. Some of the Lakes abound in fish; the principal varieties are trout, carp, white fish, and pike. Stuart's Lake yields a small fish termed by the Canadians "poisson inconnu;" it seems as if it were partly white fish and partly carp, the head resembling the former; it is full of small bones, and the flesh soft and unsavoury. The sturgeon has been already mentioned, but they are unfortunately too rare; seldom more than five or six are captured in a season; they weigh from one hundred to five hundred pounds. A beautiful small fish of the size of the anchovy, and shaped like a salmon, is found in a river that falls into Stuart's Lake; it is said they pass the winter in the lake, and ascend their favourite stream in the month of June, where they deposit their spawn. They have the silvery scales of the larger salmon, and are exceedingly rich; but the natives preserve them almost exclusively for their own use. There are four varieties of salmon, distinguished from each other by the peculiar form of the head; the largest species seems to be the same we have in the rivers of Britain, and weighs from ten to twenty pounds; the others do not exceed half that weight. New Caledonia is inhabited by the Takelly or Carrier nation, and by a few families of Tsekanies on the north-eastern extremity of the district. The Takellies are divided into as many tribes as there are posts--viz. eight, who formerly were as hostile to each other as if they had been of different nations. The presence of the whites, however, has had the beneficial effect of checking their cut-throat propensities, although individual murders still occasionally occur among them. Before the introduction of fire-arms, the _honourable_ practice of duelling prevailed among them, though in a fashion peculiar to themselves. One arrow only was discharged, by the party demanding satisfaction, at his opponent, who, by dint of skipping about and dodging from side to side, generally contrived to escape it; fatal duels, therefore, seldom if ever occurred; and the parties, having thus given and received satisfaction, retired from the field reconciled.[1] They appear more prone to sudden bursts of passion than most Indians I have seen, and quarrel often and abuse each other in the most scurrilous terms. With the Sauteux, Crees, and other tribes on the east side of the mountains, few words are uttered before the blow, often a fatal one, is given; whereas, with the Takellies, it is often many words and few blows. In the quarrels which take place among them, the ladies are generally the _causa belli_--a cause which would soon lead to the depopulation of the country, were all husbands to avenge their wrongs by shedding the blood of the guilty. [1] I would recommend this mode of conducting "affairs of honour" to _honourable_ gentlemen using the hair-trigger, as an improvement. Though practised by savages, it must be allowed to be somewhat less barbarous than ten paces' distance, and standing still! If the exhibition should appear somewhat ludicrous, both parties would have the additional "satisfaction" that their morning _exercise_ had given a keener zest to their breakfast. It would be a sort of Pyrrhic dance. Their chiefs have still considerable authority; but much of the homage they claimed and received in former times is now transferred to the white chiefs, or traders, whom they all esteem the greatest men in the universe. "After the Man of heaven," said old Guaw to Mr. Dease, "you are next in dignity." Owing to the superstitious notions of the people, the chiefs are still feared on account of the magical powers ascribed to them; it is firmly believed they can, at will, inflict diseases, cause misfortunes of every kind, and even death itself; and so strong is this impression, that they will not even pass in a direction where the shadow of a chief, or "man of medicine," might fall on them, "lest," say they, "he should bear us some ill-will and afflict us with some disease." These conjurors, nevertheless, are the greatest bunglers at their trade of any in the Indian territory; they practise none of the clever tricks of the Sauteux sorcerers, and are perfectly ignorant of the medicinal virtues of herbs and plants, with which the Sauteux and other Indians often perform astonishing cures. The Takellies administer no medicine to the sick; a variety of ridiculous gesticulations, together with singing, blowing, and _beating_ on the _patient_, are the means they adopt to effect their end; and they, not seldom, effectually cure the patient of "all the ills of life." Whether they effect a cure or not, they are sure to be well recompensed for their expenditure of wind, an article of which they are not sparing: they, in fact, exert themselves so much that the perspiration pours from every pore. The only real remedy they use, in common with other Indians, is the vapour-bath, or sweating-house. The house, as it is termed, which is constructed by bending twigs of willow, and fixing both ends in the ground, when finished, presents the appearance of a bee-hive, and is carefully covered to prevent the escape of the vapour; red-hot stones are then placed inside, and water poured upon them, and the patient remains in the midst of the steam thus generated as long as he can bear it, then rushing out, plunges into the cold stream. This is said to be a sovereign remedy for rheumatism, and the natives have recourse to it in all cases of severe pain: I myself witnessed its efficacy in a case of paralysis. The salubrity of the climate, however, renders disease of every kind extremely rare, except such as are caused by the excesses of the natives themselves. The venereal is very common, and appears to have been indigenous. At their feasts they gorge themselves to such a degree as to endanger their lives; after a feast many of the guests continue ill for a considerable time, yet this does not prevent them from gormandizing again whenever an opportunity presents itself. Old and young, male and female, are subject to severe inflammation in the eyes, chiefly, I believe, from their passing the winter in hovels underground, which have no outlet for the smoke, and passing from them into the glare of sunshine upon the snow. What with the confined smoke and tainted atmosphere of these abominable burrows, I found it painful to remain even for a few minutes in them. It has been remarked by those who first settled in the district, that the Indians are rapidly decreasing in numbers since their arrival--a fact which does not admit of a doubt: I myself have seen many villages and encampments without an inhabitant. But what can be the cause of it? Here there has been neither rum nor small-pox--the scourges of this doomed race in other parts. Yet, on the banks of the Columbia, which, when first visited by the whites a few years ago, literally swarmed with Indians, a disease broke out which nearly exterminated them. Has the fiat, then, gone forth, that the aboriginal inhabitants of America shall make way for another race of men? To my mind, at least, the question presents not the shadow of a doubt. The existence of the present race of Indians at some future, and by no means distant period, will only be known through the historical records of their successors. The Takellies do not use canoes on their hunting excursions, so that they are necessitated to carry all their conveniences on their backs; and it is astonishing to see what heavy loads they can carry, especially the women, on whom the transport duty generally devolves. Among this tribe, however, the women are held in much higher consideration than among other Indians: they assist at the councils, and some ladies of distinction are even admitted to the feasts. This consideration they doubtless owe to the efficient aid they afford in procuring the means of subsistence. The one sex is as actively employed during the fishing season as the other. The men construct the weirs, repair them when necessary, and capture the fish; the women split them up--a most laborious operation when salmon is plentiful--suspend them on the scaffolds, attend to the drying, &c. They also collect berries, and dig up the edible roots that are found in the country, and which are of great service in years of scarcity. Thus the labour of the women contributes as much to the support of the community as that of the men. The men are passionately addicted to gambling, staking everything they possess, and continuing at it night and day, until compelled to desist by sheer hunger, or by the loss of all. I could not understand their game; we, in fact, used our best endeavours to abolish the pernicious custom, and, to avoid countenancing it, were as seldom present as possible. It is played with a few small sticks, neatly carved, with a certain number of marks upon them, tied up in a small bundle of hay, which the player draws out successively, throws up and catches between his hands; and when all are drawn, they are taken up one by one, and dashed against a piece of parchment, and rolled up again in the hay. The whole party appear merry enough at the commencement of the game, all joining chorus in a song, and straining their lungs to such a degree, that hoarseness soon ensues, when they continue their amusement in silence. When the game is ended, some of them present a sad spectacle; coming forth, their hair dishevelled, their eyes bloodshot, and faces ghastly pale, with probably nothing to cover their nakedness, save perhaps an old siffleux robe, which the winner may be generous enough to bestow. They never shoot or hang themselves, let their luck be ever so bad, but sometimes shoot the winning party. Dogs, if not held sacred, are at least as much esteemed by them as their own kindred. I have known an instance of a quadruped of the cynic sect being appointed successor to a biped chief, and discharging the duties of his office with the utmost gravity and decorum; appearing at the feast given in honour of his deceased predecessor, and furnishing his quota--(this of course by proxy)--of the provisions. This dog-chief was treated by his owner with as much regard as if he had been his child! All, indeed, treat their dogs with the greatest respect, calling them by the most endearing epithets:--"Embark, my son;" "Be quiet, my child;" "Don't bark at the white men, they will not harm you." The lewdness of the Carrier women cannot possibly be carried to a greater excess. They are addicted to the most abominable practices; abandoning themselves in early youth to the free indulgence of their passions, they soon become debilitated and infirm; and there can be no doubt that to this monstrous depravity the depopulation of the country may, in part, be ascribed. They never marry until satiated with indulgence; and if the woman then should be dissatisfied with the restraint of the conjugal yoke, the union, by mutual consent, is dissolved for a time; both then betake themselves to their former courses. The woman, nevertheless, dare not, according to law, take another husband during this temporary separation. Whoever infringes this law, forfeits his life to the aggrieved party, if he choose, or dare to take it. Polygamy is allowed; but only one of the women is considered as the wife. The most perfect harmony seems to subsist among them. When the favourite happens to be supplanted by a rival, she resigns her place without a murmur, well pleased if she can only enjoy the countenance of her lord in a subordinate situation. Yet a rupture does sometimes occur, when the repudiated party not unfrequently destroys herself. Suicides were frequent among the females in the neighbourhood of Fort Alexandria. The Takellies are a sedentary people, remaining shut up in their huts during the severer part of the winter. You may then approach a camp without perceiving any sign of its vicinity, until you come upon their well, or one of their salmon _caches_. They are very social, congregating at each other's huts, and passing their time talking or sleeping. When awake, their tongues are ever in motion,--all bawling out at the same time; and it has often surprised me how they could possibly make themselves understood in the midst of such an uproar. All Indians with whom I have come in contact, Christian as well as Pagan, are addicted to falsehood; but the Takellies excel; they are perfect adepts in the art, telling their stories with such an appearance of truth, that even those who know them well are often deceived. They were the greatest thieves in the world when the whites first settled among them. The utmost vigilance failed to detect them. Some of our people have been known to have their belts taken off them, without perceiving it till too late; and many a poor fellow, after passing a night in one of their encampments, has been obliged to pass the remainder of the winter with but half a blanket--the other half having been cut off while he slept. Theft, however, is not quite so prevalent as formerly; and, strange to say, no Indians can be more honest in paying their debts. It would indeed be desirable that this credit system, long since introduced, were abolished; but if this were done, the natives would carry the greater part of their hunts to another quarter. Some of the natives of the coast, having become regular traders of late years, penetrate a considerable distance into the interior; in this manner the goods obtained from the Company's posts along the coast, or from foreign trading ships, pass from hand to hand in barter, until they eventually reach the borders of New Caledonia, where the trade still affords a very handsome profit to the native speculator. These Indians are not given to hospitality in the proper sense of the word. A stranger arriving among them is provided with food for a day only; should he remain longer, he pays for it; for that day's entertainment, however, the best fare is liberally furnished. Strangers invited to their feasts are also provided for while they remain. There is much more variety and melody in the airs they sing, than I have heard in any other part of the Indian country. They have professed composers, who turn their talent to good account on the occasion of a feast, when new airs are in great request, and are purchased at a high rate. They dance in circles, men and women promiscuously, holding each other by the hand; and keeping both feet together, hop a little to a side all at once, giving at the same time a singular jerk to their persons behind. The movement seems to be difficult of execution, as it causes them to perspire profusely; they, however, keep excellent time, and the blending of the voices of the men and women in symphony has an agreeable effect. The Takelly, or Carrier language is a dialect of the Chippewayan; and it is rather a singular fact, that the two intervening dialects of the Beaver Indians and Tsekanies, kindred nations, should differ more from the Chippewayan than the Carrier; the two latter nations being perfectly intelligible to each other, while the former are but very imperfectly understood by their immediate neighbours, the Chippewayans. An erroneous opinion seems to have gone abroad regarding the variety of languages spoken by the Indians. There are, in reality, only four radically distinct languages from the shores of Labrador to the Pacific: Sauteux, Chippewayan, Atna and Chinook. The Cree language is evidently a dialect of the Sauteux, similar in construction, and differing only in the modification of a few words. The Nascopies, or mountaineers of Labrador, speak a mixture of Cree and Sauteux, the former predominating. Along the communication from Montreal to the foot of the Rocky Mountains, following the Peace River route, we first meet with the Sauteux tribes, who extend from the Lake of the Two Mountains to Lake Winnipeg; then the Crees to Isle à la Crosse; after them, Crees and Chippewayans to Athabasca; and along the banks of Peace River, the Beaver Indians occupy the lower, and the Tsekanies the upper part. The Chippewayan is evidently the root of the Beaver, Tsekany and Carrier dialects; it is also spoken by a numerous tribe in the McKenzie's River district--the Hare Indians. On the west side of the Rocky Mountains the Carrier language is succeeded by the Atna, which extends along the Columbia as far down, as the Chinooks, who inhabit the coast. The Atna language, in its variety of dialects, seems to have as wide a scope as either the Sauteux or Chippewayan. New Caledonia is one of the richest districts in the Company's vast domain; its returns average about 8,000 beavers, with a fair proportion of other valuable furs. When the district was first settled, the goods required for trade were brought in by the winterers from Lac la Pluie, which was their dépôt. The people left the district as early in spring as the navigation permitted, and returned so late that they were frequently overtaken by winter ere they reached their destination. Cold, hunger, and fatigue, were the unavoidable consequences; but the enterprising spirit of the men of those days--the intrepid, indefatigable adventurers of the North-West Company--overcame every difficulty. It was that spirit that opened a communication across the broad continent of America; that penetrated to the frostbound regions of the Arctic circle; and that established a trade with the natives in this remote land, when the merchandise required for it was in one season transported from Montreal to within a short distance of the Pacific. Such enterprise has never been exceeded, seldom or never equalled. The outfit is now sent out from England by Cape Horn, to Fort Vancouver, thence it is conveyed in boats to Okanagan, then transported on horses' backs to Alexandria, the lower post of the district, whence it is conveyed in boats to Fort St. James. There are generally two commissioned gentlemen in this district,--a chief-factor and chief-trader, with six or seven clerks in charge of posts; and about forty men, principally Iroquois and half-breeds. The fare at the different posts depends entirely on local circumstances. In some places it is tolerable, in others, scarcely fit for dogs. For the year's consumption, the Company allow a clerk two bags of flour, sixty pounds of sugar, twelve pounds of tea, and a small quantity of wine and brandy. Butter is now produced in abundance in the district. Where there are no gardens, the men have only dried salmon,--as poor fare as civilized man subsists on in any part of the world. It has at first the same effect on most people as if they fed on Glauber salts. Nevertheless, the men generally continue in this wretched condition for many years, apparently contented and happy; the indulgence they find among the females being, I grieve to say, the principal inducement. END OF VOL. I. R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL. 
14756	----	THE MAN IN THE TWILIGHT by RIDGWELL CULLUM G.P. Putnam's Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1922 BY RIDGWELL CULLUM THE DEVIL'S KEG THE HOUND FROM THE NORTH THE BROODING WILD THE NIGHT RIDERS THE WATCHERS OF THE PLAINS THE COMPACT THE TRAIL OF THE AXE THE ONE WAY TRAIL THE SHERIFF OF DYKE HOLE TWINS OF SUFFERING CREEK THE GOLDEN WOMAN THE WAY OF THE STRONG THE LAW BREAKERS THE SON OF HIS FATHER THE MEN WHO WROUGHT THE PURCHASE PRICE THE TRIUMPH OF JOHN KARS THE LAW OF THE GUN THE HEART OF UNAGA TO MY NEPHEW GEOFFREY FREDERICK BURGHARD THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED THE AUTHOR TO THE READER The story of the Sachigo wood-pulp mills, told in this book, is entirely a work of imagination. But as I have had to draw very largely on my knowledge of the wood-pulp trade of Eastern Canada, and the conditions under which it is carried on, I desire it to be clearly understood that this story contains no portraiture of any person or persons, living or dead, and contains no representation of any business organisation connected with the trade. CONTENTS PART ONE I.--THE CRISIS II.--THE MAN WITH THE MAIL III.--IDEPSKI IV.--THE "YELLOW STREAK" V.--NANCY MCDONALD VI.--NATHANIEL HELLBEAM PART TWO EIGHT YEARS LATER I.--BULL STERNFORD II.--FATHER ADAM III.--BULL LEARNS CONDITIONS IV.--DRAWING THE NET V.--THE PROGRESS OF NANCY VI.--THE LONELY FIGURE VII.--THE SKANDINAVIA MOVES VIII.--AN AFFAIR OF OUTPOSTS IX.--ON THE OPEN SEA X.--IN QUEBEC XI.--DRAWN SWORDS XII.--AT THE CHATEAU XIII.--DEEPENING WATERS XIV.--THE PLANNING OF CAMPAIGN XV.--THE SAILING OF THE _Empress_ XVI.--ON BOARD THE _Empress_ XVII.--THE LONELY FIGURE AGAIN XVIII.--BULL STERNFORD'S VISION OF SUCCESS XIX.--THE HOLD-UP XX.--ON THE HOME TRAIL XXI.--THE MAN IN THE TWILIGHT XXII.--DAWN XXIII.--NANCY XXIV.--THE COMING OF SPRING XXV.--NANCY'S DECISION XXVI.--THE MESSAGE XXVII.--LOST IN THE TWILIGHT THE MAN IN THE TWILIGHT PART I CHAPTER I THE CRISIS They sat squarely gazing into each other's eyes. Bat Marker had only one mood to express. It was a mood that suggested determination to fight to a finish, to fight with the last ounce of strength, the last gasp of breath. He was sitting at the desk, opposite his friend and employer, Leslie Standing, and his small grey eyes were shining coldly under his shaggy, black brows. His broad shoulders were squared aggressively. There was far less display in the eyes of Leslie Standing. They were wide with a deep pre-occupation. But then Standing was of very different type. His pale face, his longish black hair, brushed straight back from an abnormally high forehead, suggested the face of a student, even a priest. Harker was something of the roused bull-dog, strong, rugged, furious; a product of earth's rough places. "Give us that last bit again." Bat's tone matched his attitude. It was abrupt, forceful, and he thrust out a hand pointing at the letter from which the other had been reading. Standing's eyes lit with a shadow of a smile as he turned again to the letter. "There's just one thing more. It's less pleasant, so I've kept it till the last. Hellbeam is in Quebec. So is his agent--the man Idepski. My informant tells me he saw the latter leaving the steam-packet office. It suggests things are on the move your way again. However, my man is keeping tab. I'll get warning through at the first sign of danger." Standing looked up. His half smile had gone. There was doubt in his eyes, and the hand grasping the letter was not quite steady. But when he spoke his tone was a flat denial of the physical sign that Bat had been quick to observe. "Charlie Nisson's as keen as a needle," Standing said. "His whisper's a sight more than another fellow's shout." Bat regarded the letter. He watched the other lay it aside on a pile of papers. He was thinking, thinking hard. And his thought was mostly of the man whose shaking hand betrayed him. Suddenly an explosive movement brought his clenched fist down on the table with a thud. "Hell!" he cried, in a fury of impatience. "What's the use? The danger sign's hoisted. I know it. You know it. Nisson knows it. Well? Say, Hellbeam's been in Quebec a score of times since--since--. That don't worry a thing. No. He's got big finance in the Skandinavia bunch in Quebec. We know all about that. It's Idepski. Idepski ain't visiting the packet office for his health. He ain't figgerin' on a joy trip up the Labrador coast. No. That's the signal, sure. Idepski at the packet office. Their darn mud-scow mostly runs here, to Sachigo, and there ain't a thing along the way to interest Idepski--but Sachigo. We'll be getting word from Charlie Nisson in some hurry." "Yes, we'll get it in a hurry." Standing nodded. He was transparently perturbed. Bat watched him closely. Then, in a moment, his mind was made up. "See right here, Les," he cried, in a tone he vainly endeavoured to restrain. "I've figgered right along this thing would need to happen sometime. You can't beat a feller like Hellbeam all the time and leave him without a kick. It don't need me to tell you that. But I want to get a square eye on the whole darn game. Maybe you don't get all you did to that guy when you cleaned him out of ten million dollars on Wall Street seven years ago. "Say, you were a mathematical professor at a Scottish University before you reckoned to buck the game on Wall Street, weren't you?" he went on, more moderately. He forced a grin into eyes that were scarcely accustomed. "One of those guys who mostly make two and two into four, and by no sort of imagination can cypher 'em into five. I know. You figgered out that Persian Oil gamble to suit yourself, and forgot to figger that Hellbeam was at the other end of it. No. The other feller don't cut any ice with you while you're playing around with figgers. It's only afterwards you find that figgers ain't the whole game, and wrostling ten million dollars out of one of the biggest railroad kings and bank presidents in America has something to it liable to hand you nightmare. Well, you got that nightmare. So did I. You've had it for most the whole of the last seven years. But it ain't a nightmare now. It's dead real, which is only a way of sayin' Hellbeam's set his dogs on a hot trail, and we're the poor darn gophers huntin' our holes right up here on the Labrador coast. "Oh, yes. I know what you'd say. You've said it all before. Hellbeam hasn't a kick comin'. You were both operators on Wall Street. You were both playing the financial game as all the world knows it. You beat him on a straight financial fight. It was just a matter of the figgers which it's your job to play around with. "Now I'm just going to say the thing that's in my mind," he went on, his tone changing again to something clumsily persuasive. "You can take it easy from me. You see, you picked me up when I was down and out. You passed me a hand when there wasn't a hope left me but a stretch of penitentiary. I fought that darn lumber-jack to a finish, which is mostly my way in things. And it was plumb bad luck that he went out by accident. Well, it don't matter. It was you who got me clear away when they'd got the penitentiary gates wide open waiting for me, and it's a thing I can't never forget. I'm out for you all the time, and I want you to know it when I'm telling you the things in my mind. Hellbeam's got a mighty big kick coming. It's the biggest kick any feller of his sort can have. He's the money power of Sweden. He's one of the big money powers of the States. He lives for money and the power it hands him. Well? This is how I figger. Just how you played him up I can't say. But it's his job to juggle around with figgers same as it's yours, and if you beat him out of ten million dollars you must have played a slicker hand than him. All of which says you must have got more to windward of the law than him--and he knows it. Why, it's easy. The feller who has the money power to hold the crown jewels of Sweden from falling into the hands of yahoo politicians out to grab the things they haven't the brains to come by honestly, is mostly powerful enough to buy up the justice he needs, or any other old thing. Hellbeam means to get his hands on you. He's going to get you across the darn American border. And when he's got you there he's going to send you down, by hook or crook, to the worst hell an American penitentiary can show you. It's seven years since you hurt him. But that ain't a circumstance. If it takes him seventy-seven he'll never quit your trail." Bat paused, and, for a moment, turned from the wide black eyes he had held seemingly fascinated while he was talking. It almost seemed that the emotions stirring in his broad bosom were too overpowering for him, and he needed respite from their pressure. But he came again. He was bound to. It was his nature to drive to the end at whatever cost to himself. "I'm handing you this stuff, Les, because I got to," he went on. "It ain't because I'm liking it. No, sir. And if you've the horse sense I reckon you have, you'll locate my object easy. Those words of Nisson's have told us plain we got to fight. We got to fight like hell. And the time's right now. Oh, yes, we're going to fight. You an' me, just the same as we've fought a heap of times before. There ain't a feller I know who's got more fight in him than you--when you feel that way. But--well, say, you just need a boost to make you feel like it. You ain't like me who wants to fight most all the time. No. Well--I'm going to hand you that boost." "How?" Standing's unruffled interrogation was in sharp contrast with the other's earnestness. There was a calm tolerance in it. The tolerance of a temperament given to philosophy rather than passion. Perhaps it was a mask. Perhaps it was real. Whatever it was, Bat's next words sent the hot fire of a man's soul leaping into his eyes. "When your boy's born, what then?" "Ah!" Bat's fists clenched at the sound of the other's ejaculation. It was the nervous clenching at a sound that threatened danger. Swift as a shot he followed up his challenge. "Your pore gal's down there in Quebec hopin' and prayin' to hand you that boy child you reckon Providence is going to send you. Well, when he gets along, and Hellbeam's around--and--" Bat broke off. Standing had risen from his chair. He had moved swiftly, his lean figure propelled towards the window by long, nervous strides. His voice came back to the man at the table, while his eyes gazed down upon the waters of Farewell Cove, over the widespread roofs of the great groundwood mill, the building of which was the result of his seven years' sojourn on the Labrador coast. "You've handed it me, Bat," he said, in a quick, nervous way. "I'll fight. I know. You guess I'm scared at Nisson's news. Maybe I am, I don't know. I'm not a man of iron guts. Maybe I never shall be. It's hell to me to feel a shadow dogging my every step. Yes, you're right. It's been a nightmare, and now--why, now it's real. But get your mind at rest. I'm going to fight Hellbeam all I know. And with the thought of Nancy, and the boy she's going to give me, I don't need a thing else. No." "That's how I figgered." Bat's delight softened his hard eyes for the moment, and his attitude relaxed as Standing went on. "You reckon I've no imagination," he said. "You reckon I'm just a calculating machine that can juggle figures better than any other machine." He shook his dark head. "I guess you don't do me full justice. When I quit the university on the other side it was because I had built myself up a big dream. I crossed to the United States with my imagination full of the things I hoped to do. It was the chance I looked for. And I found it in Hellbeam, and the Persian Oils it was his hobby to manipulate. I jumped in and grabbed it with both hands. And, as you say, I beat him at his own game. But that was only part of my dream. The next part you also know, though you choose to think it was only as a refuge from Hellbeam that I came here to Sachigo. I admit circumstances have modified my original dream, but then I dreamed my first dream as a man unmarried. Now I have added to it in the thought of the son my wife's going to present me with. After beating Hellbeam and making the fortune I desired, I didn't flee here to the coast of Labrador as a mere refuge from the man you tell me I robbed. No. This place served its purpose that way, it's true. But it was the place I selected long since for the fulfilment of the second part of my dream. "Bat--Bat, old friend. It isn't I who lack imagination. It's you, with your bull-dog, fighting nature. Years ago, way back there in my rooms at the university, I took up a study that interested me mightily. It was when the European war was on, and was doing its best to unship the brains of half the world. I took it up to relieve myself of the strain of things. And it inspired me with a desire to achieve something that looked well-nigh impossible. I was watching the Swedes, the Skandinavians generally, and I saw them getting fat and rich by holding the rest of the world to ransom for paper and wood pulp--the stuff we call here groundwood. It was then that my dream was born. Oh, yes, it's changed a bit since then. But not so much. All I learned at that time told me there was only one country in the world that was due to hold the world's paper industry, and that country was yours--Canada. The illimitable forests of the country are one of the most amazing features of it. The water power--yes, and even the climate. But I saw all Skandinavia's advantage. Hitherto they've had a complete monopoly. Geographically they were in the thick of the world. The whole darn thing was in their lap. But they have a weakness which you could never find in this country. Their forests are being eaten into. Their lumber is receding farther and farther from their mills. Their labour is difficult. Well, I set to work with a map and those figures which you guess are my strong point. I played around with all the information of Quebec and Labrador I could get hold of. Then, after worrying around awhile, I realised that, with only eighteen hundred sea miles dividing Britain from Labrador, given the cheapness of power, sufficiently extensive plant and forest limits and adequate shipping, I could put groundwood on the European market in favourable competition with Skandinavia. By this means I could build up an industry which means the wealth of Canada for the Canadians, and establish the paper industry of the world within the heart of our British Empire. So it was Farewell Cove and Sachigo on the coast of Labrador for me. And the locality had nothing to do with the man who guesses I robbed him." It was Bat who was held silent now. He nodded his head at the narrow back that remained turned on him. "Well, since then," Standing went on, "seven years have passed. Circumstances have forced modifications on my plans. Hellbeam is the circumstance. You say we are the gophers hunting our holes. Maybe you're right. Anyway Hellbeam's shadow is haunting me. It's haunting me in that I know--_I_ feel--that the fulfilment of this dream is not for me. Why?" He turned abruptly from the window. His pale face was even paler under the excitement burning in his dark eyes. He thrust out a hand, a delicate, long-fingered hand pointing at his friend and faithful servant. "Say, you reckon I've no imagination. Listen. I see the time coming when all you say of Hellbeam's purpose will be fulfilled, and my dream shattered and tumbling about my head. If Hellbeam succeeds, can I let this thing happen? Can I sacrifice this great purpose in such a personal disaster? No. My hope is in my little wife, that dear woman who's given herself to me with the full knowledge of the threat hanging over my future. She and I have dreamed a fresh dream. And she's even now fulfilling her part of that dream. Yes, you're right. I'm going to fight for our dream with every ounce that's in me. I know my failings. I'm at heart a coward. But I'm out to fight though the gates of hell are agape waiting for me. And when I'm beaten, and Hellbeam's satisfied his kick, my boy, my little son, will step into my shoes and carry on the work till it's complete. Oh, yes, I say 'my son.' Nancy will see to it that she gives me a son. And, by God, how I will fight for him!" Bat was silent before the tide of his friend's passion. He listened to the strange mixture of clear thinking and unreasoning faith with a feeling of something like awe of a man whom he had long since given up attempting to fathom. He was a rough lumberman, a mill-boss, who, by sheer force, had raised himself from the dregs of a lumber camp to a position where his skill and capacity had full play. And in his utter lack of education it was impossible that he should be able to fathom a nature so complex, so far removed from his sphere of culture. His devotion to the ex-university professor was based on a splendid gratitude such as only the native generosity of his temper could bestow. The man had once served him in his extremity. Even to this day he never quite realised how the thing had come about, and Leslie Standing refused to talk of it. All he knew was that as mill-boss of an obscure mill, far in the interior of Quebec, away down south of Sachigo, he had fought one of those sudden battles with a lumber-jack which seem to spring up without any apparent reason. And in the desperateness of it, in the fierce height to which his battling temper had arisen, he had killed his man. Even so, these things were sufficiently common for little notice of the matter to have been taken. But it so happened that the dead man was the hero of the workers of the mill, and Bat Harker was their well-hated boss. Forthwith, in their numbers, the workers at once determined that Bat should pay the penalty. They seized and imprisoned him, while they sent down country to get him duly tried and condemned. It was then the miracle happened. It happened in the night, with the appearance of a lean, tall man, with a high forehead, and smooth black hair, and the clothes of civilisation to which Bat Harker was little enough accustomed. He entered his prison room seemingly without question. He told Bat that if he cared to get away he had the means awaiting him outside. And the prisoner who had visions of hanging, or at best, a long term of imprisonment, snatched at the helping hand held out. And Leslie Standing had brought him in safety straight to Farewell Cove, where together, with the vast capital which the former had wrung from the Swedish financier, Nathaniel Hellbeam, they had undertaken the creation of the great mill of Sachigo. Bat, in his wonder at the apparent ease of his rescue, had sought information. But little enough had been forthcoming. Leslie Standing had only smiled in his pensive fashion. "Money," he had said calmly. "Just money. It can do most things." That was all. And thenceforward the subject had been taboo. Even after seven years of intimate relations, Bat was still mystified on the subject, he was still guessing. Now, as he listened to his friend's expressions of faith, so strangely jumbled with calculated purpose, he sat at the table groping helplessly. Suppose--suppose that faith were to be shattered. What then? His mind was concerned, deeply concerned. And he dared not put his fears into words. Standing came back to his chair. "Here, we've talked these things enough," he said. "You've got my word. Just don't worry a thing. If Hellbeam's dogs get around, well--we're here first. All I want is news of Nancy. And that'll be along any old time now. When I get that--." The door of the office was thrust open, and an olive-hued face appeared. It was the clerk who worked in direct contact with the owner of the Sachigo mill. He was one-third nigger, another French Canadian, and the rest of him was Indian. It was a combination that appealed to the man who employed him. "They've 'phoned it through from the wireless at the headland, Boss," the man said without preamble, pushing a sheet of paper into Leslie Standing's hand. He had gone as swiftly and silently as he came, and the door was closed softly behind him. Standing was gazing across at Bat. He had not even glanced at the message. "I'd like to bet," he cried, his eyes alight with a smiling excitement. Then he shook his head. "No. I wouldn't bet on it. It's too sacred. Nancy--my Nancy--." He broke off, and glanced down at the paper. In a moment the smile fell from his eyes. When he looked up it was to flash a keen glance at the rugged face beyond the desk. "Here, listen," he cried, with a sharp intake of breath. "Watch _Lizzie_ for U.G.P. Signed--Nisson." Bat nodded. "U.G.P. That's Union Great Peninsular Railroad. That's Hellbeam's. It means--." "It means Hellbeam's men are aboard. The packet _Lizzie_ is due at our quay in less than an hour." Standing tore the message into small fragments and dropped them into the wastepaper basket beside him. Only was his emotion displayed in the deliberate care with which he reduced the paper to the smallest possible fragments. CHAPTER II THE MAN WITH THE MAIL The calm waters of Farewell Cove lay a-shimmer under the slanting rays of the sun. A wealth of racing white cloud filled the dome of the summer sky, speeding under the pressure of a strong top wind. Even the harsh world of Labrador was smiling under the beneficence of the brief summer season. Leslie Standing stood for a moment before passing down the winding woodland trail on his way to the water-front below. The view of it all was irresistible to him in his present mood, and he feasted his eyes hungrily while the resolve he had taken yielded an inflexible hardening. Bat Harker was less affected by the things spread out before him. He was concerned only for the mood of the man beside him. So he waited with such patience as his hasty nature could summon. "It's all good, Bat, old friend," Standing said, after a moment's silent contemplation. "It's too good to lose. It's too good for us to stand for interference from--Nathaniel Hellbeam." Bat grunted some sort of acquiescence. He was gazing steadily out over the spruce belt which covered the lower slopes of the hillside. His keen deep-set eyes were on the shipping lying out in the cove, watching the fussy approach of the bluff packet boat. It was a scene of amazing natural splendour which the works of man had no power to destroy. Farewell Cove was a perfect natural harbour, deep-set amidst surrounding, lofty, forest-clad hills. It was wide and deep, a veritable sea-lake, backing inland some fifteen miles behind the wide headland gateway to the East, which guarded its entrance from the storming Atlantic. Its shores were of virgin forest, peopled with the delicate-hued spruce, and all the many other varieties of soft, white, long-fibred timber demanded in the manufacture of the groundwood pulp needed for the world's paper industry. Far as the eye could see, in every direction, it was the same; forest and hill. And, in the heart of it all, the great watercourse of the Beaver River debouched upon the cove which linked it with the ocean beyond. It was a world of forest, seeming of limitless extent. But the feast that had inspired Leslie Standing's words was less the banquet which Nature had spread than the things which expressed the labours he and his companion had expended during the past seven years. He was concerned for the endless forests. He appreciated the great waterfall to the west, where the Beaver River fell off the highlands of the interior and precipitated itself into the cove below. These were the two things in Nature he had demanded to make his work possible. For the rest, the rugged immensity of scenery, the mighty contours of the aged land about him, the vastness of the harsh primordial world, so inhospitable, so forbidding under the fierce climate which Nature had imposed, made no appeal. It served, and so it was sufficient. The lights and shades under the summer sunlight were full of splendour. No artist eye could have gazed upon it all and missed its appeal. But these men lived amidst it the year round, and they had learned something of the fear which the ruthless northland inspires. To them the beauty of the open season was a mockery, a sham, the cruel trap of a heartless mistress. It was on the wide southern foreshore, just below where the falls of the Beaver River thundered into the chasm which the centuries of its flood had hewn in the granite rock, that Standing had founded his great mill. It lay there, in full view from the hillside, amidst a tangle of stoutly made roads, where seven years ago not even a game track had existed. He had set it up beside his water-power, and had given it the name which belonged to the ruined trading post he had found on the southern headland of the cove when first he had explored the region. Sachigo. A native, Labrador word which meant "Storm." The trading post had since been re-built into a modern wireless station, and so had become no longer the landmark it once had been. But Standing's whim had demanded the necessity for preserving the name, if only for the sake of its meaning. In seven years the translation of the wilderness had been well-nigh complete. Its vast desolation remained. That could never change under human effort. It was one of the oldest regions of the earth's land, driven and beaten and desolated under a climate beyond words in its merciless severity. But now the place was peopled. Now human dwellings dotted the forest foreshore of the cove. And the latter were the homes of the workers who had come at the mill-owner's call to share in his great adventure. Then there was shipping in the cove. A fleet of merchant shipping awaiting cargoes. There was a built inner harbour, with quays, and warehouses. There were travelling cranes, and every appliance for the loading of the great freighters with all possible dispatch. There were light railways running in every direction. There were sheltering "booms" in the river mouth crammed with logs, and dealt with by an army of river men equipped with their amazing peavys with which they thrust, and rolled, and shepherded the vast mass of hewn timber towards the slaughterhouse of saws. Then, immediately surrounding the mill, there was a veritable town of storehouses and offices and machine shops of every description. There were power-houses, there were buildings in the process of construction, and the laid foundations of others projected. It was a world of active human purpose lost in the heart of an immense solitude which it was nevertheless powerless to disturb. "Yes, it's all too good to have things happen, Bat," Standing went on presently. "Hark at the roar of the falls. What is it? Five hundred thousand horsepower of water, summer and winter. Listen to the drone of the grinders." He shook his head. "It's a great song, boy, and they never get tired of singing it. There's only thirty-six of 'em at present. Thirty-six. We'll have a hundred and thirty-six some day. Look down there at the booms." He stood pointing, a tall, lean figure on the hillside. "Tens of thousands of logs, and hundreds of men. We'll multiply those again and again--one day. It's fine. The freighters lying at anchor awaiting their cargoes. Some day we'll have our own ships--a big fleet of 'em. See the smoke pennants floating from our smoke stacks. They're the triumphant pennants of successful industry, eh? We can't have too many such flags flying. One day we'll have trolley cars running along the shores of the cove to bring the workers in to the mill. It'll be like a veritable Atlantic City. Oh, it's a great big dream. There's nothing amiss. No." "Only the _Lizzie_ getting in." Bat was without apparent appreciation. He was thinking only of the message they had received, and the threat it contained. Standing glanced round at the sturdy figure beside him. A half smile lit his sallow features. Then he turned again and sought out the tubby vessel approaching the wharf below. But it was only for a moment. Some subtle thought impelled him, and he glanced back at the house on the hillside he had just left, the house he had erected for the woman whose devotion had taught him the real meaning of life. It was a long, low, rambling, gabled building. It was an extensive timber-built home with a wide verandah and those many vanities and conceits of building that would never have been permitted had it been intended for bachelordom. He remembered how Nancy and he had designed it together. He remembered the delight with which they had looked forward to its completion, and ultimately their boundless joy in the task of its furnishing. He remembered how Nancy had insisted that it should contain not only their home, but his own private office, from which he could control the great work he had set his hand to. It had been her ardent desire to be always near him, always there to support him under the burden of his immense labours. And remembering these things a fierce desire leapt within him, and he turned again to the man at his side. "Yes, she's getting in, Bat," he said. "But I just wanted to get a peek at things. Well, I've seen all I want, old friend. Now I'm ready. Fight? Oh, yes, I'm ready to fight. Come on." And he laughed as he hurried down the woodland trail to the water-side. * * * * * The two men had reached the quay-side, which was lined with bales of wood-pulp stacked ready for shipment. Farther down its length the cranes were rattling their chains, swinging their burdens out over the holds of the vessel taking in its moist cargo. The stevedores were vociferously busy, working against time. For, in the brief open season, time was the very essence of the success demanded for the mills. The noise, the babel of it all was usually the choicest music to Standing and his manager. But just now they were less heeding. Their eyes were turned upon the small steamer plugging its deliberate way over the water towards them. It was a small, heavily-built tub of a vessel calculated to survive the worst Atlantic storms. Bat's face was without any expression of undue emotion. But the hard lines about his clean-shaven mouth were sharply set. Standing was asurge with an excitement that fired his dark eyes. His wide-brimmed hat was thrust back from his forehead, and he stood with his hands thrust deeply in the pockets of his moleskin trousers. His nervous fingers were playing with loose coins and keys which they found irresistible. The _Lizzie_ came steadily on. "We'll know the whole game in minutes now." Standing could keep silent no longer. Bat nodded. "Yep." Orders from the bridge of the packet boat rang out over the water. Then Standing went on. "I want to find Idepski aboard," he said. He was scarcely addressing his companion. "It would be good to get Master Walter here, fifty-three degrees north." A short, hard laugh punctuated his words. Then he turned abruptly. "Who's running No. 10 camp?" Just for an instant Bat withdrew his gaze from the approaching vessel. He flashed a keen look of enquiry into the eyes of the questioner. "Ole Porson," he said. "I thought so. He's a good boy. He'll do." Standing nodded. The cold significance of his tone was not lost on his companion. Maybe Bat understood the thing that was passing in the other's mind. At any rate he turned again to the broad-beamed tub steaming so busily towards them. "I see old Hardy on the bridge," Standing went on a moment later. Then he added: "Fancy navigating the Labrador coast for forty years. No, I couldn't do it. I wouldn't have the--guts." Bat still remained silent. He understood. The other was talking because it was impossible for him to refrain. "They're standing ready to make fast," Standing said sharply. He drew a quick breath. Then his manner changed and his words came pensively. "Say, it's a queer life--a hell of a life. The sea folk, I mean. It's about the worst on earth. Think of it, cooped within those timbers that are never easy till they lie at anchor in the shelter of a harbour. I'd just hate it. Their life? What is it? It's not life at all. Hard work, hard food, hard times, and hard drinking--when they're ashore--most of them. I think I can understand. They surely need something to drown the memory of the threat they're always living under. No, they don't live. They exist. Here, let's stand clear. They're coming right in." * * * * * The bustle of landing was in full swing. Even with so small a craft as the _Lizzie_ there was commotion. Orders flew from lip to lip. Creaking cables strained at unyielding bollards. Gangways clattered out from deck, and ran down on to the quay with a crash. Hatches were flung open and the steam winches rattled incessantly. Standing and Harker were looking on from a vantage point well clear of the work of unloading. The captain of the vessel, "Old Man" Hardy, was with them. The seaman was beaming with that satisfaction which belongs to the master when his vessel is safely in port. "Oh, I guess it ain't been too bad a trip," he was saying. "Takin' the 'ins' with the 'outs,' I'd say it was a fairish passage, which is mostly as it should be, seein' it's my last voyage in the old barge. Y'see, you folks are kind of robbing me of this blessed old kettle," he explained, with a grin that lit up the whole of his mahogany features. "Y'see we're loaded well-nigh rail under with stuff for your mill, which don't leave a dog's chance for the other folks along the coast. The Company guesses they got to put on a two thousand tonner. The _Myra_. I haven't a kick comin'. She's all a seaboat. Still, I'm kind of sorry, don't you know. I've known the _Lizzie_ since she came off the stocks, which is mostly forty years, and we're mighty good friends, which ain't allus the way. I'd say, too, I'm getting old for a change. Still--." Standing shook his head. "What do they say? 'Hardy' by name, 'Hardy' by nature. The toughest and best sailorman on the Labrador coast! Well, I'm sorry you don't feel good about it. But," he added with a smile, "it means a good deal to us getting a bigger packet." Captain Hardy nodded. "Thankee kindly. It's good to know folks reckon a fellow something more than just part of a kettle of scrap like this old packet. But I'd have been glad to finish my job with her. Still, times don't stand around even in Labrador." He finished up with something in the nature of a sigh. The work going forward was full of interest. But it was not the work that held Standing, or the watchful eyes of Bat Harker. Their sole interest was in the personality of the crew and the five passengers, mostly "drummers," from the great business houses of Quebec and Montreal, who were struggling to land their trunks of samples and get them off to the offices of the mill so as to complete their trade before the _Lizzie_ put to sea again. Not one of these escaped their observation. "You seem to keep much the same crew right along, Hardy," Standing said pleasantly. "I suppose they like shipping with a good skipper. I seem to recognise most of their faces." "Oh, yes. They're mostly the same boys," Hardy agreed, obviously appreciating the compliment. "But I guess I lost four boys this trip. They skipped half an hour before putting to sea. It happens that way now and then, if they're only soused enough when they get aboard. They're a crazy lot with rye under their belts. I just had to replace 'em with some dockside loafers, or lie alongside another day." Standing nodded. A man was moving down the gangway bearing a large, grey, official-looking sack on his shoulders. He was a slight, dark man with a curiously foreign cast about his features. "The mail?" he enquired. And a curious sharpness flavoured his demand. Then he added, with studied indifference. "One of your--dockside loafers?" Captain Hardy laughed. He continued to laugh as he watched the unhandiness of the man staggering down the gangway under his burden. "Yep. The mail," he said. "And I'd hate to set that feller to work on a seaman's job. He's about as unhandy as a doped Chinaman. I'd say Masters is playing safe keeping him from messing up the running gear while we're discharging. Say, get a look at it." A great laugh accompanied the old man's words as the foreign-looking creature tripped on the gangway, and only saved himself from a bad fall by precipitating his burden upon the quay. There was no responsive laughter in Standing. And Bat Harker's features remained rigidly unsmiling. Standing turned sharply. "Maybe you can spare that boy to run those mails up to my office," he said. "It's a good healthy pull up the hill for him, and my folks are full to the neck with things. I'd be glad." "Sure he can." Captain Hardy was only too delighted to be able to oblige so important a customer of his company. He promptly shouted at the landing officer. "Ho, you! Masters! Just let that darn Dago tote them mails right up to Mr. Standing's office. He ain't no sort of use out of hell down here--anyway." The mate's reply came back with an appreciative grin. "Ay, sir," he cried, and forthwith hurled the order at the mail carrier with a plentiful accompaniment of appropriate adjectives. "Thanks," Standing turned away. His smiling luminous eyes were shining. "I'll get right along up, Captain. There's liable to be things need seeing to in that mail before you pull out. You'd best come along, too, Bat," he added pointedly. Standing hurried away. A sudden fierce passion was surging through his veins. Nisson was right. He knew it--now. And in a fever of impatience he was yearning to come to grips with those who would rob him of the hopes in which his whole being was bound up. CHAPTER III IDEPSKI The two men reached the office on the hillside minutes before the mail carrier. They took the hill direct, passing hurriedly through the aisles of scented woods which shadowed its face. The other, the stranger, was left with no alternative but the roadway, zigzagging at an easier incline. Standing passed into the house. His confidential man of many races looked up from his work. The quick, black eyes were questioning. He was perhaps startled at the swift return of the man whom he regarded above all others. Standing spoke coldly, emphatically. "There's a man coming along up. He's a sailorman, and he's dressed in dirty dungaree, and he's carrying a sack of mail. Now see and get this clearly, Loale. It's important. It's so important I can't stand for any sort of mistake. When he comes you've got to send him right into my room with the mail-bag. I want him to take it in _himself_. You get that?" The half-breed's eyes blinked. It was rather the curious attitude of an attentive dog. But that was always his way when the master of the Sachigo Mill spoke to him. Pete Loale was quite an unusual creature. He looked unkempt and unclean, with his yellow, pock-marked skin, and his clothes that would have disgraced a second-hand dealer's stores of waste. But for all his lack in these directions there was that in the man which was more than worth while. Out of his black eyes looked a world of intelligence. There was also a resource and initiative in him that Standing fully appreciated. "Sure I get that," he said simply. Then he repeated in the manner of a child determined to make no mistake. "He's to take that mail-bag right into your office--_himself_." "That's it. Don't knock on my door. Don't let him think there's a soul inside that room. Just boost him right in. You get that?" The half-breed nodded. "I'll just say: 'Here you! Just push that darn truck right inside that room, an' don't worry me with it, I'm busy.' That how?" The man hunched his slim shoulders into a shrug. "See you do it--just that way," Standing said. Then he turned to Bat. "We'll get inside," he went on. "He'll be right along." They passed into the office. The door closed behind them and Standing moved over to his seat at the crowded desk. "Wal?" Bat was still standing. He failed to grasp his friend's purpose. His wit was unequal to the rapid process of the other's swiftly calculating mind. Standing littered his writing-pad with papers. He picked up a pen and jabbed it in the inkwell. Then he flung it aside and adopted a fountain-pen which he drew from his waistcoat pocket. His eyes lit with a half-smile as he finally raised them to the rugged face before him. "You sit right over there by that window, Bat," he said easily. "If you get a look out of it you'll be amazed at the number of things to interest you." He nodded as Bat moved away with a grin and took the chair indicated. "That's it. Just sit around, and you won't see or even hear the fellow with the mail fall in through the door. And maybe, sitting there, you'll want to smoke your foul old pipe. Sort of pipe of peaceful meditation. Yes, I'd smoke that pipe, old friend, but you can cut out the peaceful meditation. You need to be ready to act quick when I pass the word. It's going to be easy. So easy I almost feel sorry for--Idepski." "It _is_--Idepski?" Bat filled and lit his pipe. "It surely is. No other. And--I'm glad. Now we'll quit talk, old friend. Just smoke, and look out of that window, and--think like hell." Bat's understanding of his friend was well founded. The extreme nervous tension in Standing was obvious. It was in the wide, dark eyes. It was in the constant shifting of the feet which the table revealed. For the time, at least, the cowardice Standing claimed for himself was entirely swamped. He was stirred by the headlong excitement of battle in a manner that left Bat more than satisfied. Once Bat turned from his contemplation of the piled-up country beyond the valley. It was at the sound of Standing's fiercely scratching pen. And his quick gaze took in the luxury of the setting for the little drama he felt was about to be enacted. It was a wide, pleasant room, built wholly of red pine, and polished as only red pine will polish. There was a thick oriental carpet on the floor, and all the mahogany furniture was upholstered in red morocco. There were a few carefully selected pictures upon the walls, hung with an eye to the light upon each. But it was not an extravagant room. It suggested the homeland of Scotland, from which the owner of it all hailed. The Canadian atmosphere only found expression in the great steel stove which stood in one corner, and the splendid timber of which the walls of the room were built. But Bat's eyes swiftly returned to their allotted task, and his reeking pipe did its duty with hearty goodwill. There was the sound of strident voices in the outer room, and the rattle of the door handle turning with a wrench. The door swung open. The next moment there was the sound of a sack pitched upon the soft pile of the carpet. And through the open doorway the harsh voice of Loale pursued the intruder in sharp protest. "Say, do you think you're stowing cargo in your darn, crazy old barge?" he cried. "If you fancy throwing things around you best get out an' do it. Guess you ain't used to a gent's office, you darn sailorman--" But the door was closed with a slam and the rest of the protest was cut off. Bat swung about in his chair to discover a picture not easily to be forgotten. Standing had left his desk. He was there with his back against the closed door, and his lean figure towered over the shorter sailorman in dungaree, who stood gazing up at him questioningly. The sight appealed to the grim humour of the manager. He wanted to laugh. But he refrained, though his eyes lit responsively as he watched the smile of irony that gleamed in the mill-owner's eyes. "Well, well." Standing's tone lost none of the aggravation of his smile. "Say, I'd never have recognised you, Idepski, if it hadn't been that I was warned you'd shipped on the _Lizzie_." He laughed outright. "I can't help it. You wouldn't blame me laughing if you could see yourself. Last time I had the pleasure of encountering you was in Detroit. That's years ago. How many? Nearly seven. It seems to me I remember a bright-looking 'sleuth,' neat, clean, spruce, with a crease to his pant-legs like a razor edge, a fellow more concerned for his bath than his religion. Say, where did you raise all that junk? From old man Hardy's slop-chest? Hellbeam makes you work for your money when you're driven to wallowing in a muck-hole like the _Lizzie_. It isn't worth it. You see, you've run into the worst failure you've made in years. But I only wish you could see the sorry sort of sailorman you look." Standing's right hand was behind him, and Bat heard the key turn in the lock of the door. He waited. But the trapped agent never opened his lips. Idepski had seen Standing and the other down at the quay-side. He had left them there when he started up the hill. Yet--A bitter fury was driving him. He realised the trap that had been laid. He realised something of the deadly purpose lying behind it. So he remained silent under the scourge that was intended to hurt. For all the filthy dungarees tucked into the clumsy legs of high leather sea boots, the dirty-coloured handkerchief knotted about his neck, the curious napless cloth cap with its peak pulled down over one eye, that curious cap which seems to be worn by no one else in the world but seafaring men, it was easy enough for Bat to visualise the dapper picture, that other picture of Walter Idepski that Standing had described. The man possessed a well-knit, sinuous figure which his dungarees could not disguise. His alert eyes were good-looking. And, cleaned of the black, stubbly growth of beard and whisker, an amazing transformation in his looks would surely have been achieved. But Bat's interest was less with these things than with the possible reaction the man might contemplate. For the moment, however, the situation was entirely dominated by Standing, who displayed no sign of relaxing his hold upon it. He flung out a pointing hand, and Bat saw it was grasping the door key. "You'd best take that chair, Idepski," he ordered. "You've opened war on me, but there's no need to keep you standing for it. You'll take that seat against my writing table. But first, Bat, here, is going to relieve you of the useless weapons I see you've got on you. Get those, Bat! There's a gun and a sheath knife, and they're clumsily showing their shape under his dungarees." It was the word the mill-manager had awaited. He was on his feet in an instant. Idepski stirred to action. He turned to meet him. "Keep your darn hands off!" he cried fiercely. "By--" His hand had flown to his hip. But he was given no time. Bat was on him like an avalanche, an avalanche of furious purpose. The fighting spirit in him yearned, and in a moment his victim was caught up in a crushing embrace. There was a short, fierce struggle. But Idepski was no match for the super lumber-jack. While Bat held on, the tenacious hands of Standing tore the weapons he had discovered from their hiding places. Then in a moment Idepski found himself sprawling in the chair he had been invited to take. Standing's appreciation was evident as he watched the man draw a gold cigarette case from the breast pocket of his overalls as though nothing had occurred. It was an act of studied coolness that did not for a moment deceive, but it pleased. However, his next effrontery pleased the mill-owner still more. "Say, boys," Idepski observed quietly, as he opened the case and extracted a cigarette. "I guess I'm kind o' glad you left me this. But I don't figger you're out for loot, anyway." Then he glanced up at the man watching him so interestedly. "Maybe you'll oblige me with a light," he demanded, and cocked up the cigarette he had thrust between his lips with an exaggerated impertinence. The action was quite irresistible and Standing nodded. "Sure," he said smilingly, and picked up the matchbox lying on his table. He struck a match and held it while the other obtained the required light. Then he passed round the desk to the seat he had originally occupied. Idepski leant back in his chair, and luxuriated in a deep inhalation of smoke. Bat watched him from his place at the window. Standing placed the revolver and sheath knife he had taken possession of in a drawer in the desk, and closed it carefully. "Well, what's the play?" Idepski addressed himself solely to Standing. "I guess you've said a deal calculated to rile, and your pardner's done more," he went on. "Still--anyway we're mostly men and not school-kids. What's the play?" Standing, too, was leaning back in his chair. "It's easy," he said, after a moment's thoughtful regard. Suddenly he drew his chair up to the table, and, leaning forward, folded his arms upon the littered blotting pad in front of him. "It's seven years since Hellbeam--blazed the war trail," he said deliberately. "I know he's persistent. He's angry. And he's the sort of man who doesn't cool down easily. But it's taken him seven years to locate me here. And during all that time I've been looking on, watching his every move." He shook his head. "He's badly served, for all his wealth. He was badly served from the start. You should never have let me beat you in that first race across the border. I got away with every cent of the stuff, and--you shouldn't have let me. You certainly were at fault. However, it doesn't matter." Idepski removed his cigarette from his lips and dropped the ash of it in the waste basket. "No. It doesn't matter, because I'll get you--in the end," he retorted coldly. "Perhaps." Standing shrugged. But there was no indifference in his eyes. The acid sharpness of Idepski's retort had driven straight home. If the agent failed to detect it, the watchful eyes of Bat missed nothing. To him the danger signal lay in the curious flicker of his friend's eyelids. The sight impelled him. He jumped in and took up the challenge in the blunt fashion he best understood. "Guess you've got nightmare, boy," he said, with a sneering laugh. "I ain't much at figgers, but it seems to me if it's taken you seven years to locate us here, it's going to take you seventy-seven gettin' Standing back across that border. Work it out." Idepski had no intention of being drawn. He replied without turning. "You think that?" he said easily. "Say, don't worry a thing; I'm satisfied. Just as sure as the sun'll rise to-morrow, Hellbeam'll get Leslie Martin, or Standing as he chooses to call himself now, just where he needs him. And if I know Hellbeam that'll be in the worst penitentiary the United States can produce. Guess you're going to wish you hadn't, Mister--Standing." Perhaps Idepski knew his man, and understood the weakness of which Bat was so painfully aware. Perhaps he was just fencing, or even putting up a bluff in view of his own position. Whatever his purpose the effect of his added threat was instant. Standing's luminous eyes hardened. The muscles of his jaws gripped. He sat up, and his whole attitude expressed again that fighting mood in which Bat rejoiced. "That's all right," he said sharply. "That's just talk. You've come a hell of a long way with those boys of yours down at the _Lizzie_ to worry out some body-snatching. That's all right. I don't just see how you've figgered to do it. But that's your affair. The point is, I'm going to do the body-snatching instead of you. And it's quite clear to me how I intend doing it. You're going a trip--right off. And it's a trip from which you won't get a chance of getting back to Quebec under this time next year. You see, winter's closing down in a month, and Labrador and Northern Quebec aren't wholesome territory for any man to set out to beat the trail in winter, especially with folks around anxious to stop him. You reckon I'm to pass a while in a States penitentiary. Well, meanwhile you're going to try what this country can show you in the way of a--prison ground. And you're going to try it for at least a year. You'll be treated white. But you'll need to work for your grub like other folks, and if you don't feel like working you won't eat. We're fifty-three degrees north here, and our ways are the tough ways of the tough country we live in. There's no sort of mercy in this country. Bat, here, is going to see you on your trip, and, if you take my advice, you won't rile Bat. He's got it in him, and in his hands, to make things darn unpleasant for you. You've a goodish nerve, and maybe you've goodish sense. You'll need 'em both for the next twelve months. After that it's up to you. But if you try kicking between now and then, why--God help you." Standing beckoned Bat from his seat at the window. He held up the door key. "You best take this," he said. "No. 10. And he starts out right away. He needs to be well on the road before the _Lizzie_ puts to sea." Bat took the key. He moved away and unlocked the door, and remained beside it grimly regarding the man who had listened without comment to the sentence passed on him, without the smallest display of emotion. Idepski was smoking his second cigarette. "No. 10. I s'pose that's one of your lumber camps." Idepski looked up from his contemplation of the cigarette. His dark eyes were levelled at the man across the writing table. "A tough place, eh? or you wouldn't be sending me there." He laughed in a fashion that left his eyes coldly enquiring. Standing inclined his head. He was without mercy, without pity. "It's a tough camp in a tough country," he said deliberately. "It's a camp where you'll get just as good a time as you choose to earn. The boy who runs it learnt his job in the forests of Quebec, and you'll likely understand what that means. Well, you're going right off now. But there's this I want to tell you before I see the last of you--for a year. I know you, Idepski. I know you for all you are, and all you're ever likely to be. You're an unscrupulous blackmailer and crook. You're a parasite battening yourself on the weakness of human nature, taking your toll from whichever side of a dispute will pay you best. You're taking Hellbeam's money in the dispute between him and me, and you'll go on taking it till you pull off the play he's asking, or get broken in the work of it. That's all right as far as I'm concerned. You've nerve, you've courage, or you wouldn't be the crook you are. I guess you'll go on because I've no intention of competing with Hellbeam for your services. But I want you to understand clearly you've jumped into a mighty big fight. This is a country where a fight can go on without the prying eyes of the laws of civilisation peeking into things. And by that I take it you'll understand I reckon to make war to the knife. You came here prepared to use force. That's all right. We shan't hesitate to use force on our side. And we're going to use it to the limit. If peace is only to be gained at the cost of your life you're going to pay that cost--if it suits me. That's all I've to say at the moment. For the present, for a year, you'll be safely muzzled. You see, I don't need to worry with those boys you brought with you. You best go along with Bat now. He'll fix things ready for your trip." The dismissal was complete, and Bat was prompt to accept his cue. He moved towards the man smoking at the table, much in the fashion of a warder advancing to take possession of his prisoner after sentence of the court. It was at that moment that the cold mask of indifference fell from the agent. Hardy as he was, the contemplation of his momentary failure, which was about to cost him twelve months of hardship in one of the roughest lumber camps in Labrador, robbed him of something of that nerve which was his chief asset. He glanced for the first time at the burly figure of Bat. He contemplated the rugged features of the man whose battling instinct was his strongest characteristic. He read the purpose in the grim set of the square jaws, and in the unyielding light of the grey eyes peering out from under shaggy brows. And that which he read reduced him to a feeling of impotence. He flung a look of fury and hate at the man behind the desk. "Maybe that's all you've to say," he cried, his jaws snapping viciously over his words, his eyes fiercely alight. "You think you've won when you've only gained a moment's respite. You can't win. You don't know. Oh, yes. I guess you can send me along out of the way. You can do just all you reckon. And if it suits you, you can shoot me up or any other old thing. You forget Hellbeam. You tell me I'm a crook and a blackmailer, you give me credit for nerve and courage. That's all right. You think these things, and I don't have to worry. But you've robbed Hellbeam. You've robbed him like any common 'hold-up'--of millions. It's not for you to talk of crooks and blackmailers. The laws of the States are going to find you the crook, and Hellbeam'll see they don't err for leniency. Hellbeam'll get you as sure as God. You've got months to think it over, and when you've done I reckon you won't fancy shouting. Well, I'm ready for this joy spot you call No. 10. I'm not going to kick. I've sense enough to know when the drop's on me. But you'll see me again. Oh, yes, you'll see me again because you're not going to shoot me up. For all your talk you haven't the nerve. You'll see me again, and when you do--well, don't forget Hellbeam's at the other end of this business. Guess I'm ready." The man stood up. And as he stood his eyes looked squarely into those of Bat. "Get on with it," he cried, and flung the remains of his lighted cigarette on the pile of the carpet, and trod it viciously underfoot with his heavy sea boot. * * * * * Standing was alone. He was alone with the thoughts his encounter with Idepski had inspired. Judging by the expression of his reflective eyes they were scarcely those of a man confident of victory. Had Bat been there to witness, the task he was at that moment engaged upon would surely have been robbed of half its satisfaction. But Bat had gone. And with him had gone the man who was to learn the rigours of a Labrador winter under conditions of hardship he had not yet realised. Meanwhile Standing was free to think as his emotions guided him, with no watchful eyes to observe. "You'll see me again, and when you do--well, don't forget Hellbeam's at the other end of this business." The words haunted. The threat of them appealed to an imagination that was a-riot. After a time Standing stirred restlessly. He sat up and brushed the litter of paper aside. Then he leant back in his chair and his fine eyes were lit with an agony of doubt and disquiet. The poisonous seed of the agent's retort had fallen upon fruitful soil. But after awhile the tension seemed to relax, and his gaze wandered from the grey daylight beyond the window and was suddenly caught and held by the mail bag, still lying where the man had flung it. It was like the swift passing of a summer storm. The man's whole expression underwent a complete transformation. The mail! The mail from Quebec--unopened! He sprang to his feet. For the moment Idepski, Hellbeam, everything was forgotten. His thought had bridged the miles between Farewell Cove and the ancient city of the early French, Nancy! That woman--that devoted wife who was striving with all the power of a frail body to serve him. There would be a letter in that mail from Nisson, telling him--Yes. There might even be a letter from Nancy herself. The sack was in his hands. He had broken the seals. He shook out the contents upon the floor. A packet of less than half a hundred letters, and the rest was an assortment of parcels of all shapes and sizes. It was the letter packet that interested him, and he untied the string that held it. A swift search produced the expected. Standing looked for the handwriting of Charles Nisson, the shrewd, obscure lawyer in the country town of Abercrombie. He had never yet failed him. He would not be likely to. A bulky letter remained in his hand. The others lay scattered broadcast upon the desk. For some moments he held the letter unopened. The lean fingers felt the bulk of the envelope, while feverish eyes surveyed, and read over and over the address in the familiar small, cramped handwriting. The impulse of the moment was to tear open the letter forthwith, to snatch at the tidings he felt it to contain. But something deterred. Something left him doubting, hesitating. It was what Bat had called his "yellow streak." Suppose--suppose--But with all his might he thrust his fears aside. He tore off the outer cover and unfolded the closely written pages. Long, silent moments passed, broken only by the shuffling of the sheets of the letter as he turned them. Not once did he look up from his reading. Right through to the end, the dreadful, bitter end, he read the hideous news his loyal friend had to impart. Twice, during the reading, the sharp intake of breath, that almost whistled in the silence of the room, told of an emotion he had no power to repress, and at the finish of it all the mechanically re-folded page's fell from shaking, nerveless fingers upon the littered desk. His eyes remained lowered gazing at the fallen letter. His hands remained poised where the letter had fallen from them. His face had lost its healthful hue. It was grey, and drawn, and the lips that parted as he muttered had completely blanched. "Dead!" he whispered without consciousness of articulation. "Dead! Nancy! My boy! Both! Oh, God!" CHAPTER IV THE "YELLOW STREAK" The grey, evening light was significant of the passing season. A chilly breeze whipped about the faces of the men at the fringe of the woods. They were resting after a long tramp of inspection through the virgin forests. It was on a ledge, high up on the hillside of the northern shore of the cove, where the ground dropped away in front of them several hundreds of feet to the waters below. Behind them was a backing of standing timber which sheltered them from the full force of the biting wind. It was nearly a week since Bat Harker had returned from his mission to No. 10 Camp. He had returned full of satisfaction at the completion of his task, and comforted by the knowledge that the horizon of the mill had been cleared of threatening clouds for at least the period of a year. Then he encountered the ricochet of the blow which Fate had dealt his friend and employer. It had been within half an hour of his return, while yet the stains and dust of his journey remained upon him, while yet he was yearning for that rest for his body to which it was entitled. Bat had concluded the report of his journey, and the two men were closeted together in the office on the hillside. The lumberman had had no suspicion of the thing that had happened in his absence, and Standing had given no indication. Standing seemed unchanged. There had been the customary smile of welcome in his eyes. There had been the cordial handshake of friendship. Maybe Standing had talked less, and the searching questions usual in him had not been forthcoming. Maybe there was a curiously tired, strained look in his eyes. But that was all. At the conclusion of his report Bat had bent eagerly forward over the desk which stood between them. His hard eyes were smiling. His whole manner was that of a man anticipating something pleasant. "Say, Les," he cried, "guess you've maybe some news for me, too. It's more than a month since--and you were expecting--Things all right?" Standing reached towards the drawer beside him, and as he did so there was a sound. It was a curious, inarticulate sound that Bat interpreted into a laugh. The other opened the drawer and drew out the folded pages of a letter. These he passed across the table, and his eyes were without a shadow of the laugh which Bat thought he had heard. "Best read it," he said. "Take your time. I'll just finish these figures I'm working on." It was the curious, cold tone that stirred Bat to his first misgiving. He took the letter. There were pages of it. He set them in order and commenced to read. And meanwhile Standing remained apparently engrossed in his figures. He read the letter through. He read it slowly, carefully. Then, like the other had done, the man to whom it was addressed, he read it a second time. And as he read every vestige of his previous satisfaction passed from him. A cold constriction seemed to fasten upon his strong heart. And a terrible realisation of the tragedy of it all took possession of him. At the end of his second reading he handed the letter back to its owner without comment of any sort, without a word, but with a hand that, for once in his life, was unsteady. "That was in the mail Idepski brought," Standing said, as he returned the letter to its place, and shut and locked the drawer. "You remember?" he went on, pointing. "He flung it down there. Just by the door. Yes, it was just there, because I stood against the door, and was only just clear of it." He paused and his hand remained pointing at the spot where the mail bag had lain. It was as if the spot held him fascinated. Then his arm lowered slowly, and his hand came to rest on the edge of the table, gripping it with unnecessary force. "Seems queer," he went on, after a while. Then he shook his head. "Think of it. Nancy--my Nancy. Dead! She died giving birth to my boy. And he--he was stillborn. Why? I--I can't seem to realize it. I--don't--" He paused, and a strained, hunted look grew in his eyes. "No. It's easy. It's just Fate. That's it. There's no escape." He drew a deep breath and one lean hand smoothed back his shining black hair. Then his eyes came back to the face of the man opposite, and the agony in them was beyond words. After a moment their terrible expression became lost as he bent over his work. "I'm glad you're back, Bat," he said, without looking up. "There's a hell of a lot of orders to get out. We're running close up to winter." The lumberman understood. At a single blow this man's every hope had been smashed and ground under the heel of an iron fate. The wife, the woman he had worshipped, had given her life to serve him, and with her had gone the man-child, about whom had been woven the entire network of a father's hopes and desires. A week had passed since Bat had witnessed the voiceless agony of his friend. A week of endless labour and unspoken fears. He knew Standing as it is given to few to know the heart of another. His sympathy was real. It was of that quality which made him desire above all things to render the heartbroken man real physical and moral help. But no opening had been given him, and he feared to probe the wound that had been inflicted. During those first seven days Standing seemed to be obsessed with a desire to work, to work all day and every night, as though he dared not pause lest his disaster should overwhelm him. Now it was Sunday. Night and day the work had gone on. No less than ten freighters had been loaded and dispatched since Bat's return, and only that morning two vessels had cast off, laden to the water-line, and passed down on the tide for the mouth of the cove. At the finish of the midday meal Standing had announced his intentions for the afternoon. "We need to get a look into the lumber on the north side, Bat," he said. "You'd best come along with me. How do you think?" And Bat had agreed on the instant. "Sure," he said. "There's a heap to be done that way if we're to start layin' the penstocks down on that side next year." So they had spent the hours before dusk in a prolonged tramp through the forests of the Northern shore. And never for one moment was their talk and apparent interest allowed to drift from the wealth of long-fibred timber they were inspecting. But somehow to Bat the whole thing was unreal. It meant nothing. It could mean nothing. He felt like a man walking towards a precipice he could not avoid. He felt disaster, added disaster, was in the air and was closing in upon them. He knew in his heart that this long, weary inspection, all the stuff they talked, all the future plans they were making for the mill was the merest excuse. And he wondered when Standing would abandon it and reveal his actual purpose. The man, he knew, was consumed by a voiceless grief. His soul was tortured beyond endurance. And there was that "yellow streak," which Bat so feared. When, when would it reveal itself? How? Now, at last, as they rested on the ledge overlooking the mill and the waters of the cove, he felt the moment of its revelation had arrived. He was propped against the stump of a storm-thrown tamarack. Standing was stretched prone upon the fallen trunk itself. Neither had spoken for some minutes. But the trend of thought was apparent in each. Bat's deep-set, troubled eyes were regarding the life and movement going on down at the mill, whose future was the greatest concern of his life. Standing, too, was gazing out over the waters. But his darkly brooding eyes were on the splendid house he had set up on the opposite hillside. It was the home about which his every earthly hope had centred. And even now, in his despair, it remained a magnet for his hopeless gaze. Winter was already in the bite of the air and in the absence of the legions of flies and mosquitoes as well as in the chilly grey of the lapping waters below them. It was doubtless, too, searching the heart of these men whose faces gave no indication of the sunlight of summer shining within. "Bat!" The lumberman turned sharply. He spat out a stream of tobacco juice and waited. "Bat, old friend, it's no use." Standing had swung himself into a sitting posture. He was leaning forward on the tree-trunk with his forearms folded across his knees. "We've done a lot of talk, and we've searched these forests good. And it's all no use. None at all. There's going to be no penstocks set up this side of the water next year--as far as I'm concerned. I've done. Finished. Plumb finished. I'm quitting. Quitting it all." The lumberman ejected a masticated chew and took a fresh one. "You see, old friend, I'll go crazy if I stop around," Standing went on. "I've been hit a pretty desperate punch, and I haven't the guts to stand up to it. When it came I set my teeth. I wanted to keep sane. I reminded myself of all I owed to the folks working for us. I thought of you. And I tried to bolster myself with the schemes we had for beating the Skandinavians out of this country's pulp-wood trade. Yes, I tried. God, how I tried! But my guts are weak, and I know what lies ahead. For nearly six weeks I've been working things out, and for a week I've been wondering how I should tell you. I brought you here to tell you. "I want you to understand it good," he went on, after the briefest pause. "I can't stand to live on in the house that Nancy and I built up. Every room is haunted by her. By her happy laugh, and by memories of the hours we sat and talked of the boy-child we'd both set our hearts on. I just can't do it without going stark, staring, raving mad. I can't." "That's how I figgered. I've watched it in you, Les. Tell me the rest." Bat chewed steadily. It was a safety-valve for his feelings. "The rest?" Standing turned to gaze out at the house across the water. "If it weren't for you, Bat, I'd close right down. I'd leave everything standing and--get out," he went on slowly. "The whole thing's a nightmare. Look at it. Look around. The forests of soft wood. The township we've set up. The harnessed water power. That--that house of mine. It's all nightmare, and I don't want it. I'm afraid. I'm scared to death of it." Bat moved away from the stump he had been propped against. He passed across to the edge of the ledge and stood gazing down on the scenes below. "You needn't worry for me," he said. "It don't matter a cuss where or how I hustle my dry hash. I was born that way. Fix things the way you feel. Cut me right out." The man's generosity was a simple expression of his rugged nature. His love of that great work below him, in the creation of which he had taken so great a part, was nothing to him at that moment. He was concerned only for the man, who had held out a succouring hand, and led him, in his darkest moments, to safety and prosperity. Standing shook his head at the broad back squared against the grey, wintry sky. "I didn't mean it that way, old friend," he said. Bat swung around. His grey eyes were wide. His face seemed to have softened out of its usual harsh cast. "But I do, Les," he cried. "You don't need to figger a thing about me. You're hurt, boy. You're hurt mighty sore. Cut me right out of your figgers, and do the things that's goin' to heal that sore. If there's a thing I can do to help you, why, I guess I'd be glad to know it." For a few moments Standing remained silent. Perhaps he was pondering upon what he had to say. Perhaps he was simply gaining time to suppress the emotions which the selflessness of the other had inspired. "Here," he cried at last, "I best tell you the whole story that's in my mind. I told you I've been figuring it out. Well, it's figured to the last decimal. You think you know me. Maybe you do. Maybe you know only part of the things I know about myself. If you knew them all I'd hate to think of the contempt you'd have to hand me. You see, Bat, I'm a coward, a terrible moral coward. Oh, I'm not scared of any man living when it comes to a fight. But my mind's full of ghosts and nightmares ready to jump at me with every doubt, every new effort where I can't figure the end. Years ago, when I was a youngster, I yearned for fortune. And I realised that I had it in me to get it quick by means of that crazy talent for figures you reckon is so wonderful. I got the chance and jumped, for it. But every step I took left me scared to the verge of craziness. When I hit up against Hellbeam I got a desire to beat him that was irresistible, and I jumped into the fight with my heart in my mouth. It was easy--so easy. Hellbeam was a babe in my hands. I could play with him as a spider plays with its victim, and when, like a spider, I'd bound him with my figures, hand and foot, I was free to suck his blood till I was satiated. I did all that, and then my nightmare descended upon me again. You know how I fled with Hellbeam's hounds on my heels. I was terrified at the enormity of the thing I'd done. I could have stood my ground and beaten him--and them. But moral cowardice overwhelmed me and drove me to these outlands. God, what I suffered! And after all I haven't the certainty that I deserved it." Bat came back to his stump and stood against it while Standing passed a weary hand across his forehead. "The happenings since then you know as well as I do. I don't need to talk of them. I mean, how I met and married Nancy, when she was widow of that no-account McDonald feller, the editor of _The Abercrombie Herald!_" Bat nodded. "Yes, sure, I know, Les. When you married Nancy an' made her thirteen-year-old daughter--your daughter." "Yes. I'd almost forgotten. Yes, there's her girl, Nancy. She's still at school. Well, anyway, you know, these things, all of 'em. But what you don't know is that you--you Bat, old friend, are solely responsible for all the work that's being done here. You, old friend, are responsible that I've enjoyed seven years of something approaching peace of mind. You, you with your bulldog fighting spirit, you with your hell-may-care manner of shouldering responsibility, and facing every threat, have been the staunch pillar on which I have always leant. Without you I'd have gone under years ago, a victim of my own mental ghosts. No, no, Bat," he went on quickly, as the lumberman shook his head in sharp denial, "it's useless. I know. Leaning on you I've built up around me the reality of that original dream, with the other things I've now lost, and with every ounce in me I've worked for its fulfilment. "Well, what's the logic of it all?" he continued, after a moment's pause. "Yes, it is the logic of it. You may argue that for seven years I've been doing a big work and there's no reason, in spite of what's happened, that I should now abandon it all. But there is. And in your strong old heart you'll know the thing I say is true--if cowardly. During seven years, or part of them, I've known a happiness that's compensated for every terror I've endured. Nancy's been my guardian angel, and the boy, that was to be born, was the beacon light of my life. My poor little wife has gone, and that beacon light, the son we yearned for, has been snuffed right out. And in the shadows left I see only the groping hand of Hellbeam reaching out towards me. In the end that hand will get me, and crush the remains of my miserable life out. I know. Just as sure as God, Hellbeam's going to get me." The sweat of terror stood on the man's high forehead, and he wiped it away. Bat flung a clenched fist down upon the tree stump. "You're wrong, Les. You're plumb wrong. If it means murder I swear before God Hellbeam'll never lay hands on you. Hellbeam? Gee! Let him set his nose north of 'fifty' and I'll promise him a welcome so hot that'll leave hell like a glacier. As for his darn agents? Why, say, I want to feel sorry for 'em 'fore they start. Idepski's hating himself right--" "I know," cried Standing impatiently. "I know it all. Everything you've said you mean, but--it won't save me. But we can leave all that. There's the other things. Why should I go on living here, working, slaving, haunted by the terror of Hellbeam? With my boy, my wife, to fight for it was worth all the agony. But without them--why? Why in the name of sanity should I go on? To beat the Skandinavians out of Canada's trade, and claim it all for a country that doesn't care a curse? To build up a great name that in the end must be dragged in the mire of public estimation? Not on your life, Bat. No, no. I'm going to cut adrift. I'm going to quit. I'm going to lose myself in these forests, and live the remaining years of my life free to run to earth at the first shot of the hunter's gun. It's all that's left me--as I see it." "And all this?" Bat said, reaching out one great hand in the direction of the Cove. "An' that school gal 'way down at Abercrombie, learning her knitting, an' letters, an' crying her dandy eyes out for the mother who had to leave her there when she passed over to you? Say, Les, you best go on. Jest go right on an' I'll say my piece after." Standing sat up. A deep earnestness was in the dark eyes that looked fearlessly into Bat's. He took the other at his word and went on. He had nothing to conceal. "The mill? Why, I want to pass it over to your care, Bat," he said, permitting one swift regretful glance in the direction of the grey waters below them. Then he spoke almost feverishly. "Here's the proposition. I'm going to hand you full powers--through Charles Nisson. You'll run this thing on the lines laid down. If you fancy carrying on the original proposition of extension, well and good. If not, just carry on and leave the rest for--later. You'll be manager for me through Nisson. I shan't remove one cent of capital. I don't want Hellbeam's money beyond the barest grub stake. It'll remain under Nisson's guardianship for your use in running this mill. You'll simply satisfy Nisson. For the rest I shan't interfere. You're drawing a big salary now. Well, seeing I go out of the work, that salary will be doubled. That's for the immediate. Then there's the future. I've a notion. Maybe it's a crazy notion. But it's mine and I mean to test it. Here. We reckon to build up this enterprise for one great, big purpose. It was my dream to break the Skandinavian ring governing the groundwood trade of this country. It was work that appealed to my imagination. I wanted to build this great thing and pass it on to my boy. It seemed to me fine. Worth while. It was a man's work, and it seemed to me a life well spent. I had the guts then--with your support, and the support the thought of my son gave me. I haven't the guts now. The notion fired you, too. It fired you, and it'll grieve you desperately to see it abandoned. It shan't be abandoned. Once in the woods of this queer country I found a man--such a man as is rarely found. He was a man into whose hands I could put my life. And I guess there's no greater trust one man can have in another. He was a man of immense capacity. A man of intellect for all he had no schooling but the schooling of Quebec's rough woods. That man was you, Bat. I'd like to say to you: 'Here's the property. You know the scheme. Go on. Carry it through.' But I can't. I can't because one man can't do it. Well, the woods gave me one man, and they're going to give me another to take the place of the weak-gutted creature who intends to 'rat.' I'm going to find you a partner, a man with brain and force like yourself. A man of iron guts. And when I've found him I'm going to send him on to you. And if you approve him he shall be full partner with you in this concern the day that sees the Canadian Groundwood Trust completed, and the breaking of the Skandinavian ring. Do you follow it all? You and this man will be equal partners in the mill, and every available cent of its capital--the capital I made Hellbeam provide. It'll be yours and his, solely and alone. I--I shall pass right out of it. Hellbeam has no score against you. He has no penitentiary preparing for you. You are not concerned with him. Whatever he may have in store for me he can do nothing to you, and the money I beat him out of will have passed beyond his reach." "And this man you figger to locate? You reckon to take a chance on your judgment?" Bat's challenge came on the instant. "On mine, and--yours." Standing's eyes were full of a keen confidence. And Bat realised something of the sanity lying behind a seemingly mad proposition. "He'll own nothing until he and you have completed the work as we see it. To own his share in the thing he must prove his capacity. He'll be held by the tightest and strongest contract Charles Nisson can draw up." Bat spat out his chew. He replaced it with a pipe, and prepared to flake off its filling from a plug of tobacco. Standing watched him with the anxious eyes of a prisoner awaiting sentence. With the cutting of the first flakes of tobacco, Bat looked up. "And this little gal-child, with the same name as the mother who just meant the whole of everything life could hand you? This kiddie with her mother's blood running in innocent veins? She's your Nancy's daughter and I guess your marriage made her yours." "She's another man's child." Standing's retort was instant. And the tone of it cut like a knife. Bat regarded him keenly. His knife had ceased from its work on the plug. "That's so," he said after a while. Then his gaze drifted in the direction of the house across the water, and the expression in the grey depths of his eyes became lost to the man who could not forget that the remaining child of his wife was the offspring of another man. "It seems queer," he went on reflectively. "That woman, your Nancy, was about the best loved wife, a fellow could think of. She was all sorts of a woman to you. Guess she was mostly the sun, moon, an' stars of your life. Yet her kiddie, a pore, lonesome kiddie, was toted right off to school so she couldn't butt in on you. You've never seen her, have you? And she was blood of the woman that set you nigh crazy. Only her father was another feller. No, Les." He shook his head, and went on filling his pipe. "No, Les, this mill and all about it can go hang if that pore, lone kiddie is wiped out of your reckoning. Maybe I'm queer about things. Maybe I'm no account anyway when it comes to the things of life mostly belonging to Sunday School. But I'd as lief go back to the woods I came from, as handle a proposition for you that don't figger that little gal in it. You best take that as all I've to say. There's a heap more I could say. But it don't matter. You're feelin' bad. Things have hit you bad. And you reckon they're going to hit you worse. Maybe you're right. Maybe you're wrong. Anyway these things are for you, though I'd be mighty thankful to help you. You want to go out of it all. You want to follow up some queer notion you got. You reckon it's going to give you peace. I hope so. I do sure. The thing you've said goes with me without shouting one way or the other. It grieves me bad. But that's no account anyway. But there's that gal standing between us, and she's going to stand right there till you've finished the things you're maybe going to say." For a moment the men looked into each other's eyes. It was a tense moment of sudden crisis between them. "Well?" Bat's unyielding interrogation came sharply. Standing nodded. "I hadn't thought, Bat," he said. Then he drew a deep breath. "I surely hadn't, but I guess you're right. She's my stepdaughter. And I've a right to do the thing you say. Yes. It's queer when I think of it," he went on musingly. "When I married her mother the girl didn't seem to come into our reckoning. She was at school, and I never even saw her. Then her mother wanted her left there, anyway till her schooling was through. Everything was paid. I saw to that. But--yes, I guess you're right. It's up to me, and I'll fix it." "The mill?" "She shall have equal share when the time comes." "When the whole work's put through?" "Yes. And meanwhile she'll be amply provided for." Standing spread out his hands deprecatingly. "You see, we did things in a hurry, Bat. There was always Hellbeam. And my Nancy understood that. I wonder--" Bat smoked on thoughtfully, and presently the other roused himself from the pre-occupation into which he had fallen. "Does that satisfy?" he demanded. Bat nodded. "I'll do the darnedest I know, Les," he said in his sturdy fashion. "Fix that pore gal right. Hand her the share she's a right to--when the time comes along. Do that an' I'll not rest till the Skandinavians are left hollerin'. That kid's your daughter, for all she ain't flesh and blood of yours, an' you ain't ever see her. And anyway she's flesh of your Nancy, which seems to me hands her even a bigger claim." He moved away from his leaning post and his back was turned to hide that which looked out of his eyes. "I'm grieved," he went on, in his simple fashion, "I'm so grieved about things I can't tell you, Les. I always guessed to drive this thing through with you. I always reckoned to make good to you for that thing you did by me. Well, there's no use in talkin'. You reckon this notion of yours'll make you feel better, it's goin' to hand you--peace. That goes with me. Oh, yes, all the time, seein' you feel that way. But--say, we best get right home--or I'll cry like a darn-fool kid." CHAPTER V NANCY MCDONALD Charles Nisson was standing at the window. His eyes were deeply reflective as he watched the gently falling snow outside. He was a sturdy creature in his well-cut, well-cared-for black suit. For all he was past middle life there was little about him to emphasise the fact unless it were his trim, well-brushed snow-white hair, and the light covering of whisker and beard of a similar hue. He looked to be full of strength of purpose and physical energy. His back was turned on the pleasant dining-room of his home in Abercrombie, a remote town in Ontario, where he and his wife had only just finished breakfast. Sarah Nisson was sitting beside the anthracite stove which radiated its pleasant warmth against the bitter chill of winter reigning outside. She was still consuming the pages of her bulky mail. A clock chimed the hour, and the wife looked up from her letter. She turned a face that was still pretty for all her fifty odd years, in the direction of the man at the window. "Ten o'clock, Charles," she reminded him. Then her enquiring look melted into a gentle smile. "The office has less attraction with the snow falling." "It has less attraction to-day, anyway," the lawyer responded without turning. A short laugh punctuated his prompt reply. "You mean the Nancy McDonald business?" Sarah Nisson laid her mail aside. "Yes." The lawyer sighed and turned from his contemplation of the snow. He moved across to the stove. "I'm a bit of a coward, Sally," he went on, holding out his hands to the warmth. "The lives of other people are nearly as interesting as they are exasperating. They seem just as foolishly ordered as we believe our own to be well and truly ordered. I don't know who it was said 'all men are fools,' or liars, or something, but I guess he was right. Yes, we're all fools. I really don't know how we manage to get through a day, let alone a lifetime, without absolute disaster. We spend most of our time abusing Providence for the result of our own shortcomings, when really we ought to be mighty polite and thankful to the blind good fortune that lets us dodge the results of our follies." "All of which I suppose has to do with the way Leslie Martin, or Leslie Standing, as he calls himself now, is acting." "Well, most of it." The man's eyes had become seriously reflective again. Sarah Nisson nodded her pretty head. She leant her ample proportions towards the stove and emulated her husband's attitude, warming her plump hands. Her brown eyes were twinkling, and her broad, unlined brow was calmly serene. Her iron-grey hair was as carefully dressed as though she were still in the twenties, moreover it was utterly untouched by any of the shams so beloved of the modern woman of advancing years. "The death of his poor wife almost seems to have unhinged him," she said, with a troubled pucker of her brows. "But--but I don't wonder, I really don't. She was the sweetest girl. Poor soul. And that bonny wee boy. But there, I can't bear to think of it all. You mustn't blame him too much, Charles. I guess you don't in your heart. It's just as his attorney you feel mad about things. It's best to remember you were his friend first, and only his adviser, and man of business, after. The whole thing makes me feel I want to cry. And that poor girl coming to see you to-day. The other Nancy, I mean. I don't think I'd feel so bad about things if it wasn't for her. You know, I like Leslie. And I was as fond of his wife as I just could be, for all she made a fool of herself when she married that hateful James McDonald, who was no better than a revolutionary. Thank goodness he died and got out before he could do any harm. But I do think Leslie and poor Nancy were selfish about her child. I don't believe it was so much him as Nancy. From the moment Leslie came on the scene it was she who kept the poor child at college. She never even let him see her. And she's such a bonny girl, too. Do you know, I believe Nancy's death, and even the death of the baby boy, wouldn't have meant half so much to Leslie if he'd had Nancy's own girl with him. She'd have got herself right into his heart with her bonny ways, and her hazel eyes that look like great, big smiling flowers. Then her hair. She's a lovely, lovely child. I wish she was mine. I'd like to have her right here always. Couldn't you fix it that way?" The man shook his head. "I'd like to--but--" "But what?" "You see there's a whole lot to think about," the lawyer went on seriously. "Why, I don't even know how to get through my interview with her to-day without lying to her like a politician. Now just get a look at the position. Here's a girl, a beautiful, high-spirited girl of sixteen, straight out from college, at the beginning of life, with her, head full of 'whys,' and 'wherefores.' Sixteen's well-nigh grown up these days, mind you. Her mother's dead, and curiously the fact didn't seem to break her up as you'd have expected it to. Why?" The man shrugged. "It's not because she lacks feeling. Oh, no. Maybe it's because of the strength of those feelings. Remember her mother married Leslie when the child was thirteen. A good understanding age. She was never allowed to see her father. No. She was packed off to school and kept there--" "Yes, I know," Sarah broke in, with impatient warmth. "And just at the time a girl most needs she never even saw her mother for over three years. God doesn't give us women our babies to treat them as if they weren't our own flesh and blood. Young Nancy was left to those maiden dames at college, who don't know more about a child than is laid down by highbrow officials in the text books they need to study to qualify for their posts. They haven't a notion beyond stuffing her poor wee head with the sort of view of life set down in fool history books. They say she's clever and bright. Well, that's all they care about. When they've done with her they'll have knocked all the girl out of her, and turned her adrift on the world behind a pair of disfiguring spectacles, with her beautiful hair all scratched back off her pretty face, and maybe 'bobbed,' and they'll fill her grips with pamphlets and literature enough to stock a patent med'cine factory, instead of the lawn, and lace, and silk a girl should think about, and leave her with as much chance of getting happily married as a queen mummy of the Egyptians. It's a shame, just a real shame. Why, if that poor, lonesome child came right along to me, I'd--" "Teach her all the bright tricks of hunting down a husband and--hooking him." The lawyer shook his head and smiled. "You know, Sally, you're almost an outrage on the subject of marriage. Sometimes I wonder the sort of tricks I was up against when I--" A plump warning finger and smiling threat interrupted the laughing charge. "You were due at the office long ago, Charles," his wife admonished. "If you aren't careful I'll have to pack you off right away." "That's all right, Sally," the man demurred. "I won't go further with that. I'll get back to the things I was saying before you interrupted." His pale blue eyes became serious again. "Do you think Nancy didn't understand why she was packed off to school--and kept there? Of course she did. She knew she wasn't wanted. She knew she was in the way. She must not be permitted to intrude on this stepfather, or her mother's new life. It was all a bit heartless, and if I know anything of the child, she understands it that way. I felt that when she came to see her mother, and went to her funeral. Now then, Nancy's coming to see me to-day. Remember she's sixteen. She's got to learn from me the settlement Leslie's made on her. She's got to learn further that she isn't likely to ever see her stepfather. She knows I'm his business man. She knows I'm his friend. Well, when she's financially independent, do you think she'll feel like rushing into our arms, here, for a home, feeling the way I believe she does about her parent? It's going to be difficult, and--damned unpleasant. And for all I'm ready to help Leslie anyway I know, I'd rather see anybody on his behalf than that kiddie, with her wide, honest, angry eyes and red hair. I'm not going to press our home on her, Sally, because, sooner or later, if she accepted it, which I don't believe she would, she'd have to learn things of Leslie, and--well, the affairs you know about. That must not be. She's not going to learn these things from us. I'm going to do the best I know for the child, and when it comes to the matter of a home she must choose for herself. There's always her mother's folk, or even James McDonald's folk--" "God forbid! No. Oh, no." The woman's instant denial was horrified. "Not the McDonald lot. They're all revolutionaries. All of them. It's--it's unthinkable. It certainly is." The man moved away. "That's so," he agreed. "Well, anyway, I'll do the best I know for the child, Sally. You can trust me." The woman's anxiety abated, and she rose from her chair. "I know that, Charles," she said. "But the McDonalds! They're--" "Sure they are." The man laughed. "Well, good-bye, my dear. I'll tell you all about it when I've fixed things. Thank goodness it's quit snowing and the sun's shining again. I wish I felt as good as it looks outside here." * * * * * Charles Nisson had become a lawyer without any marked inclination or enthusiasm for his profession. It had been simply a matter of following the father before him. It would have been much the same if his father had been a farmer, or a politician, or anything else. The son was patient, temperate, and of no great ambition. But he was also keenly intelligent. Without impulse, or striking originality, but with a tremendous capacity for hard work, he was bound to be moderately successful in any career. In his father's profession his temperament was particularly suited, and in spite of lacking enthusiasm he had become unquestionably a better lawyer than the country attorney he had succeeded. Just now his mind was filled with unease. The matter of his forthcoming interview with a child of sixteen years had only small place in the affairs which disturbed him. His real concern was for his friend, Leslie Standing, and the disaster, which, in a seemingly overwhelming rush had befallen at far-off Sachigo. Again his trouble had no relation to these things as they affected his own worldly affairs. It was of the man himself he was thinking. He knew it all now. He had painfully learned the complete story of disaster. And, to his sturdy mind, it was a deplorable example of almost unbelievable human weakness. Standing had conveyed his final determination to abandon his Labrador enterprise in the correspondence which had passed between them during the three months which had elapsed since the funeral of his wife and stillborn child. And during that time their friendship had been sorely tested. There had been times when the lawyer's native patience had been unequal to the strain. There had been times when his temper had leapt from under the bonds which so strongly held it. But for all the ordeals of that prolonged correspondence, for all he deplored the pitiful weakness in the other, his friendship remained, and he finally accepted his instructions. But the whole thing left him very troubled. As the hour of noon approached, his trouble showed no sign of abatement. It was the reverse. There were moments, as he sat in the generously upholstered chair before his desk, in the comfortable down-town office which overlooked Abercrombie's principal thoroughfare, that he felt like abandoning all responsibility in the chaos of his friend's affairs. But this was only the result of irritation, and had no relation to his intentions. He knew well enough that everything in his power would be done for the man who never so surely needed his help as now. He refreshed his memory with the details of the deed of settlement for the abandoned stepdaughter. Then, as the hands of the clock approached the hour of his appointment, he sat back yielding his whole concentration upon those many problems confronting him. What, he asked himself, was going to become of Standing now that he had cut himself adrift from that anchorage which had held him safe for the past seven years? He strove to follow the driving of the man's curiously haunted mind. He had declared his intention of going away. Where? Definite information had been withheld. He was going to devote himself to some purpose he claimed to have always lain at the back of his mind. What was that purpose? Again there had been no information forthcoming. Was it good, or--bad? The man who was endeavouring to solve the riddle of it all dared not trust himself to a decision. He felt that his friend's unstable soul might drive him in almost any direction after the shock it had sustained. No. Speculation was useless. The crude facts were like a brick wall he had to face. Standing's wealth and the great mill at Sachigo were left to his administration with the trusting confidence of a child. The responsibility for the neglected stepdaughter had similarly been flung upon his shoulders. And, satisfied with this manner of disposing of his worldly concerns, Standing intended to fare forth, shorn of any possession but a bare pittance for his daily needs, to lose himself, and all the shadows of a haunted mind, in the dim, remote interior of the unexplored forests of Northern Quebec. The whole thing was mad--utterly-- The muffled electric bell on his table drubbed out its summons. One swift glance at the clock and the lawyer yielded to professional instinct. He became absorbed in the papers neatly spread out on his table as a bespectacled clerk thrust open the door. "Miss McDonald to see you," he announced, in the modulated tone which was part of his professional make-up. The lawyer rose at once. He moved toward the door with a smiling welcome. The sex and personality of his visitor demanded this departure from his custom. Nancy McDonald stood just inside the doorway through which the clerk had departed. She was tall, beautifully tall, for all she was only sixteen. In her simple college girl's overcoat, with its muffling of fur about the neck, it was impossible to detect the graces of the youthful figure concealed. Her carriage was upright, and her bearing full of that confidence which is so earnestly taught in the schools of the newer countries. But these things passed unnoticed by the white-haired lawyer. He was smiling into the radiant face under the low-pressed fur cap. It was the wide, hazel eyes, so deeply fringed with a wealth of curling, dark lashes, that inspired his smiling interest. It was the level brows, so delicately pencilled, and dark as were the eyelashes. It was the perfect nose, and lips, and chin, and the chiselled beauty of oval cheeks, all in such classic harmony with the girl's wealth of vivid hair. Nancy returned his gaze without the shadow of a smile. She had come at this man's call from the coldly correct halls of Marypoint College, which was also the soulless home she had been condemned to for the three or four most impressionable years of her life. And she knew the purpose of the summons. There was a deep abiding resentment in her heart. It was not against this man or his wife. From these two she had received only kindness and affection. It was directed against the stepfather whom she believed to be the cause of the banishment she had had to endure. Furthermore, she could never forget that her banishment was only terminated that she might gaze at last upon the dead features of her dearly loved mother before the cold earth hid them from view forever. The lawyer understood. He had understood from her reply to his letter summoning her. There was no need for the confirmation he read now in her unsmiling eyes. "You sent for me?" she said. Nancy's voice was deep and rich for all her youth. Then with a display of some slight confusion, she suddenly realised the welcoming hand outheld. She took it hurriedly, and the brief hand clasp completely broke down the barrier she had deliberately set up. "Oh, it's a shame, Uncle Charles," she cried, almost tearfully. "It's--it's a shame. I know. I'm just a kid--a fool kid who hasn't a notion, or a feeling, or--or anything. I'm to be treated that way. When he says 'listen,' why, I've just got to listen. And when he says 'obey,' I've got to obey, because the law says he's my stepfather. He's robbed me of my mother. Oh, it's cruel. Now he's going to rob me of everything else I s'pose. Who is he? What is he that he has the power to--to make me a sort of slave to his wishes? I've never seen him. I hate him, and he hates me, and yet--oh--I'm kind of sorry," she said, in swift contrition at the sight of the old man's evident distress. "I--I--didn't think. I--oh, I know it's not your fault, uncle. It's just nothing to do with you. You've always been so kind and good to me--you and Aunt Sally. You've got to send for me and tell me the things he says, because--" "Because I'm his 'hired man.' But also because I'm his friend." The lawyer spoke kindly, but very firmly. He knew the impulsive nature of this passionate child. He knew her unusual mentality. He realised, none better, that he was dealing with a strong woman's mind in a girl of childhood's years. He knew that Nancy had inherited largely from her father, that headstrong, headlong creature whose mentality had driven him to every length in a wild endeavour to upset civilisation that he might witness the birth of a millennium in the ashes of a world saturated with the blood of countless, helpless creatures. So he checked the impulsive flow of the child's protest. He held out his hands. "You'd best let me take your coat, my dear," he said, with a smile the girl found it impossible to resist. "Maybe you'd like to remove your overshoes, too. There's a big talk to make, and I want to get things fixed so you can come right along up home and take food with us before you go back to Marypoint." The child capitulated. But she needed no assistance. Her coat was removed in a moment and flung across a chair, and she stood before him, the slim, slightly angular schoolgirl she really was. "Guess I'll keep my rubbers on," she said. Then she added with a laugh which a moment before must have been impossible. "That way I'll feel I can run away when I want to. What next?" "Why, just sit right here." The lawyer drew up a chair and set it beside his desk. His movements were swift now. He had no desire to lose the girl's change of mood. And Nancy submitted. She took the chair set for her while the man she loved to call "Uncle Charlie" passed round to his. He gave her no time for further reflection, but plunged into his talk at once. "Now, my dear," he said earnestly, "you came here feeling pretty bad about things, and maybe I don't blame you. But there isn't the sort of thing waiting on you you're guessing. Before we get to the real business I just want to tell you the things in my mind. Of course, as you say, you're a 'kid' yet--a school-kid, eh? That's all right. But I know you can get a grip of things that many much older girls could never hope to. That's why I want to tell you the things I'm going to. Now you've worked it out in your mind that your stepfather is just a heartless, selfish creature who has no sort of use for you, and just wants to forget your existence. He married your mother, but had no idea of taking on her burdens--that's you. It isn't so. It wasn't so. I know, because this man is my friend, and I know all there is to know about him. The whole thing has been deplorable. You've been the victim of circumstances that I may not explain even to you. But I promise you this, your stepfather is not the man to have desired to cut you out of your mother's life." "Who did then? Mother?" The girl's beautiful face flushed under her stirring emotions. The man shook his head. "Circumstances. Yes, those circumstances I told you of. Those circumstances I can't explain." Charles Nisson picked up a typescript and held it out to the child. "I want you to take this. It's not the deed, but a true copy. I want you to read it over and think about it, and when you get back to Marypoint, and feel like talking to those teachers you trust there, you can tell them what it contains, and hear what they have to say about it, and see if they won't think better of your stepfather than you do. You needn't read it now," as the girl turned the pages and glanced down the confusion of legal phraseology. "I'm going to tell you what it contains in plain words. But I want you to have it, and read it, and think over it, because I want you to try and get a real understanding of the man whose signature is set to the original deed." "Yes," he went on, meditatively, and in a tone of real regret. "I'd be pretty glad to have you think better of him. I think just now he needs the kind thought of anyone who belongs to him. He's in pretty bad trouble--someways." The girl looked up. A curious anxiety was shining in her eyes. "Trouble?" she demanded. "You mean he's done wrong? What d'you mean? What sort of--trouble?" The man shook his head. "No. It's not that. It's--your mother. You know, Nancy, he loved your mother in a way that leaves a good man broken to pieces when he loses the object of his love. Every good thought he ever had was bound up in your mother. And your mother was his strong support, and literally his guiding star. You've lost your mother. You know how you felt. Well, I can't tell you, but think, try and think what it would be if you'd lost just every hope in life, too--the same as he has." "I'd--I'd want to die," the girl cried impulsively. "Yes. So would anyone. So does he. Just as far as the world's concerned he's dead now. You'll never see him, or hear from him. Nor will anyone else--except me. He'll never come into your life after this. He'll never claim his legal guardianship of you, beyond that document. To you he's dead, leaving you heir to what is contained in that deed. He's just a poor devil of a man hunted and haunted through the rest of his existence by the memory of a love that was more than life to him. Try and think better of him, Nancy, my dear. He's got enough to bear. I think he deserves far better than he's ever likely to get handed to him. I tell you solemnly, my dear, whatever sins he may have committed, and most of us have committed plenty," he added, with a gentle smile, "he's done you no real hurt. And now he's only doing that good by you I would expect from him." Nancy sighed deeply, and it needed no words of hers to tell the man of law how well he had fought his friend's battle. A deep wave of childish pity had swept away the last of a resentment which had seemed so bitter, so implacable. It was the generous heart of the child, shorn, for the moment, of its inheritance from her father. Her even brows had puckered, and the man knew that tears, real tears of sympathy, were not far off. "Tell me," she said, in a low voice. "Tell me some more." But the man shook his head. "I can't tell you more," he said gently. "Where your stepfather is, or where he will be to-morrow, I may not tell you. Even when your mother was alive you were not permitted to know these things. That was due to the 'circumstances' I told you of. It just remains for me to tell you the contents of that document. They're as generous as only your stepfather knows how to make them. He's appointed me your trustee. And he's settled on you a life annuity of $10,000. There are a few simple conditions. You will remain at college till your education is complete, and, until you are twenty-one I shall have control of your income. That is," he explained, "I shall see that you don't handle it recklessly. During that time, subject to my approval, you can make your home with whom you like. After you've passed your twenty-first birthday you are as free as air to go or come, to live where you choose, and how you choose. And your income will be forthcoming from this office--every quarter. Do you understand all that, my dear? It's so very simple. Your stepfather has gone to the limit to show you how well he desires for you, and how free of his authority he wants you to be. There is another generous act of his that will be made clear to you when the time comes. But that is for the future--not now. His last word to me," he went on, picking up a letter, "when he sent me the deed duly signed, was: 'Tell this little girl when you hand her these things, it isn't my wish to trouble her with an authority which can have little enough appeal for her. Tell her that her mother was my whole world, and it is my earnest desire that her daughter should have all the good and comfort this world can bestow. If ever she needs further help she can have it without question, and that she only has to appeal to my friend and adviser, Charles Nisson, for anything she requires.'" The man laid the letter aside and looked up. "That's the last paragraph of the last communication I had from him. And they're not the words of a monstrous tyrant who is utterly heartless, eh?" The girl made no answer. Her emotion was too strong for her. Two great tears rolled slowly down her beautiful cheeks. The lawyer rose from his chair. He came round the desk and laid a gentle hand on the heaving shoulder, while Nancy strove to wipe her tears away with a wholly inadequate handkerchief. "That's right, my dear," he said very gently. "Wipe them away. There's no need to cry. Leslie's done all a man in his peculiar position can do for you. You've got the whole wide world before you, and everything you can need for comfort--thanks to him. Now let's forget about it all. Just take that paper back to school with you. And maybe you'll write, or come and let me know what you think about it. If you feel like making your home with us, why, that way you'll just complete our happiness. If you feel like going to your mother's sister, Anna Scholes, I shan't refuse you. Anyway, think about it all. That's my big talk and it's finished. Just get your overcoat on, and we'll get right along home to food." CHAPTER VI NATHANIEL HELLBEAM The room was furnished with extreme modern luxury. The man standing over against the window with his broad back turned, somehow looked to be in perfect keeping with the setting his personal tastes had inspired. He was broad, squat, fat. His head and neck were set low upon his shoulders, and the hair oil was obvious on the longish dark hair which seemed to grow low down under his shirt collar. The other man, seated in one of the many easy chairs, was in strong contrast. His was the familiar face of the agent, Idepski, dark, keen, watchful. He was smoking the cigarette to which he had helped himself from the gold box standing near him on the ornate desk. "You seem to have made a bad mess of things." Nathaniel Hellbeam turned from the window and came back to his desk with quick, short, energetic strides. He presented a picture of inflamed wrath. His fleshy, square face was flushed and almost purple. His small eyes were hot with anger. They snapped as he launched his harshly spoken verdict. His whole manner bristled with merciless intolerance. He was enormously fat, and breathed heavily through clean shaven lips that protruded sensually. His age was doubtful, but suggested something under middle life. It was the gross bulk of the man that made it almost impossible to estimate closely. The only real youth about him was his dark, well oiled hair which possessed not a sign of greying in it. He flung himself into the wide chair which gaped to receive him, and glared at the dark face of his visitor. "What in the hell do I pay you for?" he cried brutally, lapsing, in his anger, into that gutteral Teutonic accent which it was his life's object to avoid. "A wild cat's scheme it was I tell you from the first. You go to this Sachigo with your men. You think to get this 'sharp' asleep, or what? You find him wide awake waiting for you to arrive. What then? He jumps quick. So quick you can't think. You a prisoner are. You go where he sends you. You live like a swine in the woods. You are made to work for your food. And a year is gone. A year! Serve you darn right. Oh, yes. Bah! You quit. You understand? I pay you no more. You are a fool, a blundering fool. I wash my hands with you." Idepski sat still, patient, as once before he had sat under the whip lash of a man's tongue. And he continued smoking till the great banker's last word was spoken. Then he stirred, and removed his cigarette from his thin lips. "That's all right, Mr. Hellbeam," he said coldly. "It seems like you've a right to all you've said. It seems, I said. But the 'fool' talk." He shook his head. "My best enemies don't reckon me that--generally. The game I'm playing has room enough for things that look like blunders. I allow that. It doesn't matter. You see, I know more of this feller Martin maybe than you do. I guess he's a mighty big coward, except when he's got the drop on a feller. I've given him the scare of a lifetime, and I've unshipped him from his safe anchorage on that darn Labrador coast. Do you know what's happened? I'll tell you. He's quit Sachigo. From what I can learn he's sold out his mill to that uncouth hoodlum, Harker, who was sort of his partner, and quit. Where? I don't know yet. Why has he quit? Why, because he knows we've located his hiding, and will get him if he remains. You reckon I've mussed things up." He shook his head. "He was well-nigh safe up there on Labrador--and I knew it. We had to get him out of it. Well, I've got him out. He's bolted like a gopher, and it's up to me to locate him. I shall locate him. I'm glad he's quit that hellish country. I've had a year of it, and it's put the fear of God into me. You needn't worry. I'm quite ready to quit your pay. But I'm going on with this thing, sure. You see, I owe him quite a piece for myself--now. I've been through the hell he intended me to go through when he sent me along up to be held prisoner by that skunk, Ole Porson. I'm going to pay him for that--good. I don't want your pay--now. One day I'll hand that feller over to you--and when you've doped him plenty--you'll have paid me." He rose leisurely from his comfortable chair. "May I take another of your good cigarettes?" he went on, with a half smile in his cold eyes. "You see, I won't get another, seeing I'm quitting you." He deliberately helped himself without waiting for permission, while his eyes dwelt on the gold box containing them. But the financier's mood had changed. The keen mind was busy behind his narrow eyes. Perhaps Idepski understood the man. Perhaps the coolness of the agent appealed to the implacable nature of the Swede. Whatever it was the hot eyes had cooled, and the fleshy cheeks had returned to their normal pasty hue. He raised a hand pointing. "Sit down and smoke all you need," he said, in the sharp, autocratic fashion that was his habit. "We aren't through yet." Then, for a few moments, he regarded the slim figure as it lay back once more in the armchair. "Say," he began, abruptly, "you reckon to go on for--yourself? Yes? You're a good hater." He went on as the other inclined his head. "I like a good hater. Yes. Well, just cut out all I said. We'll go on. I guess you'll need to blunder some before we get this swine. You're bound to. But I want him. I want him bad. If it's good for you to go on for yourself, that's good for me. There's a lifetime ahead yet, and I don't care so I see him down--right down where I need him. Maybe I won't get the money, but we'll get him, and that'll do. Yes, cut out what I said, and go ahead. Tell me about it." Idepski displayed neither enthusiasm nor added interest. He accepted the position with seeming indifference. Hellbeam to him was just an employer. A means to those ends which he had in view. If Hellbeam turned him down it would mean a setback, but not a disaster, and Idepski appraised setbacks at their simple value, without exaggeration. Besides, he knew that this Swede, powerful, wealthy as he was, could not afford to do without him in this matter. His intolerant, hectic temper mattered nothing at all. He paid for the privilege of its display, and he paid well. So-- "There's nothing much to tell," the agent returned, with a shrug. "I'm going to get him--that's all. See here, Mr. Hellbeam," he went on after a pause, with a sudden change to keen energy, "you're a mighty big power in the financial world, and to be that I guess you've had to be some judge of the other feller. That's so. You most generally know when he's beat before you begin. And when he squeals it don't come as a surprise. Well, that's how it is with me, only it's a bigger thing to me because it sometimes happens to mean the difference between life and death. Say, when you put up your bluff at a feller, and watch him square in the eyes, and you see 'em flicker and shift, do you reckon you've lit on the 'yellow streak,' that lies somewhere in most folk? I guess so. Well, that's how I know my man. I've seen it in this bum, Leslie Standing as he calls himself now. And when I saw it I knew he was beat, for all he'd the drop on me. Since then my notion's proved itself. He's lit out. He's cut from his gopher hole at Sachigo. An' when a gopher gets away from his hole, the man with the gun has him dead set. But say, that muss up you reckon I made doesn't look that way when you know the things it's taught me. While I was way up at that penitentiary camp on the Beaver River I kept all my ears and eyes wide, and I learned most of the things a feller's liable to learn in this world when he acts that way. I learned something of the notions lying back of this feller's work up there. Say, he hadn't finished with you when he took that ten millions out of you." An ironical smile lit the man's dark eyes as he thrust home his retaliation for the financier's insults. "Not by a lot," he went on, with a smiling display of teeth that conveyed nothing pleasant. "They've a slogan up there that means a whole heap, and it comes from him, and runs through the whole work going on, right down to the Chink camp cooks. Guess that mill is only beginning. It's the ground work of a mighty big notion. And the notion is to drive the Skandinavians out of Canada's pulp trade, and very particularly the Swedes, as represented by the interests of Nathaniel Hellbeam. Guess you sit right here in New York, but up there they've got you measured up to the last pant's button." "They that think?" The financier's bloated cheeks purpled as he put his clumsy interrogation. "Oh, yes. This feller Standing reckons he's made a big start, and there are mighty big plans out. When he and that clownish partner of his, Harker, are through, Sachigo'll be the biggest proposition in the way of groundwood pulp in the world. They've forests such as you in Skandinavia dream about when your digestion's feeling good. They've a water power that leaves Niagara a summer trickle. They've got it all with a sea journey of less than eighteen hundred miles to Europe. But there's more than that. When Sachigo's complete it's to be the parent company of a mighty combine that's going to take in all the mills of Canada outside Nathaniel Hellbeam's group. And then--then, sir, the squeeze'll start right in. And it isn't going to stop till the sponge--that's Nathaniel Hellbeam--is wrung dry." "You heard all this--when you were held prisoner and working like a swine in Martin's forests?" The smile in Hellbeam's eyes was no less ironical than the agent's. "When I was working like a swine." "These lumber-jacks. They knew all that in Standing's mind is?" "No. But I learned it all." "How?" The demand was instant, and a surge of force lay behind it. "Because some I saw. Some I picked up from general talk. And the rest I pieced together because it's my job to think hard when the game's against me. But it don't matter. You know that the things I've told you are right. It's news to you, but you know it's right, because you're thinking hard, and the game's against--you." "Yes." The financier's admission was the act of a man who has no hesitation in looking facts in the face and acknowledging them. Idepski's deductions were irrefutable, because the Swede was a shrewd business man with a full appreciation of the man who had lightened his finances by ten million dollars. For some moments the fleshy face was turned towards the window which yielded the hum of busy traffic many stories below them. His narrow eyes were earnestly reflective, but there was no concern in them. To the waiting man he was simply measuring the threat against him, and probing its possibilities for mischief. "Yet this fellow. He on the run is--Yes?" The eyes were smiling as they came back again to Idepski's face. The agent nodded, flinging his cigarette end into the porcelain cuspidore beside the desk. "Which makes me all the more sure of the game," he said confidently. "He's rattled. He's so scared to death for himself, and for his purpose, he's getting out. It's as clear as daylight to me. He feels he's plumb against it if he stops around. He knows we've located him. He knows what he's done to me. He knows all he wants to know of you. Well, he reckons there's no sort of chance for him at Sachigo. And if he stops there's no sort of chance for this purpose of his. He reckons to call off the hounds on his own trail, while the feller Harker carries on the good work of squeezing the Swedes. That's how I see it. And I guess I'm right. Remember I had a year of hell up there to think in, and when I finally got clear away I had two months' solitary chasing of those woods to think in, and then, when I made the coast, I had the trip down with the folks on the boat to listen to. He's scared for his life, and of anything you hope to hand him. But he's more scared for the purpose that made him set up that mill at Sachigo." Hellbeam leant back in his chair. His great paunch protruded invitingly and he clasped his hands over it. "Maybe you're right," he said, with an air intended to conciliate. "Anyway you've picked up some pieces and set them together so they make a fancy shape. But--it isn't good. No. Here, I think, too. I see another, way from you. Without this fellow Sachigo is--nothing. See? I care nothing because of this Harker. No. The other--that's different. Yes. He the brain has. All this piece you make. He is capable of it. But he is on the run. Good. I still sleep well while he runs. Sachigo? Bah! It is nothing without Leslie Martin. Now, go you. Hunt this man. Maybe your year of the woods will help you," he said, with biting emphasis. "You know the woods? Well, don't quit his trail. Get him. Get him alive." "Oh, I shall get him. Your urging ain't needed. I'll get him as you say--alive. And he knows it." Idepski's cold eyes hardened with a frigid hatred as he spoke. He had only been paid for the work hitherto. Now he was implacable. "But it's Sachigo I mean to watch," he went on, after a brief pause. "I mean to play in that direction. It's the home burrow where you lay your traps once your quarry's on the run." Hellbeam nodded. "That's good sense." "Sure it is," retorted the agent. "I'm glad you see it that way," he added with a smile under which the financier grew restive once more. "Yes. Well, see you get him. Money? It doesn't matter. Get him! Get him!" he reiterated fiercely. "You understand me? It doesn't matter how you get him. I can deal with the rest." Suddenly he raised a clenched fist, fat, and strong, and white, and extended his thumb. He turned it downwards and pressed its extremity on the gold mounted blotting pad before him with a force that bent the knuckle backwards. "Get him so I can crush him--like that," he cried. "Get him alive. I want him alive. See?" "I see. I'll get him--sure. You needn't worry a thing." And as Walter Idepski rose to take his departure, for all his nerve, he felt glad that the passion of this Swede's hate was not directed against him. PART II EIGHT YEARS LATER CHAPTER I BULL STERNFORD A great gathering thronged the heart of the clearing. There were men of every shade of colour, men of well-nigh every type. They stood about in a wide circle, whose regularity remained definite even under the stirring of fierce excitement. They had gathered for a fight, a great fight between two creatures, full human in shape and splendid manhood, but bestial in the method of the battle demanded. It was a battle with muscles of iron, and hearts that knew no mercy, and body and mind tuned only to endure and conquer. It was a battle that belonged to the savage out-world, acknowledging only the vicious laws of "rough and tough." The rough creatures stood voiceless and well-nigh breathless. The combatants were well matched and redoubtable, even in a community whose only deity was physical might and courage and the skill of the wielded axe. The lust of it all was burning fiercely in every heart. The sun poured out its flood of summer upon a world of virgin forest. The sky was without blemish. A dome of perfect azure roofed in the length and breadth of Nature's kingdom. Nevertheless the fairness of the summer day, with its ravishing accompaniment of soft, mystery sounds from an unseen world and the lavish beauty of shadowed woods were fit setting for the pulsing of savage emotions. It was far out in the lost world of Northern Quebec. It was far, far beyond the widest-flung frontiers of civilisation. It was out there where man soon learns to forget his birthright, and readily yields to the animal in him. It was a scene of mighty slaughter amongst the giants of the forest. Hundreds sprawled in the path of man's gleaming axe. Giants they were, hoary with age, and gnarled with the sinews built up by Nature to resist her fiercest storms. They lay there, in every direction, reaching up with tattered arms outstretched, as though appealing for the light, the warmth, and the sweetness of life they would know no more. Amidst this carnage a great camp was growing up. There were huts completed. There were huts only in the skeleton. They were dotted about in a fashion apparently without order or purpose. Yet long before the falling of the first snow, order would reign everywhere and man's purpose would be achieved. The bunkhouses, the stores, the offices, the stables, they must all be ready before the coming of the "freeze-up." Summer is the time of preparation. Winter is the season when the lumber-jack's work must go forward without cessation or break of any sort. Not even the excuse of sickness can be accepted. There is no excuse. The lumber-jack must work, or sink to the dregs of a life that has already created in him a spirit of indifference to the laws of God and man. So the life of the forest is hard and fierce, and the battle of it all is long. But the men who seek it are more than equal to the task. They are of all sorts, and all races. They drift to the forest from all ranks of life by reason of the spirit driving them. They come from the universities of the world. They come straight from the gates of the penitentiary. They come from the land, the sea, the office. They come from all countries, and they come for every reason. The call of the forest is deep with significance. Its appeal is profound. Its life is free, and shadowed, and afar. For long moments the clinch of the fighting men remained unbroken. They lay there upon the ground locked in a deadly embrace. A spasmodic jolt, a violent, muscular heave. The result was changed position, while the clinch remained unrelaxed. There were movements of gripping hands. There were changes of position in the intertwined legs clad in their hard cord trousers. The heavily-booted feet stirred and stirred again in response to the impulse of the searching brains of the fighters, and every slight movement had deep meaning for the onlookers. Yet none of these movements revealed the inspiration of passion. They were calculated and full of purpose. It was devilish purpose driving towards the objects of the fight. The stirring fingers yearned to reach the eyes of the adversary to blind him, and leave his organs of vision gouged from their sockets. The bared, strong teeth were only awaiting that dire chance to close upon the enemy's flesh, whether ear, or nose, or throat. Then the knee and foot. They were striving under ardent will for that inhuman maiming which would leave the victim crippled for life. Each movement of the fighters was estimated by the onlookers at its due worth. They understood it all, the skill, the chance of it. Not one of them but had fought just such a battle in his time, and not a few carried the scars of it, and would continue to carry the scars of it for the rest of their days. The moments of quiescence yielded to a spasmodic violence. There was a wild rolling, and the unlocking of mighty, clinging legs. One dishevelled head was raised threateningly. It remained poised for a fraction of time over the upturned face of the man lying in a position of disadvantage. Then it lunged downwards. And as it descended, a sound like the clipping of teeth came back to the taut strung senses of the onlookers. A sigh escaped from a hundred throats. "Bull missed it that time." Abe Kristin whispered his comment. The two men beside him had nothing to add at the moment. Their eyes were intent for the next development. Suddenly the fair-haired giant who had missed his attack seemed to disengage himself from the under man's desperate hold. It was impossible to ascertain the means he employed. But he clearly released himself and one hammer fist swung up. It crashed sickeningly down on the upturned face, and a whistling breath escaped the emotional Abe. "Gee! He's takin' a chance! That ain't the play in a 'rough and tough,'" he muttered. "Nope. You're right, Abe," Luke Gats agreed without turning. "He's crazy. Gee! It's a chance. But he's maybe rattled. Bull's been fightin' over an hour." "Here get it!" Tug Burke was pointing with a cant-hook in his excitement. "Get it quick. See? He's--" The man's excitement found reflection in the whole concourse of onlookers. There was a furious movement in the human body crushed on the ground beneath the man they called Bull. Its knees came up under his adversary's body with a terrific jolt. The purpose of maiming was obvious. "Gee! I'm glad." Tug's relief found an echo in the sigh that escaped his companions. The intended victim had promptly swung his body clear and the threatened injury was averted. But his retaliation was instant. His great open hand spread over the man's face, smothering it; and it seemed the sought-for goal had been reached. "Gouge! Gouge!" The cry roared in hoarse, excited tones from every direction. Unanimity displayed the general feeling. The man whose face had been smothered was Arden Laval, the camp boss, the man they hated as only forest-men can hate. The other was a giant youngster, not long a member of the camp, the usual object for victimisation by such a man as the French Canadian boss. The demand remained unsatisfied. The fingers remained spread out over the man's eyes, but the foul act was never perpetrated. The younger man's efforts were directed towards a deeper, more significant purpose, and perhaps less cruel. He could have blinded in a twinkling. But he refrained. Instead, he pressed up mightily with a fore-arm crooked under the back of the man's neck, his smothering hand pressed down with all his enormous strength. "The darn fool! Why in hell don't he--?" Abe was interrupted by the excited voice of the man with the cant-hook. "God A'mighty!" Tug cried. "Do you get it? Gouge? It ain't good enough fer Master Bull. He's playin' bigger. He's playin' fer dollars while we was reck'nin' cents. Look! It'll crack sure! His gorl-darn neck! He means--!" "To kill!" Luke Gat's jubilation was dreadful to witness. His hard, be-whiskered features were alight with fiendish joy. This youngster had gone beyond all expectations. No less than the life of the greatest bully in the lumber world would satisfy him. "Say, the nerve! He'll break the life out o' the skunk," he exulted. "The kid means crackin' his neck, sure as God!" "Ken he do it?" Tug had thrust forward. "Laval ain't the feller he was," mused Abe. "He shouldn't a let the boy get that holt. It's goin' back. It certainly is." The men stood hushed before the terrible significance of what they beheld. In the abstract, a life-and-death struggle meant little enough to them. Witnessing it, however, violently stirred their deepest emotions. They hated the camp boss, the libertine, drunkard, bully, Arden Laval, who only held his position by reason of his fighting powers. They would be infinitely pleased to witness his end. All the more sure was their delight that it should come at the hands of this pleasant-voiced young giant, who had come amongst them out of the very lap of civilisation. Later on they would laugh at the thought of the redoubtable Laval in the hands of this "kid," as they considered him. But for the moment they were held enthralled by the excitement of it all. The moments prolonged. The thrusting hand, and the crushing arm were forcing, forcing slowly, in their terrible strangle hold. The face of the camp boss was hidden from the spectators under the smothering hand. But the perilous angle at which his dark head was thrust back was there for all to see. His struggles, in that merciless hold, were becoming less violent. There was despair in their impotence. The man called Bull was fighting with no less desperation. His youthful, resilient muscles were extended to the last ounce of their power, and an active, steely-tempered brain lay behind his every effort. The memory of months of brutal injustice and bullying, the bitterness of which had galled beyond endurance, supported this last mighty effort. Yes, for all he was bred in the gentle life of civilisation, for all ruthless cruelty had no place in his normal temper, his one desire now was to kill, to slay this brute-man who had made his life unendurable. It was an awful moment. It was terrible even to these hardy men of the forests. The spectacle of a slow, deliberate killing was incomparable with the blood feuds to which they were used. There were those whose nerves prompted them to shout for haste. There were some even who welcomed the prolonged agony of the victim. But none shouted, none spoke or stirred. Furthermore, not one pair of shining eyes revealed the quality of mercy. Bull's right was his own. If he demanded death it was his due. Certainly it was the due of the bully, Laval. On the far side of the circle a sudden commotion broke up the tense expectancy of the onlookers. Every eye responded, and the unanimity of the change of interest suggested the desire for relief. The commotion continued. There was some sort of struggle going on. Then, in a moment, it ceased. A tall, lean, dark-clad figure leapt into the arena and flung itself upon the combatants. The circle had re-formed. Again were eyes fastened upon the point of fascination which had held them so long. But now a buzz of talk hummed on the summer air. "What in hell!" demanded Luke, in the bitterness of disappointment. "Here, I'm--" Tug Burke made a move to break into the arena. But the powerful hand of Abe was fastened about one of his arms in a grip of iron. "Say, quit, kid!" he cried hoarsely. The man's harsh tones were stirred out of their usual quiet. "Stop right here," he went on. "There's just one feller on this earth has a right to butt in when Death's flappin' his wings around. That's Father Adam. Maybe you're feeling sick to think Laval's going to get clear with his life. Maybe I am. Father Adam ain't buttin' in ordinary. He's savin' that hothead kid the blood of a killin' on his hands. Guess I'm glad." The next moments were abounding with amazing incident. It seemed as though a flying, priestly figure had been absorbed in the life-and-death struggle. He seemed to become part of it. Then, with kaleidoscopic suddenness, the men lay apart, and the death strangle hold of Bull Sternford was broken. And the magic of it all lay in the fact that the stranger was standing over the prone combatants, his dark, bearded face, and wide, shining black eyes turned upon the living fury gazing up out of the eyes of the man who had been robbed of his prey. "There's going to be no killing, Bull." Father Adam spoke quietly, deliberately, but with cold decision. There was no yielding in his pale, ascetic features. One hand slipped quickly into a pocket of his short, black, semi-clerical coat, as he allowed his eyes to glance down at the still prostrate camp boss. "And you, Laval," he cried, with more urgency, "get out quick. Get right out to your shanty and stop there. Later I'll come along and fix up your hurts." Young Bull Sternford leapt to his feet. His youthful figure towered. His handsome blue eyes were ablaze with almost demoniac fury. His purpose was obvious. A voiceless passion surged as he started to rush again upon his victim. But the priestly figure, with purpose no less, instantly barred the way. "Quit," he cried sharply. "What I say, goes." Bull halted. He halted within a yard of the automatic pistol whose muzzle was covering him. He stood for a second staring stupidly. And something of his madness seemed to pass out of his eyes. Then, in a moment, his voice rang out harshly. "Get away. Let me get at him. Oh, God, I'll smash him! I'll--!" "You'll quit right now!" Father Adam still barred the way with the threatening gun. He raised the muzzle the least shade. "There's this gun says you're not going to have murder on your hands, boy; and there's a man behind it knows how to make it stop your mad attempt. That's better," he went on, as, even in his fury the younger man drew back in face of the threat. "Say, you've done enough, boy. You've done all you need. He's deserved everything he's got, the same as most of us deserve the bad times we get. You've licked him like the good man you are. You've licked him without any filthy maiming, or unnecessary cruelty. Now leave him his life. He'll never trouble you again. Let it go at that." The calm of the man, the gentleness of his tones were irresistible. The fury of the youth died hard, but it so lessened in face of the simple exhortation that it had passed below the point where insanity rules. Suddenly a great, bleeding hand was raised to his mane of fair hair, and he smoothed it back off his forehead helplessly. "Why? Why?" he demanded. Then spasmodically: "Why should--he--get away with it? He's handed me a dog's life He's--" He broke off. His emotions were overwhelming. Father Adam's dark eyes never wavered. They squarely held their grip on the stormy light shining in the other's. Laval had not stirred. He still lay sprawled on the ground. Quite abruptly the hand gripping the automatic pistol was thrust into the pocket of the black coat. When it was removed it was empty. The man took a quick step towards the half-dazed Bull. "Come along, boy," he said persuasively, taking him by the arm. "Come right over to my shanty," he went on. "You'll feel better in a while. You'll feel better all ways, and glad you--didn't." Then he paused, holding the man's unresisting arm. He looked down at Laval who displayed belated signs of movement. "Get up, Laval," he ordered, returning to a coldness that displayed his inner feeling. "Get up, and--get out. Get away right now, and thank God your neck's still whole." He waited for the obedience he demanded, and waiting he realised by the quiescence of the man beside him that all danger had passed. Laval staggered to his feet. He stood up, a giant in the prime of early manhood, but bowed under the weight of physical hurt, and the knowledge of his first defeat. He stood for a moment as though uncertain. Then he moved slowly towards the crowding onlookers, finally passing through them on his way to his quarters pursued by a hundred contemptuous, unpitying glances, while busy tongues expressed regret at his escape. It was the scowl of the wolf pack in its merciless regard for a fallen leader. Very different was the general attitude when Father Adam led the victor away. Hard faces were a-grin. The tongues that cursed the defeated camp boss hurled jubilant laudations at the unresponsive youth, who towered even amongst these great creatures. But for the presence of Father Adam, who seemed to exercise a miraculous restraining influence, these lumber-jacks would have crowded in and forcibly borne their champion to the suttler's store for those copious libations, which, in their estimate, was the only fitting conclusion to the scene they had witnessed. As it was they made way. They stood aside in spontaneous and real respect, and the two men passed on in silence leaving the crowd to disperse to its labours. CHAPTER II FATHER ADAM The hush of the forest was profound. For all the proximity of the busy lumber camp its calm was unbroken. It was a break in the endless canopy of foliage, a narrow rift in the dark breadth of the shadowed woods. It was one of those infinitesimal veins through which flows the life-blood of the forest. A tiny streamlet trickled its way over a bed of decayed vegetation often meandering through a dense growth of wiry reeds in a channel set well below the general level. Banks of attenuated grass and rank foliage lined its course, and the welcome sunlight poured down upon its water in sharp contrast with the twilight of the forest. Clear of the crowding trees a rough shanty stood out in the sunlight. It was a crazy affair constructed of logs laterally laid and held in place by uprights, with walls that looked to be just able to hold together while suffering under the constant threat of collapse. The place was roofed with a thatch of reeds taken from the adjacent stream-bed, and its doorway was protected by a sheet of tattered sacking. There was also a window covered with cotton, and a length of iron stove-pipe protruding through the thatch of the roof seemed to threaten the whole place with fire at its first use. Inside there was no attempt to better the impression. There was no furnishing. A spread of blankets on a waterproof sheet laid on a bed of reeds formed the bed of its owner, with a canvas kit-bag stuffed with his limited wardrobe serving as a pillow. There were several upturned boxes to be used as seats, and a larger box served the purpose of a table and supported a tiny oil lamp. There was not even the usual wood stove connected up to the protruding stove-pipe. A smouldering fire was burning between two large sandstone blocks, which, in turn, supported a cooking pot. An uncultured Indian of the forests would have demanded greater comfort for his resting moments. But Father Adam had no concern for comfort of body. He needed his blankets and his fire solely to support life against the bitterness of the night air. For the rest the barest, hardest food kept the fire of life burning in his lean body. Squatting on his upturned box he gazed out upon the sunlit stream below him. His dark eyes were full of a pensive calm. His body was inclining forward, supported by arms folded across his knees. An unlit pipe thrust in the corner of his mouth was the one touch that defeated the efforts of his flowing hair and dark beard to suggest a youthful hermit meditating in the doorway of his retreat. Bull Sternford was seated on another box at the opposite side of the doorway. He, too, had a pipe thrust between his strong jaws. But he was smoking. Beyond the dressings applied to a few abrasions he bore no signs of his recent battle. But there still burned a curiously fierce light in his handsome blue eyes. "You shouldn't have butted in, Father," he said, in a tone which betrayed the emotion under which he was still labouring. "You just shouldn't." Then with a movement of irritation: "Oh, I'm not a feller yearning for homicide. No. It's not that. You know Arden Laval," he went on, his brows depressing. "Of course you do. You must know him a whole heap better than I do. Well? Say, I guess that feller hasn't a right to walk this earth. He boasts the boys he's smashed the life clean out of. He's killed more fool lumber-jacks than you could count on the fingers of two hands. He wanted my scalp to hang on his belt. That man's a murderer before God. But he's beyond the recall of law up here. And he stops around on the fringe looking for the poor fool suckers who don't know better than to get within his reach. Gee, it was tough! I'd a holt on him I wouldn't get in a thousand years, and I'd nearly got the life out of him. I'd stood for all his dirt weeks on end. He made his set at me because I'm green and college-bred. But he called me a 'son-of-a-bitch!' Think of it! Oh, I can't rest with that hitting my brain. It's no use. I'll have to break him. God, I'll break him yet. And I'll see you aren't around when I do it." The man's voice had risen almost to a shout. His bandaged hands clenched into fists like limbs of mutton. He held them out at the man opposite, and in his agony of rage, it gave the impression he was threatening. Father Adam stirred. He reached down into the box under him and picked up a pannikin. Then he produced a flask from an inner pocket. He unscrewed the top and poured out some of its contents. He held it out to the other. "Drink it," he said quietly. The blue eyes searched the dark face before them. In a moment excitement had begun to pass. "What is it?" Bull demanded roughly. "It's brandy, and there's dope in it." "Dope?" "Yes. Bromide. You'll feel better after you've swallowed it. You see I want to make a big talk with you. That's why I brought you here. That's why I stopped you killing that feller--that, and other reasons. But I can't talk with you acting like--like I'd guess Arden Laval would act. Drink that right up. And you needn't be scared of it. It'll just do you the good you need." Father Adam watched while the other took the pannikin. He watched him raise it, and sniff suspiciously at its contents. And a shadowy smile lit his dark eyes. "It's as I said," he prompted. Then he added: "I'm not a--Cæsar." The youth glanced across at him, and for the first time since his battle a smile broke through the angry gleam of his eyes. He put the pannikin to his lips and gulped down the contents. Father Adam drew a deep sigh. It was curious how this act of obedience and faith affected him. The weight of his responsibility seemed suddenly to have become enormous. It was always the same. This man accepted him as did every other lumber-jack throughout the forests of Quebec. He was a father whose patient affection for his lawless children was never failing, a man of healing, with something of the gentleness of a woman. An adviser and spiritual guide who never worried them, and yet contrived, perhaps all unknown to themselves, to leave them better men for their knowledge of him. He came, and he departed. Whence he came and whither he went no one enquired, no one seemed to know. He just moved through the twilight forests like a ghostly, beneficent shadow, supreme in his command of their rugged hearts. Bull set the pannikin on the ground beside him. His smile had deepened. "You needn't to tell me that, Father," he said, almost humbly. "There isn't a feller back there in the camp," he added with a jerk of his head, "that would have hesitated like me when you handed him your dope. Thanks. Say, that darn stuff's made me feel easier." "Good." The missionary removed his empty pipe, and Bull hastily dragged his pouch from a pocket in his buckskin shirt. He held it out. "Help yourself," he invited. And the other took it. For a moment Bull looked on at the thoughtful manner in which Father Adam filled his pipe. Then a curiosity he could no longer restrain prompted him. "This big talk," he said. "What's it about?" The missionary's preoccupation vanished. His eyes lit and he passed back the pouch. "Thanks, boy," he said in his amiable way. "Guess I'll need to smoke, too--you see our talk needs some hard thinking. Pass me a stick from that fire." Bull did as he was bid. And the missionary's eyes were on the fair head of the man as he leant down over the smouldering embers stewing his own meagre midday meal. Bull Sternford was a creature of vast stature and muscular bulk. It was no wonder that the redoubtable Laval had run up against defeat. The camp boss had lived for twenty years the hard life of the forests. His body was no less great than this man's. His experience in physical battle was well-nigh unlimited. But so, too, was his debauchery. Bull Sternford was younger. He was clean and fresh from one of the finest colleges of the world. He was an athlete by training and nature. Then, too, his mentality was of that amazing fighting quality which stirs youth to go out and seek the world rather than vegetate in the nursery of childhood. It was all there written in his keen, blue eyes, in the set of his jaws of even white teeth. It was all there in the muscular set of his great neck, and in the poise of his handsome head, and in the upright carriage of his breadth of shoulder. Even his walk was a thing to mark him out from his fellows. It was bold, perhaps even there was a suggestion of arrogance in it. But it was only the result of the military straightness of his body. Little wonder, then, a man of Arden Laval's brutal nature should mark him down as desired victim. This man was "green." He was educated. He possessed a spirit worth breaking. Later he would learn. Later he would become a force in the calling of the woods. Now he would be easy. The brute had sought every opportunity to bait and goad the man to his undoing. For months he had "camped on his trail," and Bull had endured. Then came that moment of the filthy epithet, and Bull's spirit broke through the bonds of will that held it. The insult had been hurled at the moment and at the spot where the battle had been fought. Bull had flung himself forthwith at the throat of the French Canadian almost before the last syllable of the insult had passed the man's lips. And the end of nearly a two hours' battle had been the downfall of the bully, with the name of Bull Sternford hailed as a fighting man in his place. The firebrand was passed to the waiting missionary. He sucked in the pleasant fumes of a lumberman's tobacco. Then the stick was flung back to its place in the fire. Father Adam nursed one long leg, which he flung across the other, while his wide, intelligent eyes gazed squarely into the eyes of the man opposite. "Tell me," he said. "What brought you into the life of the woods? What left you quitting the things I can see civilisation handed you? This is the life of the wastrel, the fallen, the man who knows no better. It's not for men starting out in possession of all those things--you have." Bull sat for a moment without replying. Father Adam's "dope" had done its work. His passionate moments had vanished like an ugly dream. His turbulent spirit had attained peace. Suddenly he looked up with a frank laugh. "Now, why in hell should I tell you?" It was an irresistible challenge. The missionary nodded his approval. "Yes. Why--in hell--should you?" He, too, laughed. And his laugh miraculously lit up his ascetic features. Instantly Bull flung out one bandaged hand in a sweeping gesture. "Why shouldn't I--anyway?" he cried, with the abandon of a man impatient of all subterfuge. "Guess I ought to turn right around and ask who the devil you are to look into my affairs? Who are you to assume the right of inquisitor?" He shook his head. "But I'm not going to. Now I'm sane again I know just how much you did for me. I meant killing Laval. Oh, yes, there wasn't a thing going to break my hold until he was dead--dead. You got me in time to save me from wrecking my whole life. And you got in at--the risk of your own. If I'd killed him all the things and purposes I've worried with since I left college would have been just so much junk; and I'd have drifted into the life of a bum lumber-jack without any sort of notion beyond rye whiskey, and the camp women, and a well swung axe. You saved me from that. You saved me from myself. Well, you're real welcome to ask me any old thing, and I'll hand you all the truth there is in me. I'm an 'illegitimate.' I'm one of the world's friendless. I'm a product of a wealthy man's licence and unscruple. I'm an outcast amongst the world's honest born. But it's no matter. I'm not on the squeal. Those who're responsible for my being did their best to hand me the things a man most needs. Mind, and body, and will. Further, they gave me all that education, books, and college can hand a feller. More than that, my father, who seems to have had more honesty than you'd expect, handed me a settlement of a hundred thousand dollars the day I became twenty-one. I never knew him, and I never knew my mother. The circumstances of my birth were simply told me on my twenty-first birthday. I know no more. And I care nothing to hunt out those spectres that don't figger to hand a feller much comfort. The rest is easy. I hope I'm a feller of some guts--" Father Adam nodded, and his eyes lit. "Sure," was all he commented. "Anyway, I feel like it," Bull laughed. "When I learned all these things I started right in to think. I thought like hell. I said to myself something like this: 'There's nothing to hold me where I am. There's no one around to care a curse. There's that feeling right inside the pit of my stomach makes me feel I want to make good. I want to build up around me all that my birth has refused me. A name, a life circle, a power, a--anyway, get right out and do things! Well, what was I going to do? It needed thinking. Then I hit the notion." He laughed again. He was gazing in at himself and laughing at the conceits he knew were real, and strong, and vital. "Say." He nodded at the prospect through the doorway. "There it is. This country's beginning. We don't know half it means to the world yet. Well, I hadn't enough capital to play with, so I resolved right away to start in and learn a trade from its first step to its topmost rung, and to earn my keep right through. Meanwhile my capital's lying invested against the time I open out. I'm going to jump right into the groundwood pulp business when the time comes. And out of that I mean to build a name that folks won't easily forget. Well, I guess you won't find much that's interesting in all this. It don't sound anything particularly bright or new. But for what it is it's my notion, and--I'm going to put it through. That's why I'm here. I'm learning my job from the bottom." The decision and force of the man were remarkable. The conciseness of his story, and his indifference to the tragedy of his birth, indicated a level mind under powerful control. And Father Adam knew he had made no mistake. "It's the best story I've heard in years," he replied, a whimsical smile lighting his dark eyes. "Is it?" Bull's smile was no less whimsical. "Yes. You've guts of iron, boy. And I've been looking years for just such a man." "That sounds--tough," Bull laughed, but he was interested. "What's the job you want him for? Are you yearning to hand out a killing? Is it a trip--a trip to some waste space of God's earth that 'ud freeze up a normal heart? Do you want a feller to beat the laws of God and man? Guts of iron! It certainly sounds tough, and I'm not sure you've found the feller you're needing." "I am." Father Adam was no longer smiling. The gravity of his expression gave emphasis to his words. Bull was impressed. His laugh died out. "I don't know I'm yearning," he said deliberately. "Anyway I don't quit the track I've marked out. That way there's nothing doing. It's a crank with me; I can't quit a notion." "You don't have to." "No?" They were regarding each other steadily. "Here, it's not my way to beat around," the missionary exclaimed suddenly. "When you find the thing you need you've got to act quick and straight. Just listen a while, while I make a talk. Ask all you need as I go along. And when I've done I'd thank you for a straight answer and quick. An answer that'll hold you, and bind you the way your own notions do." "That's talk." Bull nodded appreciatively. The missionary let his gaze wander to the pleasant sunlight through the doorway, where the flies and mosquitoes were basking. "There was a fellow who started up a groundwood mill 'way out on the Labrador coast. He was bright enough, and a mighty rich man. And he'd got a notion--a big notion. Well, I know him. I know him intimately. I don't know if he's a friend to me or not. Sometimes I think he isn't. Anyway, that doesn't matter to you. The thing that does matter is, he set out to do something big. His notions were always big. Maybe too big. This notion was no less than to drive the Skandinavians out of the groundwood trade of this country. He figured his great mill was to be the nucleus of an all-Canadian and British combination, embracing the entire groundwood industry of this country. It was to be Canadian trade for Canada with the British Empire." Bull emitted a low whistle. "An elegant slogan," he commented. He shifted his position. In his interest his pipe had gone out, and he leant forward on his upturned box. "Yes," Father Adam went on. "And, like your notion, it was something not easily shifted from his mind. It was planned and figured to the last detail. It was so planned it could not fail. So he thought. So all concerned thought. You see, he had ten million dollars capital of his own; and he was something of a genius at figures and finance--his people reckoned. He was a man of some purpose, and enthusiasm, and--something else." "Ah!" Bull's alert brain was prompt to seize upon the reservation. But denial was instant. "No. It wasn't drink, or women, or any foolishness of that sort," the missionary said. "The whole edifice of his purpose came tumbling about his ears from a totally unexpected cause. Something happened. Something happened to the man himself. It was disaster--personal disaster. And when it came a queer sort of weakness tripped him, a weakness he had always hitherto had strength to keep under, to stifle. His courage failed him, and the bottom of his purpose fell out like--that." Father Adam clipped his fingers in the air and his regretful eyes conveyed the rest. Then, after a moment, he smiled. "He'd no--iron guts," he said, with a sigh. "He had no stomach for battle in face of this--this disaster that hit him." "It has no relation to his--undertaking?" "None whatever. I know the whole thing. We were 'intimates.' I know his whole life story. It was a disaster to shake any man." The missionary sighed profoundly. "Yes, I knew him intimately," he went on. "I deplored his weakness. I censured it. Perhaps I went far beyond any right of mine to condemn. I don't know. I argued with him. I did all I could to support him. You see, I appreciated the splendid notion of the thing he contemplated. More than that, I knew it could be carried out." He shook his head. "It was useless. This taint--this yellow streak--was part of the man. He could no more help it than you could help fighting to the death." "Queer." A sort of pitying contempt shone in the younger man's eyes. "Queer?" Father Adam nodded. "It was--crazy." "It surely was." The missionary turned back to the prospect beyond the doorway. But it was only for a moment. He turned again and went on with added urgency. "But the scheme wasn't wholly to be abandoned. It was--say, here was the crazy proposition he put up. You see I was his most intimate friend. He said: 'The forests are wide. They're peopled with men of our craft. There must be a hundred and more men capable of doing this thing. Of putting it through. Well, the forests must provide the man, or the idea must die.' He said: 'We must find a man!' He said: 'You--you whose mission it is to roam the length and breadth of these forests--you may find such a man. If you do--when you do--if it's years hence--send him along here, and there's ten million dollars waiting for him, and all this great mill, and these timber limits inexhaustible waiting for him to go right ahead. It doesn't matter a thing who he is, or what he is, or where he comes from, so long as he gets this idea--sticks to it faithfully--and puts it through. I want nothing out of it for myself. And the day he succeeds in the great idea all that would have been mine shall be his.'" As Father Adam finished, he looked into the earnest, wonder-filled eyes of the other. "Well?" he demanded. Bull cleared his throat. "The mill? Where is it?" He demanded. "Sachigo. Farewell Cove." "Sachigo! Why it's--" "The greatest groundwood mill in the world." There was a note of pride and triumph in the missionary's tone. But it passed unheeded. Bull was struggling with recollection. "This man? Wasn't it Leslie Standing who built it? Didn't it break him or something? That's the story going round. There was something--" Father Adam shook his head. "There's ten million dollars says it didn't. Ten millions you can handle yourself." "Gee!" Bull drew a sharp breath. Strong, forceful as he was the figure was overwhelming. "This--all this you're saying--offering? It's all real, true?" Bull demanded at last. "All of it." "You want me to go and take possession of Sachigo, and ten--Say, where's the catch?" "There's no 'catch'--anywhere." The denial was cold. It was almost in the tone of affronted dignity. The missionary had thrust his hand in a pocket. Now he produced a large, sealed envelope. Bull's eyes watched the movement, but bewilderment was still apparent in them. Suddenly he raised a bandaged hand, and smoothed back his hair. Father Adam held out the sealed letter. It was addressed to "Bat Harker," at Sachigo Mill. "Here," he said quietly. "You're the man with iron guts Leslie Standing wants for his purpose. Take this. Go right off to Sachigo and take charge of the greatest enterprise in the world's paper industry. You're looking to make good. It's your set purpose to make good in the groundwood industry. Opportunities don't come twice in a lifetime. If you've the iron courage I believe, you'll grab this chance. You'll grab it right away. Will you? Can you do it? Have you the nerve?" There was a taunt in the challenge. It was calculated. There was something else. The missionary's dark eyes were almost pleading. Bull seized the letter. He almost snatched it. "Will I do it? Can I do it? Have I the nerve?" he cried, in a tone of fierce exulting. "If there's a feller crazy enough to hand me ten million dollars and trust me with a job--if it was as big as a war between nations--I'd never squeal. Can I? Will I? Sure I will. And time'll answer the other for you. Iron guts, eh! I tell you in this thing they're chilled steel." "Good!" Father Adam was smiling. A great relief, a great happiness stirred his pulses as he stood up and moved over to the miserable fire with its burden of stewing food. "Now we'll eat," he said. And he stooped down and stirred the contents of the pot. CHAPTER III BULL LEARNS CONDITIONS The _Myra_ ploughed her leisurely way up the cove. There was dignity in the steadiness with which she glided through the still waters. The cockleshell of the Atlantic billows had become a thing of pride in the shelter of Farewell Cove. Her predecessor, the _Lizzie_, had never risen above her humble station. Her decks were wide and clean. Her smoke-stack had something purposeful in its proportions. The bridge was set high and possessed a spacious chart house. She had an air of importance not usual to the humble coasting packet. "Old man" Hardy was at his post now. One of his officers occupied the starboard side of the bridge, while he and another looked out over the port bow. "It's a deep water channel," the skipper said, with all a sailor's appreciation. "That's the merricle that makes this place. It'ud take a ten-thousand tonner with fathoms to spare right away up to the mooring berth. Guess Nature meant Sachigo for a real port, but got mussed fixing the climate." Bull Sternford was leaning over the rail. For all summer was at its height the thick pea-jacket he was wearing was welcome enough. His keen eyes were searching, and no detail of the prospect escaped them. He was filled with something akin to amazement. "It compares with the big harbours of the world," he replied. "And I'd say it's not without advantages many of the finest of 'em lack. Those headlands we passed away back. Why, the Atlantic couldn't blow a storm big enough to more than ripple the surface here inside." He laughed. "What a place to fortify. Think of this in war time, eh?" The grizzled skipper grinned responsively. "It's all you reckon," he said. "But she needs humouring. You need to get this place in winter when ice and snow make it tough. This cove freezes right around its shores. You'd maybe lay off days to get inside, only to find yourself snow or fog bound for weeks on end. We make it because we have to with mails. But you can't run cargo bottoms in winter. It's a coasting master's job in snow time. It's a life study. You can get in, and you can get out--if you've nerve. If you're short that way you'll pile up sure as hell." He turned away to the chart room, and a moment later the engine-room telegraph chimed his orders to those below. Bull was left with his busy thoughts. It was a remarkable scene. The forest slopes came right down almost to the water's edge on either hand. They came down from heights that rose mountainously. And there, all along the foreshore were dotted timber-built habitations sufficient to shelter hundreds of workers. Their quality was staunch and picturesque, and pointed much of the climate rigour they were called upon to endure. But they only formed a background to, perhaps, the most wonderful sight of all. A road and trolley car line skirted each foreshore, and the mind behind the searching eyes was filled with admiration for the skill and enterprise that had transplanted one of civilisation's most advanced products here on the desperate coast of Labrador. Many of the forest whispers of Sachigo had been incredible. But this left the onlooker ready to believe anything of it. The mill, and the township surrounding it, were already within view, a wide-scattered world of buildings, occupying all the lower levels of the territory on both sides of the mouth of the Beaver River before it rose to the heights from which its water power fell. Bull was amazed. And as he gazed, his wonder and admiration were intensified a hundredfold by his self-interest. This place was to be in his control, possibly his possession if he made good. He thrust back the fur cap pressed low on his forehead. His thought leapt back on the instant to the man who had sent him down to this Sachigo. Father Adam, with his thin, ascetic features, his long, dark hair and beard, his tall, spare figure. His patient kindliness and sympathy, and yet with the will and force behind it which could fling the muzzle of a gun into a man's face and force obedience. He had sent him. Why? Because--oh, it was all absurd, unreal. And yet here he was on the steamer; and there ahead lay the wonders of Sachigo. Well, time would prove the craziness of it all. "Makes you wonder, eh?" The coasting skipper was at his side again. "You know these folks needed big nerve to set up this enterprise. It keeps me guessing at the limits where man has to quit. I've spent my life on this darn coast, an' never guessed to see the day when trolley cars 'ud run on Labrador, and the working folk 'ud sit around in their dandy houses, with electric light making things comfortable for them, and electric heat takin' the place of the cordwood stove it seemed to me folk never could do without. Can you beat it? No. You can't. Nor anyone else." "Who is it? A corporation?" Bull asked, knowing full well the answer. He wanted to hear, he wanted to learn all that this man could tell him. Hardy shook his head. "Standing," he said. "That was the guy's name who started it all up. But," he added thoughtfully, "I never rightly knew which feller it was. If it was Standing, or that tough hoboe feller who calls himself Bat Harker. They never talk a heap. But since Leslie Standing passed out o' things eight years back--the time I was first handed command of this kettle--the mill's jumped out of all notion. Those trolleys," he pointed at the foreshore of the cove: "They started in to haul the 'hands' to their work only two years back. I'd say it's Bat Harker. But he looks more like a longshore tough than a--genius." He shrugged expressively. Then he shook his head. "No," he went on. "I don't know a thing but what any guy can learn who comes along up this coast. I've thought a heap. An', like you, I've ast questions all the time. But you don't learn a thing of this enterprise but the things you see. Bat Harker don't ever talk." He laughed in quiet enjoyment. "He's most like a clam mussed up in a cement bar'l. There don't seem any clear reason either. The only thing queer to me was Standing's 'get out.' There was talk then when that happened along. But it was jest talk. Canteen talk. Something sort of happened. No one seemed rightly to know. They guessed Bat was a tough guy who'd boosted him out--some way. Then I heard his wife had quit and he was all broke up. Then they said he'd made losses of millions on stock market gambles. But the yarns don't fit. You see, the mill's gone right ahead. The capital's there, sure. They've just built and built. There's more than twice the 'hands' there was eight years back. And get a look at the 'bottoms' loading at the wharves. No. Say, when I came aboard the _Myra_ and they scrapped the _Lizzie_, I never guessed to get a full cargo. Well, I can load right down to the water line for this place alone all the time. No. Sachigo's a mighty big fixture in the trade of this coast. It's a swell proposition for us sea folk. It keeps our propellers moving all the time. They're bright folk, sure." The old seaman laughed and moved off again to his telegraphs. The business of running in to the quayside was beginning in earnest. * * * * * The hawsers creaked and strained at the bollards. The vessel yawed. Then she settled at her berth. The engine-room telegraph chimed its final order, and the vessel's busy heart came to rest. Instantly activity reigned upon the deck, and the discharge of cargo was in full swing. Bull Sternford was one of the first to pass down the gangway. Clad in the pleasant tweeds of civilisation, part hidden under a close-buttoned pea-jacket, he bulked enormously. His more than six feet of height was lost against his massive breadth of shoulder. Then, too, his keen face under a beaver cap, and his shapely head with its mane of hair, were things to deny his body that attention it might otherwise have attracted. For all that, at least one pair of critical eyes lost no detail of his personality. Bat Harker was unobtrusively standing amongst the piled bales of groundwood that stacked the wharf from end to end. There was nothing about him to single him out from those who stood on the quay. The rough clothing of his original calling was very dear to him, and he clung to it tenaciously. He seemed to have aged not one whit in the added eight years. His iron-grey hair was just as thick and colourful as before. There was no added line in his hard face. His girth was no less and no more. And his eyes, penetrating, steady, had the same spirit shining in them. He had laboured something desperately in the past eight years. With the passing of Leslie Standing from the life of Sachigo he had realized a terrible loss. His loss had more than embarrassed him. There was even a moment when it shook his purpose. But with him Sachigo was a religion, and his faith saved him. For a while, in both letter and spirit, he obeyed his orders, and Sachigo stood still. Then his philosophy carried the day. It was his dictum that no one could stand still on Labrador without freezing to death. He saw the application of it to his beloved mill. It must be "forward" or decay. So he scrapped his original orders, and drove with all his force. Bull stared about him for the fascination of his journey up the cove was still on him. His pre-occupation left him watching the hurried, orderly movement going on about him. "That all your baggage?" The demand was harsh, and Bull swung round with a start. He was gazing down into the upturned face of Bat Harker, who was pointing at the suit case he was carrying. "Guess I've a trunk back there in the hold somewhere," Bull replied indifferently, taking his interrogator for a quayside porter. "That's all right. I'll have one of the boys tote it up. Best come right along. It's quite a piece up to the office. You've a letter for me?" "I've a letter for Mr. Bat Harker." The doubt in Bull's tone set a genuine grin in the other's eyes. "Sure. That's me. Bat Harker. Maybe you don't guess I look it. Don't worry. Just pass it over." Bull groped in an inner pocket, surprise affording him some amusement. His interest in Sachigo had abruptly focussed itself on this man. "I'm kind of sorry," he said. "I surely took you for some sort of--porter." Bat laughed outright, and glanced down at his work-stained clothing. "Wal, that ain't new," he said. Then his eyes resumed their keen regard. "We don't need to wait around though. The skitters are mighty thick down here. Sachigo's gettin' a special breed I kind o' hate. That letter, an'--we'll get along." Bull drew out Father Adam's letter and waited while the other tore it open. Bat glanced at the contents and jumped to the signature. Then he thrust out a gnarled and powerful hand. "Shake," he cried. And there could be no doubting his good will. "Glad to have you around, Mr. Bull Sternford." * * * * * Bull Sternford was seated in the luxurious chair that had once known Leslie Standing. His pea-jacket was removed and his cap was gone. The room was warm, and the sun beyond the window was radiant. Beyond the desk Bat was seated, where his wandering gaze could drift to the one object of which it never tired. He was at the window which looked out upon the mill below. He was reading Father Adam's letter. Sternford was silently regarding his squat figure. He was waiting and wondering, speculating as to the hard-faced, uncultured creature who had built up all the amazing details that made up an industrial city in a territory that was outlawed by Nature. Bat thrust the letter away and looked up. "Father Adam didn't write that letter for you? He just handed it out to you to bring along?" "That's how," Bull nodded. "Sure." Bat's tone became reflective. "He must have wrote that letter years, and held it against the time he located you. He's queer." Bull laughed. "Maybe he is," he said, "I don't know about that. But he's one hell of a good man," he went on warmly. "Do you know him? But of course you do. Say, he's just father and mother to every darn lumber-jack that haunts the forests of Quebec, and it don't worry him if his children are hellhound or honest. There's that to him sets me just crazy. I'd like to see his thin, tired face, always smiling." He stirred. And the warmth died abruptly out of his manner. "Say, you knew me--at the wharf?" "Sure. I knew you before you came along. We've a wireless out on the headland." "I see. Father Adam warned you I was coming. He told you--" "The whole darn yarn. Sure." Bull laughed grimly. "That he guessed to shoot me to small meat if I didn't do as he said?" "If you didn't cut out homicide from your notions of--sport." "Yes. It was tough," Bull regretted. "But I'm glad--now." "Yep. Guess any straight sort of feller would feel that way--after." The lumberman's regret was unnoticed by the other. Suddenly Bull leant forward in his chair. A smile, half whimsical, half incredulous, lit his eyes. He thrust his elbows on the desk and supported his face in his hands. "It just beats hell!" he cried. "It certainly does. Oh, I'm awake all right. Sure, I am. One time I wasn't sure. Two months back I was lying around a lousy summer camp getting ready to take a hand in the winter cut for the Skandinavia Corporation. I was within two seconds of breaking a man's life--the rotten camp boss. And now? Why, now I'm sitting around in dandy tweeds in the boss chair of a swell office, with a crazy notion back of my head I'm here to beat the game with the greatest groundwood mill in the world, and ten million dollars capital behind me. Maybe there's folks wouldn't guess I'm awake, but I allow I am. But the whole thing sets me thinking of the fairy stories I used to read when I was a kid, and never could see the horse sense in wasting time over." Bat helped himself to a chew from a fragment of plug tobacco. "Here, listen," Bull went on, after the briefest pause. "It's my 'show down.' I don't understand a thing. I'm mostly a kid from college with a yearning for fight. So far I've learned some of the things the forest can teach the feller who wants to learn. They're the rough things. And I like rough things. I've some grip on groundwood. And the making of groundwood's the main object of my life. That, and the notion of licking hell out of the other feller. That's me, and those are the things made Father Adam send me along down to Sachigo. Well, it's up to you." He spread out his hands, "Where do I stand? How do I stand? And why in the name of all that's crazy am I sitting in this boss chair--right now?" Bat swung one trunk-like leg across the other. His movement suggested an easing of mind and a measure of enjoyment. He pointed at the window and nodded in its direction. "Quite a place," he said, in a tone and with a pride that had no relation to the other's demands. "Makes you feel man ain't the bum sort of inseck in the scheme of things some highbrows ain't happy not tellin' you. There's folks who guess it's Nature the proposition that matters. It's her does it all, an' keeps on doin' it all the time. But Nature's most like one mighty foolish, extravagant female. That sort o' woman who don't care but to please the notion of the moment. And when that's done, goes right on to please the next. Wal, anyway I guess she's got her uses if it's only to hand chances to the guy that's lookin' on. Take a look right down there below," he went on. "That's the truck the guy lookin' on has sweppen up in Nature's trail. It's taken most of fifteen years collectin' it. We've had to push that broom hard. And now I guess you're going to boost your weight behind it too. There's other things to collect, and that's what we want from you. You got nerve. You got big muscle, and education, too. Well, you'll handle the biggest sweeper of us all. Does it scare you?" "Not a thing." Bull was smiling confidently. Bat chuckled. His eyes were sparkling as he ruthlessly masticated his tobacco. This man pleased him mightily. "That's all right," he said. Then he went on after a silent moment while he gazed thoughtfully out of the window. "It's right here," he exclaimed. "Here's a mill, a swell mill that don't lack for a thing to make it well-nigh perfect. I'll tell you about it. Its capacity. Its present limit is six thousand tons dry weight groundwood pulp to the week. That's runnin' full. There's a hundred and twenty grinders feeding a hundred and eighty sheetin' machines. And they're figgered to use up fifty-five thousand horse power of the five hundred thousand we got harnessed on this great little old river that falls off the highlands. That power is ours winter an' summer. It don't matter a shuck the 'freeze up.' It's there for us all the darn time. Then we've forest limits to hand us the cordage for that output that could give us three times what we're needing for a thousand years. Labour? We got it plenty. And later, by closing in our system of foresting, I figger to cut out present costs on a sight bigger output. The plans for all that are fixed in my head. Then we come to the market for our stuff, an' I guess that's the syrup in the pie. The world's market's waitin' on us. It's ours before we start. Why? Our power don't cost us one cent a unit. We're able to hand our folks a standard of living through the nature of things that leaves wages easy. The river's wide, and full, and it's _our own_. Then our sea passage to Europe's just eighteen hundred miles instead of three thousand. An' these things mean our costs leave us cutting right under other folks, and Skandinavia beat. There it is," he cried, with a wide gesture of his knotted hands. "It's pie!" Something of the lumberman's enthusiasm found reflection in Sternford's eyes. "But Nature's handed us a lemon in the basket of oranges," Bat went on, with a shake of his head. "It's that woman in her again. Y'see, she gives us just four months in the year to get our stuff out. Oh, she don't freeze the cove right up. No. That's the tough of it. The channel's mostly open. But storm, and fog, and ice, beats the ocean-going skipper's power to navigate it with any sort o' safety. The headlands are desperate narrow, and--well, there it is. We've four months in the year to get our stuff out. It's a sum. Figger it yourself. Set us goin' full. Six thousand tons in the week. What is it? Three hundred thousand in the year. How many trips at ten thousand tons? Or put the average tonnage lower. Say eight thousand. Forty trips. Four months. A vessel making two trips on an average turn round. We need a fleet of twenty 'bottoms,' to do it in the time. And they'll need to be our own. You can't help yourself to the world's market, and fix prices, and all the while fight for shipping in the open market. See?" "Sure--I see." Bat nodded approval. "When we get that the rest can go through. Meanwhile there's sixty grinders idle, which leaves us workin' half capacity. As it stands it's a dandy enterprise. We're making a swell balance sheet. But profit ain't the whole purpose. There's the rest." The super lumber-jack turned again to the window with that fascination that was almost pathetic. "And the rest?" Bull Sternford urged the other sharply, and Bat turned at once. "Canada's groundwood for the Canadian, inside the Empire," he shot at him. The other nodded. "The world's market for the country that can and should supply it," he replied. "The smashing of the darn Skandinavian ring," cried Bat, his deep-set eyes alight. "And drive them--back over the sea." Bat suddenly leant across the table. "That's it, boy," he cried. "That's it! Hellbeam and all his gang. The Skandinavia Corporation. Smash 'em! Drive 'em to Hell! It ain't profit. It's the trade. The A'mighty made Canada an' built the Canadian. He set him right here to help himself to the things He gave him. It's being filched by these foreigners--his birthright. They're fat on it. Did we fight the world war for that? Not by a darn sight. We fought to hold a place on the map for ourselves. And that's a proposition we've all got to get our back teeth into." "It sure is." The mill manager sat back in his chair and chewed vigorously. "That's it," he said. "How?" he went on. "Combination. Finance--and the interest of the little, great old country across the water. It's all planned and laid out by the feller that started up this proposition. It's scheduled for you. Guess you'll find the last word of it writ out in the locked book in this desk. It's clear and straight for the feller with the nerve. That's you. Wal?" Bat was watching--searching. He was looking for that flicker of an eyelid he had learned to dread in the past. But he failed to discover it. The wide, clear eyes of the younger man returned his regard unwaveringly. The uncultured lumberman had stirred a responsive enthusiasm, and somehow the project no longer seemed the crazy thing it had once appeared to Bull Sternford. "Guess my back teeth have got it," he said, with a smile. "You needn't worry I'll let go." Bat drew a deep breath. He stood up and spat his mangled chew into the cuspidore. "I'm glad. I'm real glad," he cried. "I'm a heap more glad you told me those words without askin' the other things you need to know. But you got to know 'em right away. Say, the day that fixes up the things we been talkin' sees you with me and another masters of this mill an' all it means. And while you're playin' your hand there's one big fat salary for you to draw. This house and office is yours, an' me an' the mill's ready to do all we know all the time, just the way you need it. Down in Abercrombie there's the attorney, Charles Nisson, who's got the outfit of papers that you're goin' to sign. And when you seen him, why you'll get busy. Shake, boy," he cried, thrusting out one knotted hand. "Father Adam sent you, and I don't guess he's made any mistake." Bull had risen, and his height left him towering over the man across the table. "Now for the mill," he cried, as their hands fell apart. "The _Myra_ sails sundown to-morrow and I need to get a swift look around before then. Say, you folk have kind of taken me on a chance--well, that's all right. I'm glad." CHAPTER IV DRAWING THE NET Nathaniel Hellbeam was contemplating the spiral of smoke rising from his long cigar. He was dreaming pleasantly. He was dreaming of those successful manipulations of finance it was his purpose to achieve. He had lunched, so his dream was of the things which most appealed. In the midst of his reflections the drub of the muffled telephone beat its insistent tattoo. His dream vanished, and his senses became alert. He leant forward in his chair and picked up the receiver. "Yes," he said shortly. And it sounded more like the Teutonic, "Ja!" Putting up the receiver again he leant his clumsy body back in his chair. His small eyes no longer contained their dreaming light. They were turned expectantly upon the polished mahogany door. The door swung silently open. "Mr. Idepski!" The announcement was made in a carefully modulated tone. The agent passed into the great man's presence, slim, dark, confident. Then the door closed without a sound. "Well?" There was no cordiality in the greeting. That was not Hellbeam's way with a paid agent. Idepski walked across to the chair always waiting to receive a visitor and sat down. "May I sit?" he inquired coolly, after the operation had been performed. Hellbeam nodded. "Well?" he repeated. The agent laid his hat on the ornate desk, and removed his gloves with care and deliberation. "I'm just back from Sachigo," he said. "Hah!" The financier settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and returned his cigar to his gross mouth. "Tell me," he demanded. "Easy. Things are moving our way." The dark eyes glanced over the table for the gold cigarette box that always stood there. "Help yourself," the banker ordered rather than invited. Idepski needed no second bidding. "You got all my code messages?" he asked. "Good," as the Swede nodded. "Then you know the position of the mill. Say, that feller Harker needs a sort of apology from me--also from you. The mill's a wonder. And he's the guy that's fixed it that way. You haven't a thing in Skandinavia comparable. I'd say you haven't a feller on your side capable of touching the fringe of that tough's genius for organisation. It's him. Not Martin--I mean Standing." "And Standing?" But Idepski was not to be deflected from his purpose. "That's all right," he said easily. "I'm coming to him presently. I gave you, at times, the whole length and breadth, and size, and capacity of the Sachigo of to-day. You got all that stuff. But I've saved up the plum. There's a new man come into it. His name's Sternford--Bull Sternford. Guess it's him I need to tell you about before I pass on to the other. It's taken me a while to locate all I needed. And I guess I had luck or I wouldn't have got it all yet." For once the man's smile reached his eyes. "What's his position--in Sachigo?" Hellbeam demanded. "Right on top of the business side of it." "A financial man?" The banker's interest was obviously stirred. But Idepski shook his dark head. "That's the queer of it," he said. "He's a youngster straight out of the forest with no sort of record except as a pretty tough fighting proposition. Here, let me hand it to you in my own way, and I'll answer any sort of question after. I got men chasing up the forest camps. You know that. Well, I get their reports right here in this city at my office. They're read carefully, and anything that looks good is coded, and sent on to me wherever I am. Well, right after I located this feller, Sternford, coming into Sachigo, I got word of some stuff reported from one of your own camps way out north-west of Lake St. Anac. Guess it's about the farthest north in that direction, and it's cut off from any other camp by a hundred miles. On the face of it the stuff didn't seem to need more than a single thought. It was to say my man was quitting the camp. He'd sifted it right through, but there wasn't a 'jack' in the camp with any sort of story worth wasting paper on. There wasn't a trace of our man that way, and he proposed drawing another cover. At the end of his report was one of those notes these boys never seem able to resist mixing up with their official work. It told me of one of those scraps that happened in the camps, and he seemed mighty struck by it. It was between the camp boss, Arden Laval, and a kid called Sternford. Say, when I read that name I jumped. I felt like handing my feller promotion right away. Well, his story was good anyway. It seems this camp boss is about the biggest bluff in the scrap way known to that country. The kid licked him. They fought nearly two hours, 'rough and tough.' And the kid would have killed his man, but for the interference of a missionary feller called Father Adam. He broke 'em loose with a gun, and when he got 'em loose he took the kid right away so he shouldn't hand out the homicide he reckoned to. This report was more than two months old when I got it. Anyway I got it after a feller called Bull Sternford, a queer name by the way, had jumped in on the Sachigo proposition." The agent flung away his cigarette and helped himself afresh. "Well," he went on, smiling, "I guess it didn't take me thinking five seconds. I set the wires humming asking a description of this fighting kid. I got it. It was my man. The feller at Sachigo. Well?" Idepski's smiling interrogation was full of satisfaction. "Go on." The watchful eyes of the financier seemed to have narrowed. "Now, by what chance does this feller, Bull Sternford, come straight from one hell of a scrap in a far-off camp belonging to Skandinavia to run the business end of Sachigo? What happened after that fool missionary got him away? And--" Idepski broke off, pondering. He flicked his cigarette ash without regard for the carpet. Hellbeam stirred in his chair impatiently. His lips seemed to become more prominent. His small eyes seemed to become smaller. "You ask that, yes? You?" he snorted. "A child may answer that thing. You think? Oh, yes, you think." The hand supporting his cigar made a gesture that implied everything disparaging. "Our man--this Martin--has gone out of Sachigo because--of you? I tell you, no! Does a man give up the money, the big plan he makes, at the sight of an--agent? He took you in his hand and sent you to the swine life of the forest where he could have crushed you like that." He gripped the empty air. "Then he goes--where? You say he fears and quits. What does he fear? You?" The man shook his head till his cheeks were shaken by the violence of his movement. "He goes somewhere. But he does not quit. That is clear. Oh, yes. The mill goes on. It grows and prospers. The man Harker remains. Where comes the money for Sachigo to grow? Trade? Yes, some. But not all. I know these things. The mill goes on--the same as with Martin there. So Martin does not quit. He--just goes. Then who sets this Bull Sternford in the mill? Why? He says, 'This man can do the things I need.' Well? Say quick to your man, 'Do not leave this camp of Skandinavia.' Martin is there, or near by. He must know this Father Adam, too. He must be in touch with him. Maybe he watches the Skandinavia work. Maybe he plays his game so. Maybe he goes from Sachigo for that reason. Yes?" The financier's undisguised contempt left the agent apparently undisturbed. "That's the simple horse sense of it," Idepski retorted promptly. "I get all that. But you're wrong when you say, Martin's playing any other game than lying low because of one hell of a scare. I know him. You think you know him because you can't get away from judging a man from your end. However, that don't matter a shuck. I've told that man of mine to stop around. Don't worry. I told him that right away. I told him to watch this missionary." He shook his head. "Nothing doing. The missionary has quit. As I said, I'm right back from Sachigo. I didn't come back just to hand you this stuff. I'm on my way up to this camp of yours. We've been hunting this guy eight years--blind. Now there's a streak of daylight. I'm going for that streak myself. Anyway, it's liable to be pleasanter work than lumbering in the booms at Sachigo, and wondering when that feller Bat Harker, was going to locate me through a lumber-jack's outfit. And while I'm up there I mean to learn all I can of this Father Adam. I don't look for much that way. He's just a missioner that every feller in the forest's got a good word for, and anyway, it don't seem to me the feller who jumped in on you, and touched your bank roll is the sort to pass his time handlin' out tracts to the bums of the forest. I came in on my way to pass you these things. I go north again to-night. I'll be away quite a while, and, shut off up there, you'll not be likely to get word easy. But you'll hear things when I've got anything to hand you." A sardonic light crept into Hellbeam's eyes as he listened to the final assurance. "So," he ejaculated with a nod. The agent rose to go. "Meanwhile," he said, leaning over the desk, "it might be well for you to get a grip on the fact that Sachigo's going right on. It's the greatest groundwood proposition in the world. I know enough of Harker to realise his capacity to make it do just what he needs. And as for that other--this Sternford kid--why, I gather he's a pretty live wire that's set there for a reason. The slogan up there's much what it was, only the words are changed." Hellbeam sucked his cigar and removed it from his lips. "Changed? How?" he demanded, without suspicion. "It was 'Canadian trade for the Canadians,'" Idepski said, his dark eyes snapping maliciously. "It's more personal since the fighting kid came along. It reminds me of the German slogans of the war. It's 'To hell with the Swedes, we'll drive 'em _into_ the sea.'" The financier nodded. His armour was impenetrable. "The Germans said much," he said. "That's all right, these folks aren't Germans," came the prompt retort, as Idepski picked up his hat and gloves. "No." Hellbeam remained seated. It was not his way to speed a departing visitor. "I'm glad. Oh, yes." He smiled into the other's face, and his meaning was obvious. "You go to this camp. You find this missionary. That's work for you. The other--" his eyes dropped to the papers on the desk before him--"this mill, this Sachigo is for me. It is much nearer to the sea than the Skandinavia. Oh, yes." CHAPTER V THE PROGRESS OF NANCY The girl reached out a hand in response to the ring of the telephone. It was slim and white; and her finger nails displayed that care which suggests a healthy regard for the niceties of a woman's life. "Hullo! Yes?" She remained silently intent upon the rapidly spoken message coming down to her over the wire. Her deep, hazel eyes were soberly regarding the blotting pad, upon which an idle pencil was describing a number of meaningless diagrams. "Yes," she replied, after a while. "Oh, yes. All reports are in. I've gone through them all, and my summary is being prepared now. They're a pretty bad story. Yes. What's that? How? Oh, yes. Some of the camps are in pretty bad shape, I'd say. Output's fallen badly. Output! Yes. All sorts of reasons and--" she laughed, "--to me, none quite satisfactory. I think I've my finger on the real trouble, and fancy I've seen all this coming quite a while back. Very well. I'll be right up. Yes, I'll bring my rough notes if the summary isn't ready." Nancy McDonald thrust the receiver back in its place and sat for a moment gazing at it. She knew she had committed herself. She had intended to. She knew that she had reached one of the important milestones in her career. In her youth, in the springtime energy abounding in her, she meant to pit her opinion against the considered policy of those who formed the management of the great Skandinavia Corporation she served. She understood her temerity. A surge of nervous anticipation thrilled her. But she was resolved. Her ambition was great, and her youthful courage was no less. The brazen clack of typewriters beyond the glass partitions of her little private office left her unaffected. It was incessant. She would have missed it had it not been there. She would have lost that sense of rush which the tuneless chorus of modern commercialism inspired. And, to a woman of her temperament, that would have been a very real loss. The great offices of the Skandinavia Corporation, in the heart of the city of Quebec, with their machine-like precision of life, their soulless method, their passionless progress towards the purpose of their organisation, meant the open road towards the fulfilment of her desires for independence and achievement. All the promise of her earlier youth had been abundantly fulfilled. Tall, gracious of figure, her beauty had a charm and dignity which owed almost as much to mentality as it did to physical form. Yet, for all she had already passed her twenty-fourth birthday, she was amazingly innocent of those things which are counted as the governing factors of a woman's life. Certainly she knew and loved the Titian hue of her wealth of hair; her mirror was constantly telling her of the hazel depths of her wide, intelligent eyes, with their fringes of dark, curling, Celtic lashes. Then the almost classic moulding of her features. She could not escape realising these things. But they meant no more to her than the fact that her nose was not awry, and her lips were not misshapen, and her even, white teeth were perfectly competent for their proper function. She was a happy blending of soul and mentality. Heredity seemed to have done its best for her. The Gaelic fire and the brilliance and irresponsibility of her misguided father seemed to have been balanced and tempered by the gentle woman soul of her mother. And through the eyes of both she gazed out upon the world, inspired and supported by a tireless nervous energy. Since the memorable day of her interview with her appointed trustee, Charles Nisson, her development had been rapid. The events which had suddenly been flung into her life at the interview seemed to have unloosed a hundred latent, unguessed emotions in her child heart, and translated her at once into a thinking, high-spirited woman. She honestly strove to banish bitterness against the man who had deprived her of that mother love which had been her childhood's treasure, but always a shadow of it remained to colour her thought, and influence her impulse. She had studied the deed of settlement as she had promised. She had studied it coldly, dispassionately. She had looked upon it as a mere document aimed to benefit her, without regard for her feelings for the man who had made it. She had thought over it at night when passion was less to be controlled. She had consulted those she had been bidden to consult, and had listened to, and had weighed their kindly advice. And when all was done she took her own decision as she was bound to do. It was a decision that had no relation to reason, only to passionate impulse. She would not accept the things the deed offered her. She would not accept this reparation so coldly held out. She would not live a leisured, vegetable life, with no greater ambition than to marry and bear children. The simple prospect of marriage and motherhood could never satisfy in itself. That would be a happy incident, but not the whole, and acceptance of that deed would surely have robbed her of the rest. There were times when she felt the disabilities of her sex. She knew she was deprived of the physical strength which the battle of life seemed to demand. But to her the world was wide, and big, and, in her girl's imagination, teeming with appealing adventure. The world alone could not satisfy her. Once her decision was taken all the kindly efforts of her mentors at Marypoint were rallied in her support. They had advised out of their wisdom, but acted from their hearts. And the day on which the principal of the college notified her that the Skandinavia Corporation of Quebec had signified its willingness to absorb her into its service as typist and stenographer, at one hundred dollars per month, was the happiest she had known since her well-loved mother had been taken out of her life. Now, after three years of unwearying effort, there was still no shadow to mar her happiness, or temper her enthusiasm. On the contrary, there was much to stimulate both. In that brief period she had succeeded almost beyond her dreams. Was she not already the trusted, confidential secretary to the ruling power in the great offices of the Skandinavia Corporation? Had she not been taken out of the ranks of the many capable stenographers, and been given a private office, a doubled salary, and work to do which left her wide scope for the play of those gifts with which she was so liberally endowed? Yes. All these things had been showered upon her in three years. She was a figure of authority in the great establishment. And furthermore, the man she served--this man, Elas Peterman--had hinted, and even definitely talked of, further rapid promotion. She had worked hard for it all. Oh, yes. She had worked morning, noon, and night. When other girls had been content to study fashions and styles, and chatter "beaus" and husbands, she had given herself up to the study of the wood-pulp trade, and the world's market of the material she was interested in. She had saturated herself with the whole scheme, and purpose, and methods of her employers, till, as Peterman himself had once told her in admiration at her grasp of the business, she knew as much of the trade as he did himself. And even after that her mirror, that oracle of a woman's life, failed to yield her the real truth it is always ready to tell to its devotees. The pre-occupation suddenly passed out of the girl's eyes. She stirred. Then she stood up and collected a number of papers into a small leather attaché case. A moment later she pressed the bell push on the desk. Her summons was promptly answered by a slim figured girl, with fair hair, and "jumpered" in the latest style. "I shall be away a while. See to the 'phone, Miss Webster," Nancy said, in a tone of quiet but definite authority. "I shall be with Mr. Peterman. Don't ring me unless it's something important. That summary. Is it ready?" "It's being checked right now." "Well, speed them up. You can send it up directly it's through. Mr. Peterman is needing it." Nancy passed out of the room. Her discipline was strict. Sometimes it approached severity. But she understood its necessity for obtaining results. Her orders would be carried out. * * * * * Elas Peterman set the 'phone back in its place. His dark eyes were smiling. They were shining, too, in a curious, not altogether wholesome fashion. He had just finished talking to Nancy McDonald, and he was thinking of the vision of red hair, of the serious hazel eyes gazing out of their setting of fair, almost transparent complexion. He took up his pen to continue the letter he had been writing. But he added no word. The girl he had been speaking with still occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of all else. He was a good-looking man, clean cut and youthful. His profile was finely chiselled. But his Teutonic origin was clearly marked. It was in the straight square back of his head. It was in the prominent, heavily, rounded chin, and the squareness of his lower jaw. Furthermore, the high, mathematical forehead was quite unmistakable. There was power, force, in the personality of the man. But there was something else. It lay in his mouth, in his eyes. The former was gross, and definite sensuality looked out of the latter. As the door opened to admit Nancy his pen promptly descended on his paper. But he did not write. He looked up with a smile. "Come right in, my dear," he said cordially, with the patronising familiarity of a man conscious of his power. "Just sit right down while I finish this letter." Then he added gratuitously, "It's a rude letter to a feller I've no use for; and I don't guess to rob myself of the pleasure of passing it plenty to him--in my own handwriting." Nancy smiled as she took the chair beside the desk which was usually assigned to her in her intercourse with her chief. "I wish I felt that way writing a bad letter," she said. "But I don't. It just makes me madder with folks, and I go right on thinking things, and--and--it worries." Elas Peterman shook his head. "Guess you'll get over that, my dear," he said easily. "Sure you will. You're just a dandy-minded kid, learning the things of life. You feel good most all the time. That's how it is. You want to laff and see things happy all around you. Later you'll get so you see the other feller mostly thinks of himself, and don't care a hoot for the folks sitting around. Then you'll feel different; and you'll tell folks you don't like the things you feel about them." He went on writing, smiling at his own cynicism. Nancy leant back in her chair. His words left her unaffected. She was used to him. But, for a moment, she contemplated the dark head, supported on his hand, without any warmth of regard. After awhile she glanced away, her gaze wandering over the luxurious furnishings of the room. And it occurred to her to wonder how much, if any, of the excellent taste of the decorations owed inception to the man at the desk. No. Not much. The cheque-book and the decorator's artist must have been responsible. This grossly Teutonic creature with his cynical, commercial mind, was something of an anachronism, and could never have inspired the perfect harmony of the palatial offices of his Corporation. It was rather a pity. He had been exceedingly good to her. She would have liked to think that he was the genius of the whole structure of the Skandinavia, even to the decorations of the office. But it was impossible. The man blotted and folded his letter. He enclosed and sealed it. He even addressed it himself. "I'm kind of sorry I had to break in on you while you were fixing those reports," he said, in his friendliest fashion. "But, you see, I'm just through with the Board, and we took a bunch of decisions that need handling right away. Tell me," he went on, an ironical light creeping into his smiling eyes, "you reckon you've set your finger on the real trouble with our dropping output. I want to know about it because the Board and I can't be sure we've located it right." The sarcasm hurt. It was not intended to. Elas Peterman had no desire in the world to hurt this girl. A cleverer man would have avoided it. But this man had no refinement of thought or feeling. Cynicism and sarcasm were his substitutes for a humour he did not possess. Nancy's cheeks flushed hotly. But she stifled her feelings. She was confident of herself, and despite the manner of the challenge, she knew the moment of her great opportunity had come. With a quick movement she crossed her knees and leant forward. She smiled in response. "Yet, it's easy," she said boldly, with bland retaliation. "The reports are not good. And the trouble stands out clear as daylight. I guess a big scale contour map is the key to it. We've 'hand-weeded' the Shagaunty Valley. It's picked bare to the bone. The folks have cleared the forests right away to the higher slopes of the river. We're moving farther and farther away from the river highway. Well, that's all right in its way. Ordinarily that would just mean our light railways are extending farther, and a few cents more are added to our transport costs. Owing to our concentration of organisation that wouldn't signify. No. It's Nature, it's the forest itself turning us down. And the map, and the reports show that. The camps are right out on the plateau surrounding the valley, which is unprotected from winter storms. The close, luxurious growth of the valley we have been accustomed to is gone. The standing cordage of lumber is no less, only in bulk, girth. The trees are mostly less than half the girth. The result? Why, they have to work farther out. Each camp cuts over four times the area. Instead of a proportion of, say, two trees in five, it's about one in, say, ten. It looks like a simple sum. I should say we've lumbered that valley at least one season too long." The man's smile had passed. There was no longer derision in his keen eyes. He had invited this girl's talk for the sake of hearing it. Now he was caught in admiration of her clear perception. "Do the reports bear out those facts?" His question was sharp, and Nancy realised she had done well. She shook her head. "No. They do just the thing you'd expect them to do," she said. "They make every sort of excuse that couldn't possibly account for the drop. And avoid the real cause which their writers are perfectly aware of." She shrugged her pretty shoulders. "You wouldn't expect it otherwise. You want to remember those reports are written by bosses who're more interested in their own comfort than in the affairs of the Skandinavia." "How?" Again the girl's expressive shrug. "To quit the Shagaunty and break new ground means the break up of those amenities and comforts they've accumulated in years. It means work, real hard work, and discomfort for at least two seasons. You see, we need to get into the skin of these folk. They can keep the booms full from these forests, and the kick only comes when the grinders get to work. Output falls automatically with the girth of the lumber sent down. It's a close calculation; but on the year it means a lot. I learned that from Mr. Osbert, at the mills on the Shagaunty. Well, so long as the booms are kept full, the camp bosses are satisfied. There's a limit below which the girth of logs may not go. They watch that limit, and are careful not to go below it. Well, our big output has been made up always, not by the minimum logs, but the maximum to which we have been hitherto accustomed. These boys know all about that; but they're satisfied with such bulk as doesn't fall below the minimum. And when asked, suggest fire, storm and sickness, anything rather than the real cause which drops our output. They'll not willingly face the discomfort and added work of opening a new territory. There's just one decision needed." "What's that?" The girl laughed. It was a low, pleasant, happy laugh. She felt glad. Her chief was serious. He was in deadly earnest, and it represented her revenge for his sarcasm. "We've five other rivers running down to the lake. The Shagaunty isn't even the largest. Well, these boys will have to be shaken out of their dream. We ought to quit the Shagaunty right away and make a break for fresh 'limits.' It's simple." The man had no responsive smile. He shook his head. "That's what it isn't, my dear," he said. For the time the girl's beauty, her personality were quite forgotten. Peterman was absorbed. "It means the complete dislocation of our forest organisation," he went on. "Here, I'll tell you something. We've done a very great thing in the past. And it's been easy. Years ago we decided by concentration of all our forest work on a limited area we could cut costs to the lowest. That way we could jump in on the market cheaper than all the rest. Our forest limits were the finest in Canada. We had standing stuff practically inexhaustible, and of a size almost unheard of. What was the result? Why, one by one we've absorbed competitors at our own price till the Skandinavia stands head and shoulders above the world's groundwood industry. That's all right. That's fine," he went on, after a pause. "But like most easy trails, you're liable to keep on 'em longer than is good for you. We haven't had to worry a thing up to now. You see, we'd stifled competition, and we'd paid a steady thirty per cent dividend. Which left our Board in an unholy state of dope. I've tried to wake 'em. Oh, yes. I tried when that guy started up his outfit on Labrador. The Sachigo outfit. Then he seemed to fade away, and I couldn't rouse 'em again." He shook his head--"Nothing doing. Well, for something like fifteen years those guys of Sachigo have been doing and working; and now, to-day, they've jumped into the market with both feet. I haven't the full measure of things yet. But the play's a big thing. They're out for the game we've been playing. Say, they're combining every old mill we've left over. All the derelicts and moth-bounds. Their hands are out grabbing all over the country. Well, that wouldn't scare me worth a cent, only they've never let up in fifteen years, and there's talk about big British finance getting behind 'em." The man broke off. His serious eyes remained steadily regarding the girl's interested face. "You reckon this change is easy," he went on again. "I guess it would be easy if these folk hadn't jumped into the market. That makes all the difference. While we're changing they're busy. Their stuff's coming down in thousands of tons. And it's _better_ groundwood than ours. If we change over we're going to leave the market short and these folk will get big contracts. You're right. We've been working the Shagaunty too long. But it's been by three or four seasons. Not one. The time's coming, if it hasn't already come, when we've got to fight these folks and smash 'em; or get right out of business." Something of the girl's joy had passed in face of the man's statement. "There's been talk of these Sachigo folk in the trade," she said thoughtfully, "but I didn't know it was as big as you say. Of course--" "Sure you didn't. You haven't had to handle our stuff on the market." The man laughed. And something of his seriousness passed. "But you're a bright kid. And the Skandinavia's looking for bright kids all the time. It needs 'em to counter a doped Board. It's taken you five minutes to locate a trouble the Board's taken years to realise. And you've been talking one of the bunch of decisions we've taken. I mean quitting the Shagaunty. We didn't have your argument, but we had the 'drop.' So the decision was taken. We've got to move like hell. Sachigo has our measure, and it's going to be a big fight. How'd you fancy a trip up country? I mean up the Shagaunty?" There was a change in the man's voice and manner as he put his demand. He was leaning forward in his chair. A hot light had suddenly leapt into his eyes, which left them shining unwholesomely. Nancy was startled at his words. And his attitude shocked her not a little out of her self-satisfaction. "I don't know--. How do you mean?" she demanded awkwardly. The man realised her astonishment and laughed. Then he reached out, and his hand patted the rounded shoulder nearest him. It was a touch that lingered unnecessarily, and the girl stirred restlessly under it. "Why, it's the chance of a life--for you," he said boisterously. "You'll go right up through the camps. You'll take your notions with you and investigate. I'll hand you a written commission, and the folk'll lay their 'hands' down for you to see. When you've seen it all you'll get right back here, and I'll set you before the Board to tell your story. I don't need to tell a bright girl like you what that means to you. You'll get one dandy summer trip, and I'll lose one dandy secretary. But I'm not kicking. No. You see, Nancy, I'm out to help you all you need. Well?" It was crude, clumsy. It was all so blatantly vulgar. It was not the thing he said. It was the manner of it and all that which was lying unspoken behind. For the first time Nancy experienced a curious uncertainty in dealing with him. But here was real opportunity. She had dreamed of such. And she must take it. The touch of the man's hand upon her shoulder had disturbed her. But she smiled her gratitude at him. "It's too good," she exclaimed, with apparent impulse. "It's just too good of you. Will I go? Why, yes. Surely. And I'll make good for you. I believe it's the best thing. Someone to go who'll bring back a dead right story. I'd be real glad." "That's bully!" The man beamed as he leant back in his chair more than satisfied with himself. "But I don't fancy losing my dandy secretary," he went on. "No, sir. I'm going to hate this summer bad. I surely am. Still, there's next winter. Winter's not too bad with us. And a feller needs consolation in winter. There's theatres, and ice parties, and dances, and things. And I guess when the Board's fixed a big jump up for you, you'll feel like getting around some. Well, I'm mostly vacant. A feller can't live all the time at home with his wife and kids. I guess I could show you Quebec at night better than most--" The telephone saved Nancy the rest of the man's rendering of his account and she breathed deeply her relief. But the interruption was by no means welcome to the man. And his irritation was promptly displayed by the vindictive "Well?" he flung at the unyielding receiver. "Oh! What's that? Who? Hellbeam? Oh. Sure. Yes. Send him right up. Don't keep him waiting. Right up now. Yes." He thrust up the instrument and sat back in his chair. "Curse the man!" Nancy had risen from her chair at the mention of Hellbeam's name. She was glad enough of the excuse. She understood Hellbeam was the great outstanding figure in the concern of the Skandinavia. His was the one personality that dwarfed everybody. He was the moving power of the whole concern. "You'll let me know later?" she said. "I mean, just when I'm to start out. I'm ready when you like. I'll just go and see why those reports have not been sent up." "Oh, don't worry with the reports. You've told me the things that matter." The man's irritation was as swift as it was violent. But it passed as quickly as it came. He laughed. "That's all right, my dear. Be off now. I'll let you know about things this afternoon." Nancy gladly accepted her dismissal. She wanted to think. She wanted to get things into their proper focus. As she closed the door behind her her beautiful eyes had no joy in them. She had realised two things as a result of her interview. The opportunity she had looked forward to had materialised, and she had seized it with both hands. But the goodness of Elas Peterman to herself possessed none of that disinterested kindliness she had hitherto believed. Furthermore, there was dawning upon her that which her mirror should have told her long ago. She was beginning to understand that her work, her capacity, her application, counted far less in the favour of her chief than did those things with which nature had equipped her. She was shocked out of her youthful dream. And it left her so troubled, that, had she not been passing down the carpeted corridor of the Skandinavia offices, she would have burst into a flood of tears. * * * * * It was a different Elas Peterman who confronted the squat figure of Nathaniel Hellbeam. The master in the younger man was completely submerged. He possessed all the Teutonic capacity for self-abnegation in the presence of the power it is necessary to woo. There was only one master when the great financier was present. Elas Peterman knew that his part was to listen and obey with just that humility which he would have demanded had the position been reversed. Another type than Hellbeam's would have despised the attitude. But the financier had no scruple. Nature had denied him qualities for inspiring affectionate regard, or even respect. But she had bestowed on him a lust for power, and a great vanity, and these he satisfied to the uttermost. The financier drove straight to the object of his visit. "I come for an important purpose," he said, in his guttural fashion. "There must be a special Board assemble. Skandinavia will buy the mill on Labrador. The Sachigo mill. I come on the night train, which is the worst thing I can think to do, to say this thing. If we do not buy this mill, then--" He broke off with an expressive gesture. Elas nodded. He was startled, but his powers of dissimulation were profound. "I understand," he said. "They have been approached?" Hellbeam stirred his bulk in the chair Nancy had so recently occupied. It was a movement of irritation. "That is for you. You represent Skandinavia. I--I say this thing. I the money find." The face of Peterman was a study. His eyes were serious, his manner calmly considering. Amazement was struggling with a desire to laugh outright in the face of this grossly insolent money power. "Nothing could suit us better, sir," he said, deferentially. "They've been handing us more trouble than I fancy talking about. And they look like handing us still more. These people have grown slowly, but very deliberately. There's something very like genius in their management. And seemingly they possess unlimited capital or credit. I guess I know something of their contemplated manoeuvres. They're assembling all the free mills outside our ring. I see a great big scrap coming. May I ask the price you're considering?" Hellbeam produced a gold cigar case. A greater man would have been content with a certain modesty of appointment. His case was comparable in vulgarity with the size of his cigars. He thrust the pierced end of the cigar between his gross lips and spoke with the huge thing lolling. "It does not matter. I say buy." The tone, the snapping of the man's eyes forbade further probing in this direction. He lit his cigar. "It will need careful handling," ventured Peterman. Hellbeam snorted. "It careful handling always needs. Eh?" "Surely. I was thinking." "So. You will think. Then you will act. You will communicate forthwith. See? You listen. I buy this Sachigo, yes. The price matters nothing. There is a reason. This fight. It is not that. Who is the head? I would know. I fancy this man to meet. He is what you call--bright. So." Elas shook his head-- "There are two men in it we recognise. A man named Harker and another called Sternford--Bull Sternford. We know little of either. You see, it's kind of far away. Anyway, between them they're pretty--bright. I don't think they built the mill. I'm sure that's so. It was a man called Standing. But he seems to have gone out of active management. I might start by writing them and feel the way." "Ach no!" Hellbeam shook his head in violent protest. "You write--no. You have your confidential man, yes? You send him. I give you the outline of terms. I give you alternative terms. Big terms. He will go. He will talk. He will hear. Then we will later come to terms. All men will sell--on terms. Your man. Where is he? I must see him. Then the Board. It meets. I will address it. I show them how this thing will serve." "That's all right, sir," Elas was smiling. "You couldn't offer the Board a more welcome proposition than the purchase of Sachigo just now. We're changing our forest organisation right now, and that means temporary delays and drop in output. Sachigo's our worry while we're doing it. But with your permission I won't send a man up there. I think," he added deliberately, "I'd like to send a--woman." Hellbeam's face was a study. His little eyes opened to their widest extent. His heavy lips parted, and he snatched his cigar into the safety of his white fingers. "A--woman--for this thing? You crazy are!" There was no restraint or pretence of restraint. The other's smile was more confident than might have been expected before such an intolerant outburst. "Guess a woman has her limitations, sir. Maybe this one hasn't a wide experience. But she's clever. She's loyal to us, and she's got that which counts a whole heap when it comes to getting a man on her side. You reckon to buy Sachigo. If you send a man to deal he'll get short shrift. If there's anyone to put through this deal for Skandinavia it's the woman I'm thinking of. And she'll put it through because she's the woman she is, and not because of any talents. Your pardon, sir, if I speak frankly. But from all I know of Sachigo, if you--perhaps the king of financiers on this continent--went to these folk and offered them double what their enterprise is worth, I guess they'd chase you out of Labrador so quick you wouldn't have time to think the blasphemy suitable to the occasion." Peterman's explanation caught the humour of his countryman. The bulk of the visitor shook under a suppressed laugh. "Well," he retorted, "I do not go. This woman. A good-looker, eh? She is pleasant--to men? Where is she? Who is she?" "She's my secretary, sir." Elas jumped at the change of his visitor's humour. "She's not much more than a kid. But she's quite a 'looker,' I'll send for her, if you'll permit me. She's getting some reports for me. I'll ask her to bring them up. You can see her then, sir, and, if you'll forgive me, I won't present her to you. If I do she'll guess something, and it's best she knows nothing of this contemplated deal--as regards you." For a moment the banker made no reply. He sat, an adipose mass, breathing heavily, and sucking at his cigar. Then quite suddenly, he nodded. "Send for her," he said sharply. Elas reached the telephone and rang down. "Hello! That you? Oh, will you step up a moment, Miss McDonald? Yes. Are they ready? Good. That's just what I want. Please. All of them." * * * * * Nancy knocked at the door and stepped into the room. She was carrying a large typescript of many pages. It represented many days and evenings of concentrated labour. It had been a labour not so much of love as of ambition. It was an exhaustive summary of the position of the Skandinavia's forestry in the Shagaunty Valley. She missed the squat figure in the chair she usually occupied. She saw nothing of the stare of the narrow eyes concentrated upon her. She saw only the tall figure of Peterman, standing waiting for her beyond his desk in such a position that, to reach him, she must pass herself in review before the devouring gaze of the great banker. She walked briskly towards him, her short skirt yielding the seductive rustle of the silk beneath it. Her movements were beyond words in grace. Her tall figure, so beautifully proportioned, and so daintily rounded, displayed the becoming coat-frock she usually wore in business to absolute perfection. The banker's searching eyes realised all this to the last detail. He realised much more. For his was the regard that sought beneath the surface of things. It was that regard which every wholesome, good woman resents. But ultimately it was the girl's face and hair that held him. The rare beauty of the latter's colour sent a surge of appreciation running through his sensual veins. And the perfect beauty, and delicate charm of her pretty features, stirred him no less. Only her eyes, those pretty, confident, intelligent, hazel depths he missed. But he waited. "These are the papers, Mr. Peterman." Nancy held out the typescript to the waiting man whose eyes had none of the smiling welcome they would have had in Hellbeam's absence. "Thank you." Elas glanced down at the neatly bound script. "It's all complete?" "Oh, yes. It's the whole story. It's in tabloid form. You will be able to take the whole close in half an hour." A rough clearing of the throat interrupted her, and Nancy discovered the banker beside the desk. In something of a hurry she promptly turned to depart. But Elas claimed her. "Will you come to me after lunch?" he said pleasantly. "I want to go into the details of that trip I explained to you. You must get away as soon as possible." "Directly after lunch?" "Yes. Say three o'clock." "Very well." The girl again turned to go, but the banker anticipated her. As she reached the door he stood beside it, and opened it for her to pass out. He was holding something in his hand. It was an exquisitely formed gold fountain-pen. "This yours is, I think," he said heavily, while his eyes searched those depths of hazel he had missed before. The girl smiled as she gazed at the beautiful pen. She shook her head. "No," she said. "I never possessed anything so beautiful in my life." "But you drop it as you come, I think, yes?" The man's eyes were levelled at her devouringly. Quick as thought he turned to Elas watching the scene. "Is it yours? I see it on the carpet, yes?" The manager was prompt to take his cue. "It's not mine," he said. "It must be yours, Miss McDonald. If it isn't I guess you'd best have it till we find its owner." The girl smiled from one to the other. "Thanks ever so much," she said, with frank pleasure. "I'll keep it till we find the owner. It's a lovely thing." She took the glittering pen from the fleshy fingers holding it. And just for an instant her hand encountered the banker's. It was only for an instant, however. A moment later the door was closed carefully behind her by the man who had thought Elas crazy to employ a woman. "Well?" Elas Peterman was seated behind his desk again. His challenging smile was directed at the heavily breathing figure of the banker who had hurried back to his chair. The great man laughed. It was a curious, unpleasant laugh. His heavy cheeks were flushed, and his eyes glittered curiously. "You're a judge, Elas, my boy," he exclaimed, with clumsy geniality. "Oh, yes. But you are a young man. There is power in that young woman's eyes." He laughed again. "Oh, no, I think of the young woman. It not her capability is. See you look to your place in Skandinavia. Let her go. She may not buy this Sachigo as I think to buy it. She will buy the men we would drive from our path." CHAPTER VI THE LONELY FIGURE The girl was leaning against the storm-ripped bole of a fallen tree. The great figure of her companion was silhouetted against the brilliant sky-line. He was contemplating the distance at the brink of a sheer-cut ravine, which dropped away at his feet to giddying depths. Nancy gazed out beyond him. For the moment he held no interest for her. She only had eyes for the splendid picture of Nature. They were on high ground, a great shoulder lifted them clear above their surroundings. Far as the eye could see was a lustreless green world of unbroken forest. It seemed to have neither beginning nor end. To the girl's imagination there could be no break in it until the eternal snows of the Arctic were reached. The breadth of it all was a little overwhelming. Nancy was gazing upon just one portion of the Skandinavia's untouched forest limits, and somehow it left her with a feeling of protest. She pointed with one gauntleted hand, stirred to an impulse she could not deny. "It's too beautiful," she said. "It isn't fair: it's not right. To think it's all ours, and we have the right to destroy it." The man turned. He gazed back at this unusual vision of a beautiful, well-gowned woman in the heart of the forests. He grinned ironically, this great, rough-bearded creature, in hard cord clothing, and with his well-worn fur cap pressed low over his lank hair that reached well-nigh to his shoulders. "Why not?" he demanded roughly. "Oh, yes. It's Skandinavia's, every mile of it. An' I guess there's hundreds an' hundreds of 'em. Ain't that what Canada's forests are for? To feed us the stuff we're needin'? But you don't need to worry any. We ain't cuttin' that stuff for years. Guess the waterways out there are mostly a mean outfit that wouldn't raft a bunch of lucifers. We need to wait permanent railroad for haulage." Nancy accepted the statement without reply. It was impossible to stir a man like Arden Laval to any sort of sympathy. He was hardened, crude, first, last and all the time. He was big and brutal. His limbs were like to the trees his men were accustomed to fell, and his hands reminded her of the hind limbs of the mutton. She felt he had a mind that matched his physical development. Nancy McDonald was nearing the end of her third month of forest travel. The Shagaunty valley lay behind her, desolated by the fierce axe of the men who lived by their slaughter. She had seen it all. She had studied the re-afforestation which followed on the heels of the axemen. And the seeming puerility of this effort to salve the wounds inflicted upon Nature had filled her with pitying contempt. She knew the whole process of the forest industry by heart now. It fascinated her. Oh, yes. It was picturesque, it was real, vital. The men on the river driving down to the booms had stirred her greatest admiration. These supermen with their muscles of iron, with the hearts of lions, and the tongues and habits of beasts of the forest. But they were men, wonderful men for all their savage crudity. So, too, with the transporters and freighters handling sixty-foot logs as though dealing with matchwood. But above all, and before all, the axemen made their appeal. There was nothing comparable with the rough skill of these creatures. She had watched the flash and swing of the axe, with its edge like the finest razor. She had seen the standing muscles like whipcord writhing under sunburnt flesh as they served the lethal weapon. She had noted every blow, how it was calculated to a hair's-breadth, and fell without waste of one single ounce of power. And then the amazing result. The fallen tree stretched out on the exact spot and in the exact direction ready for the hauliers to bear straight away to the final transport station. The summer days had been filled with vital interest. And at night, weary in body, Nancy still had time, lying in the amply, if crudely blanketed bed provided for her in some lumber-built shanty, to contemplate the lives of this strangely assorted race. She knew the pay of the forest men, from the haulier to the princely axeman and river-jack. She had seen their food, and their dwelling accommodation. She had heard such details as were possible of telling of their recreations, and had guessed the rest. And for all her admiration of their manhood she pitied, in her woman's way, and felt shame for the slavery of it all. Oh, yes. She had no illusions. She was not weakly sentimental. She looked at it all with wide-open eyes. It was a well-paid animal life. It was a life of eating well, of sleeping well, of gambling, and drinking, and licence. But it was a life of such labour that only perfect physical creatures could face. She felt that these folks were wage slaves in the crudest meaning of the words. There was nothing for them beyond their daily life, which was wholly animal. Of spirituality there was none. Of future there was none. Their leisure was given over to their pastimes, while ahead the future lay always threatening. Stiffening muscles, disease, age. The king of them all in his youth, in age would be abandoned and driven forth, weary in body, aching in limbs, a derelict in the ranks of the world's labour. She was gravely impressed by the things she saw, by the men she met. Her summer had been an education which had stirred feelings and sympathies almost unguessed. It was the father, she could scarcely remember, making himself known to her. For all the ambitions firing her, the long, fascinating days in the forests of the Shagaunty had taught her of the existence of an "underdog," who, in himself, was the foundation upon which the personal ambition of the more fortunate was achieved. Without him to support the whole edifice of civilisation must crash to the ground, and life would go back again to the bosom of that Nature from which it sprang. Her realisation inspired her with an added desire. It was a desire coming straight from an honest, unsophisticated heart. She registered a vow that whithersoever her ambitions might lead her, she would always remember the "underdog," and work for his betterment and greater happiness. "So you can only cut the stuff here within reach of our light haulage system?" Nancy demanded at last. "The rest's gone. The real big stuff, I mean, down below in the valley. We're just driven to the plateau where the cut looks to me more like one in twenty than any better?" Arden Laval left his position at the brink of the ravine. He came back to the girl in her modish costume that seemed so out of place beside the rough clothing that Covered his body. "Why, I guess that's so," he said. "Still, it's a deal better than one in twenty." He laughed. "Sure. If it wasn't the darn booms 'ud need to go hungry." The man's French temperament left him more than appreciative of the beauty he beheld. But he was wondering. He was searching his shrewd mind for the real explanation of Nancy's presence in these forests. To him it was amazing that the Skandinavia should send this girl, this good-looker, on a journey through their forests alone. He would willingly have asked the question. But he remembered her written commission, signed by Elas Peterman. So he was left with no alternative but to yield the utmost respect. "Y'see, mam," he went on easily. "I guess I could talk quite a piece on this thing, but maybe you won't fancy my dope. Skandinavia's been badly spoilt by the cut in the Shagaunty Valley. You've seen it all. Guess you've come right through. Well, that being so, you'll understand the Shagaunty cut's been far above average. Now we're down to average. That's all. That's how the Skandinavia's been spoilt." He thrust his cap back from his forehead. It was a movement of irritation. Then he produced a plug of tobacco from his hip-pocket, and bit off a chew. "I've been twenty odd years lumbering," he went on a moment later. "I've lumbered most every forest in Ontario and Quebec. There ain't more'n one bunch of plums like the Shagaunty. Mostly the forest's full of the sort of stuff we're handling here. These forests are average and I'd like to say to the Skandinavia, 'you've got to figger results on the average.' We're cutting down to the minimum because we've got to, to feed the booms right. Well, that's goin' on if I know my job. There's patch stuff better. I daresay there's new ground on our limits liable to hand us Shagaunty stuff. But that's just as I say, patch stuff, an' not average. If they want Shagaunty quality right through let 'em get out and get limits up on Labrador. I reckon there's a hundred years cutting up there that 'ud leave Shagaunty a bunch of weed grass. They say the folks out on the coast are worried to death there's so much stuff, an' so big, an' good, an' soft, an' long-fibred. The jacks out that way are up to the neck in a hell of a good time, sure. I get it they've time to sleep half the year, it's so easy. Well, it ain't that way here. We've no time singing hymns around this lay-out. It's hell, here, keeping the darn booms fed. Speakin' for my outfit I'd say they're a pretty bright lot of boys. What a feller can do they can do, I guess. But there are times I get mighty sick chasing to get even the minimum. An' it's all the time kick. The Skandinavia seems to have got a grouch about now you couldn't beat with a tank of rye whisky. You've seen it all as far as I can show you, mam, and I'd be glad to know if you're satisfied I've done the things you want. If I have, and you feel good about it, I'd be thankful if you'd report the way we're workin' this camp. And if you've a spare moment to talk other things, you might say that the boys of my camp are mighty hard put to get the stuff, and they're as tough a gang of jacks as ever heard tell of the dog's life of the forest." The man spoke with the fluency of real protest. He somehow felt he was on his defence in the presence of this woman representative of his employers. This girl was not there enduring the discomforts of the forests for amusement. She came with authority, and she seemed to possess great understanding. Arden Laval knew his own value. His record was one of long service with his company. Furthermore, his outfit was trusted with the pioneering work of the forest where judgment and enterprise, and great experience were needed. He felt it was the moment to talk, and to talk straight to this woman with the red hair who had invaded his domain. So he gave full rope to his feelings. It was some moments before the girl replied, and the man waited expectantly. He was studying the far-off gaze of the pretty hazel eyes, and wondering at the thought moving behind them. At length Nancy withdrew her gaze from the forest. "I shall certainly report the things I've seen," she said with a smile that found prompt response in the man's dark eyes. "You've certainly done your best to show me, and tell me, the exact position. I shall make a point of reporting all that. Yes, I've seen it all, thank you very much." Then her smile suddenly vanished. The shrewd gaze of commercial interest replaced it. "But these Labrador folk?" she demanded. "Is that stuff just--hearsay?" The man shook his head. He was feeling easier. "It's God's truth, mam." He spat out a stream of tobacco juice. "I know them forests. Say," his eyes had lost their smile, "I don't guess I figger to know the business side of things, I don't calculate to know if the folks on Labrador work with, or against the Skandinavia. But I do know that if they're up against us they've got us plumb beat before we start. They got the sort of lumber the jacks dream about when they got their bellies full on a Saturday night, and they're going to wake up to find it Sunday mornin'. I'm just a lumberman, and if I hadn't fifteen years' record with the Skandinavia, and wasn't pouching two hundred and fifty bucks, and what I can make besides, a month, why, it 'ud be me for the coast where you can jamb the rivers in a three months' cut, and souse rye the rest of the year till the bugs look as big as mountains. Guess it's the summer rose garden of the lumber-jack, for all it's under snow eight months in the year, when you can't tell your guts from an iceflow, and the skitters, in summer, mostly reach the size of a gasoline tank. It's a dog's life, mam, lumberin' anywhere. But they're lap-dogs out that way." The man's words brought the return of the girl's smile. "Yes, I spose it's--tough," she observed thoughtfully. Then quite suddenly she spread out her hands. "Oh, yes," she exclaimed, with a sudden vehemence, "it's worse than tough. It's hopeless. Utterly hopeless. I've seen it. I've watched it. I had to. I couldn't escape it. It's so desperately patent. But it's not the life as these folk live it. It's the future I'm thinking of. It's middle life and old age. These boys. They're wonders--now. How long does it last, and then--what happens? I'm here on business, hard business. But I guess this thing's got hold of me so I can't sometimes sleep at nights. Tell me about them." Arden Laval, one of the hardest specimens of the lumber boss, turned away. His understanding of women was built up out of intimacy with the poor creatures who peopled the camps he knew. This girl's burst of feeling only stirred him to a cynical humour. "Mam," he said, with a grin that was almost hateful, "if I was to start in to hand you the life history of a lumber-jack you'd feel like throwing up your kind heart, and any other old thing you hadn't use for in your stummick. But I guess I can say right here, a lumber-jack's a most disgustin' sort of vermin who hasn't more right than a louse to figger in your reckonin'. I guess he was born wrong, and he'll mostly die as he was born. And meanwhile he's lived a life that's mostly dirt, and no account anyway. There's a few things we ask of a lumber-jack, and if he fulfils 'em right he can go right on living. When he can't fulfil 'em, why, it's up to him to hit the trail for the pay box, an' get out. Guess you feel good when you see a boy swingin' an axe, or handlin' a peavy. Sure. That sort of thing don't come your way often. Neither does it come your way to see the rest. He's mostly a sink of filth in mind and body, and if he ain't all that at the start he gets it quick. He's a waster of God's pure air, and is mostly in his right surroundings when the forest does its best to hide him up from the eyes of the rest of the world. Guess he's the best man I know--dead." For all his grin Arden Laval was in deadly earnest. Nancy stared at the broad back he had turned on her with his final word. And her indignation surged. "I don't believe it," she cried. "I can't believe it. You're just talking out of years of experience of a life you've probably learned to hate. Man, if that's your opinion of your fellows, then it's you who ought never to leave the forest you claim does its best to hide up folk from the eyes of the rest of the world. You're a camp boss. You're our head man in these forests. You're trusted, and we know your skill. Well, it seems to me you've a duty that goes further than just feeding the booms right. You've a moral duty towards these men you condemn. You can help them. It should surely be your pride to lift them out of the desperate mire you claim they are floundering in. I'll not believe you mean it all." The man turned away as a black-clothed figure emerged from the trees, and came to a stand at the brink of the ravine some hundred and more yards to the east of them. Nancy, too, beheld the lonely figure and she, too, became interested in its movements. The lumber boss laughed shortly, roughly, and raised an arm, pointing as he turned a grinning face to the girl. "See him, there?" he cried. "Say, mam, with all respect, I'd say to you, if you're feeling the way you talk, and look to get the sort of stuff you'd maybe fancy hearing, that's the guy you need to open out to. As you say, I'm the head camp-boss on the Skandinavia's limits. I've had nigh twenty years an' more experience of the lumber-jack. An' I'm tellin' you the things any camp-boss speakin' truth'll tell you. That's all, I don't hate the boys. I don't pity 'em. But I don't love 'em. They're just part of a machine to cut lumber, and it don't matter a hoot in hell to me what they are, or who they are, or what becomes of 'em. I ain't shepherdin' souls like that guy. It ain't in me, anyway. I just got to make good so that some day I ken quit these cursed forests and live easy the way I'd fancy. When that time comes maybe I'll change. Maybe I'll feel like that guy standin' doping over that spread of forest scene. I don't know. And just now I don't care--a curse." But Nancy was no longer listening. The lonely, black-coated figure Laval had pointed out absorbed all her interest. His allusion to the man's calling had created in her an irresistible desire. "Who is he? That man?" she demanded abruptly. Laval laughed. "Why, Father Adam," he replied. There was a curious softening in his harsh voice, which brought the girl's eyes swiftly back to him. "Father Adam? A priest?" she questioned. Laval shook his head. He had turned again, regarding the stranger. His face was hidden from the searching eyes of the girl. "I just can't rightly say," he demurred. "Maybe he is, an' maybe he ain't. But," he added reflectively "he's just one hell of a good man. Makes me laff sometimes. Sometimes it makes me want to cry like a kid when I think of the things he's up against. He's out for the boys. He's out to hand 'em dope to make 'em better. Oh, it ain't Sunday School dope. No. He's the kind o' missioner who does things. He don't tell 'em they're a bum lot o' toughs who oughter to be in penitentiary. But he makes 'em feel that way--the way he acts. He's just a lone creature, sort of livin' in twilight, who comes along, an' we don't know when he's comin'. He passes out like a shadow in the forests, an' we don't see him again till he fancies. He's after the boys the whole darn time. It don't matter if they're sick in body or mind. He helps 'em the way he knows. An', mam, they just love him to death. There's just one man in these forests I wouldn't dare blaspheme, if I felt like it--which I don't. No, mam, my life wouldn't be worth a two seconds buy if I blasphemed--Father Adam. He's one of God's good men, an' I'd be mighty thankful to be like him--some. Gee, and I owe him a piece myself." "How?" Nancy's interest was consuming. "Why, only he jumped in once when I was being scrapped to death. He jumped right in, when he looked like gettin' killed for it. And," he laughed cynically, "he gave me a few more years of the dog's life of the forest." The girl moved away from her support. "I want to thank you, Mr. Laval, for the trouble you've taken, and the time you've given up to me." The hazel eyes were smiling up into the man's hard face. "I don't agree with some of the things you've just been telling me; I should hate to, anyway. I don't even believe you feel the way you say about your men. Still, that's no account in the matters I came about. The things I've got to say when I get back are all to your credit. I'm going over now to talk to--Father Adam. And you needn't come along with me. You see, you've fired my curiosity. Yes, I want to hear the stuff I fancy about the--boys. So I'll go and talk to your--shepherd of souls. Good-bye." Nancy's eyes were bright and smiling as she gazed up into the lean, ascetic face of the man in the black, semi-clerical coat. His garments were worn and almost threadbare. At close quarters she realised an even deeper interest in the man whose presence had wrought such a magical change in the harsh tones of the camp-boss. He was in the heyday of middle life, surely. His hair was long and black. His beard was of a similar hue, and it covered his mouth and chin in a long, but patchy mass. His eyes were keen but gentle. They, too, were very dark, and the whole cast of his pale face was curiously reminiscent. "I just had to come along over, sir," she said. "I was with Mr. Laval, and he told me of the work--the great work you do in these camps. Maybe you'll forgive me intruding. But you see, I've come from our headquarters on business, and the folk of these camps interest me. I kind of feel the life the boys live around these forests is a pretty mean life. There's nothing much to it but work. And it seems to me that those employing them ought to be made to realise they've a greater responsibility than just handing them out a wage for work done. So when I saw you come out of the forest and stand here, and Mr. Laval told me about you, I made up my mind right away to come along and--speak to you. My name's McDonald--Nancy McDonald." It was all a little hasty, a little timidly spoken. The dark eyes thoughtfully regarding the wonder of red hair under the close fitting hat were disconcerting, for all there was cordiality in their depths. At Nancy's mention of her name, Father Adam instantly averted his gaze, and dropped the hand which he had taken possession of in greeting. It was almost as if the pronouncement had caused him to start. But the change, the movement, were unobserved by the girl. "And you are--Father Adam?" she asked. The man's gaze came quickly back. "That's how I'm known. It--was kind of you to come along over." In a moment all the girl's timidity was gone. If the man had been startled when she had announced her name, he displayed perfect ease now. "Do you know," Nancy went on, with a happy laugh, "I almost got mad with Laval for his cynicism at the expense of the poor boys who work under his orders. But I think I understand him. He's a product of a life that moulds in pretty harsh form. He doesn't mean half he says." "I'd say few of us do--when we let our feelings go." Father Adam smiled back into the eyes which seemed to hold him fascinated. "You see, Laval's much what we all are. He's got a tough job to put through, and he does his utmost. He's a big man, a brave man, a--yes, perhaps--a harsh man. But he couldn't do his job as he's paid to do it if he weren't all those things." He shook his head. "No, I guess we can't play with fire long without getting a heap of scars." He shrugged. "But after all I suppose it's just--life. We've got to eat, and we want to live. We don't need to judge too harshly." "No. That's how I feel about the boys--he so condemned." The girl turned away gazing pensively over the forest. Father Adam was free to regard her without restraint. With her turning the whole expression of his eyes had changed. Incredulous amazement had replaced his smiling ease. "Would you care to come along through the woods to my shanty, Miss McDonald?" he said, almost diffidently, at last. "Maybe I've a cup of coffee there. And I'd say coffee's the most welcome thing on earth in these forests. It's a pretty humble shanty but, if you feel like talking things, why, I guess we can sit around there awhile." The girl snatched at the invitation. "I was just hoping you'd say something that way," she laughed readily. "I'd give worlds for a cup of coffee, and I guess the folks in the forests of Quebec know more about coffee in half a second than we city folk know in a year. Which way?" "It's only a few yards. You'd best follow me." * * * * * The girl stood amazed. She was even horrified. She was gazing in through the opening of the merest shelter, a shelter built of green boughs with roof and sides of interlaced foliage. True it was densely interlaced, but no sort of distorted imagination could have translated the result into anything but a shelter. Habitation was out of the question. She stared at the primitive, less than aboriginal home, of the priestly man. She stared round her at the undergrowth upon which were spread his brown coarse blankets airing. She looked down at the smouldering fire between two granite stones upon which a tin of coffee was simmering and emitting its pleasant aroma upon the woodland air. It was too crude, too utterly lacking in comfort and even the bare necessites of existence. The man emerged from the interior bearing two enamelled tin cups. He realised the amazement with which Nancy was regarding his home, and shook his head with a pleasant laugh as he indicated two upturned boxes beside the fire. "You'd best sit, and I'll tell you about it," he said. "It's not exactly a swell hotel, is it? But it's sufficient." The girl silently took her seat on one of the boxes. Father Adam took the other. Then he poured out two cups of coffee, and passed a tin of preserved milk across to the girl. There was a spoon in it. After that he produced a small tin of sugar and offered that. "You see, it's all I need," he said, in simple explanation. "When the rain comes I mostly get wet, except at nights when I get under my rubber sheet. But, anyway, there's plenty of sun to dry me. Oh, winter's different. I cut out a dug-out then, and burrow like the rest of the forest creatures. But, you see, this thing suits me well. I'm never long in one place. I've been here two weeks, and I pull out to-morrow." "You pull out? Where to?" "Why, I just pass on to some other camp. The boys are pretty widely scattered in these forests. You'd never guess the distances I sometimes make. Even Labrador. But it doesn't much matter. I've a good smattering of physic, and the boys are always getting hurt one way and another. I'd hate to feel I couldn't go to them wherever they are. Maybe if I built a better house I'd not want to leave it. It would be hard getting on the move. You see, I get their call any old time. Maybe it comes along on the forest breezes," he said whimsically. "Then I have to be quick to locate it, and read it right." The girl had helped herself to milk and sugar, and sipped the steaming coffee. But she was listening with all her ears and thinking feverishly. This strange creature, with his deprecating manner, and smiling, sane eyes, filled her with a sense of shame at his utter selflessness. She nodded. "You mean they--always want help?" "Sure. Same as we all do." Father Adam sipped his coffee appreciatively. "But tell me," he said. "It's kind of new the Skandinavia sending a woman along up here. It's your first trip?" Nancy set her cup down. "Yes." "They're a great firm," Father Adam went on, reflectively. "I mean the--extent of their operations." Nancy smiled. "I like the distinction. Yes, they're big. You don't like their--methods?" It was the man's turn for a smiling retort. "Their methods?" he shook his head. "I don't know, I guess they pay well. And their boys are no worse treated than in other camps. They employ thousands. And that's all to the good." "But you don't like them," Nancy persisted. "I can hear it in your voice. It's in your smile. Few people like the Skandinavia," she added regretfully. "Do you?" Like a shot the challenge came, and Nancy found herself replying almost before she was aware of it. "Yes. Why shouldn't I? They've been good to me. More than good, when those who had a right to be completely deserted me. No. I mustn't say just that," she hurried on in some contrition. "They provided for me, but cut me out of their lives. Maybe you won't understand what that means to a girl. It meant so much to me that I wouldn't accept their charity. I wouldn't accept a thing. I'd make my own way with the small powers Providence handed me. So I went to the Skandinavia who have only shown me the best of kindness. Well, I'm frankly out for the Skandinavia and all their schemes and methods in consequence. It's not for me to look into the things that make folks hate them. That's theirs. My loyalty and gratitude are all for them for the thing they've done for me. Isn't that right?" "Surely," the man concurred. "But your coffee. It's getting cold," he added. Nancy hastily picked up her cup. "Why am I telling you all this?" she laughed. "We were going to talk of the--boys." "We surely were." Father Adam laughed responsively. "But personal interest I guess doesn't figure to be denied for long. We sort of get the notion we can shut it out. But we can't. We try to guess there's other things. Things more important. Things that matter a whole lot more." He shook his head. "It's no use. There aren't. I guess it doesn't matter where we look. Self's pushing out at every angle, and won't be denied. It would be hypocrisy to deny it, wouldn't it? It's the biggest thing in life. It's the whole thing." "And it's such a pity," Nancy agreed slyly. "Just think," she went on, "I've got a hundred notions for the good of the world. These boys for instance. I'd like to make their lives what they ought to be. Full of comfort and security and--and everything to make it worth while. Instead of that my first and whole concern is to make good for Nancy McDonald. To do all those things for her. It's dreadful when you think of it, isn't it?" She sighed. "I want to do good to the--the 'underdog,' and all the time I'm planning for myself. I want to fight all the time for those who hold opportunity out to me. It doesn't really matter to me why the Skandinavia is disliked. They give me opportunity. I reckon they've been good to me. So I'm their slave to fight for them, and work for them, whatever their methods. Yes. It's too bad," she laughed frankly. "I can't deny it. I'd like to, but--I can't." "No." Father Adam set down his empty cup, and sat with his arms resting on his parted knees. His hands were clasped. "You remind me of someone," he said, in his simple disarming fashion. "Queerly enough it's a man. A strong, hard, kindly, good-natured man. I found him without a thought but to make good. And I knew he would make good. Then it came my way to show him how. I offered him a notion. The notion was fine. Oh, yes--though I say it. It was the sort of thing if it were carried to success would hand the fellow working it down to posterity as one of his country's benefactors. The notion appealed to him. It stirred something in him, and set fire to his enthusiasm. He jumped for it. Why? Was it the thought of doing a great act for his country? Was it for that something that was all good stirring in him? No. I guess it was because he was a strong, physical, and spiritual, and mental force concentrated on big things, primarily inspired by Self. Personal achievement. It seems to me the good man always does what's real and worth while in the way of helping himself." "Yes. I think I understand." The girl nodded. "And this strong physical, and spiritual, and mental force? Have I heard of him? Is he known? Has he achieved?" "He's carrying on. Oh, yes." Father Adam paused. Then he went on quickly. "You don't know him yet. But I think you will. He's out on the coast of Labrador. He's driving his great purpose with all his force through the agency of a groundwood mill that would fill your Skandinavia folk with envy and alarm if they saw it. He's master of forests such as would break your heart when compared with these of your Skandinavia. His name's Sternford. Bull Sternford, of Sachigo." At the mention of Sachigo, Nancy's eyes widened. Then she laughed. It was a laugh of real amusement. "Why, that's queer. It's--I'm going right on there from here. I'm going to meet this very man, Sternford. They tell me I've just time to get there and pull out again for home before winter freezes them up solid. So he is this great man, with this great--notion. Tell me, what is he like?" "Oh, he's a big, strong man, as ready to laugh as to fight." Father Adam smiled, and stooped over the fire to push the attenuated sticks of it together. "May I ask why you're going to Sachigo?" he asked, without looking up. Just for a moment Nancy hesitated. Then she laughed happily. "I don't see why you shouldn't," she cried. "There's no secret. Skandinavia intends to buy him, or crush him." The man sat up. "And you--a girl--are the emissary?" Incredulity robbed the man of the even calmness of' his manner. "Yes. Why not?" The challenge in the girls's eyes was unmistakable. "You won't buy him," Father Adam said quietly. "And you certainly won't crush him." "Because I'm a girl?" "Oh, no. I was thinking of the Skandinavia." The man shook his head. "If I'm a judge of men, the crushing will be done from the other end of the line." "This man will crush Skandinavia?" The idea that Skandinavia could be crushed was quite unthinkable to Nancy. It was the great monopoly of the country. It was--but she felt that this lonely creature could have no real understanding of the power of her people. "Surely," he returned quietly. "But that," he added, with a return of his pleasant smile, "is just the notion of one man. I should say it's no real account. Yes, you go there. You see this man. The battle of your people with him matters little. It will be good for you to see him. It--may help you. Who can tell? He's a white man, and a fighter. He's honest and clean. It's--in the meeting of kindred spirits that the great events of life are brought about. It should be good for you both." "I wonder?" Nancy rose from her chair. The man rose also. "I think so," he said, very decidedly. The girl laughed. "I hope so. But--" She held out her hand. "Thank you, Father," she said. "I'll never be able to think of the things I'm set on achieving without remembering our talk--and the man I met in the forest. I wish--but what's the use? I've got to make good. I must. I must go on, and--do the thing I see. Good-bye." Father Adam was holding the small gauntleted hand, and he seemed loth to release it. His eyes were very gentle, very earnest. "Don't worry to remember, child. Don't ever think about--this time. It won't help you. You've set your goal. Make it. You will do the good things you fancy to do, though maybe not the way you think them. It seems to me that 'good' mostly has its own way all the time. You can't drive it. And the best of it is I don't think there's a human creature so bad in this world, but that in some way God's work has been furthered through his life. Good-bye." * * * * * For some moments the lonely figure stood gazing down the woodland aisles. The deep, shining light of a great hope was in his eyes. A wonderful tender smile had dispersed the shadows of his ascetic face. At length, as the girl's figure became completely swallowed up in the twilight of it all, he turned away and passed into the foliage shelter which was his home. He was squatting on his box, and the small canvas bag containing his belongings was open beside him. Its contents were strewn about. He was writing a long letter. There was several pages of it. When he had finished he read it over carefully. Then he carefully folded it and placed it in an envelope, and addressed it. It was addressed: MR. BULL STERNFORD, Sachigo, Farewell Cove, Labrador. CHAPTER VII THE SKANDINAVIA MOVES Bat gazed up at the wooded ridge. They were standing in the marshy bottom of a natural hollow amidst a sparse scattering of pine and attenuated spruce. Beyond the ridge lay the waters of the cove. And to the left the broad waters of the river mouth flowed by. It was a desolate, damp spot, but its significance to the two men studying it was profound. Skert Lawton, the chief engineer of Sachigo, tall, loose-limbed, raw-boned, watched his superior with somewhat mournful, unsmiling eyes. There was something of deadly earnest in his regard, something anxious. But that was always his way. Bat had once said of him: "Skert Lawton's one hell of a good boy. But I won't get no comfort in the grave if I ain't ever see him grin." There was not the smallest sign of a smile in him now. "It's one big notion," Bat said, at last. Then he added doubtfully. "It comes mighty nigh being too big." Lawton emitted a curious sound like a snort. It was mainly, however, an ejaculation of violent impatience. Bat turned with a twinkling grin, surveying the queer figure. His engineer was always a source of the profoundest interest for him. Just now, in his hard, rough clothing, he might have been a lumber-jack, or casual labourer. Anything, in fact, rather than the college-bred, brilliant engineer he really was. Bat's doubt had been carefully calculated. He knew his man. And just now as he awaited the explosion he looked for, his thoughts went back to a scene he had once had with a half drunken machine-minder whom he had had to pay off. The man had epitomised the chief engineer's qualities and character, as those who encountered his authority understood them, in a few lurid, illuminating phrases. "You know," he had said, "that guy ain't a man. No, sir. He's the mush-fed image of a penitentiary boss. I guess he'd set the grease box of a driving shaft hot with a look. His temper 'ud burn holes in sheet iron. As for work--work? Holy Mackinaw! I've worked hired man to a French Canuk mossback which don't leave a feller the playtime of a nigger slave, but that hell-hired Scotch machine boss sets me yearnin' for that mossback's wage like a bull-pup chasin' offal. I tell you right here if that guy don't quit his notions there'll be murder done. Bloody murder! An' it's a God's sure thing when that happens he'll freeze to death in hell. It don't rile me a thing to be told the things he guesses my mother was. Maybe that's a matter of opinion, and, anyway, she's mixin' with a crop of angels who don't figger to have no truck with Scotch machine bosses. I guess a sight of his flea-bitten features 'ud set 'em seein' things so they wouldn't rec'nise their harps from frypans, and they'd moult feathers till you wouldn't know it from a snowfall on Labrador. But when he mixes his notions of my ma with 'lazy'! Lazy! Lazy! Gee! Why, if I signed in a half hour late from that bum suttler's canteen, I guess it was only the time it took me digestin' two quarts of the gut-wash they hand out there in the hope you won't know it from beer. No, sir, 'lazy son-of-a-bitch' from that guy is the talk no decent citizen with a bunch of guts is goin' to stand for." Skert Lawton was known for a red-hot "burner," a "nigger driver." No doubt he was all this in addition to his brilliant attainments as an engineer. But the methods he applied to others he applied to himself. And the whole of him, brain and body, was for the enterprise they were all engaged in. Bat had intended to goad the demon of obstinate energy which possessed the man, and he succeeded. Skert flung out his hand in a comprehensive gesture. "Hell!" he cried. "That's no sort of talk anyway. I've been weeks on this thing. And I've got it to the last fraction. Big notion? Of course it is. Aren't we mostly concerned with big notions? Here, what are you asking? An inland boom with capacity for anything over a million cords. Well? It's damn ridiculous talking the size of the notion. This hollow is fixed right. Its bed is ten feet below the bed of the river. It's surrounded with a natural ridge on all sides a hundred and fifty feet high. There's a quarter mile below the hollow and the river bank, and the new mill extensions are just to the east of this ridge. It's well-nigh child's play. Nature's fixed it that way. Two cuttings, and a race-way on the river. We flood this. Feed it full of lumber in the summer with surplus from the cut and you've got that reserve for winter, so you can keep every darn machine grinding its guts out. What's the use talking? Big notion? Of course it is. We're out for big notions all the time. That's the whole proposition. Well?" Bat grinned at the heated disgust in the man's tone. "Sounds like eatin' pie," he retorted aggravatingly. "The cost? The labour? Time? You got those things?" "It's right up at your office now." Skert's eyes widened in surprise at such a question. "It's not my way to play around." "No." Bat's eyes refused seriousness. "Oh, psha! This is no sort of time chewing these details. It's figgered to the last second, the last man, the last cent. I brought you to see things. Well, you've seen things. And if you're satisfied we'll quit right away. I've no spare play time." There was no pretence of patience in Skert Lawton. He had looked for appreciation and only found doubt. He moved off. Bat had done the thing intended. He had no intention of hurting the man. He understood the driving power of the mood he had stirred. They moved off together. "That's all right, Skert," he said kindly. "You've done one big thing. An' it's the thing Bull and I want--" "Then why in hell didn't you say it instead of talking--notions?" For all the sharpness of his retort, Skert was mollified. Bat shook his head and a shrewd light twinkled in his eyes. "You're a pretty bright boy, Skert," he said. "But you're brightest when you're riled." They had gained the river bank where booms lined the shore, and scores of men were rafting. They had left the water-logged hollow behind them, and debouched on the busy world of the mill. Ahead lay the new extensions where the saws were shrieking the song of their labours upon the feed for the rumbling grinders. It was a township of buildings of all sizes crowding about the great central machine house. They crossed the light footbridge over the "cut in" from the river, and moved along down the main highway of the northern shore. Both were pre-occupied. The engineer was listening to the note of his beloved machinery. Bat was concerned with any and every movement going on within the range of his vision. They walked briskly, the lean engineer setting a pace that kept the other stumping hurriedly beside him. Abreast of the mill they approached a new-looking, long, low building. It was single storied and lumber built, with a succession of many windows down its length. The hour was noon. And men were hurrying towards its entrance from every direction. Bat watched interestedly. "They seem mighty keen for their new playground," he said at last, with a quick nod in the direction of the recreation house. The engineer came out of his dream. His mournful eyes turned in the direction indicated and devoured the scene. Then he glanced down at the squat figure stumping beside him. "Guess that's so. But not the way you figgered when you got that fool notion of handing 'em a playhouse," he said roughly. "If you pass a hog a feather bed, it's a sure thing he'll work out the best way to muss it quick." "How? I don't get you?" There was no humour in Bat's eyes now. "They call it a 'Chapel'," Skert said dryly. "They've surely got preachers, but they don't talk religion. Maybe that's sort of new to you, here. It isn't across the water where I come from. Guess you think those boys are racing out to get a game of checkers, or billiards, or cards, or some other fool play you reckoned to hand 'em to make 'em feel good." He shook his head. "They're not. They've turned their 'Chapel' into a sort of parliament. Every dinner hour there's a feller, different fellers most all the time, gets up and hands 'em out an address. It's short, but red hot. The afternoon shift in the mill is given up to brightening up their fool brains on it. And when evening comes along, and they've their bellies full of supper and beer, they get along to the 'Chapel' and they debate the address, handing out opinions and notions just as bellies guide 'em." "And the addresses. What are they mostly? On the work? The trade they're working at?" A world of pity looked out of Skert's eyes as he surveyed the man he believed to be the greatest organiser the mill industry had ever seen. He shook his head. "Work? Not on your life! Socialism, Communism--Revolution!" Bat spat out a stream of tobacco juice. He was startled. "But I ain't heard tell of any sort of unrest gettin' busy. We're payin' big money. It's bigger than the market. They got--" "Best talk to Sternford when you get back up there to your office. He's got the boys sized right up to the last hair of their stupid heads. But I'll hand you something I've reckoned to hand you a while back, only I wanted to be sure. There's nothing of this truck about the 'hands' of the old mill. It's the new hands you've been collecting from the forests. We've grown by two thousand hands in the past year or so. And they're so darn mixed I wouldn't fancy trying to sort 'em. They come from all parts. The world's been talking revolution since ever these buzzy-headed Muscovites reckoned to start in grabbing the world's goods for themselves. Well, it's a hell of a long piece here to Labrador, but it's found its way, and the mutton-brained fools who're supposed to play around that shanty you handed 'em are recreating themselves talking about it in there. Here, come right over to that window. It's open." Perhaps Skert was enjoying himself. Certainly his mournful eyes were less mournful as he led his chief over to the open window. Bat had had his innings with him. He was planning the game and hitting hard in his turn. "The enemy of the world, of more particularly the worker is the--CAPITALIST!" The words were hurled from the platform of the recreation room at the heads of the listening throng below and reached the open window just as Lawton and his chief came up to it. There was applause following this profound announcement, and Skert turned on his companion. "Well?" he demanded, in a tone of biting triumph. They had reached the window at the psychological moment. Nothing could have suited his purpose better. Bat turned away abruptly. It was as if some fierce emotion made it impossible for him to remain another second. His heavy brows depressed, and his deep-set eyes narrowed to gimlet holes. Skert pursued him. Once clear of the window, and beyond earshot, Bat flung his reply with all the passionate force of his fighting nature. "The lousy swine!" he cried. "I'll close that place sure as--hell." Skert shook his head as they walked on. "No, you won't," he said. "Guess you aren't crazy. You'll talk this over with Sternford. And when you've talked it some, you'll keep that place running, and let them talk. It's best that way. But I've got tab of most of the speakers, and I've located where they come from. Most of them have sometime worked for the Skandinavia. Maybe that's the reason of their talk. Maybe even Skandinavia's glad they're talking that way here on Labrador. I don't know. But--well, I'll have to quit you here. They're setting up the two big new machines, and it don't do leaving them long. So long. Anything else you need to know about that recreation room, why, I guess I can hand it to you." * * * * * Bull Sternford laid the telegram aside while a shadowy smile hovered about his firm lips. Then he settled himself back in his chair, and gave himself up to the thoughtful contemplation of the brilliant sunlight, and the perfect, steely azure of the sky beyond the window opposite him. The change in the man was almost magical. The hot-headed, determined, fighting lumber-jack whom Father Adam had rescued from furious homicide had hidden himself under something deeper than the veneer which the modest suit of conventional life provides. It was the subtle change that comes from within which had transformed him. It was in his eyes. In the set of his jaws. It was in the man's whole poise. His resources of spiritual power; his mental force; his virility of personality. All these things were concentrated. They were no longer sprawling, groping, seeking the great purpose of his life as they had been in the lumber camp of the Skandinavia. A feeling akin to triumph filled the man's heart as he gazed out upon the pleasant light of Labrador's late summer day. In something like twelve months he had thrust leagues along the road he meant to travel. And his progress had been of a whirlwind nature. It had been work, desperate, strenuous work. It had been the double labour of intensive study combined with the necessary progress in the schemes laid down for the future of Sachigo. It had only been possible to a man of his amazing faculties, combined with the fact that Bat Harker and the mournful Skert Lawton had left him free from the clogging detail of the mill organisation and routine. In twelve months he had crystallised the dreams and projects of his predecessor in the chair he was now occupying. In twelve months he had built up the shell of the great combination of groundwood and paper mills which was to have such far-reaching effect upon the paper trade of the world. And now, ahead of him was spread out the sea of finance upon which he must next embark. He felt that already giant's work had been done. But his yearning could never be satisfied by a mere measure of completion. He must embrace it all, complete it all. Already he seemed to have lived with bankers and financial specialists, but he felt it was only the beginning of that which he had yet to do. He was unappalled. He was more than confident. He had discovered unguessed faculties for finance in himself. He had surprised himself as well as those others with whom he had come in contact. They had discovered in him all that which Father Adam had been so prompt to realise. They had found in him a young, untrained mind, untrained in their own calling, whose natural aptitude was amazing, and whose courage and confidence were beyond words. But greatest of all was the perception he displayed. They realised he never required the telling of more than half the story. Intuition and inspiration completed it for him without the labour of their words. The result of those twelve months was there for all to see. The lumberman had been translated into a hard, fighting, business man. The train of the man's thought was broken by the unceremonious entry of Bat Harker. Bull turned. One swift glance into the grizzled face warned him his associate's mood was by no means easy. He, like everyone who came into contact with Bat, had learned to appreciate the volcanic fires burning under the lumberman's exterior. Bull promptly fended any storm that might possibly be brewing. He held up his telegram and his eyes were smiling. "The Skandinavia's on the move," he cried. And Bat recognised the battle note in the tone. "How?" Bull flung the message across the desk. "The Skandinavia's representative is arriving on the _Myra_," he said. Then he added, "Elas Peterman says so." "What for?" Bat had picked up the message and stood reading it. The other searched amongst his papers. "I kind of forgot putting you wise before," he said. "There were two letters came along a week back. One was from Elas Peterman, of the Skandinavia folk, and the other from Father Adam. That message was 'phoned on from the headland. The letters didn't just concern a deal, so I set 'em aside. This message is different." For the moment the affairs down at the recreation room were forgotten, and Bat contented himself with the interest of the moment. "How?" he demanded again in his sharp way. Bull laughed. "Here," he cried, holding out the letters he had found. "I best pass you these. That's from Peterman. There's not much written, but a deal lies under the writing. You'll see he asks permission for a representative of the Skandinavia to wait on us. I wirelessed back, 'I'd just love to death meeting him.' By the same mail came Father Adam's yarn. An' I guess that's where the soup thickens. He says some woman's coming along from the Skandinavia folk. He guesses they're going to put up some proposition that looks like butting in on the plans laid out for Sachigo. But that don't seem to worry him a thing. I guess his letter wasn't written to hand us warning. He seems concerned for the woman. You'll see. He asks me to treat her gently. Firmly, yes. But also, 'very, very gently.' He says, 'you see, she's a woman'." Bull waited while the other perused both letters. Then, as Bat looked up questioningly, he went on: "That telegram got here half an hour back," he said. Then he shrugged. "The woman's on the _Myra_, and the vessel's been sighted off the headland. She'll be along in two hours." "And what're you doin' about it?" Bat's eyes were searching. Perhaps Father Adam's letter had told him something it had failed to tell the other. "I'll see her right away," Bull laughed. "If she feels like stopping around and getting a sight of the things we're doin' she's welcome. She can put up at the visitor's house. It 'ud do me good for her to pass the news on to the folk she comes from." But Bat's manner had none of the light confidence of the other. Bitter hatred of the Skandinavia was deeply ingrained in him. He shook his head. "Keep 'em guessin'," he said. "It'll worry 'em--that way." Then he passed the letters back, and dropped into the chair that was always his. "But this woman," he went on, in obvious puzzlement. "It's--it's kind of new, I guess. Then there's Father Adam's message. That don't hand us much." Bull's lightness passed. "No," he said, "that message is queer. He knows about it. Yet he hasn't given her name or said a thing. Say--I like that phrase though. What is it? He says, 'treat her very, very gently--you see, she's a woman.' That's Father Adam right thro'--sure. But--well it's a pity he don't say more." Bat nodded. "You'll go along down an' meet her?" "No." Bull shook his head decidedly. "You will." Bat's eyes twinkled with a better humour than they had hitherto displayed. "Why--me?" "She comes from the Skandinavia. Guess Skandinavia would fancy me meeting their representative at the quay--quite a lot." The argument met with Bat's entire approval. He pulled out a silver timepiece and consulted it. "That's all right," he said, "I'll quit you in ha'f an hour. Say--I'm kind of guessin' there's other representatives of the Skandinavia around. I didn't guess ther' was much to Sachigo that I wasn't wise to. But that boy, Skert Lawton, showed me a play I hadn't a notion about. It's that darn play shanty I set up for the boys. I feel that mad about it I got a notion closing it right down. It worried me startin' it. It worries me more now. You see, I guess it's come of me lappin' up the ha'f-baked notions you find wrote in the news-sheets. Folks seem to be guessin' the worker needs somethin' more than his wage. They guess he's gotten some sort of queer soul needin' things he can't pay for. I allow I hadn't seen it that way myself. It mostly seemed to me a hell of a good wage and a full belly was mostly the need of a lumber-jack, and a dead sure thing all he deserved. But I fell for the news-sheet dope, an' set up that cursed recreation shanty. Now we're goin' to git trouble." "How?" Bull's ejaculation was sharp. "They hold meetings there. They dope out Capital and Labour stuff there, instead of pushing games at each other. Guess they got the bug of politics an' are scratching themselves bad. It ain't the old Labrador guys, Skert says. It's mostly new hands passin' their stuff on. Skert reckons we got a whole heap of the Skandinavia 'throw-outs,' around here now. That don't say Skandinavia's workin' monkey tricks. Though they might be. You see, this sort of dope's been talked most everywhere, except on Labrador, years now. I guess we need to go through the bunch with a louse comb. But maybe the mischief's done. I'm dead crazy to shut that darn place down." "Don't!" Bull was emphatic. "Shut it down and you'll make it a thousand times worse. No, sir. Let 'em shout. Let 'em blow off any old steam they need. Just sit tight. If it's the usual hot air there's nothing much coming of it up here on Labrador. There's this to remember. We're a thousand miles of hell's own winter, and a pretty tough sea, from the politicians who spend their lives befooling a crowd of unthinking muttons. Pay 'em well, and feed 'em well, and they've the horse sense to know there ain't no electric stoves out in the Labrador forests in winter. That way we don't need to worry. If it's the Skandinavia tricks it's different. They'll play the game to the finish. It don't signify a curse if you close down the recreation shanty or not. We've got to meet it as a competition, and fight it the way we'd fight any other." Bat's eyes snapped. "That's the kind of dope Skert Lawton's handed me," he protested. "And Skert's a wise guy," came the prompt retort. Quite suddenly Bat flung out his gnarled hands. "Hell!" he cried violently. "Have we got to sit around like mush-men, while the rats are chawin' our vitals. Fifteen or sixteen year I've handled this lay-out without a growl I couldn't kick plumb out o' the feller who made it. Now--now, because of a fool play I made, I've got to set the kid gloves on my hands, sayin' 'thank you,' while the boys git up and plug me between the eyes. No, sir. It ain't my way. It's me for the shot gun in the stern of the gopher all the time. It's me to mush up the features of any hoboe who don't know better than to grin when I'm throwin' the hot air. I can't stand for the politics of labour where I hand out the wage. A man's a man to me, not one darn slobber of policy. I'm goin' to jump in on that talk. And when I'm thro'--" "You'll get all the trouble in the world plumb on your neck." Bull's fine eyes were alight with humour. He revelled in the fighting spirit of the older man. "Here, Bat," he cried, "I'm a fool kid beside you. I don't begin to know my job when I think of you. But I'm up sides with all the politics games. Politics are ideals, notions. They haven't real horse sense within a mile. They're just the fool thoughts of folk who haven't better to do than sit around and think, and talk, an' see how they can make other folk conform to the things they think. That's all right. It's human nature in its biggest conceit, or it's another way of helping themselves without pushing a shovel. It don't matter which it is. But what I want to impress on you is, it's the biggest thing in life. It's the whole thing in life. Get a notion and think it hard enough, and talk it hard enough, and you'll hypnotise a hundred brains bigger than your own, and sweep the crowd with you. You'll even hypnotise yourself into believing the truth of a thing your better sense knows isn't true, never was true, an' couldn't be true anyway. And when you're fixed that way you'll die for your notion. Oh, a politician ain't yearning for any old grave. He wouldn't get an audience there. Politicians 'ud hate to die worse than a condemned man. But that's the queer of it; he'd die rather than give up a notion he's built up. He'd hate to death to push a blue pencil through it and--try again. All of which means, bar the doors of this recreation room parliament, and you'll start up a hundred such parliaments, and worse, throughout your enterprise here on Labrador, and you'll finish by wrecking the whole blessed concern." If Bull looked for yielding he was disappointed. But he appreciated the twinkle that had crept into the lumberman's stern eyes. The answer he received was a curiously expressive grunt as the man took out his timepiece and consulted it. When he saw him rise abruptly from his chair, Bull felt that if his talk had not had the effect he desired it had not been wholly wasted. "Guess I'll git goin'," Bat said shortly. Then he glanced out of the window, where he could plainly see the stream of the _Myra's_ smoke as she came down the cove. "I'll bring your lady friend right up. Maybe she'll fancy the dope, which I 'low you can hand out good an' plenty." With this parting shot he hurried from the room, and Bull fancied he detected the sound of a chuckle as the man departed. CHAPTER VIII AN AFFAIR OF OUTPOSTS The business of making fast the vessel had no interest for Nancy McDonald. The thing that was about her, the thing that had leapt at her out of the haze hanging over the waters of Farewell Cove, as the _Myra_ steamed to her haven, pre-occupied her to the exclusion of everything else. Her feelings were something of those of the explorer suddenly coming upon a new, unguessed world. "Old Man" Hardy was at her side, waiting for the adjustment of the gangway. He was quietly observing her with a sense of enjoyment at the obvious surprise and interest she displayed. Besides, her beauty charmed him for all his years. And then had she not been entrusted to his especial care by those people who held powerful influence in all concerning the coastal trade upon which he was engaged? Sachigo was not only a mill. It was a--city. This was the sum of Nancy's astonishing discovery. And the picture of it held her fascinated. She commented little, she had questioned little of the old skipper at her elbow. The thing she saw was too overwhelming. Besides, reticence was impressed upon her by the nature of her visit. "It's a mighty elegant place," the seaman said at last. The girl nodded. Then she smiled. "I've seen trolley cars on the seashore. I've seen electric standards for lighting. What am I to see next on--Labrador?" she asked. Captain Hardy laughed. "You've to see the folks who've done it all," he replied. "And--there's one of 'em." He indicated the squat figure of Bat Harker leaning against some bales piled on the quay. Nancy turned in that direction. She discovered the rough-clad, almost uncouth figure of Bat. She noted his moving jaws as he chewed vigorously. She saw that a short stubble of beard was growing on a normally clean-shaven face, and that the man's clothing might have been the clothing of any labourer. But the iron cast of his face left her with sudden qualms. It was so hard. To her imagination it suggested complete failure for her mission. "Is he the--owner? Is he--Mr. Sternford?" Her questions came in a hushed tone that was almost awed. "No. That's Bat--Bat Harker. He's mill-boss." "I see." There was relief in Nancy's tone. But it passed as the seaman continued. "Maybe he's waiting for you though. Are they wise you're coming along? You don't see Bat around this quay without he's lookin' for some folk to come along on the _Myra_." The gangway clattered out on to the quay, and the man moved toward it. "We best get ashore," he said. "You see, mam, my orders are to pass you over to the folks waiting for you. That'll be--Bat. He'll pass you on to Sternford. I take it you'll sleep aboard to-night. Your stateroom's booked that way. We sail to-morrow sundown, which will give you plenty time looking around if you fancy that way. I allow Sachigo's worth it. One day it'll be a big city, if I'm a judge. Will you step this way?" The seaman's deference was obvious. But Nancy remained oblivious to it. To her it was just kindliness, and she was more than grateful. But his final remark about Sachigo left her pathetically disquieted. For the first time in her life she doubted the all-powerful position of the people to whom she had sold her services. "Yes, thanks," she returned, smiling to disguise her feelings. Then she added, "I'm glad we don't sail till to-morrow evening. You see, I couldn't leave--this, without a big look around." * * * * * The ship-master had hurried away. Bat's deep-set eyes were steadily regarding the beautiful face before him. He was gazing into the hazel depths of Nancy's eyes without a sign. He had noted everything as the girl had come down the gangway. The height, the graceful carriage in the long plucked-beaver coat which terminated just above the trim ankles in their silken, almost transparent, hose. Not even at Captain Hardy's pronouncement of her name had he yielded a sign. And yet-- "Miss--Nancy McDonald?" Bat's tone had lost its usual roughness. His mind had leapt back over many years to a time when he had been concerned for that name in a way that had stirred him to great warmth. He smiled. It was a baffling, somewhat derisive smile. "You're the lady representing the--Skandinavia?" he added. "Why, yes," Nancy cried, "and I feel I want to thank you for the privilege of obtaining even an outside view of your wonderful, wonderful place here." Bat raked thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin. "If you feel that way, Miss, it'll hand me pleasure to show you and tell you about things," he said. "You come right out of what the folks around here like to call the enemy camp, but it don't matter a little bit. Not a little bit. The whole of Sachigo's standin' wide open for you to walk through." Then he dashed his hand across his face to clear the voracious mosquitoes. "But if we stop around here mor'n ha'f another minute, the memory you'll mostly carry away with you from Labrador'll be skitters--an' nothing much else. Will you come right along up to Mr. Sternford's office? It's quite a piece up the hill, which helps to keep it clear of skitters an' things?" Nancy laughed. Her early impression of the super-lumberjack had passed. The man's smile was beyond words in its kindliness. His deep, twinkling eyes were full of appeal. "Why, surely," she assented. "If you'll show me the way I'll be glad. The flies and things are certainly thick, and as I intend leaving Sachigo with happy memories, well--" "Come right along. I'm here for just that purpose." As they made their way up the woodland trail they talked together with an easy intimacy. Nancy was young. She was full of the joy of life, full of real enthusiasm. And this rough creature with his ready smile appealed to her. His frank, open way was something so far removed from that which prevailed under the Skandinavia's rule. For Bat, the walk up from the quayside was one of the many milestones in his chequered life. He talked readily. He listened, too. But under it all his thought was busy. The mystery of Father Adam's letter was no longer a mystery. He understood. But he was also puzzled. How had this thing come about? How had Father Adam learned of this visit? How had this girl become representative of the Skandinavia? A hundred questions flashed through his mind, for none of which he could find a satisfactory answer. But he smiled to himself as he thought of that last line in Father Adam's letter. "Treat her gently--firmly, yes--but very gently. You see, she's a--woman." * * * * * It was a moment likely to live with both in the years to come. For Nancy it was at least the final stage of her apprenticeship, the passing of the portal beyond which opened out the world she so completely desired to take her place in. Did it not mean the moment of shouldering the great burden of responsibility she had so steadfastly trained herself to bear? For Bull Sternford it had no such meaning. His powers had long since been tested. As a meeting with the representative of a rival enterprise it was merely an incident in the life to which he had become completely accustomed. Its significance lay in quite another direction. Bat had taken his departure. He had witnessed the meeting of Nancy with this protégé Father Adam had sent him from the dark world of the forests. And his witness of it had been with twinkling eyes, and the happy sense of an amusement he had never looked to discover in the presence of a representative of the Skandinavia. In an unexpressed fashion he realised he was gazing upon something in the nature of a stage play. He had found Bull transformed. The office suit was gone. The man's hair was carefully brushed. He even suspected the liberal use of soap and water. And then, too, the heavy, rough boots had given place to shining patent leather. The youth and human nature of it pleased him. So he had departed to the workshops below with a voiceless chuckle, and a greater appreciation of the inevitability of the things of life. Apart from Nancy's appreciation of that meeting, the woman in her sought to appraise the man she beheld. Her impression was far deeper than she knew. The height and muscular girth she beheld left her with a feeling that she was gazing upon one of the pictures her school-girl mind had created for the great men of Greek and Roman history. The clean-shaven, clear-cut face, with its fine eyes and broad brow, its purposeful mouth; these were details that had to be there, and were there. And somehow, as she realised them, and the sense of the man's power and personality forced itself upon her, her original confidence still further lessened, and she wondered not a little anxiously as to the outcome of this interview she had sought. As for the man, his eyes had calmly smiled his spoken greeting. His handshake had been conventionally firm. But behind the mask of it all was one great surge of feeling. The vision of a beautiful, fur-coated figure, with the peeping lure of pretty ankles, the warm cap pressed low on the girl's head as though endeavouring to hide up the radiant framing of the sweetest, most beautiful face he felt he had ever seen, dealt all his preconceived purpose for the interview one final, smashing blow. "I'm real glad to welcome you to Sachigo," he had begun. Then in a moment, the conventional gave place to the man in him. "But say," he added with a pleasant laugh, "we've a big piece of talk to make. You best let me help you remove that coat. The stove we always need to keep going here on Labrador makes this shanty hot as--very hot." The manner of it sent convention, caution, business pose, scattering to the winds. The girl laughed and yielded. "Why, thanks," she said readily. "I'm glad you reckon we're to make a big talk. You see," she added slyly, "I've been looking out of the window, and there's quite a drop below. Up to now I felt my fur might--be useful." Bull laughed as he laid the coat aside. He had drawn up a comfortable lounging chair which Nancy was prompt to accept. For himself he stood at the window. "Why, yes." He smiled. "I'd say it's a wise general who looks to his retreat before the encounter. I'd sort of half forgotten you come from the--Skandinavia." "But I hadn't." "No." They both laughed. Nancy leant back in her chair. Her pose was all unconscious. She had toiled hard to keep pace with the sturdy gait of Bat in the ascent from the quay. Now she was glad of the ease the chair afforded. "Why did you say that?" Nancy asked a moment later. Bull spread out his great hands. "The Skandinavia don't usually let folks forget they're behind them." "Now that's just too bad. It--it isn't generous," the girl said half seriously. "Isn't it?" Bull left the window and took the chair that was usually Bat's. He set it so that he could feast his eyes on the beauty he found so irresistible. "You see," he went on, "I've got a right to say that all the same. It's not the--the challenge of a--what'll I say--competitor? I once had the honour of drawing a few bucks a month on the paysheets of the Skandinavia. And folks reckoned, and I guess I was amongst 'em, that Skandinavia said to its people: 'Make good or--beat it.' That being so it makes it a sure thing they're not liable to leave you forgetting who's behind you." His smile had gone. He was simply serious. This man had worked for her people, and Nancy felt he was entitled to his opinion. "That's going to make my talk harder," she said. "I'm sorry. But there," she went on. "It doesn't really matter, does it? Anyway I want to tell you right away of the craze the sight of your splendid Sachigo has started buzzing in my head. Say, Mr. Sternford, it beats anything I ever dreamed, and I want to say that there's no one in the Skandinavia, from Mr. Peterman downwards, has the littlest notion of it. It's not a mill. It's a world of real, civilised enterprise. And it's set here where you'd look for the roughest of forest life. I just had no idea." It was all said spontaneously. And the pleasure it gave was obvious in the man's eyes. He nodded. "Yes," he said. "The construction of this mill, here on Labrador, isn't short of genius by a yard. And the genius of it lies where you won't guess." Nancy's pretty eyes were mildly searching. "You're the head of Sachigo," she suggested. Bull's eyes lit. "Sure," he cried, "an' I'm mighty proud that's so. But I'm not the genius of this great mill. No. That grizzled, tough old lumberman who toted you along up from the quayside is the brain of this organisation. He's a--wonder. There's times I want to laff when I think of it. There's times I'm most ready to cry. You see, you don't know that great feller. I'm just beginning to guess I do. He's a heart as big as a house, and the manner to scare a 'hold-up.' He's the grit of a reg'ment of soldiers and the mutton softness of a kid girl. He's the brain of a Solomon, and the illiteracy of a one day school kid. He's all those things, and he's the biggest proposition in men I've ever heard tell about. It's kind of tough. Don't you feel that way? He'll suck a pint of tobacco juice in the day, and blaspheme till your ears get on edge. And while your folks are guessing he'll put through a proposition that 'ud leave ha'f the world gasping." Nancy stirred. This man's whole-hearted appreciation of another was something rather fine in her simple philosophy. The last thing she had contemplated in approaching the head of a rival enterprise was such talk as this. But somehow it seemed to fit the man. Somehow as she noted the squarely gazing eyes, and the power in every line of his features, she realised that whatever lines he chose to talk on, nothing could change the decision lying behind it all. She liked him all the better for that, and found herself drawing comparison between him and Elas Peterman to the latter's detriment. "I like that," she cried impulsively. Then the colour rose in her cheeks at the thought of her temerity. "I guess he's all you say. Maybe some day I'll hear his side of things. I'd like to. You see--I felt I'd known him years when he brought me in here. Maybe you won't understand what that implies." "I think I do." Bull stood up from his chair and passed round his desk. "Here, say, Miss McDonald," he went on, in his keen fashion. "You come from Skandinavia. And I guess you come on a pretty stiff proposition. It's going to be difficult for you to hand it me. Maybe you're young in the game. Well, it doesn't matter a thing. Now we're going to start right in talking that proposition, and I'm going to help you. But before that starts I just want to say this. You, I guess, are going right back on the _Myra_ and she sails to-morrow, sundown. That means you'll stay a night in Sachigo--" "I'm stopping on the vessel. It's all fixed." Bull sat down at his desk. "I'm kind of glad," he said, with a shade of relief. "It isn't that you aren't welcome to all the old hospitality Sachigo can hand you. You're just more than welcome. But Bat hasn't built his swell hotel yet," he laughed. "And as for us here, why, we 'batch' it. There isn't a thing in skirts around this place, only a Chink cook, a half-breed secretary, and a clerk or two, and a bum sort of decrepit lumber-jack who does my chores. So you see I'm--kind of relieved. Anyway you sleeping on the _Myra_ makes it easy. Now there's a mighty big conceit to me, and it's all for this mill in our country's wilderness. And I just can't let you quit to-morrow night without showing you all it means. You've simply got to see the thing that's going to make the whole world's groundwood trade holler before we're through. You're my prisoner until you've seen the things I'm going to show you. Is it anyway agreeable?" Nancy smiled delightedly. "You couldn't drive me out of Sachigo till I've peeked into all your secrets down there," she said. Bull leant forward with his arms outspread across the desk. "Great!" he cried. "And," he added, "you shall see them all. The things I can't show you Bat will. And if I'm a judge that old rascal'll be tickled to death handing his dope out to you. But--let's get to business." Nancy sat up. In a moment all ease was banished. She knew the great moment had come when she must prove herself to those who had entrusted her with her mission. "Yes," she said, almost hurriedly. "I don't know the word Mr. Peterman sent you. And anyway it doesn't matter. I must put things my way. You are a great enterprise here. We are a great enterprise. It looks to us a pretty tough clash is bound to come between us in the near future, and--there should be no necessity for it. There's room--plenty of room--for both of us in our trade--" She paused. The keen eyes of Bull were closely observing. He realised her attitude. Her words and tone were almost mechanical, as though she had schooled herself and rehearsed her lesson. And her voice was not quite steady. He jumped in with the swift impulse of a man whose rivalry could not withstand that sign of a beautiful girl's distress. "Here," he cried, with that command so natural to him. "Just don't say another word. Let me talk. I guess I can tell you the things it's up to you to hand me. It'll save you a deal, and it'll hand me a chance to blow off the hot air that's mostly my way. This is the position. Peterman's wise to the things doing right here. The Skandinavia's up against years of cutting on the Shagaunty. The Shagaunty's played right out. You folks have got to open new stuff. It's my job to know all this. Very well. As I said, Peterman's at last got wise to us. He knows we look like flooding the market, and jumping right in on him. So--you're a mighty wealthy corporation--he figures to recognise us, and embrace us--with a business arrangement. That so?" "Yes. A business arrangement." The girl's relief was almost pathetic. Bull smiled. "That's so. A business arrangement. Should I entertain one, eh? That's the question you're right here to ask. And you want to take back my answer." He paused. "Well, you're going to take back my answer. And I kind of feel it's the answer you'll like taking back. Say, Miss McDonald, I'm only a youngster, myself, but I guess I know what it means to set out on a work hoping and yearning to make good. Will it make good for you to go back to Elas Peterman and say the feller at Sachigo is coming right along down by the _Myra_ to-morrow, and would be pleased to death to talk this proposition right out in the offices of the Skandinavia? Will it?" Nancy's eyes lit. Their hazel depths were wells of thankfulness. "Why, surely," she said. "You mean you're going to sail to-morrow?" Bull laughed and his laugh was infectious. The girl was smiling her delight. "That's so. I need to cross the Atlantic. I wasn't going till the _Myra's_ next trip. I'll go to-morrow an' stop over in Quebec to see your people. It just means hurrying my choreman packing my stuff while I show you around to-morrow. That kind of fixes things, and if you'll hand me that pleasure I'd just love to show you around some this afternoon. There's a heap to see, and I don't fancy you missing any of it." He passed round the desk, and picked up the girl's coat and held it out invitingly. "Will you come right along?" There was no denying him. Nancy looked up into his smiling eyes. She felt there was a lot she wanted to say, ought to say, on the business matter in hand. But it was impossible. And in her heart she was thankful. "Why, I'd just love to," she said, and stood up from her chair. Very tenderly, very carefully the man's hands helped her into her coat. And somehow Nancy was very glad the hands were big, and strong, and--yes--clumsy. CHAPTER IX ON THE OPEN SEA The _Myra_ laboured heavily. With every rise and fall of her high bows a whipping spray lashed the faces of those on deck. The bitter north-easterly gale churned the ocean into a white fury, and the sky was a-race with leaden masses of cloud. There was no break anywhere. Sky and sea alike were fiercely threatening, and the wind howled through the vessel's top gear. Bull Sternford had been sharing the storm with the sturdy skipper on the bridge. He had been listening to the old man's talk of fierce experience on the coast of Labrador. It had all been interesting to the landsman in view of the present storm, but at last he could no longer endure the exposure of the shelterless bridge. "It's me for the deck and a sheltered corner," he finally declared, preparing to pass down the iron "companion." And the Captain grinned. "I don't blame you," he bellowed in the shriek of the gale. "But I guess I'd as lief have it this way. It's better than a flat sea an' fog, which is mostly the alternative this time o' year. The Atlantic don't offer much choice about now. She's like a shrew woman. Her smile ain't ever easy. An' when you get it you've most always got to pay good. She can blow herself sick with this homeward bound breeze for all I care." "That's all right," Bull shouted back at him. "Guess you've lost your sense of the ease of things working this coast so long. It 'ud be me for the flat sea and fog all the time. I like my chances taken standing square on two feet. So long." He passed below, beating his hands for warmth. And as he went he glanced back at the sturdy, oil-skinned figure clinging to the rail of the bridge. The man's far-off gaze was fixed on the storm-swept sky, reading every sign with the intimate knowledge of long years of experience. It was a reassuring figure that must have put heart into the veriest weakling. But Bull Sternford needed no such support. In matters of life and death he was without emotion. He scrambled his way to the leeward side of the engines where a certain warmth and shelter was to be had, and where a number of hardly tested deck chairs were securely lashed. It was the resting place of those few beset passengers who could endure no longer the indifferent, odorous accommodation of the _Myra's_ saloon. Only one chair was occupied. For the rest the deck was completely deserted. Bull's first glance at the solitary passenger was sufficient. The gleam of red hair under the fur cap told him all he wanted to know, and he groped his way along the slippery deck, and deposited his bulk safely into the chair beside Nancy McDonald. "Say," he cried, with a cheerful grin, as he struggled with his rug, "this sort of thing's just about calculated to leave a feller feeling sympathy with the boy who hasn't more sense than to spend his time trying to climb outside more Rye whisky than he was built to hold. It makes you wonder at the fool thing that lies back of it all. I mean the fuss going on out yonder." Nancy smiled round from amidst her furs. "It does seem like useless mischief," she agreed readily. Then she laughed outright. "But to see you crawling along the deck just now, grabbing any old thing for support, and often missing it, was a sight to leave one wondering how much dignity owes to personality, and how much to environment. Guess environment's an easy win." "Did I look so darn foolish?" Bull's eyes were smiling, and Nancy laughed again. "Just about as foolish as that fellow with the Rye whisky you were talking about." The man settled himself comfortably. "That's tough. And I guess I was doing my best, too. Say," he went on with a laugh, "just look at those flapping sea-gulls, or whatever they are out there. Makes you wonder to see 'em racing along over this fool waste of water. Look at 'em fighting, struggling, and using up a whole heap of good energy to keep level with this old tub. You know they've only to turn away westward to find land and shelter where they could build nests and make things mighty comfortable for themselves. I don't get it. You know it seems to me Nature got in a bad muss handing out ordinary sense. I'd say She never heard of a card index. Maybe Her bookkeeper was a drunken guy who didn't know a ledger from a scrap book. Now if She'd engaged you an' me to keep tab of things for Her, we'd have done a deal better. Those poor blamed sea-gulls, or whatever they are, would have been squatting around on elegant beds of moulted feathers, laid out on steam-heat radiators, feeding on oyster cocktails and things, and handing out the instructive dope of a highbrow politician working up a press reputation, and learning their kids the decent habits of folk who're yearning to keep out of penitentiary as long as the police'll let 'em. No. It's no use. Nature got busy. Look at the result. Those fool birds'll follow us till they're tired, in the hope that some guy'll dump the contents of the _Myra's_ swill barrel their way. Then they'll have one disgusting orgy on the things other folks don't fancy, and start right in to fly again to ease their digestions. It's a crazy game anyway. And it leaves me with a mighty big slump in Nature's stock." Nancy listened delightedly to the man's pleasant fooling. "It's worse than that," she cried, falling in with his humour. "Look at some of them taking a rest, swimming about in that terribly cold water. Ugh! No, if we'd fixed their sense we'd have made it so they'd have had enough to get on dry land, like any other reasonable folk yearning for a rest." The man studied the girl's pretty profile, and a great sense of regret stirred him that the Skandinavia had been able to buy her services. What a perfect creature to have been supported by in the work he was engaged on. "That sounds good," he said. "Reasonable folks!" He shook his head. "Nature again. Guess we're all reasonable till we're found out. No. Even the greatest men and women on earth are fools at heart, you know." The girl sat up as the vessel lurched more heavily and flung their chairs forward, straining dangerously. "How?" she questioned, glancing down anxiously at the moorings of her chair. "They're safe--so far," Bull reassured her. Then he leant back again, and produced and lit a cigar. "Guess I'll smoke," he said. "Maybe that'll help me tell you--'how.'" The girl watched him light his cigar and her eyes were full of laughter. "It's a real pity women can't sit themselves behind a cigar," she said at last, with a pretence of regret. "It's the wisest looking thing a man does. A cigarette kind of makes him seem pleasantly undependable. A pipe makes you feel he's full of just everyday notions. But a cigar! My! It sort of dazzles me when I see a man with a big cigar. I feel like a lowgrade earthworm, don't you know. Say," she cried, with an indescribable gesture of her gloved hands, "he handles that cigar, he sort of fondles it. He cocks it. He depresses it. He rolls it across his lips to the opposite corner of his mouth, and finally blows a thin, thoughtful stream of smoke gently between his pursed lips. And that stream is immeasurable in its suggestion of wise thought and keen calculation. I'd say a man's cigar is his best disguise." Bull nodded. "That's fine," he cried. "But you've forgotten the other feller. The man who 'chews.'" Nancy laughed happily. "Easy," she cried promptly. "When he of the bulged cheek gets around just watch your defences. He's mostly tough. He's on the jump, and hasn't much fancy for the decencies of life. The harder he chews the more he's figgering up his adversary. And when he spits, get your weapons ready. When the chewing man succeeds in life I guess he's dangerous. And it's because his force and character have generally lifted him from the bottom of things." Bull shook his head in mock despair. Nancy settled herself back in her chair. "That's fixed it. Guess you'll need to tell _me_ 'how.'" "No, sir," she cried. "You can't go back. 'The greatest men and women in the world are fools at heart.' That's what you said." "Yes. I seem to remember." The man stirred and sat up. He folded the rug more closely about his feet. Then he turned with a whimsical smile in his eyes. "Well?" he cried. "And isn't it so? What do we work, and fight, and hate for? What do we spend our lives worrying to beat the other feller for? Why do we set our noses into other folks' affairs and worry them to death to think, and act, and feel the way we do? And all the while it don't matter a thing. Of course we're fools. We'll hand over when the time comes, and the old world'll roll on, and it's not been shifted a hair's-breadth for our having lived, in spite of the obituaries the news-sheets hand out like a Sunday School mam at prize time. Say, here, it's no use fooling ourselves. Life's one great big thing that don't take shape by reason of our acts. What's the civilisation we love to pat ourselves on the back for? I'll tell you. It's just a thing we've invented, like--wireless telegraphy, or soap, or steam-heat; and it hands us a cloak to cover up the evil that man and woman'll never quit doing. Before we made civilisation a feller got up on to his hind legs and hit the other feller over the head with a club; and if he was hungry he used him as a lunch. Now we don't do that. We break him for his dollars and leave him and his poor wife and kids hungry, while we buy a lunch with the stuff we beat out of him. Why do we work? For one of two elegant notions. It's either to fill ourselves up with the things we've dreamt about when appetite was sharp set, and hate to death when we get, or it's to satisfy a conceit that leaves us hoping and believing the rest of the world'll hand us an epitaph like it handed no other feller since ever it got to be a habit burying up the garbage death produces. Why do we fight and hate? Because we're poor darn fools that don't know better, and don't know the easy thing life would be without those things. And as for settin' our noses into the affairs of other folk, that's mostly disease. But it isn't all. No, sir. There's more to it than that," he laughed. "If it was just disease it wouldn't matter a lot, but it isn't. There isn't a fool man or woman born into this world that doesn't reckon he or she can put right the fool notions and acts of other fools. And when the other feller persuades them the game's not the one-sided racket they guessed it was, then they get mad, and start groping and scheming how to boost their notions on to a world that's spent a whole heap of time fixing things, mostly foolish, to its own mighty good satisfaction. I say right here we're fools if we aren't crooks, which is the exception. There's a dandy world around us full of sun to warm us and food to eat, and birds to sing to us, and flowers and things to make us feel good. If we needed more I guess Providence would have handed it out. But it didn't. And so we got busy with our own notions till we've turned God's elegant creation into a home for crazes and cranks. I could almost fancy the Archangels hovering around, like those silly sea-gulls, with a bunch of straight-jackets to wrap about us when we jump the limit they figger we've a right to. Fools, yes? Why, I guess so--sure." Nancy breathed a deep sigh. "My, but that's a big say." Then she broke into a laugh which found prompt response in the other. It was cut short, however. A sea thundered against the staunch side of the vessel and left her staggering. The girl's eyes became seriously anxious. The straining chairs held, and presently the deck swung up to a comparative level. "I had visions of the--" "Scuppers?" Bull laughed. "Yes. That sea's one of the elegant things Providence handed out for our happiness." Nancy nodded. "So man built things like the _Myra_, which, of course, was--foolish?" "An' set out sailing around in a winter storm off Labrador, instead of basking in a pleasant tropical sun, which hasn't any--sense." Bull chuckled. "All because two mighty fine enterprises reckoned they'd common interests which were jeopardised by rivalry, which was also--foolishly?" Bull's cigar ash tumbled into his lap. "But not ha'f so foolish as the notion that a girl has to suffer the worries and dangers of one hell of a trip on the worst sea that God ever made to try and square the things between them." Nancy shook her head. "I can't grant that," she cried quickly. "No?" "I mean--oh, psha! Don't you see, or does your cynical philosophy blind you? We're fools, maybe. The things Providence sends us aren't the things we've got a notion for. Maybe we know better than Providence, and can't find happiness in the things it's handed us. What then? As you say, we start right in chasing happiness in the way we fancy. It seems to me the only real happiness in life is in doing. Ease, wealth, love, all the things folk talk and write about are just dreams of happiness that aren't real. Work, achievement, even if it's wrong-headed--that's life; that's happiness. That's why I'd say there's nothing foolish in a girl putting up with dangers and discomforts to bring two enterprises to an understanding, calculated to promote a greater achievement for both. It's my little notion of snatching a bunch of happiness for myself." There was no laughter in Nancy's eyes now. They were quite serious. Her words were alive with vehemence. Bull was watching her intently, probing, in his searching way, the depths which her hazel eyes hinted at. The things she said pleased him. Her tone thrilled him. He wanted more. "I wonder," he said, as he rolled the cigar across his lips in the way Nancy had laughingly pointed. "You reckon it's handed you happiness--this thing?" The girl was stirred. "Surely," she cried. "Later, when things get fixed up between the Skandinavia and Sachigo, I'll get a focus of my little share in the business of it--the achievement. Then I'll get warm all through with a glow of happiness because I--helped it along." Bull nodded as he watched the rising colour in the perfect cheeks. The girl was very, very beautiful. "Yes, I suppose you will," he said. Then he went on provocatively. "But do you guess it's always so? I mean that always happens? Isn't it to do with temperament? Now, take the forest-jacks. Do you guess they feel happiness in a tree dropped right? Do you guess there's happiness for the poor fool who don't know better than to spend his days in a forest risking his life boosting logs on the river jamb? Do you guess there's any sort of old joy for the feller turned adrift, when he's getting old in the tooth, and there's no room for him on the pay roll of the camp, in the thought that he _was_ the best axeman the forest ever bred? It seems like a crazy sort of happiness that way. Happiness in achievement's great while the achieving's going on. But at the finish we get right back to Nature. And when that time comes Nature doesn't do much to help us out." Nancy sat up. "What are you doing? That great Sachigo!" she demanded challengingly. "You're building, building one magnificent enterprise. Is there happiness in it for you?" "Sure," Bull admitted frankly. "Oh, yes. But I've no illusions," he said. "I don't go back on the things I said. Nature as she dopes out life couldn't hand me a hundredth part of the happiness I get that way. But when I'm through, like that lumber-jack who's struck off the pay roll, how's it going to be with me? A trained mind without the bodily ability to thrust on in the game of life. It'll be hell--just hell. The one hope is to die in harness. Like the forest-jack who drowns under the logs on the river, or who gets up against the other feller's knife in a drunken scrap. That way lies happiness. The rest is a sort of passing dream with the years of old age for regret." The girl spread out her hands. "I can't believe you feel that way," she cried, with something very like distress. "Oh, if I had your power, your ability. Why, I'd say there's no end to the things you could achieve, not only now, but right through, right through that time when you're old in body, but still strong in brain. A limited goal for achievement isn't the notion in my foolish head. Why, if I'd only the strength to knit socks for the folks who need them, there'd still be happiness and to spare. But let's keep to our own ground. The forest-jack. I guess you're one big man who employs thousands. What of those boys when they're struck off the--pay roll. Is there nothing to be achieved that way--nothing to last you to your last living moment? Think of their needs. Think of the happiness you could hand yourself in handing them comfort and happiness when they're--through. It's a thing I've promised myself, if luck ever hands me the chance. You've got the pity of their lives. Your words tell that. Well?" The man had forgotten the storm. He had forgotten everything but the charm of the girl's hot enthusiasm. And the picture of superlative beauty she made in her animation. He shook his head. "It's a bully notion," he demurred, "but it's not for me. No. You see, I'm just a tough sort of man who's big for a scrap. I haven't patience or sympathy for the feller who don't feel the same. You've seen the forest boys?" "I've been through the Shagaunty." "Ah!" Bull Sternford's ejaculation was sharp. The problem of Father Adam's letter was partially solved. "Well, I guess you're a woman," he went on. "And I'd like to say right here a woman's sympathy is just about the best thing on this old earth. That's why I'd like to cry like a kid when I see it going out to the things that haven't any sort of excuse for getting it. It's good to hear you talk for those boys. It isn't they deserve it, but--as I said, you're a woman. Talk it all you fancy, but leave it at talk. Don't let it get a holt. Don't waste one moment of your hard earned happiness on 'em. I was a forest-jack. I know 'em. I know it--the life. And if you knew the thing I know you wouldn't harden all up as you listen to the things I'm saying:--" "But--" Bull flung his cigar away with vicious force. "Let me say this thing out," he went on. "There's a man in the forest I know, every jack knows. He's a feller who sort of lives in the twilight. You see, he sort of comes and goes; and no one knows a thing about him, except he haunts the forests like a shadow. Well, he's settin' the notion you feel into practice--in a way. He's out for the boys. To help 'em, physically, spiritually, the whole time. They love him. We all love him to death. Well, ask him how far he gets. Maybe he'd tell you, and I guess his story 'ud break the heart of a stone image. He'll tell you--and he speaks the truth--there isn't a thing to be done but heal 'em, and feed 'em, and just help 'em how you can. The rest's a dream. You see, these jacks come from nowhere particular. They take to the forests because it's far off; and it's dark, and covers most things up. And they go nowhere particular, except it's to the hell waiting on most of us if we don't live life the way that's intended for us. No. Quit worrying for the forest-jack. Maybe life's going to hand you all sorts of queer feelings as you go along. And the good heart that sees suffering and injustice is going to ache mighty bad. The forest wasn't built for daylight, and the folks living there don't fancy it. And there isn't a broom big enough in the world to clean up the muck you'll find there." "You're talking of Father Adam?" Nancy's interest had redoubled. It had instantly centred itself on the man she had met in the Shagaunty forests. The lumber-jacks were forgotten. "Yes." Bull nodded. "Do you know him?" There was eagerness in his question. "I met him on the Shagaunty." The man had produced a fresh cigar. But the renewed heavy rolling of the vessel delayed its lighting. Nancy gazed out to sea in some concern. "It's getting worse," she said. Bull struck a match and covered it with both hands. "It seems that way," he replied indifferently. Then after a moment he looked up. His cigar was alight. "He's a great fellow--Father Adam," he said reflectively. "He's just--splendid." The girl's enthusiasm told Bull something of the thing he wanted to know. "Yes," he said. "He's the best man I know. The world doesn't mean a thing to him. Why he's there I don't know, and I guess it's not my business anyway. But if God's mercy's to be handed to any human creature it seems to me it won't come amiss--Say!" He broke off, startled. He sat up with a jump. A great gust of wind broke down upon the vessel. It came with a shriek that rose in a fierce crescendo. His startled eyes were riveted upon a new development in the sky. An inky cloud bank was sweeping down upon them out of the north-east, and the wind seemed to roar its way out of its very heart. The vessel heeled over. Again the wind tore at the creaking gear. It was a moment of breathless suspense for those seated helplessly looking on. Then something crashed. A vast sea beat on the quarter and deluged the decks, and the chairs were torn from their moorings. Bull Sternford was sprawling in the race of water. Nancy, too, was hurled floundering in the scuppers. They were flung and beaten, crashing about in the swirling sea that swept over the vessel's submerged rail. Bull struggled furiously. Every muscle was straining with the effort of it. A fierce anxiety was in his eyes as he fought his way foot by foot towards the saloon companion. The handicap was terrible. There was practically no foothold, for the vessel was riding at an angle of something like forty-five degrees. Then, too, he had but one hand with which to help himself along. The other was supporting the dead-weight of the body of the unconscious girl. At last, breathless and nearly beaten, he reached his goal and clutched desperately at the door-casing of the companion. He staggered within. And as he did so relief found expression in one fierce exclamation. "Hell!" he cried. And clambered down, bearing his unconscious burden into the safety of the vessel's interior. CHAPTER X IN QUEBEC It was the final stage of her journey. Nancy was on her way up from the docks, where she had left the staunch _Myra_ discharging her cargo. It was that triumphant return to which she had always looked forward, for which she had hoped and prayed. Her work was completed. It had been crowned with greater success than she had dared to believe possible. Yet her triumph somehow found her unelated, even a shade depressed. A belated sense of humour battled with her mood. There were moments when she wanted to laugh at herself. There were others when she had no such desire. So she sat gazing out of the limousine window, as though all her interest were in the drab houses lining the way, and the heavy-coated pedestrians moving along the sidewalks of the narrow streets through which they were passing. It was winter all right, for all no snow had as yet fallen, and the girl felt glad that it was so. It suited her mood. Once or twice she took a sidelong glance at the man seated beside her; but Bull Sternford's mood was no less reticent than her own. Once she encountered the glance of his eyes, and it was just as the vehicle bumped heavily over the badly paved road. "We can do better in the way of roads up at Sachigo," he said with a belated smile. "You surely can," Nancy admitted readily. "The roads down here in the old town are terrible. This old city of ours could fill pages of history. It's got beauties, too, you couldn't find anywhere else in the world. But it seems to need most of the things a city needs to make it the place we folk reckon it is." She went on at random. "Do you always keep an automobile in Quebec?" she asked. Bull shook his head. "Hired," he said. "I see." Bull's eyes twinkled. "Yes," he went on, "when I make this old city it's with the purpose of driving twenty-four hours work into twelve. An automobile helps that way." "And you're wasting all this time driving me up to my apartments?" Nancy smiled. "I'm more indebted than I guessed." The man's denial was instant. "No," he said. "Your apartments are about two blocks from the Château. But tell me, when'll you be through making your report to Peterman?" Nancy's depression passed. She was caught again in the interest of everything. "Why, to-day--surely," she said. "You see, I want to get word to you right away." Bull nodded. "That's fine," he said. "It's not my way leaving things lying around either. I'll be on the jump to get through before sailing time to that little old country across the water. But tell me. That report. After it's in you'll have made all the good you reckon to? And then you, personally, cut right out of this thing?" His manner gave no indication of the thing in his mind. "Oh, yes," Nancy replied happily. "You see, I've bearded you--only you've no beard--in your fierce den up in Sachigo. And I've--and you've come right down here to Quebec with me to discuss with my people the thing they want to discuss with you. They didn't think I--they didn't hope that. Maybe I've done better than they expected. Why, when I hand the news to Mr. Peterman he'll--he'll--oh, I'm just dying to see his face when I tell him." "You--haven't wired him already?" "No. The news was too good to send by wire." For a moment the man contemplated the simple radiant creature beside him. She was so transparently happy. And the sight of her happiness satisfied him. "It'll--astonish him, eh?" "Astonish him?" Nancy laughed. "That doesn't say a thing. I shouldn't wonder if he refused to believe me." "And you'll get--promotion? Promotion--in Skandinavia?" The girl's eyes sobered on the instant. "Surely. Why not?" "Yes. Why not?" Just for a moment Nancy hesitated. Then her challenge came incisively. "What do you mean?" But the man smilingly shook his head. "You want promotion under Peterman--in the Skandinavia?" Nancy's eyes widened. "Why shouldn't I? The Skandinavia's everything to me. It ought to be everything. Isn't that so? Now, I wonder what you mean?" she went on, after the briefest pause. "Are you talking that way just because you are a rival concern?" She shook her head. "That's no affair of mine. But wait while I tell you. Try and think yourself a young girl without folks that count, with a pretty tough world laid out in front of her, and with a healthy desire to dress, and eat the same as any other girl of her age. She's given a chance in life to make good, to gather round her all those things she needs, by--the Skandinavia. Well, how would you feel? Wouldn't you want that--promotion? Yes. I want it. I want it with all my heart. The Skandinavia gave me my first start. They've been very, very good to me. I've big room in my heart for them. Their work's my work all the time. I've nothing but gratitude for Mr. Peterman." "Yes." Bull's smile had passed. He was thinking of Nancy's feeling of gratitude towards the Swede--Peterman. He turned away, and the grey wintry daylight beyond the window seemed to absorb him. He was possessed by a mad desire to fling prudence to the winds and then and there point out the wrong he felt she was committing against the country that had bred her in spending her life in the service of these foreigners. But he knew he must refrain. It was not the moment. And somehow he felt she was not the girl to listen patiently to such ethics as he preached when their force was directed against those who claimed her whole loyalty and gratitude. To Nancy it seemed as though some shadow had arisen between them. She was a little troubled at the thing she had said. But somehow she had no desire to withdraw a single word of it. The car had passed out of the old part of the city. And Nancy realised it was ascending the great hill where the Château Hotel looked out over the old citadel and the wide waters of the busy St. Lawrence river. In a few minutes the happy companionship of the past few days would be only a memory. It was only a little way to her apartments now. Such a very little way. Yes. The porter would be there. He would take her trunks and baggage, and then her door would close behind her, and--She remembered that moment at which she had awakened to consciousness in this man's strong arms in the poor little saloon of the storm-beaten _Myra_. She remembered the embracing strength of them, and the way she had thrilled under their pressure. It had been all very wonderful. "Say!" Bull Sternford had turned back from the window. He was smiling again. "Yes?" The girl was all eager attention. "I was wondering," Bull went on. "Maybe you'll' fancy hearing how things are fixed after I see Peterman?" "I'll be ever so glad. There's the 'phone. You can get me most any time after business hours. I don't go out much. I--" Nancy broke off to glance out of the window. The automobile had slowed. "Why, we're at my place," she cried. And the man fancied he detected disappointment in her tone. The car stopped before the apartment house, and Bull hurled himself at the litter of the girl's belongings strewn about their feet. A few moments later they were standing together on the sidewalk surrounded by the baggage. Bull gazed up at the building. "You live here?" he asked at random. Nancy nodded. "Yes. It isn't much. But some day, maybe, I'll be able to afford a swell apartment with--" "Sure you will," Bull agreed, as they passed up the steps to the entrance doors. "But meanwhile I mostly need your 'phone number of this," he added with a laugh. The baggage was left to the porter's care, and they stood together in the hallway. Bull's youthful stature was overshadowing for all Nancy was tall. Somehow the girl was glad of it. She liked his height, and the breadth of his great shoulders, and the power of limbs his tweed suit was powerless to disguise. She moved across to the porter's office and wrote down her 'phone number while the man looked on. But he only had eyes for the girl herself. At that moment her telephone number was the last thing he desired to think about. She stood up and offered him the paper. "You won't forget it that way," she said, with a smile. "No." Bull glanced down at it. Then he looked again into the smiling eyes. "Thanks," he said. "I'll ring up." Then he held out a hand. "So long." He was gone. The glass door had swung to behind him. Nancy watched him pass into the waiting automobile, and responded to his final wave of the hand. Then she turned to the porter, and her smile had completely vanished. * * * * * Nathaniel Hellbeam stood up. He had been seated at Elas Peterman's desk studying the papers which his managing director had set out for his perusal. His gross body hung over the table for a moment as he reached towards his hat. He took his gloves from inside it and commenced to put them on. "The _Myra_? You say she is in?" he asked in his guttural fashion. "This girl? This girl who is to buy up this--this Sachigo man," he laughed. "Is she arrived?" The man's eyes were alight with unpleasant derision. Peterman gave no heed. The man's arrogance was all too familiar to him. "I've not heard--yet," he said. "She should be." "You not have heard--yet?" The challenge was superlatively offensive. "You a beautiful secretary have. You lose her for weeks--months. Yet you do not know of her return--yet? Sho! You are not the man for this beautiful secretary. She for me is--yes? Hah!" Peterman smiled as was his duty. "I shall be glad to get her back," he said quietly. "But I haven't heard from her at all. And--well, she's not the sort of woman to bombard with telegrams. She's out on a difficult job and I felt it best to leave her to it. I shall hear when she's ready, I guess she'll be right along in to tell me personally. Maybe--" He broke off and picked up the telephone whose buzzer was rattling impatiently on the desk. "Hullo!" he said softly. "Oh, yes. Oh, how are you? So glad you've got back. What sort of passage did--oh, bad, eh? Well, well; I'm sorry. Oh, you're a good sailor. That's fine. Right away? You'll be over right away? Wouldn't you like to rest awhile? All right, I see. Yes, surely I'll be glad. I just thought--oh, not at all. You see, if you were a man I wouldn't be concerned at all. Yes, come right along whenever you choose. Eh? Successful? You have been? Why, that's just fine. Well, I'm dying to hear your news. Splendid. I shall be here. G'bye." Peterman set the 'phone down. His smiling eyes challenged those of the man who a moment before had derided him. "Well?" Hellbeam's impatience was without scruple at any time. "She's got back all right, and she's succeeded far better than you hoped. Better than she hoped herself. But--no better than I expected." The other's eyes snapped under the quiet satisfaction of the man's reply. "Ah, she has. Does she say--yes?" Elas shook his dark head. "No. She's coming right over to tell me the whole story." "Now?" "In a while." Elas Peterman knew his position to the last fraction when dealing with Nathaniel Hellbeam. He knew it was for him to obey, almost without question. But somehow, for the moment, his Teutonic self-abnegation had become obscured. He was yielding nothing in the matter of this woman to anyone. Not even to Nathaniel Hellbeam whom he regarded almost as the master of his destiny. Perhaps the gross nature of the financier possessed a certain sympathy. Perhaps even there was a lurking sense of honour in him, where a woman, whom he regarded as another man's property, was concerned. Again it may simply have been that he understood the other's reticence, and it suited him for the moment to restrain his grosser inclinations. He laughed. And it was not an hilarious effort. "Oh, yes," he said. "You will see her first. That is as it should be. Later, we both will talk with her. Well--good luck my friend." Hellbeam thrust his hat on his great head and strutted his way across to the door. "These people must be bought. Or--" he said, pausing before passing out-- "Smashed!" Hellbeam nodded. "It suits me better to--buy." "Yes. You want to come into touch with--the owner." "Yes." The gross figure disappeared through the doorway. Peterman did not return to his desk. He crossed to the window and stood gazing out of it. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets. And his fingers moved nervously, rattling the contents of them. He was a goodly specimen of manhood. He was tall, and squarely erect, and carried himself with that military bearing which seems to belong to all the races of Teutonic origin. It was only in the study of the man's face that exception could be taken. Just now there was none to observe and he was free from all restraint. His dark eyes were smiling, for his thoughts were streaming along the channel that most appealed. He was thinking of the beauty of the girl who was about to return to him, and it seemed to him a pity she was so simply honest, so very young in the world as he understood it. Then her ambition. It was--but he was rather glad of her ambition. Ambition might prove his best friend in the end. In his philosophy an ambitious woman could have no scruple. Anyway it seemed to him that ambition pitted against scruple was an easy winner. He could play on that, and he felt he knew how to play on it, and was in a position to do so. She had come back to him successful. He wondered how successful. He moved from the window and passed over to the desk, where he picked up his 'phone and asked for a number. "Hullo! Oh, that Bennetts? Oh, yes. This is Peterman--Elas Peterman speaking. Did you send that fruit, and the flowers I ordered to the address I gave you? Yes? Oh, you did? They were there before eleven o'clock. Good. Thanks--" He set the 'phone down and turned away. But in a moment he was recalled. It was a message from downstairs. Nancy McDonald wished to see him. * * * * * Peterman was leaning back in his chair. Nancy was occupying the chair beside the desk which had not known her for several months. It was a moment of stirring emotions. For the girl it was that moment to which she had so long looked forward. To her it seemed she was about to vindicate this man's confidence in her, and offer him an adequate return such as her gratitude desired to make. And deep down in her heart, where the flame of ambition steadily burned, she felt she had earned the promised reward, all of it. The man was concerned with none of these things. He was not even concerned for the girl's completed mission. It was Nancy herself. It was the charming face with its halo of red hair, and the delightful figure so rounded, so full of warmth and charm, which concerned him. He had no scruple as he feasted his eyes upon her. He did nothing to disguise his admiration, and Nancy, full of her news and the thrilling joy of her success, saw nothing of that which a less absorbed woman, a more experienced woman, must unfailingly have observed. "You've a big story for me," Peterman said, with a light laugh. "Have you completed an option on--Sachigo? You look well. You're looking fine. Travelling in Labrador seems to have done you good." Nancy's smiling eyes were alight with delight. "Oh, yes," she said. "It's done me good. But then I've had a success I didn't reckon on. Maybe it's made all the difference. It was a real tough journey. I'm not sure you'd have seen me back at all if it hadn't been for Mr. Sternford." "How?" The man's smiling eyes had changed. Their dark depths were full of sharp enquiry. Nancy read only anxiety. "Why, we were sitting on deck, and it was storming. It was just terrible. We lurched heavily and shipped a great sea. Our chairs were flung into the scuppers by the rush of water, and I--why, I guess I was beaten unconscious and drowning when he got hold of me. He just fought his way to safety. I didn't know about it till I was safe down in the saloon. I woke up then, and he was carrying me--" "Sternford?" The change in the man's eyes had deepened. Then his smile came back to them. But that, too, was different. It was curiously fixed and hard. "You've gone a bit too fast for me," he said. "I don't get things right. Sternford, the man running Sachigo was with you on the _Myra_? He's here--in Quebec?" It was Nancy's great moment. "Yes," she said, with a restraint that failed to disguise her feelings. "He's come down to discuss a business arrangement between the Skandinavia and his enterprise. That's what you wanted--isn't it?" The man leant forward in his chair. He set his elbows on the desk and supported his chin in both hands. His smile was still there, and his eyes were steadily regarding her. But they expressed none of the surprise and delight Nancy looked for. They were smiling as he literally forced them to smile. "You brought him down with you--to meet us?" he asked slowly. The girl nodded. "You did your work so well that he entertained the notion sufficiently to come along down--with you?" "I--I--he's come down for that purpose." The man's eyes were searching. "Where is he?" "At the Chateau. He's waiting to hear from you for an appointment." Peterman flung himself back in his chair with a great laugh. Nancy missed the mirthless tone of it. "Say, my dear," he cried at last. "How did you do it? How in--You're just as bright and smart as I reckoned. You've done one big thing and I guess you've earned all the Skandinavia can hand you. But--" He broke off, and his gaze drifted away from the face with its vivid halo. The wintry daylight beyond the window claimed him, and Nancy waited. "How did you persuade him to ship down on the _Myra_ with you?" he asked, after a moment's thought. "I didn't persuade him. He volunteered." "Volunteered?" "Yes. He was coming down on her next trip. You see, he's making England right away. He guessed he'd come along down with me instead. He seemed keen set to discuss this thing with you." "I see. Keen set, eh? Keen set to talk with me?" The man shook his head. It was not denial. It was the questioning of something left unspoken. The girl became anxious. Somehow a sense of disappointment was stirring. "Is there anything wrong?" she asked at last, as the man remained silent. Peterman shook his head again. "Not a thing, my dear," he said. "No. You've done everything. You couldn't have done more if--if you'd been the most experienced woman schemer in big business. You went up to prepare the ground for our business. Well, you prepared it in a way I'd never have guessed. You've brought this hard business head, Bull Sternford, right down out of his fortress to meet us on our business proposition. Guess only you could have done that." He laughed. "And this man saved your life, eh? And he carried you in his arms to--safety. Say he was lucky. That's something any man would be crazy to do. Well, well, I--" He rose from his chair and passed round to the window where he stood with back turned. Nancy's gaze followed him. For all his praise she was disturbed. The man at the window saw nothing of that upon which he gazed. His eyes were unsmiling now that the girl could no longer observe them. They were the eyes of a man of unbridled jealous fury. They were burning with an insensate hatred for the man who had hitherto been only a stranger rival in business. Oh, he understood. Was it likely that this Bull Sternford was going to yield for a business proposition in this fashion at the request of a formidable rival? Was he going to change all his plans at the bidding of the Skandinavia, and seize the first boat to come and tell them he was prepared to fall for any plans they might design to beat him? Not likely. No. It was the girl he had fallen for. He had changed his plans for her, and for his nerve he had reaped a harvest such as he, Peterman, had never reaped. He had held this beautiful creature in his arms, this innocent, red-haired child, whom he, Peterman, had marked down for his own. For how long? And she was all unconscious. Oh, it was maddening, infuriating. And-- Suddenly he came back to the desk. Nancy was relieved as she beheld the familiar smiling kindness in his eyes. "Well, my dear. I can't tell you how delighted I am to get you back," he said, pausing at her side. "My work's not been by any means satisfactory with you away. There's just no one suits me in this house like you. But the thing I'm most glad about is your success. That's been wonderful. I felt you would make good, but I didn't know how good. Now I'm going to ring this fellow up and fix things to see him. Meanwhile you get your big report of the camps ready for the Board. Then, when you're ready, I'm going to let them see you, and hear it all from you first hand, and I'm going to get them to give you the head of the forestry department right here. It'll be a mighty jump, but--well--" Nancy was on her feet and her eyes were shining a gratitude which words could never express. Impulsively she held out a hand in ardent thanks. "Why, say--" she began. The man had seized the delicate tapering fingers and held them warmly in the palms of both of his. "Now just don't say a thing," he said. "I know. I know just how you feel, and the things you want to say. But don't. You've earned the best, and I'm going to see you get it. I'm going to lose a smart secretary, but I don't care if I make one good little friend. Now, Nancy, what about to-night? I think we ought to celebrate your triumphant return with a little dinner up at the Chateau. What say? Will you--honour me? Eight o'clock. Thank goodness we're not a dry country yet, and it's still possible to enjoy our successful moments properly. Will you?" Nancy longed to withdraw the hand the man still held. It was curious. Every word he said expressed just those things and tributes which her girlish vanity had desired. There was not a word in all of it to give offence. But for the second time she experienced a sense of trouble which her woman's instinct prompted, and a feeling akin to panic stirred. But she resisted it, as she knew she must, and her mind was quite made up. "You're--very kind," she said, with all the earnestness she could summon, and with a gentleness that was intended to disarm. "But I'm so very--very tired. You don't know what it was like on the _Myra_. We were battered and beaten almost to death. I feel as if I needed sleep for a week." The man released her hand lingeringly. His disappointment was intense, but he smiled. "Why, sure," he said, "if you feel that way. I hadn't thought." Then he turned abruptly back to his desk. "That's all right. Guess we'll leave it. You go right home and get your rest." For a moment Nancy hesitated. She was fearful of giving offence. She felt the man's disappointment in his tone, and in the manner of his turning away. But she dared not yield to his request. Suddenly she remembered, and all hesitation passed. "I--I just want to thank you for your kind thought sending me those flowers and fruit," she exclaimed. "I wanted to thank you before, but I was too excited with my news. I--" The man cut her short. "That's all right, my dear," he said. Then he nodded and deliberately turned to his work. "I'm glad. Now--just run right along home and--rest." CHAPTER XI DRAWN SWORDS The palatial halls and public rooms of the hotel were crowded. Everywhere was the hum of voices, which penetrated even to the intended quiet of the writing rooms. Every now and then the monotony of it all was broken by the high-pitched, youthful voices of the messenger boys seeking out their victims. Bull Sternford was at work. Within an hour of his arrival he was plunged in the affairs connected with the great business organisation he projected. The earlier date of his visit to Quebec had necessitated considerable changes in plans already prepared. He had entailed for himself endless added work for the pleasure of the companionship of a beautiful girl on the journey down the coast, and begrudged no detail of it. Just now he was writing to a number of important people, bankers and financial men, re-arranging appointments to suit his change of plans. There was something tremendously purposeful in the poise of the man's body as he sat at one of the many writing tables scattered about the smoking lounge. There were few passers-by who did not glance a second time in his direction with that curiosity which is unfailing in human nature at sight of an unusual specimen of their kind. Twice a name was called by a uniformed boy in that unintelligible fashion which seems to be the habit of his species. The boy hovered round. Then he came up behind the chair on which Bull was seated and hurled his final challenge. "Sternford, sir?" he asked curtly. His victim turned. "Yes." "Wanted on the 'phone, sir." The boy was gone on the run. He had hunted his quarry down. There were still fresh victories to be achieved. * * * * * Bull was at the 'phone, and his eyes were smiling at an insurance advertisement set up for the edification and interest of those whose use of the instrument prevented their escape. "Yes. Oh, yes. Got in this morning. What's that? Oh, pretty rough. Yes. It's a bad sea most all the time. Why, that's good of you, Mr. Peterman." His smile broadened. "Yes. You sent an excellent ambassador. A charming girl. Well, there's no time like the present. Yes. I've lunched. I'm just through with my mail. Four o'clock would suit me admirably. Why sure I'd like to. All right. G'bye." He stood for a moment after replacing the receiver. Then, becoming aware of another wanting to use the instrument, he moved away. Returning to the smoking lounge he finished off his correspondence and took possession of one of the couches and lit a cigar. For a time the hang-over of business pre-occupied him. But it was not for long. His whole thought swiftly became absorbed in Nancy McDonald, with her wonderful halo of vivid hair. It had been the same during the whole of his journey down from Sachigo, in fact, from the moment he had first set eyes on her when she entered his office on that memorable day of her visit. She pre-occupied all his leisure. He had thought deeply on the meaning of her visit to him, and his thought had had little to do with the mission she had come upon. Swift decision had dealt with that. No, it was the girl herself who claimed him. He understood the sheer design of the Skandinavia in sending so perfect a creature to him. That was easy. It only helped to prove their desire--their urgent desire--to free themselves from the threat of his competition. But he wondered at their selection. Somehow he felt that the Skandinavia should have chosen, if their choice fell upon a woman, a clever, brilliant, unscrupulous creature who knew her every asset, and was capable of playing every one of them in the game of commercial warfare. Instead of that they had sent Nancy, with her sweetly beautiful face and perfect hair, to be their unthinking tool. He realised her simplicity, her splendid loyalty to those she served. He knew she was without design or subterfuge. She was just the most beautiful, desirable creature he had ever beheld in his life. He told himself it was all wrong. This wonderful child should never have been sent on such a journey, on such an errand. She was fit only for the shelter of a happy home life, protection from every roughness, every taint with which the sordid world of commerce could besmirch her. His chivalry was stirred to its depths, and the wrong of it all, as he saw it, only the more surely deepened his purpose for his dealings with an unscrupulous rival who could commit so egregious an outrage. Bull Sternford's existence, until now had always been a joyous heart-whole striving which had no more in it than the calmly conceived ideals of a heart undisturbed by sexual emotions. Now--now that had been completely changed. Perhaps he was not yet wholly aware of the thing that had come to him. He saw a woman, a perfect creature who had come to him out of the forest world in which his whole life was bound up, and a passionate excitement had taken possession of him. There could be no denial of that. But so far the full measure of his feelings had not revealed itself. All he wanted was to think of nothing and nobody just now, but this girl who had stirred him so deeply. So he stretched himself out on the well-sprung couch and yielded to the delight of it all. But the hour he had been free to dispose of thus was swiftly used up with his pleasant dreaming. And it was with a feeling of real irritation that he finally flung away his cigar and bestirred himself. His irritation did not last long, however, and his consolation was found in the fact that Elas Peterman was awaiting him, and Elas Peterman was the man who had so outrageously offended against his ideas of chivalry. He stood up and brushed the fallen cigar ash from his clothing. His one desire now was to get through with the business once and for all, to do the thing that should leave Nancy McDonald with the reward of her labours. Yes, he wanted to do that. Afterwards--well, he must leave the "afterwards" to itself. He hurried away in search of his heavy winter overcoat. * * * * * Elas Peterman looked up as the door opened to admit his visitor. His first impression startled him not a little. It was the first time he had encountered the man from Sachigo. Bull moved into the room with that large ease which big men so often display. And he paused and frankly gripped the carefully manicured hand Peterman held out to him. "I'm real glad to meet you, Mr. Peterman," he said quietly. Then he dropped into the chair set for him, while his eyes responded unsmilingly to the measuring gaze of the other. "It's queer we've never met before," Bull said, leaning back in his chair. Peterman laughed. He pushed a large box of cigars close to the visitor's hand. "It's mostly that way with the high command in--war," he said easily. "The opposing generals don't meet except at the--peace table. Those are Bolivars. Try one?" Bull helped himself with a laugh that was about as real as the other's. "The pipe of--peace, eh?" he said. "That's how I hope," Peterman replied. Bull nodded as he lit his cigar. "Most of us hope for peace, and do our best to aggravate war. That so?" "It's damn fool human nature." Peterman sat back in his chair, and laughed a little boisterously. Then he turned to the window while Bull silently consulted the white ash of his cigar. "You're projecting a big thing in pulp," the Swede said a moment later. "You figger to split the Canadian pulp trade into two opposing camps. The Skandinavia and the Labrador enterprises. It means one great, big prolonged battle in which one or the other is to be beaten. Guess it's liable to be a battle in which the public'll get temporary benefit, while we--who fight it--look like losing all along the line. It seems a pity, eh?" "War's a tough proposition, anyway," Bull replied slowly. "Its only excuse is it's Nature's way of wiping out the fool mistakes and crimes human nature spends most of its time committing. If two sets of criminals set out to grab, it's odds they'll do hurt to each other, and end by leaving the world easier when they're completely despoiled." Peterman laughed. "Sure," he said. "And these fool criminals? Is there need for them to fall out?" "None." "That's how we of the Skandinavia feel. That's the notion always in my mind. Say--" "Yep?" Bull's eyes were squarely gazing. Their clear depths looked straight into the dark eyes of the man at the desk. Their regard was intense. It was almost disconcerting. "What's the proposition?" he went on. And his firm lips closed over the last word and contrived to transform the simple question into a definite challenge. Peterman stirred uneasily. At that moment he beheld more clearly than ever the picture of this man with his great arms about the body of the woman he coveted, and feeling lent sharpness to his tone. "What's the price you set on your enterprise up at Labrador?" he said. Bull removed his cigar. He emitted a pensive stream of smoke. His eyes were again pre-occupied with the white ash, so firm and clean on its tip. Then quite suddenly he looked up. "If you'll tell me the price you set on the whole of the Skandinavia, I'll talk." "What d'you mean?" The Swede had less command of his feelings than the other. He had never learnt the methods of the forest as Bull had learned them. "Why, I can't set a price on Sachigo till I know the price you set on the Skandinavia," Bull's eyes were smiling. "You see I should need to double it for--Sachigo." The man from Labrador had driven home to the quick, and the Teutonic vanity of the Swede was instantly aflame. Peterman had committed the one offence which the younger man could not forgive. He had dared, in his vanity, to believe that the situation between them was a question of price. "I didn't invite you here to sell you--the Skandinavia," Peterman blustered, giving way to anger he could not restrain. "No. And I didn't accept your invitation for the purpose of selling--Sachigo. If there's any buying and selling going on you'd best understand quite clearly I am the buyer." There was a dangerous light in Bull's eyes levelled so steadily on the angry face of the Swede. "Then--it's war?" Bull shrugged at the challenge. "I'm quite indifferent," he said coldly. There was a moment of tense silence. Then the Swede smiled. "You're ready then to let the fool public benefit at your expense?" "No." A smile of real humor flashed in Bull's eyes. "At yours." "You mean--you think to--smash us?" "Just as sure as the sun'll rise to-morrow. Just as sure as Providence set up forest and water powers on Labrador such as you've never dreamed of since you forgot your boyhood. Just as sure as your Shagaunty's played out and you need to start in on fresh limits you aren't sure of yet. Just as sure as they're going to cost you a heap more than when you were busy treating the fortune that Shagaunty handed you like the worst fool-head spendthrift who ever broke a bank at the gambling tables." Bull rose abruptly from his chair. "I'm obliged for this interview, Mr. Peterman," he went on. "It's suited me. That's why I came along down in a hurry. You're fortunate in that lady representative. Her tact and persuasion left me feeling you had a real proposition that was worth considering. I guess she'll go a long way for you, and if there's any live person can help your ship along, she's that live person. But you can't buy me, and you can't smash me. I mean that. You see, I know your position. It's my job to know the position of any possible competitor, and naturally I know yours. Your Shagaunty's run dry, and, well, I don't need to tell you all that means to you." He dropped the stump of his cigar into an ash tray. "That's a good cigar," he went on with a derisive smile. "Thanks. Good-bye." * * * * * Bull was at the telephone again. He was again smiling at the insurance advertisement. But now his smile was of a different quality. It was full of delighted anticipation. "Oh, yes," he was saying. "I spent quite a pleasant ha'f hour with him. I enjoyed it immensely. Yes. He seems to be the man to run an enterprise like yours. He certainly has both initiative and confidence. A little hasty in judgment, I think. But--yes, I'd like to tell you all about it. What are you doing this evening? Oh, resting. I suppose you eat while resting. Yes. It's necessary, isn't it? Anyway I find it so. Eh? Oh, yes. You see, I've a big frame to support. Will you help me to support it this evening? I mean dinner here? Will you? Oh, that's fine. I'd love to tell you about it all. Fine. Right. Eight o'clock then. I'll go and arrange it all now. It shall be a very special dinner, I promise you. Good-bye." He put up the receiver and turned away. His smile remained, and it had no relation to anything but his delight that Nancy McDonald had consented to dine with him. CHAPTER XII AT THE CHATEAU Nancy was standing before the mirror which occupied the whole length of the door of the dress-closet with which her modest bedroom had been provided by a thoughtful architect. She was studying the results of her preparations. She was to dine with Bull Sternford, the man who had caught and held her interest for all she knew that they belonged to camps that were sternly opposed to each other. She wanted to look her best, whatever that best might be, and she was haunted by a fear that her best could never rank in its due place amongst the superlatives. However, she had arrayed herself in her newest and smartest party frock. She had spent hours, she believed, on her unruly masses of hair, and furthermore, she had assiduously applied herself to obliterating the weather stain which the fierce journey from Labrador had inflicted upon the beautiful oval of her cheeks. Now, at last, the final touches had been given, and she was critically surveying the result. The longer she studied her reflection the deeper grew the discontent in her pretty, hazel eyes. It was the same old reflection, she told herself. It was a bit tricked out; a bit less real. It was a tiresome thing which gave her no satisfaction at all. There was the red hair that looked so very red. There were the eyes, which, at times, she was convinced were really green. There was the stupid nose that always seemed to her to occupy too much of her face. And as for her cheeks, the wind and sea had left them looking more healthy, but--She sighed and hurriedly turned away. She felt that mirrors were an invention calculated to upset the conceit of any girl. She moved quickly round the little room. Her gloves, her wrap. She picked them up. The gloves she was painfully aware had already been cleaned twice, and her cloak had no greater merits than the modest-priced frock which had strained her limited bank roll. Then she consulted the clock on her bureau, and, picked up her scent-spray. This was the last, the final touch she could not resist. In the midst of using it she set it down with a feeling of sudden panic. She had remembered. She stood staring down at the dressing table with a light of trouble in her eyes. The whole incident had been forgotten till that moment. She remembered she had refused to dine with Elas Peterman that night on a plea of weariness, and without a thought had unhesitatingly accepted the invitation of the man whom the Skandinavia had marked down for its victim. For some seconds the enormity of the thing she had done overwhelmed her. Then a belated humour came to her rescue and a shadowy smile drove the trouble from her eyes. Suppose--but no. Her chief would be dining at home, as was his habit. Then, anyway, there could be no harm. She was concerned in this thing. She had a right. She even told herself it was imperative she should know what had transpired at the interview she had brought about. Besides, was there not the possibility of certain rougnnesses occurring between the two men which it might be within her power to smooth down? That was surely so. She had no right to miss any opportunity of furthering the ends of her own people. Then she laughed outright. Oh, it was excuse. She knew. She was looking forward to the evening. Of course she was. Then, just as suddenly all desire to laugh expired. Why? Why was she looking forward to dining with Bull Sternford? Bull! What a quaint name. She had thought of it before. She had thought of it at the time when the lonely missionary of the forest had told her of him. Swiftly her thought passed on to her meeting with the man himself. She remembered her nervousness when she had first looked into his big, wholesome face, with its clear, searching eyes. Yes, she had realised then the truth of Father Adam's description. He would as soon fight as laugh. There could be no doubt of it. And then those days on the _Myra_. She recalled their talk of the sea-gulls, and of the men of the forests, and she remembered the almost brutal contempt for them he had so downrightly expressed. Then the moment of disaster to herself. It was he who had saved her, he who had fought for her, although he had been in little better case himself. What was it they had told her? He must be bought or smashed. She wondered if they realised the man they were dealing with. She wondered what they would have felt and thought if they had listened to the confident assurance of Father Adam. If they had listened to Bull Sternford himself, and learned to know him as she had already learned to know him. The Skandinavia was powerful, but was it powerful enough to deal as they desired with this man who was as ready to fight as to laugh? She shook her head. And it was a negative movement she was unaware of. Well, anyway, the game had begun, and she was in it. Her duty was clear enough. And meanwhile she would miss no opportunity to pull her whole weight for her side, even when she knew that was not the whole thought in her mind. But somehow there were things she regretted when she remembered the fight ahead. She regretted the moment when this man had saved her from almost certain death against the iron stanchions and sides of the _Myra_. She regretted his fine eyes, and he had fine eyes which looked so squarely out of their setting. Then, too, he had been so kindly concerned that she should achieve the mission upon which she had embarked. It would have been so easy and even exacting had he been a man of less generous impulse. A man whom she could have thoroughly disliked. But he was the reverse of all those things which make it a joy to hurt. He was-- She pulled herself up and seized the pretty beaded vanity bag lying ready to her hand. Then the telephone rang. It was the cab which the porter had ordered, and she hastily switched off the lights. On the way down in the elevator her train of thought persisted. And long before she reached the Chateau, a feeling that she was playing something of the part of Delilah took hold of her and depressed her. But she was determined. Whatever happened her service and loyalty was in support of her early benefactors, and no act of hers should betray them. * * * * * The scene was pleasantly seductive. There was no doubt or anxiety in Nancy McDonald's mind now. How should there be? She was young. She was beautiful. The man with whom she was dining was remarkable amongst the well-dressed throng that filled the great dining-room. Then the dinner had been carefully considered. But it was the delightful surroundings, the little excitement of it all that left the girl's thought care-free. The shaded table lights. The wonderful flowers. The dark panelling of the great room constructed and designed in imitation of an old French Chateau. Then the throng of beautifully gowned women, and the men who purposed an evening of enjoyment. The soft music of the distant string band and--oh, it was all dashed with a touch of Babylonic splendour with due regard for the decorum required by modern civilisation, and Nancy was sufficiently young and unused to delight in every moment of it. The first excitement of it all had spent itself, and laughing comment had given place to those things with which the girl was most concerned. "Folks can't accuse us of dilatoriness," she said. "Let's see. Why, we made land this morning after every sort of a bad passage, battered and worn, and in less than how many hours?--eight?--nine?--" she laughed. "Why, I guess a sewing bee wouldn't have got through their preliminary talk in that time." "No." Bull too was in the mood for laughter. "A sewing bee's mighty well named. There's a big buzz mostly all the time, and the tally of work only needs to be figgered when the season closes. We've settled up the future of two enterprises liable to cut big ice in this country's history in record time." "You've settled with Mr. Peterman?" "Roughly." The man's eyes were shining with a smile of keen enjoyment. Nancy experienced a thrill of added excitement as she disposed of her last oyster. "I haven't a right to butt in asking too many questions," she suggested. Bull tasted his wine and thoughtfully set his glass down. Then he looked across at the eager face alight with every question woman's curiosity and interest could inspire. He smiled into it. And somehow his smile was very, very gentle. "That's pretty well why we're here now though," he said. "You can just ask all you fancy to know, and I'll tell you. But maybe I can save you worry by telling you first." "Why, yes," Nancy said eagerly. "You see, I'm only a secretary. I'm not one of the heads of the Skandinavia. I sort of feel this is high policy which doesn't really concern me. You're sure you feel like telling me? Was Mr. Peterman--friendly?" "As amiable as a tame--shark." "That's pretty fierce." Bull shook his head. "It's just a way of putting it. Y'see even a tame shark don't get over a lifetime habit of swallowing most things that come his way. Peterman figures to swallow me--whole." Nancy's eyes widened. But the man's tone had been undisturbed. There was a contented smile in his eyes, and an atmosphere of unruffled confidence about him that was rather inspiring. The girl felt its influence. "You mean he figures to have you join up with the Skandinavia?" Bull shook his head as the waiter set the next course on the table. "No. He guesses the Skandinavia can buy me." "I--see." Nancy waited. She remembered this man was as ready to fight as to laugh. Somehow she scented the battle in him now, for all the ease in his manner. "I told him it couldn't. I pointed out if there was any buying to be done I figgered to do it." "You mean you would buy up--the Skandinavia?" Bull's smile deepened. The girl's incredulity amused him. He understood. To her the Skandinavia Corporation was the beginning and end of all things. In her eyes it was the last word in power and influence and wealth. She knew nothing beyond--the Skandinavia. A man in her place would have received prompt and biting retort. But she was a girl, and Bull was young, and strong, and at the beginning of a great manhood. He shook his head. "Well, not just that," he said. "But say, let's get it right. How'd a woman feel if she'd an elegant baby child, thoroughbred from the crown of his dandy bald head to the pretty pink soles of his feet? Just a small bit of her, of her own creation. Then along comes some big, swell woman, who's only been able to raise a no account, sickly kid, an' wants to buy up the first mother's bit of sheer love. Wouldn't she hear the sort of things a woman of that sort ought to? Wouldn't she get hell raised with her?" "But the Skandinavia's no--sickly kid." The girl's eyes were challenging. There was warmth, too, in her retort. His words had stirred her as he intended them to stir her. "You think that?" he said. "You think that they have the right to demand my--child? You approve? That was your desire when you came to me--that they should buy me up?" Bull's smile still remained. There was no shadow of change in it. But his questions came in headlong succession. Just for an instant a feeling of helplessness surged through the girl's heart. Then it passed, leaving her quite firm and decided. She looked squarely into the smiling eyes, and hers were unsmiling but earnestly honest. "My approval isn't of any concern. I knew that was the Skandinavia's purpose when I came to you." "And you called it a business arrangement?" "No. You did." The man broke into a laugh. It was a laugh of sheer amusement. "That's so," he said. "You were going to hand me the story of your mission, and I--and I butted in and told it to you--myself." The girl nodded. "You were very good to me," she said. "You saw I was going to flounder, and you took pity on me." Bull's denial was prompt. "I just short-circuited things. That's all," he said. Then he laughed again. "And I'm going to do it again right now. Here, I want you to hear things the way they seem to me. You think the Skandinavia's no sickly kid. Well, I tell you it is. Anyway, in this thing. Peterman wants to buy me. Why? Don't you know? I think you do. The Skandinavia's got a mighty bad scare right now. The Shagaunty's played out. And I'm jumping the market. For the practical purposes of the moment the Skandinavia's mighty sick. So Peterman and his friends reckon to buy me. You're wise to it all?" Bull's eyes were levelled squarely at the girl's. There was a challenge in them. But there was no roughness. It was his purpose to arrive at the full measure of the girl's feelings and attitude, so far as this effort on the part of his rivals was concerned. Nancy was swift to understand. In an ordinary way her reply would have been prompt. There would have been no hesitation. But, somehow, there was reluctance in her now. She made no attempt to analyse her feelings. All she knew was that this man had a great appeal for her. He was so big, he was so strongly direct and fearless. Then, too, his manner was so very gentle, and his expressive eyes so kindly smiling, while all the while she felt the fierce resentment against her people going on behind them. After a moment decision came to her rescue. She was of the opposing camp. She could not, and would not, pretend. It was clear that war lay ahead, and her position must be that of an honest enemy. "Yes," she said simply. "I think I know all there is to know about the position." She hesitated again. Then she went on in a fashion that displayed the effort her words were costing. "We're out to buy you or break you, and I shall play the part they assign me in the game. Oh, I've nothing to hide. I've no excuse to make. You will fight your battle, and we shall fight ours. Maybe we shall learn to hate each other in the course of it. I don't know. Yet there's nothing personal in the fight. That's the queer thing in commercial warfare, isn't it? I'd be glad for our two concerns to run right along side by side. But they can't. They just can't. And, as I understand, one or the other's got to go right to the wall before we're through. Can't all this be saved? Must all this sort of--bloodshed--go on? We're two great enterprises, and, combined, we'd be just that much greater. Together we'd rule the whole world's markets and dictate our own terms. And then, and then--" "We'd be doing the thing I'm out to stop--if it costs me all I have or am in this world." For a moment the man's eyes forgot to smile, and Nancy was permitted to gaze on the great, absorbing purpose his manner had hitherto held concealed. She was startled at the passionate denial, and robbed of all desire to reply. "Here!" Bull set his elbows on the table and supported his chin on his hands. "Get this. Get it good, and all the time. I wouldn't work with the Skandinavia for all the dollars this country's presses could print. I'm not going to hand you the reason. Some day, maybe when your folks have smashed me, or I've smashed them, I'll tell you about it. But I tell you this now, there's no sort of business arrangement I ever figgered to enter into with Elas Peterman, and there's no sort of thing in God's world ever could, or would, induce me to come to any terms of his." Then his manner changed again, and his passionate moment became lost in a great laugh. "Maybe you'll want to know why I changed my plans so easily, and came along down in a hurry to see Peterman. Why I seemed ready to fall for his proposition. Well, I guess I won't hand you the reason of that, either. I'd like to, but I won't." He shook his head and his laugh had gone again. "Anyway, it served my purpose, and Peterman knows just how things stand--and are going to stand--between us." "Then it's war? Ruthless, implacable--war?" There was awe in the girl's tone and her lips were dry. She sipped her wine quickly to moisten them, and set the glass down with a hand that was not quite steady. Bull saw the signs of distress. "Oh, yes, it's war all right," he said quietly. "Maybe it's ruthless, implacable. But it's part of the game. Don't worry a thing. You're in the enemy lines. You've got your duty. So far you've done your duty; and you've made good, and will get the reward you need. Well, go right on doing that duty, and there isn't a just creature on God's earth that'll have right to blame you. I won't blame you. Go right on; and when it's all through, I'll be ready to sit here with you again, and talk and laugh over it, as we've been doing--" He broke off. A frightened look had leapt into Nancy's eyes. She was no longer attending to him. She was watching the tall, squarely military figure of a man moving down one of the aisles between the softly lit tables. The man's dark eyes were searching over the room, as he followed the head waiter conducting him to the table that had been reserved for him. Bull turned and followed the direction of the girl's gaze. And as he did so he encountered the cold, unsmiling glance of the other man's eyes. It was only for an instant. Then he turned back to the girl. "Friend Peterman," he said. Nancy made a pretence of eating. "Yes," she said, without raising her eyes. Nancy's emotion was painfully obvious. Bull realised it. She was afraid. Why? A swift thought flashed through the man's mind, to be followed by a feeling such as he had never known before. Hitherto Elas Peterman had represented only a sufficiently worthy adversary who must be encountered and defeated. Now, all in a moment, that was changed into something fiercer, more furiously human and abiding. "Does it matter?" he asked very quietly. Nancy looked up from her plate. There was a flicker of a smile in the eyes that a moment before had expressed only apprehension. She shook her head. "I don't know--yet," she said. Her smile deepened. "You see, I refused to dine with him here to-night. I excused myself on a plea of weariness. I really did want rest. But--well, I didn't want to dine with him, anyway. He's seen me--with you." "Do you often dine with him?" The man had no smile in response, and his question came swiftly. "I've never dined with him." Bull sat back. His eyes were smiling. "Well, I guess the answer's easy. You're here fighting for the Skandinavia. And I'd say you've been doing it mighty well. Maybe Peterman'll feel sore, but he'll see it that way after--awhile." CHAPTER XIII DEEPENING WATERS Nancy thought long and earnestly over her breakfast. She thought deeply as she proceeded to her office. Even the business of again taking up the thread of her work failed to absorb her. Apprehension disturbed, and a certain sense of guilt weighed upon her. The vision of the tall figure of Elas Peterman as it moved down the dining-room at the Chateau remained with her. She had caught the glance of his dark eyes. She knew he had recognised her; and there had been neither smile nor recognition in the swift exchange that had passed between them. So she answered the usual morning summons of her chief without any pleasant anticipation. She expected a bad time, and strove to prepare herself for it. But alarm vanished the moment she ushered herself into the man's presence. He was not at his desk poring over his littered correspondence. She found him standing before his favourite window, gazing out reflectively upon the grey light of the early winter day. He turned at the sound of her entry, and his smile of greeting lacked nothing of its usual cordiality. Had she observed him a moment before it must have been different. But she had been spared all sight of the mood that had driven him to abandon urgent correspondence in favour of the drab outlook beyond the window. It was a bad expression. It was the expression of a man of fierce cruelty. It was not an expression of open, hot anger, which flares up, passes, and is forgotten like the fury of a summer storm. It was rather the slowly banking clouds of winter, piling up for a climax that should be devastating. And through it all he had smiled, smiled with angry eyes that seemed to grow colder and harder every moment. Nancy knew little of the world, and less of men and women. It could not have been otherwise. Vital with a youthful optimism and strong purpose, she had devoted herself to work to the exclusion of everything else. And before that there had only been the scrupulous care of the good matrons of Marypoint. A wider experience, a maturer mind would have yielded her doubt as she beheld the man's smiling greeting now. She would have reminded herself of her offence, and understood its enormity in the eyes of a man. She would have had a better appreciation of her own attractions, and would have long since understood this man's regard for her. As it was she snatched at the relief his smile inspired. The man laughingly shook his head as the girl approached. "Nancy, my dear, I hope Mr. Bull Sternford gave you as good a dinner as I would have given you, and--as good a time generally. You look well rested, anyway." There was a sting in the words that all the man's care could not quite shut out. But the tone was of intended good-nature. In a moment Nancy was explaining. "Oh, I know you must think me terribly mean," she cried impulsively. "You must think I was just lying to you when you asked me to dine yesterday. But it wasn't so. It surely wasn't. May I tell you about it?" The man came back to his desk, and indicated the empty chair beside it. "Sure, if you feel that way," he said, dropping into his seat while Nancy took hers. "But I'm not angry. Truth I'm not." For a moment he gazed smilingly into the girl's troubled eyes. "Here," he went on. "I'll tell you just how I think. Maybe you won't figger it flattering, but it's just plain truth. Now I'm a married man and you're a young girl. Well, the Chateau isn't the sort of place for you and me to be seen together in. I didn't think of it when I asked you. I just wanted to hand you a good time for the good work you've done. Sort of prize for a good girl, eh? I hadn't another thought about it. And when you refused me, and I thought it over, I was kind of glad--I might have compromised you, and I certainly would have compromised myself. You get that? You understand me? Of course you do. That's what I like. You're so darn sensible. Now you tell me--if you fancy to?" Nancy sighed her relief. Her last cloud had passed away. "Oh, yes," she began at once. "I do want to tell you. You see I think it's all-important." "Yes." The man's smile was unchanged. But there was a dryness in his monosyllable that only Nancy could have missed. "Mr. Sternford 'phoned me after his interview with you." "He had your 'phone number?" "Surely, I gave him that before he left me after driving up from the docks." "I see. Of course. You drove up together after landing. I forgot." Nancy laughed. "I don't think I told you," she said. "But it doesn't matter, anyway. Yes, he drove me up. And the whole of this affair was so interesting I just had to hear the result of the interview with you. So I told him my 'phone number. Well, right after he'd seen you he rang me up. He told me he couldn't speak over the 'phone the things that passed, and asked me to dine. I just had to fall for that. You see, this thing meant so much to me. It was the first big thing I'd handled, and--and I was so crazy to make good for you. So I promised. And it wasn't till after it was all fixed I realised the mean way I'd acted. You'll forgive me, won't you, Mr. Peterman? I just hadn't a notion to be mean, and I was all tired to death. But I had to hear about the things you'd fixed." "And you heard?" The man was leaning on the desk with one hand supporting his head. Not one shadow of condemnation or resentment was permitted in voice or look. And the girl was completely disarmed. But her smile died out and a swift apprehension, that had no relation to herself, replaced it. In a moment her mind had gone back to the declaration of war which was to involve the two enterprises. "Yes. He told me." "And--?" "Oh, it's all wrong. It's all foolish, and wrong, and just terrible," she broke in impulsively. Then she became calmly thoughtful, and her even brows drew together in an effort to straighten out the things she wanted to say. She shook her head. "I'm sure he can be handled," she went on deliberately. "Oh, yes. In spite of the things they say of him." "What's that?" "Why he's as ready to fight as to laugh." "Who says that?" "That's the way they speak of him." "Who speaks that way?" Nancy laughed. "It was just a queer sort of missionary who told me. I met him when I was at Arden Laval's camp. A man they call Father Adam." Peterman nodded. "And you guess he can be handled?" "I think so." Nancy spread out her hands. "Oh, it's not for me to talk this way to you, Mr. Peterman, but--but--" "Go on." The man was patiently reassuring as the girl hesitated. "It's good to hear you talk. And then it was you who got him to listen to our proposal at all." The compliment had prompt effect. The girl's cheeks flushed, and a light of something approaching delight shone in the hazel depths of her eyes. "I don't know," she cried. "But it seems to me he's sort of reasonable. He's kind of full of ideals and that sort of notion. He's out for a big purpose and all that. But I don't believe he'd turn down any business arrangement that would hand him the thing he wants--" "Business arrangement?" Peterman sat up. The laugh accompanying his words was full of amiable derision. He shook his head. "If he won't sell he's got to be smashed. That's the only business arrangement that suits us. We're far too big for compromise. No, my dear. He won't sell. He asked to buy us. He--this darn fool man from Sachigo. He thinks to buy the Skandinavia like he's buying up all the mills he can lay hands on. But he bit off a chunk when he handed that stuff to me. He's as ready to fight as to laugh. Well, I guess he's going to get all the fight he needs. He'll get it plenty." "Then you mean to--smash him?" "Just as sure as it's started to snow right now," the man exclaimed, pointing at the window. Nancy's gaze followed the pointing finger. But it was not the snow she was thinking of. It was the man whom she beheld staggering under the tremendous weight of the Skandinavia's might. She felt pity for him. And incautiously she permitted Elas Peterman to realise her pity. "Can't anything be done?" she ventured gently. "Have you handled him? I mean--Oh, I'm sure he's reasonable. Can't the offer be made--more suitable? More--?" Peterman's eyes suddenly hardened. "What do you mean? I haven't handled him right? I've blundered? I--" He laughed without any mirth. "See here, Nancy, my dear, you're a bright girl, but don't hand me your worry for this darn fool. You're kind of tender-hearted. You guess it's a pretty tough thing to see a good-looker boy go down in a big commercial fight. That's because you're a woman. This sort of thing's part of business. It's harsher, more ruthless than even war on the battlefield with guns, and bombs, and stinking gas. We're going to fight this thing just that way. There's no mercy for Mr. Bull Sternford. He'll get all I can hand him just the way I know best how to hand it. And the tougher I can make it the better it'll please me. See? Now you just run right along and see to those things that are going to make you big in the Skandinavia, and don't give a thought for the feller who's handed me stuff I don't stand for in any man. There's liable to be big work for you in this fight, and I'd say you'll make as good in fight as in peace. You've got my goodwill anyway, my dear, just for all it's worth. That's all." * * * * * The door had closed behind the girl. Elas Peterman was on his feet pacing the thickly carpeted floor. There was no longer any attempt at disguise. A surge of jealous fury was raging through his hot heart and drove him mercilessly. The picture of Nancy, radiantly beautiful, seated at dinner with Bull Sternford had lit a fire of bitter hatred in his Teutonic heart. So he paced the room and permitted the fierce tide to flood the channels of sanity and set them awash with the ready evil of his impulse. From the first moment of the girl's story of her successful effort with this man, Sternford, this vaunting rival, Peterman had been bitterly stirred. The man's change of plans at her bidding he had understood on the instant. The man from Labrador had not changed his plans at the bidding of the Skandinavia. It was the girl who had induced him. It was she who had attracted him. Then the boat trip, and the girl's confession of his having, perhaps, saved her life. What had preceded that incident? What had followed it? And when Elas Peterman asked himself such questions it was simple for him to find the answer. He had seen Sternford, and had judged the position. He knew what would have happened had he been in this man's place. Sternford wasn't the man to throw away such chances, either. He had fallen for the girl, and she doubtless had--The picture he had witnessed at the Chateau had left him without any doubt. The driving up together from the docks, the telephone. Sternford had taken her to her apartment. Oh, it was all as clear as daylight. Then the girl's pity for the man who was to feel the weight of the Skandinavia's wrathful might. She had said he was reasonable. She had hinted that he, Peterman, had blundered. There was only one reasonable interpretation to the position. And it did not leave him guessing for one single moment. Once he passed a fleshy hand up over his forehead and brushed back his dark hair. Once he came to a pause before his window and stood gazing out at the falling snow with hot eyes. No such fury of jealousy had ever entered into his life before. Never had he dreamed before of the tremendous hold this girl had obtained upon him. His claim on her had all seemed so natural, so easy. He had looked upon her as property that was indisputably his. He might have learned something from his feelings when he had paraded her before Hellbeam. But he had not done so. Now he knew. Now he knew the whole measure of them. And the bitterness of his awakening was maddening. Well, Bull Sternford should get away with no play of that sort at his expense. He warned himself that he was no simple fool to be played with. And if Nancy wanted the man--But he broke away from under the lash of impotent fury, and turned to a channel of thought which was bound to serve a nature such as his in his present mood. He returned to his desk and flung himself into the chair. And after a while his mind settled itself to the task his mood demanded. He sat staring straight ahead of him, and presently the heat passed out of his eyes, and they grew cold, and hard. Later, they began to smile again--but it was a smile of cruelty, of evil purpose. It was a smile more unrelenting in its cruelty than any frown could have expressed. * * * * * For the first time Nancy's eyes were open to the things of life as they really were. She had tasted a certain bitterness in the early days of her girlhood. But up till now the world had seemed something of a rose garden in which it was a delight to labour. Up till now she had seen no reverse to the picture of life as youth had painted it for her. Now, however, it was borne in upon her that there was a reverse, a reverse that was ugly and painfully distressing. It was this declaration of war between her own people and the man from Labrador. She lay in her bed that night thinking, thinking, and without any desire for sleep. Strive as she would to search the position out logically, to estimate the true meaning of it all, to fathom the chances of this war, and to grasp the necessity for it, all these efforts only resulted in a tangle of thought revolving about the picture of a youthful man of vast stature, with eyes that were always clear-searching or smiling, and with a head of hair that reminded her of a lion's mane. And as she gazed upon this mental picture there were moments when it seemed to her there was grave trouble in the clear depths which so appealed to her. The smile in her eyes seemed to fade out, to be replaced by a look that seemed to express the hurtful knowledge of a man disheartened, defeated, crushed. They were in rival camps. They were at war. Each desired victory. And yet the sight she beheld, the signs of defeat she discovered in the man's eyes gave her no joy, no satisfaction. She felt that the battle could end only one way. The might of the Skandinavia was too great for anything but its complete victory. She was sure, quite sure. Oh, yes. And she knew she would not have it otherwise. But the pity of it. This creature of splendid manhood. To think that he must go down--smashed. That was the word they used--smashed. How she hated the word. The big soul of him with his ready kindliness. Oh, it was a pity. It was a distracting thought. And why should it be? For the life of her she could see no need. A little yielding on his part. Just a shade less iron stubbornness. The whole thing could have been avoided she was sure. The olive branch had been held out by the Skandinavia. But he had deliberately refused it. No. He had made himself their enemy. Then surely there could be no complaint at the disaster that would overtake him. He was clearly to blame. So why let the contemplation of it distract her? She strove a hundred times to dismiss the whole thing from her mind. She courted sleep in every conceivable way. But it was all useless. The man's fine eyes and great body haunted her. They pursued her to her last waking thought. And, at last, she fell asleep, thinking of the strong supporting arms that had held her safe from the fury of Atlantic waves. CHAPTER XIV THE PLANNING OF CAMPAIGN Nathaniel Hellbeam sat ominously calm and unruffled while Elas Peterman told of his meeting with Bull Sternford. He gave no sign whatever. There was just the flicker of a smile of appreciation of Bull's effrontery when he heard of his response to Peterman's invitation to sell. That alone of the whole story seemed to afford him interest. For the rest, it had only been the sort of thing he expected. He waited until the other had finished. Then he stirred in his chair. It was an expression of relief that his long, silent sitting had ended. "So," he said. "We do not buy him. No. We smash him." There was obvious satisfaction that the more peaceful process was to be set aside. He sat blinking at his subordinate in the fashion of a man who is thinking hard, and has no interest in the object upon which he is gazing. "It is as I think--all the time," he said at last. "That is all right. I make no cry out. It is easy to fight. I would fight always with an enemy. It is good. Now my friend, you have acted so. You bring the man from Sachigo to tell you to go to hell. Eh? Well you have thought much? You have planned for the fight? How is it you make this fight?" Elas was standing before the desk. He had, yielded his place to this man who was master of the Skandinavia. Now he looked down at the square-headed creature with his gross, squat body. It was a figure and face bristling with venom and purpose; and somehow he was conscious of a sudden lack of his usual assurance. "Oh, yes," he replied thoughtfully. "I've planned--sure. But I guess I'm in the dark a bit. It's going to cost a deal. It's not going to be easy. You were ready to buy. It was not necessarily to be the Skandinavia who bought. Well, are you--going to vote the credit for this fight?" He smiled uncertainly. "And to what extent?" "The limit. Go on." Peterman nodded. "There's no commercial enterprise that can stand idleness. His work must stop. His--" "That is the A.B.C. of it." There was sharp impatience in the financier's biting tone. "Just so. It is the A.B.C. of it." Hellbeam set back in his chair. He clasped his hands across his stomach. "I will tell you," he said, a wicked smile lighting his deep-set eyes, his cheeks rounding themselves in his satisfaction. "His work will stop. His mill is far away. There is no protection from attack except that which he can set up himself. He is going away. He will have eighteen hundred miles of water between him and his mill. It should be easy with a good plan and all the money. Listen. "His work must stop. How? There are ways. His mill may burn. His forests may burn. His men may revolt. They may refuse to work for him. All, or any of these things may serve. There are men at all times ready to carry out these things. You can tell them, or you need not, the way they must act." He shook his head. "You say to them his work must stop; and you pay them more than he can pay them. So his work will stop. That is so? Yes? Very well. There is ha'f a million dollars that will pay for his work to stop. I say that." Peterman was startled. He had not been prepared for so sweeping a proposal. He had understood that the man had been prepared to stand at almost nothing in his desire to achieve some end, the nature of which still remained somewhat obscure to him. For all his own lack of scruple in his dealings with those who offended, the calm, fiendish purpose of this man shocked him not a little. He took the chair usually occupied by his visitors. "You will pay ha'f a million dollars for this thing?" he demanded, to re-assure himself. Self-satisfaction looked out of the eyes of the man behind the desk. "More--if necessary." "By God! You must hate this boy, Sternford." Peterman's feelings had broken from under his control. "Sternford? Psha! It is not Sternford. No." The smile had gone from Hellbeam's eyes. They were fiercely burning. They were the hot, passionate eyes of a man obsessed, of a man possessed of a monomania. Peterman, watching, beheld the sudden change in him. He shrank before the insanity he had so deeply probed. Hellbeam sat forward in his chair. His forearms were resting on the desk, and his hands were clenched so that the finger-nails almost cut into the flesh of their palms. His massive face was flushed, and the coarse veins at his temples stood out like cords. "Here, I tell you," he cried gutturally, returning in his fury to the native Teuton in him. "Can you hate--yes? Have you known hate? Eh? No. You the white liver have. You cannot hate. It is not in you. Oh, no. It is for me. Yes. It has been so for years. And I tell you it is the only thing in life. Woman? No. I have known them. They mean little. They are a pleasure that passes. Money? What is it when you play the market as you choose? The day comes when you can help yourself. And you no longer desire so to do. Hate? That lives. That feeds on body and brain. That consumes till there is only a dead carcase left. Ah! Hate is for the lifetime. It can leave all those others as nothing. In it there is joy, despair, all the time, every hour of life." He held up one hand and opened his fingers. Then he slowly closed them with a curious expressive movement of ruthless destruction. "You hate and you think. You see your vengeance in operation. You see him there in your hand; and you see the blood sweat as you squeeze and crush out the life that has offended. Man, it is a joy that never leaves you till you accomplish this thing. Then, after, you have the memory. And while you think, even though he is dead, smashed in your grip, he still suffers as you think. Oh, yes." "And you hate--that way?" A feeling of sudden fear had taken possession of Peterman. This gross, squat man had become something terrible to him. "Ja!" The Teuton leapt in the furious emphasis hurled. "Oh, ja! I hate. I tell you of it." The man with the insane eyes picked up a pen. He turned it about in his fingers. Then, suddenly, but slowly, the fingers began to break it. The wood split under their pressure, and the pieces littered the table. He gazed at them for a moment. Then one hand clenched and came down with a crash on the blotting pad. Then he sat back in his chair again, with his cruel eyes gazing straight out at the window opposite. "It is years now. Oh, yes." A deep breath escaped from between the man's coarse lips. "I ruled the markets. I ruled them so that they obeyed me. I was the money power of this continent. I did as I chose. So I thought. Then he came. This man. He did not disturb me. Oh, no. I slept good all the time. Then I woke. I woke to find I was beaten of ten million dollars; and that Wall Street, the markets of the world, were laughing that this schoolmaster, this fool Scotsman from over the water, had picked my pocket while I slept. It was not the money. It was the laugh. And he got away. Oh, yes. I tell it now. The market knew of it then. They laughed. How they laughed. So I sat and thought. I had all. There was nothing more to have. And then I learned to hate." The narrowed eyes came back to the face of the man beside the desk. There was a sharp intake of breath. "This mill, this Sachigo, was built out of my money. And the man who built it was the man who robbed me while I slept." A world of fierce bitterness lay in the final words, and the man listening realised the enormity of the offence, as this man saw it. But he was left puzzled. "But you would have--bought this Sachigo?" he said, said. Hellbeam's eyes were again turned to the window. "Oh, yes," he said. "I would have bought. It would bring me to meet this man. It is that I ask. That only. My hands would close upon him. And I would see the blood sweat of his heart ooze under them." Hellbeam had finished. Peterman understood that. The passion had passed out of his eyes and the veins of his forehead were no longer distended. He remained gazing at the window. For some moments the younger man made no attempt to intrude further. He had little desire to, anyway. Without scruple himself, he still found little pleasure in probing the heart of this man, who was so powerful in his own destiny. That which he had witnessed had served only to show him the delicacy of his own position. He knew that the story had been told for one reason only. It was to convince him, for the sake of his own wellbeing in the Skandinavia, that he must make no mistake in the warfare he must wage against the people of Sachigo. It was for him to wage the battle with every faculty that was in him; and any failure of his would mean disaster for himself. This was no commercial warfare. It was the insane purpose of a monomaniac. In those silent moments Elas Peterman thought with a rapidity inspired by the urgency he felt to be driving him. And the fertility of his imagination served him unfailingly. Oh yes. Necessity was driving. But so, too, was his own personal feelings. He saw in the position that this man had revealed an advantage to himself he had never looked for. With the necessary money forthcoming, and no directors to concern himself with, literally a free hand, he could employ a power which, in these days of unrest and hatred between capital and labour, would be well-nigh overwhelming. The morality of it, the ultimate consequence of it mattered nothing. The smashing of Sachigo would mean the smashing of Bull Sternford. And he saw a way whereby the smashing of Bull Sternford could be achieved through-- His mind focused itself, as it was bound to do, upon this thing as it affected his own desires. He, too, was a passionate hater, for all Hellbeam's denial. His thought leapt at once to Nancy McDonald and the man who had thrust himself between him and his desires. Whatever insane hatred lay behind Hellbeam's purpose, it was not one whit more insensate than Elas Peterman's feelings against the man who had come down from Sachigo at Nancy's bidding. Suddenly he looked up and glanced at the man occupying the chair that was his. Hellbeam was still gazing at the window, pre-occupied with his own thoughts. "You can leave this thing in my hands, sir," he said. "Our organisation has been working steadily to undermine the Sachigo people for months past. That has always been part of our policy. I'd say the whole thing's going to fit very well. You say, if necessary, you'll find half a million dollars for the business. We shan't need a tithe of that. However, it's well to know it. And none of it needs to worry our directors. I'll set about it right away--in my own fashion--and I'll promise you a quick result. We'll smash these folk all right. But how it's to hand you the man you need I'm not wise--" "No." Hellbeam's eyes were certainly derisive as they turned back from the window. "This man, Martin, will show himself when he sees the--destruction. My people will do the rest." "Unless he leaves it--to Sternford. They tell us this man would as soon fight as laugh. That's how Miss McDonald said the missionary, Father Adam, told her." "Father Adam?" The derision in the financier's eyes had deepened. "That's the man that other fool talks of." Peterman shrugged. The sting in the financier's words stirred him to resentment. "I don't know about that. Anyway--" "How is it you say? Get busy. Yes." Hellbeam rose stiffly from his seat and picked up his hat. He was quite untouched by the other's change of tone. "Do it how you please. Break that mill. I care nothing for the means. Smash 'em, and leave the rest to me. And when you that have done you can do the thing you please. You will have my good will. I say that. Now I go." * * * * * Peterman picked up the 'phone the moment the door had closed behind the one man in all the world he really feared, and at the other end of it Nancy took the message summoning her to his presence. The man spoke with unusual urgency. But his tone was pleasant, and more than conciliatory. He wanted her at once. She could leave her reports. She could leave everything. He had some news for her of the pleasantest nature. Oh, yes. He had determined big things for her. She had earned them all. But a thing had happened whereby there need be no limit to her advancement if she would take the chance of a big work offered her. Would she kindly come up right away. Nancy listened to this message with a stirring of heart. What was the great work that was to place no limit on her advancement? It was a feeling rather than a thought. For a moment she stood in her glass-partitioned office after she had received the message and a smile of great happiness lit her eyes. She was desperately earnest with a singleness of purpose which had in it something of the recklessness of the father before her. She was a child in all else. A wide vision of achievement was spread out before her. She could see nothing beyond. She could see nothing to give her pause, nothing even to bestir a belated caution. So she left her office for the interview Peterman had demanded without suspicion, and with a heart and mind ready to plunge her headlong into any labours which the Skandinavia demanded of her. She had completely forgotten, in that moment of exultation, the squarely military figure that had passed down the dining-room of the Chateau, and the coldly unsmiling eyes with which it had regarded her as she sat with her companion over their memorable meal. CHAPTER XV THE SAILING OF THE _Empress_ Bull Sternford was reading over the telegram he had just written. Its phraseology was curious. But it expressed the things he wanted to say, and he knew it would be understood by the man to whom it was addressed. "HARKER, SACHIGO, LABRADOR. "Sailing to-morrow. War. Pass mill through hair sieve. Clear all refuse. Watch fireguard. Look around. Plums otherwise ripe. Return earliest date. "BULL." He smiled as he looked up from his reading. An acquaintance passed through the hall of the hotel. He nodded to him. Then the smile died out of his eyes, and it was like the passing of a gleam of sunshine. He passed the message across the counter to the attendant and paid for it. War! It was only an added development in the course of the ceaseless work of life. The thought of it disturbed him not one whit. It was the element in which he thrived. But for all that his mood had lost much of its usual equanimity. For two weeks he had applied himself assiduously to the work upon which he was engaged. He had travelled hundreds of miles to the other capital cities of the country in pursuit of his affairs. He had worked in that express fashion which was characteristic of him. But under it all, through it all, a depressing disappointment hung like a shadow over every successful effort he put forth. The memory of an evening at the Chateau haunted him. The vision of smiling hazel eyes and a radiant crowning of vivid hair filled every moment of his waking dreaming. He had not seen or heard of Nancy McDonald since that first night in Quebec. To-morrow he sailed for England. The thought of it afforded him none of the satisfaction with which he had always looked forward to that journey. Yet it meant no less to him now. On the contrary. It really meant more. It meant that his work was marching forward to the great completion which was to crown his labours, and the work of those others who had conceived the task. It should have been a wonderful moment for him. The house of Leader and Company of London had thrown its doors open to him in welcome. Sir Frank Leader with his millions, his shipping, his great power, and the confidence which his name inspired in British commercial circles, would not fail. The prospect lying ahead, for all the threatened war, should have stirred him to a keen enthusiasm that achievement was within his grasp. But none of these emotions were stirring. He felt if he could only see Nancy McDonald, that perfect creature with her amazing beauty and splendid courage, just to exchange a few words, just to receive her smiling "bon voyage," and even to hear her laughing declaration of her frank enmity, why--it would--But there was no chance now--none at all. He sailed to-morrow. He had dreamed a wonderful dream since first he had beheld the charming fur-clad figure enter his office at Sachigo. He had realised, even in those first moments, the impish act of Fate. Nancy McDonald was the one woman in the world who could mean life--real life to him, and they were definitely arrayed against each other in the battle for commercial supremacy in which they were both engaged. But Fate's act had only added to his desire. The whole thing had appealed to his combative instinct. It had left him feeling there was not alone the storming of the Skandinavia's stronghold to be achieved. There was also a captive, a fair, innocent captive held bound and prisoned within the citadel for him to set free. He wanted Nancy as he wanted nothing else in the world. Sachigo? Canada for the Canadians? These things were cold, meaningless words. He only thought of the dawning of the day that should see Nancy his wife, his everything in life. He betook himself out on to the Terraces overlooking the slowly freezing waterway of the great St. Lawrence river. It was keenly cold, and the white carpet of winter's first snow remained unmelted on the ground. But the sun was shining, and the crisp air was sparkling, and the terraces were filled with fur-clad folk who, like himself, had found leisure for a half hour of one of the finest views in the world. He paced leisurely down the great promenade towards the old Citadel with all its memories of great men, and the old time Buccaneers who had made history about its walls. He gazed upon it and wondered. Were they such bad old days? Were the men who lived in those times great men? Were they scoundrelly Buccaneers? Were their scruples and morals any more lax than those of to-day? Were they any different from those who walked under the shadow of the old walls? They were the questions doubtless asked a thousand times in as many minutes by those who paused to think as they contemplated this fine old landmark. Bull found his own prompt answers. There was no difference, he told himself. The men and women of to-day were doing the same things, enduring the same emotions, fighting the same battles, living and loving, and hating and dying, just as life had ordained from the beginning of time. And as he stood there he wondered how long this round of human effort and passion must continue. How long this-- "Why, I hadn't an idea you were so interested in our old history as to be wasting precious time out here in the snow, Mr. Sternford." The challenge was full of pleasant, even delighted greeting. And Bull snatched his cigar from his lips and bared his head. It was the voice he had longed to hear for many days. And it rang with an added charm in his delighted ears. He had turned on the instant, and stood smiling down into eyes that had never ceased from their haunting. He shook his head. "If you'll believe me I wasn't wasting time," he said. "I came out here for a very definite purpose. I've done the thing I hoped. Do you know I guessed I'd have to sail to-morrow without seeing you again?" Nancy's eyes sobered. And without their smile Bull thought he detected a cloud of trouble in them. "I didn't know you were sailing to-morrow," she said. "It's just a chance I couldn't help that let me meet you now." "You mean you avoided me--deliberately?" Bull's smile had passed. But there was no umbrage in his manner. The girl's appeal for him was never so great as at that moment. She had never been more beautiful to him. He had first seen her in that same long fur coat, and had gazed into her pretty eyes under the same fur cap. He was glad she was so clad now. To his mind no other costume could have so much charm for him. "Yes." The simple downrightness of the admission might have disconcerted another. But its honesty and lack of subterfuge only pleased the man. "That's what I thought. It's this business standing between your folk and me?" Nancy nodded. "Yes. We are enemies." "That's so," Bull agreed. "That's the pity of it. If you were on my side--" "But I'm not. No." Nancy's denial was almost sharp. It certainly was hurried. "I'm kind of glad I've seen you, though," she went on. "I've had it in mind I wanted to say things to you." A smile came back to her eyes. "You see, there are enemies and enemies. There's the enemy you can regard well. There's the enemy you can hate and despise. Well, I just want to say we're enemies who don't need to hate and despise--yet. I don't know how things'll be later. Maybe you'll learn to hate me good before we're through. But that's as maybe. I'm going to do my work for all I know for my folks. I'm going to be in this fight right up to my neck. I've been warned that way. Well, that being so, I'm going to fight without looking for quarter, and I shall give none. That sounds tough, doesn't it? But I mean it. And I wanted to say it before things start. I'm glad I've had the chance--against my notions of things." Bull laughed. He was in the mood to laugh--now. "It sounds fine. Say--" "Are you laughing at me?" "There isn't a thing further from my thoughts." Bull's denial was sincere and prompt. "I'm glad you happened along. I'm glad you said those things. Fight this war--as I shall--with all that's in you. It don't matter a thing if you're right or wrong. Fight it square and hard for your folk, and there isn't a right man or woman, but who'll respect you, and think the better of you for it. A good fight's no crime when you're convinced you're right." The girl drew a deep breath, and, to the man, it seemed in the nature of relief. A great anxiety for her stirred him. "I'm glad you said that," she said. Then she gazed reflectively up at the old ramparts. "No. It's no crime to fight when you're convinced. Besides it's right, too, to fight for your side at any time. That's how I see it. You'll fight for yours--" "Any old how." Bull's eyes were deeply regarding. They were very gentle. "Here," he went on, "fight has a clear, definite meaning for me. I fight to win. I'll stop at nothing. It's always a game of 'rough and tough' with me. Gouge, chew, and all the rest of it. Frankly, there's a devil inside me, when it's fight. I want you to know this, so your scruples needn't worry you." "Yes." Nancy's gaze was turned seawards. "And you sail--to-morrow? When do you return?" she asked a moment later. Bull smilingly shook his head. "We are at war," he said. The girl's eyes came back. She, too, smiled. "I forgot." Then she added: "You go by the _Empress_?" "Yes." They had both contrived to make it difficult. The barrier was growing. Both realised it, and Nancy was stirred more than she knew. She had seen this man and hurried over to him. She had purposely denied him for two weeks, but the sight of him on the promenade had been irresistible. Now--now she hardly knew what to say; and yet there were a hundred things struggling in her mind to find expression. She was paralysed by the memory of the recent interview she had had with her employers--the great financial head of her house included--wherein she had learned all that the coming war meant personally to herself. She would have given worlds at that moment to have been able to blot out that memory. But she had no power to do so. It loomed almost tragically in its significance in the presence of this man. Bull found it no less difficult. He had striven to make things easy for her. He had no second thought. And now he realised the thing he had done. His words had only served to fling an irrevocable challenge, and thus, finally and definitely, made the longed-for approach between them impossible. He drew a deep breath. "Yes. I sail on the _Empress_." "And you are glad--of course?" Bull laughed. "Some ways." "You mean--?" "Why, I shouldn't be sailing if things weren't going my way," he said. Then he turned about and his movement was an invitation. "But let's quit it," he said. "Let's forget--for the moment. You don't know what this meeting has meant to me. I wanted to see you, if only to say 'good-bye.' I thought I wasn't going to." They moved down the promenade together. Nancy did her best. They talked of everything but the impending war, and the meaning of it. But the barrier had grown out of all proportion. And a great unease tugged at the heart of each. At length, as they came back towards the hotel, Nancy felt it impossible to go on. And with downright truth she said so. "It must be 'good-bye'--now," she said. "This is all unreal. It must be so. We're at war. We shall be at each other's throats presently. Well, I just can't pretend. I don't want to think about it. I hate to remember it. But it's there in my mind the whole time; and it worries so I don't know the things I'm saying. It's best to say 'good-bye' and 'bon voyage' right here. And whatever the future has for us I just mean that." She held out her hand. It was bare, and soft, and warm, as the man took possession of it. "I feel that way, too," he said. "But--" he broke off and shook his head. "No. It's no use. You've the right notion of this. Until this war's fought out there is nothing else for it. You'll go right back to your camp and I'll go to mine. And we'll both work out how we can best beat the other. But let's make a compact. We'll do the thing we know to hurt the other side the most we can. If need be we'll neither show the other mercy. And we'll promise each to take our med'cine as it comes, and cut out the personal hate and resentment it's likely to try and inspire. We'll be fighting machines without soul or feeling till peace comes. Then we'll be just as we are now--friends. Can you do it? I can." For all the feeling of the moment Nancy laughed. "It sounds crazy," she exclaimed. "It is crazy. But so is the whole thing." "Yes. Oh, it surely is. It's worst than crazy." Passion rang in the girl's voice. Then the hazel depths smiled and set the man's pulses hammering afresh. "But I'll make that compact, and I'll keep it. Yes. Now, 'good-bye,' and a happy and pleasant trip." Their hands fell apart. Bull had held that hand, so soft and warm and appealing to him, till he dared hold it no longer. "Thanks," he said. "Good-bye. I can set out with a good heart--now." * * * * * It was again the luncheon hour. It was also the hour at which the _Empress_ was scheduled to sail. Nancy was again on the Terrace. But now she was standing on the edge of the promenade--alone. She was gazing down at the grey waters of the great river, searching with eager eyes, and listening for the "hoot" of the vessel's siren. This was the last departure the _Empress_ would make from Quebec for the season. By the time she returned across the ocean the ice would deny her approach, and she would make port farther seawards. Nancy had come there in her leisure just out of simple interest, she told herself. The man was nothing to her. Oh, no. She felt a certain regret that they were at war. She felt a certain pity that it was necessary that so brave a man's hopes must be crushed and all his plans broken, but that was all. She told herself these things very deliberately. And so she had hurried over her mid-day meal, lest she should miss the sight of the _Empress_ steaming out, with Bull Sternford aboard. The day was cold and grey. There was snow in the heavy clouds, and the north wind was bitter. But it mattered nothing. Waiting there the girl's feet in their overshoes grew cold. Her hands were cold. Even her slim, graceful body under its outer covering of fur was none too warm. But her whole interest was absorbed and she remained so till the appointed time. Oh, yes. It was simply interest in the departure of the vessel that held her. Just the same, as it was simply interest that stirred her heart and set it a-flutter, as the sound of the ship's siren came up to her from below. And surely it was only a 'God-speed' to the departing vessel that was conveyed in the fluttering handkerchief she held out and waved, as the graceful giant passed out into the distant mid-channel. CHAPTER XVI ON BOARD THE _Empress_ It was the second day out and the passengers on the _Empress_ had already settled down to their week's trip. The sea was calm, with just that pleasant, lazy swell which the Atlantic never really loses. The decks were thronged with a happy company of men and women determined not to lose one single moment of the bodily ease which the clemency of the weather vouchsafed to them. Bull Sternford was amongst them. Engulfed in a heavy fur overcoat, he stood lounging against the lee rail of the wide promenade deck, contemplating the oily swell of the waters. His great stature was somewhat magnified by his voluminous coat, with its deep, upturned storm-collar. There was that about him to attract considerable attention. But he remained unconscious of it, and his aloofness was by no means studied. Deep emotion was stirring. A man of iron nerve and purpose, a man of cool deliberation under the harshest circumstances, just now Bull was afflicted like the veriest weakling with alternating hope and doubt, and something approaching indecision. The youth in him was plunged in that agony of desire which maddens with delight and drives headlong to despair. His whole horizon of life had changed. Old scenes, old dreams, had been suddenly blotted out. And in their place was the wonderful vision of a girl with vivid hair and gentle eyes. Nancy--Nancy McDonald. The name was always with him now, unspoken, unwhispered even; but occupying every waking thought. It was a time of reckless resolve, of hot-headed planning. He knew in his sober moments how almost impossible was the position. But these were not sober moments. He told himself, in his headlong way, that if Nancy was chained in the heart of Hell he would seek her out, and claim her. She should be his even though every infernal power were arrayed against him. His eyes were alight with a fierce smile, as he contemplated the grey waters. It was a smile of conscious strength, of reckless purpose. Well, he was ready. He was-- "Guess we'll git this sort of stuff all the way." Bull started and swung around. A fur-coated man with a dark close-cropped beard was leaning over the rail beside him. He was expensively clad. His astrachan collar was turned up about his neck to shut out something of the biting winter air; and a cap of similar fur was pressed low down over his dark head. Bull noted the man's appearance, and his reply was promptly forthcoming. "Maybe," he admitted without interest. "Sure we will. It's always that way with the _Empress's_ last trip of the season from Quebec. I most generally make it for that reason. Your first trip?" "No." "It's my nineteenth. You see," the stranger went on, "I can't spare summer time. I'm too full gettin' orders out. I'm in the lumber business. It's only with the freeze up I can quit my mills. Have a cigar?" Bull had no alternative. The man was there to talk, and his desire to do so was frankly displayed. "I won't smoke, thanks," Bull replied without offense. "It's too near dinner." "Dinner? There's a ha'f hour to the dressing bugle." The stranger returned the elaborate case stuffed full of large, expensive cigars to his pocket, and drew out a gold cigarette case instead. "Still I don't blame you a thing. Cigars? Me for a cigarette all the time. I don't guess any feller ever heard tell of tobacco, till he'd inhaled a good, plain Virginia Cigarette." Bull looked on while the man wasted half-a-dozen matches lighting his beloved cigarette. He was not without interest. There was a slightly Jewish caste about his face which was frankly smiling, and lit with shrewd, twinkling dark eyes. He conveyed, too, somewhat blatantly, an atmosphere of abounding prosperity. Bull laughed as the cigarette was finally lighted. "That's better," he said. "Now--you can inhale." "Sure I can." The man's smile was full of amiability. "Inhale anything. Say, up in the camps I've inhaled tea-leaves rolled in cracker paper before now. Ever hit a lumber camp?" "Yes." "But not out West? British Columbia?" "No. Only Quebec." The stranger shook his head disparagingly. "Quebec! Psha! Quebec ain't a thing. It ain't a circumstance," he said complacently. "No, sir. The West. That's the place for lumbering. B.C. West of the Rockies. Man, it's the world's greatest proposition. The place you can spend a lifetime cutting ninety foot baulks, and lose track of where you cut. Quebec's mostly small stuff," he went on contemptuously, "pulp-wood an' that." He shook his head. "It's no place for capital. And, anyway, the Frenchies have got the whole darn place taped out. Oh, they're wise--the Frenchies. If a feller's lookin' to get ahead of 'em he needs to stake out the Arctic, where you'd freeze the ears of a brass image. The Frenchies got it all. The only big stuff lies on Labrador, anyway. I know. I prospected. No, it's me for the big hills, West. The big hills and the big waterways that 'ud leave Quebec rivers looking like a leak in a bone dry bar'l. My name's Aylin P. Cantor, Vancouver, B.C. Maybe you know the name?" Bull shook his head. "I'm not--" "Oh, it don't matter," interjected Mr. Cantor. "You see, the West's one hell of a long way--west. I just didn't get your--" "Oh, my name's Sternford." Mr. Cantor's face beamed. "Why I'm glad to know you, Mr. Sternford," he exclaimed. Then a quick, enquiring upward glance of his shrewd eyes suggested recollection. "But say--you ain't Sternford of Labrador? The groundwood outfit up at--up at--" "Sachigo?" "That's it, sure. Guess I'd lost the name a moment." Bull nodded amusedly. "Yes. That's where I hail from. And, as you say, there's big stuff up there, too." "Big? Why I'd say. Well, now! That's fine! I've heard tell big yarns of Labrador. It's just great meeting--" The man broke off at the sound of the first blast of the dressing bugle. "Why, it's later than I guessed," he said. "Anyway, you'll take a cocktail with me? This vessel's good and wet, thanks be to Providence, and the high seas being peopled with fish instead of cranks. I hadn't a notion I was goin' to run into a real lumberman on this trip. It's done me a power of good." * * * * * Aylin P. Cantor was a diverting creature for all his appearance of ostentatious prosperity. Good fortune had undoubtedly been his, and his whole being seemed to have become absorbed in the trade which had so generously treated him. Before the cocktail was consumed Bull had listened to a long story of British Columbia, and forests of incomparable extent. He had also learned that a country estate, miles in extent, outside the city of Vancouver, and the luxuries associated with the multi-millionaire had fallen to the lot of Aylin P. Cantor. But somehow there was no offence in it all. The man was just a bubbling fount of enthusiasm and delight that this was so. He simply had to talk of it. But the acquaintance was not to terminate over a cocktail. Shipboard offers few avenues of escape to the man seeking to avoid another. So it came that Bull found himself sipping a brandy, reputed to be one hundred years old, over his coffee after dinner, while Aylin P. Cantor told him the story of how it came into his possession at something far below its market value. Later, again, while the auction pool was being sold, he found himself ensconced on a lounge in a far corner of the smokeroom beside his fellow craftsman, still listening chiefly, and absorbing fact and anecdote pertaining to a successful lumberman's life. And it was nearly eleven o'clock, and the pool had been sold, and the bulk of the occupants of the smoking-room were contemplating their last rubber of Auction Bridge, when the busy-minded westerner consented to abandon his particular venue for a brief contemplation of the despised East. "Oh, I guess there's money in your territory, too," he condescended at last. "I ain't a word to say against the stuff I've heard tell of Labrador. But you're froze up more'n ha'f the year. That's your trouble." "Yes." Bull nodded over the latter portion of his third cigar which Mr. Cantor had not permitted him to escape. "Sure," the man laughed. "Oh, the stuff's there. I know that. But Labrador needs a mighty big nerve to exploit. I heard it all from a feller I met when I was prospecting Quebec. You see, I had the notion of playing a million dollars in the Quebec forests once. But I weakened. I kind of fancied my chance against the Frenchies didn't amount to cold water on a red hot cookstove. I cut it out and hunted my own patch, West, again. But I guess I'd have fallen for the stories of Labrador, if it hadn't been for the feller who put me wise." "Who was that?" Bull had lost interest, but the man invited the enquiry. "Oh, a sort of missionary crank," Cantor returned indifferently. "You know the sort. We got 'em out West, too. They hound the boys around, chasin' them heavenwards by a through route they guess they know about." He laughed. "But the boys bein' just boys, the round up don't ever seem to make good; and that through trip looks most like a bum sort of freight in the wash-out season. Outside his missioner business I guess the guy was pretty wise, though. And his knowledge of the lumber play left me without a word. He knew it all--an' I guess he told it to me." Bull laughed. But the laugh was inspired by the thought that there could be found in the world a man who could leave Aylin P. Cantor without a word on the subject of lumber. "I'd like to make a guess at that feller," he said. "There's just one man I know who's a missionary in Quebec who knows anything about Labrador. Did he call himself, 'Father Adam?'" "That's the thing he did." "Ah, I thought so." Bull's smile had passed. "Where did you meet him?" he went on after a moment. "On the Shagaunty. The Skandinavia Corporation territory. He told me he'd just come along through from Labrador." "Oh, yes?" Mr. Cantor laughed. "Why he took me to his crazy shanty and handed me coffee. And he talked. My, how he talked." "Did he know you were--prospecting?" There was no lack of interest in Bull now. His steady eyes were alight, as he watched the stewards moving amongst the tables, setting the place straight for the night. "Yes. I told him." Cantor's dark eyes were questioning. As Bull remained silent he went on. "Why? Is he interested for the Skandinavia to keep folk out?" Bull shook his head. "No. It isn't that. He's a queer feller. No, I'd say he's got just one concern in life. It's the boys. But you're right, he knows the whole thing--the whole game of lumbering in Eastern Canada. And if he told you and warned you, I'd say it was for your good as he saw it. No. He's no axe to grind, and though you found him on the Skandinavia's territory, I don't think he likes them. I'm sure he doesn't. Still, he's not concerned for any employer. He just comes and goes handing out his dope to the boys, and--You know the forest-jacks. They're a mighty tough proposition. Well, it's said they feel about Father Adam so if a hair of his head was hurt they'd get the feller who did it, and they'd cut the liver out of him, and pass what was left feed for the coyotes." Mr. Cantor nodded. "Yes, I sort of gathered something of that from the folks I hit up against. It seems queer a feller devoting his life to bumming through the forests and seekin' shelter where you couldn't find shelter from a summer dew. He's got no fixed home. Maybe he's sort of crazed." Bull was prompt in his denial. "Saner than you or me," he said. "You know I'd want to smile if I didn't know the man. But I know him, and--but there we all owe him a deal, we forest men. And maybe I owe him more than anyone." "How's that?" Mr. Cantor's question came sharply. Even Bull, tired as he was, noted the keenly incisive tone of it. He turned, and his steady eyes regarded the dark face of the lumberman speculatively. Then he smiled, and picked up his glass and drained the remains of his whisky and soda. "Why, he's more power for peace with the lumber-jacks of Quebec than if he was their trade leader," he said, setting his empty glass down on the table. "We employers owe him there's never any sort of trouble with the boys." "I see." Mr. Cantor gazed out across the nearly empty room, and a shadowy smile haunted his eyes. "And if there was trouble? Could you locate him in time?" "We shouldn't need to. He'd be there." The lumberman stirred, and persisted with curious interest. "But he must have a place where you folks can get him? This coming and going. It's fine--but--" Bull stood up and stretched himself. "Oh, he's got a home, all right. It's the forests." Mr. Cantor threw up his hands and laughed. "Who is he, anyway? A sort of Wandering Jew? A ghost? A spook? That sort of thing beats me. He's got to be one of the two things. He's either a crank--you say he ain't--or he's dodging daylight." But Bull had had enough. Deep in his heart was a feeling that no man had any right to pry into the life of Father Adam. Father Adam had changed the whole course of his life. It was Father Adam who had made possible everything he was to-day--even his association with Nancy McDonald. He shook his head unsmilingly. "Father Adam's one good man," he said. "And I wouldn't recommend anyone to hand out anything to the contrary within hearing of the men of the Quebec forests. Good-night." He strode away. And Mr. Cantor followed him, slight and bediamonded in his evening clothes. And somehow the dark eyes gazing on the broad back of the man from Labrador had none of the twinkling shrewdness the other had originally observed in them. They were quite cold and very hard. And there was that in them which suggested the annoyance inspired by a long evening of effort that had ended in complete failure. The man's dark, foreign-looking features had lost every semblance of their recent good-natured enthusiasm. CHAPTER XVII THE LONELY FIGURE AGAIN The laden sled stood ready for the moment of starting on the day's long run. Five train dogs, lean, powerful huskies, crouched down upon the snow. They gave no sign beyond the alertness of their pose and the watchfulness of their furtive eyes. Their haunches were tucked under them. And their long, wolfish muzzles, so indicative of their parentage, were pressed down between great, outstretched forepaws. The man studied every detail of his outfit. He knew the chances, the desperate nature of the long winter trail. He had no desire to increase the hardship of it all by any act of carelessness. Behind him lay the mockery of a camping ground. It was a minute, isolated bluff of stunted, windswept trees, set in a white, wide wilderness of barren land. Perhaps there was some half a hundred of them. But that was all. They had served, but only by reason that their shelter had satisfied habit, which, even in the men of the long trail, will not be denied. He turned away. Everything was to his satisfaction. So his tall, fur-clad figure passed in amongst the dwarf trees. The dogs remained crouching, their fierce eyes gazing out over the desolate expanse of winter's playground. It lay at a great altitude, several thousands of feet above the level of the sea. The sky was drab. It was bitter with threat. It was unrelieved by any break in the menacing winter cloud. It was a snow sky which only refrained from releasing its burden by reason of the high, top wind that drove the heavy masses relentlessly. The earthly prospect was no more inviting. It was wide, and flat, and devoid of vegetation. There were no hills anywhere, and the skyline was just a vanishing point similar to the horizon of the open sea. One vast, wide field of snow and ice spread out in every direction, and made desolation complete. When the man re-appeared he was armed with a sturdy "gee-pole," and at his belt was coiled a heavy-thonged, short-stocked driving whip. Without a word he thrust the pole under the front of the sled runners, and a sharp command broke from his lips. The effect was instantaneous. Each dog sprang at his "tug." The man heaved on his pole. There was a moment of straining, then the holding ice gave up its grip, and the sled shot forward. The man stood for a moment beating his mitted hands. Then he took his place on the sled, buried his legs and feet under the heavy seal robes set ready, and so the long-waited command to "mush" was hurled at the waiting beasts. The dogs leapt at their work and the sled swept forward with a rush. A blinding flurry of snow dust rose in its wake, enveloping it, and the dogs raced on, yelping with the joy of activity. Their great muscles were aquiver with the eager spirit which is bred of the wild. And so they would continue to run, for their load was light, and the heavy-thonged whip was playing in skilful hands, and they knew, and feared, and obeyed its constant threat. The way lay across the frozen bosom of a great lake, no less than an inland sea, and a hundred miles must be travelled before night, or the snow, overtook them. It was a hard run. But it must be accomplished. Failure? But failure must not be considered. No man could contemplate failure and face the winter trail in the barren desolation of the lofty interior of Labrador's untracked wild. The austerity of the country was well-nigh overwhelming. The nakedness of it all suggested a skeleton world robbed of everything that could make existence possible. It suggested a world that was sick, and aged, and too unfruitful to harbour aught but the fierce elemental storms of the northern winter. And the cold of it ate into the bones of the lonely figure passing through the great silence like a ghost. * * * * * The night was deathly still. A thermometer would have registered something colder than sixty degrees below zero. Not a breath of wind stirred. The only sound that came was the doleful note of a prowling wolf in the forest belt near by, and the booming protest of the trees against the bitterness of winter. The sky was ablaze with a myriad jewels in a velvet setting. And a cold wealth of aurora lit the northern heavens. Camp had been pitched well wide of the nearby forests, and three men sat crouching over the fire. There was little enough to differentiate between them. They were white men, and all were clad, from their heads to the soles of their seal hide moccasins, in heavy furs. The dark outlines of two sleds showed up a few yards away, but the dogs, themselves, were not visible. Weary with their day's run they had betaken themselves to their nightly snow burrows to dream over past battles, past labours. The men were talking earnestly in the low, slow tones which the silence of the forests seems to inspire. Three pairs of bare hands were outheld to the welcome blaze of the fire. Three pairs of clear gazing eyes searched the heart of it. None were smoking. It would have been a burden to keep the pipe stem from freezing even in the vicinity of the fire, and none of them were in any mood to accept any added burden. A blue-eyed, beardless youth shifted his gaze to the dark face directly opposite him beyond the fire. "Oh, we got that guy--good," he said. There was laughter in his eyes but not in his tone. "We got him plumb at the game. He was chock full of kerosene and tinder, and he'd fired the patch in several places. We were on it quick. We beat the fire in seconds. As for him, why, I guess his Ma's going to forget him right away. Leastways I hope so. He went out like the snuff of a lucifer, and his body's likely handed plenty feed to any wolf straying around." The dark man across the fire nodded. "Did he hand a squeal before--he went?" "Not a word. Hadn't time. Peter here didn't ast a thing either." The youth laughed softly, and the man called Peter took up the story. "Tain't no use arguin' with a feller loaded with kerosene in these forests," he said, in a low grumbling way. Then he reached down and snatched a brand from the fire and flung it out on the snow. His action was followed swiftly by a wolfish howl of dismay. Then he again turned his grizzled, whiskered face to the dark man beyond the fire. "You see, Father, it's our job keeping these forests from fire, an' it ain't easy. It don't much concern us who's out to fire 'em. That's for other folks. The feller with kerosene in these forests is goin' to get the stuff we ken hand him. That's all. Bob an' me got our own way fer actin'." Bob laughed "We sure have," he said. "But we don't allers pull it off. No. We've had ten fires on our range in two weeks. We've beat the fires, but we ain't smashed the 'bugs' that set 'em." "Would they be all one feller? The feller that got it?" The dark man's eyes were serious. His tone was troubled. Peter shook his head. "No, sir. There's more'n one, sure. An' from the things I've heerd tell from the boys on the neighbourin' ranges it's happening all along through our limits. They tell me there's queer things doin' an' no one seems to locate the meaning right." "What sort of things?" The dark man spoke sharply. Peter's reply came after profound deliberation. "Oh, things," he said. Then he thrust a gnarled brown hand up under his fur hood, and scratched his head. "There's our forest 'phones. They're bein' cut. It's the same everywhere. There's most always things to break 'em happenin', but a break aint a cut. No. They're cut. Who's cuttin' 'em, and why? Fire-bugs. It ain't grouchy jacks. No. I've heerd the jacks are on the buck in parts, but that ain't their play. There ain't a jack who'd see these forests afire, or do a thing to help that way. You see, it's their living, it's their whole life. We got so we can't depend a thing on the 'phones. An' cut our forests 'phones and we're gropin' like blind men." "Yes." The leaping flames were dropping, and Bob moved out to the store of fuel. He returned laden, and packed the wood carefully to give the maximum blaze. Then he squatted again, and again his hands were thrust out to the warmth which meant luxury. Peter had no more to add. His grey eyes searched the heart of the fire as he reflected on the things which were agitating his mind. "I want to get word down, but I can't depend on the 'phones," he said presently. "If they ain't cut I can't tell who's gettin' the message anyway. Maybe the wires are bein' tapped." The man across the fire nodded. "I'm going down," he said. "I'm glad." Peter's acknowledgment came with an air of relief. "I'll hand you a written report before you pull out." "It's best that way." The fire was leaping again. Its beneficent warmth was very pleasant. Bob turned his eyes skyward. "You'll get a good trip, Father," he said. "That snow's cleared out of the sky. It 'ud ha' been hell if it had caught you out on the lake." "Yes. I wouldn't have made here. I wouldn't have made anywhere if that had happened." The dark man laughed. Peter shook his head. "No. You took a big chance." "I had to." "So?" "Yes. I had to get through. There's a big piece of trouble coming." "To do with these fires?" "I guess so." "I see." Peter's comment was full of understanding. After awhile the other looked up. "Guess I need a big sleep," he said. "I've got to pull out with daylight. Anything you want besides that written report passed on down?" Peter shook his head and sat on awhile blinking silently at the firelight. Then the dark man scrambled to his feet. He stood for a moment, very tall, very bulky in his fur clothing, and nodded down at the others. "So long," he said. And he moved off to his sleeping bag which was laid out to receive his tired body. * * * * * The man stood just within the shelter of the twilit forests. He was a powerful creature of sturdy build, hall-marked with the forest craft which was his life. He was clad in tough buckskin from head to foot. Even his hands, which he frequently beat in a desire for warmth, were similarly clad. His weatherbeaten face was hard set, and his eyes were narrowed to confront the merciless snow fog which the rage of the blizzard outside hurled at him. The cold was almost unendurable even here in the wooded shelter. Outside, where the storm raged unrestrainedly over its fierce playground, only blind hopelessness prevailed. There was nothing to be done. He could only wait. He could only wait, and hope, or abandon his vigil, and return to his camp which was far back in the heart of the forests. Away out there, somewhere lost in the blinding fog of the blizzard, which had only sprung up within the last hour, a lonely fellow creature was making for the shelter in which he stood. He was driving headlong towards him. Oh, yes. He knew that. He had seen the moving outfit far off, several miles away, over the snowy plains, before the storm had arisen. Now--where was he? He could not tell. He could not even guess at what might have happened. Blinded, freezing, weary, how long could the lonely traveller endure and retain any sense of direction? To the forest man the position was well-nigh tragic. Had he not experience of the terror of a northern blizzard? Had he not many a time had to grope his way along a life-line lest the slightest deviation in direction should carry him out into the storm to perish of cold, blinded and lost? Oh, yes. This understanding was the alphabet of his life. As he stood there watching and wiping the snow from his eyes, he reminded himself not only of his own experience but of every story of disaster in a blizzard he had ever listened to. And so he saw no hope for the poor wretch he had seen struggling to make the shelter. But he could not bring himself to abandon his post. How could he with a fellow creature out there in peril? Besides, there was other reason, although it needed none. He had urgent news for this man, news which must be imparted without delay, news which his employers must hear at the earliest possible moment. His trouble grew as he waited. He searched his mind for anything calculated to aid the doomed traveller. He could find nothing. He thought to call out, to burst his lungs in a series of shouts on the chance of being heard in the chaos of the storm. But he realised the uselessness of it all, and abandoned the impulse. No puny human voice could hope to make impression on the din of the elemental battle being fought out on the plain. No. His only service must be to stand there beating life into his numbing hands, ready to act on the instant should opportunity serve. He was eaten up by anxiety, and so took no cognisance of time. He had forgotten the passing of daylight. Therefore sudden realisation flung him into headlong panic. The forest about him was growing dark. The snow fog outside had changed to a deeper hue. Night was coming on. The man in the storm was beyond all aid, human or otherwise. The impulse of the moment was irresistible. He moved. He passed out from behind the long limbs of his leafless shelter. He went at a run shouting with all the power of his lungs. Again and again his prolonged cry went up. And with each effort he waited listening, listening, only to receive the mocking reply of the howling storm. But he persisted. He persisted for the simple human reason that his desire outran his power to serve. And in the end exhaustion forced him to abandon his hopeless task. It was then the miracle happened. Far away, it seemed, a sound like the faintest echo of his own voice came back to him, but it came from a direction all utterly unexpected. For a moment he hesitated, bewildered, uncertain. Then he sent up another shout, and waited listening. Yes. There it was. Again came the faintly echoing cry through the trees. It came not from the open battle ground of the storm, but from the shelter of the forests somewhere away to the north of him. * * * * * A tall, fur-clad figure stood nearby to the sled which was already partly unloaded. A yard or two away a fire had been kindled, and it blazed comfortingly in the growing dusk of the forest. It was the moment when the forest man came up somewhat breathlessly and flung out a mitted hand in greeting. "I guessed you were makin' your last run for shelter, Father," he cried. "I just hadn't a hope you'd make through that storm. You beat it--fine." The tall man nodded. His dark eyes were smiling a cordiality no less than the other's. "I guessed that way, too," he said quietly. "Then I didn't." He shrugged his fur-clad shoulders. "No. It's not a northern trail that's going to see the end of me. But it's your yarn I need to hear. How is it?" "Bad." The two men looked squarely into each others eyes, and the gravity of the forest man was intense. The man who had just come out of the storm was no less serious, but presently he turned away, and for a second his gaze rested on the group of sprawling dogs. The beasts looked utterly spent as they blinked at the fire which they were never permitted to approach. He indicated the fire. "Let's sit," he said. "It's cold--damnably cold." The other needed no second invitation. They both moved back to the fire and squatted over it, and the forest man pointed at the dogs. "Beat?" he said. "Yes. But they hauled me through. They're a great outfit. I fed 'em right away and now they need rest. They'll be ready for the trail again by morning. Anyway I can't delay." "No. You've got to get through quick." Both were holding outspread hands to the fire. Both were luxuriating in the friendly warmth. "Well?" The tall man turned his head so that his dark eyes searched the other's face again. "You'd best tell it me, Jean. If the storm lets up I pull out with daylight. I've come through every camp, and this is the last. Maybe I know the stuff you've got to tell. It's been the same most all the way." Jean looked up from the heart of the fire. "Trouble?" he enquired. "Every sort." The tall man's eyes were smiling. "There's jacks quitting and pulling out, and nobody seems to know how they're getting, seeing it's winter. Others are going slow. There's others grumbling for things you never heard tell of before. There's fire-bugs at work, and the forest 'phones are being cut or otherwise tampered with all the time. We've lost hundreds of acres by fire already." "My yarn's the same." Jean nodded and turned back to the fire. "Say," he went on, "have you heard of the things going on? The thing that's happening?" "You mean the outfit working it?" "Yes. It's a political labour gang. Leastways that's the talk of 'em. They call 'em 'Bolshies,' whatever that means. They're chasing these forests through. They make the camps by night, and get hold of the boys right away. They throw a hurricane of hot air at them, preachin' the sort of dope that sets those darn fools lyin' around when they need to be makin' the winter cut. And when they're through, and started the bug the way they want it, they pull out right away before the daylight comes. We never get a chance at 'em. Our boys are all plumb on the buck. I was just crazy for you to come along, Father. Guess you're the one man to fix the boys right. An' when I see you caught up in that darn storm--" "I'll do the thing I know," the dark man replied. "I've been doing it right along. But it's not enough. That's why I'm chasing down to the coast. We've got to lay this spook that worries the boys at night. It's no Bolshie outfit." He shook his head. "Anyway if it is it's got another thing behind it. It's the Skandinavia." He sat on for a few minutes in silence. He squatted there, hugging his knees. He was weary. He was weary almost to death with the incessant travel that had already occupied him weeks. Quite abruptly his hands parted and he stood up. Jean followed his movements with anxious eyes. "You goin' down to talk to the boys?" he asked at last. The man nodded. "Yes. Right away. I'll do all I know." "They'll listen to you." The other smiled. "Yes. Till the spook comes back." Jean brushed the icicles from about his eyes. "That's just it," he said. "An' meanwhile the cut's right plumb down. If this thing don't quit the mill's going to starve when the ice breaks. I've lost nigh three weeks' full cut already. It's--it's hell!" "Yes." The dark man moved away, and Jean sat on over the fire. But his troubled eyes watched the curious figure as it passed over to its outfit. He saw the man stoop over the litter of his goods. He saw him disentangle some garment from the rest. When he came back the furs he had been clad in were either abandoned or hidden under fresh raiment. The man towered an awesome figure in the firelight. He was clad in black from head to foot, and his garment possessed the flowing skirts of a priest. "I'm going right down to the boys now," he said. "You best stop around here. Just have an eye to the dogs. It's best you not being with me." Jean nodded. He understood. Accompanied by the camp boss this man's influence with the boys would have been seriously affected. Alone he was well-nigh all powerful. "Good," he said. "For God's sake do what you can, Father," he cried. "I'll stop right here till you get back. So long." CHAPTER XVIII BULL STERNFORD'S VISION OF SUCCESS "I'd say it's best story I've listened to since--since--Say, those fellers are pretty big. They surely are." Bat Harker stirred. He shifted his feet on the rail of the stove, where the heavy leather soles of his boots were beginning to burn. Bull's shining eyes were raised to his. "Big?" he echoed. "I tell you that feller, Leader, has the widest vision of any man I know." He leant back in his chair and imitated his companion's luxurious attitude. And so they sat silent, each regarding the thing between them from his own angle. It was the night of Bull's return from his journey to England. He had completed the final stage only that afternoon. He had travelled overland from the south headland, where he had been forced to disembark from the _Myra_ under stress of weather. It was storming outside now, one of those fierce wind storms of Labrador's winter, liable to blow for days or only for a few hours. He and Harker were closeted together in the warm comfort of the office on the hill. Here, without fear of interruption, in the soft lamplight, lounging at their ease, they were free to talk of those things so dear to them, and upon which hung the destiny of their enterprise. Winter was more than half spent. Christmas and New Year were already seasons which only helped to swell the store of memory. Labrador was frozen to the bone, and would remain so. But there were still two months and more of snow and ice, and storm, to be endured before the flies and mosquitoes did their best to make life unendurable. Bull's return home had been a time of great looking forward. Life to him had become full of every alluring possibility. He saw the approaching fulfilment of his hopes and aims. The contemplation of the pending war with the Skandinavia only afforded his fighting instincts satisfaction. Then there was that other. That great, new sensation which stirred him so deeply--Nancy McDonald. So he had returned home full of enthusiasm and ready to tackle any and every problem that presented itself. He had just completed the telling of the story he had brought back with him. It was a story of success that had stirred even the cast-iron emotions of Bat Harker. Nor had it lost anything in the telling, for Bull was more deeply moved than he knew. The recounting of his dealings in London with the man, Sir Frank Leader, had been coloured by the enthusiasm with which the Englishman had inspired him. Sir Frank Leader was known as the uncrowned king of the world's pulp-wood trade. But Bull felt, and declared, that the appellation did not come within measurable distance of expressing the man's real genius. Then there were those others: Stanton Brothers, and Lord Downtree, and the virile, youthful creature, Ray Birchall. All of them were strong pillars of support for the ruling genius of the house of Leader & Company. But it was the man himself, the head of it, who claimed all Bull's admiration for his intensity of national spirit, and the wide generosity of his enterprise. The story he had had to tell was simple in its completeness. Before setting out on his journey he had spent months in preparation of the ground by means of voluminous correspondence and documentary evidence. It was a preparation that left it only necessary to convince through personal appeal on his arrival in London. This had been achieved in the broad fashion that appealed to the men he encountered. His "hand" had been laid down. Every card of it was offered for their closest scrutiny, even to the baring of the last reservation which his intimate knowledge of the merciless climate of Labrador might have inspired. The appeal of this method had been instant to Sir Frank Leader. And the appeal had been as much the man himself as the thing he offered. The result of it all was Bull's early return home with the man's whole organisation fathering his enterprise, and with a guarantee of his incomparable fleet of freighters being flung into the pool. Leader had swept up the whole proposition into his widely embracing arms, and taken it to himself. Subject to Ray Birchall's ultimate report, after personal inspection on the spot of the properties involved, the flotation was to be launched for some seventy million dollars, and thus the consummation of Sachigo's original inspiration would be achieved. Bat had listened to the story almost without comment. He had missed nothing of it. Neither had he failed to observe the man telling it. The story itself was all so tremendous, so far removed from the work that pre-occupied him that he had little desire to probe deeper into it. But the success of it all stirred him. Oh, yes. It had stirred him deeply, and his mind had immediately flown to that other who had laboured for just this achievement and had staggered under the burden of it all. Bull removed his pipe and gazed across the stove. "And now for your news, Bat," he said, like a man anticipating a pleasant continuation of his own good news. Bat shook his head decidedly. "No," he said, in his brusque fashion. "Not to-night, boy. Guess I ain't got a thing to tell to match your stuff. We just carried on, and we've worked big. We're in good shape for the darn scrap with the Skandinavia you told me about. Guess I'll hand you my stuff to-morrow, when I'm goin' to show you things. This night's your night--sure." His twinkling eyes were full of kindly regard, for all the brusqueness of his denial. And Bull smiled back his content. "Well, it's your 'hand' Bat," he said easily. "You'll play it your way." His eyes turned to the comforting stove again, as the howl of the storm outside shook the framing of the house. Presently the other raised a pair of smiling eyes. "You know, boy," the lumberman said, ejecting a worn-out chew of tobacco, "all this means one mighty big thing your way. You see, you got life before you. Maybe I've years to run, too. But it ain't the same. No," he shook his grizzled head, "you can't never make nuthin' of me but a lumber-boss. You'll never be a thing but a college-bred fighter all your life. There's a third share in this thing for both of us. Well, that's goin' to be one a' mighty pile. I was wonderin'. Shall you quit? Shall you cut right out with the boodle? What'll you do?" Bull sat up and laughed. And his answer came on the instant. "Why, marry," he said. Bat nodded. "That's queer," he said. "I guessed you'd answer that way." "Why?" Bat folded his arms across his broad chest. "You're young," he replied. Bull laughed again. "Better say it," he cried. "An' darn foolish." "No, I hadn't that in mind. No, Bull. If I had your years I guess I'd feel that way, too. I wonder--" "You're guessing to know who I'd marry, eh?" Bull's pipe was knocked out into the cuspidore. Then he sat up again and his eyes were full of reckless delight. "Here," he cried, "I guess it's mostly school-kids who shout the things they reckon to do--or a fool man. It doesn't matter. Maybe I'm both. Anyway, I'm just crazy for--for--" "Red hair, an'--an' a pair of mighty pretty eyes?" "Sure." Bat nodded. A deep satisfaction stirred him. "I reckoned that way, ever since--Say, I'm glad." But Bull's mood had sobered. "She's in the enemy camp though," he demurred. "It'll hand you another scrap--haulin' her out." "Yes." Bat rose from his chair and stretched his trunk-like body. "Well," he said, "it's me for the blankets." Then he emitted a deep-throated chuckle. "You get at it, boy," he went on. "An' if you're needin' any help I can pass, why, count on it. If you mean marryin' I'd sooner see you hook up team with that red-haired gal than anything in the world I ever set two eyes on. Guess I'll hand you my stuff in the morning if the storm quits." * * * * * The dynamos were revolving at terrific speed. There were some eighteen in all, and their dull roar was racking upon ears unused. Bat was regarding them without enthusiasm. All he knew was the thing they represented. Skert Lawton had told him. They represented the harnessing of five hundred thousand horse power of the Beaver River water. The engineer had assured him, in his unsmiling fashion, that he had secured enough power to supply the whole Province of Quebec with electricity. All of which, in Bat's estimation, seemed to be an unnecessary feat. Bull was gazing in frank wonder on the engineer's completed work. It was his first sight of it. The place had been long in building. But the sight of it in full running, the sense of enormous power, the thought and labour this new power-house represented, filled him with nothing but admiration for the author of it all. Bat hailed one of the electricians serving the machines. "Where's Mr. Lawton?" he shouted. "He went out. He ain't here," the man shouted back. Bat regarded the man for a moment without favour. Then he turned away. He beckoned Bull to follow, and moved over to the sound-proof door which shut off the engineer's office. They passed to the quiet beyond it. It was quite a small room without any elaborate pretensions. There was a desk supporting a drawing board, with a chair set before it. There was also a rocker-chair which accommodated the lean body of Skert Lawton at such infrequent moments as it desired repose. Beyond that there was little enough furniture. The place was mainly bare boards and bare walls. Bat sat himself at the desk and left Bull the rocker-chair. "I'd fixed it so Skert was to meet us here," he said. "All this is his stuff. I couldn't tell you an' amp from a buck louse." Bull nodded. "That's all right," he said. "Maybe he's held up down at the mill. He'll get--" "Held up--nuthin'!" The lumberman was angry. But his anger was not at the failure of his arrangements. Back of his head he was wondering at the thing that claimed the engineer. He felt that only real urgency would have kept him from his appointment. And he knew that urgency just now had a more or less ugly meaning. "Lawton's a pretty bright boy--" Bull began. But the other caught him up roughly. "Bright? That don't say a thing," Bat cried. "Guess he's a whole darn engineering college rolled into the worst shape of the ghost of a man it's been my misfortune ever to locate. He's a highbrow of an elegant natur'. He calls this thing 'co-ordination,' which is another way of sayin' he's beat nigh a hundred thousand dollars out of our bank roll to hand us more power than we could use if we took in Broadway, New York, at night. But it's elegant plannin' and looks good to me. Your folks over the water'll maybe see things in it, too. It's them blast furnaces we set up for him last year made this play possible. Them, and the swell outfit of machine shops he squeezed us for. He figgers to raise all sorts of hell around. An' his latest notion's to build every darn machine from rough-castin' to a shackle pin, so we don't have to worry with the world outside. He's got a long view of things. But--" He pulled out his timepiece, and the clouds of volcanic anger swept down again upon his rugged brow. But it was given no play. The door of the office was thrust open, and the lean figure of the engineer, clad in greasy overalls, came hurriedly into the room. Bat challenged him on the instant. "What's the trouble, boy?" he demanded in his uncompromising fashion. "Trouble?" Skert's eyes were wide, and his tone was savage. "That's just it. I reckoned to show Sternford all this stuff," he went on, indicating the machine hall with a jerk of his head. "But we'll have to let it pass. Say," he glanced from one to the other, his expression developing to something like white fury. "They started. It's business this time. I got a message up they were stopping the grinders. It's the 'heads' gave the order. Oh, they're all in it. They got a meeting on in that darn recreation parliament place of theirs, and every mother's son on the machines was called to it. They've shut down! You get that? There isn't even a greaser left at the machines. It's set me with a feeling I'm plumb crazy. I've been down, and they're right there crowding out that hall. And--" "I guessed something that way," Bat interrupted with ominous calm. He turned to Bull, who was closely regarding his lieutenants. "It's mutiny first and then a sheer strike," he said. "Here, listen. I'll hand you just what's happenin'. There's been Bolshie agitators workin' the boys months, and I guess they got a holt on 'em good. It started with us openin' the new mill on this north shore. We were forced to collect our labour just where we could. An' they got in like the miser'ble rats they are. Gee! It makes me hot--hot as hell! The leaders of this thing ain't workers. I don't guess they done a day's work with anything but their yahoo mouths in their dirty lives. They're part of the crowd that's paid from Europe to get around and heave up this blazin' world of ours just anyway they know. The only thing I don't get is their coming along here, which is outside most all the rest of the world. If Labrador can hand 'em loot I'd like to know the sort it is. And it's just loot they're out for. If I'm a judge there's one hell of a scrap comin,' and if we're beat it looks like leaving Sachigo a thing forgotten." Bull stood up. He laughed without the least mirth. "It's the Skandinavia," he said decidedly. "War's begun. I'm going right down to that meeting." Bat leapt to his feet. "No," he said. "This is for Skert an' me--" "Is it?" Bull brushed his protest aside almost fiercely. Then he turned as the door opened and a small man hurried in. The fellow snatched his cap from his head and his eyes settled on Skert Lawton, the man he knew best. "It ees a document," he cried, in the broken English of a French Canadian. "They sign him, oh, yes. You no more are the boss. They say the mill it ees for the 'worker.' All dis big mill, all dis big money. Oh, yes. Dey sign him." "Who's this?" Bull demanded. "One of my machine-minders. He's a good boy," the engineer explained. Bull nodded. "That's all right We want all we can get of his sort." He turned to Bat. "Are there others? I mean boys we can trust?" "Quite a bunch." "Can we get them together?" "Sure." "Right. This is going to be the real thing. The sort of thing I'd rather have it." He turned to Skert who stood by, watching the light of battle in his chief's eyes. "Here, shut down the dynamos. Set them clean out of action. Do you get me? Leave the machines for the time being so they're just so much scrap. Then, if you got the bunch you can rely on, leave 'em guard. We'll get on down, an' sign that damned document for 'em." * * * * * The recreation room was crowded to suffocation. Men of every degree in the work of the mill had foregathered. A hubbub of talk was going on. Voices were raised. There was anger. There was argument, harsh-voiced argument which mainly expressed feeling. At the far end of the hall, on the raised platform designed for those who fancied their vocal attainments, a group of men were gathered about a table upon which was outspread the folios of an extensive document. The men at the table were talking eagerly. The gathering had listened to the furious oratory of a pale-faced man, with long black hair and a foreign accent. It had listened, and agreed, and applauded. For he had talked Communism, and the overthrow of the Capitalists, and the possession of the wealth creating mills for those who operated them. It had listened to an appeal to the latent instinct in every human creature, freedom from everything that could be claimed as servitude, freedom, and possession, and independence for those who would once and for all rid themselves of the shackles which the pay-roll and time-sheet imposed upon them. They had been called together to witness the iniquity of spending their lives in the degrading operation of filling the pockets of those who laboured not, by the toil in which their lives were spent. They had been told every flowery fairy tale of the modern communistic doctrine, which possesses as much truth and sanity in it as is to be found in an asylum for the mentally deficient. And they had swallowed the bait whole. The talk had been by the tongue of a skilled fanatic, who was well paid for his work, and who kept in the forefront of his talk that alluring promise of ease, and affluence, and luxury, which never fails in its appeal to those who have never known it. But something approaching an impasse had been reached when the would-be benefactors passed over the demand that their deluded victims should sign the roll of Communal Brotherhood. The bait that had been offered had been all to the taste of these rough creatures who had never known better than an existence with a threat of possible unemployment overshadowing their lives. But in the signature to the elaborate document they scented the concealed poison in the honeyed potion. There was hesitation, reluctance. There was argument in a confusion of tongues well-nigh bewildering. A surge of voices filled the great building. The agents were at work, men who posed as workers to attain their ends. And the pale, long-haired creature and his satellites waited at the table. They understood. It was their business to understand. They knew the minds they were dealing with, and their agents were skilled in their craft. The process they relied on was the unthinking stupidity of the sheep. Every man that could be persuaded had his friends, and each friend had his friend. They knew friend would follow friend well-nigh blindly, and, having signed, native obstinacy and fear of ridicule would hold them fast to their pledge. Presently the signing began. It began with a burly river-jack who laughed stupidly to cover his doubt. He was followed by a machine-minder, who hurled taunts at those who still held back. Then came others, others whose failure to think for themselves left them content to follow the lead of their comrades. The stream of signatures grew. A pale youth, whose foolish grin revealed only his fitness for the heavy, unskilled work he was engaged upon, came up. The pen was handed him, and the name of Adolph Mars was scrawled on the sheet. The long-haired man at the table looked up at him. He smiled with his lips, and patted the boy's hand. Then something happened. It was movement. Sudden movement on the platform. The babel in the body of the hall went on. But the long-haired man and his supporters at the table turned with eyes that were concerned and anxious. A dozen men had entered swiftly through the door in rear of the platform. Bull Sternford led them. And he moved over to the table, with the swift, noiseless strides of a panther, and looked into the unwholesome face of the Bolshevist leader. It was only for the fraction of a second. The man made a movement which needed no interpretation. His hand went to a hip pocket. Instantly Bull's great hands descended. The man was picked up like a child. He was lifted out of his seat and raised aloft. He was borne towards the window where he was held while the master of the mill crashed a foot against its wooden sash. The next moment the black-clothed body was hurled with terrific force out into the snowdrift waiting to receive it. It was all so swiftly done. The whole thing was a matter of seconds only. Then Bull Sternford was back at the table, while his comrades, Bat and Lawton, and the men of loyalty they relied on, lined the platform. As Bull snatched up the document and held it aloft, a deathly silence reigned throughout the hall, and every eye was turned angrily upon the intruders. Bull yielded not a moment for those witless minds to recover from their shock. His voice rang out fiercely. "Here," he cried, "d'you know what you're doing, listening to that fool guy I've thrown through that window, and signing this crazy paper he's set out for you? No. You don't unless you're just as crazy yourselves. You're declaring war. You're starting a great fight to steal the property that hands you your living. You reckon you've got all you need of our brains, and your own brute force and darnation foolishness can run these great mills which are to hand you the big money you reckon it hands us. That means war. Maybe you fancy it's the one-sided war you'd like to have it. Maybe you fancy there's about a dozen of us, and we're going to be made to work for the wage you figger to hand us. You're dead wrong. It's going to be a hell of a war if you swallow the dope these fellows hand you. You've begun it, and we're taking up the challenge. We've fired the first shot, too. It's not gun-play yet. No. Maybe it'll come to that and you'll find we can hand you shot for shot. No. We're quicker than that. The mill's closed down! Wages have ceased! And all power has been cut off! There's not a spark of light or heat, for the whole of Sachigo. The vital parts of the power station have been removed, and you can't get 'em back. I've only to give the word and the _penstocks on the river will be cut so you can't repair them_. It's forty degrees below Zero out there, where I've shot that crazy Bolshie, and so you know just how you stand here on Labrador with no means of gettin' away until the thaw comes. You and your wives and kiddies'll have to pay in the cold for the crime of theft you reckon to put through. We're ready for you, whether it's gun-play or any other sort of war you want to start. That's the thing I've come here to tell you." He paused for a moment to watch the effect of his words. It was there on the instant. A furious hubbub arose. There was not a man in the room who did not understand the dire threat which the _coup_ of the master mind imposed. Power cut off! Light! Heat! Power! Forty degrees below Zero! The terror of the Labrador winter was in every man's mind. Life would be unendurable without heat. There were the forests. Oh, yes. They could get heat of sorts. The sort of heat which the men on a winter trail were accustomed to. _Their electrically-heated houses were without stoves in which they could burn wood_. Bull listened to the babel of tongues while his men watched for any act that might come. Every man on the platform was armed ready. "Here!" Bull's voice rang out again, but he was interrupted. A man shouted at him from the back of the hall. "Who the hell are you, anyway? You ain't the guy owning these mills. We know where you come from--" Like lightning Bull took him up. "Do you?" he shouted back. "Then we know where you come from. The man who knew me before I became boss here must belong to the Skandinavia. That's the only place any lumber-jack could have known me. Here. Come up here. Stand out. Show yourself. And I'll hand the boys your pedigree. It'll be easy. It's the trouble with us just now, we've got too many stiffs from the Skandinavia, and you've got our own good boys paralysed. They haven't the guts to stand on the notions that have handed them the best wages in the pulp trade these fifteen years. Guess you've persuaded them they ain't got swell houses, and good food, and cheap heat and light, and, instead are living like all sorts of swine in their hogpens. It's the way of the Skandinavia just now. The Skandinavia's out for our blood. They want to smash us. Do you know why? Because they're an alien firm who wants to steal these forests from the Canadians to fill their own pockets with our wealth. We're for the Canadians, and we've built up a proposition that's going to beat the foreigner right out into the sea. But that don't matter now. These guys, these long-haired, unwashed guys, that reckon to hand you boys these mills, are sent by the Skandinavia to wreck us. Well, go right over to 'em. Help 'em. Sign every darn document they hand you. They'll be your own death warrants, anyway. You want war. You can have it. I'm here to fight. Meanwhile you best get home to your cold houses, for the mills are closed down. You're locked out." He turned without waiting a second and passed through the back door by which he had entered. And his men followed on his heels. * * * * * Bull was in his office. For all the storm of the morning the rest of the day had passed quietly. Now it was late at night. His stove was radiating a luxurious heat. He was quite unconcerned that the electrically-heated steam radiators were cold. He was alone. Harker and the engineer were still down at the mill. He was awaiting the report they would bring him later. He had passed some time in reading the pledge of Communal Brotherhood which he had brought away with him from the recreation room, and he had read the signatures that had been affixed to it. The latter were few, and every name inscribed was of foreign origin. But it was the document itself which concerned him most. If it were honest he felt that its authors were wild people who should be kept under restraint. If it were not honest, then hanging or shooting was far too lenient a fate to be meted out to them. It was Communism in its wildest, most unrestrained form. In his final disgust he flung the papers on his desk. And as he did so a sound reached him from the outer office, which had long since been closed for the night by the half-breed, Loale. He leapt to his feet. Without a second thought he moved over to the door and flung it wide. "What the--?" He broke off. "Good God!" he cried. "You, Father?" He laughed. "Why I thought it was some of the Bolshies from down at the mill." He withdrew the gun from his coat pocket in explanation. Then he stood aside. "Will you come right in?" The man Bull had discovered made no answer. But as he stood aside, tall, clad in heavy fur from head to foot, Father Adam strode into the room. Bull watched him with questioning eyes. Then he closed the door and his visitor turned confronting him in the yellow lamplight. "I've made more than a hundred miles to get you to-night," Father Adam said. Then he flung back the fur hood from his head, and ran a hand over his long black hair, smoothing it thoughtfully. "Yes?" Bull's eyes were still questioning. "Won't you shed your furs and sit?" he went on. "The Chink's abed, but I'll dig him out. You must get food." The other glanced round the pleasant office, and his eyes paused for a moment at the chair at the desk. "Food don't worry, thanks," he said, his mildly smiling eyes coming back to his host's face. "I've eaten--ten miles back. I rested the dogs there, too. I've maybe a ha'f hour to tell you the thing I came for. There's trouble in the woods. Bad trouble. If it's not straightened out, why, it looks like all work at your mills'll quit, and you're going to get your forest limits burnt out stark." CHAPTER XIX THE HOLD-UP Ole Porson took a final glance round his shanty. The last of the daylight was rapidly fading. There was still sufficient penetrating the begrimed double window, however, to reveal the littered, unswept condition of the place. But he saw none of it. It was the place he knew and understood. It was at once his office, and his living quarters; a shanty with a tumbled sleeping bunk, a wood stove, and a table littered with the books and papers of his No. 10 camp. He was a rough creature, as hard of soul as he was of head, who could never have found joy in surroundings of better condition. He solemnly loaded the chambers of a pair of heavy guns. Then he bestowed them in the capacious pockets of his fur pea-jacket. He also dropped in beside them a handful of spare cartridges. In his lighter moments he was apt to say that these weapons were his only friends. And those who knew him best readily agreed. Drawing up the storm-collar about his face, he passed out into the snow which was falling in flakes the size of autumn leaves. There was not a breath of wind to disturb the deathly stillness of the winter night. Minutes later he was lounging heavily against the rough planked counter of Abe Risdon's store. He was talking to the suttler over a deep "four-fingers" of neat Rye, while his searching eyes scanned the body of the ill-lit room. The place was usually crowded with drinkers when the daylight passed, but just now it was almost empty. "Who's that guy in the tweed pea-jacket an' looks like a city man?" he asked his host in an undertone, pointing at one of the tables where a stranger sat surrounded by four of the forest men. Abe's powerful arms were folded as he leant on the counter. "Blew in about noon," he said. "Filled his belly with good hash an' sat around since." "He's a bunch o' the boys about him now, anyway. An' I guess he's talking quite a lot, an' they're doing most o' the listening. Seems like he's mostly enjoying hisself." Abe shrugged. But the glance he flung at the man sitting at the far-off table was without approval. "It's mostly that way now," he said, with an air of indifference his thoughtful eyes denied. "There's too many guys come along an' sell truck, an' set around, an' talk, an' then pass along. Things are changing around this lay out, an' I don't get its meanin'. Time was I had a bunch of boys ready most all the time to hand me the news going round. Time was you'd see a stranger once in a month come along in an' buy our food. Time was they mostly had faces we knew by heart, and we knew their business, and where they came from. Tain't that way now. You couldn't open the boys' faces fer news of the forest with a can-opener. These darn guys are always about now. They come, an' feed the boys' drink, an' talk with 'em most all the time. An' they're mostly strangers, an' the boys mostly sit around with their faces open like fool men listenin' to fairy tales. How's the cut goin'?" Porson laughed. There was no light in his hard eyes. "At a gait you couldn't change with a trail whip." The other nodded. '"That's how 'nigger' Pilling said. He guessed the cut was down by fifty. What is it? A buck? Wages?" Porson's hand was fingering one of the guns in his pocket. His eyes were snapping. "Curse 'em," he cried at last. "I just don't get it. They're goin' slow." He pushed his empty glass at the suttler who promptly re-filled it. "Young Pete Cust," Abe went on confidentially, "handed me a good guess only this mornin'. He'd had his sixth Rye before startin' out to work. Maybe he was rattled and didn't figger the things he said. He was astin' fer word up from the mills. I didn't worry to think, and just said I hadn't got. I ast 'why'? The boy took a quick look round, kind o' scared. He said, 'jest nothin'.' He reckoned he'd a dame somewhere around Sachigo. She'd wrote him things wer' kind of bad with the mills. They were beat fer dollars, and looked like a crash. He'd heard the same right there, an' it had him rattled. He thought of quittin' and goin' over to the Skandinavia. Maybe it's the sort o' talk that's got 'em all rattled. Maybe they're goin' slow on the cut, worryin' for their pay-roll. You can't tell. They don't say a thing. Seems to me we want Sternford right here to queer these yarns. Father Adam's around an' talked some. But--" Porson drank down his liquor, and his glass hit the counter with angry force. "They're mush-faced hoodlams anyway," he cried fiercely. "Ther' ain't a thing wrong with the mills. I'd bet a million on it." He stood up from the counter and thrust his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. He was a powerful figure with legs like the tree trunks it was his work to see cut. Quite abruptly he moved away, and Abe's questioning eyes followed him. He strode down amongst the scattered tables and came to a halt before the tweed-coated stranger. All the men looked up, and their talk died out. "Say, what's your bizness around here?" Ole Person's manner was threatening as he made his demand. The stranger dived at the bag lying on the floor beside his chair. He picked it up and flung it open. "Why, I got right here the dandiest outfit of swell jewellery," he cried, grinning amiably up at the man's threatening eyes. "There's just everything here," he went on, with irrepressible volubility, "to suit you gents of the forest, an' make you the envy of every jack way down at Sachigo. Here, there's a be-autiful Prince Albert for your watch. This ring. It's full o' diamonds calculated to set Kimberly hollerin'. Maybe you fancy a locket with it. It'll take a whole bunch of your dame's--" "You'll light right out of this camp with daylight to-morrow!" The tone of the camp-boss banished the last shadow of the pedlar's cast-iron smile. "Oh, yes?" he said, his eyes hardening. "That's wot I said. This camp's private property an' you'll light out. You get that? Daylight. If you don't, we've a way of dealing with Jew drummers that'll likely worry you. Get it. An' get it good." For a moment they looked into each other's eyes. There was not the flicker of an eyelid between them. Then Porson turned and strode away. He passed down the store re-fastening his coat. He paused at the door as a chorus of rough laughter reached him from the little gathering at the table. But it was only for an instant. He looked back. No face was turned in his direction. So he passed out. * * * * * The night outside was inky black. The heavy falling snow made progress almost a blind groping. But Porson knew every inch of the way. He passed down the lines of huts and paused outside each bunkhouse. His reason was obvious. There was a question in his mind as to the whereabouts of the crowd of his men who usually thronged the liquor store at this hour of the evening. It was at the last bunkhouse he paused longest. He stood for quite a while listening under the double glassed window. Then he passed on and stood beside the tightly closed storm-door. The signs and sounds he heard were apparently sufficient. For, after a while, he turned back and set out to return to his quarters. For many minutes he groped his way through the blinding snow, his mind completely given up to the things his secret watch had revealed. His brutish nature, being what it was, left him concerned only for the forceful manner by which he could restore that authority which he felt to be slipping away from him under the curious change which had come over the camp. His position depended on the adequate output of his winter's cut and on nothing else. That, he knew, was desperately falling, and-- But in a moment, all concern was swept from his mind. A sound leapt at him out of the stillness of the night. It was the whimper of dogs and the sharp command of a man's voice. He shouted a challenge and waited. And presently a dog train pulled up beside him. * * * * * Bull Sternford was standing before the wood stove in the camp-boss's shanty. He had removed his snow-laden fur coat. He had kicked the damp snow from his moccasins. Now he was wiping the moisture out of his eyes, and the chill in his limbs was easing under the warmth which the stove radiated. Ole Porson's grim face was alight with a smile of genuine welcome, as he stood surveying his visitor across the roaring stove. "It's surely the best thing happened in years, Mr. Sternford," he was saying. "I'm more glad you made our camp this night than any other. Maybe I'd ha' got through someways, but I don't know just how. We're down over fifty on our cut, an', by the holy snakes, I can't hand you why." Bull put his coloured handkerchief away, and removed the pea-jacket which he had worn under his furs. "Don't worry," he said with apparent unconcern. "I can hand it you. That's why I'm here." The camp-boss waited. He eyed his chief with no little anxiety. He had looked for an angry outburst. Bull pulled up a chair. He flung the litter of books it supported on to the already crowded table and sat down. Then he filled his pipe and lit it with a hot coal from the stove. "Here," he said, "I'll tell you. I've been the round of four camps. I've been over a month on the trail, and I've heard just the same tale from every camp-boss we employ. I've three more camps to visit besides yours, and when I've made them maybe I'll get the sleep I'm about crazy for. Night and day I've been on the dead jump for a month following the trail of a red-hot gang that's going through our forests. If I come up with them there's going to be murder." He spoke quietly without a sign of emotion. But the light in his hot eyes was almost desperate. "I want to hand you the story so you'll get it all clear," he went on after a moment. "So I'll start by telling you how we stand at the mill. Get this, an' hold it tight in your head, and the rest'll come clear as day. Sachigo's right on top. We've boosted it sky high on to the top of the world's pulp trade. In less than twelve months we'll have grabbed well-nigh the whole of this country's pulp industry, and we'll beat the foreigners right back over the sea to their own country. The Skandinavia folk are rattled. They know all about us and they've done their best to buy us out of the game. We turned 'em down cold, and they're mad--mad as hell. It means they're in for the fight of their lives. So are we. And we know Peterman an' his gang well enough to know what that means. It's 'rough an' tough.' Everything goes. If they can't gouge our eyes they'll do their best to chew us to small meat. But we've got 'em every way. This forest gang is sent by the Skandinavia. If they can't smash us by fire or labour trouble next year'll see us floated into a seventy million dollar corporation with the whole Canadian wood-pulp industry lying right in the palms of our hands. That's the reason for the things doing." He paused, and the camp-boss nodded his rough head. It was a story he could clearly understand. Then there were those figures. Seventy million dollars! They swept the last shadow of doubt from his mind. "That's the position," Bull went on. "Now for the trouble as it is in the forests right now. The thing that's had me travelling night an' day for a month. There's an outfit going right through these forests. I can't locate its extent. Only the way it works. There's two objects in view. One is to fire our limits. The other reckons to paralyse our cut. So far these folks have failed against the fire-guard organisation, and I guess they'll likely miss most of their fire-bugs when they call the roll. The other's different." Bull knocked out his pipe on the stove and gazed thoughtfully at the streak of brilliant light under the edge of the front damper. "I've a notion there's an outfit of pedlars at work, as well as others," he went on presently. The camp-boss nodded. "Sure," he said. Bull looked up. "You think that way?" he asked. Then he nodded. "Yes, I guess we're right. They're handing the boys dope to keep 'em guessing--worrying. They're telling 'em we're on the edge of a big smash at Sachigo. That we can't see the winter through. We're cleaned out for cash, and the mill folk are shouting for their wages and starting in to riot. It's a swell yarn. It's the sort of yarn I'd tell 'em myself if I was working for the Skandinavia. It's the sort of dope these crazy forest-jacks are ready to swallow the same as if it was Rye. Do you see? These fools are being told they won't get their pay for their winter's cut. So, being what they are, the boys are going slow. They're going slow, and drawing goods at the store against each cord they cut. Well, do you see what's going to happen if the game succeeds? With our forests ablaze, and our cut fifty down, and the whole outfit on the buck, when spring comes, Skandinavia reckons our British financiers, when they come along to look our land over will turn the whole proposition of the flotation down, and quit us cold. But that's not just all. No, sir. Elas Peterman isn't the boy to leave it that way. He's handing out the story that when Sachigo smashes the Skandinavia's going to jump right in and collect the wreckage cheap. Then they'll start up the mill, and sign on all hands on their own pay-roll, only stipulating that they won't pay one single cent of what Sachigo owes for their cut. So, if they're such almighty fools as to cut, it's going to be their dead loss and the Skandinavia's gain. Do you get it? It's smart. I guess there's a bigger brain behind it than Peterman's." The camp-boss spat into the stove. It was his one expression of disgust. Bull rose from his chair. "Here, I need food. So does my boy out there with the dogs. We'll take it after I'm through with the men. It's snowing like hell, but I pull out two hours from now. You see, I'm on a hot trail, an' don't fancy losing a minute." "You're goin' to talk to 'em--the boys?" Porson's eyes lit with a gleam of satisfaction. "Can you--twist 'em?" Bull thrust a hand into his breast pocket and drew out a sealed packet. He held it up before the other's questioning eyes. "I haven't failed yet," he said quietly. "In nine of our camps back on the river the work's running full already. I've a whole big yarn for our boys. But right here I've got what's better. It's the only thing that'll clinch the yarn I'm going to hand 'em. This," he went on, indicating the parcel in his hand, "is the bunch of dollars representing the price of this camp's full winter cut, and the price of a bonus for making up all leeway already lost. I'm going to have the boys count it. Then I'm going to have them hand it right over to Abe Risdon to set in his safe, with a written order from me to pay out in full the moment the winter cut is complete. Is it good? Can the Skandinavia's junk stand in face of it? No, sir. And so I've proved right along. I don't hold much of a brief for the intelligence of the forest-jack, but his belly rules him all the time. You see, he's human, and no more dishonest than the rest of us. Have him guessing and worried and you'll get trouble right along. Show him the lies the Skandinavia's been doping him with, and he'll work out of sheer spite to beat their game. You get right out and collect the gang." * * * * * The snowfall had ceased. And with its passing the temperature had fallen to something far below its average winter level. The clouds had vanished miraculously, and in their place was a night sky ablaze with the light of myriad stars, and the soft splendour of a brilliant moon. It was a scene of frigid desolation. Away on the southern horizon lay the black line which marked the tremendous forest limits of the Beaver River. For the rest it was a world of snow that hid up the rugged undulations of a sterile territory. The dog train was moving at a reckless gait over the untracked, hardening snow. The man Gouter was driving under imperative orders such as he loved. Bull Sternford had told him when he left the shelter of No. 10 Camp: "Get there! Get there quick! There's dogs and to spare at all our camps, and I don't care a curse if you run the outfit to death." To a man of Gouter's breed the order was sufficient. Half Eskimo, half white man, he was a savage of the wild, born and bred to the fierce northern trail, one of Labrador's hereditary fur hunters by sea and land. Speed on the fiercest trail was the dream of his vanity. Relays of dogs, such as he could never afford, and something accomplished which he could tell of over the camp fire to his less fortunate brethren. So he accepted the white man's order and drove accordingly. Bull Sternford sat huddled in the back of the sled under the fur robes which alone made life possible. His work at No. 10 Camp had left him satisfied, but every nerve in his body was alert for the final coup he contemplated. He was weary in mind as well as body. And in his heart he knew that the need of his physical resources was not so very far off. But he was beyond care. He had said he was crazy for sleep, but the words gave no indication of his real condition. His eyes ached. His head throbbed. There were moments, even, when the things he beheld, the things he thought became distorted. But he knew that somewhere ahead a ghostly outfit of strangers was pursuing its evil work against him, and he meant to come up with it, and to wreak his vengeance in merciless, summary fashion. His purpose had become an obsession in the long sleepless days and nights he had endured. It was war. It was bitter ruthless war on the barren hinterland of Labrador, where civilisation was unknown. Mercy? Nature never designed that terrible wilderness as a setting for mercy. The dogs had been running for hours when Gouter's voice came sharply back over his shoulder. "Dog!" he cried, in the laconic fashion habitual to him. Bull knelt up. His movement suggested the nervous strain he was enduring. It was almost electrical. "Where?" he demanded, peering out into the shining night over the man's furry shoulder. The half-breed raised a pointing whip ahead and to the south. "Sure," he said. "I hear him." Bull had heard nothing. Nothing but the hiss of the snow under their own runners, and the whimper of their own dogs. "It wouldn't be a wolf or fox?" he demurred. The half-breed clucked his tongue. His vanity was outraged. Bull gazed intently in the direction the whip had pointed. He could see only the far-off forest line, and the soft whiteness of the world of snow. "Hark!" The half-breed again held up his whip. This time it was for attention. Bull listened. Still he could hear nothing, nothing at all but the sounds of their own progress. "Man! Him speak with dog. Oh, yes." Gouter had turned. His beady black eyes were shining with a smile of triumph into the white man's face. "By the forest?" "Oh, yes." "Then in God's name swing over and run to head them off!" Gouter obeyed with alacrity. He had impressed his white chief. It was good. A series of unintelligible ejaculations and the dogs swung away to the south. Then the whip rolled out and fell with cruel accuracy. The rawhide tugs strained under a mighty effort, as the great dogs were set racing with their lean bellies low to the ground. Bull wiped the icicles from about his mouth and nose. "Now have your guns ready," he cried. "The driver of that team is your man. The other's mine. If he shows fight kill him. There's five hundred dollars for you if you get 'em." "I get 'em." The half-breed's confidence was supreme. Bull dropped back into the sled. He sat with a pair of automatic pistols ready to his hand and gazed out over the sled rail. It was a terrific race and all feeling of weariness had passed under the excitement of it. The dogs were silent now. Every nerve in their muscular bodies were straining. The pace seemed to increase with every passing moment, and up out of the horizon the dark line of the forest leapt at them, deepening and broadening as it came. For some time the less practised white man saw and heard nothing of his enemies. He was forced to rely on the half-breed. He observed the man closely. He noted his every sign and read it as best he could. Presently Gouter leant forward peering. Then he straightened up and his voice came back triumphantly. "I see dem," he exclaimed. And pointed almost abreast. "Dogs. One--two--five. Yes. Two man. Now we get him sure." Down fell the whip on the racing dogs. The man shouted his jargon at them. The sled lurched and swayed with the added spurt, and Bull held fast to the rail. A glad thrill surged through his senses. It was a moment of tremendous uplift. Bull had yearned for it for weeks. But the short days and long nights of deferred hope had had their effect. He had almost come to feel that this thing that was now at hand was something impossible. Yes. There was the outfit growing plainer and plainer with every moment. He could see it clearly. He could even count its details as the other's sharper eyes had counted them minutes before. There were five dogs. And they were running hard. They, too, were being flogged, and the man driving them was shouting furiously in his urgency. Suddenly there was a leap of flame and a shot rang out. It came from the driver of the fleeing dog train. It was replied to on the instant by Gouter who lost not a second. His own shot sped even as the enemy's bullet whistled somewhere past his head. He fired again. A third shot split the air. And with that last shot the enemy's sled seemed to leap in the air. There was a moment of hideous confusion. Then the wreckage dropped away behind the pursuers, sprawled and still in the snow. A fierce shout from Gouter and his dogs swung round. The sled under him heeled over, and took a desperate chance on a single runner. But the half-breed's skill saved them from catastrophe. It righted itself, and the dogs slowed to a trot. Then they halted. And the occupants of the sled flung themselves prone, with their guns ready for the first sign of movement in the tangled mass of their adversary's outfit. * * * * * Two of the dogs lay buried under the overturned sled. Three others were sprawling at the end of their rawhide tugs. They were alive. They were unhurt. They lay there taking full advantage of the situation for rest. But for the moment interest centred round the body of a white man lying some yards away. A groan of pain came up to the two men standing over him. Bull dropped on his knees. He reached down and turned the body over. The eyes of the man were visible between the sides of his fur hood. But that was all. There was a moment of silent contemplation. Then the injured man struggled desperately to rise. "Sternford?" he ejaculated Gouter was on him in a moment. He heard the tone of voice, and interpreted the man's movement in his own savage fashion. He knew the man to be the driver of the team, whom his boss had told him was his man. So he threw him back and held him. Bull stood up. The man's voice told him all he wanted to know. "Laval, eh?" he said quietly. "A second time. I didn't expect it. No." Then he laughed and turned away. And the sound of his laugh possessed something terribly mocking in the night silence of the wilderness. He passed back to the sled. There had been two men in it. He had seen that for himself. The wreckage looked hopeless. The sled was completely overturned and its gleaming runners caught and reflected the white rays of the moon. It had been thrown by reason of the fallen bodies of the dogs which lay under it, pinned by its weight, and additionally held fast by their own tangled harness. Bull had no thought for anything but the purpose in his mind. So he reached out and caught the steel runners in his mitted hands and flung the vehicle aside. Yes, it was there in the midst of a confusion of baggage and lying cheek by jowl with the mangled remains of the dogs. He cleared the debris, and dragged the dogs aside. Then he stood and gazed down at the figure that remained. It was clad in a voluminous beaver coat. It was hooded, as was every man who faced the fierce Labrador trail. But-- The figure moved. It stirred, and deliberately sat up. Bull's hands had been on his guns at the first movement. But he released them, as the hood fell back from the face which was ghastly pale in the moonlight. He flung himself on his knees, and tenderly supported the swaying figure. "God in Heaven!" he cried. "Nancy! You?" CHAPTER XX ON THE HOME TRAIL Nancy's eyes were desperately troubled as she gazed out across the great valley of the Beaver River. Somewhere behind her, in the shelter of the woods, a mid-day camp had been pitched, and the men who had captured her red-hand in the work of their enemies were preparing the, rough food of the trail. But she was beyond all such concern. Far out on every hand lay the amazing panorama of the splendid valley, but she saw none of it. The mighty frozen waterway, the depths of virgin snow, the far-reaching woodlands its gaping lips embraced; they were things of frigid beauty for her eyes to gaze upon, but their meaning was lost upon a mind tortured with the vivid, hateful pictures it was powerless to escape. From the moment of that dreadful night when she had witnessed the ruthless climax of the work to which she had given herself she had known no peace. It was no thought of her failure, her capture, that inspired her trouble. She could have been thankful enough for that. It was the only mercy, she felt, that had been vouchsafed to her. No, long before her capture, a deep undermining of regret had set in. She had been without realisation of it, perhaps. But it had been there. In yielding to the demands of those she served, in her self-confidence she had forgotten the woman in her. She had forgotten everything but the crazy ambition which had blinded her to all consequences. Yes, even in the excitement of the work itself she had forgotten everything but the achievement she desired. But through it all, under it all, the woman in her had been slowly awakening, and an unadmitted regret at the destruction of work which meant the whole life of another had been stirring. Then, when the leading tongues of the guns had flashed out, and human life, even the life of dogs, had yielded to the demand of her cause, the last vestige of her dreaming had been swept away, and she told herself it was murder, _murder at her bidding_! Now her soul was afire with the bitterness of repentance, with passionate self-accusation. Murder had been done through her. Murder! The horror of it all had driven her well-nigh demented when she gazed from the distance while the two men disposed of Arden Laval's body under the snow. The dogs? They had been left where they fell. The living had been cut loose from their trappings to roam the forests at their will, while the dead had remained to satisfy the fierce hunger of the savage forest creatures. Even the sled had been destroyed, and its wood used to make fire that the living might endure on those pitiless northern heights. The memory of it all was days old now, but its horror showed no abatement. The agony was still with her. She felt that never again could she know peace. So she had moved away out from camp, as she had done at every stopping they had made on the long journey from the highlands down to Sachigo. Somehow it seemed to her impossible to do otherwise. She felt she must hide herself from the sight of those others who were her captors, and who, in their hearts, she felt, must deeply abhor the presence of so vile a creature in their camp. How long she had been standing there, while the men prepared the mid-day meal, she did not know. It was a matter of no sort of consequence to her anyway. Nothing really seemed of any consequence now. Her jaded mind was obsessed by a horror she could not shake off. There was nothing, nothing in the world to do but nurse the anguish driving her. "You'll come right along and eat, Nancy?" The girl almost jumped at the gentle tones of the man's voice, and glanced round at Bull Sternford in an agony of sudden terror. "I--I--" she stammered. Then composure returned to her. "If you wish it," she said submissively. "But I don't need food." Bull regarded the averted face for moments. Sympathy and love were in his clear gazing eyes. He understood something of the thing she was enduring, and the tone of his voice had been a real expression of his feelings. This girl, with the courage of twenty men, with her radiant beauty, and in her pitiful, heartbroken condition, was far more precious to him than any victory he had set himself to achieve. He knew that the world held nothing half so precious. He came a step nearer. "I wonder if you'll listen to me, Nancy," he said, with a hesitation and doubt utterly foreign, to him. "You know, for all that's happened, for all we're mixed up against each other in this war, I'm the same man you found me on the _Myra_ and in Quebec. I--" "Don't." The girl flung out her hands in a piteous appeal. And Bull recognised the hysteria lying behind the movement. "I know," she cried. "Oh, I know. But--don't you understand? You must know what I am. It's my doing that Laval has gone to his death. I'm responsible, just as surely as if I'd fired the gun that robbed him of his life. Oh, why, why didn't I refuse the work? Why did they send me? And those dogs. Those poor helpless dogs. They, too. I must have been mad--mad. How can you come near me? How can you stand there summoning me to eat food--with you? It's useless. It's--I who sent that man to his death--I who--" "Why, I thought it was Gouter." Bull's manner had suddenly changed. The danger signal in the girl's eyes had determined him. So he smiled, and there was laughter in his challenge. "Say," he went on rapidly, "if you told that to Gouter he'd be crazy mad. He's the boss running shot on Labrador, and if you claimed responsibility for the killing of Laval you'd be dead up against it with him." He shook his head. "No, he's sort of grieved he didn't drop him plumb on the instant as it is. It won't do you talking that way with him around." He watched for the effect of his words and realised a slight relaxing of the strained look in the hazel eyes. Forthwith he plunged into the thing he contemplated. "I'm going to make a big talk with you before we eat," he said. "You see, I've wanted to right along, Nancy, but--Well, I want to tell you you're no more responsible for Laval's life, and the lives of those dogs, than I am. We're each playing our little parts in the things of life like the puppets we are. Our hands are clean enough, but it's not that way with the skunks that could send you, a girl, almost a child, to do the work, and live the life that boys like Gouter hardly know how to get through. That man, Peterman, is going to get it one day from me if I have luck. And I won't call it murder when I get my hands on his dirty alien throat. But never mind that. I want to ease that poor aching head of yours. I want to try and get you some peace of mind. That's why I tell you you've nothing to chide yourself for, nothing at all. It's true. You've played the game like the loyal adversary you are. And, for the moment, I'm top dog. You've handed me a bad nightmare by the wonderful courage and grit you've well-nigh shamed me, as a man, with. True, true you haven't a thing to blame yourself with. You've fought a mighty big fight I'd have been pleased to fight. It's just circumstances pitched you into the muss up, and let you see the thing your folks have brought about. It's that that's worrying. Think, Nancy, think hard. This is their fight. Not yours. The blood of Laval is on Elas Peterman's head. His, and those other creatures who are ready to commit any crime to steal our country from us. Oh, I'm not preaching just my side. It's true, true. We at Sachigo were content to compete openly, honestly. Peterman and those others saw disaster in our competition. And so they got ready to murder--if necessary. It's the soulless crime of a gang of unscrupulous foreigners, and those hounds of hell have left you to suffer for it just as sure as if they'd seared your poor gentle heart with a red hot iron. Say, Nancy," he went on, with persuasive earnestness, "put it all out of your mind. Forget it all. You're out of the fight now. And it just hurts me to see your eyes troubled, and that poor tender heart of yours all broken up. Won't you?" The girl had turned away to the gaping valley again. But she answered him. And her tone was less dull, and it was without the dreadful passion of moments ago. "I--I've tried to tell myself something of that," she said, with the pathetic helplessness of a child. "Then try some more." Bull had drawn nearer. He laid one hand gently on her shoulder. It moved down and took possession of the soft arm under her furs. Nancy shook her head. But there was no decision in the movement. "Oh, I wish--" she began. But she could get no further. Suddenly she buried her face in her hands, and broke into a passion of weeping. Bull stood helplessly by. He gazed upon the shaking woman while great sobs racked her whole body. There was nothing he could do, nothing he dared do. He knew that. His impulse was to take her in his arms and protect her with his body against the things which gave her pain. But--somehow he felt that perhaps it was good for her to weep. Perhaps it would help her. So he waited. Slowly the violence of the girl's grief subsided. And after a while she turned to him and gazed at him through her tears. "I'm--I'm--" But Bull shook his head. "Come. Shall we go and eat?" He still retained his hold upon her arm. And as he spoke he led her unresistingly away towards the camp. CHAPTER XXI THE MAN IN THE TWILIGHT Bat Harker passed out of the house on the hillside. Muffled in heavy furs he stood for a moment filling up the storm doorway, gazing out over a desolate prospect, a scene of grave-like, significant stillness. The mills he loved were completely idle. But that was not all. He knew them to be at the mercy of an army of men who had abandoned their work at the call of wanton political and commercial agitators. It was disaster, grievous disaster. And he told himself he was about to beat a retreat like some hard-pressed general, hastily retiring in face of the enemy from a position no longer tenable. There was no yielding in the lumberman. But to a man of his forcefulness and headstrong courage the thought of retreat was maddening. He was yearning to fight in any and every way that offered. He knew that he was going to fight this thing out, that his present retreat was purely strategic. He knew that the whole campaign was only just beginning. But it galled his spirit that his first move must be a--retreat. The late winter day was fiercely threatening, fit setting for the disaster that had befallen. The cold was bitterly intense, but no more bitter than the lumberman's present mood. There down below were the deserted quays with their mountains of baled wood-pulp buried deep under white drifts of snow. And the voiceless mills were similarly half buried. Look where he would the scene was dead and deserted. There was not one single stirring human figure to break up the desolation of it all. It was a sad, white, desolate world, which for over fifteen years he had known only as a busy hive. Roadways should have been clear. Traffic should have been speeding, every service, even in the depth of winter, should have been in full running. The mills--those wonderful mills--should have been droning out their chorus of human achievement in a world set out for Nature's fiercest battle ground. From the moment of that first encounter in the recreation hall Bat had known the strike to be inevitable. Bull's swift action at the outset had had its effect. For the moment it had checked the movement, and reduced it to a simmer. Heat and power had been restored, and work had been resumed, and outwardly there had been peace. But it was artificial, and the lumberman and the engineer had been aware that this was so. Brief as was the respite it was valuable time to the men in control, and they used it to the uttermost. The leaders of the strike had been robbed of the advantage they had sought from a lightning strike. But they were by no means defeated. It was only that they had lost a move in the game they had prepared. At the end of a week Bat awoke one morning to find the mills and all traffic at a standstill, and the workers skulking within the shelter of their own homes. Then it was that the benefit of a week's respite was made plain. Every plan that had been prepared was forthwith put into operation. Power and heat were again cut off. The loyalists, which included a large number of the engineering staff, and the staff of the executive offices, were equipped with such weapons as would serve, and set guard over the food and liquor stores, and the essentials of the mills. And the power house was fortified for siege. But the strikers gave no sign. There was no attempt at violence. There was no picketing, and no apparent attempt at coercion of the loyalists. It almost seemed as if the objects of the leaders had been achieved by the simple cessation of work. This silent condition of the strike had gone on for days with exasperating effect upon the defenders. Bat endeavoured by every means in his power to bring the leaders of the movement into the open to discuss the situation. But every effort ended negatively. The men would not contemplate the conference table, and finally, in headlong mood, the lumberman had committed the grave mistake of provocation. He threatened to cut off food supplies if the leaders continued in their refusal to confer. Two weeks elapsed before his threat reacted. Two weeks of continued silence and apparent inaction by the strike leaders. The men's first terror at the loss of heat and power seemed to have passed. As Bull had suggested they had resorted to the methods of the trail, and day and night mighty beacon fires burned along the fore-shores of the cove upon which their homes were built. The men and women came and went peaceably but silently between the food stores and their homes, purchasing such provisions as they needed. And the manner of it all, the cold silence, should have served a warning of the iron hand in exercise behind the strike. The bombshell came at the end of the third week. It came in the form of a message crouched in the flamboyant phraseology beloved of the Communist fraternity. It was conveyed by a small youth some ten years of age, as though its authors were fearful lest a full grown bearer should be made to suffer for the temerity. Bat had received it at the office, and his manner had been characteristic. "Fer me, laddie?" he had said, as he took possession of the official-looking envelope. Then he gently patted the boy's shoulder. "All right, sonny," he added. "You get right back to your folks. Pore little bit." With the boy's departure he had lost no time in reading the ultimatum the message contained. "A Soviet has been formed. The Workers will not submit to inteference with the food supplies of the people such as has been threatened by men who have no right over the life and death of their fellows. In view of this threat, the Soviet of the Workers has determined to possess itself of the mills and all properties pertaining thereto. The whole territories and properties hither controlled under a capitalist organisation will in future be administered by the Soviet or the Workers. You are required, therefore, to hand over forthwith all accountings, administration, and all funds, all legal documentary titles such as are held by you of freeholds and forestry rights relating to Sachigo. Furthermore, it is required of you to restore intact the machinery of the new power station, and to hand over the whole premises in full running order. One week's grace will be permitted for the execution of this order. Failing absolute compliance, the ruling Soviet of the Workers reserves to itself the right of adopting such measures to enforce the Will of the Workers as it may deem necessary. "On behalf of the Soviet of the Workers, "LEO MURKO, "Chief Commissionary." At the finish of his reading Bat had looked up into the dark face of Pete Loale who was standing by. "Leo Murko?" he said, in an ominously restrained tone. "Ther' ain't no guy o' that name on our pay-roll. Guess he'll be that feller Bull dropped out into the snow." Then with a sudden explosive force: "In God's name why in hell didn't he break that skunk's neck?" The week's grace had expired. It had been a week of further hasty preparations. Every day had been used to the uttermost, and even far into the night the work had gone on. The office on the hill, as well as the executive offices down at the mill, had been cleared out. Documents, cash, books, safe. Everything of real importance had been removed to the citadel power house. The mining of the penstocks had been completed, and left ready to be blown sky high at a moment's notice. Whatever befell, the men who had given their lives to the building of the mills were determined that only a useless husk should fall into the hands of the strikers. Now had come the Communists' final declaration of war. The message had been brought less than an hour ago by the same youth, who had again departed with Bat's smiling expression of pity. The letter was ominously brief. "The Order of the Soviet of the Workers will be enforced forthwith. No mercy will be shown in the event of resistance." Bat's fury had blazed as he read the message. Again it was signed "Leo Murko." How he hated that name. He had been alone in the office when the letter came, and had seized the 'phone and called up the engineer at the power house, and read the message to him. Skert Lawton's reply was as instant as it was characteristic. "That's all right," he said. "We're fixed for the scrap. Just come right over." It was this last act that Bat contemplated now. And he hated it. He knew well enough he must go. There was no sane alternative. The power station was the prepared fortress. It had everything in it that must be guarded and fought for. But his fierce regret was none the less for the knowledge. Then, too, his regret was for something else. It was at the absence of Bull Sternford. This was no expression of weakness. It was simply he desired the man's companionship. They had worked together. They had planned and built together. And, now, in the moment of battle, it seemed to him they should still be together. But he knew that was impossible. When Bull's call to the forest had come in the night there had been no opportunity for explanation. He, Bat, had been engaged down at the mill, and the other had been rushed in his preparations. Bull had made his farewell to him in a great hurry. He had outlined briefly the thing happening in the forests. That had been all. That and a few words on the affairs of the mill. How the news had reached Bull, and who the messenger, had never transpired between them. Perhaps Bull had forgotten to mention it. Perhaps, in the hurry of it all, Bat had forgotten to ask. Perhaps, even, the messenger himself had impressed secrecy for his visit, which had been timed for the dead of night. At any rate Bat knew none of these things, and was in no way concerned for them. All he was concerned for was the absence of the man who was something more to him than a mere partner. Thinking of him now Bat remembered the other's final words, and the memory stirred him deeply. "Remember, old friend," he had said, "young Ray Birchall will be over from England at the break of winter. On his report to his people depends the whole thing we've built up. We've got to have these mills running full when that boy gets around. There's not a darn thing else matters." It was the final spur. The mills running full. Bat spat out his chew, and turned and locked the door behind him. Then he moved away hurriedly, gazing straight in front of him as though he dared not even think of the place he was leaving. * * * * * On the foreshore of the Cove, out towards the guarding headlands, half a hundred fires were burning. They were immense beacon fires of monstrous proportions. Belching columns of smoke clouded the whole region till the water-front looked to be in the grip of a forest fire. Men, and women, and children were gathered about them. They were basking in a moderation of temperature such as their homes could no longer afford them. But it was a curious, silent gathering, indifferent to everything but the feeding of the fires on which they felt their very existence depended. The forests which supplied the fuel came down to the edge of the now idle trolley track. Already acres and acres had been felled to feed the insatiable fires. The woodland decimated, and the devastation was going on in every direction. About the houses there were others engaged in homely chores. There were men, and women, too, clad heavily in the thick sheepskin clothing which alone could defeat the fierce breath of winter. Here again was silence and gloom, and even the children refrained from their accustomed pastimes. A tall, fur-clad figure was moving through the settlement. His feet were encased in moccasins, and thick felt leggings reached up just below his knees. For the rest his nether garments were loose fur trousers, and his body was covered by a tunic reaching just below his middle, with a capacious hood attached to it almost completely enveloping his head. He moved slowly and without any seeming object. He passed along, and paused when he encountered either man, woman, or child. With the men he spoke longest. But the women claimed him, too. And generally he left behind him a change of expression for the better in those with whom he talked. He paused beside a small party of elderly men. They were at work upon a prone tree trunk of vast girth. They were cutting and splitting it, fresh feed for the fires which must never be permitted to die down. The men had ceased work on his approach. But they went on almost immediately, all except one. He was a grizzled veteran, a man just past middle life. His face was deeply lined, and a scrub of whisker protected it from the cold. He had been seated on the log, but he stood up as the tall man addressed him by name. "You'll be there, Michael," he said, brushing the frost from his darkly whiskered face, and breaking the icicles hanging from his fur hood where it almost closed over his mouth. The man's grey eyes were smiling as they looked into the wide black eyes so mildly encouraging. "Sure, Father," came his prompt reply. "We got to be ther' anyway. That don't matter. But we're for your lead, an' we'll stand by it, sure. There's going to be no sort of damn fool mistake this time." The tall man nodded. "There must be no mistake this time," he said keenly. "Say, how many years is it since I sent you along here with a promise of good work and better wages, and a square deal?" "Nigh five years, Father." "And you got all--those things?" "Sure. More." Father Adam nodded. "And those are the things a man's entitled to. Just those," he said. "If a man wants more it's up to him. He must earn it in competition with the rest of his fellows. If he can't earn it he must do without, or quit the honesty that entitles him to hold his head up in the world. There's no honesty in the things these men propose." "That's so, Father." There was decision in the man's agreement. But even as he spoke his gaze wandered in the direction of two small children, like bundles of fur, playing in the snow. "Poor little kids," he said. "Say, it's hell for them with heat cut off." Again the tall man nodded as he followed the other's gaze. "That's so. But I don't blame the mill-bosses. This gang is trying to steal from the men who've always handed out a straight deal. Do you blame them for defending themselves?" Michael shook his head. "I don't see I can. After all--" "No. Listen. You boys have it in your own hands. These crooks from the Skandinavia got a strangle holt on the youngsters of this outfit who've no kiddies like those. You older boys let 'em get it. You weren't awake. Now you find yourselves caught in the tide. We've got to make a break for it. There'll be heat in plenty when you break free. Seven o'clock. That's the time your masters ordered the meeting for. Seven o'clock. That's the time they intend to commit their great crime--with you helping them." Father Adam smiled as he drove his satire home. "Not on your life!" The man's grey eyes were fierce. "Give us the lead, Father," he cried. "We--we just got to have that. Ther' ain't a real lumber-jack in these forests won't follow it. It'll be a scrap. A hell of a scrap. Oh, I know. Maybe some of us'll never see the light of another day. But sure it's got to be. We ought to've gone over from the start, and stood by our jobs. But I guess none of us with wives and kiddies had the guts. They threatened our women and children, an' we weakened. But it's different now, sure. We've learned our lesson. It's themselves they're out for, an' we'll be their dogs to be kicked and bullied as they see fit. We'll follow your lead, Father, an' it don't matter a cuss when the scrap comes." Father Adam nodded. His dark eyes were alight with something more than the smile shining in them. "Good," he said. "I shall be there." He moved away and Michael rejoined his companions. They talked together for a moment or two while their eyes followed the receding figure. They saw it stop and speak to one of their wives. She had a small child with her. They saw it bend down into a squatting attitude and draw the child towards it. Then they saw a lean hand draw out of its mit and proceed to touch a swelling on the little mite's neck. They understood. And when the figure finally passed on out of sight, they returned to their work, each man absorbed in his own thought, each man with a surge of deep feeling for that lonely figure. For they were all men who knew, and understood the man who lived in the twilight of the forests. * * * * * The recreation room was packed to suffocation, packed from end to end with a human freight. The benches were crowded, and the tables groaned under the weight of as many rough-clad creatures as could crowd themselves thereon. Every inch of floor space was occupied, and even the recesses in the log walls which contained the windows were utilised as sitting places for the audience which had gathered at the imperative order of the Soviet of the Workers. Kerosene lamps had replaced the brilliant electric light to which the men were accustomed. A haze of tobacco smoke created a sort of fog throughout the length of the building, and contrived to soften the harsh lines of the sea of human faces turned towards the raised platform whereon sat the members of the ruling Soviet. The temperature of the room was cold for all the warming influence of the human gathering, and every man wore his fur-lined pea-jacket closely buttoned. Once, in a light moment, Bull Sternford had declared that male human nature in the "bunch" was the ugliest thing in the world. Had he witnessed that sea of faces, so intently, so anxiously turned towards the leaders they had presumably elected, he must have been well satisfied with the truth of his conviction. Such was the ascendancy and power the Bolshevist leaders had gained in the brief month since the first rumble of industrial war had been heard in Sachigo, that there were few who had failed to obey their summons. Not only was the hall crowded but a gathering of many hundreds waited outside. It was the hour of Fate for all. They understood that. It was the hour of that Fate which had been decreed by men, who, under the guise of democratic selection had usurped a power over the rest of the community such as no elected parliament of the world had ever been entrusted with. It was doubtful if the majority fully realised the significance of what was being done. It is certain that a feeling of deep regret stirred voicelessly in many hearts. But every man there was a simple wage earner whose horizon was bounded by that which his wage opened up. For the rest he was left guessing, but more often fearing. So, with his muscles of iron, his human desires, and his reluctance to apply such untrained reasoning as he possessed, he was ripe subject for fluent, unscrupulous, political agitators, and ready to sweep along with any tide that set in. The leaders on the platform understood this well enough. It was their business to understand it. The others, the leaders' immediate supporters, were men of fiery youth, or those whose work it was to wreck at all costs, and snatch to themselves, in addition to pay for their fell work, such loot as the wreckage afforded them. The hum of talk snuffed right out as the leader rose to address the meeting. It was Leo Murko, the same man, a hard-faced, foreign-looking Hebrew whom a month before Bull's great arms flung through the broken window into the snowdrift beyond. His position now, however, was far different from that which it had been when his endeavours had been concentrated upon enrolling a Communist following. All that had been achieved or sufficiently so. Now he was the dictator whose orders could be backed by an irresistible force. His whole manner had changed. The velvet glove of persuasion had been discarded, and he hurled his commands with deep-throated authority, and the smile of encouragement and persuasion was completely abandoned. His preliminary was brief. A phrase or two of flattery and acknowledgment to those on the platform supporting him dismissed that. Then he passed on to the objects in view. In five minutes he had dismissed also the ultimate destiny of the mills, and the manner in which the Workers were to benefit by its administration. Then he flung himself into a fiery denunciation of all capitalists, and particularly those who had dared to employ his audience on good wages for something like fifteen years. That completed he passed on to the plans for taking over the mills forthwith. During the earlier part of his address the audience listened with grave attention. Here and there little outbursts of applause punctuated his sentences. But when he came to the task which had been set for that night a deathly silence prevailed everywhere. The intensity was added to rather than broken by the harsh clearing of throats that came from almost every part of the hall. "The whole thing needs cleaning up before daylight," he hurled at them. "Our organisation is complete. Here," and he indicated the table nearby littered with papers and surrounded by four or five men who were members of the elected Soviet, "we have the lists of the names of every comrade, and the numbers of men to be used in every detail of the work before us. They have been carefully drawn up with a view to the task required to be put through. Some tasks will be simple. Some will be less so." A grim light that was almost a smile shone in his black eyes. "But we have carefully discriminated in our personnel. That is as it should be. There will be certain bloodshed. Knowing the temperament and preparations of your late masters this seems to be inevitable. But again we have provided. Our greatest and most important task is the possession of the power station, and for the capture of that we have machine guns which will quickly reduce the enemy to capitulation. The strength of the enemy we know to the last fraction--" "Do you?" The challenge came from the back of the hall. It came in a quiet, refined voice that swept through the hall with the cold cut of a knife. Someone had risen from a sitting position on a table. He stood up. It was the tall, dark figure of Father Adam clad in a garment which enveloped him from head to foot like the black cassock of a priest. "Do you?" he cried again, as the startled leader stared stupidly at the interrupter. Every eye turned to the back of the hall on the instant. The men on the platform looked up from their work to witness the daring of one who could interrupt the elected leader of the people. One man, slight, foreign-looking, who had been seated at the back of the platform stood up and leant against the wall. "You know nothing of these people you are determined to destroy with machine guns," Father Adam went on. "You know nothing of the men with whom you are dealing, either the owners of the mill, or the men who have found an ample livelihood under their organisation. How can you know them? You are dastardly agents of an alien company, sent and paid to wreck a wholly Canadian enterprise. This is your first object. Your second is even more sinister, for you are the agents of that mad Leninism which has destroyed a whole race of workers in a vast country like Russia. You are a supreme pestilence seeking to destroy such human nature as will listen to your vile doctrines. It is I, I, Father Adam, tell you so. The men here to-night, whom you are inciting to theft and brutal murder, know me. They know me as their servant, as their loyal comrade and helper, ready to answer their call when trouble overtakes them, ready to yield them of my best service in the day of prosperity or the night of their woe. And as it is with them so it is with their women and their babes. That's the reason I am here to-night, the black night of their woe. And so I ask them to listen to me now as they have listened many times before in the woods and the mills, which is the world to which we all belong. If they do that, if only reason asserts itself, they'll here and now turn on you, and rend you, you and your wretched gang. They'll cast you out of their midst, and fling off a foreign yoke, as they would cast out any other unclean pestilence for the purification of their homes. They'll pack you out into the northern night where no foul germs can exist. Are they to become thieves at your bidding? Are they to become murderers because your foreign money has bought them machine guns? Would they go back to their women, and their innocent babes, wiping their blood-stained hands to ask them to rejoice in the brutal crime committed in the name of brotherhood and fellowship? No, sir. I know them. You don't--" The Bolshevist flung out a denouncing hand and bellowed in his seething wrath: "Traitor! He is of the Cap--" But immediate uproar drowned his denunciation and a great voice shouted in the din. "Let him speak." A dozen other voices strove to make themselves heard, and a wild pandemonium was rising when clear and sharp Father Adam's voice rang out again above it. "I tell you they'll have no more of you," he cried as the leader dropped back to his seat, and the dark man at the back of the platform further bestirred himself. "Order them now to man your machine guns and murder the men in the power house! Give your orders here and now! Read out your list of names and see--" A shot rang out. The flame of a gun leapt somewhere at the back of the platform, to be followed by complete, utter silence. Then came a sound. It was a hardly-suppressed moan. Father Adam reeled slowly. He half turned about. Then he crumpled and dropped to his knees and fell forward into hands outstretched to catch him. Paralysis seemed to grip that dense-packed human throng. But it was only for a second. Then the avalanche leapt for the abyss. "Father! Father Adam!" The cry went up seemingly from a thousand throats. And with a roar the crowd surged forward. It hurled itself at the platform. * * * * * Bull stared up at the house. He moved away and glanced over the windows. Then his eyes turned to the valley below, and his gaze settled itself on the great fires burning on the northern foreshore of the Cove. For some moments he stood contemplating the thing he beheld. Then, at last, he turned back to the locked door of his office. Without a word he raised one foot, and, with all his force, crashed its sole against the lock. The lock gave and the door fell back into the pitch darkness beyond. He passed within. After a while a light appeared in the office window. It passed. Then it reappeared in each window of the building in succession. Presently it remained stationary and fresh lights appeared in several of the windows. Minutes later he reappeared in the doorway. He stepped out into the snow and came over to the waiting dog train. "It's a cold sort of welcome," he said quietly. "But--will you please come right in, and I'll see how I can fix you up for comfort. I guess things have happened since I've been away. They've turned off heat. However--" Nancy McDonald rose from her place in the sled. She flung back the wealth of furs under which she had been well-nigh buried and stepped out. She made no reply, but stood waiting while Bull gave orders to his driver. "Get those dogs fixed, Gouter," he said. "Then come right along back here. You'll need to gather fuel and set those stoves going." * * * * * A great fire was roaring in the wood stove in the office. Nancy and Bull were standing before it seeking to drive out the cold which seemed to have eaten into their bones. Bull had drawn up his own rocker-chair for the girl but she had not availed herself of it. "You are not going to keep me here, prisoner in--your house?" The girl spoke in a low, hushed tone. In the indifferent lamp-light she looked ghastly pale and utterly weary-eyed. She had removed her furs, revealing herself clad in the heavy clothing which alone could have served on her desperate journey through the camps. It robbed her figure of much of its usual grace. "I'm afraid I am." Bull smiled gently, for all the decision of his words. "You see, Nancy, we're still at war. Still fighting the battle that others have forced on us." Nancy inclined her head. "I'd forgotten," she said almost humbly. "But you have no women folk around you," she went on urgently a moment later. "Does war mean that--that I must submit even--to that?" It was the woman in her that had taken alarm. Her hands were pressed together as she held them over the stove. The man understood. She moved away to the window, over which the curtains had not been drawn, and Bull watched her. "Every respect will be paid you," he said. "You've nothing to fear. When Gouter returns he'll get food, and we'll make the best preparations we can. I've to consider others with more at stake than even I." "Look!" The girl had turned. Her eyes were wide with terror. She was pointing at the window, and Bull hurried to her side. A great fire was raging on the north shore of the Cove. It was the recreation room, that room which Bat had so bitterly come to hate. It was ablaze from end to end, and lit up its neighbourhood so that the scene was of daylight clearness. A horde of human figures were gathered about it, in a struggling, seething mass, and the man realised that a battle was raging, a human battle, whilst the demon of fire was left to work its will. He stood there, held speechless by the thing he beheld. "What is it? What does it mean?" Panic drove the questions to the girl's lips. And she turned in an agony of appeal to the man beside her. "It means the work of the Skandinavia has been well and truly done." CHAPTER XXII DAWN The hush of dawn was unbroken. The shadows of night receded slowly, reluctantly renouncing their long reign in favour of the brief winter daylight. The shores of the Cove lay hidden under a haze of fog. There were no sounds of life. The world was desperately still. No cry of wild fowl rose to greet the day. There was not even the doleful cry of belated wolf, or the snapping bark of foraging coyote to indicate those conditions of life which never change in the northern wilderness. It was as if the world of snow and ice were waking to a day of complete mourning, a day of bitter reckoning for the tumult of furious human passions, which, under the cloak of night, had been loosed to work the evil of men's will. With the first gleam of the rising sun a breeze leapt out of the east. It came with an edge like the keenest knife, and ripped the fog to ribbons. It churned and tangled it. Then it flung it clear of its path, leaving bare the scene of wreckage which the rage of battle had produced. It was a scene for pity and regret. Gone was the building which had been set up for the workers' recreation. Only a smoking ruin remained in its place. A dozen other buildings in the neighbourhood bore the scars of fire, which they would doubtless carry for all time of their service. The mill, however, was safe. The work of more than fifteen years remaining intact. But it had been so near, so very near to complete destruction. With the passing of the fog further disaster was revealed. It was the wreck of human life which the night had produced. Daylight had made it possible to deal with the injured and those beyond all human aid. And the work was going forward in the almost voiceless fashion which the presence of death ever imposes on the living. Viewed even from a distance there could be no mistaking the meaning, the hideous significance of it all. And Nancy, gazing from a window in the house on the hill, shrank in terror before that which she believed to be the result of the cruel work to which she had lent herself. It had been a dreary, heartbreaking night of sleepless watching and poignant feeling. Nancy was alone in her prison, a beautiful apartment, the best in the house. Bull Sternford had conducted her thither personally, and, in doing so, had told her the thing he was doing, and of his real desire to save her unnecessary distress. "You see," he had explained, with a gentleness which Nancy felt she had no right to expect, "there's just about the best of everything right here. It's as it was left by the feller who designed and decorated it for the woman he loved better than anything in life. No one's ever used it since. I'd be glad for you to have it. We've only a Chink servant to wait around on us, and a rough choreman, and I guess they don't know a thing about fixing things for a woman. But they've kept it clean and wholesome, and that's all I can say. Can you make out in it to-night?" He smiled. Then his steady eyes had turned away to the window where the light of the raging fire could be seen. And after a moment he went on. "You're a prisoner. I can't help that. That's got to be. But no lock or bolt will be set to keep you here. You're free to come and go as you choose. You can make the doors of the room fast against intrusion, if you feel that way. But there'll be none. To-night you'll just be dead alone in the place. You see, I've got to get out and pull my weight down there." So he had left her. He had left her to a punishment more desperate than anything he could have designed. Her windows looked out over the mill. And a subtle force attracted her thereto, and held her sleepless and despairing the whole night long. She had been forced to sit there watching the tragedy being enacted. A tragedy with which she knew she was connected, and for which, in her exaggerated self-condemnation, she believed herself responsible. The agony of that prolonged vigil would never be forgotten. Fascinated, dreading, every act of it seared the girl's soul as with a red hot brand. It was the Skandinavia's work. The agents of the Skandinavia. And she knew that she, perhaps, was their principal agent. The rattle of machine guns. The human slaughter. She had witnessed the terror of it all in the fierce light of the conflagration which looked to be devouring the whole world of the mills. She could never forget it. She could never forgive herself her share in the ghastly plans for that hideous destruction. But more than all she knew she could never forgive, or again associate herself with those who had designed the inhuman work of it all and plunged her into the maelstrom of its execution. Now, in the daylight, she was still at the window. There was no relief. On the contrary. With the smoke cleared from the smouldering ruins she saw the full extent of the wreckage. It was sprawling everywhere, human and material. An army of men, it seemed, was searching the battlefield. It was searching and collecting amongst the ruins. And she watched the bearing away on improvised stretchers, of still, helpless, human burdens which none could mistake. She could bear no more of it. She shut out the sight and fled from the window, covering her eyes with her hands. But she was recalled almost instantly. The sound of men's rough voices startled her. Whence came the sound she could not judge. But it seemed to her it was from somewhere outside. So she stealthily peered out. It was a small group of fur-clad figures. They were approaching the house over the snowy trail that came up from the mill. New terror leapt. They were supporting a prone, human body! They were bringing it up to the house! Who--who could they be bringing up to that house, which was the home and the office of the master of the mill? In that supreme moment all that which had gone before was completely forgotten. She stood clutching at the window casing, in a desperate effort to steady herself. She knew. Oh, yes, it could be no other. It must be Bull Sternford they were bringing up. Bull Sternford--the man who--The agents of the Skandinavia had done him to death! The agents of the Skandinavia! * * * * * Bat Harker was standing at the window of the office on the hill. His hard, grey eyes were searching the distance below, and his square jaws were busy on their usual occupation. Bull was sitting in a rocker-chair. He was leaning forward, gazing down at the thickly carpeted floor, and his hands were clasped between his outspread knees. Both men were dishevelled. Their clothing was stained, and their hands and faces were begrimed as a result of the fierce work of the night. Bat suddenly turned from his silent scrutiny. "He'll pull around? You think so?" he demanded. There was an appeal in his harsh voice such as Bull had never heard in it before, and he looked up with a start. "That's how Jason reckoned," he said. "Oh, to hell with Jason!" Bat's retort was fiercely uncompromising. "Who's Jason anyway? A medical student who hadn't the guts for his job. Leastways he got on the crook. It's the thing you reckon I want to know." "I reckon he'll pull around," Bull returned quietly. Then he stirred wearily. "But you're hard on young Jason, Bat. He's bright enough. I like the way he handles his job. And anyway he's the only feller around this layout with any knowledge of a sick man. He's qualified you know. He wasn't just a student. He practised before he went down and out and took to the forests. We've got to rely on him till we get a man up from Montreal, which won't be for weeks. He'll be through along from fixing him in a while. Then we can hear the thing he's got to say. Maybe we'll be able to judge better then." "I wired Montreal," Bat said sharply. "Good." The lumberman turned again to his window, and Bull continued to regard the carpet which had no interest for him. Both were weary, utterly weary in body as well as mind. It was full, broad daylight now, with the low, northern sun gleaming athwart the scene which these men had so recently left. They were conscious of the victory gained. They rejoiced in the complete defeat of an enemy who had come so near to defeating all their plans. But the cost appalled them. They had both faced the play of machine guns. They had seen their men fall to the scythe-like mowing of a cruel weapon of which its victims had no understanding. Then, when the machine guns had been silenced, they had witnessed the rage with which these hard-living jacks had meted out their ideas of just punishment upon the murderers of their comrades. The wanton inhumanity of the whole thing had sickened them both. Both knew and were indifferent to the roughness of the fierce northland. But the ordeal through which they had passed was something far beyond the darkest vision of conflict they had ever contemplated. Neither had been present to witness the shooting of Father Adam. But both had been there within minutes of the beginning of the battle which it had started. From the power house Bat had discovered the thing happening, just as Bull had seen from the window of his office the leaping flames which had threatened the mill. It had been largely due to their timely leadership that ultimate victory had been snatched. But the work of it had been terrible. Now they had returned to their quarters, their night's work completed. Down below comrade was attending to comrade in such fashion as lay to hand, and those beyond earthly aid were being disposed to their last rest. Thus these men had been left free to succour the wounded creature whose timely lead had made possible the defeat that had been inflicted. Bat had but one concern just now. Father Adam. The man whose secret he held. The man who counted for everything in his rugged life. He raised his blood-shot eyes to his companion's face. "If--Father Adam--passes, I'm done with Sachigo, Bull," he declared almost desperately. "It 'ud break me to death. You can't know the thing that feller means to me. You know him for the sort of missioner all these folks guess he is. That's how he'd have you know him. And it goes with me all the time. But I know him just as he is." Bull nodded. He made no reply. He knew the lumberman was well-nigh beside himself, and he gazed back into the hot eyes and wondered. But Bat had nothing more to say. He even felt he had said more than he had any right to say. So he turned again to the window. A few moments later the door communicating with the house was unceremoniously thrust open. The two men looked round. It was a youngish man dressed in the overalls of an engineer who hurried in. He was alert and full of business; a condition which he seemed to appreciate. "It's all right, boss," he cried cheerfully, addressing himself to Bat. "Guess the good Father'll get away with it. He's out of his dope an' smiling plenty. I jerked that darn plug that holed him right out, an' it's a soft-nosed swine. I left it back there for you to see. The feller who dropped him deserves rat poison. I hope to God they got him. Anyway I got the wound cleaned up and fixed things. Now we just got to keep it clean and open, and watch his temperature. Then we don't need to worry a thing. I'll do that. But someone'll have to sit around and nurse him. I'll have to get along down. There's nigh a hundred needin' me. Gee I An' after all these years, too. It makes me wonder." There was a smile of keen appreciation in the eyes that looked into those of the lumberman. And the look deepened when Bat thrust out a large and dirty hand at him. "Thanks, boy," he said, in obvious relief. "I'm goin' to nurse that pore feller. Maybe I ain't much in that line. But I'll promise he don't lack a thing I can hand him. Here, shake. You'll be along to fix him again?" "Right on time," was the quick rejoinder. Jason had readily enough gripped the outstretched hand. Then he hurried away. And neither of the men begrudged him the obvious vanity which his momentary importance had inflamed. With the man's going Bull passed a hand back over his ample hair. "God!" he exclaimed wearily. "It's been a tough night." "Tough?" Bat's response spoke a whole world of feeling. He moved from his window and flung himself into a chair. "He saved us," he went on. "Father Adam. He saved the whole of our darn outfit. How he did it I don't just know. Maybe I'll never know. He don't talk a lot. I gathered something of it from the boys. But there wasn't time for talk." He shook his grizzled head. "You see, I didn't even know he was around. And you never told me it was him brought you word from the camps. He must have been at work around from the start. He must have got hold of a bunch of the boys he knew. And when he got 'em right, why--Say, I'd have given a thousand dollars to have heard him fire his dope at that lousy gang. It must have been pretty. But they got him. And I guess that was the craziest thing they did. The fool man who could shoot up Father Adam in face of the forest-boys could only be fit for the bughouse." He sighed. It was not for the man's madness in shooting, but for the hurt inflicted. Then a grim, vengeful smile lit his eyes. "Why, I guess there ain't a single agent of the Skandinavia down there left with a puff of wind in his rotten carcase. The boys were plumb crazed for their blood an' got right up to their necks in it. I'm glad. I'm--" "Oh, forget it, man." Bull spoke sharply. "There's things we can take a joy in remembering. But this isn't one of 'em. No. The thing for us now is work. Plenty of work. The mill needs to be in full work inside a week. We haven't an hour to lose, with young Birchall coming along over. Skert's promised us power in twenty-four hours. He's at it right now. The camps on the river'll be working full, and making up lost time. The rest's up to us right here. But--but," he added, passing a hand nervously across his forehead, "I've got to get sleep or I'll go stark crazy." Bat eyed the younger man seriously. It was the first time he had realised his condition. His sympathy found the rough expression of a nod. "You had a hell of a time up there," he said. Bull laughed. There was no mirth in his laugh. "It was tough all right. I wonder if you'd guess how tough." He shook his head. "No. You wouldn't. You reckon Father Adam's a pretty good man, but I tell you right here you don't know how good, or the thing he did for us single-handed. I know--now. He set me wise to it all, and didn't leave me a thing to do but make the trail he'd set for me. It was an easy play dealing with the fool forest-jacks who'd swallowed the Skandinavia's dope. Yes. That was easy," he added thoughtfully. "But that was just the start of the game. Father Adam had located the trail of the outfit the Skandinavia had sent and it was my job to come right up with 'em and silence 'em." He broke off and sat staring straight in front of him. His fine eyes were half smiling for all the weariness he complained of. He yawned. "Well, I hit that trail," he went on presently. "I hit it, and hung to it like a she-wolf out for offal. I just never quit. It was that way I forgot sleep. It wasn't till between No. 10 and 11 Camps we got sight. We were out in the open, up on the high land. We'd a run of fifty mile ahead of the dogs. When we got sight that boy Gouter was after 'em like a red-hot devil. Drive? Gee, how he drove!" Again came the man's mirthless laugh. "There's things in life seem mighty queer at times. It was that way then. There was a man I wanted to kill once bad. Guess I've never quit wanting to kill him, though I'm glad Father Adam saved me from doing it. He was Laval--Arden Laval, one of the Skandinavia's camp-bosses. Well, I saw him killed on that trip, and I helped bury him in the snow. Gouter drew on him on the dead run at fifty yards. He dropped him cold, and wrecked the outfit the feller was driving. There were two in the bunch that the Skandinavia sent there to raise trouble for us. Laval and another. Laval's dead, and the other we brought right along as prisoner. That other's here in this--" A light knock interrupted the story. Bull turned with a start. Then he sprang to his feet, every sign of weariness gone. He stood for a moment as though in doubt. And the lumberman, watching him, remarked the complete transformation that had taken place. He was smiling. His straining eyes had softened to a tenderness the onlooker failed to understand. He moved swiftly across the room and flung open the door. "Will you come right in?" The lumberman heard the invitation. The tone was deep with a gentleness he had never before discovered in it. And in his wonder he craned to see who it was who had inspired it. Bull moved aside. It was then that Bat started up from his chair, and a sharp ejaculation broke from him. Nancy McDonald was standing framed in the doorway. CHAPTER XXIII NANCY Bat was hurrying down the woodland trail. For once in his hard life he knew the meaning of rank cowardice. The sight of Nancy McDonald had completely robbed him of the last vestige of courage. The atmosphere of the office, that room so crowded with absorbing memories for him, had suddenly seemed to threaten suffocation. He felt he must get out. He must seek the cold, crisp air of the world he knew and understood. So he had fled. Now he was alone with a riot of thought that was almost chaotic. There was only one thing that stood out clearly, definitely, in his mind. It was the Nemesis of the thing that had happened. It was Nemesis with a vengeance. His busy jaws worked furiously under his emotion. He spat, and spat again, into the soft white snow. Once he stopped abruptly and gazed back over the circuitous trail. It was as though he must look again upon the thing that had so deeply stirred him, as though he must look upon it to reassure himself that he was not dreaming. That the thing had driven him headlong was real, and not some troublesome hallucination. Nancy McDonald! The beautiful stepdaughter of Leslie Standing, with her red hair and pretty eyes, was the agent of the Skandinavia, paid to wreck the great work he and Leslie had set up. She was paid to achieve the destruction at--any cost. It was amazing. It was overwhelming. It was even--terrible. He pursued his way with hurried steps. And as he went his mind leapt back to the time when he had made his great appeal for the poor, deserted child shut up in the coldly correct halls of Marypoint College. What an irony it all seemed now. Then he remembered her first coming to Sachigo, and the mystery of the letter from Father Adam heralding her arrival. He had understood the moment Nancy had announced her name to him on the quay. He had understood the thought, the hope which had inspired the letter. In his rugged heart he had welcomed the letter which Father Adam had written. He had welcomed the girl's first coming to the place he felt should be her inheritance. He had seen in those things the promise of the belated justice for which years ago he had appealed. Father Adam had asked Bull to receive her well. Why? There was only one answer to that in the lumberman's mind. Father Adam had seen her. He understood her beauty, and had fallen for it. What more reasonable then that Bull should do the same. But that was all past and done with now. All the things he had dreamed of, and so ardently desired, had been lost through a mischievous Fate. The neglected stepdaughter of Leslie Standing was body and soul part of their enemy's armament of offence. It was all too crazy. It was all too devilish for calm contemplation. The sight of the girl's pathetic eyes, so weary, so troubled, had been sufficient. Bat could not have remained in that room another minute. No. Down at the mill were the things he understood. They were the things he was bred to, and could deal with. These others were something that left him hopeless and helpless. So he went, determined to lay the ghost of the thing behind him in the tremendous effort the necessities of the mill demanded he should put forth. * * * * * Bull's emotions were deeply stirred. He gazed into the tired eyes of the girl, so beautiful for all their complete dejection. He marked the cold pallor of her cheeks, and realised the dishevelled condition of her glorious masses of hair. An intense pity left him gravely troubled. As Nancy stood gazing up at the man, complete hopelessness oppressed her. She remembered well enough the declaration of war between them. She remembered, too, that it had meant nothing personal when it was made. At the time she had had no inkling of the terrible thing it could mean, or how nearly it could bring them into real, personal conflict. She had been wholly unprepared for the demand that had been thrust upon her by the man, Peterman. It had frightened her at first. She had shrunk from it. Then, finally, she had accepted it as her duty, under pressure. Peterman had made it appear so trifling. A journey, a trying journey, perhaps, but one to be made with all the comfort he could provide. And then to preach to those ignorant forest-men the disaster towards which their employers were heading. As Peterman had put it, it had almost seemed a legitimate thing to do. Convinced as she had been of the disaster about to fall on Sachigo, it had seemed as if she were even doing them a service. Had she been able to search Peterman's mind she would never have taken part in the dastardly thing he had planned. Had she been able to read him she would have quickly discovered the real motive he had in sending her. She would have discovered the furious jealousy and wounded vanity which meant her to be a prime instrument in the wrecking of Bull Sternford and his mills. She would have realised the devilish ingenuity with which he intended to wreck her friendship with another man so that he might the more truly claim her for himself. But she had no suspicion, and had blindly yielded herself to the duty she believed to be hers. After Bat's hurried departure Bull cast about in his mind for the thing to say to her. And somehow, without realising it, the right words sprang to his lips. "We won!" he said. And the smile accompanying his words was one of gentle raillery, and suggested nothing of the real tragedy of the thing that had happened. The girl's eyes widened. She strove to understand the dreadful lightness with which Bull spoke. Victory? Defeat? At that moment they were the two things furthest from her mind. Bull drew forward a chair, and gently insisted. And Nancy, accepting it, realised in a dull sort of way that it was the chair she had occupied at the time of her first visit, which now seemed so far, far back in her memory. Bull sat again in his rocker. He leant forward. "Sure," he went on, "we've won out. Your Skandinavia's beaten. Beaten a mile. We've won, too, at less cost than I hoped. Does it grieve you?" There was no softness or yielding in his tone. It was as he intended; the tone of a man who cares only that victory has been won. Nancy shook her head. "I'm--I'm glad," she said desperately. "Glad?" Bull was startled. The girl made a little involuntary movement. She averted her gaze to the window through which the wintry sunlight was pouring. "Oh, don't you understand? Can't you? Is the victory so much to you that you have no thought, no feeling, for the suffering it has brought? Are you so hard set on your purpose of achievement that nothing else matters? Oh, it's all dreadful. I used to feel that way. I counted no cost. Achievement? It was everything to me. And now, now that I know the thing it means I feel I--I want to die." Bull took a strong hold upon himself. "I know," he said slowly. "You see, Nancy, you're just a woman. You're just as tender and gentle--and--womanly, as God made you to be. He gave you a beautiful woman's heart, and a courage that was quite wonderful till it came into conflict with your heart. You had no right to be flung into this thing. And only a man of Peterman's lack of scruple could have done such a thing. Well, I'm not going to preach a long sermon, but I want to tell you some of the things I've got in my mind before I get the sleep I need. God knows that none of this thing you're blaming yourself for lies at your door. It would all have happened without you. Peterman designed it, and put it through for all he was worth. Now I want to say I'm glad--glad of it all. I've no pity for the Bolshevic dregs of Europe he employed. They were out for loot, they were out to grab the things and the power that other folks set up. Any old death that hit them they amply deserved. As for our folk who've gone under--well, we mustn't think too deeply that way. We all took our chances, and some had to go. I was ready to go. So was Bat. So were we all. We wanted victory, and we wanted it for those who survived. We honour our dead, but our lives must not be clouded by their going. It's war--human war. And just as long as the world lasts that war will always be. Good and bad men will die, and good and bad women will suffer at the sight. But for God's sake have done with the notion that you--you have anything to take to yourself, except that you've fought a good fight, and--lost. It sounds like the devil talking, doesn't it? Maybe you'll think me a monster of heartlessness. I'm not." "Oh, I wish I could feel all that," Nancy exclaimed with an impulse which a few moments before must have been impossible. "You can." Bull nodded. "You will." "You think so?" Nancy sighed. "I wish I could." Suddenly she spread out her hands in a little pathetic gesture. "Oh, it all seems wrong. Everything. What am I to do? What can I do? I--I can't even think. Whichever way I look it all seems so black and hopeless. You think I can--will?" Bull's sympathy would no longer be denied. He rose from his chair and moved to the window. His face was hidden from the troubled eyes that watched him. But his voice came back infinite in its gentleness. "You want to do something," he said. "You want to give expression to the woman in you. And when that has happened it'll make you feel--better. I know." He nodded. Suddenly he turned back to her, and stood smiling down into her anxious eyes. "Tell me," he went on, "what is it you want to do? You're no prisoner now. The war's finished. You're just as free as air to come and go as you please. You can return to Quebec the moment you desire, and the _Myra_ comes along up. And everything I can possibly arrange shall be done for your happiness and comfort. When would you like to go?" The girl shook her head. "I wasn't thinking of that." "I knew that," Bull smiled. "Father Adam. He's in the house there sick and wounded," Nancy hurried on. "I know him. I--may I nurse him back to health and strength. May I try that way to teach myself I'm not the thing I think and feel. Oh, let me be of use. Let me help to undo the thing I've done so much to bring about." The girl's hands were thrust out, and her eyes were shining. Never in his life had Bull experienced such an appeal. Never in his life had he been so near to reckless disregard for all restraint. He came nearer to her. "Surely you may do that," he said. "And I just want to thank you from the bottom of my unfeeling heart for the thought that prompts you. We haven't a soul here to do it right--to do it as you can. And Father Adam is a mighty precious life to us all--in Sachigo." CHAPTER XXIV THE COMING OF SPRING It had been a hard day. Bull Sternford had spent it dealing with complicated financial schedules, an amazing, turbulent sea of figures, until his powers and patience had temporarily exhausted themselves. In a final fit of irritation he had flung his work aside, and risen from his desk. The insufferable heat of the room, and the reek of his own pipe disgusted him. So he had moved over to the window where the cold air of early spring drifted in through the open ventilating slot in the storm sash. His gaze was on the Cove below, where the snow-laden ice was discoloured by the moist slush of thaw, and the open waters, far down towards the distant headlands, had so deeply encroached upon the claims of winter. A great, premature thaw had set in. It was the real spring thaw a month or more early. Skert Lawton, who controlled the water power of the mill, had warned him of its coming. Bat too had spoken out of his years of experience of the moods of Labrador's seasons. But somehow the sight of it all gave him none of the joy with which it had inspired the others. The evil night of threatened disaster had become only a memory. Nearly six weeks had passed since Nancy McDonald had craved the privilege of caring for the man who had so nearly given his life in the saving of the mill and all the great purpose it represented. Now he was mercifully returned to health and strength under the devoted care that had been bestowed upon him. The mill was again in full work. And the human army it employed had returned to their peace-time labours in the full determination to undo the grievous hurt which the mischief of the Skandinavia's agents and their own folly had inflicted. In the relief of reaction, they, no less than their employers, had redoubled their efforts. All outward sign of the trouble through which the mill had passed had long since been cleared away under the driving power of the forceful Bat Harker. The scars of fire remained here and there. But they were no more than a reminder for those who were ready to forget the folly they had once committed. Everything was moving on now as Bull and his comrades would have had it. Only that morning word had come through that Ray Birchall was on his way from London for the purpose of his report, and expected to reach Sachigo in three weeks' time. Could anything, then, be better than this early thaw? It was a veritable act of Providence that the London man's inspection of the mills, and all the property involved would take place under the most active conditions. It should have been a time of rejoicing and mental ease. It should have been a time of stirring hope. A moment for complaisant contemplation of a great purpose achieved. But the man at the window regarded the thing he looked upon without any display of pleasurable feeling. The sight of it literally seemed to deepen the unease which looked out of his eyes. In the midst of Bull's pre-occupation the door from the outer office was thrust open, and Bat Harker's harsh voice jarred the silence of the room. "Gettin' a peek at things," he cried, stumping heavily across the thick carpet. "Well, it looks good to me, too. Say, if this lasts just one week we'll be as clear of snow as hell's sidewalks." Then he flung open his rough pea-jacket and pushed his cap back from his lined forehead. "Gee, it's hot!" The lumberman was standing at Bull's side, and his deep-set eyes were following the other's gaze with twinkling satisfaction. Bull nodded and moved away. "Yep," he ejaculated. "It should be good for us." He passed over to the radiators and shut them off. Then he went over to the wood-stove and closed down the dampers. Then, with a curious absent-mindedness, he stood up and held out his hands to the warmth radiating from the stove. Bat was watching him interestedly. And at sight of his final attitude he broke into one of his infrequent chuckles and flung himself into a chair. "Say, what in--? Feeling cold?" he demanded. Bull's hands were promptly withdrawn, and, in spite of his mood, a half smile at his own expense lit his troubled eyes. "That's all right," he said. "It's on me, sure. I guess my head must be full of those figures still." He returned to the window and stood with his back to his companion. Bat watched him for some moments. Bull had changed considerably in the last few weeks. The lumberman had been swift to observe it. Somehow the old enthusiasm had faded out. The keen fighting nature he had become accustomed to, with its tendency to swift, almost reckless action, had become less marked. The man was altogether less buoyant. At first it had seemed to Bat's searching mind as if the effects of that desperate trip through the forests, and the subsequent battle down at the mill, had left its mark upon him, had somehow wrought one of those curious, weakening changes in the spirit of the man which seemed so unaccountable. Later, however, he dismissed the idea for a shrewder and better understanding. He helped himself to a chew of tobacco and kicked a cuspidore within his reach. "The fire-bugs are out," he said. "The last of 'em. I jest got word through. It's the seventh. An' it's the tally." It was a sharp, matter-of-fact statement. He was telling of a human killing, and there was no softening. Bull nodded. He glanced over his shoulder. "You mean--?" "They shot five of 'em to death. The last two they hanged." A grim set of the jaws, as Bat made the announcement, was his only expression of feeling. "Makes you wonder," he went on, after a pause. "Makes you think of the days when locomotives didn't run. Makes you think of the days when life was just a pretty mean gamble with most of the odds dead against you. It don't sound like these Sunday School days when the world sits around, framed in a fancy-coloured halo, that couldn't stand for any wash-tub, talkin' brotherhood an' human sympathy. It's tough when you think of the bunch that sent those boys to fire our limits. They knew the full crime of it, and knew the thing it would mean if we got hands on 'em. Well, there it is. We got 'em. An' now ther' ain't a mother's son of 'em left alive to tell the yarn of it all. It's been just cold, bloody murder. An' the murder ain't on us. No, I guess the darn savage eatin' hashed missioner ain't as bad a proposition as the civilised guys who paid the price to get those toughs killed up in our forests. I can't feel no sort of regret. It won't hand me a half-hour nightmare. But it makes me wonder. It surely does." He spat accurately into the cuspidore. "Does the report hand you anything else?" Bull asked, without turning. The other noticed the complete lack of real interest. He shrugged. "The camps are all in full cut. They're not a cord behind." Bat looked for a word, the lighting of an eye. There was none. And he stirred in his chair, and exasperation drove him. "Don't it make you feel good?" he demanded sharply. "It's the last guess answered, unless there's a guess when that boy, Birchall, comes along. Anyway, you don't figger ther's much guess to that, with the mill runnin' full, an' every boom crashed full of logs. No. Here, Bull!" he cried, with sudden vehemence. "Turn around, man. Turn right around an' get a grip on it all. The game's won to the last detail. Can't you feel good? Can't you feel like a feller gettin' out into the light after years of the darkest hell? Don't it make you want to holler? Ain't there a thing I can say to boost you? The boys down at the mill are hoggin' work. The groundwood's on the quays like mountains. The mills are roaring like blast furnaces. Can you beat it? Spring. The flies an' skitters, an' shipping. Why, in a week I guess Father Adam'll be hittin the trail for the forests, an'--" "Nancy McDonald will be sailing for Quebec." Bat was no longer gazing on the other's broad back and the mane of hair which did its best to conceal his massive neck. Bull had turned. His strong face was flushed. His fine eyes were hot. There could be no mistaking the passionate emotion which the other had stirred. The two men gazed into each other's eyes. Then with a curiously expressive gesture of his great hands Bull turned to the chair standing near, and flung himself into it. The lumberman's eyes twinkled. He had done the thing he desired. "An' you don't want her to?" he said deliberately. Just for a moment it looked as though a headlong outburst was about to reply to him. Then, quite suddenly, the hot light in Bull's eyes died out and he smiled. He shook his head. "No," he said in simple denial. "If she goes it means the end of Sachigo for me." "You reckon you'll quit?" In a moment the lumberman remembered a scene which had been enacted years ago on the high ground on the north shore of the Cove. He would never forget it. It had been the final decision of another to quit Sachigo. And the reason had been not dissimilar. There was no reply. Bull sat staring blankly in front of him. His eyes were on the wintry sky which was still broad with the light of day beyond the window. Presently his gaze lost its abstraction and came again to the strong, lined face of the older man. "Yes, Bat," he said calmly, almost coldly, "I'd have to quit. I just couldn't stand for it. Nancy's got right into my life. She's the only thing I can see--now." "Fer all she's a kind of prisoner right here, caught red-hand doin' the damnedest she knows to break us in favour of the outfit that pays her?" Bat smiled as he flung his challenge. But his tone, his words, were no indication of his mood, or of the rapid thought passing behind his shrewd eyes. A great sense of pleasure was asurge within him. He wanted to tell of it. He wanted to reach out and grip the other's hand, and tell him all that his words meant to him. But he refrained. Another man's secret was involved, and that was sufficient. His lips were sealed. Bull stirred restlessly. "Oh, psha!" he cried at last, with a force that displayed the tremendous feeling he could no longer deny. "I know what you think, Bat. I'm crazy. Well, maybe I am. Most men get crazy one time in their lives when a woman gets around. It's no use. I just can't help it. I know all you're thinking. Nancy McDonald belongs to our enemies. As you say she's done her damnedest to break us. Maybe you reckon I ought to feel for her like the devil does about holy water. Well, I don't. I'm plumb crazy for her, and when spring clears up the waters of the Cove, and the _Myra_ comes alongside, she's going right aboard, and will pass out of Labrador and out of my life. I'm never going to get another sight of her. I'm never going to get another sound of her dandy voice, or a sight of her pretty eyes, and--Hell! What's the use. Oh, I know it all. You've no need to tell me. We've made good. We've fought and won out. My contract's complete, and everything's looking just as good for us as it knows how--now. This mill. It's ours. Yours, and mine, and that other's, who I don't know about. All I've to do is to sit around with the plums lying in my lap. Well, I don't want those plums without Nancy. That's all. I don't want a thing--without Nancy. All the dollars in America can burn in hell for all I care, and as for groundwood pulp it's a damp mess of fool stuff that don't signify to me if it finds its way to the bottom of the North Atlantic. An added month of open season? What does it mean to me? Work. Only work, and flies, and skitters. An added month of 'em. Father Adam's a whole man again now, thanks to that dandy child. He'll pull right out to the forests again, and--she'll pull out too. I--" "That's all right," Bat broke in drily. "I get all that. But why not marry the gal? Marry her an' quit all this darn argument. I guess this mill's goin' to hand you all you need to keep a wife on. That seems to me the natural answer to the stuff that's worryin' you." His eyes twinkled as he regarded the other's troubled face. "Is it?" Bull was on his feet. Hot, desperate irritation lay behind the retort which Bat's gentle sarcasm had drawn forth. His eyes were alight, and he passed an unsteady hand across his forehead in a superlatively impatient gesture. "Marry her?" he exploded. "Say, are you every sort of darn fool on God's earth, man? How can I hope to marry her? What sort of use can a girl like that have for the man who's beat her right out of everything she ever hoped to achieve? I've had to treat her like any old criminal, and hold her prisoner. I've brought her right down here leaving her in a man's household without another woman in sight. Say, these cursed mills have made it so I've had to commit every sort of rotten act a man can commit against a high-spirited girl. And you ask me why I don't marry her? You've been too long in the forests, Bat. Guess you've lost your perspective. Nancy McDonald's no sort of chattel to be dealt with any way we fancy. Get sense, man, an' talk it." Bat's regard was unwavering before the other's angry eyes. "Sense is a hell of a good thing to have an' talk," he said quietly. "I most generally notice the feller yearnin' for someone else to get it an' talk that way, mostly has least use for the thing he's preachin'. Maybe Nancy feels the way you reckon. But that don't seem to me to worry a deal. Still, maybe things have changed around since the days when I hadn't sense to keep out of gunshot of a pair of dandy eyes. And anyway I don't seem to remember the boys bein' worried with the sort of argument you're handing out. If my memory's as good as I reckon, the boys most gener'ly married the gal first, an' got busy wonderin' about things after. All of which seems like so much hoss sense, seem' the natur' of things is that most gals needs their minds made up for 'em. You see, Bull, I kind o' fancy womenfolk ain't just ord'nary. They got a bug that makes 'em think queer wher' men are concerned. Now Nancy's all sorts of a gal, an' that bein' so I don't reckon she sees the hell-fire crimes you've committed against her just the way you see 'em. I allow they're pretty darn tough. Shootin' up her outfit an' dumpin' her into a snowdrift up on Labrador's mighty hard sort of courtin'. Grabbin' her up an' settin' her hospital nurse to her enemies, in a house full of a bunch of tough men don't seem the surest way to make her smile on the feller that did it. Then most generally beatin' the game she set out to play looks like makin' fer trouble plenty. It sure seems that way. But you never can tell with a woman, Bull. You just can't." Bat shook his grizzled head in solemn denial, but his eyes were laughing. Bull smothered his resentment. He, too, shook his head, and somehow caught the infection of the other's smile. "But she's ambitious," he said. "And she isn't the sort of girl to take that easily. No." Bat nodded and rose from his chair. Something of his purpose had been achieved and he was satisfied. He felt he had said all that was needed for the moment. So he prepared to take his departure. "Maybe that's so, boy," he agreed readily. "But ambition's a thing that changes with most every wind. That don't worry me a thing. Say, you've sort of opened out about this thing to me, an' I ain't sure why. But I kind of feel good about it. You're younger than me by years I don't fancy reckonin'. I feel like I was an elder brother, an' I'm glad. Well, that bein' so, I'd like to say right here ther's just one ambition in a woman's life that counts. And she mostly gits it when she hits up against the feller that's got the guts to make her think his way. When that happens I guess you can roll up every other old schedule, an' pass it into the beater to make new paper. It's the only use for it. See? But I 'low I don't know women like I do groundwood, which was the stuff that fetched me here right now. You see, I was feelin' good about things, an' I fancied handin' you the news of them 'fire-bugs' myself. Guess it hasn't handed you any sort of delirium so far, Bull, but it will later. I allow ther' ain't room for two fevers at the same time in a man's body. When you've set Nancy McDonald figgerin' your way, your temperature's liable to go up on the other. So long, boy." CHAPTER XXV NANCY'S DECISION With the lengthening days the world of Labrador was already donning its brief, annual smile. But the passing of winter was no easy thing. There had been rain and "freeze-up," and rain again. And the whole countryside was a dripping, melting sea of wintry slush. The sun was rising higher in the steely heavens with each passing day, but winter was still reluctant. It passed on to its dissolution only under irresistible pressure. Nancy, no less than Father Adam and those others, to whom the early thaw meant so much, watched the passing of winter with the closest interest. But her interest owed its origin to a far different inspiration. She knew it meant that her time at Sachigo was nearing its end, and the future with all its barrenness was staring at her. She moved restlessly about the large kitchen while the Chinaman, Won-Li, was preparing toast over the cook stove. She stood awhile at the window and watched the winging of a seemingly endless flight of early geese passing up from the South. Then she turned away and glanced about the scrupulously clean and neat apartment. It was so very different from the place she had first discovered weeks ago. After awhile she took up her position against the kitchen table, and stood there with her gaze upon the bent figure of the cook in its long, blue blouse. But she was scarcely interested in the man's labours. She was not even waiting for him to complete them. She was just thinking, filled with apprehension and without confidence. Her mind was made up to a definite purpose whose seeming immensity left her staggered. Nancy was no longer the distraught creature who had witnessed the terrible night of fire and battle down at the mill. Many weeks had passed since then. Weeks full of mental, bodily, and spiritual effort. From the first dark moments when she had begged the privilege of nursing the wounded missionary, broken in spirit, a beautiful creature well-nigh demented with the horror of the thing she believed herself to be, the woman soul of her had found a measure of peace. It had been slow in coming. There had been moments when she had nearly broken under the burden of conscience. There had been moments when the weight of unutterable depression, and the sense of guilt, had come near to robbing her of her last shred of mental balance. But the woman's mission of nursing had saved her in the end. That, and the physical effort to which she had applied herself. It was all so single-minded and simple. It was all so beautifully pathetic. Nancy had found a careless household rapidly decaying through mannish indifference to comfort. She understood. These men were completely absorbed in the service of the great mills, and nothing else mattered to them. Oh, yes, that was understandable. She knew the feeling. She knew how it robbed its victim of every other consideration in life. So she had flung herself into the task of re-ordering the household of which she had been forced to become a part, that she might yield them comfort in their labours and help herself in her own effort to obtain peace of mind. She had transformed an untidy, uncared-for bachelor habitation into a wholesome, clean establishment of well-ordered life. She had lifted a lazy Chinaman into a reasonable specimen of comparative energy, and saw to it that meals were well and carefully served, and partaken of at regular hours by men who quickly discovered the futility of protest. But her work by no means ended there. From one end to the other the house was swept and garnished, and the neglect of years disposed of. Bedrooms were transformed from mere sleeping places to luxury. Linen was duly laundered, and clothing was brushed, and folded, and mended in a fashion such as its owners had never thought possible. She was utterly untiring in her labours, and in the process of them she steadily moved on towards the thing she craved for herself. The men realised the tremendous effort of it all. And Bull Sternford, for all his absorption in his work, had watched with troubled feelings. His love for Nancy had perhaps robbed him of that vision which should have told him of the necessity, in her own interests, for that which the girl was doing. So there were times when he had protested, times when he felt that simple humanity demanded that she should not be permitted to submit herself to so rough a slavery. But Nancy had countered every protest with an irresistible appeal. "Please, please don't stop me," she had cried, almost tearfully. "It's just all I can do. It's my only hope. Always, till now, I've lived for myself and ambitions. You know where they have led me--Ah, no. Let me go on in my own way. Let me nurse him back to health. Let me do these things. However little I'm able to do there's some measure of peace in the doing of it." So the days and weeks had dragged on, and now the time of Nancy's imprisonment was drawing to its inevitable close. With Spring, and the coming of the _Myra_, she would have to accept her freedom and all it meant. She would be expected to return to her home in Quebec, and to those who had employed her and sent her on her godless mission. She understood that. But she had no intention of returning to Quebec. She had no intention of returning to the Skandinavia. During the long hours of her labours she had searched deeply for the thing the future must hold for her. It was the old process over again. That great searching she had once done at Marypoint. But now it was all different. There had been no sense of guilt then, and the only man who had been concerned in her life had been that unknown stepfather, whom, in her child's heart, she had learned to hate. It had been simple enough then. Now--now-- But she had faced the task with all the splendid, impetuous courage that was hers. There was no shrinking. Her mind was swiftly and irrevocably made up. She would abandon the Skandinavia for ever. She would abandon everything and follow those dictates which had prompted her so often in the past. Father Adam's self-sacrificing example was always before her. The forests. Those submerged legions which peopled them. Was there not some means by which she could join in the work of rescue? She would talk to Father Adam. She felt he would help her. She wanted nothing for herself. If only the rest of her life could be translated into some small imitation of the life of that good man, then, indeed, she felt her atonement might be counted as something commensurate. It was not until her decision had been taken that she permitted herself to seek beyond it. But once it was taken the crushing sense of added desolation well-nigh paralysed her. Somehow, never before had she understood. But now--now the sacrifice of it all swept upon her with an overwhelming rush. Bull Sternford. Bull Sternford, the man whom with all her power she had striven to defeat, the man whose strength and force of character had so appealed to her, the man who must hate her as any clean-minded man must hate a loathsome reptile, she would never see him again. Oh, she knew now. She made no attempt at denial. It would have been quite useless. She loved him. From the moment she had looked into his honest eyes, and realised his kindly purpose on her behalf at their first meeting, she had loved him. She must cut him out of her life. It was the penalty she must pay for her crimes. And now the moment had arrived when she must put her plans into operation. Time was pressing. The season was advancing. So she had chosen the hour at which she served tea to Father Adam as the best in which to seek his advice and support. * * * * * The light tap on Father Adam's door was answered instantly. Nancy passed into the room with trepidation in her heart, but the hand bearing the tea tray was without a tremor. The man whose life belonged to the twilight of the northern forests was seated in a deep rocker-chair under the window through which the setting sun was pouring its pleasant spring light. He had been reading. But his book was laid aside instantly, and he stood up and smiled the thanks which his words hastily poured forth. "You know, Nancy, you're completely spoiling me," he said. "I'm going to hate my forest coffee out of a rusty pannikin. I don't know how I'm going on when I pull my freight out of here." The girl's responsive smile faded abruptly as she set the tray on the table beside the chair. "When are you going to--pull your freight?" she asked, with a curious, nervous abruptness. For a moment the man's eyes were averted. Then he straightened up his tall, somewhat stooping figure. He flung his lean shoulders back, and opened his arms wide. And as he did so he laughed in the pleasant fashion which Nancy had grown accustomed to. He was the picture of complete health. His dark face was pale. His black hair and sparse beard were untouched by any sign of the passage of years. There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh under the curiously clerical garments he lived in. "Why, right away, child," he said, with simple confidence. "I'll just need to wait for a brief 'freeze-up' to get through the mud around Sachigo. Once on the highlands inside there'll be snow and ice for six weeks or more. I told Sternford this morning I was ready to pull out. You see, thanks to you I've cheated the folk who reckoned to silence me. I'm well, and strong, and the boys of the forest are--needing me. Every day I remain now I'll be getting soft under the unfailing kindness of my nurse." Nancy poured out the tea. There were two cups on the tray and the man was swift to notice it. She smiled up at him. "Won't you sit down?" she urged. "You see, I've brought a cup for myself. I--I want to have a long talk with you. I, too, have got to 'pull my freight.'" Father Adam obeyed. His dark eyes were deeply observant as he surveyed the pretty face with its red glory of hair. That which was passing in his mind found no betrayal. But his thought had suddenly leapt, and he waited. Nancy passed him his cup and set the toast within his reach. Then she pulled up a chair for herself and sat down before the tea tray. "Yes," she went on, "that's why I brought my cup. I must get away." She smiled a little wistfully. "My imprisonment is over. Mr. Sternford set me free long ago, but--well, anyway I'm going now, and that's why I wanted to talk to you." She seemed to find the whole thing an effort. But as the man's dark eyes remained regarding her, and no word of his came to help her, she was forced to go on. "You know my story," she said. "You've heard it all from Mr. Sternford. I know that. You told me so, didn't you?" The man inclined his dark head. "Yes," he said. "I know your story--all of it." "Yes." The girl's tea remained untouched. Suddenly she raised one delicate hand and passed her finger tips across her forehead. It was a gesture of uncertainty. Then, quite suddenly, it fell back into her lap, and, in a moment, her hands were tightly clasped. "Oh, I best tell you at once. Never, never, never as long as I live can I go back to the Skandinavia. All the years I've been with them I've just been lost in a sort of dream world of ambition. I haven't seen a thing outside it. I've just been a blind, selfish woman who believed in everybody, and most of all in herself and her selfish aims. Can you understand? Will you? Oh, now I know all it meant. Now I know the crime of it. And the horror of the thing I've done, and been, has well-nigh broken my heart. Oh, I'm not really bad, indeed I'm not. I didn't know. I didn't understand. I can never forgive myself. Never, never! And when I think of the blood that has been shed as the result of my work--" "No." The man's voice broke in sharply. "Put that right out of your mind, child. None of the blood shed is your doing. None of it lies at your door. It lies at the door of others. It lies at the door of two men only. The man who first set up this great mill at Sachigo, and the man whose hate of him desired its destruction. The rest, you, those others, Bull Sternford and Harker, here, are simply the pawns in the battle which owes its inception to those things that happened years ago. I tell you solemnly, child, no living soul but those two, and chiefly the first of the two, are to blame for the things that have happened to-day. Set your mind easy. No one blames you. No one ever will blame you. Not even the great God to whom we all have to answer. I know the whole story of it. It is my life to know the story of these forests. Set your mind at rest." "Oh, I wish I could think so. I wish I could believe. I feel, I feel you are telling me this to comfort me. But you wouldn't just do that?" The man shook his head. "It's the simple truth," he said. Then he reached for his tea and drank it quickly. "But tell me. You will never go back to the Skandinavia? I--am glad. What will you do?" "That's why I've come to you now." The tension had eased. Nancy's distress gave way before the man's strong words of comfort. She, too, drank her tea. Then she went on. "You know, Father--" The man stirred in his chair. It was a movement of sudden restlessness as if that appellation on her lips disturbed him. "--I want to--I want to--Oh, how can I tell you? You are doing the thing I want to help in. All my life I felt the time would come when I must devote myself to the service and welfare of others. I think it's bred in me. My father, my real father, he, too, gave up his life to those who could not help themselves. Well, I want to do the same in however humble fashion. These men, these wonderful men of the forests whom you spend your life in succouring. Can I not serve them, too? Is there no place for me under your leadership? Can I not go out into the forests? I am strong. I am strong to face anything, any hardship. I have no fear. The call of these forests has got right into my blood. Don't deny me," she appealed. "Don't tell me I'm just a woman with no strength to withstand the rigours of the winter. I couldn't stand that. I have the strength, and I have the will. Can you? Will you help me?" The girl's appeal was spoken with all the ardour of youthful passion. There was no sham in it. No hysterical impulse. It was irresistibly real. The man's eyes were deeply regarding her. But he was thinking far less of her words than of the girl herself. Her amazing beauty, the passionate youth and strength. The perfection of her splendid womanhood. These things held him, and his mind travelled swiftly back over years to other scenes and other emotions. When at last he spoke his words came slowly and were carefully considered. "I think, perhaps, I can help you," he said. "You are determined? You want to help those who need help? The men of the forests?" He shook his head. "I don't see why you shouldn't help the men of these forests who--need your help." Nancy drew a deep breath. A wonderful smile sprang into her pretty eyes. It was a glad smile of thanks such as no words of hers could have expressed. "Oh, thank you, Father--thank you." Again came the man's restless movement at the word "Father." He abruptly leant forward and held his cup out for replenishment. "May I?" he asked. Then his smile broke out again. "But tell me," he went on. "What have you done about the Skandinavia?" "Nothing." Nancy returned him his cup with an unsteady hand. "Nothing? But you must communicate with them. You should write and tell them of your decision. You should tell them you don't intend to return to them." Father Adam sipped his tea. He was watching intently but unobtrusively the transparent display of emotions which his words had conjured. "I hadn't thought about it," Nancy said at last, not without some disappointment. "Do you really think I should write? But it will take so long to reach them. I can't wait for that. It--" "Wire." "Yes. I suppose I could--wire." "Sternford will have it sent for you." In a moment the light of hope died out of the girl's eyes. The excited flush on her cheeks paled. And the man saw, and read the sign he beheld. He waited. But Nancy remained silent, crushed under the feeling of utter desolation to which the mention of Bull Sternford's name had reduced her. Father Adam set his cup down. "Don't let the sending of that message worry, child," he said quickly. "These people deserve no better treatment after the thing they've done to you. All you need say is, 'You will accept my resignation forthwith.' Write that out on a piece of paper, and sign it. Then take it along to Mr. Sternford. Tell him of your decision, and ask him to have it sent by the wireless. He'll do it, my dear. And after that--why, after that, if you still feel the same about things, and want to turn missionary in the lumber camps, come right back to me here, and I'll do for you as you ask. It's a great thought, Nancy, and I honour you for it. It's a hard, desperate sort of life, without comfort or earthly reward. Once the twilight of the forest claims you, and its people know you, there's nothing to do but to go on and on to the end. Will you go--and send just that message?" Nancy inclined her head. "Yes. I'll go right away, just as soon as I've taken this tray back." She rose abruptly. She gathered the remains of the meal on to the tray and picked it up. And the manner of her movements betrayed her. She stood for a moment, and the man saw the struggle for composure that was going on behind her pretty eyes. "Father," she said at last, and the man abruptly rose from his chair and moved away, "I just can't thank you--for this. It's given me fresh hope. A hope I never thought would be mine. Some day--" Her voice broke and the man turned at once. He was smiling again. "Don't say a word, my dear. Not a word. Go and write that message, and take it to Sternford. And then--why--" He moved over to the door and held it open for her. As she passed out he nodded kindly, and looked after her till she vanished into the kitchen at the end of the passage. * * * * * Father Adam was alone again in the room that had been his for so many weeks. The door was closed and he stood at the window gazing out at the dreary world beyond. But he saw nothing of it. He was thinking with the speed of a mind chafing at delay. He was wondering and hoping, and--fearing. CHAPTER XXVI THE MESSAGE It was a woman of desperately fortified resolve who turned the handle of the office door in response to Bull Sternford's peremptory summons. The thought of the coming interview terrified Nancy, and her terror had nothing whatever to do with the sending of her message. Bull failed to look up from the mass of papers that littered his desk. His sharp "Well," as Nancy approached him, was utterly impatient at the interruption. And its effect was crushing upon the girl in her present dispirited mood. She felt like headlong flight. She stood her ground, however, and the sound of her little nervous clearing of the throat came to the man at the table. Bull looked up. In an instant his whole attitude underwent a complete change. His eyes lit, and he sprang from his seat behind the desk. He came towards the shrinking girl, eager and smiling with the welcome his love inspired. "Why, say, Nancy," he cried. "I just hadn't a notion it was you. I was up to my neck in all this stuff," he said, indicating the litter on his desk, "and I hadn't a thought but it was the darn Chink come to worry with food." He laughed. "You certainly have handed me some scare since you got a grip on our crazy household. I've got a nightmare all the time I've got to eat. And the trouble is I'd hate to miss any of it. Will you come right over to the window and sit? There's daylight enough still. We don't need to use Skert's electric juice till we have to. I'm real glad you came along." The man's delight was transparent. Nancy remained unresponsive, however. She was blind to everything but the thing she had come to do, and the hopelessness that weighed so heavily upon her. "I'm sorry," she said simply, accepting the chair he set for her. "I didn't think you'd--you see, I waited till I guessed you'd be through. But I won't keep you. It's just a small favour, that's all." Bull observed her closely. She was so amazingly and completely charming. She was no longer clad in the rough, warm garments of the trail. Even the cotton overall she used in the work of the house had been removed. Now a dainty frock, that had no relation to the rigours of Labrador, displayed the delicate beauty of her figure, and perfectly harmonised with the colouring of her wonderful hair. Somehow it seemed to the man her beauty had intensified in its appeal since the day of her supreme confidence in the cause for which she had so devotedly fought. "A favour?" he laughed. "Why, I'm just glad." Even while he spoke Bull remembered his talk with Bat Harker when he had listened to a wealth of pitying comment upon the feelings and opinions he had then laid bare. The girl's unsmiling eyes troubled him. "What's the favour?" he asked simply, as Nancy remained silent. The girl started. She had turned to the evening light pouring in through the window. Her thought had wandered to that grim, dark future when the twilit forests would close about her, and the strong tones of this man's voice would never again be able to reach her. She drew a folded paper from the bosom of her frock. "Would you let them send it for me--wireless?" she asked timidly. "It's--it's to Mr. Peterman." All Bull's desire to smile had passed. He nodded. "Yes," he said. "If you wish it. It shall be sent right off." His tone had suddenly lost its warmth. It seemed as if the mention of Peterman's name had destroyed his goodwill. Nancy searched his face anxiously. The man's brows had depressed and his strong jaws had become set. She knew that expression. Usually it was the prelude to uncompromising action. She drew a deep breath. "Oh, I know," she cried. "I know the thing you're thinking. You're reminding yourself of all I've done, and of the injury I've striven to inflict on you. You're wondering at my temerity in asking you to help me communicate with your enemies. But please, please don't think worse of me than you can help. I'm not just trying to use you. It's not that. Will you read the message? Maybe it'll tell you better than any words of mine." The paper was held out to him in an unsteady hand. Bull ignored it. He shook his head. "No," he said. Nancy sprang to her feet. "But you must read it," she cried. "If you don't I--oh, I won't send it. I couldn't. Don't make me sorry I asked this favour. It is so little to you, and--and it means so much to me." She stood waiting, but Bull showed no sign of yielding. He was thinking of the man, Peterman. He remembered his good-looking Teutonic face, and the favour with which Nancy had seemed to regard him. A smouldering jealousy had suddenly blazed up within him. Nancy turned away in desperation. She moved to depart. "I'm sorry," she said. And even in her trouble there was a coldness in her tone no less than his. Bull choked down his feelings. "Please don't go," he cried, urgently. "It would please me very much to have that message sent. Say, I wasn't thinking the way you reckoned. I wasn't thinking of the message at all." "Then you will read it?" The girl came back readily. "Why should I?" Bull asked smilingly. "Say, a friend asking me to send a message for him, a message no concern of mine, what would you think, what would he feel, if I demanded to read its contents?" He ran the fingers of one hand through his mane of hair and stood smiling down into the girl's pretty eyes. "You know this thing makes me want to talk. I've just got to talk. The position's sort of impossible as it stands. Maybe you don't guess the thing I'm feeling, and maybe I don't just know how it is with you. We've got to talk right out and show down our hands. If we don't--" He turned away and glanced out of window. Then his eyes came back claimed by the magnetism which the girl exercised. "You know, Nancy, our war is over. The war between you and me. We declared war, didn't we? We declared it in Quebec, and we both promised to do our best, or--worst. It was a sort of compact. We made it meaning it, and understanding the meaning of it. If you got the drop on me you were to use it. The same with me. It was one of those friendly things, between friends, which might easily mean life or death. We knew that, and were ready to stand just for whatever came along. Well, we fought our battle. It's over. It's done. Now for God's sake let's forget it. It's easy for me. You see, I'm a rough, hard sort of product of these forests that doesn't worry with scruples and things. I'm not a woman who's full of the notions belonging to her sex. I can wipe the whole thing out of my mind. I can feel glad for the scrap you put up. I can think one hell of a great piece of you for it. Maybe it's different with you, being a woman. I guess it's not going to be easy forgiving the way I had to handle you back out there on the trail. Or the way you were forced to live our camp life on the way down here. Or how I've had to hold you prisoner in a rough household of rougher men. I get all that. I know the thing it is to a woman. All it means. Still, it must have been plain to you the chances of that sort of thing before you started in. That is if I was worth my salt as a fighter. Well, can you kind of forgive it? Can't you try to forget? Can't you figger the whole darn thing's past and done with, and we're back at where we were in those days in Quebec, when you didn't hate me to death, and felt good taking dinner in my company? Say, do you remember the old _Myra_ you'll soon be boarding again? You remember our talk on the deck, when the howling gale hit us? We were talking of the sense of things in Nature, and how she mussed them up. And how we'd have done a heap better if the job had been ours. Well?" His smile deepened. "Here we are standing in the sort of fool position of--what'll I call it? Antagonism? Anyway we agreed to fight, and stand for all it meant to us, and we're both feeling all broken up at the way we had to act to hurt each other most." He shook his head. "Where's our boasted sense of things? We ought to be sitting right here talking it over, and laughing to beat the band, that I had to treat you like a dangerous bunch of goods li'ble to get me by the throat, and choke the life out of me, while you were chasing every old notion folks could stuff into your dandy head to set me broke and busted so I wouldn't know where to collect a square feed once a week. That's what we ought to be doing, if we had the sense we guess. Instead of that you're feeling badly at me for the things I had to do to you. And I'm worried to death I'll never get a laugh from you for the fool talk I don't know better than to make. You need me to send that message to Peterman. Why, sure I'll send it, even if it's to tell him how mighty glad you are to be quitting the prison I'd condemned you to, and the joy it's going to hand you to see his darnation Teuton face again. Sure I'll send it. It's the least I can do to make up to you for those things I've done to you. But--but for God's sake don't ask me to read it." The man concluded with a gesture that betrayed his real feelings. He was in desperate earnest for all his attempt at lightness. His words came swiftly, in that headlong fashion so characteristic of his most earnest mood. And Nancy listening to him, caught something of that which lay behind them. The faintest shadow of a smile struggled into her eyes. She shook her head. "I haven't a thought in my head about you--that way," she said. "It's not been that way with me. No." She averted her gaze from the eager eyes before her. "It's the thing I've done and been. It's the thing you, and every other honest creature, must feel about me. Oh, don't you see? The killing, the bloodshed and suffering--But I can't talk about it even now. It's all too dreadful still. I'm quitting when Father Adam goes, and--and--But believe me no judgment you can pass on me can begin to express the thing I feel about myself. Please don't think I bear one single hard thought against you." The man laughed outright. The buoyancy of that moment was supreme. Bat Harker was again in his mind. Bat, with all his quaint, crude philosophy. "Say, that beats everything," Bull cried. "My judgment of you. And all this time I've been guessing--Oh, hell! Say, do you know, it gets me bad when I think of you going back to Peterman and his crew? It sets me well-nigh crazy. Oh, I know. I've no right. None at all. But it don't make me feel any better. Here, I'll tell you about it. I'm not going to take to myself virtues I don't possess, and have no right to anyway. I wanted to win out in the fight against the Skandinavia because I'm a bit of a fighting machine. I wanted to win out for the dollars I'm going to help myself to. But I also wanted to win out because of the great big purpose that lies behind these mills of Sachigo. I want you to get right inside my mind on that thing so you'll know one of the reasons why I hate that you're sending word to Peterman. You'll maybe understand then the thing that made me fight you, a woman, as well as the others, and treat you in a fashion that's made me hate myself ever since. I'm going to say it as bluntly as I know how. It'll be like beating you, a helpless victim, right over the head with a club. I've acted the brute right along to you, an' I s'pose I best finish up that way. You were doing your best to sell your birthright, my birthright, to the foreigner. You were helping the alien, Peterman, and his gang, to snatch the wealth of our forests. Why? You didn't think. You didn't know. There was no one to tell you. You simply didn't know the thing you were doing. "This man Peterman was good to you. He held out prospects that glittered. It was good enough. And all the time he was looking to steal your birthright. The birthright of every Canadian. That makes you feel bad. Sure it does. I can see it. But I got to tell it that way, because--Here, I'm on the other side. It was chance, not virtue set me there. But once there the notion got me good. Sachigo was built to defend the great Canadian forests against the foreigner. That slogan got a grip on me. Yes, it got me good. I could scrap with every breath in my body for that. Well, now we've got the Skandinavia beat, and in a year or so they'll be on the scrap heap, ready to sell at scrap price. That's so. I know. Sachigo will be the biggest thing of its kind in the world next year, and there won't be any room for the Skandinavia. That's a reason I hate for you to go back to Peterman--one reason." "But I'm not going back," Nancy cried vehemently. Bull stared wide-eyed. "You're not going back?" he echoed stupidly. Then of a sudden he held out his hand. "Say, pass that message right over. Why in--Guess I'm crazy to read it--now." Nancy held the paper out to him. There was something so amazingly headlong in his manner. All the girl's apprehensions, all her depression, were swept away, and a rising excitement replaced them. A surge of thankfulness rose up in her. At least he would learn that she had no intention of further treachery to the land of her birth. "Accept my resignation forthwith." Bull read the brief message aloud. It was addressed to Peterman, and it was signed "Nancy McDonald." The force, the coldness of the words were implacable. He revelled in the phrasing. He revelled in the thing they conveyed. He looked up. The girl was smiling. She had forgotten everything but the approval she saw shining in his eyes. Suddenly he reached out and his great hands came gently down upon her softly rounded shoulders. It was a wonderful caress. They held her firmly while he gazed into her eyes. "Say, Nancy," he cried, in a voice that was deep with emotion. "You mean that? Those words? You've quit the Skandinavia? What--what are you going to do?" "I--I'm going to the forests with Father Adam. I'm going to help the boys we've so often talked about. I'm--" "Not on your life!" The man's denial rang out with all the force of his virile nature. "Say, listen right here. You've quit them. You've quit Peterman. And you reckon from one fool play you're going right over to another. No, sir, not on your life. It's my chance now, and by God I don't pass it. I'm kind of a rough citizen and don't know the way a feller should say this sort of stuff. But I'm crazy to marry you and have been that way ever since you came along, and sat right in this office, and invited me to take tea in the parlour of that darnation bug, Peterman. Do you know all that means, Nancy? It means I'm just daft with love for you, and have been ever since I set eyes on you, for all I had to treat you worse than a 'hold-up.' Say, my dear, will you give me the chance to show you? Can you forget it all? Can you? I'll raise every sort of hell to fix you good and happy. And you and me, together, we'll just send this great Sachigo of ours booming sky high, and in a year I promise to hand you the wreckage that was once the Skandinavia. Marry me, dear, and I'll show you the thing a man can be and do. And I'll make you forget the ruffian I've had to act towards you. Will you let me help you to forget? Will you--?" Nancy's eyes were frankly raised to the passionate gaze which revealed the depths of the man's great heart. "I have," she said in a low voice. "I've forgotten everything but--but--you." She moved as she spoke. There was no hesitation. All her soul was shining in her eyes, and she yielded to the impulse she was powerless to deny. She came to him, releasing herself from the great hands that held her shoulders. She reached up and placed her soft arms about the neck that rose trunk-like above his shoulders. In a moment she was caught and crushed in his arms. "Why--that's just fine!" The exclamation broke from the man out of sheer delight and happiness. And the while he bent down and kissed the smiling upturned face, and permitted one hand to wander caressingly over the girl's wealth of beautiful hair. CHAPTER XXVII LOST IN THE TWILIGHT A fierce wind swept down off the hills. So it had blown all night and all the day before. The sky was overcast, and the thermometer had dropped below zero. It was one of those brief "freeze-ups" such as Father Adam had awaited, and it might last two or three days. Then would come prompt reaction, and the rapidity of the thaw would be an hundred-fold increased. The sun was hidden, and the sky looked to be heavily burdened with snow. The earth was frozen solid, and the wide flung forests were white with the hoar frosts of Spring. Father Adam was standing beside the crouching team of dogs. There were five of them; great huskies, shaggy of coat and fiercely wolfish. They were fat and soft from idleness. But they would serve, for the sled was light, and a few days' run would swiftly harden them. The outfit was waiting just beyond the kitchen door of the house on the hill, and the view of the busy Cove below was completely shut out. The position for the waiting sled had not been calculated by the man who owned it, but by the shrewd, troubled mind of Bat Harker. He was standing beside the tall figure of the missionary now, squat and sturdy, looking on with half-angry, wholly anxious eyes. His expression was characteristic of the man when he was disturbed. Father Adam's dark eyes were surveying his outfit. There was no emotion in them. They were calm, and simply searching, in the fashion of the practised trail man. "Say, Les, this is just the craziest thing of all your crazy life," Bat said at last, in a tone kept low for all the feeling that lay behind it. "I tell you they're waiting on you. They've got you set. Just as sure as God this'll be your last trip. It's kind of useless talkin' it again out here, I know. We've talked an' talked it in that darn sick room of yours till I'm sick to death trying to git sense into you. We know the game from A to the hindmost letter of the darn alphabet. We haven't shouted it, you an' me, because there wasn't need. But Idepski's been right here since ever he got his nose on your trail. It was his gun that took you weeks back, an' sent you sick. If I know a thing he meant just to wing you, and leave you kind of helpless, so he could get hands on you when he fancied. He wants you alive, and he's goin' to git you. Ther's word got round you're pulling out. It's clear to me. A bunch of boys hit the trail out of here three nights gone, and I've a notion Idepski went with 'em. Are they wise you're pulling out? Sure they are. Why, in God's name, don't you quit it?" The man whom the forest world knew as Father Adam, but whom Bat knew as Leslie Standing, shrugged his shoulders. "Why should I?" he said, his dark eyes mildly enquiring, "you can't tell me a thing I don't know about Idepski. I knew it was he who dropped me. I saw him that night down there and knew him right away. Maybe he can fool you with his disguises. He can't fool me. I'd been watching him days before that." "Why didn't you show yourself? Why didn't you say?" Bat spoke fiercely in his exasperation. The missionary smiled. "You'd have had him shot up," he said. "I know. No. If you'd known I was around it would have queered the hand I was playing. Here, Bat, let's get this thing right. You could shoot up a dozen Idepskis, and there'd be others to replace 'em. Hellbeam's dogs'll never let up." He shook his head. "It's a play that'll go on to the--end. I know that. I tell you I've got past caring a curse about things. When the end comes, what does it matter! Not a thing. It's useless talking, old friend," he said, as Bat attempted to break in, "quite useless. But don't reckon I'm a willing quitter. I'll play the game till it can't be played longer. And when I've got to I'll throw my hands up. Not before. But Idepski can't follow my trail." "But he ken cut it," Bat cried, desperation finding expression in a clenched, out-held fist. "Can he?" The missionary smiled confidently. And Bat suddenly flung out both hands. "Say, Les," he cried, "do you think I want to see my partner, and best friend, hounded to a life of hell by that swine, Hellbeam? It breaks me to death the thought of it. Man, man, it sets me nigh crazed thinking that way. Don't I count with you? Don't the others you came along to help count? That dandy gal I've heard you wish was your own daughter? Don't she count? Say, we're all for you, Bull an' Nancy, an' me, just the same as the rest of the folk of the forest. Stop right here, man. Take your place again, an' we'll fight Hellbeam as we've fought his Skandinavia. Say, we'll fight for you as we've never fought before. We'll fight him, and beat him, and keep you safe from that hell he's got waitin' for you. Just say the word, and stop right here. And I'll swear before God--" Leslie Standing raised a protesting hand. His eyes were unsmiling. "It's useless, old friend," he said with irrevocable decision. "You don't know the thing you're trying to pledge yourself to. You think me a crazy man. You think I'm just asking for the trouble Hellbeam figures to hand out to me. I'm not. I've got the full measure of the whole thing. And I know the thing I'm doing doesn't matter. I'm not going to change the plan of life I've laid down. I've learnt happiness in the forests. The twilight of it all has been my salvation. Time was when I had other desires, other delights. They've long since passed. Now there's only one appeal to me in life. It's the boys, the scallawags, who haunt the forest like I do. I love them. And my life's theirs as long as Hellbeam leaves it to me. Get just that into your thick, old head, Bat, and for our last five minutes together we can talk of things more pleasant than Hellbeam." The missionary smiled down into the strong face of his companion. And the lumberman realised the uselessness of further protest. He yielded grudgingly. He yielded because he knew and loved the man. By a great effort he turned his mind from the dread haunting it. "You've got me beat, Les," he growled. Then he spat in his disgust. The missionary nodded, and, with a gesture of the hand, he indicated the hidden mills below them. "It's queer the way the whole thing's completed itself as I hoped and dreamed so long ago," he said thoughtfully. "You know, Bat, that yellow streak in me was a better thing than either of us knew. If I hadn't had it I'd have stood my ground. I'd have fought to the end, and I'd have been beaten, and Sachigo would have crashed. Do you see that? No. That's because you look at things with the obstinate eyes of great courage. While I, through fear, see things as they are. We won't debate it now. The accomplished fact is the thing. You've set Sachigo on top. Sachigo will rule the Canadian forest industry. The foreigner is on the scrap heap. We've helped to build something for this great old Empire of ours, and so our lives haven't been wholly wasted. It's good to feel that when the time comes to pay our debts. That boy Sternford's a great feller. I'm glad about him. Say, I felt I could cry last night when he and Nancy came along like two school-kids to tell me of the thing they'd fixed. I felt like handing them my story and claiming my place as Nancy's stepfather. But I didn't. You see, she's glad about me as Father Adam, a dopey missionary. But I can see her eyes blaze up red-hot with anger at the man who took her mother from her, and denied her existence. No, it's best that way. She's found the man I could have chosen for her, and I'm glad. She's a great lass. She's all her mother--and more." Bat inclined his stubborn head. He was still thinking of the dogs, and the sled, and all they meant to him just now. "Does she know about her share in the mills?" he asked brusquely. The other shook his head. "Not yet. But I've sent word to Charlie Nisson. He'll be along up on the _Myra_. And when he comes she'll know." He laughed quietly. "Say, I'd be glad to see them when they know about it--she and Bull. They're going to be married right after Birchall's been along and finally fixed things. It'll be a great day. I wonder. You know, Bat, I'd like to think Nancy--my Nancy--knows all about this. I wonder if she does. Do you think so?" Bat turned away. His eyes were on the surrounding forest, and the white gossamer of the hoar-frost clinging to the dark foliage. He dared not trust himself to reply. Again came the missionary's quiet laugh. "I wonder," he said. Then, in a moment, a curious flicker marred the calm of his eyes. "Bat, old friend," he went on, after a pause, "there's just one thing I'm going to ask you before I pull out. It's a promise I want. When the time comes for me to pay, will you tell her? Will you tell them both? If I'm gone will you tell them the thing you know--all of it? Don't make me out to be any old angel I guess you'd like to paint me. Just hand 'em the story of the white-livered creature I am, without the nerve of a jack-rabbit. Will you do that?" He held out a hand from which he removed his fur mitt. Bat turned. He saw the hand, and disregarded it in a surge of feeling. "Tell 'em? Tell 'em?" he cried. "Say, Les, for God Almighty's sake don't you pull out. You're my friend. You're the one feller in the world that matters a curse to me. Quit boy. Stop right here, an'--" "Will you tell 'em?" The hand was thrust further towards the lumberman so that he could no longer ignore it. "Hell! Yes!" he cried, in fierce mental anguish. "I'll tell 'em--if I have to." He seized the outstretched hand in both of his and gripped it with crushing force. "You're goin'--now?" "Sure." Their hands fell apart. Bat's dropped to his side like leaden weights. "So long," he said dully, as the other took his place in the sled. Then he added, "So long, Les." The sled needed breaking out, and the lumberman watched the operation of it without a word. His emotions were too real, to deep for anything more. He looked on while the first sharp order was flung at the dogs. He watched them leap to their feet and stand ready, great, powerful, untamed souls eager for their, task. Then the man in the sled looked round as he strung out the long lash of his short-stocked whip. "So long, Bat," he cried smilingly. And his farewell was instantly followed by the sharp command to "mush." * * * * * Far out on the desolate highlands the dogs broke trail over a waste of virgin snow. The cold had abated, and the flurry of snow that rose up under their feet was wet and melting. The way lay through the maze of woodland bluffs which lined the upper slopes of the course of the Beaver River. Beyond them, northward, lay the windswept barrens of the highlands. Father Adam knew the trail by heart. The maze of bluffs through which he was passing afforded him no difficulties or anxieties. He read them with the certainty of wide and long experience. There was nothing new that Labrador had to show him. He knew it all, and revelled in the wide freedom its fierce territory afforded. The moods of the country concerned him not at all. Furious or gentle, tearful or hard with the bitterness of desperate winter, it was all one to him. He loved the twilight of its mysterious, fickle heart. It was as much his home as any place on earth. The dogs swept on at a steady gait. The cruel whip played over furry backs, a never-ceasing threat. And so the miles were hungrily devoured. It was the first day of freedom for dogs and man alike, and each moment of it yielded a sense of almost fierce joy. The bluffs narrowed in, and the softer snow slowed the going. Instantly a sharp command hurled the leading dog heading for the open where the surface was hard and dry. The team swung away behind him and the sled pursued. Then the silence broke. A shot rang out. It came from the shelter of a bluff directly ahead. The leading dog floundered. Then the brute fell with a fierce yelp, and sprawled in the snow while the others swept over his inert body. The man in the sled strove to brake the sled with the "gee-pole" which he snatched to his aid. There was a moment of desperate struggle. Then the sled flung tail up in the air and the man was hurled headlong amidst his dogs. * * * * * Father Adam stood with mitted hands thrust up above his head. He was gazing into the smiling eyes of a man no less dark than himself. There were three others confronting him, and each was armed with a stubby, automatic pistol which covered his body. "Guess Hellbeam's waiting for you over the other side, Mr. Leslie Martin, or Standing, or Father Adam, as you choose to call yourself. He's waited a long time. But you ain't tired him out. Guess your game's up." "Oh, yes?" The missionary smiled back into Idepski's derisive eyes. "You can drop your hands," the agent went on. "We've got your gun. And I guess you'll be kind of tired before we get you to the coast. You're going to find things a heap tougher than No. 10 Camp--where you sent me. You surely are." "The coast?" The missionary was startled. "Yep. There's going to be no play game this time. Hellbeam's yacht's waiting on you. You'll take the sea trip. It's safer that way." "Yes." The mitted hands had dropped to the missionary's sides. He moistened his lips, which seemed to have become curiously dry. Once, and once only, there was a flicker of the eyes as he looked into the face of his captor. Otherwise he gave no sign. His time had come. He knew that. He had always known it would come. There was neither heat nor resentment in him against these men who had finally hunted him down. "How do we travel?" he asked quietly. "You've shot up my leader." The other nodded. He understood the tone of complaint and regret in which the trail man spoke of his dog. He grinned maliciously. "We'll shoot up the rest for you. They'd only feed the wolves if we left 'em. We've two dog trains with us. Don't let that worry. You best get your kit loosed from your sled." The prisoner turned to obey, but the agent changed his mind. He laughed. "No. Guess the boys can fix that. It's safer that way. You move right on into yonder bluff. And you best not try making any break. There ain't only Hellbeam in this. I haven't forgotten--No. 10 Camp. Your game's plumb up." "Yes, plumb up." Father Adam obeyed. He moved away, followed closely by the man who had hunted him for so many years. There was no escape. He knew that. The reckoning he had always foreseen had overtaken him. So, without a word of protest, he passed for the last time into the twilight of the woods. THE END The Heart of Unaga By Ridgwell Cullum Author of "The Way of the Strong," etc. Many a stalwart deed has been done and many a brave tale told of the forbidding but romantic North-land, but seldom has an author so combined a tale of love, adventure, and strong swift action with mystery. The terrible fires of Unaga crimsoning the white silent wastes are so vividly portrayed, that the reader must feel authenticity. The strange "sleeper" Indians are real Indians, the big-souled Northwest policeman is not a superman, but a real human being, the girl is bonafide, the villain is not fictional, but an actual personality, brave and base alike--all the characters are living and breathing folk, that you feel are there in far-off Unaga, and that you know you would find there, were you hardy enough to visit that remorseless country. G, P. Putnam's Sons New York London SNOWDRIFT BY JAMES B. HENDRYX A Romance of the barrens--"straight north--between the Mackenzie and the Bay," where Snowdrift, waif of the Arctic, Indian bred, bearing a false but heavy burden of shame, and Carter Brent, Southerner, find their great happiness among the icy wastes. Swept to the Klondike by the first wave of the great gold rush, Brent plunges, with the enthusiasm of youth, into the whirl of Dawson, the city of men gone mad. How luck sat upon his shoulder, and how his recklessness and daring won him the admiration of those wild times, until the raw red liquor of Alaska downed him "for the count," is but the beginning of the tale; for with him, we are carried into the Northern night and fight the long fight back to manhood till purged by the cleansing cruelty of the Arctic. G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK LONDON 
9857	----	THE LONG LABRADOR TRAIL by DILLON WALLACE Author of "The Lure of the Labrador Wild," etc. Illustrated MCMXVII TO THE MEMORY OF MY WIFE "A drear and desolate shore! Where no tree unfolds its leaves, And never the spring wind weaves Green grass for the hunter's tread; A land forsaken and dead, Where the ghostly icebergs go And come with the ebb and flow..." Whittier's "The Rock-tomb of Bradore." PREFACE In the summer of 1903 when Leonidas Hubbard, Jr., went to Labrador to explore a section of the unknown interior it was my privilege to accompany him as his companion and friend. The world has heard of the disastrous ending of our little expedition, and how Hubbard, fighting bravely and heroically to the last, finally succumbed to starvation. Before his death I gave him my promise that should I survive I would write and publish the story of the journey. In "The Lure of The Labrador Wild" that pledge was kept to the best of my ability. While Hubbard and I were struggling inland over those desolate wastes, where life was always uncertain, we entered into a compact that in case one of us fall the other would carry to completion the exploratory work that he had planned and begun. Providence willed that it should become my duty to fulfil this compact, and the following pages are a record of how it was done. Not I, but Hubbard, planned the journey of which this book tells, and from him I received the inspiration and with him the training and experience that enabled me to succeed. It was his spirit that led me on over the wearisome trails, and through the rushing rapids, and to him and to his memory belong the credit and the honor of success. D. W. February, 1907. CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE VOICE OF THE WILDERNESS II ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE UNKNOWN III THE LAST OF CIVILIZATION IV ON THE OLD INDIAN TRAIL V WE GO ASTRAY VI LAKE NIPISHISH IS REACHED VII SCOUTING FOR THE TRAIL VIII SEAL LAKE AT LAST IX WE LOSE THE TRAIL X "WE SEE MICHIKAMAU" XI THE PARTING AT MICHIKAMAU XII OVER THE NORTHERN DIVIDE XIII DISASTER IN THE RAPIDS XIV TIDE WATER AND THE POST XV OFF WITH THE ESKIMOS XVI CAUGHT BY THE ARCTIC ICE XVII TO WHALE RIVER AND FORT CHIMO XVIII THE INDIANS OF THE NORTH XIX THE ESKIMOS OF LABRADOR XX THE SLEDGE JOURNEY BEGUN XXI CROSSING THE BARRENS XXII ON THE ATLANTIC ICE XXIII BACK TO NORTHWEST RIVER XXIV THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL APPENDIX ILLUSTRATIONS The Perils of the Rapids (in color, from a painting by Oliver Kemp) Ice Encountered Off the Labrador Coast "The Time For Action Had Come" "Camp Was Moved to the First Small Lake" "We Found a Long-disused Log Cache of the Indians" Below Lake Nipishish Through Ponds and Marshes Northward Toward Otter Lake "We Shall Call the River Babewendigash" "Pete, Standing by the Prostrate Caribou, Was Grinning From Ear to Ear" "A Network of Lakes and the Country as Level as a Table" Michikamau "Writing Letters to the Home Folks" "Our Lonely Perilous Journey Toward the Dismal Wastes ...Was Begun" Abandoned Indian Camp On the Shore of Lake Michikamats "One of the Wigwams Was a Large One and Oblong in Shape" "At Last ...We Saw the Post" "A Miserable Little Log Shack" A Group of Eskimo Women A Labrador Type Eskimo Children A Snow Igloo The Silence of the North (in color, from a painting by Frederic C. Stokes) "Nachvak Post of the Hudson's Bay Company". "The Hills Grew Higher and Higher" "We Turned Into a Pass Leading to the Northward" The Moravian Mission at Ramah "Plodding Southward Over the Endless Snow" "Nain, the Moravian Headquarters in Labrador" "The Indians Were Here" Geological Specimens Maps. CHAPTER I THE VOICE OF THE WILDERNESS "It's always the way, Wallace! When a fellow starts on the long trail, he's never willing to quit. It'll be the same with you if you go with me to Labrador. When you come home, you'll hear the voice of the wilderness calling you to return, and it will lure you back again." It seems but yesterday that Hubbard uttered those prophetic words as he and I lay before our blazing camp fire in the snow-covered Shawangunk Mountains on that November night in the year 1901, and planned that fateful trip into the unexplored Labrador wilderness which was to cost my dear friend his life, and both of us indescribable sufferings and hardships. And how true a prophecy it was! You who have smelled the camp fire smoke; who have drunk in the pure forest air, laden with the smell of the fir tree; who have dipped your paddle into untamed waters, or climbed mountains, with the knowledge that none but the red man has been there before you; or have, perchance, had to fight the wilds and nature for your very existence; you of the wilderness brotherhood can understand how the fever of exploration gets into one's blood and draws one back again to the forests and the barrens in spite of resolutions to "go no more." It was more than this, however, that lured me back to Labrador. There was the vision of dear old Hubbard as I so often saw him during our struggle through that rugged northland wilderness, wasted in form and ragged in dress, but always hopeful and eager, his undying spirit and indomitable will focused in his words to me, and I can still see him as he looked when he said them: "The work must be done, Wallace, and if one of us falls before it is completed the other must finish it." I went back to Labrador to do the work he had undertaken, but which he was not permitted to accomplish. His exhortation appealed to me as a command from my leader--a call to duty. Hubbard had planned to penetrate the Labrador peninsula from Groswater Bay, following the old northern trail of the Mountaineer Indians from Northwest River Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, situated on Groswater Bay, one hundred and forty miles inland from the eastern coast, to Lake Michikamau, thence through the lake and northward over the divide, where he hoped to locate the headwaters of the George River. It was his intention to pass down this river until he reached the hunting camps of the Nenenot or Nascaupee Indians, there witness the annual migration of the caribou to the eastern seacoast, which tradition said took place about the middle or latter part of September, and to be present at the "killing," when the Indians, it was reported, secured their winter's supply of provisions by spearing the caribou while the herds were swimming the river. The caribou hunt over, he was to have returned across country to the St. Lawrence or retrace his steps to Northwest River Post, whichever might seem advisable. Should the season, however, be too far advanced to permit of a safe return, he was to have proceeded down the river to its mouth, at Ungava Bay, and return to civilization in winter with dogs. The country through which we were to have traveled was to be mapped so far as possible, and observations made of the geological formation and of the flora, and as many specimens collected as possible. This, then, Hubbard's plan, was the plan which I adopted and which I set out to accomplish, when, in March, 1905, I finally decided to return to Labrador. It was advisable to reach Hamilton Inlet with the opening of navigation and make an early start into the country, for every possible day of the brief summer would be needed for our purpose. It was, as I fully realized, no small undertaking. Many hundreds of miles of unknown country must be traversed, and over mountains and through marshes for long distances our canoes and outfit would have to be transported upon the backs of the men comprising my party, as pack animals cannot be used in Labrador. Through immense stretches of country there would be no sustenance for them, and, in addition to this, the character of the country itself forbids their use. The personnel of the expedition required much thought. I might with one canoe and one or two professional Indian packers travel more rapidly than with men unused to exploration work, but in that case scientific research would have to be slighted. I therefore decided to sacrifice speed to thoroughness and to take with me men who, even though they might not be physically able to carry the large packs of the professional voyageur, would in other respects lend valuable assistance to the work in hand. My projected return to Labrador was no sooner announced than numerous applications came to me from young men anxious to join the expedition. After careful investigation, I finally selected as my companions George M. Richards, of Columbia University, as geologist and to aid me in the topographical work, Clifford H. Easton, who had been a student in the School of Forestry at Biltmore, North Carolina (both residents of New York), and Leigh Stanton, of Halifax, Nova Scotia, a veteran of the Boer War, whom I had met at the lumber camps in Groswater Bay, Labrador, in the winter of 1903-1904, when he was installing the electric light plant in the large lumber mill there. It was desirable to have at least one Indian in the party as woodsman, hunter and general camp servant. For this position my friend, Frank H. Keefer, of Port Arthur, Ontario, recommended to me, and at my request engaged, Peter Stevens, a full-blood Ojibway Indian, of Grand Marais, Minnesota. "Pete" arrived in New York under the wing of the railway conductor during the last week in May. In the meantime I had devoted myself to the selection and purchase of our instruments and general outfit. Everything must be purchased in advance--from canoes to repair kit--as my former experience in Labrador had taught me. It may be of interest to mention the most important items of outfit and the food supply with which we were provided: Two canvas-covered canoes, one nineteen and one eighteen feet in length; one seven by nine "A" tent, made of waterproof "balloon" silk; one tarpaulin, seven by nine feet; folding tent stove and pipe; two tracking lines; three small axes; cooking outfit, consisting of two frying pans, one mixing pan and three aluminum kettles; an aluminum plate, cup and spoon for each man; one .33 caliber high-power Winchester rifle and two 44-40 Winchester carbines (only one of these carbines was taken with us from New York, and this was intended as a reserve gun in case the party should separate and return by different routes. The other was one used by Stanton when previously in Labrador, and taken by him in addition to the regular outfit). One double barrel 12-gauge shotgun; two ten-inch barrel single shot .22 caliber pistols for partridges and small game; ammunition; tumplines; three fishing rods and tackle, including trolling outfits; one three and one-half inch gill net; repair kit, including necessary material for patching canoes, clothing, etc.; matches, and a medicine kit. The following instruments were also carried: Three minimum registering thermometers; one aneroid barometer which was tested and set for me by the United States Weather Bureau; one clinometer; one pocket transit; three compasses; one pedometer; one taffrail log; one pair binoculars; three No. 3A folding pocket Kodaks, sixty rolls of films, each roll sealed in a tin can and waterproofed, and six "Vanguard" watches mounted in dust-proof cases. Each man was provided with a sheath knife and a waterproof match box, and his personal kit, containing a pair of blankets and clothing, was carried in a waterproof canvas bag. I may say here in reference to these waterproof bags and the "balloon" silk tent that they were of the same manufacture as those used on the Hubbard expedition and for their purpose as nearly perfect as it is possible to make them. The tent weighed but nine pounds, was windproof, and, like the bags, absolutely waterproof, and the material strong and firm. Our provision supply consisted of 298 pounds of pork; 300 pounds of flour; 45 pounds of corn meal; 40 pounds of lentils; 28 pounds of rice; 25 pounds of erbswurst; 10 pounds of prunes; a few packages of dried vegetables; some beef bouillon tablets; 6 pounds of baking powder; 16 pounds of tea; 6 pounds of coffee; 15 pounds of sugar; 14 pounds of salt; a small amount of saccharin and crystallose, and 150 pounds of pemmican. Everything likely to be injured by water was packed in waterproof canvas bags. My friend Dr. Frederick A. Cook, of the Arctic Club, selected my medical kit, and instructed me in the use of its simple remedies. It was also upon the recommendation of Dr. Cook and others of my Arctic Club friends that I purchased the pemmican, which was designed as an emergency ration, and it is worth noting that one pound of pemmican, as our experience demonstrated, was equal to two or even three pounds of any other food that we carried. Its ingredients are ground dried beef, tallow, sugar, raisins and currants. We had planned to go north from St. Johns on the Labrador mail boat _Virginia Lake_, which, as I had been informed by the Reid-Newfoundland Company, was expected to sail from St. Johns on her first trip on or about June tenth. This made it necessary for us to leave New York on the Red Cross Line steamer _Rosalind_ sailing from Brooklyn on May thirtieth; and when, at eleven-thirty that Tuesday morning, the _Rosalind_ cast loose from her wharf, we and our outfit were aboard, and our journey of eleven long months was begun. As I waved farewell to our friends ashore I recalled that other day two years before, when Hubbard and I had stood on the _Silvia's_ deck, and I said to myself: "Well, this, too, is Hubbard's trip. His spirit is with me. It was he, not I, who planned this Labrador work, and if I succeed it will be because of him and his influence." I was glad to be away. With every throb of the engine my heart grew lighter. I was not thinking of the perils I was to face with my new companions in that land where Hubbard and I had suffered so much. The young men with me were filled with enthusiasm at the prospect of adventure in the silent and mysterious country for which they were bound. CHAPTER II ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE UNKNOWN "When shall we reach Rigolet, Captain?" "Before daylight, I hopes, sir, if the fog holds off, but there's a mist settling, and if it gets too thick, we may have to come to." Crowded with an unusual cargo of humanity, fishermen going to their summer work on "The Labrador" with their accompanying tackle and household goods, meeting with many vexatious delays in discharging the men and goods at the numerous ports of call, and impeded by fog and wind, the mail boat _Virginia Lake_ had been much longer than is her wont on her trip "down north." It was now June twenty-first. Six days before (June fifteenth), when we boarded the ship at St. Johns we had been informed that the steamer _Harlow_, with a cargo for the lumber mills at Kenemish, in Groswater Bay, was to leave Halifax that very afternoon. She could save us a long and disagreeable trip in an open boat, ninety miles up Groswater Bay, and I bad hoped that we might reach Rigolet in time to secure a passage for myself and party from that point. But the _Harlow_ had no ports of call to make, and it was predicted that her passage from Halifax to Rigolet would be made in four days. I had no hope now of reaching Rigolet before her, or of finding her there, and, resigned to my fate, I left the captain on the bridge and went below to my stateroom to rest until daylight. Some time in the night I was aroused by some one saying: "We're at Rigolet, sir, and there's a ship at anchor close by." Whether I had been asleep or not, I was fully awake now, and found that the captain had come to tell me of our arrival. The fog had held off and we had done much better than the captain's prediction. Hurrying into my clothes, I went on deck, from which, through the slight haze that hung over the water, I could discern the lights of a ship, and beyond, dimly visible, the old familiar line of Post buildings showing against the dark spruce-covered hills behind, where the great silent forest begins. All was quiet save for the thud, thud, thud of the oarlocks of a small boat approaching our ship and the dismal howl of a solitary "husky" dog somewhere ashore. The captain had preceded me on deck, and in answer to my inquiries as to her identity said he did not know whether the stranger at anchor was the _Harlow_ or not, but he thought it was. We had to wait but a moment, however, for the information. The small boat was already alongside, and John Groves, a Goose Bay trader and one of my friends of two years before, clambered aboard and had me by the hand. "I'm glad to see you, sir; and how is you?" Assuring him that I was quite well, I asked the name of the other ship. "The _Harlow_, sir, an' she's goin' to Kenemish with daylight." "Well, I must get aboard of her then, and try to get a passage up. Is your flat free, John, to take me aboard of her?" "Yes, sir. Step right in, sir. But I thinks you'd better go ashore, for the _Harlow's_ purser's ashore. If you can't get passage on the _Harlow_ my schooner's here doing nothin' while I goes to St. Johns for goods, and I'll have my men run you up to Nor'west River." I thanked him and lost no time in going ashore in his boat, where I found Mr. James Fraser, the factor, and received a hearty welcome. In Mr. Fraser's office I found also the purser of the _Harlow_, and I quickly arranged with him for a passage to Kenemish, which is ninety miles up the inlet, and just across Groswater Bay (twelve miles) from Northwest River Post. The _Harlow_ was to sail at daylight and I at once returned to the mail boat, called the boys and, with the help of the _Virginia's_ crew and one of their small boats, we were transferred, bag and baggage, to the _Harlow_. Owing to customs complications the _Harlow_ was later than expected in leaving Rigolet, and it was evening before she dropped anchor at Kenemish. I went ashore in the ship's boat and visited again the lumber camp "cook house" where Dr. Hardy and I lay ill throng those weary winter weeks, and where poor Hardy died. Hardy was the young lumber company doctor who treated my frozen feet in the winter of 1903-1904. Here I met Fred Blake, a Northwest River trapper. Fred had his flat, and I engaged him to take a part of our luggage to Northwest River. Then I returned to the ship to send the boys ahead with the canoes and some of our baggage, while I waited behind to follow with Fred and the rest of the kit in his flat a half hour later. Fred and I were hardly a mile from the ship when a heavy thunderstorm broke upon us, and we were soon drenching wet--the baptism of our expedition. This rain was followed by a dense fog and early darkness. On and on we rowed, and I was berating myself for permitting the men to go on so far ahead of us with the canoes, for they did not know the way and the fog had completely shut out the lights of the Post buildings, which otherwise would have been visible across the bay for a considerable distance. Suddenly through the fog and darkness, from shoreward, came a "Hello! Hello!" We answered, and heading our boat toward the sound of continued "Hellos," found the men, with the canoes unloaded and hauled ashore, preparing to make a night camp. I joined them and, launching and reloading the canoes again, with Richards and Easton in one canoe and Pete and I in the other, we followed Fred and Stanton, who preceded us in the rowboat, keeping our canoes religiously within earshot of Fred's thumping oarlocks. Finally the fog lifted, and not far away we caught a glimmer of lights at the French Post. All was dark at the Hudson Bay Post across the river when at last our canoes touched the sandy beach and we sprang ashore. What a flood of remembrances came to me as I stepped again upon the old familiar ground! How vividly I remembered that June day when Hubbard and I had first set foot on this very ground and Mackenzie had greeted us so cordially! And also that other day in November when, ragged and starved, I came here to tell of Hubbard, lying dead in the dark forest beyond! The same dogs that I had known then came running to meet us now, the faithful fellows with which I began that sad funeral journey homeward over the ice. I called some of them by name "Kumalik," "Bo'sun," "Captain," "Tinker"--and they pushed their great heads against my legs and, I believe, recognized me. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. We went immediately to the Post house and roused out Mr. Stuart Cotter, the agent (Mackenzie is no longer there), and received from him a royal welcome. He called his Post servant and instructed him to bring in our things, and while we changed our dripping clothes for dry ones, his housekeeper prepared a light supper. It was five o'clock in the morning when I retired. In the previous autumn I had written Duncan McLean, one of the four men who came to my rescue on the Susan River, that should I ever come to Labrador again and be in need of a man I would like to engage him. Cotter told me that Duncan had just come from his trapping path and was at the Post kitchen, so when we had finished breakfast, at eight o'clock that morning, I saw Duncan and, as he was quite willing to go with us, I arranged with him to accompany us a short distance into the country to help us pack over the first portage and to bring back letters. He expressed a wish to visit his father at Kenemish before starting into the country, but promised to be back the next evening ready for the start on Monday morning, the twenty-sixth, and I consented. I knew hard work was before us, and as I wished all hands to be well rested and fresh at the outset, I felt that a couple of days' idleness would do us no harm. Some five hundred yards east of Mr. Cotter's house is an old, abandoned mission chapel, and behind it an Indian burying ground. The cleared space of level ground between the house and chapel was, for a century or more, the camping ground of the Mountaineer Indians who come to the Post each spring to barter or sell their furs. In the olden time there were nearly a hundred families of them, whose hunting ground was that section of country between Hamilton Inlet and the Upper George River. These people now, for the most part, hunt south of the inlet and trade at the St. Lawrence Posts. The chapel was erected about 1872, but ten years ago the Jesuit missionary was withdrawn, and since then the building has fallen into decay and ruin, and the crosses that marked the graves in the old burying grounds have been broken down by the heavy winter snows. It was this withdrawal of the missionary that turned the Indians to the southward, where priests are more easily found. The Mountaineer Indian, unlike the Nascaupee, is very religious, and must, at least once a year, meet his father confessor. The camping ground since the abandonment of the mission, has lain lonely and deserted, save for three or four families who, occasionally in the summer season, come back again to pitch their tents where their forefathers camped and held their annual feasts in the old days. Competition between the trading companies at this point has raised the price of furs to such an extent that the few families of Indians that trade at this Post are well-to-do and very independent. There were two tents of them here when we arrived--five men and several women and children. I found two of my old friends there--John and William Ahsini. They expressed pleasure in meeting me again, and a lively interest in our trip. With Mr. Cotter acting as interpreter, John made for me a map of the old Indian trail from Grand Lake to Seal Lake, and William a map to Lake Michikamau and over the height of land to the George River, indicating the portages and principal intervening lakes as they remembered them. Seal Lake is a large lake expansion of the Nascaupee River, which river, it should be explained, is the outlet of Lake Michikamau and discharges its waters into Grand Lake and through Grand Lake into Groswater Bay. Lake Michikamau, next to Lake Mistasinni, is the largest lake in the Labrador peninsula, and approximately from eighty to ninety miles in length. Neither John nor William had been to Lake Michikamau by this route since they were young lads, but they told us that the Indians, when traveling very light without their families, used to make the journey in twenty-three days. During my previous stay in Labrador one Indian told me it could be done in ten days, while another said that Indians traveling very fast would require about thirty days. It is difficult to base calculations upon information of this kind. But I was sure that, with our comparatively heavy outfit, and the fact that we would have to find the trail for ourselves, we should require at least twice the time of the Indians, who know every foot of the way as we know our familiar city streets at home. They expressed their belief that the old trail could be easily found, and assured us that each portage, as we asked about it in detail, was a "miam potagan" (good portage), but at the same time expressed their doubts as to our ability to cross the country safely. In fact, it has always been the Indians' boast, and I have heard it many times, that no white man could go from Groswater Bay to Ungava alive without Indians to help him through. "Pete" was a Lake Superior Indian and had never run a rapid in his life. He was to spend the night with Tom Blake and his family in their snug little log cabin, and be ready for an early start up Grand Lake on the morrow. It was Tom that headed the little party sent by me up the Susan Valley to bring to the Post Hubbard's body in March, 1904; and it was through his perseverance, loyalty and hard work at the time that I finally succeeded in recovering the body. Tom's daughter, Lillie, was Mackenzie's little housekeeper, who showed me so many kindnesses then. The whole family, in fact, were very good to me during those trying days, and I count them among my true and loyal friends. We had supper with Cotter, who sang some Hudson's Bay songs, Richards sang a jolly college song or two, Stanton a "classic," and then all who could sing joined in "Auld Lang Syne." My thoughts were of that other day, when Hubbard, so full of hope, had begun this same journey-of the sunshine and fleecy clouds and beckoning fir tops, and I wondered what was in store for us now. CHAPTER III THE LAST OF CIVILIZATION The time for action had come. Our canoes were loaded near the wharf, we said good-by to Cotter and a group of native trapper friends, and as we took our places in the canoes and dipped our paddles into the waters that were to carry us northward the Post flag was run up on the flagpole as a salute and farewell, and we were away. We soon rounded the point, and Cotter and the trappers and the Post were lost to view. Duncan was to follow later in the evening in his rowboat with some of our outfit which we left in his charge. Silently we paddled through the "little lake." The clouds hung somber and dull with threatening rain, and a gentle breeze wafted to us now and again a bit of fragrance from the spruce-covered hills above us. Almost before I realized it we were at the rapid. Away to the westward stretched Grand Lake, deep and dark and still, with the rugged outline of Cape Corbeau in the distance. Tom Blake and his family, one and all, came out to give us the whole-souled, hospitable welcome of "The Labrador." Even Atikamish, the little Indian dog that Mackenzie used to have, but which he had given to Tom when he left Northwest River, was on hand to tell me in his dog language that he remembered me and was delighted to see me back. Here we would stay for the night--the last night for months that we were to sleep in a habitation of civilized man. The house was a very comfortable little log dwelling containing a small kitchen, a larger living-room which also served as a sleeping-room, and an attic which was the boys' bedroom. The house was comfortably furnished, everything clean to perfection, and the atmosphere of love and home that dwelt here was long remembered by us while we huddled in many a dreary camp during the weeks that followed. Duncan did not come that night, and it was not until ten o'clock the next morning (June twenty-seventh) that he appeared. Then we made ready for the start. Tom and his young son Henry announced their intention of accompanying us a short distance up Grand Lake in their small sailboat. Mrs. Blake gave us enough bread and buns, which she had baked especially for us, to last two or three days, and she gave us also a few fresh eggs, saying, "'Twill be a long time before you has eggs again." At half-past ten o'clock our canoes were afloat, farewell was said, and we were beyond the last fringe of civilization. The morning was depressing and the sky was overcast with low-hanging, heavy clouds, but almost with our start, as if to give us courage for our work and fire our blood, the leaden curtain was drawn aside and the deep blue dome of heaven rose above us. The sun shone warm and bright, and the smell of the fresh damp forest, the incense of the wilderness gods, was carried to us by a puff of wind from the south which enabled Duncan to hoist his sails. The rest of us bent to our paddles, and all were eager to plunge into the unknown and solve the mystery of what lay beyond the horizon. Our nineteen-foot canoe was manned by Pete in the bow, Stanton in the center and Easton in the stern, while I had the bow and Richards the stern of the eighteen-foot canoe. We paddled along the north shore of the lake, close to land. Stanton, with an eye for fresh meat, espied a porcupine near the water's edge and stopped to kill it, thus gaining the honor of having bagged the first game of the trip. At twelve o'clock we halted for luncheon, in almost the same spot where Hubbard and I had lunched when going up Grand Lake two years before. While Pete cooked bacon and eggs and made tea, Stanton and Richards dressed the porcupine for supper. After luncheon we cut diagonally across the lake to the southern shore, passed Cape Corbeau River and landed near the base of Cape Corbeau bluff, that the elevation might be taken and geological specimens secured. After making our observations we turned again toward the northern shore, where more specimens were collected. Here Tom and Henry Blake said goodby to us and turned homeward. During the afternoon Stanton and I each killed a porcupine, making three in all for the day--a good beginning in the matter of game. At sunset we landed at Watty's Brook, a small stream flowing into Grand Lake from the north, and some twenty miles above the rapid. Our progress during the day had been slow, as the wind had died away and we had, several times, to wait for Duncan to overtake us in his slower rowboat. While the rest of us "made camp" Duncan cut wood for a rousing fire, as the evening was cool, and Pete put a porcupine to boil for supper. We were a hungry crowd when we sat down to eat. I had told the boys how good porcupine was, how it resembled lamb and what a treat we were to have. But all porcupines are not alike, and this one was not within my reckoning. Tough! He was certainly "the oldest inhabitant," and after vain efforts to chew the leathery meat, we turned in disgust to bread and coffee, and Easton, at least, lost faith forever in my judgment of toothsome game, and formed a particular prejudice against porcupines which he never overcame. Pete assured us, however, that, "This porcupine, he must boil long. I boil him again to-night and boil him again to-morrow morning. Then he very good for breakfast. Porcupine fine. Old one must be cooked long." So Pete, after supper, put the porcupine on to cook some more, promising that we should find it nice and tender for breakfast. As I sat that night by the low-burning embers of our first camp fire I forgot my new companions. Through the gathering night mists I could just discern the dim outlines of the opposite shore of Grand Lake. It was over there, just west of that high spectral bluff, that Hubbard and I, on a wet July night, had pitched our first camp of the other trip. In fancy I was back again in that camp and Hubbard was talking to me and telling me of the "bully story" of the mystic land of wonders that lay "behind the ranges" he would have to take back to the world. "We're going to traverse a section no white man has ever seen," he exclaimed, "and we'll add something to the world's knowledge of geography at least, and that's worth while. No matter how little a man may add to the fund of human knowledge it's worth the doing, for it's by little bits that we've learned to know so much of our old world. There's some hard work before us, though, up there in those hills, and some hardships to meet." Ah, if we had only known! Some one said it was time to "turn in," and I was brought suddenly to a sense of the present, but a feeling of sadness possessed me when I took my place in the crowded tent, and I lay awake long, thinking of those other days. Clear and crisp was the morning of June twenty-eighth. The atmosphere was bracing and delightful, the azure of the sky above us shaded to the most delicate tints of blue at the horizon, and, here and there, bits of clouds, like bunches of cotton, flecked the sky. The sun broke grandly over the rugged hills, and the lake, like molten silver, lay before us. A fringe of ice had formed during the night along the shore. We broke it and bathed our hands and faces in the cool water, then sat down in a circle near our camp fire to renew our attack upon the porcupine, which had been sending out a most delicious odor from the kettle where Pete had it cooking. But alas for our expectations! Our teeth would make no impression upon it, and Easton remarked that "the rubber trust ought to hunt porcupines, for they are a lot tougher than rubber and just as pliable." "I don't know why," said Pete sadly. "I boil him long time." That day we continued our course along the northern shore of the lake until we reached the deep bay which Hubbard and I had failed to enter and explore on the other trip, and which failure had resulted so tragically. This bay is some five miles from the westerly end of Grand Lake, and is really the mouth of the Nascaupee and Crooked Rivers which flow into the upper end of it. There was little or no wind and we had to go slowly to permit Duncan, in his rowboat, to keep pace with us. Darkness was not far off when we reached Duncan's tilt (a small log hut), three miles up the Nascaupee River, where we stopped for the night. This is the tilt in which Allen Goudy and Duncan lived at the time they came to my rescue in 1903, and where I spent three days getting strength for my trip down Grand Lake to the Post. It is Duncan's supply base in the winter months when he hunts along the Nascaupee River, one hundred and twenty miles inland to Seal Lake. On this hunting "path" Duncan has two hundred and fifty marten and forty fox traps, and, in the spring, a few bear traps besides. The country has been burned here. Just below Duncan's tilt is a spruce-covered island, but the mainland has a stunted new growth of spruce, with a few white birch, covering the wreck of the primeval forest that was flame swept thirty odd years ago. Over some considerable areas no new growth to speak of has appeared, and the charred remains of the dead trees stand stark and gray, or lie about in confusion upon the ground, giving the country a particularly dreary and desolate appearance. The morning of June twenty-ninth was overcast and threatened rain, but toward evening the sky cleared. Progress was slow, for the current in the river here was very strong, and paddling or rowing against it was not easy. We had to stop several times and wait for Duncan to overtake us with his boat. Once he halted to look at a trap where he told us he had caught six black bears. It was nearly sunset when we reached the mouth of the Red River, nineteen miles above Grand Lake, where it flows into the Nascaupee from the west. This is a wide, shallow stream whose red-brown waters were quite in contrast to the clear waters of the Nascaupee. Opposite the mouth of the Red River, and on the eastern shore of the Nascaupee, is the point where the old Indian trail was said to begin, and on a knoll some fifty feet above the river we saw the wigwam poles of an old Indian camp, and a solitary grave with a rough fence around it. Here we landed and awaited Duncan, who had stopped at another of his trapping tilts three or four hundred yards below. When he joined us a little later, in answer to my inquiry as to whether this was the beginning of the old trail, he answered, "'Tis where they says the Indians came out, and some of the Indians has told me so. I supposes it's the place, sir." "But have you never hunted here yourself?" I asked. "No, sir, I've never been in here at all. I travels right past up the Nascaupee. All I knows about it, sir, is what they tells me. I always follows the Nascaupee, sir." Above us rose a high, steep hill covered for two-thirds of the way from its base with a thick growth of underbrush, but quite barren on top save for a few bunches of spruce brush. The old trail, unused for eight or ten years, headed toward the hill and was quite easily traced for some fifty yards from the old camp. Then it disappeared completely in a dense undergrowth of willows, alders and spruce. While Pete made preparation for our supper and Duncan unloaded his boat and hauled it up preparatory to leaving it until his return from the interior, the rest of us tried to follow the trail through the brush. But beyond where the thick undergrowth began there was nothing at all that, to us, resembled a trail. Finally, I instructed Pete to go with Richards and see what he could do while the rest of us made camp. Pete started ahead, forging his way through the thick growth. In ten minutes I heard him shout from the hillside, "He here--I find him," and saw Pete hurrying up the steep incline. When Richards and Pete returned an hour later we had camp pitched and supper cooking. They reported the trail, as far as they had gone, very rough and hard to find. For some distance it would have to be cut out with an ax, and nowhere was it bigger than a rabbit run. Duncan rather favored going as far, as Seal Lake by the trail that he knew and which followed the Nascaupee. This trail he believed to be much easier than the long unused Indian trail, which was undoubtedly in many places entirely obscured and in any case extremely difficult to follow. I dismissed his suggestion, however, with little consideration. My, object was to trace the old Indian trail and explore as much of the country as possible, and not to hide myself in an enclosed river valley. Therefore, I decided that next day we should scout ahead to the first water to which the trail led and cut out the trail where necessary. The work I knew would be hard, but we were expecting to do hard work. We were not on a summer picnic. A rabbit which Stanton had shot and a spruce grouse that fell before Pete's pistol, together with what remained of our porcupine, hot coffee, and Mrs. Blake's good bread, made a supper that we ate with zest while we talked over the prospects of the trail. Supper finished, Pete carefully washed his dishes, then carefully washed his dishcloth, which latter he hung upon a bough near the fire to dry. His cleanliness about his cooking was a revelation to me. I had never before seen a camp man or guide so neat in this respect. The real work of the trip was now to begin, the hard portaging, the trail finding and trail making, and we were to break the seal of a land that had, through the ages, held its secret from all the world, excepting the red man. This is what we were thinking of when we gathered around our camp fire that evening, and filled and lighted our pipes and puffed silently while we watched the newborn stars of evening come into being one by one until the arch of heaven was aglow with the splendor of a Labrador night. And when we at length went to our bed of spruce boughs it was to dream of strange scenes and new worlds that we were to conquer. CHAPTER IV ON THE OLD INDIAN TRAIL Next morning we scouted ahead and found that the trail led to a small lake some five and a half miles beyond our camp. For a mile or so the brush was pretty thick and the trail was difficult to follow, but beyond that it was comparatively well defined though exceedingly steep, the hill rising to an elevation of one thousand and fifty feet above the Nascaupee River in the first two miles. We had fifteen hundred pounds of outfit to carry upon our backs, and I realized that at first we should have to trail slowly and make several loads of it, for, with the exception of Pete, none of the men was in training. The work was totally different from anything to which they had been accustomed, and as I did not wish to break their spirits or their ardor, I instructed them to carry only such packs as they could walk under with perfect ease until they should become hardened to the work. The weather had been cool and bracing, but as if to add to our difficulties the sun now boiled down, and the black flies--"the devil's angels" some one called them, came in thousands to feast upon the newcomers and make life miserable for us all. Duncan was as badly treated by them as any of us, although he belonged to the country, and I overheard him swearing at a lively gait soon after the little beasts began their attacks. "Why, Duncan," said I, "I didn't know you swore." "I does, sir, sometimes--when things makes me," he replied. "But it doesn't help matters any to swear, does it?" "No, sir, but" (swatting his face) "damn the flies--it's easin' to the feelin's to swear sometimes." On several occasions after this I heard Duncan "easin' his feelin's" in long and astounding bursts of profane eloquence, but he did try to moderate his language when I was within earshot. Once I asked him: "Where in the world did you learn to swear like that, Duncan?" "At the lumber camps, sir," he replied. In the year I had spent in Labrador I had never before heard a planter or native of Groswater Bay swear. But this explained it. The lumbermen from "civilization" were educating them. At one o'clock on July first, half our outfit was portaged to the summit of the hill and we ate our dinner there in the broiling sun, for we were above the trees, which ended some distance below us. It was fearfully hot--a dead, suffocating heat--with not a breath of wind to relieve the stifling atmosphere, and some one asked what the temperature was. "Eighty-seven in the shade, but no shade," Richards remarked as he threw down his pack and consulted the thermometer where I had placed it under a low bush. "I'll swear it's a hundred and fifty in the sun." During dinner Pete pointed to the river far below us, saying, "Look! Indian canoe." I could not make it out without my binoculars, but with their aid discerned a canoe on the river, containing a solitary paddler. None of us, excepting Pete, could see the canoe without the glasses, at which he was very proud and remarked: "No findin' glass need me. See far, me. See long way off." On other occasions, afterward, I had reason to marvel at Pete's clearness of vision. It was John Ahsini in the canoe, as we discovered later when he joined us and helped Stanton up the hill with his last pack to our night camp on the summit. I invited John to eat supper with us and he accepted the invitation. He told us he was hunting "moshku" (bear) and was camped at the mouth of the Red River. He assured us that we would find no more hills like this one we were on, and, pointing to the northward, said, "Miam potagan" (good portage) and that we would find plenty "atuk" (caribou), "moshku" and "mashumekush" (trout). After supper I gave John some "stemmo," and he disappeared down the trail to join his wife in their wigwam below. We were all of us completely exhausted that night. Stanton was too tired to eat, and lay down upon the bare rocks to sleep. Pete stretched our tent wigwam fashion on some old Indian tepee poles, and, without troubling ourselves to break brush for a bed, we all soon joined Stanton in a dreamless slumber upon his rocky couch. The night, like the day, was very warm, and when I aroused Pete at sunrise the next morning (July second) to get breakfast the mosquitoes were about our heads in clouds. A magnificent panorama lay before us. Opposite, across the valley of the Nascaupee, a great hill held its snow-tipped head high in the heavens. Some four miles farther up to the northwest, the river itself, where it was choked with blocks of ice, made its appearance and threaded its way down to the southeast until it was finally lost in the spruce-covered valley. Beyond, bits of Grand Lake, like silver settings in the black surrounding forest, sparkled in the light of the rising sun. Away to the westward could be traced the rushing waters of the Red River making their course down through the sandy ridges that enclose its valley. To the northward lay a great undulating wilderness, the wilderness that we were to traverse. It was Sunday morning, and the holy stillness of the day engulfed our world. When Pete had the fire going and the kettle singing I roused the boys and told them we would make this, our first Sunday in the bush, an easy one, and simply move our camp forward to a more hospitable and sheltered spot by a little brook a mile up the trail, and then be ready for the "tug of war" on Monday. In accordance with this plan, after eating our breakfast we each carried a light pack to our new camping ground, and there pitched our tent by a tiny brook that trickled down through the rocks. While Stanton cooked dinner, Pete brought forward a second pack. After we had eaten, Richards suggested to Pete that they take the fish net ahead and set it in the little lake which was still some two and a half miles farther on the trail. They had just returned when a terrific thunderstorm broke upon us, and every moment we expected the tent to be carried away by the gale that accompanied the downpour of rain. It was then that Richards remembered that he had left his blankets to dry upon the tepee poles at the last camp. The rain ceased about five o'clock, and Duncan volunteered to return with Richards and help him recover his blankets, which they found far from dry. Mosquitoes, it seemed to me, were never so numerous or vicious as after this thunderstorm. We had head nets that were a protection from them generally, but when we removed the nets to eat, the attacks of the insects were simply insufferable, so we had our supper in the tent. After our meal was finished and Pete had washed the dishes, I read aloud a chapter from the Bible--a Sunday custom that was maintained throughout the trip--and Stanton sang some hymns. Then we prevailed upon him to entertain us with other songs. He had an excellent tenor voice and a repertoire ranging from "The Holy City" to "My Brother Bob," and these and some of the old Scotch ballads, which he sang well, were favorites that he was often afterward called upon to render as we gathered around our evening camp fire, smoking our pipes and drinking in the tonic fragrance of the great solemn forest around us after a day of hard portaging. These impromptu concerts, story telling, and reading aloud from two or three "vest pocket" classics that I carried, furnished our entertainment when we were not too tired to be amused. The rain cleared the atmosphere, and Monday was cool and delightful, and, with the exception of two or three showers, a perfect day. Camp was moved and our entire outfit portaged to the first small lake. Our net, which Pete and Richards had set the day before, yielded us nothing, but with my rod I caught enough trout for a sumptuous supper. The following morning (July fourth) Pete and I, who arose at half-past four, had just finished preparing breakfast of fried pork, flapjacks and coffee, and I had gone to the tent to call the others, when Pete came rushing after me in great excitement, exclaiming, "Caribou! Rifle quick!" He grabbed one of the 44's and rushed away and soon we heard bang-bang-bang seven times from up the lake shore. It was not long before Pete returned with a very humble bearing and crestfallen countenance, and without a word leaned the rifle against a tree and resumed his culinary operations. "Well, Pete," said I, "how many caribou did you kill?" "No caribou. Miss him," he replied. "But I heard seven shots. How did you miss so many times?" I asked. "Miss him," answered Pete. "I see caribou over there, close to water, run fast, try get lee side so he don't smell me. Water in way. Go very careful, make no noise, but he smell me. He hold his head up like this. He sniff, then he start. He go through trees very quick. See him, me, just little when he runs through trees. Shoot seven times. Hit him once, not much. He runs off. No good follow. Not hurt much, maybe goes very far." "You had caribou fever, Pete," suggested Richards. "Yes," said Easton, "caribou fever, sure thing." "I don't believe you'd have hit him if he hadn't winded you," Stanton remarked. "The trouble with you, Pete, is you can't shoot." "No caribou fever, me," rejoined Pete, with righteous indignation at such a suggestion. "Kill plenty moose, kill red deer; never have moose fever, never have deer fever." Then turning to me he asked, "You want caribou, Mr. Wallace?" "Yes," I answered, "I wish we could get some fresh meat, but we can wait a few days. We have enough to eat, and I don't want to take time to hunt now." "Plenty signs. I get caribou any day you want him. Tell me when you want him, I kill him," Pete answered me, ignoring the criticisms of the others as to his marksmanship and hunting prowess. All that day and all the next the men let no opportunity pass to guy Pete about his lost caribou, and on the whole he took the banter very good-naturedly, but once confided to me that "if those boys get up early, maybe they see caribou too and try how much they can do." After breakfast Pete and I paddled to the other end of the little lake to pick up the trail while the others broke camp. In a little while he located it, a well-defined path, and we walked across it half a mile to another and considerably larger lake in which was a small, round, moundlike, spruce-covered island so characteristic of the Labrador lakes. On our way back to the first lake Pete called my attention to a fresh caribou track in the hard earth. It was scarcely distinguishable, and I had to look very closely to make it out. Then he showed me other signs that I could make nothing of at all--a freshly turned pebble or broken twig. These, he said, were fresh deer signs. A caribou had passed toward the larger lake that very morning. "If you want him, I get him," said Pete. I could see he felt rather deeply his failure of the morning and that he was anxious to redeem himself. I wanted to give him the opportunity to do so, especially as the young men, unused to deprivations, were beginning to crave fresh meat as a relief from the salt pork. At the same time, however, I felt that the fish we were pretty certain to get from this time on would do very well for the present, and I did not care to take time to hunt until we were a little deeper into the country. Therefore I told him, "No, we will wait a day or two." Pete, as I soon discovered, had an insatiable passion for hunting, and could never let anything in the way of game pass him without qualms of regret. Sometimes, where a caribou trail ran off plain and clear in the moss, it was hard to keep from running after it. Nothing ever escaped his ear or eye. He had the trained senses and instincts of the Indian hunter. When I first saw him in New York he looked so youthful and evidently had so little confidence in himself, answering my question as to whether he could do this or that with an aggravating "I don't know," that I felt a keen sense of disappointment in him. But with every stage of our journey he had developed, and now was in his element. He was quite a different individual from the green Indian youth whom I had first seen walking timidly beside the railway conductor at the Grand Central Station in New York. The portage between the lakes was an easy one and, as I have said, well defined, and we reached the farther shore of the second lake early in the afternoon. Here we found an old Indian camping ground covering several acres. It had evidently been at one time a general rendezvous of the Indians hunting in this section, as was indicated by the large number of wigwams that had been pitched here. That was a long while ago, however, for the old poles were so decayed that they fell into pieces when we attempted to pick them up. There was no sign of a trail leading from the old camp ground, and I sent Pete and Richards to circle the bush and endeavor to locate one that I knew was somewhere about, while I fished and Stanton and Duncan prepared an early supper. A little later the two men returned, unsuccessful in their quest. They had seen two or three trails, any of which might be our trail. Of course but one of them _could_ be the right one. This report was both perplexing and annoying, for I did not wish to follow for several days a wrong route and then discover the error when much valuable time had been lost. I therefore decided that we must be sure of our position before proceeding, and early the following morning dispatched Richards and Pete on a scouting expedition to a high hill some distance to the northeast that they might, from that view-point, note the general contour of the land and the location of any visible chain of lakes leading to the northwest through which the Indian trail might pass, and then endeavor to pick up the trail from one of these lakes, noting old camping grounds and other signs. As a precaution, in case they were detained over night each carried some tea and some erbswurst, a rifle, a cup at his belt and a compass. When Pete took the rifle he held it up meaningly and said, "Fresh meat to-night. Caribou," and I could see that he was planning to make a hunt of it. When they were gone, I took Easton with me and climbed another hill nearer camp, that I might get a panoramic view of the valley in which we were camped. From this vantage ground I could see, stretching off to the northward, a chain of three or four small lakes which, I concluded, though there was other water visible, undoubtedly marked our course. Far to the northwest was a group of rugged, barren, snow-capped mountains which were, perhaps, the "white hills," behind which the Indians had told us lay Seal Lake. At our feet, sparkling in the sunlight, spread the lake upon whose shores our tent, a little white dot amongst the green trees, was pitched. A bit of smoke curled up from our camp fire, where I knew Stanton and Duncan were baking "squaw bread." We returned to camp to await the arrival and report of Richards and Pete, and occupied the afternoon in catching trout which, though more plentiful than in the first lake, were very small. Toward evening, when a stiff breeze blew in from the lake and cleared the black flies and mosquitoes away. Easton took a canoe out, stripped, and sprang into the water, while I undressed on shore and was in the midst of a most refreshing bath when, suddenly, the wind died away and our tormentors came upon us in clouds. It was a scramble to get into our clothes again, but before I succeeded in hiding my nakedness from them, I was pretty severely wounded. It was scarcely six o'clock when Richards and Pete walked into camp and proudly threw down some venison. Pete had kept his promise. On the lookout at every step for game, he had espied an old stag, and, together, he and Richards had stalked it, and it had received bullets from both their rifles. I shall not say to which hunter belonged the honor of killing the game. They were both very proud of it. But best of all, they had found, to a certainty, the trail leading to one of the chain of little lakes which Easton and I had seen, and these lakes, they reported, took a course directly toward a larger lake, which they had glimpsed. I decided that this must be the lake of which the Indians at Northwest River had told us--Lake Nipishish (Little Water). This was very gratifying intelligence, as Nipishish was said to be nearly half way to Seal Lake, from where we had begun our portage on the Nascaupee. What a supper we had that night of fresh venison, and new "squaw bread," hot from the pan! In the morning we portaged our outfit two miles, and removed our camp to the second one of the series of lakes which Easton and I had seen from the hill, and the fourth lake after leaving the Nascaupee River. The morning was fearfully hot, and we floundered through marshes with heavy packs, bathed in perspiration, and fairly breathing flies and mosquitoes. Not a breath of air stirred, and the humidity and heat were awful. Stanton and Duncan remained to pitch the tent and bring up some of our stuff that had been left at the second lake, while Richards, Easton, Pete and I trudged three miles over the hills for the caribou meat which had been cached at the place where the animal was killed, Richards and Pete having brought with them only enough for two or three meals. The country here was rough and broken, with many great bowlders scattered over the hilltops. When we reached the cache we were ravenously hungry, and built a fire and had a very satisfying luncheon of broiled venison steak and tea. We bad barely finished our meal when heavy black clouds overcast the sky, and the wind and rain broke upon us in the fury of a hurricane. With the coming of the storm the temperature dropped fully forty degrees in half as many minutes, and in our dripping wet garments we were soon chilled and miserable. We hastened to cut the venison up and put it into packs, and with each a load of it, started homeward. On the way I stopped with Pete to climb a peak that I might have a view of the surrounding country and see the large lake to the northward which he and Richards had reported the evening before. The atmosphere was sufficiently clear by this time for me to see it, and I was satisfied that it was undoubtedly Lake Nipishish, as no other large lake had been mentioned by the Indians. We hastened down the mountain and made our way through rain-soaked bushes and trees that showered us with their load of water at every step, and when at last we reached camp and I threw down my pack, I was too weary to change my wet garments for dry ones, and was glad to lie down, drenched as I was, to sleep until supper was ready. None of our venison must be wasted. All that we could not use within the next day or two must be "jerked," that is, dried, to keep it from spoiling. To accomplish this we erected poles, like the poles of a wigwam, and suspended the meat from them, cut in thin strips, and in the center, between the poles, made a small, smoky fire to keep the greenbottle flies away, that they might not "blow" the venison, as well as to aid nature in the drying process. All day on July seventh the rain poured down, a cold, northwest wind blew, and no progress was made in drying our meat. There was nothing to do but wait in the tent for the storm to clear. When Pete went out to cook dinner I told him to make a little corn meal porridge and let it go at that, but what a surprise he had for us when, a little later, dripping wet and hands full of kettles, he pushed his way into the tent! A steaming venison potpie, broiled venison steaks, hot fried bread dough, stewed prunes for dessert and a kettle of hot tea! All experienced campers in the north woods are familiar with the fried bread dough. It is dough mixed as you would mix it for squaw bread, but not quite so stiff, pulled out to the size of your frying pan, very thin, and fried in swimming pork grease. In taste it resembles doughnuts. Hubbard used to call it "French toast." Our young men had never eaten it before, and Richards, taking one of the cakes, asked Pete: "What do you call this?" "I don't know," answered Pete. "Well," said Richards, with a mouthful of it, "I call it darn good." "That's what we call him then," retorted Pete, "darn good." And so the cakes were christened "darn goods," and always afterward we referred to them by that name. The forest fire which I have mentioned as having swept this country to the shores of Grand Lake some thirty-odd years ago, had been particularly destructive in this portion of the valley where we were now encamped. The stark dead spruce trees, naked skeletons of the old forest, stood all about, and that evening, when I stepped outside for a look at the sky and weather, I was impressed with the dreariness of the scene. The wind blew in gusts, driving the rain in sheets over the face of the hills and through the spectral trees, finally dashing it in bucketfuls against our tent. The next forenoon, however, the sky cleared, and in the afternoon Richards and I went ahead in one of the canoes to hunt the trail. We followed the north shore of the lake to its end, then portaged twenty yards across a narrow neck into another lake, and keeping near the north shore of this lake also, continued until we came upon a creek of considerable size running out of it and taking a southeasterly course. Where the creek left the lake there was an old Indian fishing camp. It was out of the question that our trail should follow the valley of this creek, for it led directly away from our goal. We, therefore, returned and explored a portion of the north shore of the lake, which was very bare, bowlder strewn, and devoid of vegetation for the most part--even moss. Once we came upon a snow bank in a hollow, and cooled ourselves by eating some of the snow. Our observations made it quite certain that the trail left the northern side of the second lake through a bowlder-strewn pass over the hills, though there were no visible signs of it, and we climbed one of the hills in the hope of seeing lakes beyond. There were none in sight. It was too late to continue our search that day and we reluctantly returned to camp. Our failure was rather discouraging because it meant a further loss of time, and I had hoped that our route, until we reached Nipishish at least, would lie straight and well defined before us. Sunday was comfortably cool, with a good stiff breeze to drive away the flies. I dispatched Richards, with Pete and Easton to accompany him, to follow up our work of the evening before, and look into the pass through the hills, while I remained behind with Stanton and Duncan and kept the fire going under our venison. I Had expected that Duncan, with his lifelong experience as a native trapper and hunter in the Labrador interior, would be of great assistance to us in locating the trail; but to my disappointment I discovered soon after our start that he was far from good even in following a trail when it was found, though he never got lost and could always find his way back, in a straight line, to any given point. The boys returned toward evening and reported that beyond the hills, through the pass, lay a good-sized lake, and that some signs of a trail were found leading to it. This was what I had hoped for. Our meat was now sufficiently dried to pack, and, anxious to be on the move again, I directed that on the morrow we should break camp and cross the hills to the lakes beyond. CHAPTER V WE GO ASTRAY At half-past four on Monday morning I called the men, and while Pete was preparing breakfast the rest of us broke camp and made ready for a prompt start. All were anxious to see behind the range of bowlder-covered hills and to reach Lake Nipishish, which we felt could not now be far away. As soon as our meal was finished the larger canoe was loaded and started on ahead, while Richards, Duncan and I remained behind to load and follow in the other. With the rising sun the day had become excessively warm, and there was not a breath of wind to cool the stifling atmosphere. The trail was ill-defined and rough, winding through bare glacial bowlders that were thick-strewn on the ridges; and the difficulty of following it, together with the heat, made the work seem doubly hard, as we trudged with heavy packs to the shores of a little lake which nestled in a notch between the bills a mile and a half away. Once a fox ran before us and took refuge in its den under a large rock, but save the always present cloud of black flies, no other sign of life was visible on the treeless hills. Finally at midday, after three wearisome journeys back and forth, bathed in perspiration and dripping fly dope and pork grease, which we had rubbed on our faces pretty freely as a protection from the winged pests, we deposited our last load upon the shores of the lake, and thankfully stopped to rest and cook our dinner. We were still eating when we heard the first rumblings of distant thunder and felt the first breath of wind from a bank of black clouds in the western sky, and had scarcely started forward again when the heavens opened upon us with a deluge. The brunt of the storm soon passed, but a steady rain continued as we paddled through the lake and portaged across a short neck of land into a larger lake, down which we paddled to a small round island near its lower end. Here, drenched to the bone and thoroughly tired, we made camp, and in the shelter of the tent ate a savory stew composed of duck, grouse, venison and fat pork that Pete served in the most appetizing camp style. I was astounded by the amount of squaw bread and "darn goods" that the young men of my party made away with, and began to fear not only for the flour supply, but also for the health of the men. One day when I saw one of my party eat three thick loaves of squaw bread in addition to a fair quantity of meat, I felt that it was time to limit the flour part of the ration. I expressed my fears to Pete, and advised that he bake less bread, and make the men eat more of the other food. "Bread very good for Indian. Not good when white an eat so much. Good way fix him. Use not so much baking powder, me. Make him heavy," suggested Pete. "No, Pete, use enough baking powder to make the bread good, and I'll speak to the men. Then if they don't eat less bread of their own accord, we'll have to limit them to a ration." I decided to try this plan, and that evening in our camp on the island I told them that a ration of bread would soon have to be resorted to. They looked very solemn about it, for the bare possibility of a limited ration, something that they had never had to submit to, appeared like a hardship to them. On Tuesday morning when we awoke the rain was still falling steadily. During the forenoon the storm abated somewhat and we broke camp and transferred our goods to the mainland, where the trail left the lake near a good-sized brook. Our portage led us over small bills and through marshes a mile and a half to another lake. While Pete remained at our new camp to prepare supper and Easton stayed with him, the rest of us brought forward the last load. Richards and I with a canoe and packs attempted to run down the brook, which emptied into the lake near our camp; but we soon found the stream too rocky, and were forced to cut our way through a dense growth of willows and carry the canoe and packs to camp on our backs. The rain had ceased early in the afternoon, and the evening was delightfully cool, so that the warmth of a big camp fire was most grateful and comforting. Our day's march had carried us into a well-wooded country, and the spectral dry sticks of the old burnt forest were behind us. The clouds hung low and threatening, and in the twilight beyond the glow of our leaping fire made the still waters of the lake, with its encircling wilderness of fir trees, seem very dark and somber. The genial warmth of the fire was so in contrast to the chilly darkness of the tent that we sat long around it and talked of our travels and prospects and the lake and the wilderness before us that no white man had ever before seen, while the brook near by tumbling over its rocky bed roared a constant complaint at our intrusion into this land of solitude. The following morning was cool and fine, but showers developed during the day. Our venison, improderly dried, was molding, and much of it we found, upon unpacking, to be maggoty. After breakfast I instructed the others to cut out the wormy parts as far as possible and hang the good meat over the fire for further drying, while with Easton I explored a portion of the lake shore in search of the trail leading out. We returned for a late dinner, and then while Easton, Richards and I caught trout, I dispatched Pete and Stanton to continue the search beyond the point where Easton and I had left off. It was near evening when they came back with the information that they had found the trail, very difficult to follow, leading to a river, some two miles and a half beyond our camp. This was undoubtedly the Crooked River, which empties into Grand Lake close to the Nascaupee, and which the Indians had told us had its rise in Lake Nipishish. The evening was very warm, and mosquitoes were so thick in the tent that we almost breathed them. Stanton, after much turning and fidgeting, finally took his blanket out of doors, where he said it was cooler and he could sleep with his head covered to protect him; but in an hour he was back, and with his blanket wet with dew took his usual place beside me. Below the point where the trail enters the Crooked River it is said by the Indians to be exceedingly rough and entirely impassable. We portaged into it the next morning, paddled a short distance up the stream, which is here some two hundred yards in width and rather shallow, then poled through a short rapid and tracked through two others, wading almost to our waists in some places. We now came to a widening of the river where it spread out into a small lake. Near the upper end of this expansion was an island upon which we found a long-disused log cache of the Indians. A little distance above the island what appeared to be two rivers flowed into the expansion. Richards, Duncan and I explored up the right-hand branch until we struck a rapid. Upon our return to the point where the two streams came together we found that the other canoe, against my positive instructions not to proceed at uncertain points until I had decided upon the proper route to take, had gone up the branch on the left, tracked through a rapid and disappeared. There were no signs of Indians on either of these branches so far as we could discover, and I was well satisfied that somewhere on the north bank of the expansion, probably not far from the island and old cache which we had passed, was the trail. But evening was coming on and rain was threatening, so there was nothing to do but follow the other canoe, which had gone blindly ahead, until we should overtake it, as it contained all the cooking utensils and our tent. This failure of the men to obey instructions took us a considerable distance out of our way and cost us several days' time, as we discovered later. We tracked through some rapids and finally overhauled the others at a place where the river branched again. It was after seven o'clock, a drizzling rain was falling, and here we pitched camp on the east side of the river just opposite the junction of the two branches. On the west fork and directly across from our camp was a rough rapid, and while supper was cooking I paddled over with Richards to try for fish. We made our casts, and I quickly landed a twenty-inch ouananiche and Richards hooked a big trout that, after much play, was brought ashore. It measured twenty-two and a half inches from tip to tip and eleven and a half inches around the shoulders. I had landed a couple more large trout, when Richards enthusiastically announced that he had a big fellow hooked. He played the fish for half an hour before he brought it to the edge of the rock, so completely exhausted that it could scarcely move a fin. We had no landing net and he attempted to lift it out by the line, when snap went the hook and the fish was free! I made a dash, caught it in my hands and triumphantly brought it ashore. It proved to be an ouananiche that measured twenty-seven and one-half inches in length by eleven and one-quarter inches in girth. In our excitement we had forgotten all about supper and did not even know that it was raining; but we now saw Pete on the further shore gesticulating wildly and pointing at his open mouth, in pantomime suggestion that the meal was waiting. "Well, that _is_ fishing!" remarked Richards. "I never landed a fish as big as that before." "Yes," I answered; "we're getting near the headwaters of the river now, where the big fish are always found." "I never expected any such sport as that. It's worth the hard work just for this hour's fishing." "You'll get plenty more of it before we're through the country. There are some big fellows under that rapid. The Indians told us we should find salmon in this section too, but we're ahead of the salmon, I think. They're hardly due for a month yet." "Let's show the fellows the trout, first. They're big enough to make 'em open their eyes. Then we'll spring the ouananiche on 'cm and they'll faint. It'll, be enough to make Easton want to come and try a cast too." So when we pushed through the dripping bushes to the tent we presented only the few big trout, which did indeed create a sensation. Then Richards brought forward his ouananiche, and it produced the desired effect. After supper Pete and Easton must try their hand at the fish, and they succeeded in catching five trout averaging, we estimated, from two to three pounds each. Richards, however, still held the record as to big fish, both trout and ouananiche, and the others vowed they would take it from him if they had to fish nights to do it. _En route_ up the river, in the afternoon, Pete had shot a muskrat, and I asked him that night what he was going to do with it. "I don't know," he answered. "Muskrat no good now." "Well, never kill any animal while you are with me that you cannot use, except beasts of prey." This was one of the rules that I had laid down at the beginning: that no member of the party should kill for the sake of killing any living thing. I could not be angry with Pete, however, for he was always so goodnatured. No matter how sharply I might reprove him, in five minutes he would be doing something for my comfort, or singing some Indian song as he went lightheartedly about his work. I understood how hard it was for him to down the Indian instinct to kill, and that the muskrat bad been shot thoughtlessly without considering for a moment whether it were needed or not. The flesh of the muskrat at this season of the year is very strong in flavor and unpalatable, and besides, with the grouse that were occasionally killed, the fish that we were catching, and the dried venison still on hand, we could not well use it. No fur is, of course, in season at this time of year, and so there was no excuse for killing muskrats for the pelts. In the vicinity of this camp we saw some of the largest spruce timber that we came upon in the whole journey across Labrador. Some of these trees were fully twenty-two inches in diameter at the butt and perhaps fifty to sixty feet in height. These large trees were very scattered, however, and too few to be of commercial value. For the most part the trees that we met with were six to eight, and, occasionally, ten inches through, scrubby and knotted. In Labrador trees worth the cutting are always located near streams in sheltered valleys. That evening before we retired the drizzle turned to a downpour, and we were glad to leave our unprotected camp fire for the unwarmed shelter of our tent. While I lay within and listened to the storm, I wrote in my diary: "As I lie here, the rain pours upon the tent over my head and drips--drips--drips through small holes in the silk; the wind sweeps through the spruce trees outside and a breath of the fragrance of the great damp forest comes to me. I hear the roar of the rapid across the river as the waters pour down over the rocks in their course to the sea. I wonder if some of those very waters do not wash the shores of New York. How far away the city seems, and how glad I shall be to return home when my work here is finished! "This is a feeling that comes to one often in the wilderness. Perhaps it is a touch of homesickness--a hunger for the sympathy and companionship of our friends." The days that followed were days of weary waiting and inactivity. A cold northeast storm was blowing and the rain fell heavily and incessantly day and night. Trail hunting was impracticable while the storm lasted, but the halt offered an opportunity that was taken advantage of to repair our outfit; also there was much needed mending to be done, as some of our clothing was badly torn. Everything we had in the way of wearing apparel was wet, and we set up our tent stove for the first time, that we might dry our things under cover. This stove proved a great comfort to us, and all agreed that it was an inspiration that led me to bring it. It was not an inspiration, however, but my experience on the trip with Hubbard that taught the necessity of a stove for just such occasions as this, and for the colder weather later. Some of us went to the rapid to fish, but it was too cold for either fly or bait, and we soon gave it up. I slipped off a rock in the lower swirl of the rapid, and went into the river over head and ears. Pete, who was with me, gave audible expression to his amusement at my discomfiture as I crawled out of the water like a half drowned rat; but I could see no occasion for his hilarity and I told him so. This experience dampened my enthusiasm as a fisherman for that day. The net was set, however, which later yielded us some trout. A fish planked on a dry spruce log hewn flat on one side, made a delicious dinner, and a savory kettle of fish chowder made of trout and dried onions gave us an equally good supper. On July fifteenth sleet was mingled with the rain in the early morning, and it was so cold that Duncan used his mittens when doing outdoor work. Easton was not feeling well, and I looked upon our delay as not altogether lost time, as it gave him an opportunity to get into shape again. A pocket copy of "Hiawatha," from which Stanton read aloud, furnished us with entertainment. Pete was very much interested in the reading, and I found he was quite familiar with the legends of his Indian hero, and he told us some stories of Hiawatha that I had never heard. "Hiawatha," said Pete, "he the same as Christ. He do anything he want to." Pete produced his harmonica and proved himself a very good performer. July sixteenth was Sunday, and I decided that rain or shine we must break camp on Monday and move forwards for the inactivity was becoming unendurable. A little fishing was done, and Pete landed a twenty-two and three-quarter inch trout, thus wresting the big-trout record from Richards. Pete was proud and boasted a great deal of this feat, which he claimed proved his greater skill as a fisherman, but which the others attributed to luck. We were enabled to do some scouting in the afternoon, which resulted in the discovery that our camp was on an island. Nowhere could we find any Indian signs, and we were therefore quite evidently off the trail. CHAPTER VI LAKE NIPISHISH IS REACHED As already stated, the Indians at Northwest River Post had informed us that the Crooked River had its rise in Lake Nipishish, and I therefore decided to follow the stream from the point where we were now encamped to the lake, or until we should come upon the trail again, as I felt sure we should do farther up, rather than retrace our steps to the abandoned cache on the island in the expansion below, and probably consume considerable time in locating the old portage route from that point. Accordingly, on Monday morning we began our work against the almost continuous rapids, which we discovered as we proceeded were characteristic of the river. A heavy growth of willows lined the banks, forcing us into the icy water, where the swift current made it very difficult to keep our footing upon the slippery bowlders of the river bed. Tracking lines were attached to the bows of the canoes and we floundered forward. The morning was cloudy and cool and resembled a day in late October, but before noon the sun graciously made his appearance and gave us new spirit for our work. When we stopped for dinner I sent Pete and Easton to look ahead, and Pete brought back the intelligence that a half-mile portage would cut off a considerable bend in the river and take us into still water. It was necessary to clear a portion of the way with the ax. This done, the portage was made, and then we found to our disappointment that the still water was less than a quarter mile in length, when rapids occurred again. As I deemed it wise to get an idea of the lay of the land before proceeding farther, I took Pete with me and went ahead to scout the route. Less than a mile away we found two small lakes, and climbing a ridge two miles farther on, we had a view of the river, which, so far as we could see, continued to be very rough, taking a turn to the westward above where our canoes were stationed, and then swinging again to the northeast in the direction of Nipishish, which was plainly visible. The Indians, instead of taking the longer route that we were following, undoubtedly crossed from the old cache to a point in the river some distance above where it took its westward swing, and thus, in one comparatively easy portage, saved themselves several miles of rough traveling. It was too late for us now, however, to take advantage of this. Pete and I hurried back to the others. The afternoon was well advanced, but sufficient daylight remained to permit us to proceed a little way up the river, and portage to the shores of one of the lakes, where camp was made just at dusk. Field mice in this section were exceedingly troublesome. They would run over us at night, sample our food, and gnawed a hole as large as a man's hand in the side of the tent. Porcupines, too, were something of a nuisance. One night one of them ate a piece out of my tumpline, which was partially under my head, while I slept. The next morning we passed through the lakes to the river above, and for three days, in spite of an almost continuous rain and wind storm, worked our way up stream, "tracking" the canoes through a succession of rapids or portaging around them, with scarcely any opportunity to paddle. On the afternoon of the third day, with the wind dashing the rain in sheets into our faces, we halted on a rough piece of ground just above the river bank and pitched our tent. When camp was made Pete took me to a rise of ground a little distance away, and pointing to the northward exclaimed: "Look, Lake Nipishish! I know we reach him to-day." And sure enough, there lay Lake Nipishish close at hand! I was more thankful than I can say to see the water stretching far away to the northward, for I felt that now the hardest and roughest part of our journey to the height of land was completed. "That's great, Pete," said I. "We'll have more water after this and fewer and easier portages, and we can travel faster." "Maybe better, I don't know," remarked Pete, rather skeptically. "Always hard find trail out big lakes. May leave plenty places. Take more time hunt trail maybe now. Indian maps no good. Maybe easier when we find him." Pete was right, and I did not know the difficulties still to be met with before we should reach Michikamau. Duncan was of comparatively little help to us now, and as I knew that he was more than anxious to return to Groswater Bay, I decided to dispense with his further services and send him back with letters to be mailed home. When I returned to the tent I said to him: "Duncan, I suppose you would like to go home now, and I will let you turn back from here and take some letters out. Does that suit you?" "Yes, sir, that suits me fine," replied be promptly, and in a tone that left no doubt of the fact that he was glad to go. "Well, this is Thursday. I'll write my letters tomorrow, and you may go on Saturday." "All right, sir." The letters were all written and ready for Duncan on Friday night, and he packed sufficient provisions into a waterproof bag I gave him to carry him out, and prepared for an early start in the morning. But the rain that had been falling for several days still poured down on Saturday, and he decided to postpone his departure another day in the hope of better weather on Sunday. He needed the time anyway to mend his sealskin boots before starting back, for he had pretty nearly worn them out on the sharp rocks on the portages. The rest of us were well provided with oil-tanned moccasins (sometimes called larigans or shoe-packs), which I have found are the best footwear for a journey like ours. Pete's khaki trousers were badly torn; and Richards and Easton, who wore Mackinaw trousers, were in rags. This cloth had not withstood the hard usage of Labrador travel a week, and both men, when they bad a spare hour, occupied it in sewing on canvas patches, until now there was almost as much canvas patch as Mackinaw cloth in these garments. Richards, however, carried an extra pair of moleskin trousers, and I wore moleskin. This latter material is the best obtainable, so far as my experience goes, for rough traveling in the bush, and my trousers stood the trip with but one small patch until winter came. Sunday morning was still stormy, but before noon the rain ceased, and Duncan announced his intention of starting homeward at once. We raised our flags and exchanged our farewells and Godspeeds with him. Then he left us, and as he disappeared down the trail a strange sense of loneliness came upon us, for it seemed to us that his going broke the last link that connected us with the outside world. Duncan was always so cheerful, with his quaint humor, and so ready to do his work to the very best of his ability, that we missed him very much, and often spoke of him in the days that followed. We had made the best of our enforced idleness in this camp to repack and condense and dry our outfit as much as possible. The venison, at the first imperfectly cured, had been so continuously soaked that the most of what remained of it was badly spoiled and we could not use it, and with regret we threw it away. The erbswurst was also damp, and this we put into small canvas bags, which were then placed near the stove to dry. A rising barometer augured good weather for Monday morning. A light wind scattered the clouds that had for so many days entombed the world in storm and gloom, and the sun broke out gloriously, setting the moisture-laden trees aglinting as though hung with a million pearls and warming the damp fir trees until the air was laden with the forest perfume. It was as though a pall had been lifted from the world. How our hearts swelled with the new enthusiasm of the returned sunshine! It was always so. It seemed as if the long-continued storms bound up our hearts and crushed the buoyancy from them; but the returning sunshine melted the bonds at once and gave us new ambition. A robin sang gayly from a near-by tree--a messenger from the kindlier Southland come to cheer us--and the "whisky jacks," who had not shown themselves for several days, appeared again with their shrill cries, venturing impudently into the very door of our tent to claim scraps of refuse. I was for moving forward that very afternoon, but some of our things were still wet, and I deemed it better judgment to let them have the day in which to dry and to delay our start until Monday morning. After supper, in accordance with the Sunday custom established by Hubbard when I was with him, I read aloud a selection from the Testament--the last chapter of Revelation--and then went out of the tent to take the usual nine o'clock weather observation. Between the horizon and a fringe of black clouds that hung low in the north the reflected sun set the heavens afire, and through the dark fir trees the lake stretched red as a lake of blood. I called the others to see it and Easton joined me. We climbed a low hill close at hand to view the scene, and while we looked the red faded into orange, and the lake was transformed into a mirror, which reflected the surrounding trees like an inverted forest. In the direction from which we had come we could see the high blue hills beyond the Nascaupee, very dim in the far distance. Below us the Crooked River lost itself as it wound its tortuous way through the wooded valley that we had traversed. Somewhere down there Duncan was bivouacked, and we wondered if his fire was burning at one of our old camping places. Darkness soon came and we returned to the tent to find the others rolled in their blankets, and we joined them at once that we might have a good night's rest preparatory to an early morning advance. Before seven o'clock on Monday morning (July twenty-fourth) we had made our portage to the water that we had supposed to be an arm of Lake Nipishish, but which proved instead to be an expansion of the river into which the lake poured its waters through a short rapid. This rapid necessitated another short portage before we were actually afloat upon the bosom of Nipishish itself. There was not a cloud to mar the azure of the sky, hardly a breath of wind to make a ripple on the surface of the lake, and the morning was just cool enough to be delightful. It was the kind of day and kind of wilderness that makes one want to go on and on. I felt again the thrill in my blood of that magic something that had held possession of Hubbard and me and lured us into the heart of this unknown land two years before, and as I looked hungrily away toward the hills to the northward, I found myself repeating again one of those selections from Kipling that I had learned from him: "Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges-- Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!" CHAPTER VII SCOUTING FOR THE TRAIL Lake Nipishish is approximately twenty miles in length, and at its broadest part ten or twelve miles in width. It extends in an almost due easterly direction from the place where we launched our canoes near its outlet. The shores are rocky and rise gradually into low, well-wooded hills, by which the lake is surrounded. Five miles from the outlet a rocky point juts out into the water, and above the point an arm of the lake reaches into the hills to the northward to a distance of six miles, almost at right angles to the main lake. In the arm there are several small, rocky islands which sustain a scrubby growth of black spruce and fir balsam. Hitherto the Indian maps had been of little assistance to us. No estimate of distance could be made from them, and the lakes through which we had passed (not all of them shown on the map) were represented by small circles with nothing to indicate at what point on their shores the trail was to be found. Lake Nipishish, however, was drawn on a larger scale and with more detail, and we readily located the trail leading out of the arm which I have mentioned. After a day's work through several small lakes or ponds, with short intervening portages, and a trail on the whole well defined and easily followed, we came one afternoon to a good-sized lake of irregular shape which Pete promptly named Washkagama (Crooked Lake). A stream flowed into Washkagama near the place where we went ashore, and it seemed to me probable that our route might be along this stream, which it was likely drained lakes farther up; but a search in the vicinity failed to uncover any signs of the trail, and the irregular shape of the lake suggested several other likely places for it. We were, therefore, forced to go into camp, disappointing as it was, until we should know our position to a certainty. The next day was showery, but we began in the morning a determined hunt for the trail. Stanton remained in camp to make needed repairs to the outfit; Easton went with Pete to the northward, while Richards and I in one of the canoes paddled to the eastern side of the lake arm, upon which we were encamped, to climb a barren hill from which we hoped to get a good view of the country, and upon reaching the summit we were not disappointed. A wide panorama was spread before us. To the north lay a great rolling country covered with a limitless forest of firs, with here and there a bit of sparkling water. A mile from our camp a creek, now and again losing itself in the green woods, rushed down to join Washkagama, anxious to gain the repose of the lake. To the northeast the rugged white hills, that we were hoping to reach soon, loomed up grand and majestic, with patches of snow, like white sheets, spread over their sides and tops. From Nipishish to Washkagama we had passed through a burned and rocky country where no new growth save scant underbrush and a few scattering spruce, balsam and tamarack trees had taken the place of the old destroyed forest. The dead, naked tree trunks which, gaunt and weather-beaten, still stood upright or lay in promiscuous confusion on the ground, gave this part of the country from our hilltop view an appearance of solitary desolation that we had not noticed when we were traveling through it. But this unregenerated district ended at Washkagama; and below it Nipishish, with its green-topped hills, seemed almost homelike. The creek that I have mentioned as flowing into the lake a mile from our camp seemed to me worthy to be explored for the trail, and I determined to go there at once upon our return to camp, while Richards desired to climb a rock-topped hill which held its head above the timber line three or four miles to the northwest, that he might make topographical and geological observations there. We returned to camp, and Richards, with a package of erbswurst in his pocket to cook for dinner and my rifle on his shoulder, started immediately into the bush, and was but just gone when Pete and Easton appeared with the report that two miles above us lay a large lake, and that they had found the trail leading from it to the creek I had seen from the hill. The lake lay among the hills to the northward, and the bits of water I had seen were portions of it. I was anxious to break camp and start forward, but this could not be done until Richards' return. Easton, Pete and I paddled up to the creek's mouth, therefore, and spent the day fishing, and landed eighty-seven trout, ranging from a quarter pound to four pounds in weight. The largest ones Stanton split and hung over the fire to dry for future use, while the others were applied to immediate need. When Richards came into camp in the evening he brought with him an excellent map of the country that he had seen from the hill and reported having counted ten lakes, including the large one that Easton and Pete had visited. He also had found the trail and followed it back. The next morning some tracking and wading up the creek was necessary before we found ourselves upon the trail with packs on our backs, and before twelve o'clock we arrived with all our outfit at the lake, which we shall call Minisinaqua. It was an exceedingly beautiful sheet of water, the main body, perhaps, ten or twelve miles in length, but narrow, and with many arms and indentations and containing numerous round green islands. The shores and surrounding country were well wooded with spruce, fir, balsam, larch, and an occasional small white birch. I took my place in the larger canoe with Pete and Easton and left Stanton to follow with Richards. Pete's eyes, as always, were scanning with keen scrutiny every inch of shore. Suddenly he straightened up, peered closely at an island, and in a stage whisper exclaimed "Caribou! Caribou! Don't make noise! Paddle, quick!" We saw them then--two old stags and a fawn--on an island, but they had seen us, too, or winded us more likely, and, rushing across the island, took to the water on the opposite side, making for the mainland. We bent to our paddles with all our might, hoping to get within shooting distance of them, but they had too much lead. We all tried some shots when we saw we could not get closer, but the deer were five hundred yards away, and from extra exertion with our paddles, we were unable to hold steady, and missed. Our canoes were turned into an arm of the lake leading to the northward. Amongst some islands we came upon a flock of five geese--two old ones and three young ones. The old ones had just passed through the molting season, and their new wing feathers were not long enough to bear them, and the young ones, though nearly full grown, had not yet learned to fly. Pete brought the mother goose and two of her children down with the shotgun, but father gander and the other youngster escaped, flapping away on the surface of the lake at a remarkable speed, and they were allowed to go with their lives without a chase. We stumbled upon the trail leading from Lake Minisinaqua, almost immediately upon landing. Its course was in a northerly direction through the valley of a small river that emptied into the lake. This valley was inclosed by low hills, and the country, like that between Washkagama and Lake Minisinaqua, was well covered with the same varieties of small trees that were found there. For a mile and three-quarters, the stream along which the trail ran was too swift for canoeing, but it then expanded into miniature lakes or ponds which were connected by short rapids. Each of us portaged a load to the first pond, where the canoes were to be launched, and I directed Pete and Stanton to remain here, pluck the geese, and prepare two of them for an evening dinner, while Richards, Easton and I brought forward a second load and pitched camp. This was Easton's twenty-second birthday and it occurred to me that it would be a pleasant variation to give a birthday dinner in his honor and to have a sort of feast to relieve the monotony of our daily life, and give the men something to think about and revive their spirits; for "bucking the trail" day after day with no change but the gradual change of scenery does grow monotonous to most men, and the ardor of the best of them, especially men unaccustomed to roughing it, will become damped in time unless some variety, no matter how slight, can be brought into their lives. A good dinner always has this effect, for after men are immersed in a wilderness for several weeks, good things to eat take the first place in their thoughts and, to judge from their conversation, the attainment of these is their chief aim in life. My instructions to Pete included the baking of an extra ration of bread to be served hot with the roast geese, and I asked Stanton to try his hand at concocting some kind of a pudding out of the few prunes that still remained, to be served with sugar as sauce, and accompanied by black coffee. Our coffee supply was small and it was used only on Sundays now, or at times when we desired an especial treat. We were pretty tired when we returned with our second packs and dropped them on a low, bare knoll some fifty yards above the fire where Pete and Stanton were carrying on their culinary operations, but a whiff of roasting goose came to us like a tonic, and it did not take us long to get camp pitched. "Um-m-m," said Easton, stopping in his work of driving tent pegs to sniff the air now bearing to us appetizing odors of goose and coffee, "that smells like home." "You bet it does," assented Richards. "I haven't been filled up for a week, but I'm going to be to-night." At length dinner was ready, and we fell to with such good purpose that the two birds, a generous portion of hot bread, innumerable cups of black coffee, and finally, a most excellent pudding that Stanton had made out of bread dough and prunes and boiled in a canvas specimen bag disappeared. How we enjoyed it! "No hotel ever served such a banquet," one of the boys remarked as we filled our pipes and lighted them with brands from the fire. Then with that blissful feeling that nothing but a good dinner can give, we lay at full length on the deep white moss, peacefully puffing smoke at the stars as they blinked sleepily one by one out of the blue of the great arch above us until the whole firmament was glittering with a mass of sparkling heaven gems. The soft perfume of the forest pervaded the atmosphere; the aurora borealis appeared in the northern sky, and its waves of changing light swept the heavens; the vast silence of the wilderness possessed the world and, wrapped in his own thoughts, no man spoke to break the spell. Finally Pete began a snatch of Indian song: "Puhgedewawa enenewug Nuhbuggesug kamiwauw." Then he drew from his pocket a harmonica, and for half an hour played soft music that harmonized well with the night and the surroundings; when he ceased, all but Richards and I went to their blankets. We two remained by the dying embers of our fire for another hour to enjoy the perfect night, and then, before we turned to our beds, made an observation for compass variation, which calculations the following morning showed to be thirty-seven degrees west of the true north. Paddling through the ponds, polling and tracking through the rapids or portaging around them up the little river on which we were encamped the night before, brought us to Otter Lake, which was considerably larger than Lake Minisinaqua, but not so large as Nipishish. The main body was not over a mile and a half in width, but it had a number of bays and closely connected tributary lakes. Its eastern end, which we did not explore, penetrated low spruce and balsam-covered hills. To the north and northeast were rugged, rock-tipped hills, rising to an elevation of some seven hundred feet above the lake. The country at their base was covered with a green forest of small fir, spruce and birch, and near the water, in marshy places, as is the case nearly everywhere in Labrador, tamarack, but the hills themselves had been fire swept, and were gray with weather-worn, dead trees. On the summits, and for two hundred feet below, bare basaltic rock indicated that at this elevation they had never sustained any growth, save a few straggling bushes. On some of these hills there still remained patches of snow of the previous winter. We paddled eastward along the northern shore of the lake. Once we saw a caribou swimming far ahead of us, but he discovered our approach and took to the timber before we were within shooting distance of him. A flock of sawbill ducks avoided us. No sign of Indians was seen, and four miles up the lake we stopped upon a narrow, sandy point that jutted out into the water for a distance of a quarter mile, to pitch camp and scout for the trail. All along the point and leading back into the bush, were fresh caribou tracks, where the animals came out to get the benefit of the lake breezes and avoid the flies, which torment them terribly. Natives in the North have told me of caribou having been worried to death by the insects, and it is not improbable. The "bulldogs" or "stouts," as they are sometimes called, which are as big as bumblebees, are very vicious, and follow the poor caribou in swarms. The next morning a caribou wandered down to within a hundred and fifty yards of camp, and Pete and Stanton both fired at it, but missed, and it got away unscathed. After breakfast, with Pete and Easton, I climbed one of the higher hills for a view of the surrounding country. Near the foot of the hill, and in the depth of the spruce woods, we passed a lone Indian grave, which we judged from its size to be that of a child. It was inclosed by a rough fence, which had withstood the pressure of the heavy snows of many winters and a broken cross lay on it. From the summit of the hill we could see a string of lakes extending in a general northwesterly direction until they were lost in other hills above, and also numerous lakes to the south, southwest, east and northeast. We could count from one point nearly fifty of these lakes, large and small. To the north and northwest the country was rougher and more diversified, and the hills much higher than any we had as yet passed through. Down by our camp it had been excessively warm, but here on the hilltop a cold wind was blowing that made us shiver. We found a few scattered dry sticks, and built a fire under the lee of a high bowlder, where we cooked for luncheon some pea-meal porridge with water that Pete, with foresight, had brought with him from a brook that we passed half way down the hillside. We then continued our scouting tour several miles inland, climbing two other high hills, from one of which an excellent view was had of the string of lakes penetrating the northwestern hills. Everywhere so far as our vision extended the valleys were comparatively well wooded, but the treeless, rock-bound hills rose grimly above the timber line. When we returned to camp we were still unsettled as to where the trail left the lake, but there was one promising bay that had not been explored, and Richards and Easton volunteered to take a canoe and search this bay. They were supplied with tarpaulin, blankets, an ax and one day's rations, and started immediately. I felt some anxiety as to our slow progress. August was almost upon us and we had not yet reached Seal Lake. Here, as at other places, we had experienced much delay in finding the trail, and we did not know what difficulties in that direction lay before us. I had planned to reach the George River by early September, and the question as to whether we could do it or not was giving me much concern. Pete and Stanton had been in bed and asleep for an hour, but I was still awake, turning over in my mind the situation, and planning to-morrow's campaign, when at ten o'clock I heard the soft dip of paddles, and a few moments later Richards and Easton appeared out of the night mist that hung over the lake, with the good news that they had found the trail leading northward from the bay. CHAPTER VIII SEAL LAKE AT LAST A thick, impenetrable mist, such as is seldom seen in the interior of Labrador, hung over the water and the land when we struck camp and began our advance. For two days we traveled through numerous small lakes, making several short portages, before we came to a lake which we found to be the headwaters of a river flowing to the northwest. This lake was two miles long, and we camped at its lower end, where the river left it. Portage Lake we shall call it, and the river that flowed out of it Babewendigash. The portage into the lake crossed a sand desert, upon which not a drop of water was seen, and instead of the usual rocks there were uncovered sand and gravel knolls and valleys, where grew only occasional bunches of very stunted brush; the surface of the sand was otherwise quite bare and sustained not even the customary moss and lichens. The heat of the sun reflected from the sand was powerful. The day was one of the most trying ones of the trip, and the men, with faces and hands swollen and bleeding from the attacks of not only the small black flies, which were particularly bad, but also the swarms of "bulldogs," complained bitterly of the hardships. When we halted to eat our luncheon one of the men remarked, "Duncan said once that if there are no flies there, hell can't be as bad as this, and he's pretty near right." The river left the lake in a rapid, and while Pete was making his fire, Richards, Easton and I went down to catch our supper, and in half an hour had secured forty-five good-sized trout--sufficient for supper that night and breakfast and dinner the next day. Since leaving Otter Lake, caribou signs had been plentiful, fresh trails running in every direction. Pete was anxious to halt a day to hunt, but I decreed otherwise, to his great disappointment. The scenery at this point was particularly fine, with a rugged, wild beauty that could hardly be surpassed. Below us the great, bald snow hills loomed very close at hand, with patches of snow glinting against the black rocks of the hills, as the last rays of the setting sun kissed them good-night. Nearer by was the more hospitable wooded valley and the shining river, and above us the lake, placid and beautiful, and beyond it the line of low sand hills of the miniature desert we had crossed. One of the snow hills to the northwest had two knobs resembling a camel's back, and was a prominent landmark. We christened it "The Camel's Hump." Heretofore the streams had been taking a generally southerly direction, but this river flowed to the northwest, which was most encouraging, for running in that direction it could have but one outlet-the Nascaupee River. A portage in the morning, then a short run on the river, then another portage, around a shallow rapid, and we were afloat again on one of the prettiest little rivers I have ever seen. The current was strong enough to hurry us along. Down we shot past the great white hills, which towered in majestic grandeur high above our heads, in some places rising almost perpendicularly from the water, with immense heaps of debris which the frost had detached from their sides lying at their base. The river was about fifty yards wide, and in its windings in and out among the hills almost doubled upon itself sometimes. The scenery was fascinating. One or two small lake expansions were passed, but generally there was a steady current and a good depth of water. "This is glorious!" some one exclaimed, as we shot onward, and we all appreciated the relief from the constant portaging that had been the feature of our journey since leaving the Nascaupee River. The first camp on this river was pitched upon the site of an old Indian camp, above a shallow rapid. The many wigwam poles, in varying states of decay, together with paddles, old snowshoes, broken sled runners, and other articles of Indian traveling paraphernalia, indicated that it had been a regular stopping place of the Indians, both in winter and in summer, in the days when they had made their pilgrimages to Northwest River Post. Near this point we found some beaver cuttings, the first that we had seen since leaving the Crooked River. Babewendigash soon carried us into a large lake expansion, and six hours were consumed paddling about the lake before the outlet was discovered. At first we thought it possible we were in Seal Lake, but I soon decided that it was not large enough, and its shape did not agree with the description of Seal Lake that Donald Blake and Duncan McLean had given me. During the morning I dropped a troll and landed the first namaycush of the trip--a seven-pound fish. The Labrador lakes generally have a great depth of water, and it is in the deeper water that the very large namaycush, which grow to an immense size, are to be caught. Our outfit did not contain the heavy sinkers and larger trolling spoons necessary in trolling for these, and we therefore had to content ourselves with the smaller fish caught in the shallower parts of the lakes. We had two more portages before we shot the first rapid of the trip, and then camped on the shores of a small expansion just above a wide, shallow rapid where the river swung around a ridge of sand hills. This ridge was about two hundred feet in elevation, and followed the river for some distance below. In the morning we climbed it, and walked along its top for a mile or so, to view the rapid, and suddenly, to the westward, beheld Seal Lake. It was a great moment, and we took off our hats and cheered. The first part of our fight up the long trail was almost ended. The upper part of the rapid was too shallow to risk a full load in the canoes, so we carried a part of our outfit over the ridge to a point where the river narrowed and deepened, then ran the rapid and picked up our stuff below. Not far from here we passed a hill whose head took the form of a sphinx and we noted it as a remarkable landmark. Stopping but once to climb a mountain for specimens, at twelve o'clock we landed on a sandy beach where Babewendigash River emptied its waters into Seal Lake. We could hardly believe our good fortune, and while Pete cooked dinner I climbed a hill to satisfy myself that it was really Seal Lake. There was no doubt of it. It had been very minutely described and sketched for me by Donald and Duncan. We had halted at what they called on their maps "The Narrows," where the lake narrowed down to a mere strait, and that portion of it below the canoes was hidden from my view. It stretched out far to the northwest, with some distance up a long arm reaching to the west. A point which I recognized from Duncan's description as the place where the winter tilt used by him and Donald was situated extended for some distance out into the water. The entire length of Seal Lake is about forty miles, but only about thirty miles of it could be seen from the elevation upon which I stood. Its shores are generally well wooded with a growth of young spruce. High hills surround it. We visited the tilt as we passed the point and, in accordance with an arrangement made with Duncan, added to our stores about twenty-five pounds of flour that he had left there during the previous winter. Five miles above the point where Babewendigash River empties into Seal Lake we entered the Nascaupee, up which we paddled two miles to the first short rapid. This we tracked, and then made camp on an island where the river lay placid and the wind blew cool and refreshing. Long we sat about our camp fire watching the glories of the northern sunset, and the new moon drop behind the spruce-clad hills, and the aurora in all its magnificence light our silent world with its wondrous fire. Finally the others left me to go to their blankets. When I was alone I pushed in the ends of the burning logs and sat down to watch the blaze as it took on new life. Gradually, as I gazed into its depths, fantasy brought before my eyes the picture of another camp fire. Hubbard was sitting by it. It was one of those nights in the hated Susan Valley. We had been toiling up the trail for days, and were ill and almost disheartened; but our camp fire and the relaxation from the day's work were giving us the renewed hope and cheer that they always brought, and rekindled the fire of our half-lost enthusiasm. "Seal Lake can't be far off now," Hubbard was saying. "We're sure to reach it in a day or two. Then it'll be easy work to Michikamau, and we 'll soon be with the Indians after that, and forget all about this hard work. We'll be glad of it all when we get home, for we're going to have a bully trip." How much lighter my pack felt the next day, when I recalled his words of encouragement! How we looked and looked for Seal Lake, but never found it. It lay hidden among those hills that were away to the northward of us, with its waters as placid and beautiful as they were to-day when we passed through it. I had never seen Michikamau. Was I destined to see it now? The fire burned low. Only a few glowing coals remained, and as they blackened my picture dissolved. The aurora, like a hundred searchlights, was whipping across the sky. The forest with its hidden mysteries lay dark beneath. A deep, impenetrable silence brooded over all. The vast, indescribable loneliness of the wilderness possessed my soul. I tried to shake off the feeling of desolation as I went to my bed of boughs. To-morrow a new stage of our journey would begin. It was ho for Michikamau! CHAPTER IX WE LOSE THE TRAIL Saturday morning, August fifth, broke with a radiance and a glory seldom equaled even in that land of glorious sunrises and sunsets. A flame of red and orange in the east ushered in the rising sun, not a cloud marred the azure of the heavens, the moss was white with frost, and the crisp, clear atmosphere sweet with the scent of the new day. Labrador was in her most amiable mood, displaying to the best advantage her peculiar charms and beauties. While we ate a hurried breakfast of corn-meal mush, boiled fat pork and tea, and broke camp, Michikamau was the subject of our conversation, for now it was ho for the big lake! A rapid advance was expected upon the river, and the trail above, where it left the Nascaupee to avoid the rapids which the Indians had told us about, would probably be found without trouble. So this new stage of our journey was begun with something of the enthusiasm that we had felt the day we left Tom Blake's cabin and started up Grand Lake. We had gone but a mile when Pete drew his paddle from the water and pointed with it at a narrow, sandy beach ahead, above which rose a steep bank. Almost at the same instant I saw the object of his interests--a buck caribou asleep on the sand. The wind was blowing toward the river, and maintaining absolute silence, we landed below a bend that hid us from the caribou. Fresh meat was in sight and we must have it, for we were hungry now for venison. To cover the retreat of the animal should it take alarm, Pete was to go on the top of the bank above it, Easton to take a stand opposite it and I a little below it. We crawled to our positions with the greatest care; but the caribou was alert. The shore breeze carried to it the scent of danger, and almost before we knew, that we were discovered it was on its feet and away. For a fraction of a second I had one glimpse of the animal through the brush. Pete did not see it when it started, but heard it running up the shore, and away be started in that direction, running and leaping recklessly over the fallen tree trunks. Presently the caribou turned from the river and showed itself on the burned plateau above, two hundred yards from Pete. The Indian halted for a moment and fired--then fired again. I hastened up and came upon Pete standing by the prostrate caribou and grinning from ear to ear. The carcass was quickly skinned and the meat stripped from the bones and carried to the canoe. Here on the shore we made a fire, broiled some thick luscious steaks, roasted some marrow bones and made tea. All the bones except the marrow bones of the legs were abandoned as an unnecessary weight. Pete broke a hole through one of the shoulder blades and stuck it on a limb of a tree above the reach of animals. That, you know, insures further good luck in hunting. It is a sort of offering to the Manitou. We took the skin with us. "Maybe we need him for something," said Pete. "Clean and smoke him nice, me; maybe mend clothes with him." The larger pieces of our venison were to be roasted when we halted in the evening. We could not dally now, and I chose this method of preserving the meat, rather than "jerk" it (that is, dry it in the open air over a smoky fire), which would have necessitated a halt of three or four days. Within three hours after we had first seen the caribou we were on our way again. The river up which we were passing was from two to four hundred yards in width, and with the exception of an occasional rock, had a gravelly bottom, and the banks were generally low and gravelly. A little distance back ridges of low hills paralleled the stream, and on the south side behind the lower ridge was a higher one of rough hills; but none of them with an elevation above the valley of more than three hundred feet. The country had been burned on both sides of the river and there was little new growth to hide the dead trees. Twenty-five miles above Seal Lake we encountered a rapid which necessitated a mile and a half portage around it. Where we landed to make the portage I noticed along the edge of the sandy beach a black band about two feet in width. I thought at first that the water had discolored the sand, but upon a closer examination discovered that it was nothing more nor less than myriads of our black fly pests that had lost their lives in the water and been washed ashore. We had much rain and progress was slow and difficult in the face of a strong wind and current. Seven or eight miles above the rapid around which we had portaged we passed into a large expansion of the river which the Indians at Northwest River Post had told us to look for, and which they called Wuchusknipi (Big Muskrat) Lake. High gravelly banks, rising in terraces sometimes fully fifty feet above the water's edge, had now become the feature of the stream. The current increased in strength, and only for short distances above Wuchusknipi, where the river occasionally broadened, were we able to paddle. The tracking lines were brought into service, one man hauling each canoe, while the others, wading in the water, or walking on the bank with poles where the stream was too deep to wade, kept the canoes straight in the current and clear of the shore. Once when it became necessary to cross a wide place in the river a squall struck us, and Richards and Stanton in the smaller canoe were nearly swamped. The strong head wind precluded paddling, even when the current would otherwise have permitted it. Finally the sky cleared and the wind ceased to blow; but with the calm came a cause for disquietude. A light smoke had settled in the valley and the air held the odor of it, suggesting a forest fire somewhere above. This would mean retreat, if not disaster, for when these fires once start rivers and lakes prove small obstacles in their path. From a view-point on the hills no dense smoke could be discovered, only the light haze that we had seen and smelled in the valley, and we therefore decided that the gale that had blown for several days from the northwest may have carried it for a long distance, even from the district far west of Michikamau, and that at any rate there was no cause for immediate alarm. The ridges with an increasing altitude were crowding in upon us more closely. Once when we stopped to portage around a low fall we climbed some of the hills that were near at hand that we might obtain a better knowledge of the topography of the country than could be had from the confined river valley. Away to the northwest we found the country to be much more rugged than the district we had recently passed through. Observations showed us that the highest of the hills we were on had an elevation of six hundred feet above the river. We had but a single day of fine weather and then a fog came so thick that we could not see the opposite banks of the Nascaupee, and after it a cold rain set in which made our work in the icy current doubly hard. One morning I slipped on a bowlder in the river and strained my side, and for me the remainder of the day was very trying. That evening we reached a little group of three or four islands, where the Nascaupee was wide and shallow, but just above the islands it narrowed down again and a low fall occurred. Not far from the fall a small river tumbled down over the rocks a sheer thirty feet, and emptied into the Nascaupee. Since leaving Seal Lake we had passed two rivers flowing in from the north, and this was the second one coming from the south, marking the point on the Indian map where we were to look for the portage trail leading to the northward. Therefore a halt was made and camp was pitched. During the night the weather cleared, and Pete, Richards and Easton were dispatched in the morning to scout the country to the northward in search of the trail and signs of Indians. The ligaments of my side were very stiff and sore from the strain they received the previous day, and I remained in camp with Stanton to write up my records, take an inventory of our food supply, and consider plans for the future. It was August twelfth. How far we had still to go before reaching Michikamau was uncertain, but, in view of our experiences below Seal Lake and the difficulties met with in finding and following the old Indian trail there, our progress would now, for a time at least, if we traveled the portage route, be slower than on the river where we had done fairly well. True, our outfit was much lighter than it had been in the beginning, and we were in better shape for packing and were able to carry heavier loads. Still we must make two trips over every portage, and that meant, for every five miles of advance, fifteen miles of walking and ten of those miles with packs on our backs. Had we not better, therefore, abandon the further attempt to locate the trail and, instead, follow the river which was beyond doubt the quicker and the easier route? My inclinations rebelled against this course. One of the objects of the expedition, for it was one of the things that Hubbard had planned to do, was to locate the old trail, if possible. To abandon the search for it now, and to follow the easier route, seemed to me a surrender. On the other hand, should we not find game or fish and have delays scouting for the trail, it would be necessary to go on short rations before reaching Michikamau, for enough food must be held back to take us out of the country in safety. In my present consideration of the situation it seemed to me highly improbable that we could reach George River Post in season to connect with the Hudson's Bay Company's steamer _Pelican_, which touches there to land supplies about the middle of September, and that is the only steamer that ever visits that Post. Not to connect with the _Pelican_ would, therefore, mean imprisonment in the north for an entire year, or a return around the coast by dog train in winter. The former of these alternatives was out of the question; the latter would be impossible with an encumbrance of four men, for dog teams and drivers in the early winter are usually all away to the hunting grounds and hard to engage. I therefore concluded that but one course was open to me. Three of the men must be sent back and with a single companion I would push on to Ungava. This, then, was the line of action I decided upon. Toward evening gathering clouds augured an early renewal of the storm, and Stanton and I had just put up the stove in the tent in anticipation of it when Pete and Easton, the latter thoroughly fagged out, came into camp. "Well, Pete," I asked, "what luck?" "Find trail all right," he answered. "Can't follow him easy. Long carry. First lake far, maybe eleven, twelve mile. Little ponds not much good for canoe. Trail old. Not used long time. All time go up hill." "Where's Richards?" I inquired, noticing his absence. "Left us about four miles back to take a short cut to the river and follow it down to camp," said Easton. "He thought you might want to know how it looked above, and perhaps keep on that way instead of tackling the portage, for the trail's going to be mighty hard. It looks as though the river would be better." We waited until near dark for Richards, but he did not come. Then we ate our supper without him. The rain grew into a downpour and darkness came, but no Richards, and at length I became alarmed for his safety. I pushed back the tent flaps and peered out into the pitchy darkness and pouring rain. "He'll never get in to-night," I remarked. "No," said some one, "and he'll have a hard time of it out there in the rain." There was nothing to do but wait. Pete rummaged in his bag and produced a candle (we had a dozen in our outfit), sharpened one end of a stick, split the other end for two or three inches down, forced open the split end and set the candle in it and stuck the sharpened end in the ground, all the while working in the dark. Then he lit the candle. I do not know how long we had been sitting by the candle light and putting forth all sorts of conjectures about Richards and his uncomfortable position in the bush without cover and the probable reasons for his failure to return, when the tent front opened and in he came, as wet as though he had been in the river. "Well, Richards," I asked, when he was comfortably settled at his meal, "what do you think of the river?" "The river!" he paused between mouthfuls to exclaim, "that's the only thing within twenty miles that I didn't see. I've been looking for it for four hours, but it kept changing its location and I never found it till I struck camp just now." "Now, boys," said I, when all the pipes were going, "I've something to say to you. Up to this time we've had no real hardships to meet. We've had hard work, and it's been most trying at times, but there's been no hardship to endure that might not be met with upon any journey in the bush. If we go on we _shall_ have hardships, and perhaps, some pretty severe ones. There'll soon be sleet and snow in the air, and cold days and shivery nights, and the portages will be long and hard. On the whole, there's been plenty to eat--not what we would have had at home, perhaps, but good, wholesome grub--and we're all in better condition and stronger than when we started, but flour and pork are getting low, lentils and corn meal are nearly gone, and short rations, with hungry days, are soon to come if we don't strike game, and you know how uncertain that is. I cannot say what is before us, and I'm not going to drag you fellows into trouble. I'm going to ask for one volunteer to go on with me to Ungava with the small canoe, and let the rest return from here with the other canoe and what grub they need to take them out. Who wants to go home?" It came to them like a shock. Outside, the wind howled through the trees and dashed the rain spitefully against the tent. The water dripped through on us, and the candle flickered and sputtered and almost went out. In the weird light I could see the faces of the men work with emotion. For a moment no one spoke. Finally Richards, in a tone of reproach that made me feel sorry for the very suggestion, asked: "Do you think there's a quitter here?" The loyalty and grit of the men touched my heart. Not one of them would think of leaving me. Nothing but a positive order would have turned them back, and I decided to postpone our parting until we reached Michikaumau at least, if it could be postponed so long consistently with safety. The next day was Sunday, and it was spent in rest and in preparation for our advance up the trail. The weather was damp and cheerless, with rain falling intermittently throughout the day. To cover a possible retreat a cache was made near our camp of thirty pounds of pemmican in tin cans and forty-five pounds of flour and some tea in a waterproof bag. A hole was dug in the ground and the provisions were deposited in it, then covered with stones as a pro-tection from animals. By Monday morning the storm had gained new strength, and steadily and pitilessly the rain fell, accompanied by a cold, northwest wind. What narrowly escaped being a serious accident occurred when we halted that day for dinner. Easton was cutting firewood, when suddenly he dropped the ax he was using with the exclamation "That fixes me!" He had given himself what looked at first like an ugly cut near the shin bone. Fortunately, however, upon examination, it proved to be only a flesh wound and not sufficiently severe to interfere with his traveling. Stanton dressed the cut. Our adhesive plaster we found had become useless by exposure and electrician's tape was substituted for it to draw the flesh together. On the evening of the second day after leaving the Nascaupee, our tent was pitched upon the site of an extensive but ancient Indian camp beside a mile-long lake, four hundred and fifty feet above the river. Five ponds had been passed _en route_, but all of them so small it was scarcely worth while floating the canoe in any of them. In these two days we had covered but eleven miles, but during the whole time the wind had driven the rain in sweeping gusts into our faces and made it impossible for a man, single-handed, to portage a canoe. Thus, with two men to carry each canoe we had been compelled to make three loads of our outfit, and this meant fifty-five miles actual walking, and thirty-three miles of this distance with packs on our backs. The weather conditions had made the work more than hard--it was heartrending--as we toiled over naked hills, across marshes and moraines, or through dripping brush and timber land. A beautiful afternoon, two days later, found us paddling down the first lake worthy of mention since leaving the Nascaupee River. The azure sky overhead shaded to a pearly blue at the horizon, with a fleecy cloud or two floating lazily across its face. The atmosphere was perfect in its purity, and only the sound of screeching gulls and the dip of our paddles disturbed the quiet of the wilderness. Lake Bibiquasin, as we shall call it, was five miles in length and nestled between ridges of low, moss-covered hills. It lay in a southeasterly and northwesterly direction, and rested upon the summit of a subsidiary divide that we had been gradually ascending. A creek ran out of its northwesterly end, flowing in that direction. Until now we had found the trail with little difficulty, but here we were baffled. A search in the afternoon failed to uncover it, and we were forced to halt, perplexed again as to our course. Camp was pitched in a grove of spruces at the lower end of the lake. Not far from us was an old hunting camp which Pete said was "most hundred years old," and he was not far wrong in his estimate, for the frames upon which the Indians had stretched skins and the tepee poles crumbled to pieces when we touched them. Strange to say, not a fish of any description had been seen for several days and not one could be induced to rise to fly or bait, and our net was always empty now. Game, too, was scarce. There were no fresh caribou tracks this side of the Nascaupee River, and but one duck and one spruce partridge had been killed. The last bit of our venison was eaten the day before. It was pretty badly spoiled and turning a little green in color, but Pete washed it well several times and we all avoided the lee side of the kettle while it was cooking. It was pronounced "not so bad." Another day was lost on Lake Bibiquasin in an ineffectual hunt for the trail. I scouted alone all day and in my wanderings came upon the first ptarmigans of the trip and shot one of them with my rifle. The others flew away. They wore their mottled summer coat, as it was still too early for them to don their pure white dress of winter. During my scouting trip I also discovered the first ripe bake-apple berries we had seen. This is a salmon-colored berry resembling in size and shape the raspberry, and grows on a low plant like the strawberry. On Saturday morning, August nineteenth, the temperature was four degrees below the freezing point, and the ground was stiff with frost. In a further search on the north side of the lake opposite our camp we found an old blaze and a trail leading from it along a ridge and through marshes to a small lake. This was the only trail that we could find anywhere, so we decided to follow it, though it did not bear all the earmarks of the portage trail we had been tracing--it was decidedly more ancient. We started our work with a will. It was a hard portage and we sometimes sank knee deep into the marsh and got mired frequently, but finally reached the lake. Indian signs now completely disappeared. Down the lake, where a creek flowed out, was a bare hill, and Pete and I climbed it. From its summit we could easily locate the creek taking a turn to the north and then to the northeast and, finally, flowing into one of a series of lakes extending in an easterly and westerly direction. The land was comparatively flat to the eastward and the lakes no doubt fed a river flowing out of that end, probably one of those that we had noted as joining the Nascaupee on its north side. To the north of these lakes were high, rugged ridges. It was possible there was an opening in the hills to the westward, where they seemed lower; we could not tell from where we were, but we determined to portage along the creek into the lakes with that hope. Again the smoke of a forest fire hung in the valleys and over the hills, and the air was heavy with the smell of it, which revived the former uneasiness, but by the next day every trace of it had disappeared. Another day found us afloat upon the first of the lakes. Several short carries across necks of land took us from this lake into the one which Pete and I had seen extending back to the ridges to the westward, and which we shall call Lake Desolation. On the northern shore of Lake Desolation we stopped to climb a mountain. A decided change in the features of the country had taken place since leaving Lake Bibiquasin, and the low moss-covered hills had given place to rough mountains of bare rock. To the northward from where we stood nothing but higher mountains of similar formation met our view--a great, rolling vista of bare, desolate rocks. To the westward the country was not, perhaps, so rough, though there, too, in the far distance could be discerned the tops of rugged hills breaking the line of the horizon. Through a valley in that direction was distinguishable, with a considerable interval between them, a string of small lakes or ponds. This valley led up from the western end of Lake Desolation, and there was no other possible place for the trail to leave the lake. The valley was the only opening. Our mountain climbing had consumed a good part of an afternoon, and it was evening when finally we reached the western end of the lake and pitched our camp near a creek flowing in. As we paddled we tried our trolls, but were not rewarded with a single strike. When camp was made the net was stretched across the creek's mouth and we tried our rods in the stream for trout, but our efforts were useless. No fish were caught. The prospect for game had not improved, in fact was growing steadily worse. We were now in a country that had been desolated by a forest fire within four or five years. The moss under foot had not renewed itself and where any of it remained at all, it was charred and black. The trees were dead and the land harbored almost no life. It seemed to me that even the fish had been scalded out of the water and the streams had never restocked themselves. A thorough search was made for Indian signs, but there were absolutely none. There was nothing to show that any human being had ever been here before us. Back on Lake Bibiquasin we had lost the trail and now on Lake Desolation we were far and hopelessly astray, with only the compass to guide us. After supper the men sat around the camp fire, smoking and talking of their friends at home, while I walked alone by the lake shore. It was a wild scene that lay before me--the aurora, with its waves of changing color flashing weirdly as they swept and lighted the sky, the dead trees everywhere like skeletons gray and gaunt, the blazing camp fire in the foreground, with the figures lying about it and the little white tent in the background. Somewhere hidden in the depths of that vast and silent wilderness to the westward lay Michikamau. There was no mark on the face of the earth to direct us on our road. We must blaze a new trail up that valley and over those ridges that looked so dark and forbidding in the uncertain light of the aurora. We must find Michikamau. CHAPTER X "WE SEE MICHIKAMAU" "It's no use, Pete. You may as well go back to your blankets." It was the morning of the second day after reaching the lake which we named Desolation. We had portaged through a valley and over a low ridge to the shores of a pond, out of which a small stream ran to the southeast. The country was devastated by fire and to the last degree inhospitable. Not a green shrub over two feet in height was to be seen, the trees were dead and blackened; not even the customary moss covered the naked earth, and loose bowlders were scattered everywhere about. There was no fixed trail now to look for or to guide us, but by keeping a general westerly course, we knew that we must, sooner or later, reach Michikamau. Rough, irregular ridges blocked our path and it was necessary to look ahead that we might not become tangled up amongst them. One hill, higher than the others, a solitary bailiff that guarded the wilderness beyond, was to have been climbed this morning, but when Pete and I at daybreak came out of the tent we were met by driving rain and dashes of sleet that cut our faces, and a mist hung over the earth so thick we could not even see across the tiny lake at our feet. I looked longingly into the storm and mist in the direction in which I knew the big hill lay, and realized the hopelessness and foolhardiness of attempting to reach it. "It's no use, Pete," I continued, "to try to scout in this storm. You could see nothing from the hill if you reached it, and the chances are, with every landmark hidden, you couldn't find the tent again. I don't want to lose you yet. Go back and sleep." Later in the morning to my great relief the weather cleared, and Richards and Pete were at once dispatched to scout. We who remained "at home," as we called our camp, found plenty of work to keep us occupied. The bushes had ravaged our clothing to such an extent that some of us were pretty ragged, and every halt was taken advantage of to make much needed repairs. It was nearly dark when Richards and Pete came back. They had reached the high hill and from its summit saw, some distance to the westward, long stretches of water reaching far away to the hills in that direction. A portage of several miles in which some small lakes occurred would take us, they said, into a large lake. Beyond this they could not see. Pete brought back with him a hatful of ripe currants which he stewed and which proved a very welcome addition to our supper of corn-meal mush. The report of water ahead made us happy. It was now August twenty-third. If we could reach Michikamau by September first that should give me ample time, I believed, to reach the George River before the caribou migration would take place. The following morning we started forward with a will, and with many little lakes to cross and short portages between them, we made fairly good progress, and each lake took us one step higher on the plateau. The character of the country was changing, too. The naked land and rocks and dead trees gave way to a forest of green spruce, and the ground was again covered with a thick carpet of white caribou moss. We were catching no fish, however, although our efforts to lure them to the hook or entangle them in the net were never relinquished. Pork was a luxury, and no baker ever produced anything half so dainty and delicious as our squaw bread. A strict distribution of rations was maintained, and when the pork was fried, Pete, with a spoon, dished out the grease into the five plates in equal shares. Into this the quarter loaf ration of bread was broken and the mixture eaten to the last morsel. Sometimes the men drank the warm pork grease clear. Finally it became so precious that they licked their plates after scraping them with their spoons, and the longing eyes that were cast at the frying pan made me fear that some time a raid would be made on that. One day, an owl was shot and went into the pot to keep company with a couple of partridges. Pete demurred. "Owl eat mice," said he. "Not good man eat him. "You can count me out on owl, too," Richards volunteered. "Oh! they're all right," I assured them. "The Labrador people always eat them and you'll find them very nice." "Not me. Owl eat mice," Pete insisted. "Well," I suggested, "possibly we'll be eating mice, too, before we get home, and it's a good way to begin by eating owl--for then the mice won't seem so bad when we have to eat them." Stanton took charge of the kettle and dished out the rations that night. "Partridge is good enough for me," said Richards, fearing that Stanton might forget his prejudice against owl. "Me, too," echoed Pete. "I'll take owl," said I. Easton said nothing. After we had eaten, Stanton asked: "How'd you like the partridge, Richards?" "It was fine," said he. "Guess it was a piece of a young one you gave me, for it wasn't as tough as they usually are." "Maybe it was young, but that partridge was _owl_." "I'll be darned!" exclaimed Richards. His face was a study for a moment, then he laughed. "If that was owl they're all right and I'm a convert. I'll eat all I can get after this." After leaving Lake Desolation the owls had begun to come to us, and Richards was one of the best owl hunters of the party. At first one or two a day were killed, but now whenever we halted an owl would fly into a tree and twitter, and, with a very wise appearance, proceed to look us over as though he wanted to find out what we were up to anyway, for these owls were very inquisitive fellows. He immediately became a candidate for our pot, and as many as six were shot in one day. The men called them the "manna of the Labrador wilderness." Pete's disinclination to eat them was quickly forgotten, for hunger is a wonderful killer of prejudices, and he was as keen for them now as any of us. An occasional partridge was killed and now and again a black duck or two helped out our short ration, but the owls were our mainstay. We did not have enough to satisfy the appetites of five hungry men, however; still we did fairly well. The days were growing perceptibly shorter with each sunset, and the nights were getting chilly. On the night of August twenty-fifth, the thermometer registered a minimum temperature of twenty-five degrees above zero, and on the twenty-sixth of August, forty-eight degrees was the maximum at midday. During the forenoon of that day we reached the largest of the lakes that the scouting party had seen three days before, and further scouting was now necessary. At the western end of the lake, about two miles from where we entered, a hill offered itself as a point from which to view the country beyond, and here we camped. We were now out of the burned district and the scant growth of timber was apparently the original growth, though none of the trees was more than eight inches or so in diameter. In connection with this it might be of interest to note here the fact that the timber line ended at an elevation of two hundred and seventy-five feet above the lake. The hill was four hundred feet high and there was not a vestige of vegetation on its summit. The top of the hill was strewn with bowlders, large and small, lying loose upon the clean, storm-scoured bed rock, just as the glaciers had left them. What a view we had! To the northwest, to the west, and to the southwest, for fifty miles in any direction was a network of lakes, and the country was as level as a table. The men called it "the plain of a thousand lakes," and this describes it well. To the far west a line of blue hills extending to the northwest and southeast cut off our view beyond. They were low, with but one high, conical peak standing out as a landmark. Another ridge at right angles to this one ran to the eastward, bounding the lakes on that side. I examined them carefully through my binoculars and discovered a long line of water, like a silver thread, following the ridge running eastward, and decided that this must be the Nascaupee River, though later I was convinced that I was mistaken and that the river lay to the southward of the ridge. To the cast and north of our hill was an expanse of rolling, desolate wilderness. Carefully I examined with my glass the great plain of lakes, hoping that I might discover the smoke of a wigwam fire or some other sign of life, but none was to be seen. It was as still and dead as the day it was created. It was a solemn, awe-inspiring scene, impressive beyond description, and one that I shall not soon forget. We outlined as carefully as possible the course that we should follow through the maze of lakes, with the round peak as our objective point, for just south of it there seemed to be an opening through the ridge: beyond which we hoped lay Michikamau. The next day we portaged through a marsh and into the lake country and made some progress, portaging from lake to lake across swampy and marshy necks. It was Sunday, but we did not realize it until our day's work was finished and we were snug in camp in the evening. Monday's dawn brought with it a day of superb loveliness. The sky was cloudless, the earth was white with hoarfrost, the atmosphere was crisp and cool, and we took deep breaths of it that sent the blood tingling through our veins. It was a day that makes one love life. Through small lakes and short portages we worked until afternoon and then--hurrah! we were on big water again. Thirty or forty miles in length the lake stretched off to the westward to carry us on our way. It was choked in places with many fir-topped islands, and the channels in and out amongst these islands were innumerable, so Pete called it Lake Kasheshebogamog, which in his language means "Lake of Many Channels." As we paddled I dropped a troll and before we stopped for the night landed a seven-pound namaycush, and another large one broke a troll. The "Land of God's Curse" was behind us. We were with the fish again, and caribou and wolf tracks were seen. The next day found us on our way early. A fine wind sent us spinning before it and at the same time kept us busy with a rough sea that was running on the wide, open lake when we were away from the shelter of the islands. At one o'clock we boiled the kettle at the foot of a low sand ridge, and upon climbing the ridge we found it covered with a mass of ripe blueberries. We ate our fill and picked some to carry with us. At three o'clock we were brought up sharply at the end of the water with no visible outlet. The nature of the lake and the lateness of the season made it impracticable to turn back and look in other channels for the connection with western waters. Former experience had taught me that we might paddle around for a week before we found it, for these were big waters. Five miles ahead was the high, round peak that we were aiming for, and I had every confidence that from its top Michikamau could be seen and a way to reach the big lake. I decided that it must be climbed the next morning, and selected Pete and Easton for the work. A fall the day before had given me a stiff knee, and it was a bitter disappointment that I could not go myself, for I was nervously anxious for a first view of Michikamau. However, I realized that it was unwise to attempt the journey, and I must stay behind. That night Stanton made two roly-polies of the blueberries we picked in the afternoon, boiling them in specimen bags, and we used the last of our sugar for sauce. This, with coffee, followed a good supper of boiled partridge and owl. It was like the old days when I was with Hubbard. We were making good progress, our hopes ran high, and we must feast. Pete's laughs, and songs and jokes added to our merriment. Rain came, but we did not mind that. We sat by a big, blazing fire and ate and enjoyed ourselves in spite of it. Then we went to the tent to smoke and every one pronounced it the best night in weeks. On Wednesday rain poured down at the usual rising time and the men were delayed in starting, for we were in a place where scouting in thick weather was dangerous. It was the morning of the famous eclipse, but we had forgotten the fact. The rain had fallen away to a drizzle and we were eating a late breakfast when the darkness came. It did not last long, and then the rain stopped, though the sky was still overcast. Shortly after breakfast Pete and Easton left us. I gave Pete a new corncob pipe as he was leaving. When he put it in his pocket he said, "I smoke him when I see Michikaman, when I climb hill, if Michikamau there. Sit down, me, look at big water, feel good then. Smoke pipe, me, and call hill Corncob Hill." "All right," said I, laughing at Pete's fancy. "I hope the hill will have a name to-day." It was really a day of anxiety for me, for if Michikamau were not visible from the mountain top with the wide view of country that it must offer, then we were too far away from the lake to hope to reach it. A mile from camp, Richards discovered a good-sized river flowing in from the northwest and set the net in it. Then he and Stanton paddled up the river a mile and a half to another lake, but did not explore it farther. With what impatience I awaited the return of Pete and Easton can be imagined, and when, near dusk, I saw them coming I almost dreaded to hear their report, for what if they had not seen Michikamau? But they had seen Michikamau. When Pete was within talking distance of me, he shouted exultantly, "We see him! We see him! We see Michikamau!" CHAPTER XI THE PARTING AT MICHIKAMAU Pete and Easton had taken their course through small, shallow, rocky lakes until they neared the base of the round hill. Here the canoe was left, and up the steep side of the hill they climbed. "When we most up," Pete told me afterward, "I stop and look at Easton. My heart beat fast. I most afraid to look. Maybe Michikamau not there. Maybe I see only hills. Then I feel bad. Make me feel bad come back and tell you Michikamau not there. I see you look sorry when I tell you that. Then I think if Michikamau there you feel very good. I must know quick. I run. I run fast. Hill very steep. I do not care. I must know soon as I can, and I run. I shut my eyes just once, afraid to look. Then I open them and look. Very close I see when I open my eyes much water. Big water. So big I see no land when I look one way; just water. Very wide too, that water. I know I see Michikamau. My heart beat easy and I feel very glad. I almost cry. I remember corncob pipe you give me, and what I tell you. I take pipe out my pocket. I fill him, and light him. Then I sit on rock and smoke. All the time I look at Michikamau. I feel good and I say, 'This we call Corncob Hill.'" And so we were all made glad and the conical peak had a name. Pete told me that we should have to cut the ridge to the south of Corncob Hill, taking a rather wide detour to reach the place. A chain of lakes would help us, but some long portages were necessary and it would require several days' hard work. This we did not mind now. We were only anxious to dip our paddles into the waters of the big lake. At last Michikamau, which I had so longed to see through two summers of hardship in the Labrador wilds, was near, and I could hope to be rewarded with a look at it within the week. But with the joy of it there was also a sadness, for I must part from three of my loyal companions. The condition of our commissariat and the cold weather that was beginning to be felt made it imperative that the men be sent back from the big lake. The possibility of this contingency had been foreseen by me before leaving New York, and I had mentioned it at that time. Easton had asked me then, if the situation would permit of it, to consider him as a candidate to go through with me to Ungava. When the matter had been suggested at the last camp on the Nascaupee River he had again earnestly solicited me to choose him as my companion, and upon several subsequent occasions had mentioned it. Richards was the logical man for me to choose, for he had had experience in rapids, and could also render me valuable assistance in the scientific work that the others were not fitted for. He was exceedingly anxious to continue the journey, but his university duties demanded his presence in New York in the winter, and I had promised his people that he should return home in the autumn. This made it out of the question to keep him with me, and it was a great disappointment to both of us. That I might feel better assured of the safety of the returning men, I decided to send Pete back with them to act as their guide. Stanton, too, wished to go on, but Easton had spoken first, so I decided to give him the opportunity to go with me to Ungava, as my sole companion. That night, after the others had gone to bed, we two sat late by the camp fire and talked the matter over. "It's a dangerous undertaking, Easton," I said, "and I want you to understand thoroughly what you're going into. Before we reach the George River Post we shall have over four hundred miles of territory to traverse. We may have trouble in locating the George River, and when we do find it there will be heavy rapids to face, and its whole course will be filled with perils. If any accident happens to either of us we shall be in a bad fix. For that reason it's always particularly dangerous for less than three men to travel in a country like this. Then there's the winter trip with dogs. Every year natives are caught in storms, and some of them perish. We shall be exposed to the perils and hardships of one of the longest dog trips ever made in a single season, and we shall be traveling the whole winter. I want you to understand this." "I do understand it," he answered, "and I'm ready for it. I want to go on." And so it was finally settled. It was not easy for me to tell the men that the time had come when we must part, for I realized how hard it would be for them to turn back. The next morning after breakfast, I asked them to remain by the fire and light their pipes. Then I told them. Richards' eyes filled with tears. Stanton at first said he would not turn back without me, but finally agreed with me that it was best he should. Pete urged me to let him go on. Later he stole quietly into the tent, where I was alone writing, and without a word sat opposite me, looking very woebegone. After awhile he spoke: "To-day I feel very sad. I forget to smoke. My pipe go out and I do not light it. I think all time of you. Very lonely, me. Very bad to leave you." Here he nearly broke down, and for a little while he could not speak. When he could control himself he continued: "Seems like I take four men in bush, lose two. Very bad, that. Don't know how I see your sisters. I go home well. They ask me, 'Where my brother?' I don't know. I say nothing. Maybe you die in rapids. Maybe you starve. I don't know. I say nothing. Your sisters cry." Then his tone changed from brokenhearted dejection to one of eager pleading: "Wish you let me go with you. Short grub, maybe. I hunt. Much danger; don't care, me. Don't care what danger. Don't care if grub short. Maybe you don't find portage. Maybe not find river. That bad. I find him. I take you through. I bring you back safe to your sisters. Then I speak to them and they say I do right." It was hard to withstand Pete's pleadings, but my duty was plain, and I said: "No, Pete. I'd like to take you through, but I've got to send you back to see the others safely out. Tell my sisters I'm safe. Tell everybody we're safe. I'm sure we'll get through all right. We'll do our best, and trust to God for the rest, so don't worry. We'll be all right." "I never think you do this," said he. "I don't think you leave me this way." After a pause he continued, "If grub short, come back. Don't wait too long. If you find Indian, then you all right. He help you. You short grub, don't find Indian, that bad. Don't wait till grub all gone. Come back." Pete did not sing that day, and he did not smoke. He was very sad and quiet. We spent the day in assorting and dividing the outfit, the men making a cache of everything that they would not need until their return, that we might not be impeded in our progress to Michikamau. They would get their things on their way back. Eight days, Pete said, would see them from this point to the cache we had made on the Nascaupee, and only eight days' rations would they accept for the journey. They were more than liberal. Richards insisted that I take a new Pontiac shirt that he had reserved for the cold weather, and Pete gave me a new pair of larigans. They deprived themselves that we might be comfortable. Easton and I were to have the tent, the others would use the tarpaulin for a wigwam shelter; each party would have two axes, and the other things were divided as best we could. Richards presented us with a package that we were not to open until the sixteenth of September--his birthday. It was a special treat of some kind. Some whitefish, suckers and one big pike were taken out of the net, which was also left for them to pick up upon their return. A school of large pike had torn great holes in it, but it was still useful. We were a sorrowful group that gathered around the fire that night. The evening was raw. A cold north wind soughed wearily through the fir tops. Black patches of clouds cast a gloom over everything, and there was a vast indefiniteness to the dark spruce forest around us. I took a flashlight picture of the men around the fire. Then we sat awhile and talked, and finally went to our blankets in the chilly tent. September came with a leaden sky and cold wind, but the clouds were soon dispelled, and the sun came bright and warm. Our progress was good, though we had several portages to make. On September second, at noon, we left the larger canoe for the men to get on their way back, and continued with the eighteen-foot canoe, which, with its load of outfit and five men, was very deep in the water, but no wind blew and the water was calm. Here the character of the lakes changed. The waters were deep and black, the shores were steep and rocky, and some labradorite was seen. One small, curious island, evidently of iron, though we did not stop to examine it, took the form of a great head sticking above the water, with the tops of the shoulders visible. Sunday, September third, was a memorable day, a day that I shall never forget while I live. The morning came with all the glories of a northern sunrise, and the weather was perfect. After two short portages and two small lakes were crossed, Pete said, "Now we make last portage and we reach Michikamau." It was not a long portage--a half mile, perhaps. We passed through a thick-grown defile, Pete ahead, and I close behind him. Presently we broke through the bush and there before us was the lake. We threw down our packs by the water's edge. _We had reached Michikamau._ I stood uncovered as I looked over the broad, far-reaching waters of the great lake. I cannot describe my emotions. I was living over again that beautiful September day two years before when Hubbard had told me with so much joy that he had seen the big lake--that Michikamau lay just beyond the ridge. Now I was on its very shores--the shores of the lake that we had so longed to reach. How well I remembered those weary wind-bound days, and the awful weeks that followed. It was like the recollection of a horrid dream--his dear, wan face, our kiss and embrace, my going forth into the storm and the eternity of horrors that was crowded into days. Pete, I think, understood, for he had heard the story. He stood for a moment in silence, then he fashioned his hat brim into a cup, and dipping some water handed it to me. "You reach Michikamau at last. Drink Michikamau water before others come." I drank reverently from the hat. Then the others joined us and we all stood for a little with bowed uncovered beads, on the shore. Our camp was pitched on an elevated, rocky point a few hundred yards farther up--the last camp that we were to have together, and the forty-sixth since leaving Northwest River. We had made over half a hundred portages, and traveled about three hundred and twenty-five miles. The afternoon was occupied in writing letters and telegrams to the home folks, for Richards to take out with him; after which we divided the food. Easton and I were to take with us seventy-eight pounds of pemmican, twelve pounds of pea meal, seven pounds of pork, some beef extract, eight pounds of flour, one cup of corn meal, a small quantity of desiccated vegetables, one pound of coffee, two pounds of tea, some salt and crystallose. Richards gave us nearly all of his tobacco, and Pete kept but two plugs for himself. Toward evening we gathered about our fire, and talked of our parting and of the time when we should meet again. Every remaining moment we had of each other's company was precious to us now. The day had been glorious and the night was one of rare beauty. We built a big fire of logs, and by its light I read aloud, in accordance with our custom on Sunday nights, a chapter from the Bible. After this we talked for a while, then sat silent, gazing into the glowing embers of our fire. Finally Pete began singing softly, "Home, Sweet Home" in Indian, and followed it with an old Ojibway song, "I'm Going Far Away, My Heart Is Sore." Then he sang an Indian hymn, "Pray For Me While I Am Gone." When his hymn was finished he said, very reverently, "I going pray for you fellus every day when I say my prayers. I can't pray much without my book, but I do my best. I pray the best I can for you every day." Pete's devotion was sincere, and I thanked him. Stanton sang a solo, and then all joined in "Auld Lang Syne." After this Pete played softly on the harmonica, while we watched the moon drop behind the horizon in the west. The fire burned out and its embers blackened. Then we went to our bed of fragrant spruce boughs, to prepare for the day of our parting. The morning of September fourth was clear and beautiful and perfect, but in spite of the sunshine and fragrance that filled the air our hearts were heavy when we gathered at our fire to eat the last meal that we should perhaps ever have together. When we were through, I read from my Bible the fourteenth of John--the chapter that I had read to Hubbard that stormy October morning when we said good-by forever. The time of our parting had come. I do not think I had fully realized before how close my bronzed, ragged boys had grown to me in our months of constant companionship. A lump came in my throat, and the tears came to the eyes of Richards and Pete, as we grasped each other's hands. Then we left them. Easton and I dipped our paddles into the water, and our lonely, perilous journey toward the dismal wastes beyond the northern divide was begun. Once I turned to see the three men, with packs on their backs, ascending the knoll back of the place where our camp had been. When I looked again they were gone. CHAPTER XII OVER THE NORTHERN DIVIDE Michikamau is approximately between eighty and ninety miles in length, including the unexplored southeast bay, and from eight to twenty-five miles in width. It is surrounded by rugged hills, which reach an elevation of about five hundred feet above the lake. They are generally wooded for perhaps two hundred feet from the base, with black spruce, larch, and an occasional small grove of white birch. Above the timber line their tops are uncovered save by white lichens or stunted shrubs. The western side of the lake is studded with low islands, but its main body is unobstructed. The water is exceedingly clear, and is said by the Indians to have a great depth. The shores are rocky, sometimes formed of massive bed rock in which is found the beautifully colored labradorite; sometimes strewn with loose bowlders. Our entrance had been made in a bay several miles north of the point where the Nascaupee River, its outlet, leaves the lake and we kept to the east side as we paddled north. No artist's imaginative brush ever pictured such gorgeous sunsets and sunrises as Nature painted for us here on the Great Lake of the Indians. Every night the sun went down in a blaze of glory and left behind it all the colors of the spectrum. The dark hills across the lake in the west were silhouetted against a sky of brilliant red which shaded off into banks of orange and amber that reached the azure at the zenith. The waters of the lake took the reflection of the red at the horizon and became a flood of restless blood. The sky colorings during these few days were the finest that I ever saw in Labrador, not only in the evening but in the morning also. Michikamau has a bad name amongst the Indians for heavy seas, particularly in the autumn months when the northwest gales sometimes blow for weeks at a time without cessation, and the Indians say that they are often held on its shores for long periods by high running seas that no canoe could weather. These were the same winds that held Hubbard and me prisoners for nearly two weeks on the smaller Windbound Lake in 1903, bringing us to the verge of starvation before we were permitted to begin our race for life down the trail toward Northwest River. Fate was kinder now, and but one day's rough water interfered with progress. Early on the third day after parting from the other men, we found ourselves at the end of Michikamau where a shallow river, in which large bowlders were thickly scattered, flowed into it from the north. This was the stream draining Lake Michikamats, the next important point in our journey. Michikamau, it might be explained, means, in the Indian tongue, big water--so big you cannot see the land beyond; Michikamats means a smaller body of water beyond which land may be seen. So somebody has paradoxically defined it "a little big lake." Barring a single expansion of somewhat more than a mile in length the Michakamats River, which runs through a flat, marshy and uninteresting country, was too shallow to float our canoes, and we were compelled to portage almost its entire length. In the wide marshes between these two lakes we met the first evidences of the great caribou migration. The ground was tramped like a barnyard, in wide roads, by vast herds of deer, all going to the eastward. There must have been thousands of them in the bands. Most of the hoof marks were not above a day or two old and had all been made since the last rain had fallen, as was evidenced by freshly turned earth and newly tramped vegetation. We saw none of the animals, however, and there were no hills near from which we might hope to sight the herds. Evidences of life were increasing and game was becoming abundant as we approached the height of land. Some geese and ptarmigans were killed and a good many of both kinds of birds were seen, as well as some ducks. We began to live in plenty now and the twittering owls were permitted to go unmolested. Lake Michikamats is irregular in shape, about twenty miles long, and, exclusive of its arms, from two to six miles wide. The surrounding country is flat and marshy, with some low, barren hills on the westward side of the lake. The timber growth in the vicinity is sparse and scrubby, consisting of spruce and tamarack. The latter had now taken on its autumnal dress of yellow, and, interspersing the dark green of the spruce, gave an exceedingly beautiful effect to the landscape. Where we entered Michikamats, at its outlet, the lake is very shallow and filled with bowlders that stand high above the water. A quarter of a mile above this point the water deepens, and farther up seems to have a considerable depth, though we did not sound it. The western shore of the upper half is lined with low islands scantily covered with spruce and tamarack. During two days that we spent here in a thorough exploration of the lake, our camp was pitched on an island at the bottom of a bay that, half way up the lake, ran six miles to the northward. This was selected as the most likely place for the portage trail to leave the lake, as the island had apparently, for a long period, been the regular rendezvous of Indians, not only in summer, but also in winter. Tepee poles of all ages, ranging from those that were old and decayed to freshly cut ones, were numerous. They were much longer and thicker than those used by the Indians south of Michikamau. Here, also, was a well-built log cache, a permanent structure, which was, no doubt, regularly used by hunting parties. Some new snowshoe frames were hanging on the trees to season before being netted with babiche. On the lake shore were some other camping places that had been used within a few months, and at one of them a newly made "sweat hole," where the medicine man had treated the sick. These sweat holes are much in favor with the Labrador Indians, both Mountaineers and Nascaupees. They are about two feet in depth and large enough in circumference for a man to sit in the center, surrounded by a circle of good-sized bowlders. Small saplings are bent to form a dome-shaped frame for the top. The invalid is placed in the center of this circle of bowlders, which have previously been made very hot, water is poured on them to produce steam, and a blanket thrown over the sapling frame to confine the steam. The Indians have great faith in this treatment as a cure for almost every malady. On the mainland opposite the island upon which we were encamped was a barren hill which we climbed, and which commanded a view of a large expanse of country. On the top was a small cairn and several places where fires had been made--no doubt Indian signal fires. The fuel for them must have been carried from the valley below, for not a stick or bush grew on the hill itself. "Signal Hill," as we called it, is the highest elevation for many miles around and a noticeable landmark. To the northward, at our feet, were two small lakes, and just beyond, trending somewhat to the northwest, was a long lake reaching up through the valley until it was lost in the low hills and sparse growth of trees beyond. Great bowlders were strewn indiscriminately everywhere, and the whole country was most barren and desolate. To the south of Michikamats was the stretch of flat swamp land which extended to Michikaman. Petscapiskau, a prominent and rugged peak on the west shore of Michikamau near its upper end, stood out against the distant horizon, a lone sentinel of the wilderness. The head waters of the George River must now be located. There was nothing to guide me in the search, and the Indians at Northwest River had warned us that we were liable at this point to be led astray by an entanglement of lakes, but I felt certain that any water flowing northward that we might come to, in this longitude, would either be the river itself or a tributary of it, and that some such stream would certainly be found as soon as the divide was crossed. With this object in view we kept a course nearly due north, passing through four good-sized lakes, until, one afternoon, at the end of a short portage, we reached a narrow, shallow lake lying in an easterly and westerly direction, whose water was very clear and of a bottle-green color, in marked contrast to that of the preceding lakes, which had been of a darker shade. This peculiarity of the water led me to look carefully for a current when our canoe was launched, and I believed I noticed one. Then I fancied I heard a rapid to the westward. Easton said there was no current and he could not hear a rapid, and to satisfy myself, we paddled toward the sound. We had not gone far when the current became quite perceptible, and just above could be seen the waters of a brook that fed the lake, pouring down through the rocks. We were on the George River at last! Our feelings can be imagined when the full realization of our good fortune came to us, and we turned our canoe to float down on the current of the little stream that was to grow into a mighty river as it carried us on its turbulent bosom toward Ungava Bay. The course of the stream here was almost due east. The surrounding country continued low and swampy. Tamarack was the chief timber and much of it was straight and fine, with some trees fully twelve inches in diameter at the butt, and fifty feet in height. A rocky, shallow place in the river that we had to portage brought us into an expansion of considerable size, and here we pitched our first camp on the George River. This was an event that Hubbard had planned and pictured through the weary weeks of hardship on the Susan Valley trail and the long portages across the ranges in his expedition of 1903. "When we reach the George River, we'll meet the Indians and all will be well," he used to say, and how anxiously we looked forward for that day, which never came. At the time when he made the suggestion to turn back from Windbound Lake I at first opposed it on the ground that we could probably reach the George River, where game would be found and the Indians would be met with, in much less time than it would take to make the retreat to Northwest River. Finally I agreed that it was best to return. On the twenty-first of September the retreat was begun and Hubbard died on the eighteenth of October. Now, two years later, I realized that from Windbound Lake we could have reached Michikamau in five or six days at the very outside, and less than two weeks, allowing for delays through bad weather and our weakened condition, would have brought us to the George River, where, at that time of the year, ducks and ptarmigans are always plentiful. All these things I pondered as I sat by this camp fire, and I asked myself, "Why is it that when Fate closes our eyes she does not lead us aright?" Of course it is all conjecture, but I feel assured that if Hubbard and I had gone on then instead of turning back, Hubbard would still be with us. Below the expansion on which our first camp on the river was pitched the stream trickled through the thickly strewn rocks in a wide bed, where it took a sharp turn to the northward and emptied into another expansion several miles in length, with probably a stream joining it from the northeast, though we were unable to investigate this, as high winds prevailed which made canoeing difficult, and we had to content ourselves with keeping a direct course. It seemed as though with the crossing of the northern divide winter had come. On the night we reached the George River the temperature fell to ten degrees below the freezing point, and the following day it never rose above thirty-five degrees, and a high wind and snow squalls prevailed that held traveling in check. On the morning of the fifteenth we started forward in the teeth of a gale and the snow so thick we could not see the shore a storm that would be termed a "blizzard" in New York--and after two hours' hard work were forced to make a landing upon a sandy point with only a mile and a quarter to our credit. Here we found the first real butchering camp of the Indians--a camp of the previous spring. Piles of caribou bones that had been cracked to extract the marrow, many pairs of antlers, the bare poles of large lodges and extensive arrangements, such as racks and cross poles for dressing and curing deerskins. In a cache we found two muzzle-loading guns, cooking utensils, steel traps, and other camping and hunting paraphernalia. On the portage around the last shallow rapid was a winter camp, where among other things was a _komatik_ (dog sledge), showing that some of these Indians at least on the northern barrens used dogs for winter traveling. In the south of Labrador this would be quite out of the question, as there the bush is so thick that it does not permit the snow to drift and harden sufficiently to bear dogs, and the use of the komatik is therefore necessarily confined to the coast or near it. The Indian women there are very timid of the "husky" dogs, and the animals are not permitted near their camps. The sixteenth of September--the day we passed through this large expansion--was Richards' birthday. When we bade good-by to the other men it was agreed that both parties should celebrate the day, wherever they might be, with the best dinner that could be provided from our respective stores. The meal was to be served at exactly seven o'clock in the evening, that we might feel on this one occasion that we were all sitting down to eat together, and fancy ourselves reunited. In the morning we opened the package that Richards gave us, and found in it a piece of fat pork and a quart of flour, intended for a feast of our favorite "darn goods." With self-sacrificing generosity he had taken these from the scanty rations they had allowed themselves for their return that we might have a pleasant surprise. With the now plentiful game this made it possible to prepare what seemed to us a very elaborate menu for the wild wastes of interior Labrador. First, there was bouillon, made from beef capsules; then an entr'ee of fried ptarmigan and duck giblets; a roast of savory black duck, with spinach (the last of our desiccated vegetables); and for dessert French toast _'a la Labrador_ (alias darn goods), followed by black coffee. When it was finished we spent the evening by the camp fire, smoking and talking of the three men retreating down our old trail, and trying to calculate at which one of the camping places they were bivouacked. Every night since our parting this had been our chief diversion, and I must confess that with each day that took us farther away from them an increased loneliness impressed itself upon us. Solemn and vast was the great silence of the trackless wilderness as more and more we came to realize our utter isolation from all the rest of the world and all mankind. The marsh and swamp land gradually gave way to hills, which increased in size and ruggedness as we proceeded. We had found the river at its very beginning, and for a short way portages, as has been suggested, had to be made around shallow places, but after a little, as other streams augmented the volume of water, this became unnecessary, and as the river grew in size it became a succession of rapids, and most of them unpleasant ones, that kept us dodging rocks all the while. Mr. A. P. Low, of the Canadian Geological Survey, in other parts of the Labrador interior found black ducks very scarce. This was not our experience. From the day we entered the George River until we were well down the stream they were plentiful, and we shot what we needed without turning our canoe out of its course to hunt them. This is apparently a breeding ground for them. Several otter rubs were noted, and we saw some of the animals, but did not disturb them. In places where the river broadened out and the current was slack every rock that stuck above the water held its muskrat house, and large numbers of the rats were seen. After the snow we had one or two fine, bright days, but they were becoming few now, and the frosty winds and leaden skies, the forerunners of winter, were growing more and more frequent. When the bright days did come they were exceptional ones. I find noted in my diary one morning: "This is a morning for the gods--a morning that could scarcely be had anywhere in the world but in Labrador--a cloudless sky, no breath of wind, the sun rising to light the heavy hoarfrost and make it glint and sparkle till every tree and bush and rock seems made of shimmering silver." One afternoon as we were passing through an expansion and I was scanning, as was my custom, every bit of shore in the hope of discovering a wigwam smoke, I saw, running down the side of a hill on an island a quarter of a mile away, a string of Indians waving wildly at us and signaling us to come ashore. After twelve weeks, in which not a human being aside from our own party had been seen, we had reached the dwellers of the wilderness, and with what pleasure and alacrity we accepted the invitation to join them can be imagined. CHAPTER XIII DISASTER IN THE RAPIDS It was a hunting party--four men and a half-grown boy--with two canoes and armed with rifles. The Indians gave us the hearty welcome of the wilderness and received us like old friends. First, the chief, whose name was Toma, shook our hand, then the others, laughing and all talking at once in their musical Indian tongue. It was a welcome that said: "You are our brothers. You have come far to see us, and we are glad to have you with us." After the first greetings were over they asked for _stemmo,_ and I gave them each a plug of tobacco, for that is what stemmo means. They had no pipes with them, so I let them have two of mine, and it did my heart good to see the look of supreme satisfaction that crept into each dusky face as its possessor inhaled in long, deep pulls the smoke of the strong tobacco. It was like the food that comes to a half-starved man. After they had had their smoke, passing the pipes from mouth to mouth, I brought forth our kettle. In a jiffy they had a fire, and I made tea for them, which they drank so scalding hot it must have burned their throats. They told us they had had neither tea nor tobacco for a long while, and were very hungry for both. These are the stimulants of the Labrador Indians, and they will make great sacrifices to secure them. All the time that this was taking place we were jabbering, each in his own tongue, neither we nor they understanding much that the other said. I did make out from them that we were the first white men that had ever visited them in their hunting grounds and that they were glad to see us. Accepting an invitation to visit their lodges and escorted by a canoe on either side of ours, we finally turned down stream and, three miles below, came to the main camp of the Indians, which was situated, as most of their hunting camps are, on a slight eminence that commanded a view of the river for several miles in either direction, that watch might be constantly kept for bands of caribou. We were discovered long before we arrived at the lodges, and were met by the whole population--men, women, children, dogs, and all. Our reception was tumultuous and cordial. It was a picturesque group. The swarthy-faced men, lean, sinewy and well built, with their long, straight black hair reaching to their shoulders, most of them hatless and all wearing a red bandanna handkerchief banded across the forehead, moccasined feet and vari-colored leggings; the women quaint and odd; the eager-faced children; little hunting dogs, and big wolf-like huskies. All hands turned to and helped us carry our belongings to the camp, pitch our tent and get firewood for our stove. Then the men squatted around until eleven of them were with us in our little seven by nine tent, while all the others crowded as near to the entrance as they could. I treated everybody to hot tea. The men helped themselves first, then passed their cups on to the women and children. The used tea leaves from the kettle were carefully preserved by them to do service again. The eagerness with which the men and women drank the tea and smoked the tobacco aroused my sympathies, and I distributed amongst them all of these that I could well spare from our store. In appreciation of my gifts they brought us a considerable quantity of fresh and jerked venison and smoked fat; and Toma, as a special mark of favor presented me with a deer's tongue which had been cured by some distinctive process unlike anything I had ever eaten before, and it was delicious indeed, together with a bladder of refined fat so clear that it was almost transparent. The encampment consisted of two deerskin wigwams. One was a large one and oblong in shape, the other of good size but round. The smaller wigwam was heated by a single fire in the center, the larger one by three fires distributed at intervals down its length. Chief Toma occupied, with his family, the smaller lodge, while the others made their home in the larger one. This was a band of Mountaineer Indians who trade at Davis Inlet Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, on the east coast, visiting the Post once or twice a year to exchange their furs for such necessaries as ammunition, clothing, tobacco and tea. Unlike their brothers on the southern slope, they have not accustomed themselves to the use of flour, sugar and others of the simplest luxuries of civilization, and their food is almost wholly flesh, fish and berries. They live in the crude, primordial fashion of their forefathers. To aid them in their hunt they have adopted the breech-loading rifle and muzzle-loading shotgun, but the bow and arrow has still its place with them and they were depending wholly upon this crude weapon for hunting partridges and other small game now, as they had no shotgun ammunition. The boys were constantly practicing with it while at play and were very expert in its use. These Indians are of medium height, well built, sinewy and strong, alert and quick of movement. The women are generally squatty and fat, and the greater a woman's avoirdupois the more beautiful is she considered. All the Mountaineer Indians of Labrador are nominally Roman Catholics. Those in the south are quite devoted to their priest, and make an effort to meet him at least once a year and pay their tithes, but here in the north this is not the case. In fact some of these people had seen their priest but once in their life and some of the younger ones had never seen him at all. Therefore they are still living under the influence of the ancient superstitions of their race, though the women are all provided with crucifixes and wear them on their breasts as ornaments. They are perfectly honest. Indians, until they become contaminated by contact with whites, always are honest. It is the white man that teaches them to steal, either by actually pilfering from the ignorant savage, or by taking undue advantage of him in trade. Human nature is the same everywhere, and the Indian will, when he finds he is being taken advantage of and robbed, naturally resent it and try to "get even." Our things were left wholly unguarded, and were the object of a great deal of curiosity and admiration, not only our guns and instruments, but nearly everything we had, and were handled and inspected by our hosts, but not the slightest thing was filched. No Labrador Indian north of the Grand River will ever disturb a cache unless driven to it by the direst necessity, and even then will leave something in payment for what he takes. We told them of the evidences we had seen of the caribou migration having taken place between Michikamau and Michikamats, and they were mightily interested. They had missed it but were, nevertheless, meeting small bands of caribou and making a good killing, as the quantities of meat hanging everywhere to dry for winter use bore evidence. The previous winter, they told us, was a hard one with them. Reindeer and ptarmigan disappeared, and before spring they were on the verge of starvation. Our visit was made the occasion of a holiday and they devoted themselves wholly to our entertainment, and I believe were genuinely sorry when, on the afternoon after our arrival, I announced my decision to break camp and proceed. They helped us get ready, drew a rough sketch of the river so far as they knew it, and warned us to look out for numerous rapids and some high falls around which there was a portage trail. Farther on, they said, the river was joined by another, and then it became a "big, big river," and for two days' journey was good. Beyond that it was reported to be very bad. They had never traveled it, because they heard it was so bad, and they could not tell us, from their own knowledge, what it was like, but repeated the warning, "Shepoo matchi, shepoo matchi" (River bad), and told us to look out. When we were ready to go, as a particular mark of good feeling, they brought us parting gifts of smoked deer's fat and were manifestly in earnest in their urgent invitations to us to come again. The whole encampment assembled at the shore to see us off and, as our canoes pushed out into the stream, the men pitched small stones after us as a good luck omen. If the stones hit you good luck is assured. You will have a good hunt and no harm will come to you. None of the stones happened to hit us. We could see the group waving at us until we rounded the point of land upon which the lodges stood; then the men all appeared on the other side of the point, where they had run to watch us until we disappeared around a bend in the river below, as we passed on to push our way deeper and deeper into the land of silence and mystery. The following morning brought us into a lake expansion some twelve miles long and two miles or so in width, with a great many bays and arms which were extremely confusing to us in our search for the place where the river left it. The lower end was blocked with islands, and innumerable rocky bars, partially submerged, extended far out into the water. A strong southwest wind sent heavy rollers down the lake. Low, barren hills skirted the shores. Early in the afternoon we turned into a bay where I left Easton with the canoe while I climbed one of the barren knolls. I had scarcely reached the summit when I heard a rifle shot, and then, after a pause, three more in quick succession. There were four cartridges in my rifle. I ran down to the canoe where I found Easton in wild excitement, waving the gun and calling for cartridges, and half-way across the bay saw the heads of two caribou swimming toward the opposite shore. I loaded the magazine and sat down to wait for the animals to land. When the first deer got his footing and showed his body above the water three hundred and fifty yards away, I took him behind the shoulder. He dropped where he stood. The other animal stopped to look at his comrade, and a single bullet, also behind his shoulder, brought him down within ten feet of where he had stood when he was hit. I mention this to show the high efficiency of the .33 Winchester. At a comparatively long range two bullets had killed two caribou on the spot without the necessity of a chase after wounded animals, and one bullet had passed from behind the shoulder, the length of the neck, into the head and glancing downward had broken the jaw. I desired to make a cache here that we might have something to fall back upon in case our retreat should become necessary, and four days were employed in fixing up the meat and preparing the cache, and this gave us also sufficient time, in spite of continuous heavy wind and rain, to thoroughly explore the lake and its bays. An ample supply of the fresh venison was reserved to carry with us. We now had on hand, exclusive of the pemmican and other rations still remaining, and the meat cached, eight weeks' provisions, with plenty of ducks and ptarmigans everywhere, and there seemed to be no further danger from lack of food. One day, while we were here, five caribou tarried for several minutes within two hundred yards of us and then sauntered off without taking alarm, and later the same day another was seen at closer range; but we did not need them and permitted them to go unmolested. From a hill near this bay, where we killed the deer, on the eastern side of the lake, we discovered a trail leading off toward a string of lakes to the eastward. This is undoubtedly the portage trail which the Indians follow in their journeys to the Post at Davis Inlet. Toma had told me we might see it here, and that, not far in, on one of these lakes was another Indian camp. An inordinate craving for fat takes possession of every one after a little while in the bush. We had felt it, and now, with plenty, overindulged, with the result that we were attacked with illness, and for a day or two I was almost too sick to move. The morning we left Atuknipi, or Reindeer Lake, as we shall call the expansion, a blinding snowstorm was raging, with a strong head wind. Several rapids were run though it was extremely dangerous work, for at times we could scarcely see a dozen yards ahead. At midday the snow ceased, but the wind increased in velocity until finally we found it quite out of the question to paddle against it, and were forced to pitch camp on the shores of a small expansion and under the lee of a hill. For two days the gale blew unceasingly and held us prisoners in our camp. The waves broke on the rocky shores, sending the spray fifty feet in the air and, freezing on the surrounding bowlders, covered them with a glaze of ice. I cannot say what the temperature was, for on the day of our arrival here my last thermometer was broken; but with half a foot of snow on the ground, the freezing spray and the bitter cold wind, we were warned that winter was reaching out her hand toward Labrador and would soon hold us in her merciless grasp. This made me chafe under our imprisonment, for I began to fear that we should not reach the Post before the final freeze-up came, and further travel by canoe would be out of the question. On the morning of September twenty-ninth, the wind, though still blowing half a gale in our faces, had so much abated that we were able to launch our canoe and continue our journey. It was very cold. The spray froze as it struck our clothing, the canoe was weighted with ice and our paddles became heavy with it. We ran one or two short rapids in safety and then started into another that ended with a narrow strip of white water with a small expansion below. We had just struck the white water, going at a good speed in what seemed like a clear course, when the canoe, at its middle, hit a submerged rock. Before there was time to clear ourselves the little craft swung in the current, and the next moment I found myself in the rushing, seething flood rolling down through the rocks. When I came to the surface I was in the calm water below the rapid and twenty feet away was the canoe, bottom up, with Easton clinging to it, his clothing fast on a bolt under the canoe. I swam to him and, while he drew his hunting knife and cut himself loose, steadied the canoe. We had neglected--and it was gross carelessness in us--to tie our things fast, and the lighter bags and paddles were floating away while everything that was heavy had sunk beyond hope of recovery. The thwarts, however, held fast in the overturned canoe a bag of pemmican, one other small bag, the tent and tent stove. Treading water to keep ourselves afloat we tried to right the canoe to save these, but our efforts were fruitless. The icy water so benumbed us we could scarcely control our limbs. The tracking line was fast to the stern thwart, and with one end of this in his teeth, Easton swam to a little rocky island just below the rapid and hauled while I swam by the canoe and steadied the things under the thwarts. It took us half an hour to get the canoe ashore, and we could hardly stand when he had it righted and the water emptied out. Then I looked for wood to build a fire, for I knew that unless we could get artificial heat immediately we would perish with the cold, for the very blood in our veins was freezing. Not a stick was there nearer than an eighth of a mile across the bay. Our paddles were gone, but we got into the canoe and used our hands for paddles. By the time we landed Easton had grown very pale. He began picking and clutching aimlessly at the trees. The blood had congealed in my hands until they were so stiff as to be almost useless. I could not guide them to the trousers pocket at first where I kept my waterproof match-box. Finally I loosened my belt and found the matches, and with the greatest difficulty managed to get one between my benumbed fingers, and scratched it on the bottom of the box. The box was wet and the match head flew off. Everything was wet. Not a dry stone even stuck above the snow. I tried another match on the box, but, like the first, the head flew off, and then another and another with the same result. Under ordinary circumstances I could have secured a light somehow and quickly, but now my hands and fingers were stiff as sticks and refused to grip the matches firmly. I worked with desperation, but it seemed hopeless. Easton's face by this time had taken on the waxen shade that comes with death, and he appeared to be looking through a haze. His senses were leaving him. I saw something must be done at once, and I shouted to him: "Run! run! Easton, run!" Articulation was difficult, and I did not know my own voice. It seemed very strange and far away to me. We tried to run but had lost control of our legs and both fell down. With an effort I regained my feet but fell again when I tried to go forward. My legs refused to carry me. I crawled on my hands and knees in the snow for a short distance, and it was all I could do to recover my feet. Easton had now lost all understanding of his surroundings. He was looking into space but saw nothing. He was groping blindly with his hands. He did not even know that he was cold. I saw that only a fire could save his life, and perhaps mine, and that we must have it quickly, and made one more superhuman effort with the matches. One after another I tried them with the same result as before until but three remained. All depended upon those three matches. The first one flickered for a moment and my hopes rose, but my poor benumbed fingers refused to hold it and it fell into the snow and went out. The wind was drying the box bottom. I tried another--an old sulphur match, I remember. It burned! I applied it with the greatest care to a handful of the hairy moss that is found under the branches next the trunk of spruce trees, and this ignited. Then I put on small sticks, nursing the blaze with the greatest care, adding larger sticks as the smaller ones took fire. I had dropped on my knees and could reach the sticks from where I knelt, for there was plenty of dead wood lying about. As the blaze grew I rose to my feet and, dragging larger wood, piled it on. A sort of joyful mania took possession of me as I watched the great tongues of flames shooting skyward and listened to the crackling of the burning wood, and I stood back and laughed. I had triumphed over fate and the elements. Our arms, our clothing, nearly all our food, our axes and our paddles, and even the means of making new paddles were gone, but for the present we were safe. Life, no matter how uncertain, is sweet, and I laughed with the very joy of living. CHAPTER XIV TIDE WATER AND THE POST When Easton came to his senses, he found himself warming by the fire. It is wonderful how quickly a half-frozen man will revive. As soon as we were thoroughly thawed out we stripped to our underclothing and hung our things up to dry, permitting our underclothing to dry on us as we stood near the blaze. We were little the worse for our dip, escaping with slightly frosted fingers and toes. I discovered in my pockets a half plug of black tobacco such as we use in the North, put it on the end of a stick and dried it out, and then we had a smoke. We agreed that we had never in our life before had so satisfactory a smoke as that. The stimulant was needed and it put new life into us. Easton was very pessimistic. He was generally inclined to look upon the dark side of things anyway, and now he believed our fate was sealed, especially if we could not find our paddles, and he began to talk about returning to our cache and thence to the Indians. But I had been in much worse predicaments than this, and paddles or no paddles, determined to go on, for we could work our way down the river somehow with poles and the bag of pemmican would keep us alive until we reached the Post--unless the freeze-up caught us. When we had dried ourselves we went to the canoe to make an inventory of our remaining goods and chattels, and with a vague hope that a paddle might be found on the shore. What, then, was our surprise and our joy to find not only the paddles but our dunnage bags and my instrument bag amongst the rocks, where an eddy below the rapid swirled the water in. Thus our blankets and clothing were safe, we had fifty pounds of pemmican, our tent and tent stove, and in the small bag that I have mentioned as having remained in the canoe with the other things was all our tea and five or six pounds of caribou tallow. Our matches--and this was a great piece of good fortune--were uninjured, and we had a good stock of them. The tent stove seemed useless without the pipe, but we determined to cling to it, as our luggage now was light. Our guns, axes, the balance of our provisions, including salt, the tea kettle and all our other cooking utensils, were gone, and worst of all, three hundred and fifty unexposed photographic films. Only twenty or thirty unexposed films were saved, but fortunately, only one roll of ten exposed films, which was in one of the cameras, was injured, and none of the exposed films was lost. One camera was damaged beyond use, as were also my aneroid barometer and binoculars. However, we were fortunate to get off so easily as we did, and the accident taught us the lesson to take no chances in rapids and to tie everything fast at all times. Carelessness is pretty sure to demand its penalty, and the wilderness is constantly springing surprises upon those who submit themselves to its care. A pretty dreary camp we pitched that evening near the place of our mishap. Fortunately there was plenty of dead wood loose on the ground, and we did very well for our camp fire without the axes. A pemmican can with the end cut off about an inch from the top, with a piece of copper wire that I found in my dunnage bag fashioned into a bale, made a very serviceable tea pail, from which we drank in turn, as our cups were lost. The top of the can answered for a frying pan in which to melt our caribou tallow and pemmican when we wanted our ration hot, and as a plate. Tent pegs were cut with our jackknives and the tent stretched between two trees, which avoided the necessity of tent poles. Thus, with our cooking and living outfit reduced to the simplest and crudest form, and with a limited and unvaried diet of pemmican, tallow and tea, we were on the whole able, so long as loose wood could be found for our night camps, to keep comparatively comfortable and free from any severe hardships. We certainly had great reason to be thankful, and that night before we rolled into our blankets I read aloud by the light of our camp fire from my little Bible the one hundred and seventh Psalm, in thanksgiving. The next morning before starting forward we paddled out to the rapid, in the vain hope that we might be able to recover some of the lost articles from the bottom of the river, but at the place where the spill had occurred the water was too swift and deep for us to do anything, and we were forced to abandon the attempt and reluctantly resume our journey without the things. That night we felt sorely the loss of the axes. Our camp was pitched in a spot where no loose wood was to be found save very small sticks, insufficient in quantity for an adequate fire in the open, for the evening was cold. We could not pitch our tent wigwam fashion with an opening at the top for the smoke to escape, as to do that several poles were necessary, and we had no means of cutting them. However, with the expectation that enough smoke would find its way out of the stovepipe hole to permit us to remain inside, we built a small round Indian fire in the center of the tent. We managed to endure the smoke and warm ourselves while tea was making, but the experiment proved a failure and was not to be resorted to again, for I feared it might result in an attack of smoke-blindness. This is an affliction almost identical in effect to snow-blindness. I had suffered from it in the first days of my wandering alone in the Susan Valley in the winter of 1903, and knew what it meant, and that an attack of it would preclude traveling while it lasted, to say nothing of the pain that it would inflict. Here a portage was necessary around a half-mile canyon through which the river, a rushing torrent, tumbled in the interval over a series of small falls, and all the way the perpendicular walls of basaltic rock that confined it rose on either side to a height of fifty to seventy-five feet above the seething water. Just below this canyon another river joined us from the east, increasing the volume of water very materially. Our tumplines were gone, but with the tracking line and pieces of deer skin we improvised new ones that answered our purpose very well. The hills, barren almost to their base, and growing in altitude with every mile we traveled, were now closely hugging the river valley, which was almost destitute of trees. Rapids were practically continuous and always strewn with dangerous rocks that kept us constantly on the alert and our nerves strung to the highest tension. The general course of the river for several days was north, thirty degrees east, but later assumed an almost due northerly course. It made some wide sweeps as it worked its tortuous way through the ranges, sometimes almost doubling on itself. At intervals small streams joined it and it was constantly growing in width and depth. Once we came to a place where it dropped over massive bed rock in a series of falls, some of which were thirty or more feet in height. Few portages, however, were necessary. We took our chances on everything that there was any prospect of the canoe living through--rapids that under ordinary circumstances we should never have trusted--for the grip of the cold weather was tightening with each October day. The small lakes away from the river, where the water was still, must even now have been frozen, but the river current was so big and strong that it had as yet warded off the frost shackles. When the real winter came, however, it would be upon us in a night, and then even this mighty torrent must submit to its power. At one point the valley suddenly widened and the hills receded, and here the river broke up into many small streams--no less than five--but some four or five miles farther on these various channels came together again, and then the growing hills closed in until they pinched the river banks more closely than ever. On the morning of October sixth we swung around a big bend in the river, ran a short but precipitous rapid and suddenly came upon another large river flowing in from the west. This stream came through a sandy valley, and below the junction of the rivers the sand banks rose on the east side a hundred feet or so above the water. The increase here in the size of the stream was marked--it was wide and deep. A terrific gale was blowing and caught us directly in our faces as we turned the bend and lost the cover of the lee share above the curve, and paddling ahead was impossible. The waves were so strong, in fact, that we barely escaped swamping before we effected a landing. We here found ourselves in an exceedingly unpleasant position. We were only fitted with summer clothing, which was now insufficient protection. There was not enough loose wood to make an open fire to keep us warm for more than an hour or so, and we could not go on to look for a better camping place. In a notch between the sand ridges we found a small cluster of trees, between two of which our tent was stretched, but it was mighty uncomfortable with no means of warming. "If we only had our stovepipe now we'd be able to break enough small stuff to keep the stove going," said Easton. With nothing else to do we climbed a knoll to look at the river below, and there on the knoll what should we find but several lengths of nearly worn-out but still serviceable pipe that some Indian had abandoned. "It's like Robinson Crusoe," said Easton. "Just as soon as we need something that we can't get on very well without we find it. A special Providence is surely caring for us." We appropriated that pipe, all right, and it did not take us long to get a fire in the stove, which we had clung to, useless as it had seemed to be. A mass of ripe cranberries, so thick that we crushed them with every step, grew on the hills, and we picked our pailful and stewed them, using crystallose (a small phial of which I had in my dunnage bag) as sweetening. A pound of pemmican a day with a bit of tallow is sustaining, but not filling, and left us with a constant, gnawing hunger. These berries were a godsend, and sour as they were we filled up on them and for once gratified our appetites. We had a great desire, too, for something sweet, and always pounced upon the stray raisins in the pemmican. When either of us found one in his ration it was divided between us. Our great longing was for bread and molasses, just as it had been with Hubbard and me when we were short of food, and we were constantly talking of the feasts we would have of these delicacies when we reached the Post--wheat bread and common black molasses. The George River all the way down to this point had been in past years a veritable slaughter house. There were great piles of caribou antlers (the barren-ground caribou or reindeer), sometimes as many as two or three hundred pairs in a single pile, where the Indians had speared the animals in the river, and everywhere along the banks were scattered dry bones. Abandoned camps, and some of them large ones and not very old, were distributed at frequent intervals, though we saw no more of the Indians themselves until we reached Ungava Bay. Wolves were numerous. We saw their tracks in the sand and fresh signs of them were common. They always abound where there are caribou, which form their main living. Ptarmigans in the early morning clucked on the river banks like chickens in a barnyard, and we saw some very large flocks of them. Geese and black ducks, making their way to the southward, were met with daily. But we had no arms or ammunition with which to kill them. I saw some fox signs, but there were very few or no rabbit signs, strange to say, until we were a full hundred miles farther down the river. This camp, where we found the stovepipe, we soon discovered was nearly at the head of Indian House Lake, so called by a Hudson's Bay Company factor-John McLean-because of the numbers of Indians that he found living on its shores. McLean, about seventy years earlier, had ascended the river in the interests of his company, for the purpose of establishing interior posts. The most inland Post that he erected was at the lower end of this lake, which is fifty-five miles in length. He also built a Post on a large lake which he describes in his published journal as lying to the west of Indian House Lake. The exact location of this latter lake is not now known, but I am inclined to think it is one which the Indians say is the source of Whale River, a stream of considerable size emptying into Ungava Bay one hundred and twenty miles to the westward of the mouth of the George River. These two rivers are doubtless much nearer together, however, farther inland, where Whale River has its rise. The difficulty experienced by McLean in getting supplies to these two Posts rendered them unprofitable, and after experimenting with them for three years they were abandoned. The agents in charge were each spring on the verge of starvation before the opening of the waters brought fish and food or they were relieved by the brigades from Ungava. They had to depend almost wholly upon their hunters for provisions. It was not attempted in those days to carry in flour, pork and other food stuffs now considered by the traders necessaries. And almost the only goods handled by them in the Indian trade were axes, knives, guns, ammunition and beads. Indian House Lake now, as then, is a general rendezvous for the Indians during the summer months, when they congregate there to fish and to hunt reindeer. In the autumn they scatter to the better trapping grounds, where fur bearing animals are found in greater abundance. We were too late in the season to meet these Indians, though we saw many of their camping places. A snowstorm began on October seventh, but the wind had so far abated that we were able to resume our journey. It was a bleak and dismal day. Save for now and then a small grove of spruce trees in some sheltered nook, and these at long intervals, the country was destitute and barren of growth. Below our camp, upon entering the lake, there was a wide, flat stretch of sand wash from the river, and below this from the lake shore on either side, great barren, grim hills rose in solemn majesty, across whose rocky face the wind swept the snow in fitful gusts and squalls. Off on a mountain side a wolf disturbed the white silence with his dismal cry, and farther on a big black fellow came to the water's edge, and with the snow blowing wildly about him held his head in the air and howled a challenge at us as we passed close by. Perhaps he yearned for companionship and welcomed the sight of living things. For my part, grim and uncanny as he looked, I was glad to see him. He was something to vary the monotony of the great solemn silence of our world. The storm increased, and early in the day the snow began to fall so heavily that we could not see our way, and forced us to turn into a bay where we found a small cluster of trees amongst big bowlders, and pitched our tent in their shelter. The snow had drifted in and filled the space between the rocks, and on this we piled armfuls of scraggy boughs and made a fairly level and wholly comfortable bed; but it was a long, tedious job digging with our hands and feet into the snow for bits of wood for our stove. The conditions were growing harder and harder with every day, and our experience here was a common one with us for the most of the remainder of the way down the river from this point. The day we reached the lower end of the lake I summed up briefly its characteristics in my field book as follows: "Indian House Lake has a varying width of from a quarter mile to three miles. It is apparently not deep. Both shores are followed by ridges of the most barren, rocky hills imaginable, some of them rising to a height of eight to nine hundred feet and sloping down sharply to the shores, which are strewn with large loose bowlders or are precipitous bed rock. An occasional sand knoll occurs, and upon nearly every one of these is an abandoned Indian camp. The timber growth--none at all or very scanty spruce and tamarack. Length of lake (approximated) fifty-five miles." I had hoped to locate the site of McLean's old Post buildings, more than three score years ago destroyed by the Indians, doubtless for firewood, but the snow had bidden what few traces of them time had not destroyed, and they were passed unnoticed. The storm which raged all the time we were here made progress slow, and it was not until the morning of the tenth that we reached the end of the lake, where the river, vastly increased in volume, poured out through a rapid. Below Indian House Lake there were only a few short stretches of slack water to relieve the pretty continuous rapids. The river wound in and out, in and out, rushing on its tumultuous way amongst ever higher mountains. There was no time to examine the rapids before we shot them. We had to take our chances, and as we swung around every curve we half expected to find before us a cataract that would hurl us to destruction. The banks were often sheer from the water's edge, and made landing difficult or even impossible. In one place for a distance of many miles the river had worn its way through the mountains, leaving high, perpendicular walls of solid rock on either side, forming a sort of canyon. In other places high bowlders, piled by some giant force, formed fifty-foot high walls, which we had to scale each night to make our camp. In the morning some peak in the blue distance would be noted as a landmark. In a couple of hours we would rush past it and mark another one, which, too, would soon be left behind. The rapids continued the characteristic of the river and were terrific. Often it would seem that no canoe could ride the high, white waves, or that we could not avoid the swirl of mighty cross-current eddies, which would have swallowed up our canoe like a chip had we got into them. There were rapids whose roar could be distinctly heard for five or six miles. These we approached with the greatest care, and portaged around the worst places. The water was so clear that often we found ourselves dodging rocks, which, when we passed them, were ten or twelve feet below the surface. It was here that a peculiar optical illusion occurred. The water appeared to be running down an incline of about twenty degrees. At the place where this was noticed, however, the current was not exceptionally swift. We were in a section now where the Indians never go, owing to the character of the river--a section that is wholly untraveled and unhunted. After leaving Indian House Lake, as we descended from the plateau, the weather grew milder. There were chilly winds and bleak rains, but the snow, though remaining on the mountains, disappeared gradually from the valley, and this was a blessing to us, for it enabled us to make camp with a little less labor, and the bits of wood were left uncovered, to be gathered with more ease. Every hour of light we needed, for with each dawn and twilight the days were becoming noticeably shorter. The sun now rose in the southeast, crossed a small segment of the sky, and almost before we were aware of it set in the southwest. The wilderness gripped us closer and closer as the days went by. Remembrances of the outside world were becoming like dreamland fancies--something hazy, indefinite and unreal. We could hardly bring ourselves to believe that we had really met the Indians. It seemed to us that all our lives we had been going on and on through rushing water, or with packs over rocky portages, and the Post we were aiming to reach appeared no nearer to us than it did the day we left Northwest River--long, long ago. We seldom spoke. Sometimes in a whole day not a dozen words would be exchanged. If we did talk at all it was at night over soothing pipes, after the bit of pemmican we allowed ourselves was disposed of, and was usually of something to eat--planning feasts of darn goods, bread and molasses when we should reach a place where these luxuries were to be had. It was much like the way children plan what wonderful things they will do, and what unbounded good things they will indulge in, when they attain that high pinnacle of their ambition--"grown-ups." After our upset in the rapid Easton eschewed water entirely, except for drinking purposes. He had had enough of it, he said. I did bathe my hands and face occasionally, particularly in the morning, to rouse me from the torpor of the always heavy sleep of night. What savages men will revert into when they are buried for a long period in the wilderness and shake off the trammels and customs of the conventionalism of civilization! It does not take long to make an Indian out of a white man so far as habits and customs of living go. Our routine of daily life was always the same. Long before daylight I would arise, kindle a fire, put over it our tea water, and then get Easton out of his blankets. At daylight we would start. At midday we had tea, and at twilight made the best camp we could. The hills were assuming a different aspect--less conical in form and not so high. The bowlders on the river banks were superseded by massive bed-rock granite. The coves and hollows were better wooded and there were some stretches of slack water. On October fifteenth we portaged around a series of low falls, below which was a small lake expansion with a river flowing into it from the east. Here we found the first evidence of human life that we had seen in a long while--a wide portage trail that had been cut through now burned and dead trees on the eastern side of the river. It was fully six feet in width and had been used for the passage of larger boats than canoes. The moss was still unrenewed where the tramp of many moccasins had worn it off. This was the trail made by John McLean's brigades nearly three-quarters of a century before, for in their journeys to Indian House Lake they had used rowboats and not canoes for the transportation of supplies. The day we passed over this portage was a most miserable one. We were soaked from morning till night with mingled snow and rain, and numb with the cold, but when we made our night camp, below the junction of the rivers, one or two ax cuttings were found, and I knew that now our troubles were nearly at an end and we were not far from men. The next afternoon (Monday, October sixteenth) we stopped two or three miles below a rapid to boil our kettle, and before our tea was made the canoe was high and dry on the rocks. We had reached tide water at last! How we hurried through that luncheon, and with what light hearts we launched the canoe again, and how we peered into every bay for the Post buildings that we knew were now close at hand can be imagined. These bays were being left wide stretches of mud and rocks by the receding water, which has a tide fall here of nearly forty feet. At last, as we rounded a rocky point, we saw the Post. The group of little white buildings nestling deep in a cove, a feathery curl of smoke rising peacefully from the agent's house, an Eskimo _tupek_ (tent), boats standing high on the mud flat below, and the howl of a husky dog in the distance, formed a picture of comfort that I shall long remember. CHAPTER XV OFF WITH THE ESKIMOS The tide had left the bay drained, on the farther side and well toward the bottom of which the Post stands, and between us and the buildings was a lake of soft mud. There seemed no approach for the canoe, and rather than sit idly until the incoming tide covered the mud again so that we could paddle in, we carried our belongings high up the side of the hill, safely out of reach of the water when it should rise, and then started to pick our way around the face of the clifflike hill, with the intention of skirting the bay and reaching the Post at once from the upper side. It was much like walking on the side of a wall, and to add to our discomfiture night began to fall before we were half way around, for it was slow work. Once I descended cautiously to the mud, thinking that I might be able to walk across it, but a deep channel filled with running water intercepted me, and I had to return to Easton, who had remained above. We finally realized that we could not get around the hill before dark and the footing was too uncertain to attempt to retrace our steps to the canoe in the fading light, as a false move would have hurled us down a hundred feet into the mud and rocks below. Fortunately a niche in the hillside offered a safe resting place, and we drew together here all the brush within reach, to be burned later as a signal to the Post folk that some one was on the hill, hoping that when the tide rose it would bring them in, a boat to rescue us from our unpleasant position. When the brush was arranged for firing at an opportune time we sat down in the thickening darkness to watch the lights which were now flickering cozily in the windows of the Post house. "Well, this _is_ hard luck," said Easton. "There's good bread and molasses almost within hailing distance and we've likely got to sit out here on the rocks all night without wood enough to keep fire, and it's going to rain pretty soon and we can't even get back to our pemmican and tent." "Don't give up yet, boy," I encouraged. "Maybe they'll see our fire when we start it and take us off." We filled our pipes and struck matches to light them. They were wax taper matches and made a good blaze. "Wonder what it'll be like to eat civilized grub again and sleep in a bed," said Easton meditatively, as he puffed uncomfortably at his pipe. While he was speaking the glow of a lantern appeared from the Post house, which we could locate by its lamp-lit windows, and moved down toward the place where we had seen the boats on the mud. The sight of it made us hope that we had been noticed, and we jumped up and combined our efforts in shouting until we were hoarse. Then we ignited the pile of brush. It blazed up splendidly, shooting its flames high in the air, sending its sparks far, and lighting weirdly the strange scene. We stood before it that our forms might appear in relief against the light reflected by the rocky background, waving our arms and renewing our shouts. Once or twice I fancied I heard an answering hail from the other side, like a far-off echo; but the wind was against us and I was not sure. The lantern light was now in a boat moving out toward the main river. Even though it were coming to us this was necessary, as the tide could not be high enough yet to permit its coming directly across to where we were. We watched its course anxiously. Finally it seemed to be heading toward us, but we were not certain. Then it disappeared altogether and there was nothing but blackness and silence where it had been. "Some one that's been waiting for the tide to turn and he's just going down the river, where he likely lives," remarked Easton as we sat down again and relit our pipes. "I began to taste bread and molasses when I saw that light," he continued, after a few minutes' pause. "It's just our luck. We're in for a night of it, all right." We sat smoking silently, resigned to our fate, when all at once there stepped out of the surrounding darkness into the radius of light cast by our now dying fire, an old Eskimo with an unlighted lantern in his hands, and a young fellow of fifteen or sixteen years of age. "Oksutingyae," * said the Eskimo, and then proceeded to light his lantern, paying no further attention to us. "How do you do?" said the boy. * [Dual form meaning "You two be strong," used by the Eskimos as a greeting. The singular of the same is Oksunae, and the plural (more than two) Oksusi] The Eskimo could understand no English, but the boy, a grandson of Johm Ford, the Post agent, told us that the Eskimo had seen us strike the matches to light our pipes and reported the matter at once at the house. There was not a match at the Post nor within a hundred miles of it, so far as they knew, so Mr. Ford concluded that some strangers were stranded on the hill--possibly Eskimos in distress--and he gave them a lantern and started them over in a boat to investigate. Their lantern had blown out on the way--that was when we missed the light. With the lantern to guide us we descended the slippery rocks to their boat and in ten minutes landed on the mud flat opposite, where we were met by Ford and a group of curious Eskimos. We were immediately conducted to the agent's residence, where Mrs. Ford received us in the hospitable manner of the North, and in a little while spread before us a delicious supper of fresh trout, white bread such as we had not seen since leaving Tom Blake's, mossberry jam and tea. It was an event in our life to sit down again to a table covered with white linen and eat real bread. We ate until we were ashamed of ourselves, but not until we were satisfied (for we had emerged from the bush with unholy appetites) and barely stopped eating in time to save our reputations from utter ruin. And now our hosts told us--and it shows how really generous and open-hearted they were to say nothing about it until we were through eating--that the _Pelican_, the Hudson's Bay Company's steamer, had not arrived on her annual visit, that it was so late in the season all hope of her coming had some time since been relinquished, and the Post provisions were reduced to forty pounds of flour, a bit of sugar, a barrel or so of corn meal, some salt pork and salt beef, and small quantities of other food stuffs, and there were a great many dependents with hungry mouths to feed. Molasses, butter and other things were entirely gone. The storehouses were empty. This condition of affairs made it incumbent upon me, I believed, in spite of a cordial invitation from Ford to stay and share with them what they had, to move on at once and endeavor to reach Fort Chimo ahead of the ice. Fort Chimo is the chief establishment of the fur trading companies on Ungava Bay, and is the farthest off and most isolated station in northern Labrador. This journey would be too hazardous to undertake in the month of October in a canoe--the rough, open sea of Ungava Bay demanded a larger craft--and although Ford told me it was foolhardy to attempt it so late in the season with any craft at all, I requested him to do his utmost the following day to engage for us Eskimos and a small boat and we would make the attempt to get there. It has been my experience that frontier traders are wont to overestimate the dangers in trips of this kind, and I was inclined to the belief that this was the case with Ford. In due time I learned my mistake. Ford had no tobacco but the soggy black chewing plug dispensed to Eskimos, and we shared with him our remaining plugs and for two hours sat in the cozy Post house kitchen smoking and chatting. Over a year had passed since his last communication with the outside world, for no vessel other than the _Pelican_ when she makes her annual call with supplies ever comes here, and we therefore had some things of interest to tell him. Our host I soon discovered to be a man of intelligence. He was sixty-six years of age, a native of the east coast of Labrador, with a tinge of Eskimo blood in his veins, and as familiar with the Eskimo language as with English. For twenty years, he informed me, with the exception of one or two brief intervals, he had been buried at George River Post, and was longing for the time when he could leave it and enjoy the comforts of civilization. After our chat we were shown to our room, where the almost forgotten luxuries of feather beds and pillows, and the great, warm, fluffy woolen blankets of the Hudson's Bay Company--such blankets as are found nowhere else in the world--awaited us. To undress and crawl between them and lie there, warm and snug and dry, while we listened to the rain, which had begun beating furiously against the window and on the roof, and the wind howling around the house, seemed to me at first the pinnacle of comfort; but this sense of luxury soon passed off and I found myself longing for the tent and spruce-bough couch on the ground, where there was more air to breathe and a greater freedom. I could not sleep. The bed was too warm and the four walls of the room seemed pressing in on me. After four months in the open it takes some time for one to accustom one's self to a bed again. The next day at high tide, with the aid of a boat and two Eskimos, we recovered our things from the rocks where we had cached them. There were no Eskimos at the Post competent or willing to attempt the open-boat journey to Fort Chimo. Those that were here all agreed that the ice would come before we could get through and that it was too dangerous an undertaking. Therefore, galling as the delay was to me, there was nothing for us to do but settle down and wait for the time to come when we could go with dog teams overland. On Thursday afternoon, three days after our arrival at the Post, we saw the Eskimos running toward the wharf and shouting as though something of unusual importance were taking place and, upon joining the crowd, found them greeting three strange Eskimos who had just arrived in a boat. The real cause of the excitement we soon learned was the arrival of the _Pelican_. The strange Eskimos were the pilots that brought her from Fort Chimo. All was confusion and rejoicing at once. Ford manned a boat and invited us to join him in a visit to the ship, which lay at anchor four miles below, and we were soon off. When we boarded the Pelican, which, by the way, is an old British cruiser, we were received by Mr. Peter McKenzie, from Montreal, who has superintendence of eastern posts, and Captain Lovegrow, who commanded the vessel. They told us that they had called at Rigolet on their way north and there heard of the arrival of Richards, Pete and Stanton at Northwest River. This relieved my mind as to their safety. We spent a very pleasant hour over a cigar, and heard the happenings in the outside world since our departure from it, the most important of which was the close of the Russian-Japanese war. We also learned that the cause of delay in the ship's coming was an accident on the rocks near Cartwright, making it necessary for them to run to St. Johns for repairs; and also that only the fact of the distressful condition of the Post, unprovisioned as they knew it must be, had induced them to take the hazard of running in and chancing imprisonment for the winter in the ice. Mr. McKenzie extended me a most cordial invitation to return with them to Rigolet, but the Eskimo pilots had brought news of large herds of reindeer that the Indians had reported as heading eastward toward the Koksoak, the river on which Fort Chimo is situated, and I determined to make an effort to see these deer. This determination was coupled with a desire to travel across the northern peninsula and around the coast in winter and learn more of the people and their life than could be observed at the Post; and I therefore declined Mr. McKenzie's invitation. Captain James Blanford, from St. Johns, was on board, acting as ship's pilot for the east coast, and he kindly offered to carry out for me such letters and telegrams as I might desire to send and personally attend to their transmission. I gladly availed myself of this offer, as it gave us an opportunity to relieve the anxiety of our friends at home as to our safety. Captain Blanford had been with the auxiliary supply ship of the Peary Arctic expedition during the summer and told us of having left Commander Peary at eighty degrees north latitude in August. The expedition, he told us, would probably winter as high as eighty-three degrees north, and he was highly enthusiastic over the good prospects of Peary's success in at least reaching "Farthest North." The Eskimo pilots of the _Pelican_ were more venturesome than their friends at George River. They had a small boat belonging to the Hudson's Bay Company, and in it were going to attempt to reach Fort Chimo. Against his advice I had Ford arrange with them to permit Easton and me to accompany them. It was a most fortunate circumstance, I thought, that this opportunity was opened to us. Accordingly the letters for Captain Blanford were written, sufficient provisions, consisting of corn meal, flour, hard-tack, pork, and tea to last Easton and me ten days, were packed, and our luggage was taken on board the _Pelican_ on Saturday afternoon, where we were to spend the night as Mr. McKenzie's and Captain Lovegrow's guests. Mr. McKenzie, before going to Montreal, had lived nearly a quarter of a century as Factor at Fort Chimo, and, thoroughly familiar with the conditions of the country and the season, joined Ford in advising us strongly against our undertaking, owing to the unusual hazard attached to it, and the probability of getting caught in the ice and wrecked. But we were used to hardship, and believed that if the Eskimos were willing to attempt the journey we could get through with them some way, and I saw no reason why I should change my plans. Low-hanging clouds, flying snowflakes and a rising northeast wind threatened a heavy storm on Sunday morning, October twenty-second, when the _Pelican_ weighed anchor at ten o'clock, with us on board and the small boat, the _Explorer_, that was to carry us westward in tow, and steamed down the George River, at whose mouth, twenty miles below, we were to leave her, to meet new and unexpected dangers and hardships. At the Post the river is a mile and a half in width. About eight miles farther down its banks close in and "the Narrows" occur, and then it widens again. There is very little growth of any kind below the Narrows. The rocks are polished smooth and bare as they rise from the water's edge, and it is as desolate and barren a land as one's imagination could picture, but withal possesses a rugged grand beauty in its grim austerity that is impressive. About three or four miles above the open bay the _Pelican's_ engines ceased to throb and the _Explorer_ was hauled alongside. Everything but the provisions for the Eskimo crew was already aboard. We said a hurried adieu and, watching our chances as the boat rose and fell on the swell, dropped one by one into the little craft. A bag of ship's biscuit, the provisions of our Eskimos, was thrown after us. Most of them went into the sea and were lost, and we needed them sadly later. I thought we should swamp as each sea hit us before we could get away, and when we were finally off the boat was half full of water. The Eskimos hoisted a sail and turned to the west bank of the river, for it was too rough outside to risk ourselves there in the little _Explorer_. The pulse of the big ship began to beat and slowly she steamed out into the open and left us to the mercies of the unfeeling rocks of Ungava. CHAPTER XVI CAUGHT BY THE ARCTIC ICE We ran to shelter in a small cove and under the lee of a ledge pitched our tent, using poles that the Eskimos had thoughtfully provided, and anchoring the tent down with bowlders. When I say the rocks here are scoured bare, I mean it literally. There was not a stick of wood growing as big as your finger. On the lower George, below the Narrows, and for long distances on the Ungava coast there is absolutely not a tree of any kind to be seen. The only exception is in one or two bays or near the mouth of streams, where a stunted spruce growth is sometimes found in small patches. There are places where you may skirt the coast of Ungava Bay for a hundred miles and not see a shrub worthy the name of tree, even in the bays. The Koksoak (Big) River, on which Fort Chimo is situated, is the largest river flowing into Ungava Bay. The George is the second in size, and Whale River ranks third. Between the George River and Whale River there are four smaller ones--Tunulik (Back) River, Kuglotook (Overflow) River, Tuktotuk (Reindeer) River and Mukalik (Muddy) River; and between Whale River and the Koksoak the False River. I crossed all of these streams and saw some of them for several miles above the mouth. The Koksoak, Mukalik and Whale Rivers are regularly traversed by the Indians, but the others are too swift and rocky for canoes. There are several streams to the westward of the Koksoak, notably Leaf River, and a very large one that the Eskimos told me of, emptying into Hope's Advance Bay, but these I did not see and my knowledge of them is limited to hearsay. The hills in the vicinity of George River are generally high, but to the westward they are much lower and less picturesque. After our camp was pitched we had an opportunity for the first time to make the acquaintance of our companions. The chief was a man of about forty years of age, Potokomik by name, which, translated, means a hole cut in the edge of a skin for the purpose of stretching it. The next in importance was Kumuk. Kumuk means louse, and it fitted the man's nature well. The youngest was Iksialook (Big Yolk of an Egg). Potokomik had been rechristened by a Hudson's Bay Company agent "Kenneth," and Kumuk, in like manner, had had the name of "George" bestowed upon him, but Iksialook bad been overlooked or neglected in this respect, and his brain was not taxed with trying to remember a Christian cognomen that none of his people would ever call or know him by. Potokomik was really a remarkable man and proved most faithful to us. It is, in fact, to his faithfulness and control over the others, particularly Kumuk, that Easton and I owe our lives, as will appear later. He was at one time conjurer of the Kangerlualuksoakmiut, or George River Eskimos, and is still their leader, but during a visit to the Atlantic coast, some three or four years ago, he came under the influence of a missionary, embraced Christianity, and abandoned the heathen conjuring swindle by which he was, up to that time, making a good living. Now he lives a life about as clean and free from the heathenism and superstitions of his race as any Eskimo can who adopts a new religion. The missionary whom I have mentioned led Potokomik's mother to accept Christ and renounce Torngak when she was on her deathbed, and before she died she confessed to many sins, amongst them that of having aided in the killing and eating, when driven to the act by starvation, of her own mother. After our tent was pitched and the Eskimos had spread the _Explorer's_ sail as a shelter for themselves, Kumuk and Iksialook left us to look for driftwood and, in half an hour, returned with a few small sticks that they had found on the shore. These sticks were exceedingly scarce and, of course, very precious and with the greatest economy in the use of the wood, a fire was made and the kettle boiled for tea. At first the Eskimos were always doing unexpected things and springing surprises upon us, but soon we became more or less accustomed to their ways. Not one of them could talk or understand English and my Eskimo vocabulary was limited to the one word "Oksunae," and we therefore had considerable difficulty in making each other understand, and the pantomime and various methods of communication resorted to were often very funny to see. Potokomik and I started in at once to learn what we could of each other's language, and it is wonderful how much can be accomplished in the acquirement of a vocabulary in a short time and how few words are really necessary to convey ideas. I would point at the tent and say, "Tent," and he would say, "Tupek"; or at my sheath knife and say, "Knife," and he would say, "Chevik," and thus each learned the other's word for nearly everything about us and such words as "good," "bad," "wind" and so on; and in a few days we were able to make each other understand in a general way, with our mixed English and Eskimo. The northeast wind and low-hanging clouds of the morning carried into execution their threat, and all Sunday afternoon and all day Monday the snowstorm raged with fury. I took pity on the Eskimos and on Sunday night invited all of them to sleep in our tent, but only Potokomik came, and on Monday morning, when I went out at break of day, I found the other two sleeping under a snowdrift, for the lean-to made of the boat sail had not protected them much. After that they accepted my invitation and joined us in the tent. It did not clear until Tuesday morning, and then we hoisted sail and started forward out of the river and into the broad, treacherous waters of Hudson Straits, working with the oars to keep warm and accelerate progress, for the wind was against us at first until we turned out of the river, and we had long tacks to make. At the Post, as was stated, there is a rise and fall of tide of forty feet. In Ungava Bay and the straits it has a record of sixty-two feet rise at flood, with the spring or high tides, and this makes navigation precarious where hidden reefs and rocks are everywhere; and there are long stretches of coast with no friendly bay or harbor or lee shore where one can run for cover when unheralded gales and sudden squalls catch one in the open. The Atlantic coast of Labrador is dangerous indeed, but there Nature has providentially distributed innumerable safe harbor retreats, and the tide is insignificant compared with that of Ungava Bay. "Nature exhausted her supply of harbors," some one has said, "before she rounded Cape Chidley, or she forgot Ungava entirely; and she just bunched the tide in here, too." That Tuesday night sloping rocks and ominous reefs made it impossible for us to effect a landing, and in a shallow place we dropped anchor. Fortunately there was no wind, for we were in an exposed position, and had there been we should have come to grief. A bit of hardtack with nothing to drink sufficed for supper, and after eating we curled up as best we could in the bottom of the boat. No watch was kept. Every one lay down. Easton and I rolled in our blankets, huddled close to each other, pulled the tent over us and were soon dreaming of sunnier lands where flowers bloom and the ice trust gets its prices. Our awakening was rude. Some time in the night I dreamed that my neck was broken and that I lay in a pool of icy water powerless to move. When I finally roused myself I found the boat tilted at an angle of forty-five degrees and my head at the lower incline. All the water in the boat had drained to that side and my shoulders and neck were immersed. The tide was out and we were stranded on the rocks. It was bright moonlight. Kumuk and Iksialook got up and with the kettle disappeared over the rocks. The rising tide was almost on us when they returned with a kettle full of hot tea. Then as soon as the water was high enough to float the boat we were off by moonlight, fastening now and again on reefs, and several times narrowly escaped disaster. It was very cold. Easton and I were still clad in the bush-ravaged clothing that we had worn during the summer, and it was far too light to keep out the bitter Arctic winds that were now blowing, and at night our only protection was our light summer camping blankets. When we reached the Post at George River not a thing in the way of clothing or blankets was in stock and the new stores were not unpacked when we left, so we were not able to re-outfit there. Wednesday night we succeeded in finding shelter, but all day Thursday were held prisoners by a northerly gale. On Friday we made a new start, but early in the afternoon were driven to shelter on an island, where with some difficulty we effected a landing at low tide, and carried our goods a half mile inland over the slippery rocks above the reach of rising water. The Eskimos remained with the boat and worked it in foot by foot with the tide while Easton and I pitched the tent and hunted up and down on the rocks for bits of driftwood until we had collected sufficient to last us with economy for a day or two. That night the real winter came. The light ice that we had encountered heretofore and the snow which attained a considerable depth in the recent storms were only the harbingers of the true winter that comes in this northland with a single blast of the bitter wind from the ice fields of the Arctic. It comes in a night--almost in an hour--as it did to us now. Every pool of water on the island was congealed into a solid mass. A gale of terrific fury nearly carried our tent away, and only the big bowlders to which it was anchored saved it. Once we had to shift it farther back upon the rock fields, out of reach of an exceptionally high tide. For three days the wind raged, and in those three days the great blocks of northern pack ice were swept down upon us, and we knew that the _Explorer_ could serve us no longer. There was no alternative now but to cross the barrens to Whale River on foot. With deep snow and no snowshoes it was not a pleasant prospect. Our hard-tack was gone, and I baked into cakes all of our little stock of flour and corn meal. This, with a small piece of pork, six pounds of pemmican, tea and a bit of tobacco was all that we had left in the way of provisions. The Eskimos had eaten everything that they had brought, and it now devolved upon us to feed them also from our meager store, which at the start only provided for Easton and me for ten days, as that had been considered more than ample time for the journey. I limited the rations at each meal to a half of one of my cakes for each man. Potokomik agreed with me that this was a wise and necessary restriction and protected me in it. Kumuk thought differently, and he was seen to filch once or twice, but a close watch was kept upon him. With infinite labor we hauled the _Explorer_ above the high-tide level, out of reach of the ice that would soon pile in a massive barricade of huge blocks upon the shore, that she might be safe until recovered the following spring. Then we packed in the boat's prow our tent and all paraphernalia that was not absolutely necessary for the sustenance of life, made each man a pack of his blankets, food and necessaries, and began our perilous foot march toward Whale River. I clung to all the records of the expedition, my camera, photographic films and things of that sort, though Potokomik advised their abandonment. At low tide, when the rocks were left nearly uncovered, we forded from the island to the mainland. It was dark when we reached it, and for three hours after dark, bending under our packs, walking in Indian file, we pushed on in silence through the knee-deep snow upon which the moon, half hidden by flying clouds, cast a weird ghostlike light. Finally the Eskimos stopped in a gully by a little patch of spruce brush four or five feet high, and while Iksialook foraged for handfuls of brush that was dry enough to burn, Potokomik and Kumuk cut snow blocks, which they built into a circular wall about three feet high, as a wind-break in which to sleep, and Easton and I broke some green brush to throw upon the snow in this circular wind-break for a bed. While we did this Iksialook filled the kettle with bits of ice and melted it over his brush fire and made tea. There was only brush enough to melt ice for one cup of tea each, which with our bit of cake made our supper. . We huddled close and slept pretty well that night on the snow with nothing but flying frost between us and heaven. We were having our breakfast the next morning a white arctic fox came within ten yards of our fire to look us over as though wondering what kind of animals we were. Easton and I were unarmed, but the Eskimos each carried a 45-90 Winchester rifle. Potokomik reached for his and shot the fox, and in a few minutes its disjointed carcass was in our pan with a bit of pork, and we made a substantial breakfast on the half-cooked flesh. That was a weary day. We came upon a large creek in the forenoon and had to ascend its east bank for a long distance to cross it, as the tide had broken the ice below. Some distance up the stream its valley was wooded by just enough scattered spruce trees to hold the snow, and wallowing and floundering through this was most exhausting. During the day Kumuk proposed to the other Eskimos that they take all the food and leave the white men to their fate. They had rifles while we had none, and we could not resist. Potokomik would not hear of it. He remained our friend. Kumuk did not like the small ration that I dealt out, and if they could get the food out of our possession they would have more for themselves. That night a snow house was built, with the exception of rounding the dome at the top, over which Potokomik spread his blanket; but it was a poor shelter, and not much warmer than the open. When I lay down I was dripping with perspiration from the exertion of the day and during the night had a severe chill. The next day a storm threatened. We crossed another stream and halted, at twelve o'clock, upon the western side of it to make tea. The Eskimos held a consultation here and then Potokomik told us that they were afraid of heavy snow and that it was thought best to cache everything that we had--blankets, food and everything--and with nothing to encumber us hurry on to a tupek that we should reach by dark, and that there we should find shelter and food. Accordingly everything was left behind but the rifles, which the Eskimos clung to, and we started on at a terrific pace over wind-swept hills and drift-covered valleys, where all that could be seen was a white waste of unvarying snow. We had been a little distance inland, but now worked our way down toward the coast. Once we crossed an inlet where we had to climb over great blocks of ice that the tide in its force had piled there. Just at dusk the Eskimos halted. We had reached the place where the tupek should have been, but none was there. Afterward I learned that the people whom Potokomik expected to find here had been caught on their way from Whale River by the ice and their boat was crushed. Another consultation was held, and as a result we started on again. After a two hours' march Potokomik halted and the others left us. Easton and I threw ourselves at full length upon the snow and went to sleep on the instant. A rifle shot aroused us, and Potokomik jumped to his feet with the exclamation, "Igloo!" We followed him toward where Kumuk was shouting, through a bit of bush, down a bank, across a frozen brook and up a slope, where we found a miserable little log shack. No one was there. It was a filthy place and snow had drifted in through the openings in the roof and side. The previous occupant of the hut had left behind him an ax and an old stove, and with a few sticks of wood that we found a fire was started and we huddled close to it in a vain effort to get warm. When the fire died out we found places to lie down, and, shivering with the cold, tried with poor success to sleep. I had another chill that night and severe cramps in the calves of my legs, and when morning came and Easton said he could not travel another twenty yards, I agreed at once to a plan of the Eskimos to leave us there while they went on to look for other Eskimos whom they expected to find in winter quarters east of Whale River. Potokomik promised to send them with dogs to our rescue and then go on with a letter to Job Edmunds, the Hudson's Bay Company's agent at Whale River. This letter to Edmunds I scribbled on a stray bit of paper I found in my pocket, and in it told him of our position, and lack of food and clothing. Potokomik left his rifle and some cartridges with us, and then with the promise that help should find us ere we had slept three times, we shook hands with our dusky friend upon whose honor and faithfulness our lives now depended, and the three were gone in the face of a blinding snowstorm. Shortly after the Eskimos left us we heard some ptarmigans clucking outside, and Easton knocked three of them over with Potokomik's rifle. There were four, but one got away. It can be imagined what work the .45 bullet made of them. After separating the flesh as far as possible from the feathers, we boiled it in a tin can we had found amongst the rubbish in the hut, and ate everything but the bills and toe-nails--bones, entrails and all. This, it will be remembered, was the first food that we had had since noon of the day before. We had no tea and our only comfort-providing asset was one small piece of plug tobacco. Fortunately wood was not hard to get, but still not sufficiently plentiful for us to have more than a light fire in the stove, which we hugged pretty closely. The storm grew in fury. It shrieked around our illy built shack, drifting the snow in through the holes and crevices until we could not find a place to sit or lie that was free from it. On the night of the third day the weather cleared and settled, cold and rasping. I took the rifle and looked about for game, but the snow was now so deep that walking far in it was out of the question. I did not see the track or sign of any living thing save a single whisky-jack, but even he was shy and kept well out of range. We had nothing to eat--not a mouthful of anything--and only water to drink; even our tobacco was soon gone. Day after day we sat, sometimes in silence, for hours at a time, sometimes calculating upon the probabilities of the Eskimos having perished in the storm, for they were wholly without protection. I had faith in Potokomik and his resourcefulness, and was hopeful they would get out safely. If there had been timber in the country where night shelter could be made, we might have started for Whale River without further delay. But in the wide waste barrens, illy clothed, with deep snow to wallow through, it seemed to me absolutely certain that such an attempt would end in exhaustion and death, so we restrained our impatience and waited. On scraps of paper we played tit-tat-toe; we improvised a checkerboard and played checkers. These pastimes broke the monotony of waiting somewhat. No matter what we talked about, our conversation always drifted to something to eat. We planned sumptuous banquets we were to have at that uncertain period "when we get home," discussing in the minutest detail each dish. Once or twice Easton roused me in the night to ask whether after all some other roast or soup had not better be selected than the one we had decided upon, or to suggest a change in vegetables. We slept five times instead of thrice and still no succor came. The days were short, the nights interminably long. I knew we could live for twelve or fifteen days easily on water. I had recovered entirely from the chills and cramps and we were both feeling well but, of course, rather weak. We had lost no flesh to speak of. The extreme hunger had passed away after a couple of days. It is only when starving people have a little to eat that the hunger period lasts longer than that. Novelists write a lot of nonsense about the pangs of hunger and the extreme suffering that accompanies starvation. It is all poppycock. Any healthy person, with a normal appetite, after missing two or three meals is as hungry as he ever gets. After awhile there is a sense of weakness that grows on one, and this increases with the days. Then there comes a desire for a great deal of sleep, a sort of lassitude that is not unpleasant, and this desire becomes more pronounced as the weakness grows. The end is always in sleep. There is no keeping awake until the hour of death. While, as I have said, the real sense of hunger passes away quickly there remains the instinct to eat. That is the working of the first law of nature--self-preservation. It prompts one to eat anything that one can chew or swallow, and it is what makes men eat refuse the thought of which would sicken them at other times. Of course, Easton and I were like everybody else under similar conditions. Easton said one day that he would like to have something to chew on. In the refuse on the floor I found a piece of deerskin about ten inches square. I singed the hair off of it and divided it equally between us and then we each roasted our share and ate it. That was the evening after we had "slept" five times. After disposing of our bit of deerskin we huddled down on the floor with our heads pillowed upon sticks of wood, as was our custom, for a sixth night, after discussing again the probable fate of the Eskimos. While I did not admit to Easton that I entertained any doubt as to our ultimate rescue, as the days passed and no relief came I felt grave fears as to the safety of Potokomik and his companions. The severe storm that swept over the country after their departure from the shack had no doubt materially deepened the snow, and I questioned whether or not this had made it impossible for them to travel without snowshoes. The wind during the second day of the storm had been heavy, and it was my hope that it had swept the barrens clear of the new snow, but this was uncertain and doubtful. Then, too, I did not know the nature of Eskimos--whether they were wont to give up quickly in the face of unusual privations and difficulties such as these men would have to encounter. They were in a barren country, with no food, no blankets, no tent, no protection, in fact, of any kind from the elements, and it was doubtful whether they would find material for a fire at night to keep them from freezing, and, even if they did find wood, they had no ax with which to cut it. How far they would have to travel surrounded by these conditions I had no idea. Indians without wood or food or a sheltering bush would soon give up the fight and lie down to die. If Potokomik and his men had perished, I knew that Easton and I could hope for no relief from the outside and that our salvation would depend entirely upon our own resourcefulness. It seemed to me the time had come when some action must be taken. It was a long while after dark, I do not know how long, and I still lay awake turning these things over in my mind, when I heard a strange sound. Everything had been deathly quiet for days, and I sat up. In the great unbroken silence of the wilderness a man's fancy will make him hear strange things. I have answered the shouts of men that my imagination made me hear. But this was not fancy, for I heard it again--a distinct shout! I jumped to my feet and called to Easton: "They've come, boy! Get up, there's some one coming!" Then I hurried outside and, in the dim light on the white stretch of snow, saw a black patch of men and dogs. Our rescuers had come. CHAPTER XVII TO WHALE RIVER AND FORT CHIMO The feeling of relief that came to me when I heard the shout and saw the men and dogs coming can be appreciated, and something of the satisfaction I felt when I grasped the hands of the two Eskimos that strode up on snowshoes can be understood. The older of the two was an active little fellow who looked much like a Japanese. He introduced himself as Emuk (Water). His companion, who, we learned later, rejoiced in the name Amnatuhinuk (Only a Woman), was quite a young fellow, big, fat and goodnatured. Without any preliminaries Emuk pushed right into the shack and, from a bag that he carried, produced some tough dough cakes which he gave us to eat, and each a plug of tobacco to smoke. He was all activity and command, working quickly himself and directing Amnatuhinuk. A candle from his bag was lighted. Amnatuhinuk was sent for a kettle of water; wood was piled into the stove, and the kettle put over to boil. The stove proved too slow for Emuk and he built a fire outside where tea could be made more quickly, and when it was ready he insisted upon our drinking several cups of it to stimulate us. Then he brought forth a pail containing strong-smelling beans cooked in rancid seal oil, which he heated. This concoction he thought was good strong food and just the thing for half-starved men, and he set it before us with the air of one who has done something especially nice. We ate some of it but were as temperate as Emuk with his urgings would permit us to be, for I knew the penalty that food exacts after a long fast. A comfortable bed of boughs and blankets was spread for us, and we were made to lie down. Emuk, on more than one occasion, bad been in a similar position to ours and others had come to his aid, and he wanted to pay the debt he felt he owed to humanity. He told us that Potokomik and the others, after suffering great hardships, had reached his tupek near the Mukalik the day before, but I could not understand his language well enough to draw from him any of the details of their trip out. At midnight Emuk made tea again and roused us up to partake of it and eat more dough cakes and beans with seal oil. I feared the consequences, but I could not refuse him, for he did not understand why we should not want to eat a great deal. The result was that with happiness and stomach ache I could not sleep, and before morning was going out to vomit. Even at the danger of seeming not to appreciate Emuk's hospitality, I was constrained to decline to eat any breakfast. Emuk noticed a hole in the bottom of one of my seal-skin boots. He promptly pulled off his own and made me put them on. He had another though poorer pair for himself. It was a delight to be moving again. We were on the trail before dawn, Emuk with his snowshoes tramping the road ahead of the dogs and Amnatuhinuk driving the team. The temperature must have been at least ten degrees below zero. The weather was bitterly cold for men so thinly clad as Easton and I were, and the snow was so deep that we could not exercise by running, for we had no snowshoes, and while we wallowed through the deep snow the dogs would have left us behind, so we could do nothing but sit on the komatik (sledge) and shiver. At noon we stopped at the foot of a hill before ascending it, and the men threw up a wind-break of snow blocks, back of which they built a fire and put over the teakettle. Easton and I had just squatted close to the fire to warm our benumbed hands when the husky dogs put their noses in the air and gave out the long weird howl of welcome or defiance that announces the approach of other dogs, and almost immediately a loaded team with two men came over the hill and down the slope at a gallop toward us. It proved to be Job Edmunds, the half-breed Hudson's Bay Company officer from Whale River, and his Eskimo servant, coming to our aid. Edmunds was greatly relieved to find us safe. He knew exactly what to do. From his komatik box he produced a bottle of port wine and made us each take a small dose of it which he poured into a tin cup. He put a big, warm reindeer-skin koolutuk [the outer garment of deerskin worn by the Eskimos] on each of us and pulled the hoods over our heads. He had warm footwear--in fact, everything that was necessary for our comfort. Then he cut two ample slices of wheat bread from a big loaf, and toasted and buttered them for us. He was very kind and considerate. Edmunds has saved many lives in his day. Every winter he is called upon to go to the rescue of Eskimos who have been caught in the barrens without food, as we were. He had saved Emuk from starvation on one or two occasions. After a half-hour's delay we were off again, I on the komatik with Edmunds, and Easton with Emuk. We passed the snow house where Edmunds and his man had spent the previous night. They would have come on in the dark, but they knew Emuk was ahead and would reach us anyway. Edmunds had a splendid team of dogs, wonderfully trained. The big, wolfish creatures loved him and they feared him. He almost never had to use the long walrus-hide whip. They obeyed him on the instant without hesitation--"Ooisht," and they pulled in the harness as one; "Aw," and they stopped. There was a power in his voice that governed them like magic. The wind had packed the snow hard enough on the barrens beyond the Tuktotuk--and the country there was all barren--to bear up the komatik; the dogs were in prime condition and traveled at a fast trot or a gallop, and we made good time. Once Emuk stopped to take a white fox out of a trap. He killed it by pressing his knee on its breast and stifling its heart beats. Big cakes of ice were piled in high barricades along the rivers where we crossed them, and at these places we had to let the komatik down with care on one side and help the dogs haul it up with much labor on the other; and on the level, through the rough ice hummocks or amongst the rocks, the drivers were kept busy steering to prevent collisions with the obstructions, while the dogs rushed madly ahead, and we, on the komatik, clung on for dear life and watched our legs that they might not get crushed. Once or twice we turned over, but the drivers never lost their hold of the komatik or control of the dogs. It was dark when we reached Emuk's skin tupek and were welcomed by a group of Eskimos, men, women and children. Iksialook was of the number, and he was so worn and haggard that I scarcely recognized him. He had seen hardship since our parting. The people were very dirty and very hospitable. They took us into the tupek at once, which was extremely filthy and made insufferably hot by a sheet-iron tent stove. The women wore sealskin trousers and in the long hoods of their _adikeys_, or upper garments, carried babies whose bright little dusky-hued faces peeped timidly out at us over the mothers' shoulders. A ptarmigan was boiled and divided between Easton and me, and with that and bread and butter from Edmunds's box and hot tea we made a splendid supper. After a smoke all around, for the women smoke as well as the men, polar bear and reindeer skins were spread upon spruce boughs, blankets were given us for covering, and we lay down. Eleven of us crowded into the tupek and slept there that night. How all the Eskimos found room I do not know. I was crowded so tightly between one of the fat women on one side and Easton on the other that I could not turn over; but I slept as I had seldom ever slept before. The next forenoon we crossed the Mukalik River and soon after reached Whale River, big and broad, with blocks of ice surging up and down upon the bosom of the restless tide. The Post is about ten miles from its mouth. We turned northward along its east bank and, in a little while, came to some scattered spruce woods, which Edmunds told me were just below his home. Then at a creek, above which stood the miniature log cabin and small log storehouse comprising the Post buildings, I got off and climbed up through rough ice barricades. Never in my life have I had such a welcome as I received here. Mrs. Edmunds came out to meet me. She told me that they had been watching for us at the Post all the morning and how glad they were that we were safe, and that we had come to see them, and that we must stay a good long time and rest. For two-score years they had lived in that desolate place and never before had a traveler come to visit them. In all that time the only white people they had ever met were the three or four connected with the Post at Fort Chimo, for the ship never calls at Whale River on her rounds. Edmunds brings the provisions over from Fort Chimo in a little schooner. There are five in the family--Edmunds and his wife, their daughter (a young woman of twenty) and her husband, Sam Ford (a son of John Ford at George River), and Mary's baby. A good wash and clean clothing followed by a sumptuous dinner of venison put us on our feet again. I suffered little as a result of the fasting period, but Easton had three or four days of pretty severe colic. This is the usual result of feast after famine, and was to be expected. And now I learned the details of Potokomik's journey out. When the three Eskimos left us in the shack they started at once in search of Emuk's tupek. The storm that raged for two days swept pitilessly across their path, but they never halted, pushing through the deepening snow in single file, taking turns at going ahead and breaking the way, until night, and then they stopped. They had no ax and could have no fire, so they built themselves a snow igloo as best they could without the proper implements and it protected them against the drifting snow and piercing wind while they slept. On the second day they shot, with their rifles, seven ptarmigans. These they plucked and ate raw. They saw no more game, and finally became so weak and exhausted they could carry their rifles no farther and left them on the trail. Each night they built a snow house. With increasing weakness their progress was very slow; still they kept going, staggering on and on through the snow. It was only their lifelong habit of facing great odds and enduring great hardships that kept them up. Men less inured to cold and privation would surely have succumbed. They were making their final fight when at last they stumbled into Emuk's tupek. Kumuk sat down and cried like a child. It was two weeks before any of them was able to do any physical work. They looked like shadows of their former selves when I saw them at Whale River. It was after dark Sunday night when my letter to Edmunds reached the Post. Earlier in the evening Edmunds and his man had crossed the river, which is here over half a mile in width, and pitched their camp on the opposite shore, preparatory to starting up the river the next morning on a deer hunt, herds having been reported to the northward by Eskimos. Mrs. Edmunds read the letter, and she and Mary were at once all excitement. They lighted a lantern and signaled to the camp on the other side and fired guns until they had a reply. Then, for fear that Edmunds might not understand the urgency of his immediate returns they kept firing at intervals all night, stopping only to pack the komatik box with the clothing and food that Edmunds was to bring to us. Neither of the women slept. With the thought of men starving out in the snow they could not rest. The floating ice in the river and the swift tide made it impossible for a boat to cross in the darkness, but with daylight Edmunds returned, harnessed his dogs, and was off to meet us as has been described. We had left George River on October twenty-second, and it was the eighth of November when we reached Whale River, and in this interval the caribou herds that the Indians had reported west of the Koksoak had passed to the east of Whale River and turned to the northward. Fifty miles inland the Indian and Eskimo hunters had met them. The killing was over and they told us hundreds of the animals lay dead in the snow above. So many had been butchered that all the dogs and men in Ungava would be well supplied with meat during the winter, and numbers of the carcasses would feed the packs of timber wolves that infested the country or rot in the next summer's sun. Sam Ford had gone inland but was too late for the big hunt and only killed four or five deer. The wolves were so thick, he told us, that he could not sleep at night in his camp with the noise of their howling. One Eskimo brought in two wolf skins that were so large when they were stretched a man could almost have crawled into either of them. I saw wolf tracks myself within a quarter mile of the Post, for the animals were so bold they ventured almost to the door. Edmunds is a famous hunter. During the previous winter, besides attending to his post duties, he killed nearly half a hundred caribou to supply his Post and Fort Chimo with man and dog food, and in the same season his traps yielded him two hundred fox pelts--mostly white ones--his personal catch. This was not an unusual year's work for him. Mary inherits her father's hunting instincts. In the morning she would put her baby in the hood of her adikey, shoulder her gun, don her snowshoes, and go to "tend" her traps. One day she did not take her gun, and when she had made her rounds of the traps and started homeward discovered that she was being followed by a big gray timber wolf. When she stopped, the wolf stopped; when she went on, it followed, stealing gradually closer and closer to her, almost imperceptibly, but still gaining upon her. She wanted to run, but she realized that if she did the wolf would know at once that she was afraid and would attack and kill her and her baby; so without hastening her pace, and only looking back now and again to note the wolf's gain, she reached the door of the house and entered with the animal not ten paces away. Now she always carries a gun and feels no fear, for she can shoot. I took advantage of the delay at Whale River to partially outfit for the winter. Edmunds and his family rendered us valuable assistance and advice, securing for us, from the Eskimos, sealskin boots, and from the Indians who came to the Post while we were there, deer skins for trousers, koolutuks and sleeping bags, Mrs. Edmunds and Mary themselves making our moccasins, mittens and duffel socks. The Eskimos were all away at their hunting grounds and it was not possible to secure a dog team to carry us on to Fort Chimo. Therefore, when Edmunds announced one day that he must send Sam Ford and the Eskimo servant over with the Post team for a load of provisions, I availed myself of the opportunity to accompany them, and on the twenty-eighth of November we said good-by to the friends who had been so kind to us and again faced toward the westward. The morning was clear, crisp and bracing; the temperature was twenty degrees below zero. We ascended the river some seven or eight miles before we found a safe crossing, as the tide had kept the ice broken in the center of the channel below, and piled it like hills along the banks. I noted that the Whale River valley was much better wooded than any country we had seen for a long time--since we had left the head waters of the George River, in fact--and the Indians say it is so to its source. The trees are small black spruce and larch, but a fairly thick growth. This "bush," however, is evidently quite restricted in width, for after crossing the river we were almost immediately out of it, and the same interminable, barren, rocky, treeless country that we had seen to the eastward extended westward to the Koksoak. That night was spent in a snow igloo. The next day we crossed the False River, a wide stream at its mouth, but a little way up not over two hundred yards wide. At twelve o'clock a halt was made at an Eskimo tupek for dinner. The people were, as these northern people always are, most hospitable, giving us the best they had--fresh venison and tea. After but an hour's delay we were away again, and at three o'clock, with the dogs on a gallop, rounded the hill above Fort Chimo and pulled into the Post, the farthest limit of white man's habitation in all Labrador. We were welcomed by Mr. Duncan Mathewson, the Chief Trader, who has charge of the Ungava District for the Hudson's Bay Company, and Dr. Alexander Milne, Assistant Commissioner of the Company, from Winnipeg, who had arrived on the _Pelican_ and was on a tour of inspection of the Labrador Coast Posts. The Chief Trader's residence is a small building, and Mr. Mathewson was unable to entertain us in the house, but he gave orders at once to have a commodious room in one of the dozen or so other buildings of the Post fitted up for us with beds, stove and such simple furnishings as were necessary to establish us in housekeeping and make us comfortable during our stay with him. Here we were to remain until the Indian and Eskimo hunters came for their Christmas and New Year's trading, at which time, I was advised, I should probably be able to engage Eskimo drivers and dogs to carry us eastward to the Atlantic coast. CHAPTER XVIII THE INDIANS OF THE NORTH Fort Chmio is situated upon the east bank of the Koksoak River and about twenty-five miles from its mouth, where the river is nearly a mile and a half wide. There are two trading posts here; one, that of the Hudson's Bay Company, consisting of a dozen or so buildings, which include dwelling and storehouses and native cabins; the other that of Revellion Brothers, the great fur house of Paris, colloquially referred to as "the French Company," which stands just above and adjoining the station of the Hudson's Bay Company. This latter Post was erected in the year 1903, and has nearly as many buildings as the older establishment. We used to refer to them respectively as "London" and "Paris." The history of Fort Chimo extends back to the year 1811, when Kmoch and Kohlmeister, two of the Moravian Brethren of the Okak Mission on the Atlantic coast, in the course of their efforts for the conversion of the Eskimos to Christianity cruised into Ungava Bay, discovered the George River, which they named in honor of King George the Third, and then proceeded to the Koksoak, which they ascended to the point of the present settlement. The natives received them well. They erected a beacon on a hill, tarried but a few days and then turned back to Okak. Upon their return they gave glowing accounts of their reception by the natives and the great possibilities for profitable trade, but they did not deem it advisable themselves to extend their labors to that field. In the course of time this report drifted to England and to the ears of the officials of the Hudson's Bay Company, who were attracted by it, and in 1827 Dr. Mendry, an officer of the Company at Moose Factory, with a party of white men and Indian guides crossed the peninsula from Richmond Gulf, through Clearwater Lake to the head waters of the Larch River, a tributary of the Koksoak, thence descended the Larch and Koksoak to the place where the Moravians had erected the beacon, and on a low terrace, just across the river from the beacon, established the original Fort Chimo. The difficulties of navigation and the consequent uncertainty and expense of keeping the Post supplied with provisions and articles of trade were such, however, that after a brief trial Ungava was abandoned. The opportunities for lucrative trade here were not forgotten by the Company, and in the year 1837 Factor John McLean was detailed to re-establish Fort Chimo. This he did, and a year later built the first Post at George River. During the succeeding winter he crossed the interior with dogs to Northwest River. Upon their return journey McLean and his party ate their dogs and barely escaped perishing from starvation; one of his Indians, who was sent ahead, reaching Fort Chimo and bringing succor when McLean and the others, through extreme weakness, were unable to proceed farther. In the following summer McLean built the fort on Indian House Lake, and the other one that has been mentioned, on a large lake to the westward--Lake Eraldson he called it--presumably the source of Whale River. Later he succeeded in crossing to Northwest River by canoe, ascending the George River and descending the Atlantic slope of the plateau by way of the Grand River. His object was to establish a regular line of communication between Fort Chimo and Northwest River, with interior posts along the route. The natural obstacles which the country presented finally forced the abandonment of this plan as impracticable, and the two interior posts were closed after a brief trial. This was before the days of steam navigation, and with sailing vessels it was only possible to reach these isolated northern stations in Ungava Bay with supplies once every two years. Even these infrequent visits were so fraught with danger and uncertainty that finally, in 1855, Fort Chimo and George River were again abandoned as unprofitable. In 1866, however, the building of the Company's steamship Labrador made yearly visits possible, and in that year another attack was made upon the Ungava district and Fort Chimo was rebuilt, George River Post re-established, and a little later the small station at Whale River was erected. With the improved facilities for transportation the trade with Indians and Eskimos, and the salmon and white whale fisheries carried on by the Posts, now proved most profitable, and the Company has since and is still reaping the reward of its persistence. Dr. Milne, as has been stated, was not a permanent resident of the Post. Regularly stationed here, besides Mathewson, there is a young clerk, a cooper, a carpenter, and a handy man, all Scotchmen, and a comparatively new arrival, Rev. Samuel M. Stewart, a missionary of the Church Mission Society of England. Of Mr. Stewart, who did much to relieve the monotony of our several weeks' sojourn at Fort Chimo, and his remarkable self-sacrifice and work, I shall have something to say later. The day after our arrival we took occasion to pay our respects to Monsieur D. The'venet, the officer in charge of the "French Post." Our reception was most cordial. M. The'venet is a gentleman by birth. He was at one time an officer in the French cavalry, but his love of adventure and active temperament rebelled against the inactivity of garrison duty and he resigned his commission in the army, came to Canada, and joined the Northwest mounted police in the hope of obtaining a detail in the Klondike. In this he was disappointed, and the outbreak of the South African war offering a new field of adventure he quit the police, enlisted in the Canadian Mounted Rifles, and served in the field throughout the war. After his return to Canada and discharge from the army, he took service with Revellion Brothers. M. The'venet invited us to dine with him that very evening, and we were not slow to accept his hospitality. His bright conversation, pleasing personality and unstinted hospitality offered a delightful evening and we were not disappointed. This and many other pleasant evenings spent in his society during our stay at Fort Chimo were some of the most enjoyable of our trip. Here an agreeable surprise awaited me. When we sat down to dinner The'venet called in his new half-breed French-Indian interpreter, and who should he prove to be but Belfleur, one of the dog drivers who in April, 1904, accompanied me from Northwest River to Rigolet, when I began that anxious journey over the ice with Hubbard's body. He was apparently as well pleased at the meeting as I. Belfleur and a half-breed Scotch-Eskimo named Saunders are employed as Indian and Eskimo interpreters at the French Post, and are the only ones of M. The'venet's people with whom he can converse. Belfleur speaks French and broken English, and Saunders English, besides their native languages. None of the people of Ungava, with the exception of two or three, speaks any but his mother tongue, and they have no ambition, apparently, to extend their linguistic acquirements. It is, indeed, a lonely life for the trader, who but once a year, when his ship arrives, has any communication with the great world which he has left behind him. No white woman is here with her softening influence, no physician or surgeon to treat the sick and injured, and never until the advent of Mr. Stewart any permanent missionary. The natives that remain at Fort Chimo all the year are three or four families of Eskimos, a few old or crippled Indians, and some half-breed Indians and Eskimos, who do chores around the Posts and lead an uncertain existence. The half-breed Indian children are taken care of at the "Indian house," a log structure presided over by the "Queen" of Ungava, a very corpulent old Nascaupee woman, who lives by the labor of others and draws tribute from trading Indians who make the Indian house their rendezvous when they visit the Post. She is and always has been very kind, and a sort of mother, to the little waifs that nearly every trader or white servant has left behind him, when the Company's orders transferred him to some other Post and he abandoned his temporary wife forever. The Indians of the Ungava district are chiefly Nascaupees, with occasionally a few Crees from the West. "Nenenot" they call themselves, which means perfect, true men. "Nascaupee" means false or untrue men and is a word of opprobrium applied to them by the Mountaineers in the early days, because of their failure to keep a compact to join forces with the latter at the time of the wars for supremacy between the Indians and Eskimos. Nascaupee is the name by which they are known now, outside of their own lodges, and the one which we shall use in referring to them. In like manner I have chosen to use the English Mountaineer, rather than the French _Montagnais_, in speaking of the southern Indians. North of the Straits of Belle Isle the French word is never heard, and if you were to refer to these Indians as "Montagnais" to the Labrador natives it is doubtful whether you would be understood. Both Mountaineers and Nascaupees are of Cree origin, and belong to the great Algonquin family. Their language is similar, with only the variation of dialect that might be expected with the different environments. The Nascaupees have one peculiarity of speech, however, which is decidedly their own. In conversation their voice is raised to a high pitch, or assumes a whining, petulant tone. An outsider might believe them to be quarreling and highly excited, when in fact they are on the best of terms and discussing some ordinary subject in a most matter of fact way. In personal appearance the Nascaupees are taller and more angular than their southern brothers, but the high cheek bones, the color and general features are the same. They are capable of enduring the severest cold. In summer cloth clothing obtained in barter at the Posts is, worn, but in winter deerskin garments are usual. The coat has the hair inside, and the outside of the finely dressed, chamoislike skin is decorated with various designs in color, in startling combinations of blue, red and yellow, painted on with dyes obtained at the Post or manufactured by themselves from fish roe and mineral products. When the garment has a hood it is sometimes the skin of a wolf's head, with the ears standing and hair outside, giving the wearer a startling and ferocious appearance. Tight-fitting deerskin or red cloth leggings decorated with beads, and deerskin moccasins complete the costume. Some beadwork trimming is made by the women, but they do little in the way of needlework embroidery, and the results of their attempts in this direction are very indifferent. This applies to the full-blood Nascaupees. I have seen some fairly good specimens of moccasin embroidery done by the half-breed women at the Post, and by the Mountaineer women in the South. The Nascaupees are not nearly so clean nor so prosperous as the Mountaineers, and, coming very little in contact with the whites, live now practically as their forefathers lived for untold generations before them--just as they lived, in fact, before the white men came. They are perhaps the most primitive Indians on the North American continent to-day. The Mountaineers, on the other hand, see much more, particularly during the summer months, of the whites and half-breeds of the coast. Most of those who spend their summers on the St. Lawrence, west of St. Augustine, have more or less white blood in their veins through consorting with the traders and settlers. With but two or three exceptions the Mountaineers of the Atlantic coast, Groswater Bay, and at St. Augustine and the eastward, are pure, uncontaminated Indians. The line of territorial division between the Nascaupee and Mountaineer Indians' hunting grounds is pretty closely drawn. The divide north of Lake Michikamau is the southern and the George River the eastern boundary of the Nascaupee territory, and to the south and to the east of these boundaries, lie the hunting grounds of the Mountaineers. These latter, south of the height of land, as has been stated, are practically all under the influence of the Roman Catholic Church, and are most devout in the observance of their religious obligations. While it is true that their faith is leavened to some extent by the superstitions that their ancestors have handed down to them, yet even in the long months of the winter hunting season they never forget the teachings of their father confessor. The Nascaupees are heathens. About the year 1877 or 1878 Father P'ere Lacasse crossed overland from Northwest River, apparently by the Grand River route, to Fort Chimo, in an attempt to carry the work of the mission into that field. The Nascaupees, however, did not take kindly to the new religion, and unfortunately during the priest's stay among them, which was brief, the hunting was bad. This was attributed to the missionary's presence, and the sachems were kept busy for a time dispelling the evil charm. No one was converted. Let us hope that Mr. Stewart, who is there to stay, and is an earnest, persistent worker, will reach the savage confidence and conscience, though his opportunity with the Indians is small, for these Nascaupees tarry but a very brief time each year within his reach. With open water in the summer they come to the Fort with the pelts of their winter catch. These are exchanged for arms, ammunition, knives, clothing, tea and tobacco, chiefly. Then, after a short rest they disappear again into the fastnesses of the wilderness above, to fish the interior lakes and hunt the forests, and no more is seen of them until the following summer, excepting only a few of the younger men who usually emerge from the silent, snow-bound land during Christmas week to barter skins for such necessaries as they are in urgent need of, and to get drunk on a sort of beer, a concoction of hops, molasses and unknown ingredients, that the Post dwellers make and the "Queen" dispenses during the holiday festivals. Reindeer, together with ptarmigans (Arctic grouse) and fish, form their chief food supply, with tea always when they can get it. All of these northern Indiana are passionately fond of tea, and drink unbelievable quantities of it. Little flour is used. The deer are erratic in their movements and can never be depended upon with any degree of certainty, and should the Indians fail in their hunt they are placed face to face with starvation, as was the case in the winter of 1892 and 1893, when full half of the people perished from lack of food. Formerly the migrating herds pretty regularly crossed the Koksoak very near and just above the Post in their passage to the eastward in the early autumn, but for several years now only small bands have been seen here, the Indians meeting the deer usually some forty or fifty miles farther up the river. When the animals swim the river they bunch close together; Indian canoe men head them off and turn them up-stream, others attacking the helpless animals with spears. An agent of the Hudson's Bay Company told me that he had seen nearly four hundred animals slaughtered in this manner in a few hours. When bands of caribou are met in winter they are driven into deep snow banks, and, unable to help themselves, are speared at will. Of course when the killing is a large one the flesh of all the animals cannot be preserved, and frequently only the tongues are used. Of late years, however, owing to the growing scarcity of reindeer, it is said the Indians have learned to be a little less wasteful than formerly, and to restrict their kill more nearly to their needs, though during the winter I was there hundreds were slaughtered for tongues and sinew alone. Large quantities of the venison are dried and stored up against a season of paucity. Pemmican, which was formerly so largely used by our western Indians, is occasionally though not generally made by those of Labrador. When deer are killed some bone, usually a shoulder blade, is hung in a tree as an offering to the Manitou, that he may not interfere with future hunts, and drive the animals away. The Indian religion is not one of worship, but one of fear and superstition. They are constanly in dread of imaginary spirits that haunt the wilderness and drive away the game or bring sickness or other disaster upon them. The conjurer is employed to work his charms to keep off the evil ones. They evidently have some sort of indefinite belief in a future existence, and hunting implements and other offerings are left with the dead, who, where the conditions will permit, are buried in the ground. Sometimes the very old people are abandoned and left to die of starvation unattended. Be it said to the honor of the trading companies that they do their utmost to prevent this when it is possible, and offer the old and decrepit a haven at the Post, where they are fed and cared for. The marriage relation is held very lightly and continence and chastity are not in their sight virtues. A child born to an unmarried woman is no impediment to her marriage. If it is a male child it is, in fact, an advantage. Love does not enter into the Indian's marriage relationship. It is a mating for convenience. Gifts are made to the girl's father or nearest male relative, and she is turned over, whether she will or no, to the would-be husband. There is no ceremony. A hunter has as many wives as he is physically able to control and take care of--one, two or even three. Sometimes it happens that they combine against him and he receives at their hands what is doubtless well-merited chastisement. The men are the hunters, the women the slaves. No one finds fault with this, not even the women, for it is an Indian custom immemorial for the woman to do all the hard, physical work. The Mountaineer Indians that we met on the George River, and one Indian who visited Fort Chimo while we were there, are the only ones of the Labrador that I have ever seen drive dogs. This Fort Chimo Indian, unlike the other hunters of his people, has spent much time at the Post, and mingled much with the white traders and the Eskimos, and, for an Indian, entertains very progressive and broad views. He was, with the exception of a humpbacked post attache' who had an Eskimo wife, the only Indian I met that would not be insulted when one addressed him in Eskimo, for the Indians and Eskimos carry on no social intercourse and the Indians rather despise the Eskimos. The Indian referred to, however, has learned something of the Eskimo language, and also a little English--English that you cannot always understand, but must take for granted. He informed me, "Me three man--Indian, husky (Eskimo), white man." He was very proud of his accomplishments. The Indian hauls his loads in winter on toboggans, which he manufactures himself with his ax and crooked knife--the only woodworking tools he possesses. The crooked knives he makes, too, from old files, shaping and tempering them. The snowshoe frames are made by the men, the babiche is cut and netted by the women, who display wonderful skill in this work. The Mountaineers make much finer netted snowshoes than the Nascaupees, and have great pride in the really beautiful, light snowshoes that they make. No finer ones are to be found anywhere than those made by the Groswater Bay Mountaineers. Three shapes are in vogue--the beaver tail, the egg tail and the long tail. The beaver-tail snowshoes are much more difficult to make, and are seldom seen amongst the Nascaupees. With them the egg tail is the favorite. The Ungava Indians never go to the open bay in their canoes. They have a superstition that it will bring them bad luck, for there they say the evil spirits dwell. Of all the Indians that visit Fort Chimo only two or three have ever ventured to look upon the waters of Ungava Bay, and these had their view from a hilltop at a safe distance. It is safe to say that there is not a truthful Indian in Labrador. In fact it is considered an accomplishment to lie cheerfully and well. They are like the Crees of James Bay and the westward in this respect, and will lie most plausibly when it will serve their purpose better than truth, and I verily believe these Indians sometimes lie for the mere pleasure of it when it might be to their advantage to tell the truth. One good and crowning characteristic these children of the Ungava wilderness possess--that of honesty. They will not steal. You may have absolute confidence in them in this respect. And I may say, too, that they are most hospitable to the traveler, as our own experience with them exemplified. For their faults they must not be condemned. They live according to their lights, and their lights are those of the untutored savage who has never heard the gospel of Christianity and knows nothing of the civilization of the great world outside. Their life is one of constant struggle for bare existence, and it is truly wonderful how they survive at all in the bleak wastes which they inhabit. NOTE.--It must not be supposed that all of the statements made in this chapter with reference to the Indian, particularly the Nascaupees, are the result of my personal observations. During our brief stay at Ungava, much of this information was gleaned from the officers of the two trading companies, and from natives. In a number of instances they were verified by myself, but I have taken the liberty, when doubt or conflicting statements existed, of referring to the works of Mr. A. P. Low of the Canadian Geological Society and Mr. Lucien M. Turner of the Bureau of Ethnology at Washington, to set myself right. CHAPTER XIX THE ESKIMOS OF LABRADOR During our stay in Ungava, and the succeeding weeks while we traveled down the ice-bound coast, we were brought into constant and intimate contact with the Eskimos. We saw them in almost every phase of their winter life, eating and sleeping with them in their tupeks and igloos, and meeting them in their hunting camps and at the Fort, when they came to barter and to enjoy the festivities of the Christmas holiday week. The Cree Indians used to call these people "Ashkimai," which means "raw meat eaters," and it is from this appellation that our word Eskimo is derived. Here in Ungava and on the coast of Hudson's Bay, they are pretty generally known as "Huskies," a contraction of "Huskimos," the pronunciation given to the word _Eskimos_ by the English sailors of the trading vessels, with their well-known penchant for tacking on the "h" where it does not belong, and leaving it off when it should be pronounced. The Eskimos call themselves "Innuit," [Singular, Innuk; dual, Innuek] which means people--humans. The white visitor is a "Kablunak," or outlander, while a breed born in the country is a "Kablunangayok," or one partaking of the qualities of both the Innuk and the Kablunak. Those who live in the Koksoak district are called "Koksoagmiut," * and those of the George River district are the "Kangerlualuksoagmiut." ** The ethnologists, I believe, have never agreed upon the origin of the Eskimo, some claiming it is Mongolian, some otherwise. In passing I shall simply remark that in appearance they certainly resemble the Mongolian race. If some of the men that I saw in the North were dressed like Japanese or Chinese and placed side by side with them, the one could not be told from the other so long as the Eskimos kept their mouths closed. In our old school geographies we used to see them pictured as stockily built little fellows. In real life they compare well in stature with the white man of the temperate zone. With a very few exceptions the Eskimos of Ungava average over five feet eight inches in height, with some six-footers. * _Kok_, river; _soak_, big; _miut_, inhabitants; _Koksoagmiut_, inhabitants of the big river. ** Literally, inhabitants of the very big bay. The George River mouth widens into a bay which is known as the Very Big Bay. Their legs are shorter and their bodies longer than the white man's, and this probably is one reason why they have such wonderful capacity for physical endurance. In this respect they are the superior of the Indian. With plenty of food and a bush to lie under at night the Indian will doubtless travel farther in a given time than the Eskimo. But turn them both loose with only food enough for one meal a day for a month on the bare rocks or ice fields of the Arctic North, and your Indian will soon be dead, while your Eskimo will emerge from the test practically none the worse for his experience, for it is a usual experience with him and he has a wonderful amount of dogged perseverance. The Eskimo knows better how to husband his food than the Indian; and give him a snow bank and he can make himself comfortable anywhere. The most gluttonous Indian would turn green with envy to see the quantities of meat the Eskimo can stow away within his inner self at a single sitting; but on the other hand he can live, and work hard too, on a single scant meal a day, just as his dogs do. The facial characteristics of the Eskimo are wide cheek bones and round, full face, with a flat, broad nose. I used to look at these flat, comfortable noses on very cold days and wish that for winter travel I might be able to exchange the longer face projection that my Scotch-Irish forbears have handed down to me for one of them, for they are not so easily frosted in a forty or fifty degrees below zero temperature. By the way, if you ever get your nose frozen do not rub snow on it. If you do you will rub all the skin off, and have a pretty sore member to nurse for some time afterward. Grasp it, instead, in your bare hand. That is the Eskimo's way, and he knows. My advice is founded upon experience. They are not so dark-hued as the Indians--in fact, many of them are no darker than the average white man under like conditions of exposure to wind and storm and sun would be. The hair is straight, black, coarse and abundant. The men usually wear it hanging below their ears, cut straight around, with a forehead bang reaching nearly to the eyebrows. The women wear it braided and looped up on the sides of the head. What constitutes beauty is of course largely a question of individual taste. My own judgment of the Eskimos is that they are very ugly, although I have seen young women among them whom I thought actually handsome. This was when they first arrived at the Post with dogs and komatik and they were dressed in their native costume of deerskin trousers and Koolutuk, their cheeks red and glowing with the exercise of travel and the keen, frosty atmosphere. A half hour later I have seen the same women when stringy, dirty skirts had replaced the neat-fitting trousers, and Dr. Grenfell's description of them when thus clad invariably came to my mind: "A bedraggled kind of mop, soaked in oil and filth." This tendency to ape civilization by wearing civilized garments, is happily confined to their brief sojourns at the Post. When they are away at their camps and igloos their own costume is almost exclusively worn, and is the best possible costume for the climate and the country. The adikey, or koolutuk, of the women, has a long flap or tail, reaching nearly to the heels, and a sort of apron in front. The hood is so commodious in size that a baby can be tucked away into it, and that is the way the small children are carried. The men wear cloth trousers except in the very cold weather, when they don their deer or seal skins. Their adikey or koolutuk reaches half way to their knees, and is cut square around. The hood of course, in their case, is only large enough to cover the head. It might be of interest to explain that if this garment is made of cloth it is an _adikey_; if of deerskin, a _koolutuk_, and if made of sealskin, a _netsek_--all cut alike. If they wear two cloth garments at the same time, as is usually the case, the inner one only is an adikey, the outer one a silapak. Their language is the same from Greenland to Alaska. Of course different localities have different dialects, but this is the natural result of a different environment. Missionary Bohlman, whom I met at Hebron, told me that before coming to Labrador he was attached to a Greenland mission. When he came to his new field he found the language so similar to that in Greenland that he had very little difficulty in making himself understood. When Missionary Stecker a few years ago went from Labrador to Alaska he was able to converse with the Alaskan Eskimos. It is held by some authorities that Greenland was peopled by Labrador Eskimos who crossed Hudson Strait to Baffin Land, and thence made their way to Greenland, having originally crossed from Siberia into Alaska, thence eastward, skirting Hudson Bay. This is entirely feasible. I heard of one _umiak_ (skin boat) only a few years ago having crossed to Cape Chidley from Baffin Land. Even in Labrador there are many different dialects. The "Northerners," the people inhabiting the northwest arm of the peninsula, have many words that the Koksoagmiut do not understand. The intonation of the Ungava Eskimos, particularly the women, is like a plaint. At Okak they sing their words. Each settlement on the Atlantic coast has its own dialect. It is a difficult language to learn. Words are compounded until they reach a great and almost unpronounceable length.* Naturally the coming of the trader has introduced many new words, as tobaccomik, teamik, etc., "mik" being the accusative ending. The Eskimo in his language cannot count beyond ten. If he wishes to express twelve, for instance, he will say, "as many fingers as a man has and two more." To express one hundred he would say, "five times as many fingers and toes as a man has," and so on. It is not a written language, but the Moravians have adapted the English alphabet to it and are teaching the Eskimos to read and write. Mr. Stewart in his work has adapted the Cree syllabic characters to the Eskimo, and he is teaching the Ungava people to write by this method, which is largely phonetic. Both the Moravians and Mr. Stewart are instructing them in the mystery of counting in German. *The following will illustrate this; it is part of a sentence quoted from a Moravian missionary pamphlet: "Taimailinganiarpok, illagget Labradormiut namgminek akkilejungnalerkartinaget pijariakartamingnik tamainik, sakkertitsijungnalerkartinagillo ajokertnijunik." ** The Eskimo numerals are as follows: 1, attansek; 2, magguk; 3, pingasut; 4, sittamat; 5, tellimat; 6, pingasoyortut; 7, aggartut; 8, sittamauyortut; 9, sittamartut; 10, tellimauyortut. Cleanliness is not one of the Eskimos' virtues, and they are frequently infested with vermin, which are wont to transfer their allegiance to visitors, as we learned in due course, to our discomfiture. For many months of the year the only water they have is obtained by melting snow or ice. In sections where there is no wood for fuel this must be done over stone lamps in which seal oil is burned, and it is so slow a process that the water thus procured is held too precious to be wasted in cleansing body or clothing. One of the missionaries remarked that "the children must be very clean little creatures, for the parents never find it necessary to wash them." They treat the children with the greatest kindness and consideration--not only their own, but all children, generally. I did not once see an Eskimo punish a child, nor hear a harsh word spoken to one, and they are the most obedient youngsters in the world. A missionary on the Atlantic coast told me that once when he punished his child an Eskimo standing near remarked: "You don't love you child or you wouldn't punish it." And this is the sentiment they hold. Love is not essential to a happy marriage among the Eskimos. When a man wants a woman he takes her. In fact they believe that an unwilling bride makes a good wife. Potokomik's wife was most unwilling, and he took her, dragging her by the tail of her adikey from her father's igloo across the river on the ice to his own, and they have "lived happily ever after," which seems to prove the correctness of the Eskimo theory as to unwilling brides. Of course if Potokomik's wife had not liked him after a fair trial, she could have left him, or if she had not come up to his expectations he could have sent her back home and tried another. It is all quite simple, for there is no marriage ceremony and resort to South Dakota courts for divorce is unnecessary. If a man wants two wives, why he has them, if there are women enough. That, too, is a very agreeable arrangement, for when he is away hunting the women keep each other company. Small families are the rule, and I did not hear of a case where twins had ever been born to the Eskimos. Dancing and football are among their chief pastimes. The men enter into the dance with zest, but the women as though they were performing some awful penance. Both sexes play football. They have learned the use of cards and are reckless gamblers, sometimes staking even the garments on their backs in play. The Eskimo is a close bargainer, and after he has agreed to do you a service for a consideration will as likely as not change his mind at the last moment and leave you in the lurch. At the same time he is in many respects a child. The dwellings are of three kinds: The _tupek_--skin tent; _igloowiuk_--snow house; and permanent igloo, built of driftwood, stones and turf--the larger ones are _igloosoaks_. Flesh and fish, as is the case with the Indians, form the principal food, but while the Indians cook everything the Eskimos as often eat their meat and fish raw, and are not too particular as to its age or state of decay. They are very fond of venison and seal meat, and for variety's sake welcome dog meat. A few years ago a disease carried off several of the dogs at Fort Chimo and every carcass was eaten. One old fellow, in fact, as Mathewson related to me, ate nothing else during that time, and when the epidemic was over bemoaned the fact that no more dog meat could be had. On the Atlantic coast where the snow houses are not used and the Eskimos live more generally during the winter in the close, vile igloos, there is more or less tubercular trouble. Even farther south, where the natives have learned cleanliness, and live in comfortable log cabins that are fairly well aired, this is the prevailing disease. After leaving Ramah, the farther south you go the more general is the adoption of civilized customs, food and habits of life, and with the increase of civilization so also comes an increased death rate amongst the Eskimos. Formerly there was a considerable number of these people on the Straits of Belle Isle. Now there is not one there. South of Hamilton Inlet but two full-blood Eskimos remain. Below Ramah the deaths exceed the births, and at one settlement alone there are fifty less people to-day than three years ago. Civilization is responsible for this. At the present time there remains on the Atlantic coast, between the Straits of Belle Isle and Cape Chidley, but eleven hundred and twenty-seven full-blood Eskimos. Five years hence there will not be a thousand. In Ungava district, where they have as yet accepted practically nothing of civilization, the births exceed the deaths, and I did not learn of a single well-authenticated case of tuberculosis while I was there. There were a few cases of rheumatism. Death comes early, however, owing to the life of constant hardship and exposure. Usually they do not exceed sixty or sixty-five years of age, though I saw one man that had rounded his three score years and ten. Formerly they encased their dead in skins and lay them out upon the rocks with the clothing and things they had used in life. Now rough wooden boxes are provided by the traders. The dogs in time break the coffins open and pick the bones, which lie uncared for, to be bleached by the frosts of winter and suns of summer. Mr. Stewart has collected and buried many of these bones, and is endeavoring now to have all bodies buried. Of all the missionaries that I met in this bleak northern land, devoted as every one of them is to his life work, none was more devoted and none was doing a more self-sacrificing work than the Rev. Samuel Milliken Stewart of Fort Chimo. His novitiate as a missionary was begun in one of the little out-port fishing villages of Newfoundland. Finally he was transferred to that fearfully barren stretch among the heathen Eskimos north of Nachvak. Here he and his Eskimo servant gathered together such loose driftwood as they could find, and with this and stones and turf erected a single-roomed igloo. It was a small affair, not over ten by twelve or fourteen feet in size, and an imaginary line separated the missionary's quarters from his servant's. On his knees, in an old resting place for the dead, with the bleaching bones of heathen Eskimos strewn over the rocks about him, he consecrated his life efforts to the conversion of this people to Christianity. Then he went to work to accomplish this purpose in a businesslike way. He set himself the infinite task of mastering the difficult language. He lived their life with them, visiting and sleeping with them in their filthy igloos--so filthy and so filled with stench from the putrid meat and fish scraps that they permit to lie about and decay that frequently at first, until he became accustomed to it, he was forced to seek the open air and relieve the resulting nausea. But Stewart is a man of iron will, and he never wavered. He studied his people, administered medicines to the sick, and taught the doctrines of Christianity--Love, Faith and Charity--at every opportunity. That first winter was a trying one. All his little stock of fuel was exhausted early. The few articles of furniture that he had brought with him he burned to help keep out the frost demon, and before spring suffered greatly with the cold. The winter before our arrival he transferred his efforts to the Fort Chimo district, where his field would be larger and he could reach a greater number of the heathens. During the journey to Fort Chimo, which was across the upper peninsula, with dogs, he was lost in storms that prevailed at the time, his provisions were exhausted, and one dog had been killed to feed the others, before he finally met Eskimos who guided him in safety to George River. At Fort Chimo the Hudson's Bay Company set aside two small buildings to his use, one for a chapel, the other a little cabin in which he lives. Here we found him one day with a pot of high-smelling seal meat cooking for his dogs and a pan of dough cakes frying for himself. With Stewart in this cabin I spent many delightful hours. His constant flow of well-told stories, flavored with native Irish wit, was a sure panacea for despondency. I believe Stewart, with his sunny temperament, is really enjoying his life amongst the heathen, and he has made an obvious impression upon them, for every one of them turns out to his chapel meetings, where the services are conducted in Eskimo, and takes part with a will. The Eskimo religion, like that of the Indian, is one of fear. Numerous are the spirits that people the land and depths of the sea, but the chief of them all is Torngak, the spirit of Death, who from his cavern dwelling in the heights of the mighty Torngaeks (the mountains north of the George River toward Cape Chidley) watches them always and rules their fortunes with an iron hand, dealing out misfortune, or withholding it, at his will. It is only through the medium of the Angakok, or conjurer, that the people can learn what to do to keep Torngak and the lesser spirits of evil, with their varying moods, in good humor. Stewart has led some of the Eskimos to at least outwardly renounce their heathenism and profess Christianity. In a few instances I believe they are sincere. If he remains upon the field, as I know he wishes to do, he will have them all professing Christianity within the next few years, for they like him. But he has no more regard for danger, when he believes duty calls him, than Dr. Grenfell has, and it is predicted on the coast that some day Dr. Grenfell will take one chance too many with the elements. Of course, coming among the Eskimos as we did in winter, we did not see them using their kayaks or their umiaks,* but our experience with dogs and komatik was pretty complete. These dogs are big wolfish creatures, which resemble wolves so closely in fact that when the dogs and wolves are together the one can scarcely be told from the other. It sometimes happens that a stray wolf will hobnob with the dogs, and litters of half wolf, half dog have been born at the posts. * A large open boat with wooden frame and sealskin covering. The women row the umiaks while the men sit idle. It is beneath the dignity of the latter to handle the oars when women are present to do it. There are no better Eskimo dogs to be found anywhere in the far north than the husky dogs of Ungava. Wonderful tales are told of long distances covered by them in a single day, the record trip of which I heard being one hundred and twelve miles. But this was in the spring, when the days were long and the snow hard and firm. The farthest I ever traveled myself in a single day with dogs and komatik was sixty miles. When the snow is loose and the days are short, twenty to thirty miles constitute a day's work. From five to twelve dogs are usually driven in one team, though sometimes a man is seen plodding along with a two-dog team, and occasionally as many as sixteen or eighteen are harnessed to a komatik, but these very large teams are unwieldy. The komatiks in the Ungava district vary from ten to eighteen feet in length. The runners are about two and one-half inches thick at the bottom, tapering slightly toward the top to reduce friction where they sink into the snow. They are usually placed sixteen inches apart, and crossbars extending about an inch over the outer runner on either side are lashed across the runners by means of thongs of sealskin or heavy twine, which is passed through holes bored into the crossbars and the runners. The use of lashings instead of nails or screws permits the komatik to yield readily in passing over rough places, where metal fastenings would be pulled out, or be snapped off by the frost. On either side of each end of the overlapping ends of the crossbars notches are cut, around which sealskin thongs are passed in lashing on the load. The bottoms of the komatik runners are "mudded." During the summer the Eskimos store up turf for this purpose, testing bits of it by chewing it to be sure that it contains no grit. When the cold weather comes the turf is mixed with warm water until it reaches the consistency of mud. Then with the hands it is molded over the bottom of the runners. The mud quickly freezes, after which it is carefully planed smooth and round. Then it is iced by applying warm water with a bit of hairy deerskin. These mudded runners slip very smoothly over the soft snow, but are liable to chip off on rough ice or when they strike rocks, as frequently happens, for the frozen mud is as brittle as glass. On the Atlantic coast from Nachvak south, mud is never used, and there the komatiks are wider and shorter with runners of not much more than half the thickness, and as you go south the komatiks continue to grow wider and shorter. In the south, too, hoop iron or whalebone is used for runner shoeing. A sealskin thong called a bridle, of a varying length of from twenty to forty feet, is attached to the front of the komatik, and to the end of this the dogs' traces are fastened. Each dog has an individual trace which may be from eight to thirty feet in length, depending upon the size of the team, so arranged that not more than two dogs are abreast, the "leader" having, of course, the longest trace of the pack. This long bridle and the long traces are made necessary by the rough country. They permit the animals to swerve well to one side clear of the komatik when coasting down a hillside. In the length of bridle and trace there is also a wide variation in different sections, those used in the south being very much shorter than those in the north. The dog harness is made usually of polar bear or sealskin. There are no reins. The driver controls his team by shouting directions, and with a walrus hide whip, which is from twenty-five to thirty-five feet in length. An expert with this whip, running after the dogs, can hit any dog he chooses at will, and sometimes he is cruel to excess. To start his team the driver calls "oo-isht," (in the south this becomes "hoo-eet") to turn to the right "ouk," to the left "ra-der, ra-der" and to stop "aw-aw." The leader responds to the shouted directions and the pack follow. The Ungava Eskimo never upon any account travels with komatik and dogs without a snow knife. With this implement he can in a little while make himself a comfortable snow igloo, where he may spend the night or wait for a storm to pass. In winter it is practically impossible to buy a dog in Ungava. The people have only enough for their own use, and will not part with them, and if they have plenty to eat it is difficult to employ them for any purpose. This I discovered very promptly when I endeavored to induce some of them to take us a stage on our journey homeward. CHAPTER XX THE SLEDGE JOURNEY BEGUN Tighter and tighter grew the grip of winter. Rarely the temperature rose above twenty-five degrees below zero, even at midday, and oftener it crept well down into the thirties. The air was filled with rime, which clung to everything, and the sun, only venturing now a little way above the southern horizon, shone cold and cheerless, weakly penetrating the ever-present frost veil. The tide, still defying the shackles of the mighty power that had bound all the rest of the world, surged up and down, piling ponderous ice cakes in mountainous heaps along the river banks. Occasionally an Eskimo or two would suddenly appear out of the snow fields, remain for a day perhaps, and then as suddenly disappear into the bleak wastes whence he had come. Slowly the days dragged along. We occupied the short hours of light in reading old newspapers and magazines, or walking out over the hills, and in the evenings called upon the Post officers or entertained them in our cabin, where Mathewson often came to smoke his after-supper pipe and relate to us stories of his forty-odd years' service as a fur trader in the northern wilderness. One bitter cold morning, long before the first light of day began to filter through the rimy atmosphere, we heard the crunch of feet pass our door, and a komatik slipped by. It was Dr. Milne, away to George River and the coast on his tour of Post inspection, and our little group of white men was one less in number. We envied him his early leaving. We could not ourselves start for home until after New Year's, for there were no dogs to be had for love or money until the Eskimos came in from their hunting camps to spend the holidays. Everything, however, was made ready for that longed-for time. Through the kindness of The'venet, who put his Post folk to work for us, the deerskins I had brought from Whale River were dressed and made up into sleeping bags and skin clothing, and other necessaries were got ready for the long dog journey out. Christmas eve came finally, and with it komatik loads of Eskimos, who roused the place from its repose into comparative wakefulness. The newcomers called upon us in twos or threes, never troubling to knock before they entered our cabin, looked us and our things over with much interest, a proceeding which occupied usually a full half hour, then went away, sometimes to bring back newly arriving friends, to introduce them. A multitude of dogs skulked around by day and made night hideous with howling and fighting, and it was hardly safe to walk abroad without a stick, of which they have a wholesome fear, as, like their progenitors, the wolves, they are great cowards and will rarely attack a man when he has any visible means of defense at hand. Christmas afternoon was given over to shooting matches, and the evening to dancing. We spent the day with The'venet. Mathewson was not in position to entertain, as the Indian woman that presided in his kitchen partook so freely of liquor of her own manufacture that she became hilariously drunk early in the morning, and for the peace of the household and safety of the dishes, which she playfully shied at whoever came within reach, she was ejected, and Mathewson prepared his own meals. At The'venet's, however, everything went smoothly, and the sumptuous meal of baked whitefish, venison, with canned vegetables, plum pudding, cheese and coffee--delicacies held in reserve for the occasion--made us forget the bleak wilderness and ice-bound land in which we were. It seemed for a time even now as though we should not be able to secure dogs and drivers. No one knew the way to Ramah, and on no account would one of these Eskimos undertake even a part of the journey without permission from the Hudson's Bay Company. As a last resort The'venet promised me his dogs and driver to take us at least as far as George River, but finally Emuk arrived and an arrangement was made with him to carry us from Whale River to George River, and two other Eskimos agreed to go with us to Whale River. The great problem that confronted me now was how to get over the one hundred and sixty miles of barrens from George River to Ramah, and it was necessary to arrange for this before leaving Fort Chimo, as dogs to the eastward were even scarcer than here. Mathewson finally solved it for me with his promise to instruct Ford at George River to put his team and drivers at my disposal. Thus, after much bickering, our relays were arranged as far as the Moravian mission station at Ramah, and I trusted in Providence and the coast Eskimos to see us on from there. The third of January was fixed as the day of our departure. Our going in winter was an event. It gave the Post folk an opportunity to send out a winter mail, which I volunteered to carry to Quebec. Straggling bands of Indians, hauling fur-laden toboggans, began to arrive during the week, and the bartering in the stores was brisk, and to me exceedingly interesting. Money at Fort Chimo is unknown. Values are reckoned in "skins"--that is, a "skin" is the unit of value. There is no token of exchange to represent this unit, however, and if a hunter brings in more pelts than sufficient to pay for his purchases, the trader simply gives him credit on his books for the balance due, to be drawn upon at some future time. As a matter of fact, the hunter is almost invariably in debt to the store. A "skin" will buy a pint of molasses, a quarter pound of tea or a quarter pound of black stick tobacco. A white arctic fox pelt is valued at seven skins, a blue fox pelt at twelve, and a black or silver fox at eighty to ninety skins. South of Hamilton Inlet, where competition is keen with the fur traders, they pay in cash six dollars for white, eight dollars for blue (which, by the way, are very scarce there) and not infrequently as high as three hundred and fifty dollars or even more for black and silver fox pelts. The cost of maintaining posts at Fort Chimo, however, is somewhat greater than at these southern points. Here at Ungava the Eskimos' hunt is confined almost wholly to foxes, polar bears, an occasional wolf and wolverine, and, of course, during the season, seals, walrus, and white whales. An average hunter will trap from sixty to seventy foxes in a season, though one or two exceptional ones I knew have captured as many as two hundred. The Indians, who penetrate far into the interior, bring out marten, mink and otter principally, with a few foxes, an occasional beaver, black bear, lynx and some wolf and wolverine skins. There is a story of a very large and ferocious brown bear that tradition says inhabits the barrens to the eastward toward George River. Mr. Peter McKenzie told me that many years ago, when he was stationed at Fort Chimo, the Indians brought him one of the skins of this animal, and Ford at George River said that, some twenty years since, he saw a piece of one of the skins. Both agreed that the hair was very long, light brown in color, silver tipped and of a decidedly different species from either the polar or black bear. This is the only definite information as to it that I was able to gather. The Indians speak of it with dread, and insist that it is still to be found, though none of them can say positively that he has seen one in a decade. I am inclined to believe that the brown bear, so far as Labrador is concerned, has been exterminated. New Year's is the great day at Fort Chimo. All morning there were shooting matches and foot races, and in the afternoon football games in progress, in which the Eskimo men and women alike joined. The Indians, who were recovering from an all-night drunk on their vile beer, and a revel in the "Queen's" cabin, condescended to take part in the shooting matches, but held majestically aloof from the other games. Some of them came into the French store in the evening to squat around the room and watch the dancing while they puffed in silence on their pipes and drank tea when it was passed. That was their only show of interest in the festivities. Early on the morning of the second they all disappeared. But these were only a fragment of those that visit the Post in summer. It is then that they have their powwow. At last the day of our departure arrived, with a dull leaden sky and that penetrating cold that eats to one's very marrow. The'venet and Belfleur came early and brought us a box of cigars to ease the tedium of the long evenings in the snow houses. All the little colony of white men were on hand to see us off, and I believe were genuinely sorry to have us go, for we had become a part of the little coterie and our coming had made a break in the lives of these lonely exiles. Men brought together under such conditions become very much attached to each other in a short time. "It's going to be lonesome now," said Stewart. "I'm sorry you have to leave us. May God speed you on your way, and carry you through your long journey in safety." Finally our baggage was lashed on the komatik; the dogs, leaping and straining at their traces, howled their eagerness to be gone; we shook hands warmly with everybody, even the Eskimos, who came forward wondering at what seemed to them our stupendous undertaking, the komatik was "broken" loose, and we were away at a gallop. Traveling was good, and the nine dogs made such excellent time that we had to ride in level places or we could not have kept pace with them. When there was a hill to climb we pushed on the komatik or hauled with the dogs on the long bridle to help them along. When we had a descent to make, the drag--a hoop of walrus hide--was thrown over the front end of one of the komatik runners at the top, and if the place was steep the Eskimos, one on either side of the komatik, would cling on with their arms and brace their feet into the snow ahead, doing their utmost to hold back and reduce the momentum of the heavy sledge. To the uninitiated they would appear to be in imminent danger of having their legs broken, for the speed down some of the grades when the crust was hard and icy was terrific. When descending the gentler slopes we all rode, depending upon the drag alone to keep our speed within reason. This coasting down hill was always an exciting experience, and where the going was rough it was not easy to keep a seat on the narrow komatik. Occasionally the komatik would turn over. When we saw this was likely to happen we discreetly dropped off, a feat that demanded agility and practice to be performed successfully and gracefully. It was a relief beyond measure to feel that we were at length, after seven long months, actually headed toward home and civilization. Words cannot express the feeling of exhilaration that comes to one at such a time. We did not have to go so far up Whale River to find a crossing as on our trip to Fort Chimo, and reached the eastern side before dark. Sometimes the ice hills are piled so high here by the tide that it takes a day or even two to cut a komatik path through them and cross the river, but fortunately we had very little cutting to do. Not long after dark we coasted down the hill above the Post, and the cheerful lights of Edmunds' cabin were at hand. Here we had to wait two days for Emuk, and in the interim Mrs. Edmunds and Mary went carefully over our clothes, sewed sealskin legs to deerskin moccasins, made more duffel socks, and with kind solicitation put all our things into the best of shape and gave us extra moccasins and mittens. "It is well to have plenty of everything before you start," said Mrs. Edmunds, "for if the huskies are hunting deer the women will do no sewing on sealskin, and if they're hunting seals they'll not touch a needle to your deerskins, though you are freezing." "Why is that?" I asked. "Oh, some of their heathen beliefs," she answered. "They think it would bring bad luck to the hunters. They believe all kinds of foolishness." Emuk had never been so far away as George River, and Sam Ford was to be our pilot to that point, and to return with Emuk. The Eskimos do not consider it safe for a man to travel alone with dogs, and they never do it when there is the least probability that they will have to remain out over night. Two men are always required to build a snow igloo, which is one reason for this. It was therefore necessary for me at each point, when employing the Eskimo driver for a new stage of our journey, also to engage a companion for him, that he might have company when returning home. Our coming to Whale River two months before had made a welcome innovation in the even tenor of the cheerless, lonely existence of our good friends at the Post--an event in their confined life, and they were really sorry to part from us. "It will be a long time before any one comes to see us again--a long time," said Mrs. Edmunds, sadly adding: "I suppose no one will ever come again." When we said our farewells the women cried. In their Godspeed the note of friendship rang true and honest and sincere. These people had proved themselves in a hundred ways. In civilization, where the selfish instinct governs so generally, there are too many Judases. On the frontier, in spite of the rough exterior of the people, you find real men and women. That is one reason why I like the North so well. We left Whale River on Saturday, the sixth of January, with one hundred and twenty miles of barrens to cross before reaching George River Post, the nearest human habitation to the eastward. Our fresh team of nine dogs was in splendid trim and worked well, but a three or four inch covering of light snow upon the harder under crust made the going hard and wearisome for the animals. The frost flakes that filled the air covered everything. Clinging to the eyelashes and faces of the men it gave them a ghostly appearance, our skin clothing was white with it, long icicles weighted our beards, and the sharp atmosphere made it necessary to grasp one's nose frequently to make certain that the member was not freezing. When we stopped for the night our snow house which Emuk and Sam soon had ready seemed really cheerful. Our halt was made purposely near a cluster of small spruce where enough firewood was found to cook our supper of boiled venison, hard-tack and tea, water being procured by melting ice. Spruce boughs were scattered upon the igloo floor and deerskins spread over these. After everything was made snug, and whatever the dogs might eat or destroy put safely out of their reach, the animals were unharnessed and fed the one meal that was allowed them each day after their work was done. Feeding the dogs was always an interesting function. While one man cut the frozen food into chunks, the rest of us armed with cudgels beat back the animals. When the word was given we stepped to one side to avoid the onrush as they came upon the food, which was bolted with little or no chewing. They will eat anything that is fed them--seal meat, deer's meat, fish, or even old hides. There was always a fight or two to settle after the feeding and then the dogs made holes for themselves in the snow and lay down for the drift to cover them. The dogs fed, we crawled with our hot supper into the igloo, put a block of snow against the entrance and stopped the chinks around it with loose snow. Then the kettle covers were lifted and the place was filled at once with steam so thick that one could hardly see his elbow neighbor. By the time the meal was eaten the temperature had risen to such a point that the place was quite warm and comfortable--so warm that the snow in the top of the igloo was soft enough to pack but not quite soft enough to drip water. Then we smoked some of The'venet's cigars and blessed him for his thoughtfulness in providing them. Usually our snow igloos allowed each man from eighteen to twenty inches space in which to lie down, and just room enough to stretch his legs well. With our sleeping bags they were entirely comfortable, no matter what the weather outside. The snow is porous enough to admit of air circulation, but even a gale of wind without would not affect the temperature within. It is claimed by the natives that when the wind blows, a snow house is warmer than in a period of still cold. I could see no difference. A new snow igloo is, however, more comfortable than one that has been used, for newly cut snow blocks are more porous. In one that has been used there is always a crust of ice on the interior which prevents a proper circulation of air. On the second day we passed the shack where Easton and I had held our five-day fast, and shortly after came out upon the plains--a wide stretch of flat, treeless country where no hills rise as guiding landmarks for the voyageur. This was beyond the zone of Emuk's wanderings, and Sam went several miles astray in his calculations, which, in view of the character of the country, was not to be wondered at, piloting as he did without a compass. However, we were soon set right and passed again into the rolling barrens, with ever higher hills with each eastern mile we traveled. At two o'clock on the afternoon of Tuesday, January ninth, we dropped over the bank upon the ice of George River just above the Post, and at three o'clock were under Mr. Ford's hospitable roof again. Here we had to encounter another vexatious delay of a week. Ford's dogs had been working hard and were in no condition to travel and not an Eskimo team was there within reach of the Post that could be had. There was nothing to do but wait for Ford's team to rest and get into condition before taking them upon the trying journey across the barren grounds that lay between us and the Atlantic. CHAPTER XXI CROSSING THE BARRENS On Tuesday morning, January sixteenth, we swung out upon the river ice with a powerful team of twelve dogs. Will Ford and an Eskimo named Etuksoak, called by the Post folk "Peter," for short, were our drivers. The dogs began the day with a misunderstanding amongst themselves, and stopped to fight it out. When they were finally beaten into docility one of them, apparently the outcast of the pack, was limping on three legs and leaving a trail of blood behind him. Every team has its bully, and sometimes its outcast. The bully is master of them all. He fights his way to his position of supremacy, and holds it by punishing upon the slightest provocation, real or fancied, any encroachment upon his autocratic prerogatives. Likewise he disciplines the pack when he thinks they need it or when he feels like it, and he is always the ringleader in mischief. When there is an outcast he is a doomed dog. The others harass and fight him at every opportunity. They are pitiless. They do not associate with him, and sooner or later a morning will come when they are noticed licking their chops contentedly, as dogs do when they have had a good meal--and after that no more is seen of the outcast. The bully is not always, or, in fact, often the leader in harness. The dog that the driver finds most intelligent in following a trail and in answering his commands is chosen for this important position, regardless of his fighting prowess. This morning as we started the weather was perfect--thirty-odd degrees below zero and a bright sun that made the hoar frost sparkle like flakes of silver. For ten miles our course lay down the river to a point just below the "Narrows." Then we left the ice and hit the overland trail in an almost due northerly direction. It was a rough country and there was much pulling and hauling and pushing to be done crossing the hills. Before noon the wind began to rise, and by the time we stopped to prepare our snow igloo for the night a northwest gale had developed and the air was filled with drifting snow. Early in the afternoon I began to have cramps in the calves of my legs, and finally it seemed to me that the muscles were tied into knots. Sharp, intense pains in the groin made it torture to lift in feet above the level of the snow, and I was never more thankful for rest in my life than when that day's work was finished. Easton confessed to me that he had an attack similar to my own. This was the result of our inactivity at Fort Chimo. We were suffering with what among the Canadian voyageurs is known as _mal de roquette_. There was nothing to do but endure it without complaint, for there is no relief until in time it gradually passes away of its own accord. This first night from George River was spent upon the shores of a lake which, hidden by drifted snow, appeared to be about two miles wide and seven or eight miles long. It lay amongst low, barren hills, where a few small bunches of gnarled black spruce relieved the otherwise unbroken field of white. The following morning it was snowing and drifting, and as the day grew the storm increased. An hour's traveling carried us to the Koroksoak River--River of the Great Gulch--which flows from the northeast, following the lower Torngaek mountains and emptying into Ungava Bay near the mouth of the George. The Koroksoak is apparently a shallow stream, with a width of from fifty to two hundred yards. Its bed forms the chief part of the komatik route to Nachvak, and therefore our route. For several miles the banks are low and sandy, but farther up the sand disappears and the hills crowd close upon the river. The gales that sweep down the valley with every storm had blown away the snow and drifted the bank sand in a layer over the river ice. This made the going exceedingly hard and ground the mud from the komatik runners. The snowstorm, directly in our teeth, increased in force with every mile we traveled, and with the continued cramps and pains in my legs it seemed to me that the misery of it all was about as refined and complete as it could be. It may be imagined, therefore, the relief I felt when at noon Will and Peter stopped the komatik with the announcement that we must camp, as further progress could not be made against the blinding snow and head wind. Advantage was taken of the daylight hours to mend the komatik mud. This was done by mixing caribou moss with water, applying the mixture to the mud where most needed, and permitting it to freeze, which it did instantly. Then the surface was planed smooth with a little jack plane carried for the purpose. That night the storm blew itself out, and before daylight, after a breakfast of coffee and hard-tack, we were off. The half day's rest had done wonders for me, and the pains in my legs were not nearly so severe as on the previous day. January and February see the lowest temperatures of the Labrador winter. Now the cold was bitter, rasping--so intensely cold was the atmosphere that it was almost stifling as it entered the lungs. The vapor from our nostrils froze in masses of ice upon our beards. The dogs, straining in the harness, were white with hoar frost, and our deerskin clothing was also thickly coated with it. For long weeks these were to be the prevailing conditions in our homeward march. Dark and ominous were the spruce-lined river banks on either side that morning as we toiled onward, and grim and repellent indeed were the rocky hills outlined against the sky beyond. Everything seemed frozen stiff and dead except ourselves. No sound broke the absolute silence save the crunch, crunch, crunch of our feet, the squeak of the komatik runners complaining as they slid reluctantly over the snow, and the "oo-isht-oo-isht, oksuit, oksuit" of the drivers, constantly urging the dogs to greater effort. Shimmering frost flakes, suspended in the air like a veil of thinnest gauze, half hid the sun when very timidly he raised his head above the southeastern horizon, as though afraid to venture into the domain of the indomitable ice king who had wrested the world from his last summer's power and ruled it now so absolutely. With every mile the spruce on the river banks became thinner and thinner, and the hills grew higher and higher, until finally there was scarcely a stick to be seen and the lower eminences had given way to lofty mountains which raised their jagged, irregular peaks from two to four thousand feet in solemn and majestic grandeur above our heads. The gray basaltic rocks at their base shut in the tortuous river bed, and we knew now why the Koroksoak was called the "River of the Great Gulch." These were the mighty Torngaeks, which farther north attain an altitude above the sea of full seven thousand feet. We passed the place where Torngak dwells in his mountain cavern and sends forth his decrees to the spirits of Storm and Starvation and Death to do destruction, or restrains them, at his will. In the forenoon of the third day after leaving George River we stopped to lash a few sticks on top of our komatik load. "No more wood," said Will. "This'll have to see us through to Nachvak." That afternoon we turned out of the Koroksoak River into a pass leading to the northward, and that night's igloo was at the headwaters of a stream that they said ran into Nachvak Bay. The upper part of this new gulch was strewn with bowlders, and much hard work and ingenuity were necessary the following morning to get the komatik through them at all. Farther down the stream widened. Here the wind had swept the snow clear of the ice, and it was as smooth as a piece of glass, broken only by an occasional bowlder sticking above the surface. A heavy wind blew in our backs and carried the komatik before it at a terrific pace, with the dogs racing to keep out of the way. Sometimes we were carried sidewise, sometimes stern first, but seldom right end foremost. Lively work was necessary to prevent being wrecked upon the rocks, and occasionally we did turn over, when a bowlder was struck side on. There were several steep down grades. Before descending one of the first of these a line was attached to the rear end of the komatik and Will asked Easton to hang on to it and hold back, to keep the komatik straight. There was no foothold for him, however, on the smooth surface of the ice, and Easton found that he could not hold back as directed. The momentum was considerable, and he was afraid to let go for fear of losing his balance on the slippery ice, and so, wild-eyed and erect, he slid along, clinging for dear life to the line. Pretty soon he managed to attain a sitting posture, and with his legs spread before him, but still holding desperately on, he skimmed along after the komatik. The next and last evolution was a "belly-gutter" position. This became too strenuous for him, however, and the line was jerked out of his hands. I was afraid he might have been injured on a rock, but my anxiety was soon relieved when I saw him running along the shore to overtake the komatik where it had been stopped to wait for him below. This gulch was exceedingly narrow, with mountains, lofty, rugged and grand rising directly from the stream's bank, some of them attaining an altitude of five thousand feet or more. At one point they squeezed the brook through a pass only ten feet in width, with perpendicular walls towering high above our heads on either side. This place is known to the Hudson's Bay Company people as "The Porch." In the afternoon Peter caught his foot in a crevice, and the komatik jammed him with such force that he narrowly escaped a broken leg and was crippled for the rest of the journey. Early in the afternoon we were on salt water ice, and at two o'clock sighted Nachvak Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, and at half past four were hospitably welcomed by Mrs. Ford, the wife of George Ford, the agent. This was Saturday, January twentieth. Since the previous Tuesday morning we had had no fire to warm ourselves by and had been living chiefly on hard-tack, and the comfort and luxury of the Post sitting room, with the hot supper of arctic hare that came in due course, were appreciated. Mr. Ford had gone south with Dr. Milne to Davis Inlet Post and was not expected back for a week, but Mrs. Ford and her son Solomon Ford, who was in charge during his father's absence, did everything possible for our comfort. The injury to Peter's leg made it out of the question for him to go on with us, and we therefore found it necessary to engage another team to carry us to Ramah, the first of the Moravian missionary stations on our route of travel, and this required a day's delay at Nachvak, as no Eskimos could be seen that night. The Fords offered us every assistance in securing drivers, and went to much trouble on our behalf. Solomon personally took it upon himself to find dogs and drivers for us, and through his kindness arrangements were made with two Eskimos, Taikrauk and Nikartok by name, who agreed to furnish a team of ten dogs and be on hand early on Monday morning. I considered myself fortunate in securing so large a team, for the seal hunt had been bad the previous fall and the Eskimos had therefore fallen short of dog food and had killed a good many of their dogs. I should not have been so ready with my self-congratulation had I seen the dogs that we were to have. Nachvak is the most God-forsaken place for a trading post that I have ever seen. Wherever you look bare rocks and towering mountains stare you in the face; nowhere is there a tree or shrub of any kind to relieve the rock-bound desolation, and every bit of fuel has to be brought in during the summer by steamer. They have coal, but even the wood to kindle the coal is imported. The Eskimos necessarily use stone lamps in which seal oil is burned to heat their igloos. The Fords have lived here for a quarter of a century, but now the Company is abandoning the Post as unprofitable and they are to be transferred to some other quarter. "God knows how lonely it is sometimes," Mrs. Ford said to me, "and how glad I'll be if we go where there's some one besides just greasy heathen Eskimos to see." The Moravian mission at Killenek, a station three days' travel to the northward, on Cape Chidley, has deflected some of the former trade from Nachvak and the Ramah station more of it, until but twenty-seven Eskimos now remain at Nachvak. Early on Monday morning not only our two Eskimos appeared, but the entire Eskimo population, even the women with babies in their hoods, to see us off. The ten-dog team that I had congratulated myself so proudly upon securing proved to be the most miserable aggregation of dogskin and bones I had ever seen, and in so horribly emaciated a condition that had there been any possible way of doing without them I should have declined to permit them to haul our komatik. However I had no choice, as no other dogs were to be had, and at six o'clock--more than two hours before daybreak--we said farewell to good Mrs. Ford and her family and started forward with our caravan of followers. We took what is known as the "outside" route, turning right out toward the mouth of the bay. By this route it is fully forty miles to Ramah. By a short cut overland, which is not so level, the distance is only about thirty miles, but our Eskimos chose the level course, as it is doubtful whether their excuses for dogs could have hauled the komatik over the hills on the short cut. An hour after our start we passed a collection of snow igloos, and all our following, after shaking hands and repeating, "Okusi," left us--all but one man, Korganuk by name, who decided to honor us with his society to Ramah; so we had three Eskimos instead of the more than sufficient two. Though the traveling was fairly good the poor starved dogs crawled along so slowly that with a jog trot we easily kept in advance of them, and not even the extreme cruelty of the heathen drivers, who beat them sometimes unmercifully, could induce them to do better. I remonstrated with the human brutes on several occasions, but they pretended not to understand me, smiling blandly in return, and making unintelligible responses in Eskimo. Before dawn the sky clouded, and by the time we reached the end of the bay and turned southward across the neck, toward noon, it began to snow heavily. This capped the climax of our troubles and I questioned whether our team would ever reach our destination with this added impediment of soft, new snow to plow through. From the first the snow fell thick and fast. Then the wind rose, and with every moment grew in velocity. I soon realized that we were caught under the worst possible conditions in the throes of a Labrador winter storm--the kind of storm that has cost so many native travelers on that bleak coast their lives. We were now on the ice again beyond the neck. Perpendicular, clifflike walls shut us off from retreat to the land and there was not a possibility of shelter anywhere. Previous snows had found no lodgment into banks, and an igloo could not be built. Our throats were parched with thirst, but there was no water to drink and nowhere a stick of wood with which to build a fire to melt snow. The dogs were lying down in harness and crying with distress, and the Eskimos had continually to kick them into renewed efforts. On we trudged, on and endlessly on. We were still far from our goal. All of us, even the Eskimos, were utterly weary. Finally frequent stops were necessary to rest the poor toiling brutes, and we were glad to take advantage of each opportunity to throw ourselves at full length on the snow-covered ice for a moment's repose. Sometimes we would walk ahead of the komatik and lie down until it overtook us, frequently falling asleep in the brief interim. Now and again an Eskimo would look into my face and repeat, "Oksunae" (be strong), and I would encourage him in the same way. Darkness fell thick and black. No signs of land were visible--nothing but the whirling, driving, pitiless snow around us and the ice under our feet. Sometimes one of us would stumble on a hummock and fall, then rise again to resume the mechanical plodding. I wondered sometimes whether we were not going right out to sea and how long it would be before we should drop into open water and be swallowed up. My faculties were too benumbed to care much, and it was just a calculation in which I had no particular but only a passive interest. The thirst of the snow fields is most agonizing, and can only be likened to the thirst of the desert. The snow around you is tantalizing, for to eat it does not quench the thirst in the slightest; it aggravates it. If I ever longed for water it was then. Hour after hour passed and the night seemed interminable. But somehow we kept going, and the poor crying brutes kept going. All misery has its ending, however, and ours ended when I least looked for it. Unexpectedly the dogs' pitiful cries changed to gleeful howls and they visibly increased their efforts. Then Korganuk put his face close to mine and said: "Ramah! Ramah!" and quite suddenly we stopped before the big mission house at Ramah. CHAPTER XXII ON THE ATLANTIC ICE The dogs had stopped within a dozen feet of the building, but it was barely distinguishable through the thick clouds of smothering snow which the wind, risen to a terrific gale, swirled around us as it swept down in staggering gusts from the invisible hills above. A light filtered dimly through one of the frost-encrusted windows, and I tapped loudly upon the glass. At first there was no response, but after repeated rappings some one moved within, and in a moment the door opened and a voice called to us, "Come, come out of the snow. It is a nasty night." Without further preliminaries we stepped into the shelter of the broad, comfortable hall. Holding a candle above his head, and peering at us through the dim light that it cast, was a short, stockily built, bearded man in his shirt sleeves and wearing hairy sealskin trousers and boots. To him I introduced myself and Easton, and he, in turn, told us that he was the Reverend Paul Schmidt, the missionary in charge of the station. Mr. Schmidt's astonishment at our unexpected appearance at midnight and in such a storm was only equaled by his hospitable welcome. His broken English sounded sweet indeed, inviting us to throw off our snow-covered garments. He ushered us to a neat room on the floor above, struck a match to a stove already charged with kindling wood and coal, and in five minutes after our entrance we were listening to the music of a crackling fire and warming our chilled selves by its increasing heat. Our host was most solicitous for our every comfort. He hurried in and out, and by the time we were thoroughly warmed told us supper was ready and asked us to his living room below, where Mrs. Schmidt had spread the table for a hot meal. Each mission house has a common kitchen and a common dining room, and besides having the use of these the separate families are each provided with a private living room and a sleeping room. It is not pleasant to be routed out of bed in the middle of the night, but these good missionaries assured us that it was really a pleasure to them, and treated us like old friends whom they were overjoyed to see. "Well, well," said Mr. Schmidt, again and again, "it is very good for you to come. I am very glad that you came tonight, for now we shall have company, and you shall stay with us until the weather is fine again for traveling, and we will talk English together, which is a pleasure for me, for I have almost forgotten my English, with no one to talk it to." It was after two o'clock when we went to bed, and I verily believe that Mr. Schmidt would have talked all night had it not been for our hard day's work and evident need of rest. When we arose in the morning the storm was still blowing with unabated fury. We had breakfast with Mr. Schmidt in his private apartment and were later introduced to Mr. Karl Filsehke, the storekeeper, and his wife, who, like the Schmidts, were most hospitable and kind. At all of the Moravian missions, with the exception of Killinek "down to Chidley," and Makkovik, the farthest station "up south," there is, besides the missionary, who devotes himself more particularly to the spiritual needs of his people, a storekeeper who looks after their material welfare and assists in conducting the meetings. In Labrador these missions are largely, though by no means wholly, self-supporting. Furs and blubber are taken from the Eskimos in exchange for goods, and the proflts resulting from their sale in Europe are applied toward the expense of maintaining the stations. They own a small steamer, which brings the supplies from London every summer and takes away the year's accumulation of fur and oil. Since the first permanent establishment was erected at Nain, over one hundred and fifty years ago, they have followed this trade. During the day I visited the store and blubber house, where Eskimo men and women were engaged in cutting seal blubber into small slices and pounding these with heavy wooden mallets. The pounded blubber is placed in zinc vats, and, when the summer comes, exposed in the vats to the sun's heat, which renders out a fine white oil. This oil is put into casks and shipped to the trade. In the depth of winter seal hunting is impossible, and during that season the Eskimo families gather in huts, or igloosoaks, at the mission stations. There are sixty-nine of these people connected with the Ramah station and I visited them all with Mr. Schmidt. Their huts were heated with stone lamps and seal oil, for the country is bare of wood. The fuel for the mission house is brought from the South by the steamer. The Eskimos at Ramah and at the stations south are all supposed to be Christians, but naturally they still retain many of the traditional beliefs and superstitions of their people. They will not live in a house where a death has occurred, believing that the spirit of the departed will haunt the place. If the building is worth it, they take it down and set it up again somewhere else. Not long ago the wife of one of the Eskimos was taken seriously ill, and became delirious. Her husband and his neighbors, deciding that she was possessed of an evil spirit, tied her down and left her, until finally she died, uncared for and alone, from cold and lack of nourishment. This occurred at a distance from the station, and the missionaries did not learn of it until the woman was dead and beyond their aid. They are most kind in their ministrations to the sick and needy. Once Dr. Grenfell visited Ramah and exhibited to the astonished Eskimos some stereopticon views--photographs that he had taken there in a previous year. It so happened that one of the pictures was that of an old woman who had died since the photograph was made, and when it appeared upon the screen terror struck the hearts of the simple-minded people. They believed it was her spirit returned to earth, and for a long time afterward imagined that they saw it floating about at night, visiting the woman's old haunts. The daily routine of the mission station is most methodical. At seven o'clock in the morning a bell calls the servants to their duties; at nine o'clock it rings again, granting a half hour's rest; at a quarter to twelve a third ringing sends them to dinner; they return at one o'clock to work until dark. Every night at five o'clock the bell summons them to religious service in the chapel, where worship is conducted in Eskimo by either the missionary or the storekeeper. The women sit on one side, the men on the other, and are always in their seats before the last tone of the bell dies out. I used to enjoy these services exceedingly--watching the eager, expectant faces of the people as they heard the lesson taught, and their hearty singing of the hymns in Eskimo made the evening hour a most interesting one to me. It is a busy life the missionary leads. From morning until night he is kept constantly at work, and in the night his rest is often broken by calls to minister to the sick. He is the father of his flock, and his people never hesitate to call for his help and advice; to him all their troubles and disagreements are referred for a wise adjustment. I am free to say that previous to meeting them upon their field of labor I looked upon the work of these missionaries with indifference, if not disfavor, for I had been led to believe that they were accomplishing little or nothing. But now I have seen, and I know of what incalculable value the services are that they are rendering to the poor, benighted people of this coast. They practically renounce the world and their home ties to spend their lives, until they are too old for further service or their health breaks down, in their Heaven-inspired calling, surrounded by people of a different race and language, in the most barren, God-cursed land in the world. When their children reach the age of seven years they must send them to the church school at home to be educated. Very often parent and child never meet again. This is, as many of them told me, the greatest sacrifice they are called upon to make, but they realize that it is for the best good of the child and their work, and they do not murmur. What heroes and heroines these men and women are! One _must_ admire and honor them. There were some little ones here at Ramah who used to climb upon my knees and call me "Uncle," and kiss me good morning and good night, and I learned to love them. My recollections of these days at Ramah are pleasant ones. Philippus Inglavina and Ludwig Alasua, two Eskimos, were engaged to hold themselves in readiness with their team of twelve dogs for a bright and early start for Hebron on the first clear morning. On the fourth morning after our arrival they announced that the weather was sufficiently clear for them to find their way over the hills. Mrs. Schmidt and Mrs. Filsehke filled an earthen jug with hot coffee and wrapped it, with some sandwiches, in a bearskin to keep from freezing for a few hours; sufficient wood to boil the kettle that night and the next morning was lashed with our baggage on the komatik; the Eskimos each received the daily ration of a plug of tobacco and a box of matches, which they demand when traveling, and then we said good-by and started. The komatik was loaded with Eskimos, and the rest of the native population trailed after us on foot. It is the custom on the coast for the people to accompany a komatik starting on a journey for some distance from the station. The wind, which had died nearly out in the night, was rising again. It was directly in our teeth and shifting the loose snow unpleasantly. We had not gone far when one of the trailing Eskimos came running after us and shouting to our driver to stop. We halted, and when he overtook us he called the attention of Philippus to a high mountain known as Attanuek (the King), whose peak was nearly hidden by drifting snow. A consultation decided them that it would be dangerous to attempt the passes that day, and to our chagrin the Eskimos turned the dogs back to the station. The next morning Attanuek's head was clear, the wind was light, the atmosphere bitter cold, and we were off in good season. We soon reached "Lamson's Hill," rising three thousand feet across our path, and shortly after daylight began the wearisome ascent, helping the dogs haul the komatik up steep places and wallowing through deep snow banks. Before noon one of our dogs gave out, and we had to cut him loose. An hour later we met George Ford on his way home to Nachvak from Davis Inlet, and some Eskimos with a team from the Hebron Mission, and from this latter team we borrowed a dog to take the place of the one that we had lost. Ford told us that his leader had gone mad that morning and he had been compelled to shoot it. He also informed me that wolves had followed him all the way from Okak to Hebron, mingling with his dogs at night, but at Hebron had left his trail. At three o'clock we reached the summit of Lamson's Hill and began the perilous descent, where only the most expert maneuvering on the part of the Eskimos saved our komatik from being smashed. In many places we had to let the sledge down over steep places, after first removing the dogs, and it was a good while after dark when we reached the bottom. Then, after working the komatik over a mile of rough bowlders from which the wind had swept the snow, we at length came upon the sea ice of Saglak Bay, and at eight o'clock drew up at an igloosoak on an island several miles from the mainland. This igloosoak was practically an underground dwelling, and the entrance was through a snow tunnel. From a single seal-gut window a dim light shone, but there was no other sign of human life. I groped my way into the tunnel, bent half double, stepping upon and stumbling over numerous dogs that blocked the way, and at the farther end bumped into a door. Upon pushing this open I found myself in a room perhaps twelve by fourteen feet in size. Three stone lamps shed a gloomy half light over the place, and revealed a low bunk, covered with sealskins, extending along two sides of the room, upon which nine Eskimos--men, women and children--were lying. A half inch of soft slush covered the floor. The whole place was reeking in filth, infested with vermin, and the stench was sickening. The people arose and welcomed us as Eskimos always do, most cordially. Our two drivers, who followed me with the wood we had brought, made a fire in a small sheet-iron tent stove kept in the shack by the missionaries for their use when traveling, and on it we placed our kettle full of ice for tea, and our sandwiches to thaw, for they were frozen as hard as bullets. One of the old women was half dead with consumption, and constantly spitting, and when we saw her turning our sandwiches on the stove our appetite appreciably diminished. At Ramah I had purchased some dried caplin for dog food for the night. The caplin is a small fish, about the size of a smelt or a little larger, and is caught in the neighborhood of Hamilton Inlet and south. They are brought north by the missionaries to use for dog food when traveling in the winter, as they are more easily packed on the komatik than seal meat. The Eskimos are exceedingly fond of these dried fish, and they appealed to our men as too great a delicacy to waste upon the dogs. Therefore when feeding time came, seal blubber, of which there was an abundant supply in the igloo, fell to the lot of the animals, while our drivers and hosts appropriated the caplin to themselves. The bag of fish was placed in the center, with a dish of raw seal fat alongside, with the men, women and children surrounding it, and they were still banqueting upon the fish and fat when I, weary with traveling, fell asleep in my bag. It was not yet dark the next evening when we came in sight of the Eskimo village at the Hebron mission, and the whole population of one hundred and eighty people and two hundred dogs, the former shouting, the latter howling, turned out to greet us. Several of the young men, fleeter of foot than the others, ran out on the ice, and when they had come near enough to see who we were, turned and ran back again ahead of our dogs, shouting "Kablunot! Kablunot!" (outlanders), and so, in the midst of pandemonium, we drew into the station, and received from the missionaries a most cordial welcome. Here I was fortunate in securing for the next eighty miles of our journey an Eskimo with an exceptionally fine team of fourteen dogs. This new driver--Cornelius was his name--made my heart glad by consenting to travel without an attendant. I was pleased at this because experience had taught me that each additional man meant just so much slower progress. No time was lost at Hebron, for the weather was fine, and early morning found us on our way. At Napartok we reached the "first wood," and the sight of a grove of green spruce tops above the snow seemed almost like a glimpse of home. It was dreary, tiresome work, this daily plodding southward over the endless snow, sometimes upon the wide ice field, sometimes crossing necks of land with tedious ascents and dangerous descents of hills, making no halt while daylight lasted, save to clear the dogs' entangled traces and snatch a piece of hard-tack for a cheerless luncheon. Okak, two days' travel south of Hebron, with a population of three hundred and twenty-nine, is the largest Eskimo village in Labrador and an important station of the Moravian missionaries. Besides the chapel, living apartments and store of the mission a neat, well-organized little hospital has just been opened by them and placed in charge of Dr. S. Hutton, an English physician. Young, capable and with every prospect of success at home, he and his charming wife have resigned all to come to the dreary Labrador and give their lives and efforts to the uplifting of this bit of benighted humanity. We were entertained by the doctor and Mrs. Hutton and found them most delightful people. The only other member of the hospital corps was Miss S. Francis, a young woman who has prepared herself as a trained nurse to give her life to the service. I had an opportunity to visit with Dr. Hutton several of the Eskimo dwellings, and was struck by their cleanliness and the great advance toward civilization these people have made over their northern kinsmen. We had now reached a section where timber grows, and some of the houses were quite pretentious for the frontier--well furnished, of two or three rooms, and far superior to many of the homes of the outer coast breeds to the south. This, of course, is the visible result of the century of Moravian labors. Here I engaged, with the aid of the missionaries, Paulus Avalar and Boas Anton with twelve dogs to go with us to Nain, and after one day at Okak our march was resumed. It is a hundred miles from Okak to Nain and on the way the Kiglapait Mountain must be crossed, as the Atlantic ice outside is liable to be shattered at any time should an easterly gale blow, and there is no possible retreat and no opportunity to escape should one be caught upon it at such a time, as perpendicular cliffs rise sheer from the sea ice here. We had not reached the summit of the Kiglapait when night drove us into camp in a snow igloo. The Eskimos here are losing the art of snow-house building, and this one was very poorly constructed, and, with a temperature of thirty or forty degrees below zero, very cold and uncomfortable. When we turned into our sleeping bags Paulus, who could talk a few words of English, remarked to me: "Clouds say big snow maybe. Here very bad. No dog feed. We go early," and pointing to my watch face indicated that we should start at midnight. At eleven o'clock I heard him and Boas get up and go out. Half an hour later they came back with a kettle of hot tea and we had breakfast. Then the two Eskimos, by candlelight read aloud in their language a form of worship and sang a hymn. All along the coast between Hebron and Makkovik I found morning and evening worship and grace before and after meals a regular institution with the Eskimos, whose religious training is carefully looked after by the Moravians. By midnight our komatik was packed. "Ooisht! ooisht!" started the dogs forward as the first feathery flakes of the threatened storm fell lazily down. Not a breath of wind was stirring and no sound broke the ominous silence of the night save the crunch of our feet on the snow and the voice of the driver urging on the dogs. Boas went ahead, leading the team on the trail. Presently he halted and shouted back that he could not make out the landmarks in the now thickening snow. Then we circled about until an old track was found and went on again. Time and again this maneuver was repeated. The snow now began to fall heavily and the wind rose. No further sign of the track could be discovered and short halts were made while Paulus examined my compass to get his bearings. Finally the summit of the Kiglapait was reached, and the descent was more rapid. At one place on a sharp down grade the dogs started on a run and we jumped upon the komatik to ride. Moving at a rapid pace the team, dimly visible ahead, suddenly disappeared. Paulus rolled off the komatik to avoid going over the ledge ahead, but the rest of us had no time to jump, and a moment later the bottom fell out of our track and we felt ourselves dropping through space. It was a fall of only fifteen feet, but in the night it seemed a hundred. Fortunately we landed on soft snow and no harm was done, but we had a good shaking up. The storm grew in force with the coming of daylight. Forging on through the driving snow we reached the ocean ice early in the forenoon and at four o'clock in the afternoon the shelter of an Eskimo hut. The storm was so severe the next morning our Eskimos said to venture out in it would probably mean to get lost, but before noon the wind so far abated that we started. The snow fell thickly all day, the wind began to rise again, and a little after four o'clock the real force of the gale struck us in one continued, terrific sweep, and the snow blew so thick that we nearly smothered. The temperature was thirty degrees below zero. We could not see the length of the komatik. We did not dare let go of it, for had we separated ourselves a half dozen yards we should certainly have been lost. Somehow the instincts of drivers and dogs, guided by the hand of a good Providence, led us to the mission house at Nain, which we reached at five o'clock and were overwhelmed by the kindness of the Moravians. This is the Moravian headquarters in Labrador, and the Bishop, Right Reverend A. Martin, with his aids, is in charge. It was Saturday night when we reached Nain, and Sunday was spent here while we secured new drivers and dogs and waited for the storm to blow over. Every one was so cordial and hospitable that I almost regretted the necessity of leaving on Monday morning. The day was excessively cold and a head wind froze cheeks and noses and required an almost constant application of the hand to thaw them out and prevent them from freezing permanently. Easton even frosted his elbow through his heavy clothing of reindeer skin. During the second day from Nain we met Missionary Christian Schmitt returning from a visit to the natives farther south, and on the ice had a half hour's chat. That evening we reached Davis Inlet Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, and spent the night with Mr. Guy, the agent, and the following morning headed southward again, passed Cape Harrigan, and in another two days reached Hopedale Mission, where we arrived just ahead of one of the fierce storms* so frequent here at this season of the year, which held us prisoners from Thursday night until Monday morning. Two days later we pulled in at Makkovik, the last station of the Moravians on our southern trail. * Since writing the above I have learned that a half-breed whom I met at Davis Inlet, his wife and a young native left that point for Hopedale just after us, were overtaken by this storm, lost their way, and were probably overcome by the elements. Their dogs ate the bodies and a week later returned, well fed, to Davis Inlet. Dr. Grenfell found the bones in the spring. CHAPTER XXIII BACK TO NORTHWEST RIVER We had now reached an English-speaking country; that is, a section where every one talked understandable English, though at the same time nearly every one was conversant with the Eskimo language. All down the coast we had been fortunate in securing dogs and drivers with little trouble through the intervention of the missionaries; but at Makkovik dogs were scarce, and it seemed for a time as though we were stranded here, but finally, with missionary Townley's aid I engaged an old Eskimo named Martin Tuktusini to go with us to Rigolet. When I looked at Martin's dogs, however, I saw at once that they were not equal to the journey, unaided. Neither had I much faith in Martin, for he was an old man who had nearly reached the end of his usefulness. A day was lost in vainly looking around for additional dogs, and then Mr. Townley generously loaned us his team and driver to help us on to Big Bight, fifteen miles away, where he thought we might get dogs to supplement Martin's. At Big Bight we found a miserable hut, where the people were indescribably poor and dirty. A team was engaged after some delay to carry us to Tishialuk, thirty miles farther on our journey, which place we reached the following day at eleven o'clock. There is a single hovel at Tishialuk, occupied by two brothers--John and Sam Cove--and their sister. Their only food was flour, and a limited quantity of that. Even tea and molasses, usually found amongst the "livyeres" (live-heres) of the coast, were lacking. Sam was only too glad of the opportunity to earn a few dollars, and was engaged with his team to join forces with Martin as far as Rigolet. There are two routes from Tishialuk to Rigolet. One is the "Big Neck" route over the hills, and much shorter than the other, which is known as the outside route, though it also crosses a wide neck of land inside of Cape Harrison, ending at Pottle's Bay on Hamilton Inlet. It was my intention to take the Big Neck trail, but Martin strenuously opposed it on the ground that it passed over high hills, was much more difficult, and the probabilities of getting lost should a storm occur were much greater by that route than by the other. His objections prevailed, and upon the afternoon of the day after our arrival Sam was ready, and in a gale of wind we ran down on the ice to Tom Bromfield's cabin at Tilt Cove, that we might be ready to make an early start for Pottle's Bay the following morning, as the whole day would be needed to cross the neck of land to Pottle's Bay and the neatest shelter beyond. Tom is a prosperous and ambitious hunter, and is fairly well-to-do as it goes on the Labrador. His one-room cabin was very comfortable, and he treated us to unwonted luxuries, such as butter, marmalade, and sugar for our tea. During the evening he displayed to me the skin of a large wolf which he had killed a few days before, and told us the story of the killing. "I were away, sir," related he, "wi' th' dogs, savin' one which I leaves to home, 'tendin' my fox traps. The woman (meaning his wife) were alone wi' the young ones. In the evenin' (afternoon) her hears a fightin' of dogs outside, an' thinkin' one of the team was broke loose an' run home, she starts to go out to beat the beasts an' put a stop to the fightin'. But lookin' out first before she goes, what does she see but the wolf that owned that skin, and right handy to the door he were, too. He were a big divil, as you sees, sir. She were scared. Her tries to take down the rifle--the one as is there on the pegs, sir. The wolf and the dog be now fightin' agin' the door, and she thinks they's handy to breakin' in, and it makes her a bit shaky in the hands, and she makes a slip and the rifle he goes off bang! makin' that hole there marrin' the timber above the windy. Then the wolf he goes off too; he be scared at the shootin'. When I comes home she tells me, and I lays fur the beast. 'Twere the next day and I were in the house when I hears the dogs fightin' and I peers out the windy, and there I sees the wolf fightin' wi' the dogs, quite handy by the house. Well, sir, I just gits the rifle down and goes out, and when the dogs sees me they runs and leaves the wolf, and I up and knocks he over wi' a bullet, and there's his skin, worth a good four dollars, for he be an extra fine one, sir." We sat up late that night listening to Tom's stories. The next morning was leaden gray, and promised snow. With the hope of reaching Pottle's Bay before dark we started forward early, and at one o'clock in the afternoon were in the soft snow of the spruce-covered neck. Traveling was very bad and progress so slow that darkness found us still amongst the scrubby firs. Martin and I walked ahead of the dogs, making a path and cutting away the growth where it was too thick to permit the passage of the teams. Martin was guiding us by so circuitous a path that finally I began to suspect he had lost his way, and, calling a halt, suggested that we had better make a shelter and stop until daylight, particularly as the snow was now falling. When you are lost in the bush it is a good rule to stop where you are until you make certain of your course. Martin in this instance, however, seemed very positive that we were going in the right direction, though off the usual trail, and he said that in another hour or so we would certainly come out and find the salt-water ice of Hamilton Inlet. So after an argument I agreed to proceed and trust in his assurances. Easton, who was driving the rear team, was completely tired out with the exertion of steering the komatik through the brush and untangling the dogs, which seemed to take a delight in spreading out and getting their traces fast around the numerous small trees, and I went to the rear to relieve him for a time from the exhausting work. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when we at length came upon the ice of a brook which Martin admitted he had never seen before and confessed that he was completely lost. I ordered a halt at once until daylight. We drank some cold water, ate some hard-tack and then stretched our sleeping bags upon the snow and, all of us weary, lay down to let the drift cover us while we slept. At dawn we were up, and with a bit of jerked venison in my hand to serve for breakfast, I left the others to lash the load on the komatiks and follow me and started on ahead. I had walked but half a mile when I came upon the rough hummocks of the Inlet ice. Before noon we found shelter from the now heavily driving snowstorm in a livyere's hut and here remained until the following morning. Just beyond this point, in crossing a neck of land, we came upon a small hut and, as is usual on the Labrador, stopped for a moment. The people of the coast always expect travelers to stop and have a cup of tea with them, and feel that they have been slighted if this is not done. Here I found a widow named Newell, whom I knew, and her two or three small children. It was a miserable hut, without even the ordinary comforts of the poorer coast cabins, only one side of the earthen floor partially covered with rough boards, and the people destitute of food. Mrs. Newell told me that the other livyeres were giving her what little they had to eat, and had saved them during the winter from actual starvation. I had some hardtack and tea in my "grub bag," and these I left with her. Two days later we pulled in at Rigolet and were greeted by my friend Fraser. It was almost like getting home again, for now I was on old, familiar ground. A good budget of letters that had come during the previous summer awaited us and how eagerly we read them! This was the first communication we had received from our home folks since the previous June and it was now February twenty-first. We rested with Fraser until the twenty-third, and then with Mark Pallesser, a Groswater Bay Eskimo, turned in to Northwest River where Stanton, upon coming from the interior, had remained to wait for our return that he might join us for the balance of the journey out. The going was fearful and snowshoeing in the heavy snow tiresome. It required two days to reach Mulligan, where we spent the night with skipper Tom Blake, one of my good old friends, and at Tom's we feasted on the first fresh venison we had had since leaving the Ungava district. In the whole distance from Whale River not a caribou had been killed during the winter by any one, while in the previous winter a single hunter at Davis Inlet shot in one day a hundred and fifty, and only ceased then because he had no more ammunition. Tom had killed three or four, and south of this point I learned of a hunter now and then getting one. Northwest River was reached on Monday, February twenty-sixth, and we took Cotter by complete surprise, for he had not expected us for another month. The day after our arrival Stanton came to the Post from a cabin three miles above, where he had been living alone, and he was delighted to see us. The lumbermen at Muddy Lake, twenty miles away, heard of our arrival and sent down a special messenger with a large addition to the mail which I was carrying out and which had been growing steadily in bulk with its accumulations at every station. This is the stormiest season of the year in Labrador, and weather conditions were such that it was not until March sixth that we were permitted to resume our journey homeward. CHAPTER XXIV THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL The storm left the ice covered with a depth of soft snow into which the dogs sank deep and hauled the komatik with difficulty. Snowshoeing, too, was unusually hard. The day we left Northwest River (Tuesday, March sixth) the temperature rose above the freezing point, and when it froze that night a thin crust formed, through which our snowshoes broke, adding very materially to the labor of walking--and of course it was all walking. As the days lengthened and the sun asserting his power, pushed higher and higher above the horizon, the glare upon the white expanse of snow dazzled our eyes, and we had to put on smoked glasses to protect ourselves from snow-blindness. Even with the glasses our driver, Mark, became partially snow-blind, and when, on the evening of the third day after leaving Northwest River, we reached his home at Karwalla, an Eskimo settlement a few miles west of Rigolet, it became necessary for us to halt until he was sufficiently recovered to enable him to travel again. Here we met some of the Eskimos that had been connected with the Eskimo village at the World's Fair at Chicago, in 1893. Mary, Mark's wife, was one of the number. She told me of having been exhibited as far west as Portland, Oregon, and I asked: "Mary, aren't you discontented here, after seeing so much of the world? Wouldn't you like to go back?" "No, sir," she answered. "'Tis fine here, where I has plenty of company. 'Tis too lonesome in the States, sir." "But you can't get the good things to eat here--the fruits and other things," I insisted. "I likes the oranges and apples fine, sir--but they has no seal meat or deer's meat in the States." It was not until Tuesday, March thirteenth, three days after our arrival at Karwalla, that Mark thought himself quite able to proceed. The brief "mild" gave place to intense cold and blustery, snowy weather. We pushed on toward West Bay, on the outer coast again, by the "Backway," an arm of Hamilton Inlet that extends almost due east from Karwalla. At West Bay I secured fresh dogs to carry us on to Cartwright, which I hoped to reach in one day more. But the going was fearfully poor, soft snow was drifted deep in the trail over Cape Porcupine, the ice in Traymore was broken up by the gales, and this necessitated a long detour, so it was nearly dark and snowing hard when we at last reached the house of James Williams, at North River, just across Sandwich Bay from Cartwright Post. The greeting I received was so kindly that I was not altogether disappointed at having to spend the night here. "We've been expectin' you all winter, sir," said Mrs. Williams. "When you stopped two years ago you said you'd come some other time, and we knew you would. 'Tis fine to see you again, sir." On the afternoon of March seventeenth we reached Cartwright Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, and my friend Mr. Ernest Swaffield, the agent, and Mrs. Swaffield, who had been so kind to me on my former trip, gave us a cordial welcome. Here also I met Dr. Mumford, the resident physician at Dr. Grenfell's mission hospital at Battle Harbor, who was on a trip along the coast visiting the sick. Another four days' delay was necessary at Cartwright before dogs could be found to carry us on, but with Swaffield's aid I finally secured teams and we resumed our journey, stopping at night at the native cabins along the route. Much bad weather was encountered to retard us and I had difficulty now and again in securing dogs and drivers. Many of the men that I had on my previous trip, when I brought Hubbard's body out to Battle Harbor, were absent hunting, but whenever I could find them they invariably engaged with me again to help me a stage upon the journey. From Long Pond, near Seal Islands, neither I nor the men I had knew the way (when I traveled down the coast on the former occasion my drivers took a route outside of Long Pond), and that afternoon we went astray, and with no one to set us right wandered about upon the ice until long after dark, looking for a hut at Whale Bight, which was finally located by the dogs smelling smoke and going to it. A little beyond Whale Bight we came upon a bay that I recognized, and from that point I knew the trail and headed directly to Williams' Harbor, where I found John and James Russell, two of my old drivers, ready to take us on to Battle Harbor. At last, on the afternoon of March twenty-sixth we reached the hospital, and how good it seemed to be back almost within touch of civilization. It was here that I ended that long and dreary sledge journey with the last remains of dear old Hubbard, in the spring of 1904, and what a flood of recollections came to me as I stood in front of the hospital and looked again across the ice of St. Lewis Inlet! How well I remembered those weary days over there at Fox Harbor, watching the broken, heaving ice that separated me from Battle Island; the little boat that one day came into the ice and worked its way slowly through it until it reached us and took us to the hospital and the ship; and how thankful I felt that I had reached here with my precious burden safe. Mrs. Mumford made us most welcome, and entertained me in the doctor's house, and was as good and kind as she could be. I must again express my appreciation of the truly wonderful work that Dr. Grenfell and his brave associates are carrying on amongst the people of this dreary coast. Year after year, they brave the hardships and dangers of sea and fog and winter storms that they may minister to the lowly and needy in the Master's name. It is a saying on the coast that "even the dogs know Dr. Grenfell," and it is literally true, for his activities carry him everywhere and God knows what would become of some of the people if he were not there to look after them. His practice extends over a larger territory than that of any other physician in the world, but the only fee he ever collects is the pleasure that comes with the knowledge of work well done. At Battle Harbor I was told by a trader that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to procure dogs to carry us up the Straits toward Quebec, and I was strongly advised to end my snowshoe and dog journey here and wait for a steamer that was expected to come in April to the whaling station at Cape Charles, twelve miles away. This seemed good advice, for if we could get a steamer here within three weeks or so that would take us to St. Johns we should reach home probably earlier than we possibly could by going to Quebec. There is a government coast telegraph line that follows the north shore of the St. Lawrence from Quebec to Chateau Bay, but the nearest office open at this time was at Red Bay, sixty-five miles from Battle Harbor, and I determined to go there and get into communication with home and at the same time telegraph to Bowring Brothers in St. Johns and ascertain from them exactly when I might expect the whaling steamer. William Murphy offered to carry me over with his team, and, leaving Stanton and Easton comfortably housed at Battle Harbor and both of them quite content to end their dog traveling here, on the morning after my arrival Murphy and I made an early start for Red Bay. Except in the more sheltered places the bay ice had broken away along the Straits and we had to follow the rough ice barricades, sometimes working inland up and down the rocky hills and steep grades. Before noon we passed Henley Harbor and the Devil's Dining Table--a basaltic rock formation--and a little later reached Chateau Bay and had dinner in a native house. Beyond this point there are cabins built at intervals of a few miles as shelter for the linemen when making repairs to the wire. We passed one of these at Wreck Cove toward evening, but as a storm was threatening, pushed on to the next one at Green Bay, fifty-five miles from Battle Harbor. It was dark before we got there, and to reach the Bay we had to descend a steep hill. I shall never forget the ride down that hill. It is very well to go over places like that when you know the way and what you are likely to bring up against, but I did not know the way and had to pin my faith blindly on Murphy, who had taken me over rotten ice during the day--ice that waved up and down with our weight and sometimes broke behind us. My opinion of him was that he was a reckless devil, and when we began to descend that hill, five hundred feet to the bay ice, this opinion was strengthened. I would have said uncomplimentary things to him had time permitted. I expected anything to happen. It looked in the night as though a sheer precipice with a bottomless pit below was in front of us. Two drags were thrown over the komatik runners to hold us back, but in spite of them we went like a shot out of a gun, he on one side, I on the other, sticking our heels into the hard snow as we extended our legs ahead, trying our best to hold back and stop our wild progress. But, much to my surprise, when we got there, and I verily believe to Murphy's surprise also, we landed right side up at the bottom, with no bones broken. There were three men camped in the shack here, and we spent the night with them. Early the next day we reached Red Bay and the telegraph office. There are no words in the English language adequate to express my feelings of gratification when I heard the instruments clicking off the messages. It had been seventeen years since I had handled a telegraph key--when I was a railroad telegrapher down in New England--and how I fondled that key, and what music the click of the sounder was to my ears! My messages were soon sent, and then I sat down to wait for the replies. The office was in the house of Thomas Moors, and he was good enough to invite me to stop with him while in Red Bay. His daughter was the telegraph operator. The next day the answers to my telegrams came, and many messages from friends, and one from Bowring & Company stating that no steamer would be sent to Cape Charles. I had been making inquiries here, however, in the meantime, and learned that it was quite possible to secure dogs and continue the journey up the north shore, so I was not greatly disappointed. I dispatched Murphy at once to Battle Harbor to bring on the other men, waiting myself at Red Bay for their coming, and holding teams in readiness for an immediate departure when they should arrive. They drove in at two o'clock on April fourth, and we left at once. On the morning of the sixth we passed through Blanc Sablon, the boundary line between Newfoundland and Canadian territory, and here I left the Newfoundland letters from my mail bag. From this point the majority of the natives are Acadians, and speak only French. At Brador Bay I stopped to telegraph. No operator was there, so I sent the message myself, left the money on the desk and proceeded. Three days more took us to St. Augustine Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, where we arrived in the morning and accepted the hospitality of Burgess, the Agent. Our old friends the Indians whom we met on our inland trip at Northwest River were here, and John, who had eaten supper with us at our camp on the hill on the first portage, expressed great pleasure at meeting us, and had many questions to ask about the country. They had failed in their deer hunt, and had come out half starved a week or so before, from the interior. We did fifty miles on the eleventh, changing dogs at Harrington at noon and running on to Sealnet Cove that night. Here we found more Indians who had just emerged from the interior, driven to the coast for food like those at St. Augustine as the result of their failure to find caribou. Two days later we reached the Post at Romain, and on the afternoon of April seventeenth reached Natashquan and open water. Here I engaged passage on a small schooner--the first afloat in the St. Lawrence--to take us on to Eskimo Point, seventy miles farther, where the Quebec steamer, _King Edward_, was expected to arrive in a week or so. That night we boarded the schooner and sailed at once. Into the sea I threw the clothes I had been wearing, and donned fresh ones. What a relief it was to be clear of the innumerable horde "o' wee sma' beasties" that had been my close companions all the way down from the Eskimo igloos in the North. I have wondered many times since whether those clothes swam ashore, and if they did what happened to them. It was a great pleasure to be upon the water again, and see the shore slip past, and feel that no more snowstorms, no more bitter northern blasts, no more hungry days and nights were to be faced. Since June twenty-fifth, the day we dipped our paddles into the water of Northwest River and turned northward into the wastes of the great unknown wilderness, eight hundred miles had been traversed in reaching Fort Chimo, and on our return journey with dogs and komatik and snowshoes, two thousand more. We reached Eskimo Point on April twentieth, and that very day a rain began that turned the world into a sea of slush. I was glad indeed that our komatik work was finished, for it would now have been very difficult, if not impossible, to travel farther with dogs. I at once deposited in the post office the bag of letters that I had carried all the way from far-off Ungava. This was the first mail that any single messenger had ever carried by dog train from that distant point, and I felt quite puffed up with the honor of it. The week that we waited here for the _King Edward_ was a dismal one, and when the ship finally arrived we lost no time in getting ourselves and our belongings aboard. It was a mighty satisfaction to feel the pulse of the engines that with every revolution took us nearer home, and when at last we tied up at the steamer's wharf in Quebec, I heaved a sigh of relief. On April thirtieth, after an absence of just eleven months, we found ourselves again in the whirl and racket of New York. The portages and rapids and camp fires, the Indian wigwams and Eskimo igloos and the great, silent white world of the North that we had so recently left were now only memories. We had reached the end of The Long Trail. The work of exploration begun by Hubbard was finished. APPENDIX LABRADOR PLANTS Specimens collected along the route of the expedition between Northwest River and Lake Michikamau. Determined at the New York Botanical Gardens: Ledum groonlandicum, Oeder. Comarum palustre L. Rubus arcticus L. Solidago multiradiata. Ait. Sanguisorba Canadensis L. Linnaea Americana, Forbes. Dasiphora fruticosa (L), Rydb. Chamnaerion latifolium (L), Sweet. Viburnum pancifloram, Pylaim. Viscaxia alpina (L), Roehl. Menyanthes trifoliata L. Vaznera trifolia (L), Morong. Ledum prostratum, Rotlb. Betula glandulosa, Michx. Kalmia angustifolia. Aronia nigra (Willd), Britt. Comus Canadensis L. Arenaria groenlandica (Retz), Spreng. Barbarea stricta, Audry. Eriophorum russeolum, Fries. Eriophorum polystachyon L. Phegopteris Phegopt@ (L), Fee. LICHENS Cladonia deformis (L), Hoffen. Alectoria dehrolenea (Ehrh.), Nyl. Umbilicaria Neuhlenbergii (Ac L.), Tuck. GEOLOGICAL NOTES By G. M. Richards All bearings given, refer to the true meridian. My sincere thanks are due Prof. J.F. Kemp and Dr. C.P. Berkey, whose generous assistance has made this work possible. ROUTE FOLLOWED The route was by steamer to the head of Hamilton Inlet, Labrador--thence by canoes up Grand Lake and the Nascaupee River. Fifteen miles above Grand Lake, a portage route was followed which makes a long detour through a series of lakes to avoid rapids in the river. This trail again returns to the Nascaupee River at Seal Lake and for some fifty miles above Seal Lake, follows the river. It then leaves the Nascaupee, making a second long detour through lakes to the north. On one of these lakes (Bibiquasin Lake) the trail was lost, and thereafter we traveled in a westerly direction until reaching Lake Michikamau. Our food supply was then in so depleted a condition the party was obliged to separate, three of us returning to Northwest River. It will be understood that the circumstances would allow of but a very limited examination of the geological features of the country. Only typical rock specimens, or those whose character was at all doubtful were brought back. PREVIOUS EXPLORATION Mr. A.P. Low penetrated to Lake Michikamau, by way of the Grand River. He has thoroughly described the lake in his report to the Canadian Geological Survey, 1895, and it is not touched upon in the following paper. In the summer of 1903, an expedition led by Leonidas Hubbard, Jr., attempted to reach Lake Michikamau by ascending the Nascaupee River; they, however, missed the mouth of that stream on Grand Lake and followed the Susan River instead, pursuing a northwesterly course for two months without reaching the lake. On the return journey, Mr. Hubbard died of starvation, his two companions, Mr. Wallace and a half-breed Indian, barely escaping a similar fate. GEOGRAPHICAL RESULTS OF THE EXPEDITION The Northwest River represented on the map of the Canadian Geological Survey (made from information obtained from the Indians) as draining Lake Michikamau, is but three and one-half miles long, and connects Grand Lake with Hamilton Inlet. There are six streams flowing into Grand Lake, instead of only one. It is the Nascaupee River that flows from Lake Michikamau to Grand Lake; and Seal Lake instead of being the source of the Nascaupee River is merely an expansion of it. The source of the Crooked River was also discovered and mapped, as well as a great number of smaller lakes. On the Northern Slope the George and Koroksoak Rivers and several lakes were mapped, and some smaller rivers located. DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF ROUTE EXPLORED Northwest River which flows into a small sandy bay at the head of Hamilton Inlet is only three and one-half miles long and drains Grand Lake. For one-quarter of a mile above its mouth the river maintains an average width of one hundred and fifty yards, and a depth of two and one-half fathoms. It then expands into a shallow sheet of water two miles wide and three miles long, known locally as "The Little Lake." At the head of this small expansion the river again contracts where it flows out of Grand Lake. This point is known as "The Rapids," and although there is a strong current, the stream may be ascended in canoes without tracking. At the foot of "The Rapids" the effect of the spring tides is barely perceptible. Between Grand Lake and the head of Hamilton Inlet, Northwest River flows through a deposit of sand marked by several distinct marine terraces. Grand Lake is a body of fresh water forty miles long and from two to six miles in width, having a direction N. 75 degrees W. It lies in a deep valley between rocky hills that rise to a height of about four hundred feet above the lake, and was doubtless at one time an extension of Hamilton Inlet. At Cape Corbeau and Berry Head the rocks rise almost perpendicularly from the water; at the former place, to a height of three hundred feet. Except in a few places the hills are covered to their summits by a thick growth of small spruce and fir. At the head of the lake there are two bays, one extending slightly to the southwest, the other nearly due north. Into the former flow the Susan and Beaver Rivers, while into the latter empties the water of the Nascaupee and Crooked Rivers. Besides these there are two small streams, the Cape Corbeau River on the south, and Watty's Brook on the north shore. At the point where the Nascaupee and Crooked Rivers enter the lake there are two low islands of sand, and a great deal of sand is being carried down by the two streams and deposited in the lake, which is very shallow for some distance from the shore. Three miles above the mouth of the Nascaupee River it is separated from the Crooked River by a plain of stratified sand and gravel, three-quarters of a mile wide, with two well-defined terraces. The first is twenty feet above the river and extends back some three hundred yards to a second terrace, rising seventy-five feet above the first. Half way between this terrace and the Crooked River is, the old bed of the Nascaupee River, nearly parallel to its present course. A similar abandoned channel curve was found, making a small arc to the south of the Crooked River. Above Grand Lake the Nascaupee River flows through an ancient valley, which is from a few hundred yards to a mile wide and cut deep into the old Archaean rocks, affording an excellent example of river erosion. The banks are of sand, and in some places clay, extending back to the foot of the precipitous hills. Apparently the ancient river valley has been partly filled with drift, down through which the river has cut its way; the present bed of the stream being of post glacial formation. The general direction of the river is N. 83 degrees W. Fifteen miles above Grand Lake, the Red River joins the main stream, coming from N. 87 degrees W. Below its junction with the latter stream, the Nascaupee River has a width varying between two and three hundred yards, and an average depth of about ten feet. The Red River is two hundred feet wide, and its water, unlike that of the main stream, has a red brown color, like that of many of the streams of Ontario which have their source in swamp or Muskeg lands. The first rapids in the Red River are said to be eight miles above its mouth. Directly opposite the junction of the two streams the portage leaves the Nascaupee River. The direction is N. 24 degrees E. and the distance five and one-half miles, with an elevation of 1050 feet above the river at the end of the second mile. The last three and one-half miles lead across a level tableland, to a small lake, from which the trail descends through two lakes into a shallow valley. The entire country from the head of Grand Lake to this point has been devastated by fire, only a few trees near the water having escaped destruction, and the ground, except in a few places, is destitute even of its usual covering of reindeer moss. The underlying rock is gneiss, and the country from the Nascaupee River is thickly strewn with huge glacial bowlders. The majority of these bowlders have been derived from the immediate vicinity, but many consisting of a coarse pegmatite carrying considerable quantities of ilmenite were observed. None of this rock was seen in place. The valley last mentioned is separated from the Crooked River by Caribou Ridge, a broad, flat-topped elevation, three hundred and fifty feet high, dotted by small lakes, which fill almost every appreciable depression in the rock. The general course to the Crooked River is northeast; at the point where the portage reaches it the stream is fifty yards wide and very shallow; flowing over a bed of coarse drift, which obstructs the river, forming a series of small lake expansions with rapids at the outlet of each. Between Grand Lake and the point where we reached the river, the Indians say it is not navigable in canoes, owing to rapids. The Crooked River has its source in Lake Nipishish, which is about twenty-two miles long, with an average width of three miles, and a course due north. Six miles above the outlet of the lake is a bay, five miles long, extending N. 80 degrees W. Along the north shore of the lake and in the bay are several small islands of drift, and many huge angular bowlders projecting above the water. The country in the vicinity of the lake and in the valley of the Crooked River is covered with mounds and ridges of drift and many small moraines. These moraines consisting of bowlders for the most part from the immediate vicinity, seemed to have no given direction, but were usually found at the ends of, and in a transverse direction to the ridges. The trail leaves Lake Nipishish near the head of the large bay, continuing in a direction between north and northwest, through several insignificant lakes, all drained indirectly by the Crooked River, until it reached Otter Lake, which is eight miles long, running nearly north and south, and is five hundred and fifty feet below the summits of the surrounding hills. From Otter Lake, the course is west through five diminutive lakes, and across a series of sandy ridges to a small shallow lake, which is the source of Babewendigash River. Between this lake and Seal Lake intervene a high range of mountains--the highest seen on the journey to Lake Michikamau--rising fully one thousand feet above the level of Seal Lake. They are visible for miles in any direction, and were seen from Caribou Ridge nearly a month before we reached them. They are glaciated to their summits, which are entirely destitute of vegetation and in August were still, in places, covered with snow. Babewendigash River winds to and fro between the mountains, its course being determined to a great extent by esker ridges that follow it on either side and which are often more than one hundred feet high. Throughout its length of twenty-five miles there are five rapids and three small lake expansions. Seal Lake, into which the river flows, is in part an expansion of the Nascaupee River and fills a basin surrounded on every side by mountains, rising several hundred feet above the water. The lake is comparatively shallow, and has a perceptible current. There are several small islands of drift, covered by a scanty growth of spruce and willow. The main lake has direction N. 45 degrees W., and is ten miles long and two and one-half miles wide. The northwestern arm is fifteen miles long, with the same width, and a course N. 80 degrees W. The steep rocky shores have precluded the formation of terraces. Above Seal Lake the course of the Nascaupee River varies between N. 40 degrees W. and N. 80 degrees W. Five miles above the lake there is an expansion of the river, called Wuchusk Nipi, or Muskrat Lake, which is eight miles long and a mile and a half wide, with a course N. 40 degrees W. Except for a channel along the western shore, the lake is very shallow, being nearly filled with sand carried down by the river. There is a small stream flowing into this lake expansion near its head, called Wuchusk Nipishish. For fifty miles above Muskrat Lake, the river flows between sandy banks, marked on either side by two well-defined terraces. The river valley gradually becomes more narrow and the current stronger and with the exception of a few small expansions, progress is only possible by means of tracking. There are, however, in this distance but two rapids necessitating portages. Opposite the point where the portage leaves the Nascaupee to make a second long detour around rapids, a small river flows in from the southwest, having a sheer fall of almost fifty feet, just above its junction with the main stream. The trail, after leaving the river, has a course N. 35 degrees W. for two miles; it then turns N. 85 degrees W. six miles, and again N. 55 degrees W. four miles. In its course are four small lakes, but there is an unbroken portage of eight miles between the last two. Nearly the whole country has been denuded by fire, and the prospect is desolate in the extreme. The end of the portage is on the high rolling plateau of the interior, timbered by a sparse and stunted second growth of spruce, covered everywhere with white reindeer moss, and strewn with lakes innumerable. The trail which runs N. 50 degrees W. and has not been used for eight years, gradually became more and more indistinct, until on Bibiquasin Lake it disappeared entirely. Thereafter the course was N. 70 degrees W., and finally due west, through a series of lakes which at last brought us to Lake Michikamau. The largest of this series is Kasheshebogamog Lake, a sheet of water twenty-three miles long, but broken by numerous bays and countless islands of drift, with a direction S. 75 degrees W. The lake is confined between long bowlder-covered ridges, and is fed at its western end by a small stream. Although its outlet was not discovered, it doubtless drains into the Nascaupee River. On the return journey an attempt was made to descend the Nascaupee River below Seal Lake. The river leaves the lake at its southeastern extremity, flowing between hills that rise almost straight from the waters edge, and is one long continuation of heavy rapids. After following the stream for two days we were obliged to retrace our steps to Seal Lake, thereafter keeping to the course pursued on the inland journey. DETAILS OF ROCK EXPOSURE The numbers following the names of rocks refer to corresponding numbers in appendix. Of the rocks observed, by far the greater number are foliated basic eruptives,--schists and gneisses. There are, however, some that are of undoubted sedimentary origin, but highly metamorphosed. The general direction of foliation is a few degrees south of east, subject, of course, to many local changes. Along Grand Lake the rock is a compact amphibolite [3] with a strike S. 78 degrees E. cut by numerous pegmatite dikes, having a strike N. 30 degrees W. and a dip 79 degrees W.. These dikes vary in width from three to twenty feet. Half way to the head of the lake is a dike [1] having a total width of eight feet, consisting of a central band of segregated quartz, six feet wide, cut by numerous thin sheets of biotite, which probably mark the planes of shearing. The quartz is bordered on either side by a band of orthoclase,' one foot in width. Between these bands of orthoclase and the neighboring amphibolite are narrow bands of schist [2] One hundred feet south of the above point is a second dike having a similar strike and dip and a width of eighteen feet. A third narrow dike, containing small pockets of magnetite, is twenty-five feet south of the second. Only the first is distinguished by the segregation of the quartz. The next outcrop observed was on the portage from the Nascaupee River. The rock, a biotite granite gneiss [4] having a strike N. 82 degrees E. is much weathered and split by the action of the frost, and marked by pockets of quartz, usually four or five inches in width. Between this point and Lake Nipishish the underlying rock differs only in being more extremely crushed and foliated. The one exception is on Caribou Ridge, which is capped by a much altered gabbro. [6] The first noticeable change in the character of the country rock is a Washkagama Lake, where a fine grained epidotic schist [7] was observed, having a dip 82 degrees W. and a strike S. 78 degrees E. At Otter Lake a much foliated and weathered phyllite [8] was found. Strike N. 73 degrees E. and a dip of 16 degrees. On the Babewendigash River seven miles east of Seal Lake is an exposure of highly metamorphosed ancient sedimentary rocks. The outcrop occurs at a height of four hundred feet above the river; and there is a well-marked stratification. The lowest bed of a calcarous sericitic schist [9] is four feet thick and underlies a bed of schistose lime stone [10] six feet in thickness, which is in turn covered by a finely laminated phyllite, [11] ten feet thick. The whole is capped by thirty feet of quartzite, [12] which forms the top of a long ridge. Owing to the strong weathering action this thickness of quartzite is doubtless much less than it was originally. Forty-six miles above Seal Lake an exposure of phyllite was seen, the same in every respect as the one east of Seal Lake, just mentioned. The general direction of foliation is S. 70 degrees E. and the dip 70 degrees. The higher hills west of Seal Lake are capped by a much altered gabbro [13] that has undergone considerable weathering. Between the Nascaupee River and a few miles beyond Bibiquasin Lake the rock is quartzite, [14] considerably weathered and covered by drift. Bowlders of this quartzite were seen along the Nascaupee River long before the first outcrop was reached, showing the general direction of the glacial movement to have been to the southeast. From Bibiquasin Lake to Lake Kasheshebogamog the country is covered with much drift; the only exposures are on the steep hillsides. The rock being a coarse hornblende granite. The western end of Kasheshebogamog Lake lies within the limit of the anorthosite [15] area, which extends from that point to Lake Michikamau, a direct distance of twenty miles and was the only anorthosite observed on the journey. GLACIAL STRIAE First portage opposite Red River S. 45 degrees E. On Caribou Ridge E. At Washkagama Lake S. 70 degrees E. Near Seal Lake N. 85 degrees E. At Wuchusk Nipi S. 75 degrees E. Thirty-two miles above Wuchusk Nipi S. 70 degrees E. MICROSCOPICAL FEATURES OF THE ROCK SPECIMENS By G. M. Richards, Columbia University 1--Pegmatite-Grand Lake. The specimen was taken from a pegmatite dike at its contact with an amphibolite. In the hand specimen it is an apparently pure orthoclase but in the thin section small scattered quartz grains are observed; as well as the alteration products, Kaolin and sericite. The minerals at contact are quartz, biotite, magnetite and hornblende. Both the quartz and orthoclase contain dust inclusions and crystallites, while the evidences of shearing and crushing are abundant. 2-Quartz Biotite Schist. Contact between above dike and amphibolite. A coarse black rock carrying magnetite and pyrites in considerable quantities. Under the microscope some of the biotite has a green coloration from decomposition and is surrounded by strong pleochroic halos. Small grains of secondary pyroxene are numerous. AMPHIBOLITE 3-Grand Lake. A dark, compact rock, having a mottled appearance due to grains of plagioclase, and a green color in section. Minerals present are hornblende, biotite, plagioclase, pyroxene, quartz and the alteration products from the feldspar. The rock has been subjected to a strong crushing action, which has been resisted by only small portions of it. The spaces between the grains, which are intact, are filled with a confused mass of peripherally granulated minerals, in which strain shadows are very prominent. The rock has been derived by dynamic metamorphism from a basic igneous rock. 4-Biotite Granite Gneiss. Eighteen miles above mouth of Nascaupee River. A fine-grained rock of gneissic structure having a faint pink color. Plagioclase, microcline and quartz are the predominating minerals, while biotite, titanite, epidote, apatite, zircon and garnet are present in smaller quantities. There is also a small amount of hematite, pyroxene and sericite. The rock, which is of a granitic composition, contains numerous crystallites and has been subjected to considerable strain and crushing, which has resulted in foliation. 5-Mica Granite Gneiss--Country Rock--near Caribou Ridge. In the hand specimen the rock has the same appearance as No. 4, if anything, it is somewhat more compact. The principal minerals are, plagioclase, biotite and microcline, with smaller quantities of quartz, iron oxide, pyroxene and garnet. The feldspar is decomposed with the resulting formation of epidote, which is quite prominent. There are also numerous included crystals. The rock has been greatly crushed and sheared, and is much finer than No. 4. 6--Cap of Caribou Ridge. A hard compact rock of dark green color, having a mottled appearance, due to the presence of a white mineral. Pyroxene, quartz and augite form the groundmass, as seen in section. There are a few small grains of magnetite. The severe crushing to which the rock has been subjected has resulted in the conversion of the plagioclase into scapolite and also in the formation of zoisite by the characteristic alteration of the lime bearing silicate of the feldspar in conjunction with other constituents of the rock. The light mineral is finely granulated and the whole is marked by uneven extinction. The rock has probably been derived by dynamic metamorphism, from a coarse igneous rock like a gabbro. 7--Epidotic Sericitic Schist. Washkagama Lake. A fine grained compact gray rock, of aggregate structure, consisting chiefly of quartz, plagioclase and biotite, and the alteration products epidote and sericite. Under the microscope it is a confused mass of finely granulated minerals, with numerous included crystals. The rock has undergone complete metamorphism and its origin is unknown. 8--Phyllite-Near Otter Lake. A soft extremely fine grained gray rock, with a well developed schistose structure, carrying much magnetite, plagioclase, orthoclase and their alteration products. The strain to which the rock has been subjected has resulted in a very fine lamination, and it is _considerably weathered_. 9--Calcarous Sericite Schist.--Seven Miles East of Seal Lake. A dark compact rock, in which calcite and sericite predominate. Quartz is less plentiful. The results of shearing and pressure are very prominent and bring out the foliation, even in the calcite. 10--Schistose Limestone--Same location as No. 9. A white rock having a peculiar mottled appearance due to the inclusions of decomposing biotite which project from the surrounding mass of calcite. There is some sericite present, also magnetite, resulting from the decomposition of the biotite. The bent and metamorphosed condition of the calcite shows the shearing and crushing which the rock has undergone. 11--Phyllite--same location as No. 9. A dark red, finely laminated rock consisting chiefly of decomposed biotite and feldspar, occasional quartz grains and sericite and much iron oxide. The rock has been subjected to strong shearing force, producing a good example of schistose structure. 12--Quartzite--Same location as No. 9. A compact rock of light red color, made up of uniformly rounded grains of quartz, and the feldspar with occasional grain of magnetite. A fine siliceous material discolored by iron oxide, acts as a cement between the grains. The quartz grains show secondary growth. 13--Altered Gabbro--Thirty-two Miles Above Wuchusk Nipi on Nascaupee River. A coarse dark green rock whose principal constituents are pyroxene plagioclase and magnetite. There is a slightly developed diabasic structure and the rock is much altered by weathering; the resultant product being chlorite. 14--Quartizite--Bibiquagin Lake. Hard compact rock of light red color, cut in all directions by narrow veins of quartz, from microscope size to one-half an inch in width. The grains of the constituent minerals, quartz, feldspar and magnetite have an angular brecciated appearance; showing uneven extinction and strong crushing effects. The magnetite is somewhat decomposed, the resulting hematite filling the spaces between the quartz grains. 15--Anorthosite--Shore of Lake Michikamau. A coarse grained rock of dark gray color, in which labradorite is the chief mineral. Magnetite and Kaolin are present in small quantities. The labradorite contains inclusions of rutile and biotite and has a well-developed wedge structure and cross fracture due to the pressure and shearing which it has undergone. It is also somewhat stained by the decomposition of the magnetite. SOURCES OF INFORMATION On the map of the portage route to Lake Michikamau; that lake, the Grand River and Groswater Bay are taken from the map accompanying the report of Mr. A. P. Low. The location of the Susan and Beaver Rivers with their tributaries was obtained from Dillon Wallace's map in "The Lure of the Labrador Wild." The instruments used were a Brunton Pocket Transit, a small taffrail log and an Aneroid Barometer. Distances on land were approximated by means of a pedometer and by rough triangulation. 
48528	----	THE GREAT PROBABILITY OF A NORTH WEST PASSAGE. [Illustration: _A_ General Map _OF_ _the DISCOVERIES of_ ADMIRAL DE FONTE, Exhibiting _the great Probability of a_ North-west Passage BY Thomas Jefferys, _Geographer to the KING._ ] THE GREAT PROBABILITY OF A NORTH WEST PASSAGE: DEDUCED FROM OBSERVATIONS ON THE Letter of Admiral DE FONTE, Who sailed from the _Callao_ of _Lima_ on the Discovery of a Communication BETWEEN THE SOUTH SEA and the ATLANTIC OCEAN; And to intercept some Navigators from _Boston_ in _New England_, whom he met with, Then in Search of a NORTH WEST PASSAGE. PROVING THE AUTHENTICITY of the Admiral's LETTER. With Three Explanatory MAPS. 1st. A Copy of an authentic _Spanish_ Map of _America_, published in 1608. 2d. The Discoveries made in _Hudson_'s Bay, by Capt. _Smith_, in 1746 and 1747. 3d. A General Map of the Discoveries of Admiral _de Fonte_. By THOMAS JEFFERYS, Geographer to the King. WITH AN APPENDIX. Containing the Account of a Discovery of Part of the Coast and Inland Country of LABRADOR, made in 1753. The Whole intended for The Advancement of TRADE and COMMERCE. LONDON: Printed for THOMAS JEFFERYS, at Charing Cross. MDCCLXVIII. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLS EARL OF HILLSBOROUGH, _&c._ _&c._ _&c._ ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE, FIRST LORD COMMISSIONER OF TRADE AND PLANTATIONS, ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL, AND F.R.S. The Discovery of a North-west Passage having deserved the particular Attention of that great Minister of State Sir _Francis Walsingham_, with the Approbation of the greatest Princess of that Age, I presumed to ask the Permission to inscribe the following Sheets, on the same Subject, to your Lordship, wrote with no View of setting any further Expeditions on Foot, or with respect to any particular System, but as a candid and impartial Enquiry, to shew the great Probability there is of a North-west Passage. The Importance of the Subject, treated with the greatest Regard to Truth, are the only Pretensions I have to merit your Patronage. Your Lordship will appear, to the latest Posterity, in the amiable Light of being zealous for the Glory of his Majesty, the Honour of the Nation, for promoting the commercial Interests, the Happiness of his Majesty's Subjects in general, and of those in _America_ in particular. I therefore have the most grateful Sense of your Benevolence and Humanity in condescending to grant me this Favour, as it will be known for Part of that Time that I had the Honour to be YOUR LORDSHIP'S MOST HUMBLE AND OBEDIENT SERVANT, THE AUTHOR. THE PREFACE. The Opinion of there being a North-west Passage between the _Atlantic_ and _Southern Ocean_ hath continued for more than two Centuries; and though the Attempts made to discover this Passage have not been attended with the desired Success, yet in Consequence of such Attempts great Advantages have been received, not by the Merchant only but by the Men of Science. It must be a Satisfaction to the Adventurer, though disappointed in his principal Design, that his Labours have contributed to the Improvement of Science, and the Advancement of Commerce. There was a Generosity with respect to the Discovery of a North-west Passage, or a Respect to the great Abilities of those who promoted the various Undertakings for making such Discovery, to the Crown which patronized them, and the Estates of the Kingdom who promised a most munificent Reward to such who should compleat such Discovery, that those who were of a contrary Opinion treated the Subject with a becoming Decency. But the Censures that have been of late made by our Countrymen, and more particularly by Foreigners, our Ancestors have been treated as so many Fools, or infatuated Persons, busied to compleat an impracticable and a merely chimerical Project, and are accused by a foreign Geographer to have proceeded so far as to forge a fictitious Account under the Title of a Letter of Admiral _de Fonte_. That the Iniquity of the _English_ Writers is not such (neither was ever known to be such) nor, was it in their Inclination, could they so easily deceive the World; and the Falshood of this Assertion could be no otherway made apparent than by considering such Letter with a just Criticism, and examining the Circumstances relating thereto. Though the present Age may not pay much Regard to these Censures, yet if they are passed unnoticed, might hereafter be considered as Truths unanswerable at the Time those Censures were made. Therefore to do Justice to the Character of our Ancestors, to the present Age in which such great Encouragement hath been given to these Undertakings, and that Posterity might not be deceived, were Motives (had they been duly considered without a Regard to the Importance of the Subject) which might incite an abler Pen to have undertaken to vindicate the Authenticity of _de Fonte_'s Letter. As for a long Time nothing of this Kind appeared, nor could I hear that any Thing was undertaken of this Sort, by any Person to whom I could freely communicate my Sentiments, and the Informations which I had collected on this Subject, as the Discovery of a North-west Passage hath been the Object of my Attention for some Years, considered myself under the disagreeable Necessity of becoming an Author in an Age of such refined Sentiments, expressed in the greatest Purity of Language: But if I have succeeded in the greater Matters, I hope to be excused in the lesser. I have inserted the Letter of _de Fonte_, as first published in the _Monthly Miscellany_, or _Memoirs of the Curious_, in _April_ and _June_ 1708, very scarce or in very few Hands; not only as I thought it consistent with my Work, but that the Curious would be glad to have a Copy of such Letter exactly in the same Manner in which it was first published, to keep in their Collections. As to the Observations respecting the Circumstances of the Letter of _de Fonte_, the Manner by which it was attained, its being a Copy of such Letter which the Editors procured to be translated from the _Spanish_, and as to such Matters as are to be collected from the Title of such Letter, and from the Letter in Support of its Authenticity, I submit those Observations to superior Judgments: If confuted, and it appears I have misapprehended the Matter, am not tenacious of my Opinion, but shall receive the Conviction with Pleasure, being entirely consistent with my Design, which is, That the Truth may be discovered, whether this Account is authentick or not. In my Remarks of the Letter I have endeavoured to distinguish what was genuine, from what hath been since added by other Hands; have made an exact Calculation of the Courses; have considered the Circumstances of such Letter, giving the Reasons of the Conduct that was used in the various Parts of the Voyage, and shewing the Regularity and Consistency there is through the Whole, and without Anachronisms or Contradictions as hath been objected, part of which I was the better enabled to do from some Experience which I have had in Affairs of this Sort. I must observe, the Calculations were made without any Regard had to the Situation of _Hudson_'s or _Baffin_'s Bay; but begun at the _Callao_ of _Lima_, and pursued as the Account directs from the Westward: And it was an agreeable Surprize to find what an Agreement there was as to the Parts which, by such Courses, it appeared that the Admiral and his Captain were in, consistent with the Purpose they were sent on, and the Proximity of where they were to _Hudson_'s and _Baffin_'s Bay. To state particularly all the Objections which have been made to this Account, I thought would have greatly increased the Bulk of the Work. There is no material Objection which I have any where met with, but is here considered. Also to have added all the Authorities which I have collected and made Use of, would have made it more prolix; so have contented myself with only giving such Quotations as appeared absolutely necessary to insert and then to mention the Authors particularly. I think I have not perverted the Meaning, or forced the Sense, of any Author made Use of, to serve my Purpose. To shew the Probability of a Passage, have traced the Opinions relating to it from the Time such Opinions were first received; and also determined where it was always supposed to be or in what Part such Passage was: Have considered the various Evidence that there is relating to such Passage; and proposed what appears to be the properest Method at present for prosecuting the Discovery. There are three Maps, all of which appeared necessary for the better understanding this Account. The one contains Part of _Asia_ and the _Russian_ Discoveries on the Coast of _America_; the Expedition of _de Fonte_, and clears up that seeming Inconsistency of the _Tartarian_ and _Southern Ocean_ being contiguous in that Part of _America_, from the Authority of the _Japanese_ Map of _Kempfer_, which must be of some Repute, as it is so agreeable to the _Russian_ Discoveries: If true in that Part, there is no Reason to suppose but it is in like Manner true as to the other Part which is introduced into this Map. This Map exhibits the Streight that _de Fuca_ went up, the Communication which there may be supposed agreeable to the Lights which the Accounts afford us between the Sea at the Back of _Hudson_'s Bay with that Bay, or with the _North Sea_ by _Hudson_'s Streights, or through _Cumberland_ Isles. There is also added a second Map, to shew what Expectations may be had of a Passage from _Hudson_'s Bay, according to the Discoveries made in the Year 1747. The third Map is an exact Copy from that published in the _Monarquia Indiana de Torquemada_, in which the Sea Coast of _America_ is exhibited in a different Manner from what it usually was in the Maps of that Time, compleated by the Cosmographers of _Philip_ the Third. The Work itself is in few Hands, and the Map, as far as appears, hath been only published in that Book, is now again published, as it illustrates this Work, and may be otherwise agreeable to the Curious; having a Desire not to omit any Thing which would render the Work compleat, or that would be acceptable to the Publick. I have used uncommon Pains to be informed as to what could be any way serviceable to render this Work more compleat; and must make this publick Acknowledgement, as to the Gentlemen of the _British Museum_, who, with great Politeness and Affability, gave me all the Assistances in their Power to find if the Copy from which the Translation was made was in their Possession, which after an accurate Search for some Weeks it did not appear to be, and also their Assistance as to any other Matters which I Supposed would be of Service. I cannot pass by Mr. _Jefferys_'s Care and Exactness in executing the Maps, whose Care and Fidelity to the Publick not to impose any Thing that is spurious, but what he hath an apparent and real Authority for, is perhaps not sufficiently known. The Voyage, an Extract from which is added by Way of Appendix, was made from _Philadelphia_, in a Schooner of about sixty Tons, and fifteen Persons aboard, fitted out on a Subscription of the Merchants of _Maryland_, _Pennsylvania_, _New York_, and _Boston_, on a generous Plan, agreeable to Proposals made them, with no View of any Monopoly which they opposed, not to interfere with the _Hudson_'s Bay Trade, or to carry on a clandestine Trade with the Natives of _Greenland_, but to discover a North-west Passage, and explore the _Labrador_ Coast, at that Time supposed to be locked up under a pretended Right, and not frequented by the Subjects of _England_, but a successful Trade carried on by the _French_; to open a Trade there, to improve the Fishery and the Whaling on these Coasts, cultivate a Friendship with the Natives, and make them serviceable in a political Way: Which Design of theirs of a publick Nature, open and generous, was in a great Measure defeated by private Persons interfering, whose Views were more contracted. They did not succeed the first Year as to their Attempt in discovering a North-west Passage, as it was a great Year for Ice; that it would be late in the Year before the Western Part of _Hudson_'s Bay could be attained to, and then impossible to explore the _Labrador_ that Year, therefore the first Part of the Design was dropped, and the _Labrador_ was explored. The next Year a second Attempt was made as to a Passage; but three of the People who went beyond the Place appointed by their Orders, and inadvertently to look for a Mine, Samples of which had been carried home the Year before, and this at the Instigation of a private Person before they set out from home, without the Privity of the Commander, were killed by the _Eskemaux_, and the Boat taken from them. After which Accident, with some disagreeable Circumstances consequent thereon amongst the Schooner's Company, and after an Experiment made of their Disinclination to proceed on any further Discovery, it was thought most prudent to return. This short Account is given by the Person who commanded in this Affair, to prevent any Misrepresentation hereafter of what was done on these Voyages. CONTENTS. Page Letter of Admiral _de Fonte_ as published in _April_ 1708 1 ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- _June_ 6 OBSERVATIONS _on the Title affixed_, &c. 11 The Reason of this Work. The Translation made from a Copy of the Letter. Title and the Copy of the Letter wrote in the _Spanish_ Language. Copiest assured there was such an Expedition as this of Admiral _de Fonte_ 12 An Account of this Expedition not published in _Spain_. The Consequence of such Expedition not being published 14 The Knowledge or Certainty of this Expedition from Journals only 15 Mons. _de Lisle_ his Account of a Journal. This Account by Mons. _de Lisle_ defended 17 This Translation of _de Fonte_'s Letter how considered when first published. Don _Francisco Seyxas y Lovera_ his Account of a Voyage of _Thomas Peche_ 18 Observations on that Account 19 The Tradition of there being a Passage between the _Atlantic_ and _Southern Ocean_ credible 20 Accounts received from various Persons relating thereto not to be discredited. _Indians_, their Account of the Situation of such Streight how to be considered 21 The Reasons why we cannot obtain a particular Information as to the original Letter of _de Fonte_ 22 Evidence relating to this Account of _de Fonte_, which Distance of Time or other Accidents could not deface, yet remains 24 No authenticated Account of the Equipment of the Fleet to be expected from _New Spain_ 25 This Account of _de Fonte_ authentick, and no Forgery. The Editors published this Account as authentick 26 The Reflection that this Account is a Forgery of some _Englishman_ obviated 27 The Design in publishing this Translation. The Purpose of _de Fonte_'s writing this Letter not understood by the Editors 28 The Editors unjustly reproached with a Want of Integrity. The Censures as to the Inauthenticity of this Account of _de Fonte_ not founded on Facts. Invalidity of the Objection that no Original hath been produced. The Suspicion of the Account being a Deceit or Forgery from whence. The original Letter was in the _Spanish_ Language 29 Observations as to the Name _Bartholomew de Fonte_ 30 _De Fonte_ was a Man of Family 31 The _Spanish_ Marine not in so low a Condition as they were under a Necessity to apply to _Portugal_ for Sea Officers to supply the principal Posts. What is to be understood of _de Fonte_ being President of _Chili_ 31 REMARKS _on the Letter of Admiral_ de Fonte. The Advice of the Attempt from _Boston_, in what Manner transmitted from _Old Spain_ to the Viceroys. The Appellation of industrious Navigators conformable to the Characters of the Persons concerned. The Court of _Spain_ knew that the Attempt was to be by _Hudson_'s Bay. This Attempt particularly commanded the Attention of the Court of _Spain_ 34 As to the Computation by the Years of the Reign of King _Charles_. The Times mentioned in the Letter do not refer to the Times the Voyage was set out on. There was sufficient Time to equip the four Ships 35 How the Design of this Attempt might come to the Knowledge of the Court of _Spain_. Reasons why both Viceroys should be informed 36 _De Fonte_ received his Orders from _Old Spain_. Wrote his Letter to the Court of _Spain_. _De Fonte_ and the Viceroys did not receive their Orders from the same Persons 37 What is the Purpose of the introductory Part of this Letter. The Names of the Ships agreeable to the _Spanish_ Manner. _From_ Callao _to_ St. Helena. Observations as to the Computation of Course and Distance in the Voyage of _de Fonte_ 38 From whence _de Fonte_ takes his Departure. As to the Distance between the _Callao_ of _Lima_ and _St. Helena_, no Fault in the Impression. An Account of the Latitude and Longitude made Use of, which agrees with _de Fonte_'s Voyage. Remarks as to the Expression, anchored in the Port of _St. Helena_ within the Cape 39 An Interpolation of what is not in the original Letter. Observations as to the taking the Betumen aboard. An Error as to Latitude corrected 40 An Error as to the Course corrected. _From_ St. Helena _to the River_ St. Jago. Observations as to _de Fonte_ taking fresh Provision aboard at the River _St. Jago_ 41 A Comment or spurious Interpolation. The Course _de Fonte_ sailed from the River _St. Jago_. _From_ St. Jago _to_ Realejo. A Proof that Glosses and Comments have been added to the original Text 42 The Latitude not mentioned in the original Letter of _de Fonte_. The Times that _de Fonte_ is sailing between the respective Ports from the _Callao_ to _Realejo_ no Objection to the Authenticity of this Account. Boats provided for _de Fonte_ before he arrived at _Realejo_ 43 _From_ Realejo _to the Port of_ Salagua. Observations as to the Islands of _Chiametla_. ---- ---- ---- Port of _Salagua_. ---- ---- ---- Master and Mariners 44 An Interpolation or Comment added. The Translator not exact as to his Translation. Remark as to the Information _de Fonte_ received as to the Tide at the Head of the Bay of _California_ 45 _Pennelossa_ appointed to discover whether _California_ was an Island. The Account given of _Pennelossa_, as to his Descent, not in the original Letter. _From the Port of_ Salagua _to the_ Archipelagus _of_ St. Lazarus _and_ Rio Los Reyes. _De Fonte_ leaves _Pennelossa_ within the Shoals of _Chiametla_ 46 Course corrected. Remark as to Cape _Abel_. ---- as to the Weather and the Time he was running eight Hundred and sixty Leagues 47 A Neglect as to inserting a Course. Computation of Longitude altered 48 The Course _de Fonte_ steered, he accounts as to the Land being in a Latitude and Longitude agreeable to the late _Russian_ Discoveries. Acts with great Judgment as a Seaman. The Agreement of the Table of Latitude and Longitude with the _Russian_ Discoveries. And the _Suesta del Estrech D'Anian_ not laid down on a vague Calculation 49 Former Authorities for it. So named by the _Spaniards_. A superior Entrance to that of _Martin Aguilar_ and of _de Fuca_. The _Archipelago_ of _St. Lazarus_, properly so named by _de Fonte_. A North-east Part of the _South Sea_ that _de Fonte_ passed up 50 His Instructions were to fall in with the Islands which formed the _Archipelago_, and not the main Land. _Rio los Reyes_, in what Longitude. A further Proof that his Course was to the Eastward 51 _Proceedings of Admiral_ de Fonte _after his Arrival at_ Rio de los Reyes. The Translation very inaccurate in this Part. The Date of the 22d of _June_ an Error. _De Fonte_ dispatches one of his Captains to _Bernarda_ with Orders. Jesuits had been in those Parts, from whose Accounts the Instructions were formed 52 Remarks as to the Orders sent _Bernarda_. De Fonte _sails up_ Rio de los Reyes. _De Fonte_ sets out on his Part of the Expedition 53 Was at the Entrance of _Los Reyes_ the 14th of _June_. Observed the Tides in _Los Reyes_ and _Haro_. Precaution to be used in going up the River. An additional Note as to the Jesuits. Observations as to the Jesuits. Knew not of a Streight 54 Could not publish their Mission without Leave. De Fonte _arrives at_ Conosset. Receives a Letter from _Bernarda_ dated 27th of _June_ 55 The 22d of _June_ was not the Time _Bernarda_ received his Dispatches. The Letter is an Answer to the Dispatches he received from _de Fonte_. Remarks on the Letter. Alters the Course directed by _de Fonte_. Assures _de Fonte_ he will do what was possible, and is under no Apprehension as to a Want of Provisions 56 The Name of _Haro_, and of the Lake _Velasco_, a particular Compliment. This Letter of _de Fonte_ wrote in _Spanish_. _Description of_ Rio de los Reyes _and Lake_ Belle. _De Fonte_ not inactive from the 14th to the 22d of _June_ 57 Very particular in his Account. Shews how far the Tides came to from Westward. De Fonte _leaves his Ships before the Town of_ Conosset. The Time _de Fonte_ had staid at _Conosset_ 58 Was before acquainted with the Practicability of _Bernarda_ sending a Letter. How the Letter from _Bernarda_ was sent. _De Fonte_ waited to receive the Letter before he proceeded. _Parmentiers_, whom he was. _Frenchmen_ were admitted into _Peru_. Reasons for the Jesuits coming into these Parts without passing the intermediate Country 59 _Parmentiers_ had been before in these Parts. His Motive for going into those Parts, and surveying the River _Parmentiers_ 60 The People Captain _Tchinkow_ met with, no Objection to the Character of the _Indians_ in these Parts. _Parmentiers_ not a general Interpreter 61 Voyages had been made to these Parts. An Omission in the Translator. _A Description of the River_ Parmentiers, _Lake_ de Fonte, _and the adjacent Country._ The Form of the Letter again observed by the Translator 62 Lake _de Fonte_, so named in Compliment to the Family he was of. Lake _de Fonte_ a Salt Water Lake. A Comparison of the Country with other Parts. Why _de Fonte_ stopped at the Island South of the Lake 63 De Fonte _sails out of the East North-east End of the Lake_ de Fonte, _and passes the Streight of_ Ronquillo. An additional Comment. _De Fonte_'s Observation as to the Country altering for the worse. A purposed Silence as to the Part come into after passing the Streight of _Ronquillo_. De Fonte _arrives at the_ Indian _Town, and receives an Account of the Ship._ A further Instance of _Parmentiers_ having been in these Parts 64 _De Fonte_ had been on the Inquiry. _The Proceedings of_ de Fonte _after meeting with the Ship._ The Reason of the Ship's Company retiring to the Woods 65 _De Fonte_ had particularly provided himself with some _Englishmen_. _Shapley_, the Navigator of the Ship, first waits on the Admiral. Particulars as to _Shapley_. A Disappointment of the Intelligence the Author hoped to attain 66 A Tradition amongst the antient People of there having been such a Voyage. _Major Gibbons_, an Account of him 67 _Seimar Gibbons_, a Mistake of the Translator 68 _Massachusets_, the largest Colony in _New England_ at that Time. The Ship fitted out from _Boston_. Remarks on _de Fonte_'s Address to _Major Gibbons_, and Conduct on this Occasion. _De Fonte_ only mentions what is immediately necessary for the Court to know 70 The _Boston_ Ship returned before _de Fonte_ left those Parts. A remarkable Anecdote from the Ecclesiastical History of _New England_. The Circumstances of which Account agree with this Voyage 72 A further Tradition as to _Major Gibbons_. That the Persons met by _Groseliers_ were not _Major Gibbons_ and his Company. De Fonte _returns to_ Conosset. The various Courses, Distances, _&c._ from _Rio de los Reyes_ to the Sea to the Eastward of _Ronquillo_ 73 The prudent Conduct observed in the Absence of the Admiral 74 De Fonte _receives a Letter from_ Bernarda. The Latitude and Longitude of _Conibasset_, &c. 75 Observations as to the Messenger who carried the first Letter from _Bernarda_. Observations as to the Messenger with the second Letter 76 The various Courses, Distances, _&c._ that _Bernarda_ went. The Probability of sending a Seaman over Land to _Baffin_'s Bay. Remarks on the Report made by the Seaman 77 _Bernarda_ going up the _Tartarian Sea_ is agreeable to the _Japanese_ Map. A Parallel drawn between _Conosset_ and Port _Nelson_. The physical Obstacles considered 78 _Bernarda_'s Observations as to the Parts he had been in. Whether the Parts about _Baffin_'s Bay were inhabited 79 An Objection as to the Affability of the Inhabitants further considered. As to the Dispatch used by _Indians_ in carrying Expresses. _Bernarda_ directed by the Jesuits as to the Harbour where he meets _de Fonte_. _De Fonte_ sent a Chart with his Letter 80 _Miguel Venegas_, a _Mexican_ Jesuit, his Observation as to the Account of _de Fonte_'s Voyage, _&c._ The Design with which his Work was published. Arguments for putting into immediate Execution what he recommends 81 _Don Cortez_ informs the King of _Spain_ that there is a Streight on the Coast of the _Baccaloos_. Attempts made by _Cortez_ 82 What is comprehended under the Name of _Florida_. King of _Portugal_ sends _Gasper Corterealis_ on Discovery. The Name _Labrador_, what it means. _Promonterum Cortereale_, what Part so named. _Hudson_'s Streights named the River of _Three Brothers_ or _Anian_. When the finding a Streight to Northward became a Matter of particular Attention of the _Spaniards_ 83 Undertaken by the Emperor. By _Philip_ the Second. By _Philip_ the Third, and the Reasons 84 The Opinions of _Geographers_ as to the North Part of _America_. How the Maps were constructed at that Time 85 Unacquainted with what _Cortez_ knew of the Streight 86 Instanced by the Voyage of _Alarcon_ that the Land was thought to extend farther to Northward than afterwards supposed by the Voyage of _Juan Roderique de Cabrillo_ 87 _Vizcaino_, his Voyage, and the Discovery of _Aguilar_. _Spaniards_ never meant by the Streights of _Anian_, _Beerings_ Streight 88 Remarks on the Deficiency of the _Spanish_ Records. Uncertainty of attaining any Evidence from such Records. Father _Kimo_'s Map of _California_ altered by Geographers 90 The Objection of _Venegas_ as to the Authenticity of _de Fonte_'s Account considered 91 Misrepresents the Title of the Letter 92 Doth not deny but that there was such a Person as _de Fonte_. The _Jesuits_ and _Parmentiers_ having been before in these Parts not improbable 93 Master and Mariners mentioned by _de Fonte_, a probable Account. Whence the Tide came at the Head of the Gulph of _California_ 94 _De Fonte_ retires, Command taken by Admiral _Cassanate_. _Seyxas y Lovera_, the Authority of his Account defended 95 _Venegas_ omits some Accounts for Want of necessary Authenticity. Most of the Discoveries are reported to be made by Ships from the _Moluccas_ 96 What Ships from the _Moluccas_ or _Philippines_ were forced to do in case of bad Weather. The Probability of a Discovery made by a Ship from the _Philippines_ or _Moluccas_. The People of the _Philippine_ Islands those who most talked of a Passage. _Salvatierra_, his Account of a North-west Passage discovered 97 This Account gained Credit 98 Was the Foundation of _Frobisher_'s Expedition. _Thomas Cowles_, his Account defended 99 _Juan de Fuca_, his Account 100 Remarks on that Account 101 Expeditions which the Court of _Spain_ order correspond in Time with the Attempts for Discovery from _England_ 103 The Discovery of the Coast of _California_ for a Harbour for the _Aquapulco_ Ship not the Sole Design 104 Reasons that induced _Aguilar_ to think the Opening where he was was the Streight of _Anian_ 105 Observation on the preceding Accounts. Have no certain Account of what Expeditions were in those Parts 106 An exact Survey of those Coasts not known to have been made until the Year 1745. The Streight of _Anian_ at present acknowledged 107 The first Discoverers gave faithful Accounts. Reasons for _de Fonte_'s Account being true 108 Accounts of Voyages not being to be obtained no just Objection to their Authenticity. As to the Inference in _de Fonte_'s Letter of there being no North-west Passage 109 The Proximity of the _Western Ocean_ supposed by all Discoverers 111 Observations on the Northern Parts of _America_ being intermixed with Waters. The Objection as to the Distance between the _Ocean_ and the _Sea_ at the Back of _Hudson_'s Bay 112 Reasons why a Passage hath not been discovered. A great Channel to Westward by which the Ice and Land Waters are vented. Accounts of _de Fonte_, _de Fuca_, and _Chacke_, agree 113 _Indians_ mentioned by _de Fonte_ and those by _de Fuca_ not the same. Why _de Fonte_ did not pass up the North-east Part of the _South Sea_ 114 The Persons who were in those Parts got no Information of a Streight 115 The Representation of the _Jesuits_ the Foundation of _de Fonte_'s Instructions. The Court of _Spain_ not of the same Opinion with _de Fonte_ or the Jesuits on his Return 116 There is a Sea to Westward of _Hudson_'s Bay 117 _Joseph le France_, his Account considered 118 Agrees with the Account of _de Fonte_ and _de Fuca_ 119 Improbability of the _Tete Plat_ inhabiting near the Ocean 120 Which Way the _Boston_ Ship made the Passage, uncertain. Whether through _Hudson_'s Bay 122 Observations as to _Chesterfield_'s Inlet. As to _Pistol_ Bay and _Cumberland_ Isles 123 A Quotation from _Seyxas y Lovera_. Observations thereon 124 Observations as to its having been the constant Opinion that there was a North-west Passage 125 The great Degree of Credibility there is from the Circumstances of _de Fonte_'s Voyage. What Foundation those who argue against a North-west Passage have for their Argument 126 Where the Passage is supposed, and an Explanation of the Map 127 Remarks as to Expeditions to be made purposely for the Discovery. The Inconveniencies which attended on former Expeditions. Prevented for the future by a Discovery of the Coast of _Labrador_. The advantageous Consequences of that Attempt 128 Method to be pursued in making the Discovery. APPENDIX. Fall in with the Coast of _Labrador_ 131 Stand more to Southward. Tokens of the Land 132 Meet with the _Eskemaux_. Enter a Harbour 133 The Country described. People sent to the Head of the Harbour report they had seen a House 134 A more particular Account. The Report of Persons sent to survey the Country. Proceed on a further Discovery 136 Enter up an Inlet. Prevented proceeding in the Schooner by Falls 137 Proceed in a Boat, meet with Falls. Description of the Country. Sail out of the Inlet and go to Northward 139 See Smokes and go in Pursuit of the Natives 140 Proceed up a third Inlet. See Smokes again. Enter a fourth Inlet. Meet with a _Snow_ from _England_ 143 The Captain of the _Snow_, his Account and other Particulars. Observations as to the _Eskemaux_ 145 _Snow_ had joined Company with a _Sloop_ from _Rhode Island_. An Account of where the _Eskemaux_ trade 147 _Eskemaux_ come along-side 147 _Schooner_ leaves the _Snow_. _Eskemaux_ come aboard the Schooner 148 Mate of _Snow_ comes aboard the _Schooner_, and his Account 150 Why mentioned 151 The Trade in these Parts could only be established by the Regulations of the _Government_. _Eskemaux_ coming to trade with the Schooner intercepted. The Inlet searched 152 Pass into three other Inlets. An Account of them and the Country. Reasons for leaving off the Discovery 153 _Fishing Bank_ sought for and discovered. An Island of Ice of a surprising Magnitude and Depth. MEMOIRS for the CURIOUS. [Sidenote: April 1708.] _A Letter from Admiral_ Bartholomew de Fonte, _then Admiral of_ New Spain _and_ Peru, _and now Prince of_ Chili; _giving an Account of the most material Transactions in a Journal of his from the Calo of_ Lima _in_ Peru, _on his Discoveries, to find out if there was any North West Passage from the_ Atlantick _Ocean into the South and Tartarian Sea._ The Viceroys of _New Spain_ and _Peru_, having advice from the Court of _Spain_, that the several Attempts of the _English_, both in the Reigns of Queen _Elizabeth_, King _James_, and of Capt. _Hudson_ and Capt. _James_, in the 2d, 3d and 4th Years of King _Charles_, was in the 14th Year of the said King _Charles_, A. D. 1639, undertaken from some Industrious Navigators from _Boston_ in _New England_, upon which I Admiral _de Fonte_ received Orders from _Spain_ and the Viceroys to Equip four Ships of Force, and being ready we put to Sea the 3d of _April_ 1640, from the Calo of _Lima_, I Admiral _Bartholomew de Fonte_ in the Ship _St Spiritus_, the Vice-Admiral _Don Diego Pennelossa_, in the Ship _St Lucia_, _Pedro de Bonardæ_, in the Ship _Rosaria_, _Philip de Ronquillo_ in the _King Philip_. The 7th of _April_ at 5 in the Afternoon, we had the length of _St Helen_, two hundred Leagues on the _North_ side of the Bay of _Guajaquil_, in 2 Degrees of _South_ Lat. and anchored in the Port _St Helena_, within the Cape, where each Ship's Company took in a quantity of _Betumen_, called vulgarly _Tar_, of a dark colour with a cast of Green, an excellent Remedy against the Scurvy and Dropsie, and is used as Tar for Shipping, but we took it in for Medicine; it Boils out of the Earth, and is there plenty. The _10th_ we pass'd the Equinoctial by Cape _del Passao_, the _11th_ Cape _St Francisco_, in one Degree and seven Minutes of Latitude North from the Equator, and anchor'd in the Mouth of the [1]River _St Jago_, where with a Sea-Net we catch'd abundance of good Fish; and several of each Ship's Company went ashoar, and kill'd some Goats and Swine, which are there wild and in plenty; and others bought of some Natives, 20 dozen of _Turkey_ Cocks and Hens, Ducks, and much excellent Fruit, at a Village two _Spanish_ Leagues, six Mile and a half, up the River _St Jago_, on the Larboard side or the Left hand. The River is Navigable for small Vessels from the Sea, about 14 _Spanish_ Leagues _South East_, about half way to the fair City of _Quita_, in 22 Minutes of _South_ Latitude, a City that is very Rich. The _16th_ of _April_ we sailed from the River _St Jago_ to the Port and Town _Raleo_, 320 Leagues W. N. W. a little Westerly, in about 11 Degrees 14 Min. of N. Latitude, leaving Mount _St Miguel_ on the Larboard side, and Point _Cazamina_ on the Starboard side. The Port of _Raleo_ is a safe Port, is covered from the Sea by the Islands _Ampallo_ and _Mangreza_, both well inhabited with Native _Indians_, and 3 other small Islands. [2]_Raleo_ is but 4 Miles over Land from the head of the Lake _Nigaragua_, that falls into the North Sea in 12 Degrees of North Latitude, near the Corn or Pearl Islands. Here at the Town of _Raleo_, where is abundance of excellent close grain'd Timber, a reddish Cedar, and all Materials for building Shipping; we bought 4 long well sail'd Shallops, built express for sailing and riding at Anchor and rowing, about 12 Tuns each, of 32 foot Keel. The _26th_, we sailed from _Raleo_ for the Port of _Saragua_, or rather of _Salagua_, within the Islands and Shoals of _Chamily_, and the Port is often call'd by the _Spaniards_ after that Name; in 17 Degrees 31 Minutes of North Latitude, 480 Leagues North West and by West, a little Westerly from _Raleo_. From the Town of _Saragua_, a little East of _Chamily_ at _Saragua_, and from _Compostilo_ in the Neighbourhood of this Port, we took in a Master and six Mariners accustomed to Trade with the Natives on the East side of _California_ for Pearl; the Natives catch'd on a Bank in 19 Degrees of Latitude North from the _Baxos St Juan_, in 24 Degrees of North Latitude 20 Leagues N. N. E. from Cape St _Lucas_, the South East point of _California_. The Master Admiral _de Fonte_ had hir'd, with his Vessel and Mariners, who had informed the Admiral, that 200 Leagues North from Cape St _Lucas_, a Flood from the North, met the South Flood, and that he was sure it must be an Island, and _Don Diego Pennelossa_ (Sisters Son of [3]_Don Lewis de Haro_) a young Nobleman of great Knowledge and Address in Cosmography and Navigation, and undertook to discover whether _California_ was an Island or not; for before it was not known whether it was an Island or a _Peninsula_; with his Ship and the 4 Shallops they brought at _Raleo_, and the Master and Mariners they hir'd at _Salagua_, but Admiral _de Fonte_ with the other 3 Ships sailed from them within the Islands _Chamily_ the _10th_ of _May_ 1640. and having the length of Cape _Abel_, on the W. S. W. side of _California_ in 26 Degrees of N. Latitude, 160 Leagues N. W. and W. from the Isles _Chamily_; the Wind sprung up at S. S. E. a steady Gale, that from the _26th_ of _May_ to the _14th_ of _June_, he had sail'd to the River _los Reyes_ in 53 Degrees of N. Latitude, not having occasion to lower a Topsail, in sailing 866 Leagues N. N. W. 410 Leagues from Port _Abel_ to Cape Blanco, 456 Leagues to _Rio los Reyes_, all the time most pleasant Weather, and sailed about 260 Leagues in crooked Channels, amongst Islands named the [4]_Archipelagus de St Lazarus_; where his Ships Boats sail'd a mile a head, sounding to see what Water, Rocks and Sands there was. The 22d of _June_, Admiral _Fonte_ dispatched one of his Captains to _Pedro de Barnarda_, to sail up a fair River, a gentle Stream and deep Water, went first N. and N. E. N. and N. W. into a large Lake full of Islands, and one very large _Peninsula_ full of Inhabitants, a Friendly honest People in this Lake; he named Lake _Valasco_, where Captain _Barnarda_ left his Ship; nor all up the River was less than 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8 Fathom Water, both the Rivers and Lakes abounding with Salmon Trouts, and very large white Pearch, some of two foot long; and with 3 large _Indian_ Boats, by them called _Periagos_, made of two large Trees 50 and 60 foot long. Capt. _Barnarda_ first sailed from his Ships in the Lake _Valasco_, one hundred and forty Leagues West, and then 436 E. N. E. to 77 Degrees of Latitude. Admiral _de Fonte_, after he had dispatch'd Captain _Barnarda_ on the Discovery of the North and East part of the _Tartarian_ Sea, the Admiral sail'd up a very Navigable River, which he named _Rio los Reyes_, that run nearest North East, but on several Points of the Compass 60 Leagues at low Water, in a fair Navigable Channel, not less than 4 or 5 Fathom Water. It flow'd in both Rivers near the same Water, in the River _los Reyes_, 24 foot Full and Change of the Moon; a S. S. E. Moon made high Water. It flow'd in the River _de Haro_ 22 foot and a half Full and Change. They had two [5]Jesuits with them that had been on their Mission to the 66 Degrees of North Latitude, and had made curious Observations. The Admiral _de Fonte_ received a Letter from Captain _Barnarda_, dated the 27th of _June_, 1640. that he had left his Ship in the Lake _Valasco_, betwixt the Island _Barnarda_ and the Peninsula _Conibasset_, a very safe Port; it went down a River from the Lake, 3 falls, 80 Leagues, and fell into the _Tartarian_ Sea in 61 Degrees, with the Pater Jesuits and 36 Natives in three of their Boats, and 20 of his _Spanish_ Seamen; that the Land trended away North East; that they should want no Provisions, the Country abounding with Venison of 3 sorts, and the Sea and Rivers with excellent Fish (Bread, Salt, Oyl and Brandy they carry'd with them) that he should do what was possible. The Admiral, when he received the Letter from Captain _Barnarda_, was arrived at an _Indian_ Town called _Conosset_, on the South-side the Lake _Belle_, where the two Pater Jesuits on their Mission had been two Years; a pleasant Place. The Admiral with his two Ships, enter'd the Lake the 22d of _June_, an Hour before high Water, and there was no Fall or Catract, and 4 or 5 Fathom Water, and 6 and 7 generally in the Lake _Belle_, there is a little fall of Water till half Flood, and an Hour and quarter before high Water the Flood begins to set gently into the Lake _Belle_; the River is fresh at 20 Leagues distance from the Mouth, or Entrance of the River _los Reyes_. The River and Lake abounds with Salmon, Salmon-Trouts, Pikes, Perch and Mullets, and two other sorts of Fish peculiar to that River, admirable good, and Lake _Belle_; also abounds with all those sorts of Fish large and delicate: And Admiral _de Fonte_ says, the Mullets catch'd in _Rios Reyes_ and Lake _Belle_, are much delicater than are to be found, he believes, in any part of the World. The rest shall be incerted in our next. [1] _Eighty Leagues N. N. W. and 25 Leagues E. and by S._ [2] _The great Ships that are built in_ New Spain _are built in_ Raleo. [3] Don Lewis de Haro _was great Minister of_ Spain. [4] _So named by_ de Fonte, _he being the first that made that Discovery._ [5] _One of those that went with Capt._ Barnarda _on his Discovery._ MEMOIRS for the CURIOUS. [Sidenote: June 1708.] _The Remainder of Admiral_ Bartholomew de Fonte'_s Letter; giving an Account of the most material Transactions in a Journal of his from the Calo of_ Lima _in_ Peru, _on his Discoveries to find out if there was any North West Passage from the_ Atlantick _Ocean into the South and Tartarian Sea; which for want of Room we could not possibly avoid postponing._ [Sidenote: _See the Memoirs for April 1708, and you'll find the beginning of this Curious Discovery._] We concluded with giving an Account of a Letter from Capt. _Barnarda_, dated the 27th of _June_, 1640. on his Discovery in the Lake _Valasco_. The first of _July_ 1640, Admiral _de Fonte_ sailed from the rest of his Ships in the Lake _Belle_, in a good Port cover'd by a fine Island, before the Town _Conosset_ from thence to a River I named _Parmentiers_, in honour of my Industrious Judicious Comrade, Mr _Parmentiers_, who had most exactly mark'd every thing in and about that River; we pass'd 8 Falls, in all 32 foot, perpendicular from its Sourse out of _Belle_; it falls into the large Lake I named Lake _de Fonte_, at which place we arrived the 6th of _July_. This Lake is 160 Leagues long and 60 broad, the length is E. N. E. and W. S. W. to 20 or 30, in some places 60 Fathom deep; the Lake abounds with excellent Cod and Ling, very large and well fed, there are several very large Islands and 10 small ones; they are covered with shrubby Woods, the Moss grows 6 or 7 foot long, with which the Moose, a very large sort of Deer, are fat with in the Winter, and other lesser Deer, as Fallow, _&c._ There are abundance of wild Cherries, Strawberries, Hurtleberries, and wild Currants, and also of wild Fowl Heath Cocks and Hens, likewise Partridges and Turkeys, and Sea Fowl in great plenty on the South side: The Lake is a very large fruitful Island, had a great many Inhabitants, and very excellent Timber, as Oaks, Ashes, Elm and Fur-Trees, very large and tall. The 14th of _July_ we sailed out of the E. N. E. end of the Lake _de Fonte_, and pass'd a Lake I named _Estricho de Ronquillo_, 34 Leagues long, 2 or 3 Leagues broad, 20, 26, and 28 Fathom of Water; we pass'd this strait in 10 hours, having a stout Gale of Wind and whole Ebb. As we sailed more Easterly, the Country grew very sensibly worse, as it is in the North and South parts of _America_, from 36 to the extream Parts North or South, the West differs not only in Fertility but in Temperature of Air, at least 10 Degrees, and it is warmer on the West side than on the East, as the best _Spanish_ Discoverers found it, whose business it was in the time of the Emperor _Charles_ the V. to _Philip_ the III. as is noted by _Aloares_ and a _Costa_ and _Mariana_, &c. The 17th we came to an _Indian_ Town, and the _Indians_ told our Interpreter Mr _Parmentiers_, that a little way from us lay a great Ship where there had never been one before; we sailed to them, and found only one Man advanced in years, and a Youth; the Man was the greatest Man in the Mechanical Parts of the Mathematicks I had ever met with; my second Mate was an _English_ Man, an excellent Seaman, as was my Gunner, who had been taken Prisoners at _Campechy_, as well as the Master's Son; they told me the Ship was of _New England_, from a Town called _Boston_. The Owner and the whole Ships Company came on board the 30th, and the Navigator of the Ship, Capt. _Shapley_, told me, his Owner was a fine Gentleman, and Major General of the largest Colony in _New England_, called the _Maltechusets_; so I received him like a Gentleman, and told him, my Commission was to make Prize of any People seeking a North West or West Passage into the South Sea but I would look upon them as Merchants trading with the Natives for Bevers, Otters, and other Furs and Skins, and so for a small Present of Provisions I had no need on, I gave him my Diamond Ring, which cost me 1200 Pieces of Eight, (which the modest Gentleman received with difficulty) and having given the brave Navigator, Capt. _Shapley_ for his fine Charts and Journals, 1000 Pieces of Eight, and the Owner of the Ship, _Seimor Gibbons_ a quarter Cask of good _Peruan_ Wine, and the 10 Seamen each 20 Pieces of Eight, the 6th of _August_, with as much Wind as we could fly before, and a Currant, we arrived at the first Fall of the River _Parmentiers_, the 11th of _August_, 86 Leagues, and was on the South side of the Lake _Belle_ on board our Ships the 16th of _August_, before the fine Town _Conosset_, where we found all things well; and the honest Natives of _Conosset_ had in our absence treated our People with great humanity, and Capt. _de Ronquillo_ answer'd their Civility and Justice. The 20th of _August_ an _Indian_ brought me a Letter to _Conosset_ on the Lake _Belle_, from Capt. _Barnarda_, dated the 11th of _August_, where he sent me word he was returned from his Cold Expedition, and did assure me there was no Communication out of the _Spanish_ or _Atlantick_ Sea, by _Davis_ Strait; for the Natives had conducted one of his Seamen to the head of _Davis_ Strait, which terminated in a fresh Lake of about 30 Mile in circumference, in the 80th Degree of North Latitude; and that there was prodigious Mountains North of it, besides the North West from that Lake, the Ice was so fix'd, that from the Shore to 100 Fathom Water, for ought he knew from the Creation; for Mankind knew little of the wonderful Works of God, especially near the North and South Poles; he writ further, that he had sailed from _Basset_ Island North East, and East North East, and North East and by East, to the 79th Degree of Latitude, and then the Land trended North, and the Ice rested on the Land. I received afterwards a second Letter from Capt. _Barnarda_, dated from _Minhanset_, informing me, that he made the Port of _Arena_, 20 Leagues up the River _los Reyes_ on the 29th of _August_, where he waited my Commands. I having store of good Salt Provisions, of Venison and Fish, that Capt. _de Ronquillo_ had salted (by my order) in my absence, and 100 Hogsheads of _Indian_ Wheat or Mais, sailed the 2d of _September_ 1640. accompanied with many of the honest Natives of _Conosset_, and the 5th of _September_ in the Morning about 8, was at an Anchor betwixt _Arena_ and _Mynhanset_, in the River _los Reyes_, sailing down that River to the North East part of the South Sea; after that returned home, having found that there was no Passage into the South Sea by that they call the North West Passage. The Chart will make this much more demonstrable. _Tho the Style of the foregoing Piece is not altogether so Polite, (being writ like a Man, whose livelihood depended on another way) but with abundance of Experience and a Traveller, yet there are so many Curious, and hitherto unknown Discoveries, that it was thought worthy a place in these_ Memoirs; _and 'tis humbly presum'd it will not be unacceptable to those who have either been in those Parts, or will give themselves the trouble of reviewing the Chart._ OBSERVATIONS ON _The Title affixed, and on other Circumstances relating to the Letter of Admiral_ de Fonte, _shewing the Authenticity of that Letter, and of the Account therein contained._ Observations have been made by several Geographers of different Nations on the Letter of Admiral _de Fonte_, to shew that such Letter is not deserving of Credit, is to be thought of as a mere Fiction or Romance, and is a Forgery composed by some Person to serve a particular Purpose. But it will appear, as we proceed in a more particular Consideration of the Title and Circumstances relative to the Letter of Admiral _de Fonte_ than hath been hitherto used, and from the following Remarks on the Subject of such Letter[6], That those Observations made by the Geographers have many of them no just Foundation, the rest afford not a sufficient Evidence to invalidate the Authenticity of that Letter, and of the Account it contains. [6] Memoires et Observations Geographiques et Critiques sur la Situation de Pays Septientrionaux, &c. a Lausanne, 1765.--Pa. 115, &c. It is only from a Copy of the Letter of _de Fonte_ that the Translation hath been made, which is now published, as is plain from a Title being affixed, _A Letter from Admiral_ Bartholomew de Fonte, _then Admiral of_ New Spain _and_ Peru, _and now Prince of_ Chili. As _Prince_ is never used in this Sense with us, it is apparently a literal Translation of the _Spanish_ Word _Principe_, consequently this Title was wrote in the _Spanish_ Language, and we cannot otherwise conclude but in the same Language with the Letter. From this and other Defects of the like Sort, which will be noticed as we proceed in our Observations, the Translator must be acquitted from all Suspicion of being any way concerned in this pretended Forgery. By the Copiest affixing this Title, it is evident he was well assured that there had been such an Expedition. The Anecdotes, as to the Vice-admiral _Pennelossa_, in the Body of the Letter, what is therein mentioned as to the Jesuits, evidence that a minute and particular Inquiry was made by the Copiest; that he had thoroughly informed himself of every Particular of this Affair; that he was assured that the Account by him copied contained the most material Transactions in a Journal of _de Fonte_'s, and that _de Fonte_ was then, probably from his advanced Age, in the Service of the Government in another Station. This Expedition not being solely to intercept the Navigators from _Boston_, but also to discover whether there was a Passage in those Parts thro' which the _English_ expected to make a Passage, _viz._ by the back Part of _Virginia_, by _Hudson_'s or by _Baffin_'s Bay; it was an Undertaking which required that the Person who had the conducting of it should not only be a Man of good Understanding, but a judicious and experienced Seaman. The Time required to attain such Qualifications implies, that _de Fonte_ must have been of a mature Age when he went on this Command; and _de Fonte_ being alive at the Time that the Copy was taken, it must have been taken within twenty Years, or in a less Time after such Expedition, as the Copiest speaks of _Pennelossa_ as a young Nobleman. The Copiest therefore could not be imposed on, as his Inquiries were made in such a Time, either with respect to the Persons concerned, or with respect to the Letter not being a genuine Account of the Voyage. A Person might be so circumstanced as to attain the Favour of copying such Letter, induced by some private Motive, without an Intention of making it publick, as Publications were not at that Time so frequent as of late Days; neither is it less probable that a Copy so taken may, in Process of Time, come into other Hands and then be published. Mr. _Gage_ observes, in his Dedication to Lord _Fairfax_, 'The Reason of his publishing a New Survey of the _West Indies_ to be, because that nothing had been written of these Parts for these hundred Years last past, which is almost ever since from the first Conquest thereof by the _Spaniards_, who are contented to lose the Honour of that Wealth and Felicity, which they have since purchased by their great Endeavours, so that they may enjoy the Safety of retaining what they have formerly gotten in Peace and Security.' And though _de Fonte_ declares that there was no North-west Passage, yet that there should be no Publication of the Account of the Voyage is consistent with this established Maxim. The North-west Passage he mentions is not to be understood, in an unlimited Sense, for a Passage between the _Atlantick_ and Western Ocean to the Northward, but the Meaning is confined to that Passage expected by _Hudson_'s Bay: For _de Fonte_ says, that he was to make a Prize of _any seeking a North-west or West Passage_[7]; by the latter he meant where _Pennelossa_ was sent to search; and _Bernarda_ says, there was no Communication out of the _Spanish_ or _Atlantick_ Sea, by _Davis_ Streight; and there was an Extent of Coast which _de Fonte_ only ran along, and had, but at Times, a distant View of; and as to the Jesuits, by whatever Means they got into those Parts, it is evident they had not seen all the intermediate Country. Therefore tho' the Court of _Spain_ was satisfied that the Passage was not where _de Fonte_ had searched; yet there might be a Passage where he had not searched, and publishing this Account of the Voyage would be an Assistance to the Adventurers, as it would confine them in their Searches to those other Parts which were cursorily passed by _de Fonte_, and where perhaps they might succeed: Or this Account particularly describing the Northern and Western Part of _America_, not hitherto known, would be of great Service to Rovers, who had already found their Way into those Seas, by directing them to the Coast and Harbours, and giving them an Account of a Country where they could retire to with tolerable Security from any Interruption from the _Spaniards_, a good Climate, hospitable People, and a Plenty of Provisions to be had; Circumstances which might enable them to continue their cruizing in those Seas much longer than without such Lights as they would receive from this Account they would be enabled to do. [7] Vide Letter. It is well known that the _Spaniards_ claimed all to the Northward as their Dominion, which they intended in due Time to acquire the Possession of, and the Publication might give an Insight to the _English_; Settlers in _America_ to be beforehand with them in attaining a Settlement in those Parts. Their Attempt to intercept the _English_ Subjects, when made Publick to the World, would have given Umbrage to the Court and People of _England_, which the _Spaniards_ would not unnecessarily, and especially at a Time when they had their Hands full of a War with the _French_, who had also incited the _Catalonians_ to rebel, and had joined them with their Troops. The _Spaniards_ were, at the same Time, endeavouring to recover the Dominions of _Portugal_. And _de Fonte_ had respect to the critical Situation their Affairs were in, even before he set out on his Voyage, hence his political Behaviour when he met with the Navigators from _Boston_, committed no Act of Hostility, yet made Use of the most effective Means to prevent their proceeding further. As no Publication was permitted of this Expedition, this therefore could come but to the Knowledge only of a very few Persons in _Old Spain_. Such a singular Transaction being soon, from their Attention to other Matters, and their Ministry soon after entirely changed, no more talked of, unless it should have been revived by something of the like Nature again happening on the Part of the _English_. As no Attempt was made by the _English_ for almost a Century, this Transaction, in that Time, fell into Oblivion. At the Time such Attempt was renewed, then the _Spaniards_ were better acquainted with the Purpose of our settling in _America_, they had altered their Designs of extending their own Possessions, there was also another Power who might pretend that such Passage, if made, was Part in their Dominion, so obstruct our free proceeding and interrupt our settling; the _Spaniards_ therefore having no immediate Occasion for any Researches back to the Records to acquaint themselves as to the Practicability or Impracticability of our Attempts, or to take Directions for their own Proceedings, the Remembrance of this Expedition continued dormant. In _New Spain_, the fitting four Ships to go on Discovery, as such Undertakings had been very frequent, it would not engage any extraordinary Attention of the Publick there; it often happened that what was done on such Voyages was kept a Secret. The more curious and inquisitive Persons would attain but an imperfect Account, by Inquiry from the People on board the Ships, as the Ships were divided, and they would receive no satisfactory Information of what was most material, and the principal Object of their Inquiry by those who went in the Boats, as Seamen delighting in Stories often tell what they neither heard or saw. The Consequences of the Voyage not known, because not understood, a weak Tradition of this Expedition would remain to Posterity; and the only Knowledge or Certainty to be acquired, as to this Expedition, would be from Journals accidentally preserved, of some Persons who had gone the Voyage. Mons. _de Lisle_ gives us an Extract of a Letter from Mons. _Antonio de Ulloa_, wrote from _Aranguer_ the 19th of _June_ in the Year 1753[8], to Mons. _Bouguer e le Mounier_, to answer the Queries they had made on the Subject of the Letter of Admiral _de Fuente_. That curious and able _Spanish_ Officer sent them in Answer, That in the Year 1742 he commanded a Ship of War the _Rose_, in the South Sea; he had on board him a Lieutenant of the Vessel named _Don Manuel Morel_, an antient Seaman, who shewed him a Manuscript; _Mons. Ulloa_ forgot the Author's Name, but believes it to be _Barthelemi de Fuentes_, the Author in that Manuscript reported, that in Consequence of an Order which he had received from the then Viceroy of _Peru_, that he had been to the Northward of _California_, to discover whether there was a Passage by which there was a Communication between the North and South Sea; but having reached a certain Northern Latitude, which _Mons. Ulloa_ did not recollect, and having found nothing that indicated such Passage, he returned to the Port of _Callao_, &c. _Mons. Ulloa_ adds, he had a Copy of such Relation, but he lost it when he was taken by the _English_ on his return from _America_. [8] Novelles Cartes des Decovertes de L'Amiral de Fonte, et autres Navigateurs, &c. Par de Lisle. Paris 1753.--P. 30. It is evident, from this Account being seen in 1742, it is not the same from which the Translation is made which we now have, that being published in 1708. And as _Mons. de Lisle_ asserts, that the Letter is conformable with what _Mons. Ulloa_ said at _Paris_ three Years before, with this Difference only, that he said positively at that Time, that the Relation which he had seen at _Peru_, and of which he had taken a Copy, was of Admiral _de Fonte_, this Manuscript, which contained the Account of the Voyage, may rather be supposed to be a Relation, or Journal kept by some Person, who was aboard Admiral _de Fonte_'s Ship, a Friend or Ancestor of _Morel_, than a Copy the same with this Letter, as it only mentioned the Purport of the Voyage, seems not to have the particular Circumstances as to intercepting the _Boston_ Men. This Account is an Evidence so far in Favour of this Letter, as it proves that this Letter is not the only Account that there is of this Voyage, and that another Account was seen and copied at _Peru_ many Years after this Letter was published in _England_. But if it be supposed that it is one and the same Account, and that from the _English_, it would not have been accepted of and kept by _Morel_, and shewed as a Curiosity, unless he was satisfied that it was a true genuine Account of such Voyage, and as to which he would naturally inquire, being on the Spot, where he might probably be informed, and unless he was at a Certainty that what that Account contained was true, would he have produced the Manuscript, or permitted his Captain to take a Copy of it as genuine; yet we may with greater Probability suppose, that this Manuscript which _Morel_ had was no Translation from the _English_, but in itself an Original. Mons. _Ulloa_ speaking of _Morel_ as an antient Seaman, cannot mean that he was in the Expedition of _de Fonte_, only implies his being acquainted with some one who was, with whom, from his Course of Years, he might have sailed, and attained this Journal. What is said in the Letter of Mons. _Ulloa_, that he forgot the Name of the Author of the Manuscript, but believes it was _Bartelemi de Fuentes_, that the Author of that Manuscript gave an Account of. It must be considered, that when Mons. _Ulloa_ wrote he was in _Old Spain_, many Years after he had seen the Account, and three Years after he was at _Paris_; and though he genteelly answers the Inquiries sent him, agreeable to his Conversation at _Paris_, yet does not express himself so positively as when at _Paris_, as in the Letter he only believes it to be _Bartelemi de Fonte_. _Mons. Ulloa_ would sooner not have answered the Letter than deny what he had formerly said; and if Mons. _de Lisle_ had advanced that for which he had no proper Authority, both as a Gentleman and an Officer he would not have submitted to such a Falshood: But from Mons. _Ulloa_ being tender in the Account, being of a Matter which might not make any great Impression on him at the Time he received it, ten Years since, out of his Hands, and three Years after he was at _Paris_, this Account is more worthy of Credit, and he might be more cautious, now he was to give it under his Hand, to soften the Reproach of his Countrymen for his not acting like a true _Spaniard_, in being so communicative in this Matter. The Account which Mons. _de Lisle_ hath given, was with a Permission of Mons. _Ulloa_ to make Use of his Name, as the Letter Mons. _Ulloa_ sent testifies. Where Mons. _de Lisle_ hath not the Liberty to mention the Name of his Author, he only says, that there was a Person equally curious, and as well instructed in the Affair as Mons. _de Ulloa_, who assured him positively that there was such a Relation. Though Mons. _de Lisle_ had a particular System to support, yet, at the same Time, he had a great publick Character to preserve. Mons. _Bougier_, _Mounier_, and _Ulloa_, were living at the Time he gave this Account to the Publick; they would be asked as to what they knew of the Affair; and a more particular Inquiry would be made of Mons. _de Lisle_, as to the Information he received from the nameless Person; and as there were several of his Countrymen who did not adopt his System, a Trip in this Affair, as to the Evidence he brings in Support of the Authority of this Account of _de Fonte_, would have given them an Advantage which they would not have neglected, and have done Justice to the Publick, by letting them know there was little of Truth in this Account; but as no Reflections have appeared, we have no Reason to question the Veracity of Mons. _de Lisle_ in this Relation, on any Surmises of Strangers, on no better Authority than meer Opinion, without a single Reason produced in Support of what they insinuate. This Letter, when published in 1708, was considered only as an Account that was curious; was looked on as of no Importance, and did not engage the Attention of the Publick until the Discovery of the North-west Passage became the Topick of common Conversation, and would have lain, without having any further Notice taken of it, had not the Attempts to discover a North-west Passage been revived. It is from their being produced in a proper Season, that Accounts of this Sort become permanent, assisting in some favourite Design, being thus useful they are preserved from Obscurity and Oblivion. We have an Account, the Author Captain _Don Francisco de Seixas_, a Captain in the _Spanish_ Navy, and is frequently quoted by the _Spanish_ Writers, though he is little known amongst us.--He says, P. 71. '_Thomas Peche_, an _Englishman_, having been at Sea twenty-eight Years, and made eight Voyages to the _East-Indies_ and _China_ during sixteen Years of that Time, spent the other twelve in Trading and Piracies in the _West-Indies_, from whence he returned to _England_ in 1669; and, after continuing there four Years, in 1673, with other Companions, fitted out at the Port of _Bristol_ one Ship of five hundred Tons, with forty-four Guns, and two light Frigates of one hundred and fifty Tons, and in each eighteen Guns, giving out that he was bound on a trading Voyage to the _Canaries_; whence they bore away with the three Vessels, and went through the Streight _Le Maire_, with two hundred and seventy Men, which he carried directly to trade at the _Moluccas_ and _Philippinas_. 'And after continuing in those Parts twenty-six Months and some Days, it appearing to the said _Thomas Peche_ that from the _Philippinas_ he could return to _England_ in a shorter Time by the Streight of _Anian_ than by the East or Streight _Magellan_, he determined to pass this Rout with his large Ship, and one small one, the other having lost Company by bad Weather, or worse Design in those who commanded it. 'And having, as he says, sailed one hundred and twenty Leagues within the Streights of _Anian_, relates, that as the Month of _October_ was far advanced, in which the northerly Winds reign much, and drove the Waters from the North to the South, that the Currents of the said Streight of _Anian_ were such, and so strong, that had they continued longer they must, without Doubt, have been lost; wherefore, finding it necessary to return back, sailing along the Coast of _California_ (after having sailed out of the Channel of _Anian_) and those of _New Spain_ and _Peru_, he went through the Streight of _Magellan_ into the North Sea in sixteen Hundred and seventy-seven, with the Vessels and much Riches, great Part whereof was of a _Spanish_ Vessel which they took on the Coast of _Lugan_.' Wherefore passing over all the rest of what the Author says in his Voyage, only mentioning what regarded the Currents, he relates, that when he entered into the Streight of _Anian_ he found, from Cape _Mendocino_ in _California_, for above twenty Leagues within the Channel, the Currents set to the N. E. all which and much more the Curious will find in the Voyage of the said _Thomas Peche_, which in sixteen Hundred and seventy-nine was printed in _French_ and _English_, in many Parts of _Holland_, _France_, and _England_, in less than twenty Sheets Quarto: And (he adds) further I can affirm, that I have seen the Author many Times in the Year eighty-two, three and four in _Holland_, who had along with him a _Spanish_ Mestize born in the _Philippinas_, together with a _Chinese_. It can scarce be imagined the Whole is without Foundation, though no such Voyage is at present to be come at, _Seyxas_ publishing his Work soon after the Publication by _Peche_, to which he particularly refers, seems to obviate all Doubt of his Sincerity; and there are too many Circumstances, which are collateral Evidence, mentioned, to imagine he could be entirely deceived. He published his Work at _Madrid_ in sixteen Hundred and eighty-eight, dedicated to the King, as President in his Royal Council of the _Indies_, and to the Marquis _de les Velez_; the Work intituled, _Theatro Naval Hydrographico de Los Fluxos_, &c. This Account was received as a true and faithful Relation of a Voyage performed, as it was published in various Languages; yet the Want of this Account is a Particular, some Reason for Exception with us, that we cannot receive it as a Certainty. And we are more suspicious as to the Truth of any Accounts that we have received relating to the North-west Part of _America_, than to any other Part of the Globe. Our Opinion being in a great Measure influenced by the System we embrace, as, Whether there is a North-west Passage, or not? And for this Reason only, no Part of the Globe hath more engaged the Attention of the Geographers, and with respect to which they had more different Opinions. Those whose Opinion it was that _Asia_ and _America_ were contiguous, had, for many Years, their Opinion rejected, but now confirmed to be true by the _Russian_ Discoveries; and we may conclude they had a good Authority for what they advanced, which was not transmitted down to us, as they had such an Assurance of what they had advanced, as they supposed there could never be the least Doubt of it. Those who advanced that there was Passage between the _Atlantick_ and Southern Ocean, by a Streight in the Northern and Western Parts of _America_, and very likely on a good Authority, have their Opinion opposed, all Accounts of Voyagers treated as fabulous, and for the same Reason that the Opinion of _Asia_ and _America_ being contiguous was rejected, as they could produce nothing further for it than Tradition, and as to which the Tradition now appears to have had its Foundation in Truth. Soon after _America_ was discovered, and the _Spaniards_ had settled in _New Spain_, the Report of there being a Streight prevailed, the Truth of this Report hath not been disproved, and we have no just Reason to reject this Tradition for positive Assertions which are produced without any Evidence, but that our Attempts have not succeeded. Which is an Inference deduced from a false Principle, for our not having had the expected Success hitherto, doth not imply that we may not succeed hereafter, as we proceed in our future Attempts; and all that hath been said, as to there being no North-west Passage, is not adequate to the Tradition of there being such a Passage. This Tradition is also supported by a few Accounts, which we reject too absolutely. These Accounts are given by various Persons, at different Times, without any Concern, Connection, or even Acquaintance the one with the other; which Accounts shew that the Opinion of their being such a Streight prevailed. These Accounts were given by Foreigners; we could not receive them from any other, as we did not frequent those Seas, and at present have no ready Access to them. And as it was but occasionally that any Persons went into those Parts, it is but by a few Persons only we could receive any Information respecting thereto. Nor could we attain such Information as we have in another Manner, than from what our own Countrymen accidentally picked up, as a regular Publication of such Account was not permitted, and as some thought themselves interested to keep the most material Part a Secret, in hopes to turn it to Advantage, by being employed, or receiving a Gratuity for their Discovery. And Allowances should be made, without declaring a Person immediately too credulous, who reports what he hears only in Conversation from another; he may, in such Conversation, omit many Circumstances which it would have been necessary for him to be informed of, in order to give that Satisfaction to others to whom he reports this Information, which he himself received of the Truth of what was related to him at the Time of the Conversation. And we have no Reason to censure those as too credulous who have published these Accounts, until we get a more perfect Information as to the North-west Parts of _America_, which at present remain unknown. A Dispute arises as to the Situation of such a Streight; and Accounts given by _Indians_ are produced to prove that the Streight cannot be in such a Part, where it is supposed to be so far to the Southward as to have its Entrance from the South Sea, in Latitude 51; whereas, on a little Examination, it would appear that those _Indians_, whose Accounts are produced, are almost equal Strangers as to those Parts with the _Europeans_. They do not seek inhospitable Countries, where there is little Produce, no Plenty of Fuel, great and frequent Waters, Mountains and Swamps, having no Inducement from Trade or on Account of War, as they would not go into those Parts to seek their Enemy, whom, with less Hazard and a greater Certainty of finding them, they could attack when returned from their Summer hunting and fishing to their Retirements, where they live more comfortably than in those Parts into which, by Necessity, they are obliged to go on Account of the Chace, as they could not otherwise subsist themselves and Families. And on due Examination it will appear all the Accounts we have from the _Indians_ are erroneously made use of, to evince that there is no Streight in the Part that is contended for. Instead of too severe a Censure on the Credulity of others, we should be cautious that our Diffidence does not lead us into an unreasonable Incredulity, and prevent our using such Testimony as is presented to us so candidly as we ought to do, and prevent our getting a true Insight into an Affair of such Importance; and the utmost that can be said of it is, that it is a Point yet undetermined, whether there is a North-west Passage or not. As to the original Letter of _de Fonte_, we interest ourselves in the important Matter it contains, and therefore become more suspicious and diffident, as to its Authenticity, than upon a due Use of our Reason it will appear that we ought to be. As we have no Reason, as is apparent from what hath been said, that the original Letter should ever come to our Hands; and if it appear, as we proceed, that it is rather to be attributed to inevitable Accidents, than there not having been such a Letter, that we cannot attain any particular Information respecting thereto. If it is considered that we have a Publication of such Letter, the Deficiencies in which are not, as it will appear, any other than the Errors of the Translator and Printer. That there are a great many concurring Circumstances in Support of and conformable with what the Letter contains. And the Account is composed of such Particulars as exceed the Industry and Ingenuity of those who employ their Fancy in composing ingenious Fictions. These various Branches of Evidence cannot be rejected, if we make a fair Judgment in this Matter: There must be a Prepossession from common Fame, a Prejudice from a prior Opinion, or an Interest and Design to support a particular System, that prevents our accepting of it, as a Probability next to a Certainty, of this being a true Account; and there is only wanting, to our receiving it absolutely as such, that the Copy be produced from which the Translation was made, or a full and compleat Evidence as to what is become of such Copy. Why we cannot obtain a particular Information as to the original Letter of _de Fonte_, appears from the Account, which shews that the Court of _Spain_ had a secret Intelligence of this Undertaking. And as that Court would not openly declare that they had such an Information, or how they intended to defeat the Design, the Orders sent, and consequently the Account of the Execution of those Orders, and whatever related thereto, would be _secret_ Papers, and as such kept in a Manner that few Persons would have a free Access; and by those few who had, as the publick Business did not require it, might never be taken in Hand, unless they accidentally catched the Eye of some who was particularly curious. Thus neglected, in a Century of Time it might not be known, if the Subject was revived, where they were deposited, and being so few in Number would take up but a small Space, which might make it difficult to find them. The Politeness and Civility which prevail in this Age, will not admit of such a Complaisance to curious Inquirers as to gratify them in that, which, in Policy, from good Reasons of State, might as well be omitted. There are Instances of late Discoveries being made, as to the Whole of which, from particular Views, as it is said, the Curious have not been gratified. And if this Expedition of _de Fonte_ was remembered, and the Papers relating thereto could be brought to light, it might immediately encourage us to proceed on making a further Attempt for the Discovery of a North-west Passage, therefore we can have no Reason to expect the Court of _Spain_ would assist us with what might determine us to a Proceeding at which they must take Umbrage, as we are now become the only Power who share _North America_ with them, from the Advantages that such a Discovery would give us in case of a future Rupture between the two Crowns; though our present Intention is to increase our Commerce, by opening a Trade to _Japan_, and carrying on a Trade in a more advantageous Manner to _China_. We cannot be assured, if full Permission was given to find these Papers, and more particular Pains and Application used, than is customary with People in publick Offices, when the Occasion of the Search being to little other Purpose than satisfying Curiosity, whether such Search might not be rendered unsuccessful, by such Papers being burnt amongst many other State Papers, in the Fire in the _Escurial_, the common Depository for State Papers at that Time. If we consider the Changes that have happened, as to the Succession to the Crown of _Spain_, the Changes in the Ministry, Foreigners introduced into their Ministry, there must have been many Particulars, not only of this but of other Kinds, which they are not at present acquainted with, the Ministry having no Occasion to give themselves any Concern about them. _Don Olivarez_, who was the Minister at this Time, was known to do his Business by Juntos of particular People, as the Resolutions of Government thereby remained an inviolable Secret, which was not always the Case when the Business was managed by publick Councils. They also gave their Advice in a particular Manner, by written Billets, which were handed to the King, that every Thing was conducted in a very mysterious Manner during the Time that he was in the Ministry, contrary to the former Practice, and which was also disused afterwards. If Inquiry hath been made by the most intelligent amongst the _Spaniards_ as to this Expedition, and the Commands of the Monarch to make Discovery of these Papers, and the Orders relating thereto, have been duly executed, but they cannot be found. The Reasons are apparent, the Voyage being scarce spoke of at the Time, went soon out of Remembrance, and whatever may be in private Hands relating thereto, is not immediately recollected by the Possessors, and the Originals, if not secreted or mislaid, are burnt in the _Escurial_ in the Year 1671, the usual Residence of the Court, and therefore where this Letter may be supposed to be received and lodged. For the Evidence relative to this Account, which the Distance of Time or other Accidents could not deface, yet remains. If _de Fonte_ was Governor or President of _Chili_, from the Nature of his Office it must appear, amongst some Records or Instruments of Writing, and we accordingly are informed, that there was a Person in that Office named _Fuente_, which is synonymous. That we have not more minute Particulars, is by reason that the Account is from those Parts where we have not a free and ready Access to make our Enquiries, and from a People, excepting a few Individuals, who are not very communicative to Foreigners. But where we have not laboured under the like Disadvantage, we have found that there was one _Gibbons_, also _Shapley_, Persons exactly circumstanced as the Letter mentions, upon the Authority of Records, the Tradition of antient Men, in those Parts where they had lived, and also other Accounts, supporting the Authenticity of this Letter, as will be shewn when we proceed to consider of the Subject of the Letter. There is therefore just Reason to conclude, was it possible to have the like Pains taken in _New Spain_ or _Peru_, we might meet with Particulars respecting this Matter, which would put the Truth of this Account out of all Doubt; and any Failure in the Inquiries there, may be owing to their not having been made with an equal Industry, and which it is not in our Power to procure in those Parts so distant and inaccessable. The Circumstances of the Inhabitants of _Boston_, and the neighbouring Provinces, during this Period of Time since the Expedition of _de Fonte_, have been very different, they have not been subjected to the like fatal Accidents with the People of _Lima_, and that Neighbourhood, who several Times have had their City laid in Ruins, and almost entirely depopulated by Earthquakes, particularly in _April_ 1687, and in the Year 1746. The Buildings becoming an entire Heap of Ruins, and many People perishing, must lessen the Force of Tradition, and affect, in some sort, the publick Records; and if the Marine Office was at the _Calloa_ of _Lima_, the _Calloa_ having been twice overwhelmed by the Sea, then there is no Reason to expect from _New Spain_ an authenticated Account of the Equipment of this Fleet under the Command of Admiral _de Fonte_. Those who argue against the Authenticity of this Account, must admit that he was a Person of Capacity and Abilities who composed it, and should assign us some Reason, if a Fiction, why a sensible Person should undertake it, as there could be no Inducement either in Point of Reputation or Profit: For, if a Fiction, it is neither entertaining or instructive. Neither can any political Motive be urged for this Undertaking, as the Subject must then have been treated in a Manner entirely different; so managed as to shew that a North-west Passage was absolutely impracticable, and to let nothing be introduced that would afford the least Incitement to Adventurers to come into those Parts. But it is apparent, that in this Account the Facts are related in a plain and simple Manner, without any Violation of Truth, as they are related without any Consideration of their Consequences. The Representations made, as to the Tides, as to the different Sorts of Fish that came into the Waters from Westward and Eastward, would have been an Encouragement to a further Trial as to a North-west Passage, had such Account been published; and if the Phænomena as to the Tides, and the Difference as to the Fish, was not from its communicating with the _South Sea_, and the Attempt had proved successless as to the Discovery of a North-west Passage, yet to countervail, in some Measure, that Disappointment, there was a Prospect of a lucrative Trade, in all Appearance to be carried on in those Western Parts where _de Fonte_ is represented to have been in, with greater Convenience than that which had been carried on by the _Boston_ People from the East before and at this Time in _Hudson_'s Bay, and the _English_ might be invited, if successful in their Trading, to make a Settlement, an Event which the _Spaniards_ were apprehensive of, and earnestly desirous to prevent. These are Defects which the Capacity and Abilities of the Author would not permit him to run into, if he was writing a fictitious Account, as he must easily see that such Representations to destroy the Notion of a North-west Passage, and prevent the _English_ settling there, were absolutely contrary to his Purpose. To give a greater Plausibility to a fictitious Tale, the Scene may be laid in distant Parts, by this Means introducing, more securely, Names and Characters of Persons as real who never were; and though this Account mentions Persons who lived at a great Distance, and in an obscure Part, yet there were such Persons as the Account mentions. Also the Period of Time when this Voyage was performed, so corresponds with their Transactions, as the Author could fix on no other Period so agreeing with the Circumstance of Major _Gibbons_ being so long, and at that very Time, absent from home; and his Absence can be attributed to no other Cause than his being out on a Voyage. Here is more Plainness and Consistency than is usual in Fiction, with such a Variety of Particulars, and so circumstanced, as would perplex the most pregnant Fancy to invent, which can be no Way so naturally accounted for as by admitting that the Letter contains a genuine Account of a Voyage made by Admiral _de Fonte_, not a Forgery to support political Views; or that it is the Production of a sporting Fancy to contrast some other Performance, or in order to expose the Credulous to publick Ridicule. The Editors of this Letter, whose Business it was to know whether this Account was authentick, gave an entire Credit to it as being authentick, not only as they assured the Publick in a general Way, and with respect to all their Pieces that they should publish, that they would only exhibit such as were of unquestionable Authority, but by their annexing an Advertisement to the Letter, have given us a particular Assurance of the Account being authentick; and we have just Reason to conclude they _could_ have given us that further Satisfaction we now desire; but what they have done was thought by them sufficient, as they had no Idea of the _Importance_ of the Subject. They comprehended not further of this Account, _Than that it contained many curious and unknown Discoveries; and they humbly presumed_, being Strangers to any further Merit that it had, _that it would not, on that Account, be unacceptable to the Publick_. Had this Letter been published at a Time a North-west Passage was under Consideration of the Publick, there might be some Suspicion that the Editors had some further Design. But as to a North-west Passage after the Voyage of Captain _James_, and after the Discovery was entrusted to a Company, and no Success consequent, it was generally received, many Years before this Letter was published, that to find such a Passage was a Thing impracticable. The Opinion of there being such a Passage was treated as a Chimera: And the Affair of a North-west Passage lay in a State of Silence and Oblivion near thirty Years after the Publication was made. We may observe, that there is no Art in the Composition of this Advertisement; it was inserted by Men of Honour and Veracity, who had no other Intention in publishing these Memoirs than the Advancement of Science; who, from their general Knowledge, could not be imposed on, and cannot, from their known Characters, be supposed to have a Design to impose on others. And what further or other Evidence than that which they have given could be expected from the Editors, unless they had been acquainted with the Importance which the Letter now appears to be of? It was all that was at that Time necessary, as they did not expect that there would be any invidious Imputation of Forgery, for then they would have vindicated it from all Suspicion in a more particular Manner than they have done. They thought it a sufficient Proof of its Authenticity their receiving it into their Collection. As to that mean Reflection that this Account is a Forgery of some _Englishman_, it is thoroughly obviated if we consider on what a Foundation such a Supposition must be grounded, which is, That some _Englishman_ composed this Account, translated it into _Spanish_, though there were but few and very indifferent Linguists at that Time in _England_, to be again translated by the Editors, the better to impose on them and the Publick. The Publick is a Name which comprehends many Persons of Curiosity and Sagacity, for whom chiefly these Memoirs were published; and by these Persons, as well as by all others, the Account was received at that Time as genuine, without the least Suspicion of there being any Fraud or Imposture. The principal Object or Design of the Publication was, that the Account contained a Discovery made of those Parts, as to the Knowledge of which the Geographers were at that Time very deficient; and the Editors being satisfied as to the Authenticity, all they thought necessary was to give a Translation of the Letter. And, from their Avocations to their own private Affairs, did not consider it in so minute a Manner as it required, as is plain from their Apology made as to the Stile of the Letter, not being _altogether so polite, being wrote like a Man whose Livelihood depended on another Way, and with an Abundance of Experience_. Whereas the Politeness of Stile would have been an absolute Objection as to the Authenticity of the Account. That as it was a Letter wrote by Admiral _de Fonte_ to lay before the Court of _Spain_, what had passed in the Course of the Voyage, though _de Fonte_ might express himself in proper and well chosen Terms, yet he was to use a Stile that was natural and simple. On the several Lights in which the Editors have been considered, as to the Part which they undertook, it must appear that they are unjustly reproached with Want of Integrity; they acted consistently, having no Occasion to say more with respect to this Account than they have done. Their Neglect was not from Want of Penetration or Design. Their genuine Characters were such as they could not suppose it would be ever suspected, that they could have any Inducement to impose a spurious Account on the Publick. Those who censure this Account of _de Fonte_ as a Cheat and a Forgery imposed by some one on the World, have produced no Evidence from Facts, or urged any Thing to shew the Improbability of this Account; as to the Argument they so strongly insist on that the Original was never produced, it is highly improbable that the Original ever should be produced in these Parts; and there is a Uniformity in the Circumstance that a Copy only came to the Hands of the Editors, which turns the Argument against the Objectors. The Suspicion of there being any Deceit or Forgery, hath arose from there having been different Systems advanced by Geographers respecting these Parts: Those in whose System this Account is not adopted have been the Occasion of such Suspicions being raised, and have given some Countenance to such their Suspicions from the imperfect Manner in which this Account hath been exhibited; though that is not to be attributed to the Account in its genuine Dress, but as broken and disfigured by the Translator and Printer. The Glosses and Comments added by the Person who took the Copy, and those added by the Translator in Explanation of the Text, are inserted in the same Character, and without any Distinction from the Text, and those by the Translator ignorantly introduced. Marginal Notes are inserted as Part of the Narration; Courses are omitted; others mistaken from the Translator's Inattention to the _Spanish_ Compass; Dates misplaced by the Printer: The Translator also deviates from the Mode of Expression, and renders, in an inaccurate, confused and obscure Manner, a very material Part in this Account. Many of these Faults we may attribute to Precipitation, from the Translator wanting due Time to study the Letter, occasioned by a Persecution of the Printer, who pressed him to finish that the Printer might compleat his monthly Number, and, from the same Necessity, the immediate Publication, it may be that the Faults of the Press are so many. Such numerous Defects make it evident that this Account could never have been originally constructed in this Manner; and it is on these Defects only that they rely, or from which their principal Arguments are drawn to invalidate the Authenticity of this Account. They might have perceived that a Relation, so mutilated and impaired, must have had a more uniform or regular Shape at one Time or other: And the Editors, in their Index, when the Year's Numbers were compleated, stile it _an original and very entertaining Letter of Admiral de Fonte_, by which they mean for the Curious; and by stiling it an Original, they are not only to be understood that it was never before published, but also that it was wrote by _de Fonte_; which implies that they had a _Spanish_ Account, and of which, as being consistent with their Purpose, they gave only a Translation: Also the Impression of the first Part, being so uncorrect and full of Faults, the second Part more correct, and the Mode of Expression resumed, shews that the first Composition is not their own, but that it is a Translation which the Editors have given us. The Defects and Imperfections of which being pointed out, we shall comprehend what little Reason there is to dispute the Authenticity of this Account, from the Disfigurements which have prevented our seeing it in its proper Shape, and for suspecting those Persons to be Authors of the Fiction who meant well; but their Fault consisted in their Inattention to the Translator, who did not therefore give a successful Conclusion to their good Design, as by rendering the Account obscure and unintelligible, he afforded Matter for Cavil and Dispute as to this Account of the Voyage, whether credible or not, and which a just Translation would have confirmed to be true. As to the Name _Bartholomew de Fonte_, we may observe that when the Translator can render the Names in the _Spanish_ by _English_ Names which are answerable thereto, he doth not insert the _Spanish_ Names, but the _English_. Thus, as to the Ships, he calls one the King _Philip_; but when they cannot be rendered by a resembling Denomination in the _English_, and the Name hath its Original from the _Latin_, he passes by the new Name, or as it is wrote in the _Spanish_, and gives us the antient Name, or according to the Latin _St. Spiritus_, _St. Lucia_, _Rosaria_, for _de Espiritu Santo_, _Santa Lucia_, _del Rosaria_. Hath rendered _Bartholomew de Fonte_, _Philip de Ronquillo_ both in _English_ and _Latin_. From which Management of the Translator, in giving the Name according to the _Latin_ and not giving it as it hath been transformed or changed agreeable to the _Spanish_ Orthography, there is just Reason to conclude the Name which is here rendered _Fonte_, was _Fuente_ or _Fuentes_ in the Original. But if it was wrote _Fonte_, it was in the provincial Dialect, different from the Manner of writing the good Writers introduced, which did not immediately prevail in all Parts alike, but was gradually received. For Instance, they wrote _Fuenterabia_ in _Castile_, when the _Biscayners_ continued to write _Fonterabia_; and it is as often spelt the one Way as the other in our Books and Maps. _Fuente_ and _Fuentes_ are not of one Termination. _Fonte_ or _Fuente_, in the Titles of the _Marquis Aguila de Fuente_, so in _de Fuente de Almexi_, is of the singular Number, or the Title is taken from the Water of _Almexi_. But _Fuentes_, in the Titles of the _Marquis de Fuentes_, and in _Conde Fuentes de Valde Pero_, or of _Don Pedro Enriques Conde de Fuentes_, expresses a plural Number, which the Translator, through his Indifference as to the Subject which he was employed to translate, might not observe. _Don Pedro Enriques Conde de Fuentes_ was raised to the Honour of being a Grandee by _Philip_ the Third, in the Year 1615, in respect to his great Services in the Wars; was descended from a Branch of that illustrious Family the _Enriques_. Nine of which Family were successively Admirals of _Castile_; and the ninth, _Don Joan Alonso Enriques_, was in that high Post at the Time of this Expedition. There were Intermarriages between the Families of _Enriques_ and _Valasco_; and _Don Pedro_ was succeeded in his Estate and Title by _Don Luis de Haro_, of the principal House of _Valasco_, and Son-in-Law to _Don Olivarez_. These Circumstances considered, we have a further Reason to suspect that the Name _de Fonte_ is not duly rendered by the Translator, as there is a Consistency in a Relation of the _Conde de Fuentes_ being advanced to be Admiral of _New Spain_ and _Peru_, which coincides with what is reported from _New Spain_, of the Name being _Fuentes_ of the Person who was President of _Chili_. It was also apparent that _de Fonte_ was a Man of Family, from those who took the respective Commands under him. _Pennelossa_, of whom more particular mention is made in the Letter: _Philip de Ronquillo_, seemingly allied to _John de Ronquillo_, who did considerable Service in the Year 1617, and was Governor of the _Philippine_ Islands. There was also _Ronquillo_ a Judge, sent to reduce the Insurgents at the City of _Segovia_, in the Time of the Civil Wars in _Spain_. _Pedro de Bonardæ_, who is afterwards called Captain _Barnarda_: Of him we must have the least to say; and we could not expect to be any Way successful in our Inquiries from this Inaccuracy. He seems not to have had so distinguished an Alliance as the others, and employed on this Expedition on the Account of his Abilities, being allotted to a Service not like that of _Pennelossa_, or _Ronquillo_, disagreeable in respect to the Climate, fatiguing and hazardous. That he was a Gentleman by his Descent, is evident from his being named _de Bonardæ_. The _Spanish_ Fleet was but in a mean Condition at the Conclusion of the Ministry of the Duke of _Lerma_; but when an Expedition was set out to recover _St. Salvador_ in the Year 1626, was much improved; the _Portuguese_ had twenty-six Sail, but the _Spanish_ Fleet were now numerous. It doth not appear that the Fleets from _Lisbon_, when _Portugal_ was under the Crown of _Spain_, were sent otherwhere than to the _East Indies_, _Brazil_, and the Perlieus; and those from _Old Spain_, that sailed from _Cadiz_, went to _New Spain_, and the Islands under that Dominion. In the Year 1596, when Sir _Francis Drake_ took _Cadiz_, he burnt the Fleet that was lying there bound for _Mexico_; and Mr. _Gage_, in the Year 1625, sailed with a Fleet of sixteen Sail, all for _Mexico_, and to the _West Indies_ seventeen Sail, besides eight Galleons for a Convoy, all under two _Spanish_ Admirals. The Inconsistency that _de Fonte_, a _Portugueze_, should be in such a Post as _Admiral of New Spain_, a great Objection to the Authenticity of this Account, is removed by the Observations that have been made as to the Name _de Fonte_, by which it appears that he was not a _Portugueze_, and their having Sea Commanders, _Spaniards_ by Birth, with whom they could supply the principal Posts in the Marine, without being under the Necessity of applying to _Portugal_ for Persons qualified to fill those Stations. As to _de Fonte_ being afterwards President of _Chili_, it is meant of the _Audience of Chili_, subordinate to the _Viceroy of Peru_. REMARKS ON The LETTER of Admiral DE FONTE. The Viceroys of _New Spain_ and _Peru_, having Advice from the Court of _Spain_, and not from _the Court_ and the _Council of Spain_; which latter is the common Form of Expression used in any Matter which had been under the Consideration of the _Supreme Council of the Indies_, implies that such Advice must have proceeded from the Secret Council, or from the King through his Minister, that the Design of the Equipment of the four Ships, and the Attempt of the Industrious Navigators from _Boston_ might remain a Secret. The Appellation of Industrious Navigators was conformable to the Characters of _Gibbons_ and _Shapley_. Sir _Thomas Button_, in the Extract which there is from his Journal, gives _Gibbons_ a great Eulogium as to his being an able Navigator; and this was the Character of _Shapley_ amongst his Cotemporaries. The Court of _Spain_ knew that this Attempt to discover a Passage between the _Atlantick_ and the _Western Ocean_, was intended by the Northward and Westward; and though they allude to all the Attempts to make such Discovery which had been at any Time made, by mentioning the several Reigns in which any such Attempts were made, yet they hint more particularly, that they expect this Attempt will be by _Hudson_'s Bay, as they mention expresly in their Advice the two Voyages of _Hudson_ and _James_. For what is here said, _That the several Attempts_, &c. is a Recital from the Advice sent by the Court to the Viceroys, or from the Orders that _de Fonte_ received. This Expedition from _Boston_ particularly commanded the Attention of the Court of _Spain_, as Captain _James_ had not absolutely denied there was a North-west Passage; and _Fox_, though not mentioned here, had published an Account in 1635, by which he had positively declared that there was a North-west Passage; and Sir _Thomas Button_, who kept his Journal a Secret, was very confident of a Passage, and is said to have satisfied King _James_ the First. The Death of his Patron _Prince Henry_ prevented his being fitted out again. _Gibbons_, his Intimate, had made the Voyage with him: Afterwards had made a second Attempt by himself, but lost his Season by being detained in the Ice. And now, though a married Man, had a Family, a Person in Trust and Power where he resided, engages in a third Attempt from _Boston_. _The second, third, and fourth Year of the Reign of King Charles_ refers solely to the Voyage of Captain _James_; to the Time he was engaging Friends to fit him out; and the Time when such Voyage was concluded on. As the _English_ used the _Julian_, and the _Spaniards_ the _Gregorian_ Account, these Transactions which refer to Captain _James_'s Expedition, could not be made to coalesce as to the Time, from the Difference there was between these two Computations, in any other Manner than by putting the Year of the King of _England_'s Reign. As King _Charles_ began his Reign the 27th of _March_ 1625, two Days after the Commencement of the Year, according to the _Julian_ Account, and the second Year of his Reign would not begin until the 27th of _March_ 1626, two Days also after that Year commenced, but according to the _Gregorian_ Account, the Year 1626 began in _January_; from the 1st of _January_ to the 27th of _March_, the Year 1626, according to the _Gregorian_ Account, would correspond with the first Year of the Reign of King _Charles_. As to this Expedition from _Boston_, it is mentioned to be in the Year 1639, and in the fourteenth Year of the Reign of King _Charles_; but the Year 1639, according to the _Julian_ Account, is the fifteenth Year of that King's Reign; but according to the _Gregorian_ Account, the Year 1639 corresponds from _January_ to _March_ with the fourteenth Year of that King's Reign. The Times mentioned in this Letter do not refer to the Times when the Voyages were actually set out on, but when undertaken or resolved on, as it is expressed in the Letter, _undertaken_ by some industrious Navigators from _Boston_. Captain _James_ did not sail until the Year one Thousand six Hundred and Thirty-one, not getting the King's Protection early enough in one Thousand six Hundred and Thirty, to proceed that Year, or in the fourth Year of the King's Reign. That is, he did not get it early enough in Spring to be ready by the latter End of _March_, as he must have been to proceed that Year; so the fourth Year of the King well agrees with this Proceeding. And _de Fonte_ did not sail until one Thousand six Hundred and Forty, which was a Year after the Court of _Spain_ had received Intelligence of such Undertaking from _Boston_. Which they would use the first Opportunity to transmit to _New Spain_; _de Fonte_ therefore had at least six Months for the Equipment of the four Ships to go on this Expedition; a Time sufficient, in so fine a Climate, and every Thing that was necessary to be done was enforced by Orders of the Crown. Had this Equipment been executed in a much smaller Space of Time, there would have been nothing so admirable in it: Therefore the Objection, as to the Impossibility that Ships should be fitted between the Time the Court received this Information, and their sailing, drops to the Ground. It is not any way strange that this Design, as it appears to have been, was made known to the Court of _Spain_ the Year before that it was set out on; as that Court entertained a continual Jealousy of these Undertakings, as is apparent from their sending Vessels to intercept _Davis_; their having Informations as to Captain _James_'s Voyage also, and the Consequences of it, as may be collected from this Letter. Major General _Gibbons_, if he had not the King's Protection, yet he had Friends at the Court of _England_ who made Application for him to be Captain of the Fort at _Boston_, and one of the Council, the latter End of the Year one Thousand six Hundred and Thirty-eight, or in the Beginning of the Year one Thousand six Hundred and Thirty-nine. That the most secret Affairs of the Court were at that Time betrayed, I believe will be admitted, and the Secret of his designed Attempt might be known, by his applying for Leave of Absence from his Post during the Time that he should be engaged in this Undertaking. Or the Persons with whom he corresponded in _England_ might be apprized of his intended Voyage, as he could not, at that Time of Day, be supplied with every Thing that was necessary thereto in _America_; and as he intended to trade, he would be for procuring his Goods from _England_. By some of these Means probably his Design perspired, and was secretly and unexpectedly, transmitted to the Court of _Spain_. There are several Reasons to be assigned why both Viceroys should be informed, not only the Viceroy of _Peru_, in whose District the Ships were to be fitted, but the Viceroy of _New Spain_ also. That if a Passage was made by any other Way than where the Ships were to be stationed to intercept the _Boston_ Men, or they accidentally passed such Ships, the Viceroys might order a Look-out also to be kept. And such a Provision being made, it would be scarce possible, if a Passage was obtained, that the _Boston_ People should get clear out of those Seas, and not fall into the Hands of the _Spaniards_. Another Reason is, that such Particulars as _de Fonte_ was to put in for on the Coast of _Mexico_ might be ready, that _de Fonte_ might not meet with the least Delay, as such Delay might occasion the Disappointment of his Design. The Letter proceeds, 'Upon which, I Admiral _de Fonte_, received Orders from _Spain_ and the Viceroys to equip four Ships of Force.' These Words, _upon which_, I understand not to allude to the Advice given the Viceroys, but refer to the Attempt intended from _Boston_, and as to which he had received his Orders from _Spain_. But from the Viceroys he received Orders only as to the Equipment of the four Ships, as Orders of that Nature would regularly proceed from them. If it was otherwise, and he had also received his Orders from them, containing Instructions as to the Conduct of his Voyage, he would have made his Report to the Viceroys as to the Manner in which he had conducted his Voyage, and they would have reported it to the Court. _De Fonte_ mentioning the Viceroys so simply and plainly, without any respectful or distinguishing Additions, is an Instance that this Letter was wrote to the Court of _Spain_, it not being proper, in a Letter so addressed, to mention the Viceroys in any other Manner; and as it is also evident from the Expression, _I Admiral de Fonte_, that he did not write this Letter in his private Capacity, but as an Admiral, therefore this Letter could not be otherwhere addressed than to such Court, to transmit an Account how he had executed these Orders, which he had received immediately from _Spain_. _De Fonte_ mentioning that the Advice which the Viceroys received was from the Court of _Spain_, and that the Orders he received were from _Spain_, carries a Distinction with it as though the Advice and the Orders were not transmitted from the same Persons. Those who transmitted the Advice to the Viceroys were not seemingly in the Secret, as to the particular Orders or Instructions which were sent to _de Fonte_, as to the Manner in which he was to conduct his Voyage. It was the Province of the Admiral of _Castile_, who was stiled Captain General of the Sea, who was subject to no Controul but the King's, to issue all Orders relative to maritime Affairs, and therefore _de Fonte_'s Orders might come from him. Or otherwise these Orders were immediately transmitted by the _Conde de Olivarez_, who was on ill Terms with the Admiral, and regarded no Forms, under the Sanction of the Favour he had with the King, whom he influenced to authorize all his Measures. It is also consistent with the Conduct of _Don Olivarez_ that this Affair should be managed in this Manner, who was always mysterious, confided in his own Judgment, singular in his Manners, and therefore was called a Lover of Projects, and supposed a meer Visionary in some of them. He did not want for Persons of the greatest Abilities to assist him, and the Accuracy with which the Orders are composed that were sent to _de Fonte_, (as may be collected from the Manner in which the Voyage is conducted, and in which it cannot be supposed _de Fonte_ was left to his Discretion) is an Instance there had been no Want of the Assistance of able, sagacious and experienced Persons in the composing of such Orders and Instructions. The Design of this introductory Part is to shew the Proceedings in this Affair previous to his Voyage; that the Advice was received, and the Orders subsequent were obeyed; and it is drawn with peculiar Care and a Conciseness which would be censured in a Voyage Writer, but is used with the greatest Propriety on this Occasion. The Names of the Ships are agreeable to the Manner that the _Spaniards_ name theirs; and by Ships of Force is not meant either their Caracks or Galeons, but Country Ships, which the Equipment seems to imply, made defensible against any Attacks of the Natives, and to have nothing to fear from the _Boston_ Men, and these Ends could be obtained in Vessels which had no great Draught of Water, as the Rivers they were to pass up and the Lakes required, and of a Tonnage suitable to those Northern Seas, therefore _de Fonte_ only expresses their Names, and their Commanders, says nothing of their Rates. _De Fonte_, in his Course from the _Callao_ of _Lima_, and in all his subsequent Courses through the Voyage, computes his Distance after the Marine Manner, from that Land from where he takes his Departure to the Land made when he enters a Harbour, or the Termination of the Land which makes such Harbour to Seaward; and here takes his Departure from the extreme Part of the _Callao_ of _Lima_, which is in the Latitude 11° 5´ S. Longitude 80° 39´ W. and from which to _St. Helena_, being North of the Bay of _Guiaguil_, in Lat. 2° 5´ S. Long. 84° 6´ W. is two hundred Leagues; and there is no Fault in the Impression, as hath been supposed. Though these Words, _on the North Side of the Bay_ of _Guiaguil_ seem to be an Interpolation. The Distance said to be run between the _Callao_ of _Lima_ and _St. Helena_ is not reconcileable with the Accounts published by _Dampier_, _Wood Rogers_, or the Accounts in general, excepting with a Copy of a _Spanish_ Manuscript, of the Latitudes and Longitudes of the most noted Places in the _South Seas_, corrected from the latest Observations, by _Manuel Monz. Prieto_, Professor of Arts in _Peru_, whose Computation of Longitude is from the Meridian of _Paris_; but he fixes _Lima_ at full eighty Degrees. I use _Prieto_'s Tables in this, and principally in all my subsequent Computations, though _de Fonte_ no where mentions the Longitude in this Letter, as he only regards the Difference of the Meridian of _Lima_. And it by no Means invalidates but favours the Authenticity of this Account, that _de Fonte_ differs in his Computation from the _English_ and _French_ Accounts at, and after those Times, which also differ from each other, as they only ranged along the Coasts of those Seas, judged of their Distances according to their Journals, and must have made many vague Observations, as to the Latitude of Places, by Inspection of the Land from Sea, and which Land they might not certainly know. Their best Directions they got from Manuscript Journals, or Sea Waggoners, composed for their own Use by Coasters. But the navigating of the King's Ships were better provided for in this respect; and we may well suppose that _de Fonte_ was not, on this Occasion, deficient in Artists well versed in the Theory as well as the Practice of Navigation, and under this Character of an Artist we may consider _Parmentiers_. The Truth, as to the Latitude, once fixed is not variable by Time; and in this respect _de Fonte_ and _Prieto_ must agree, though a Century between the Time of their Computations. The Expression, 'anchored in the Port of _St. Helena_ (in _Spanish_, _Santa Elena_) _within the Cape_,' hath something more particular in it than appears on a transient View. The Point of _St. Helena_ is thus described in the sailing Directions in the _Atlas Maritimus_, published in 1728. 'The Point itself is high, but as you come nearer in there is a lower Point runs out sharpening towards the Sea. And there are two distinct Anchorages within this Port, one within the lower Point, here Vessels ride without Shelter, and amongst Banks and Shoals. Under the high Land, there is the other Anchorage, deep Water, and secure riding.' Under this high Land, being called the Port within the Cape, is a Distinction which I do not find made by the Voyage Writers, or in any other of the sailing Directions for these Parts that I have seen; and _de Fonte_ particularly mentions, as it may be supposed, being in Conformity with his Instructions. _De Fonte_ taking in the _Betumen_ must have been in pursuance of his Instructions, and there provided for him by Order of the Viceroy. That which follows, called vulgarly Tar, _&c._ seems to be an Interpolation, or additional Comment, though not distinguished as such; and it may be observed here is a different Mode of Expression, and a Want of that Conciseness which apparently precedes. If with these Words took _a Quantity of Betumen_, we connect _on the 10th we passed the Equinoctial_, then that Conciseness and Simplicity of the Narration is preserved. It is inconsistent that _de Fonte_ should inform the Court, that it was not for Want of Tar that he put into this Port, and that he did not procure this _Betumen_ to use instead of Tar, but to make Use of it as Medicine. The taking the _Betumen_ aboard sufficiently intimated his Compliance with his Instructions. The Expression, _we took it in for Medicine_, hath something particular in it, seems to be a Note or Memorandum added by some Person who made the Voyage, to instruct a Friend for whom he made, or to whom he gave, a Copy of this Letter. The one Degree seven Minutes of Latitude is misplaced, Cape _St. Francisco_ being by no Geographers or Voyage Writers placed in that Latitude; the one Degree seven Minutes is the Latitude of the River _St. Jago_, and which _Prieto_ lays down in one Degree eight Minutes. As to the Courses and Distances eighty Leagues N. N. W. and twenty-five Leagues E. and by S. which were placed in the Margin in the first Edition, but are since crept into the Text. N. N. W. is a Course entirely contrary, and instead of one there is two Courses, North and North East, and which two Courses are consistent with the E. and by S. Course twenty-five Leagues, as that Course will then terminate in the Latitude and Longitude of the River _Jago_. This Error of North West for North East may be accounted for by remarking, that in the _Spanish_ Compass North East and North West are rendered _Nord Este_ and _Nord Oeste_: The Omission of the _O_ in _este_ is a Fault which may be committed even by a careful Transcriber, or may be a Mistake in the Translator, for Want of due Attention to the Compass. In the Passage from _St. Helena_ he would keep the Coast aboard, for the Benefit of a fair and fresh Wind, and which he would have without any Interruption from the Land Breezes, and by standing N. W. to clear the Islands of _Solango_ and _Paita_, and then stand North Easterly would form a North Course of one Hundred and Thirty-two Miles, or forty-four Leagues, and then be off Cape _Passao_, in N. Lat. 8´. Long. 83° 59´ W. and well in with such Cape, as it is evident he was from the Expression in the Letter by the Cape _del Passao_ with a North East Course, thirty-six Leagues, they would be in Lat. 1° 23´ North, Long. 82° 50´, and so have passed Cape _Francisco_, N. Lat. 50´, Long. 82° 55´, and with an East and by South Course twenty-five Leagues, would be in the Lat. 1° 8´, Long. 81° 36´, the Latitude and Longitude of the River _St. Jago_. There was not such a Provision Country, it appears from later Accounts, on any Part of the Coast between this and _Lima_; nor could the Ships be any where brought up with greater Safety: _St. Helena_ is described as a poor and barren Part of the Country. The Health of his People, liable to scorbutick Disorders in the northern Climates whither he was going, was an Object that must be attended to, in order that the Voyage should meet with the desired Success. Therefore after the _Betumen_, he recruits what he had consumed of his fresh Provision in his run from _Lima_, and lays in a great additional Store, as is apparent if we consider that their Consumption in this respect is not proportionable to ours, from their Mode of dressing it. And we may judge from having so great a Quantity of Fowl ready, with Goats and Hogs, the People had received Orders to be thus provided against the Ships Arrival; the Sailors would be a great Assistance in curing the Provisions, the Flesh as well as the Fish, and would do it in the most suitable Manner for the Sea Service; a Number of Hands, gave an Expedition so as the Provisions would not be spoiled by the Heat of the Sun; and his Victualling detained _de Fonte_ four Days. _Six Miles and a half, or the Left Hand the River is navigable for small Vessels_, and all that follows seems by Way of Comment, and to be a spurious Interpolation, as also, _which are there wild and in plenty_. 'The 16th of _April_ we sailed from the River of _St. Jago_ to the Port and Town _Raleo_, 320 Leagues W. N. W. a little westerly, in about 11 Degrees 14 Min. of N. Latitude, leaving Mount _St. Miguel_, &c.' The Point of _Yeaxos_, or the _Sandy Strand_, in Lat. 11° 58´, Long. 93° 31´, which covers the Port of _Raleo_ (or _Realejo_) is three Hundred and twenty Leagues from the River _St. Jago_; but the Course N. 47° 30´ W. or N. W. almost a Quarter West, and by the Expression _a little_ Westerly, the W. N. W. seems to mean, he steered first West from the River _St. Jago_, until he made the high Land, and then North-west, a little Westerly. Between Mount _Miguel_ and Point _Cazarnina_ (rightly _Caravina_) is the Entrance in the Bay of _Amapalla_, which is to the Northward of the Port of _Realejo_; therefore the leaving Mount _St. Miguel_ on the Larboard, _&c._ being an absolute Contradiction to _de Fonte_ entering the Port of _Realejo_, is an Interpolation and not inserted by the Person who wrote the Letter, but a Comment very injudiciously added by Way of Explanation. From this Circumstance the Truth of my Assertion appears, as to there being Glosses and Comments added to the original Text, and that I had good Reason to believe several Places in the preceding Part of this Account to be Interpolations added by Way of Comment. The great Ships that are built in _New Spain_ are built in _Raleo_ is disposed in the Margin in the first Edition; but in all the subsequent Editions hath crept into the Text. We may suppose the W. N. W. Course hath crept into the Text in the first Edition to make room for this Comment, as may be judged from the Course between _St. Helena_ and _St. Jago_ being placed in the Margin: And there is an apparent Reason for the Course and Distances being so placed, for when inserted in the Text, they interrupt the Attention; and as the Courses and Distances were all that was necessary to be mentioned, the Latitudes have been since added by some injudicious Person.--The Latitude of _Passao_, of Cape _St. Francisco_, is not mentioned, and the Latitude of _Raleo_ is wrong, which the Course and Distance shews, and its Latitude is in most Maps agreeable to the Course and Distance here given. The Run, allowing _de Fonte_ eight Days, would be but one hundred Miles in twenty-four Hours, which is very moderate going. Nor can there be any Objection, as to the Truth of this Account, from the Time that _de Fonte_ is sailing between the _Callao_ of _Lima_ to _St. Helena_, from _St. Helena_ to _St. Jago_. All that belongs to the original Letter I take to be this, The 16th of _April_ we sailed from the River _St. Jago_ to the Port and Town of _Raleo_; here we bought (which probably might as well be rendered procured) four long well-sailed Shallops, built express for sailing, riding at Anchor, _&c._ The 320 Leagues W. N. W. a little Westerly, I suppose to have been placed in the Margin. It cannot be supposed that Boats so fitted, and four of them, could be procured in so small a Time as _de Fonte_ staid here, it implies they were previously provided before that he arrived, to be ready at the Arrival of the Ships. 'The _26th_ we sailed from _Raleo_ for the Port of _Saragua_, or rather of _Salagua_, within the Islands and Shoals of _Chamily_, 480 Leagues N. W. and by West, a little Westerly from _Raleo_. From the Town of _Saragua_, a little East of _Chamily_ at _Saragua_, and from _Compostilo_ in the Neighbourhood of this Port, we took in a Master and six Mariners accustomed to trade with the Natives for Pearl the Natives catched on a Bank in 19 Degrees of Latitude North from the _Baxos_ of _St. Juan_ in 24 Degrees of North Latitude, 20 Leagues N. N. E. from Cape _Saint Lucas_, the South-east Point of _California_.' The Point of _Yeaxos_ is laid down in Lat. 11 Deg. 58 Min. Long. 93 Deg. 31 Min. and with a Course North-west and by West, a little Westerly, Distance four Hundred and eighty Leagues, _de Fonte_ would be at the Islands of _Chiametlas_, in Lat. 22 Deg. 10 Min. Long. 114 Deg. 29 Min. The Port of _Saragua_, or rather of _Salagua_ (which is properly _Zuelagua_) is thus described. 'The Mount of _Sant Jago_ is in the Port of _Zuelagua_. There are two very good Harbours which have good anchoring Ground, and will hold a great many Ships, by reason they are great and are called the _Calletas_. On the North-west Side of the said Bay is another very good Port, which is called likewise the Port of _Zuelagua_. You will find in it a River of fresh Water, and several Plantations. At the Sea Side is a Pathway that leads to the Town of _Zuelagua_, being four and a half Miles from the Port within Land. Between the Port of _Zuelagua_ and the white Ferrelon (or Rock) is a very good Port, in which you are Land-locked from all Winds.' From this Description it is easy to comprehend what is _de Fonte_'s Meaning as to the Port of _Zuelagua_, where he took in his Master and Mariners on the North-west Side of the Bay, and which he expresses by, at _Saragua_ a little East of _Chamily_; and which Master and Mariners were not promiscuously taken, but were chosen Men, as they were taken both from _Zuelagua_ and _Compostilo_, in the Neighbourhood of the Port. _Zuelagua_ seems originally the City which was called _Xalisco_; but from its unhealthy Situation, _Compostilo_ was built more within Land; yet the former continuing to be a Port, some Inhabitants remained there. The Islands and Shoals of _Chiametla_, which the Translation renders _Chamily_, which is a Name given to Islands South of Cape _Corientes_. But the Distinction is the Islands to Northward of Cape _Corientes_ are called _Chiametla_, those to Southward _Chametla_ and _Camilli_. _Prieto_ agrees with _de Fonte_'s Account first mentioning the Islands of _Chiametlas_ in Lat. 22. 10. Long. 114. 29. and then _El mal Pays y mal outradu_. This Master and Mariners were accustomed to trade with the Natives for Pearl, which the Natives catched on a Bank in nineteen Degrees of Latitude, being North from the _Baxos of St. Juan_, or the Bank of _St. John_, which is in twenty-four Degrees of North Latitude, and twenty Leagues North North-east from Cape _Saint Lucas_, the South-east Point of _California_; and this Account _de Fonte_ had either from themselves, or the Character that was sent with them, to shew the most proper Persons had been provided to answer the Purpose for which they were procured. And all that belongs to the Text is, which the Natives catched on a Bank North from the _Baxos St. Juan_, twenty Leagues N. N. E. from Cape _St. Lucas_. 'The Master Admiral _de Fonte_ had hired, with his Vessel and Mariners, who had informed the Admiral that, 200 Leagues North from Cape _St. Lucas_, a Flood from the North met the South Flood, and that he was sure it must be an Island, and _Don Diego Pennelossa_ undertook to discover whether it was an Island or not, with his Ship and the four Shallops they bought at _Raleo_, and the Master and Mariners they hired at _Zuelagua_.' Here the Thread of the Letter is broke, and the Translator proceeds as with a common Narrative of a Voyage. The Master might be easily deceived as to the Tide, as Time hath shewn in many Instances as to other Persons having been deceived in like Manner in other Parts. That we have no Account of what was the Event of this Expedition _Pennelossa_, who had undertaken the Charge, being no more to join _de Fonte_, as it was unnecessary and to no Purpose, _Pennelossa_ would return first and send his Account to Court. _De Fonte_ could in this Case do no further than shew he had sent him on this Service, it must be supposed, agreeable to his Instructions. Which, from the Boats brought from _Realejo_, (and must be of a particular Constructure, the like of which were not to be any where else on the Coast) and the Master and Mariners hired here, it is evident, was before proposed, that _Pennelossa_ should go on this Part of the Expedition, not on the Master's declaring that there was a Tide from the Northward, and so _California_ an Island. This was only mentioned by _de Fonte_, to shew what Intelligence he had got in this Affair. The Account given of _Pennelossa_ could be evidently no Part of the Letter. What is said as to his Descent, his being a Nobleman, his Address to Cosmography, and the Undertaking of this Discovery, must evidence as already said, whoever inserted the Account was satisfied as to their being such a Person so accomplished, and who aspired to undertake this Part of the Expedition. A Discovery of these Parts would carry, at this Time particularly, great Reputation and Honour with it, and by this Opportunity to intercept Persons on a Design so prejudicial to the Interests of the Court of _Spain_ in those Parts, as it was then thought, had _Pennelossa_ succeeded; he would have had no small Share of Merit; or if he did not succeed, the Merit of the Attempt would be accounted of, and not unjustly, it would be a Means of his Promotion through the Connections he had, as they would urge he did not pursue those Sciences for Speculation only, but to carry them into Practice for the Service of his Country. And according to the Regulations Don _Olivarez_ had made, there was no Preferment but what was in consequence of Service. Sister's Son of _Don Lewis de Haro_, and a young Nobleman, expresses as of the Time present, when the Copy was taken from which we have the Publication; and _Don Haro, Prime Minister of Spain_, was a Gloss added by another Hand. Neither is _Don Luis de Haro_ the Person here meant, for he does not seem to have been of an Age to have had a Sister who could be Mother to _Don Pennelossa_; but _Don Lopez de Haro_ is the Person meant, _Marquis de Carpio_, the Father of _Don Luis_, who was at that Time Gentleman of the Chamber to the King, and afterwards Prime Minister, and must be understood the Son of his Wife's Sister, who was a Daughter of _Olivarez_, married to the _Marquis de Valderiabano_. 'But Admiral _de Fonte_, with the other three Ships, sailed from them within the Islands of _Chamilly_ the 10th _May_ 1640, and having the Length of Cape _Abel_ on the W. S. W. Side of _California_, in 26 Degrees of N. Latitude, 160 Leagues N. W. and W. from the Isles _Chamilly_; the Wind sprung up at S. S. E. a steady Gale, that from the _26th_ of _May_ to the _14th_ of _June_ he had sailed to the River _Los Reys_, in 53 Degrees of North Latitude, not having Occasion to lower a Topsail, in sailing 866 Leagues N. N. W. 410 Leagues from Port _Abel_ to Cape _Blanco_, 456 Leagues to _Rio los Reyes_, all the Time most pleasant Weather, and sailed about 260 Leagues in crooked Channels, amongst Islands named the _Archipelagus de St. Lazarus_; where his Ships Boats always sailed a Mile a-head, sounding to see what Water, Rocks, and Sands, there was.' _De Fonte_ and _Pennelossa_ both put out to Sea together; but as their Courses were various, one to the Westward of _California_, and the other to enter the Gulf. They parted within the Shoals of _Chiametla_ the tenth of _May_ 1640; and _de Fonte_ attaining the Length of _Cape Abel_ in Latitude 26, one Hundred and sixty Leagues North North-west and West from the Isles of _Chiametla_, he then meets with a fair Wind from South South-east. By the Latitude of Cape _Abel_, and the Distance run, it is apparent that the Islands _Chiametla_ mentioned, are the Islands here meant. _De Fonte_, after running one Hundred and sixty Leagues from the Isles of _Chiametla_, in Lat. 22 Deg. 10 Min. and Long. 114 Deg. 29 Min. attaining the Length of Cape _Abel_ in Latitude 26, his Course could not be North-west and West, but North-west by West westerly, or 61° 22´. _and_, instead of, _by_, may be supposed an Error of the Press. Dr. _Heylin_ mentions a convenient Haven named _St. Abad_, who wrote near these Times. But it is _Christabel_, or _Christeval_, the Name of a Cape the Extremity of the Land, which forms a Harbour or Port of the same Name _Christabel_. _Prieto_ mentions no Place on the main Land but the three Islands of _Casonas_, which lie off at Sea, so more to Westward than this Cape. They are in Lat. 26 Deg. Long. 122 Deg. 24 Min. the Longitude of Cape _Abel_ I make in 122 Deg. 11 Min. and he lays down the Point of _Madelena_ in 26 Deg. 30 Min. and the Long. 123 Deg. 24 Min. which seems to be the northermost Land of such Harbour. By _de Fonte_ mentioning the Latitude of this Cape, and not any other, he may be supposed to take from hence a new Departure, as was usual with the _Spaniards_ when they came to this Length in these Seas, so _Prieto_ mentions _Las Bajas de los Abraja, Primier Meridiano_. Lat. 25° 15´. Long. 121 Deg. 54 Min. from _Lima_. _De Fonte_ in his Run from _Chiametla_ met with contrary Winds; but when the Length of Cape _Abel_, he had Wind and Weather rather unexpected in those Parts; and the Spring not being much advanced, he rather expected to have been, at Times, under his Courses, which is meant by the Expression afterwards used, that he never had occasion to lower a Topsail, and is conformable with its being a steady Gale, or did not overblow. As the Run to _Los Reys_ terminated the fourteenth of _June_, _de Fonte_, for the whole eight Hundred and sixty Leagues, sailed after the Rate of forty-five Leagues in twenty-four Hours, which is consistent with and agreeable to the Seamens common Experience, when favoured with such Wind and Weather. Amongst the Islands would have the Assistance of the Floods, and Wind enough to stem the Ebbs. The Computation of the eight Hundred and sixty-six Leagues is four Hundred and ten Leagues to Cape _Blanquial_, to which there is a Course assigned North North-west; and as to four Hundred and fifty-six Leagues to _Rio los Reys_, no Courses are added, which we may assign to the Courses being originally in the Margin, when one was introduced into the Copy the other was neglected. And we have just Reason to suspect the Carelessness here, as it is first called _Cape Abel_, then _Port Abel_, and the River _Los Reys_ in 53 Degrees, and afterwards _Rio los Reys_, as tho' they were distinct and separate. With the N. N. W. Course _Rio los Reys_ could not be in the Latitude _de Fonte_ mentions. _Port Abel_, Latitude 26, Long. 122° 11´, and the _Callao_ of _Lima_, being laid down Longitude 60 West from the first Meridian of _Fero_, and hitherto we have carried on our Computation of Longitude 80 from _Paris_, we shall hereafter compute from _Fero_ and _London_; and Cape _Christabel_ we compute 102° 11´ from the Meridian of _Fero_, or 119° 46´ from the Meridian of _London_. The Course four Hundred and ten Leagues North North-west, _de Fonte_ made Cape _Blanquial_ in Latitude 45, Longitude from _London_ 129° 28´, from the Meridian of _Fero_ 111° 53´, to Northward and Westward of the Entrance of _Martin Aquilar_. Sufficient Observations have not been made to determine by the Geographers as to the true Latitudes and Longitudes of these Places, and, until they attain more perfect Informations, must disagree. The Course from _Blanquial_ is not inserted, but is to be determined by the Distance two Hundred and sixty Leagues, ending in Latitude 53 at _Rio los Reys_. _De Fonte_ had, during the whole Time between _Abel_ and _Los Reys_, the Wind in his Favour. Therefore his Course must have been to the Northward of the East; and if he run two Hundred and sixty Leagues, with a Course East 52° North, he would make 2 Deg. 1 Min. Latitude, and 20 Deg. 24 Min. Longitude. To correspond with which _de Fonte_ must, for the one Hundred and ninety-six Leagues, made his Course North 52 Deg. West, which would determine in Latitude 50 Deg. 59 Min. and in Long. 141 Deg. 12 Min. from _London_, in 123 Deg. 27 Min. West from _Fero_. _De Fonte_ would then be about thirty Leagues from the Land, agreeable to the _Russian_ Discoveries, tho' this Voyage was made so many Years before that Attempt; a great Evidence of the Authenticity of this Account. His Conduct also in this Case was necessary, consistent with the Character of a good Seaman, not to make the Coast direct, or immediately engage with this _Archipelago_, to which he was a Stranger, and in Parts unknown, or where he had no sailing Directions but to form such Course as gradually to fall in with the Land, and, as the Wind was, if he saw Occasion, could at any Time stand off. _De Fonte_ by this Course, agreeable to the Latitude of the _Suesta del Estrech D'Anian_, which is laid down by _Prieto_ in Latitude 51, would be to the Southern Part of the Entrance into such _Archipelago_, had he been Northward, as the Wind was, he would have regained it with great Difficulty and Loss of Time. As this Table of _Prieto_ was composed before the _Russian_ Discoveries, and this Land, the _Suesta del Estrech D'Anian_, is computed in Longitude 141 Deg. 47 Min. computing _Lima_ at 80 Deg. answerable to 238 Deg. 13 Min. East Longitude from _Fero_, it is a little singular that these Accounts should agree so well, as to the Longitude of this Part of _America_; is an Instance that _Prieto_ did not proceed upon vague Calculations; had acquired a more exact Account than could be even supposed in these unfrequented Parts, and in his Care and Exactness, as to the more known Parts, we have no Reason to doubt but he hath laid down the Latitude and Longitude of the _Suesta del Estrech de Anian_, with the greatest Certainty that he could attain to. I shall not controvert it whether these are the proper Streights of _Anian_. This Entrance was commonly called amongst the Navigators into those Parts by that Name, as is evident from former Accounts; and _Hornius_, from his Maps, which may be seen in _Purchase_, lays it down in the same Manner. My Intention is answered in producing an Authority from the _Spaniards_ of _New Spain_, that there is an Entrance here agreeable to the Account in this Letter; also, in all Appearance, a superior Entrance to that of _Martin Aguilar_, which _Prieto_ doth not expresly mention; neither could he properly; but inserts Cape _Escondido_ in Lat. 43, and Cape _Blanquial_ in Lat. 45, an intermediate Distance of one Hundred and twenty Miles. Again mentions the Port of _Salagua_ in Lat. 46, and then the Port of _Salado_ in Lat. 48; in which Interspace the Entrance of _de Fuca_ is supposed to be. By the Name _Archipelago_, _de Fonte_, who would give the Name with Propriety, expresses it to be a Sea; and on his Return says, he sailed down the River _Los Reys_ to the North-east _Part_ of the _South Sea_; after that returned home. Where the Word _Part_, properly speaking, or to use the Word as it really imports, can be no otherwise understood than as an Arm or Branch of the _South Sea_. Had he steered eight Hundred and sixty-six Leagues North North-west, he must necessarily have traversed the Courses of those brave Discoverers Capt. _Beering_ and _Tschirikow_, which were from Lat. 45 in _Asia_, to Lat. 56 and 58 in _America_, and who were not interrupted by any such Islands. Capt. _Tschirikow_ positively says, the Coast was without Islands where he was in Lat. 56; by Capt. _Beering_'s Account in Lat. 58, the Islands lay only _along_ the Coast; and _de Fonte_ in his Account mentions, that he sailed in crooked Channels, amongst Islands. These various Descriptions shew that these Accounts relate to various Parts. As _de Fonte_ could not, in the whole Extent between _Asia_ and _America_, meet with such Islands, and yet was under a Necessity to pass up crooked Channels, with no small Hazard, as the Boats being a-head express, his Course must have been to the Eastward of where Captain _Tschirikow_ fell in with the Land, and for the Distance of the two Hundred and thirty Leagues before _de Fonte_ came to a River, to _Los Reyes_, was then passing up the North-east Part of the _South Sea_, as he terms it, and in some Part of which there were Islands, which he names the _Archipelagus of St. Lazarus_. There is a Singularity of Expression in the Letter, _where_ his Boats always sailed a-head, the Word _where_ limits the Islands to a certain Space, and that they were not extended the whole two Hundred and thirty Leagues, which is consistent with the Expedition he made, as otherwise the Ships must have often shortened sail, and it could not be avoided, and must have frequently brought up at Night. As _de Fonte_ did neither make the South or North Shore of this Streight, the most comprehensive Way of expressing himself was to say, he passed up these Islands, by which those who had composed his Instructions well knew the Parts he meant. It must be considered _de Fonte_ was not as to this Part on Discovery, the Whole would be pointed out to him by his Instructions, which being to fall in with the Islands, or Entrance in such a Latitude, to mention either the North or South Limit of the Entrance would be improper; whereas the contrary was the Case as to Cape _St. Helena_, _Francisco_, _Passao_, and Cape _Abel_, as his Instructions were express, as to the making these Lands. As _de Fonte_ made a true Course East 81° North, subtract the Longitude 20 Deg. 24 Min. from the Longitude 141 Deg. 12 Min. from _London_, and from the 123 Deg. 27 Min. from _Fero_. The Entrance to the River _Los Reys_ lies in Lat. 53 Deg. Long. 120 Deg. 48 Min. from _London_, and 103 Deg. 3 Min. West from _Fero_. And that his Course was now Easterly is plain from the subsequent Words of the Letter, _as they sailed more Easterly_. It was also confident with the Purpose they were sent on, to meet a Vessel from _Boston_. 'The 22d of _June_ Admiral _de Fonte_ dispatched one of his Captains to _Pedro de Barnarda_, to sail up a fair River, a gentle Stream, and deep Water, went first N. and N. E. N. and N. W. into a large Lake full of Islands, and one very large _Peninsula_ full of Inhabitants, a friendly honest People in this Lake, he named Lake _Valasco_, where Captain _Barnarda_ left his Ship; nor all up the River was less than 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8 Fathom Water, both the Rivers and Lakes abounding with Salmon Trouts, and very large white Perch, some of two Foot long; and with three large _Indian_ Boats, by them called _Periagos_, made of two large Trees 50 or 60 Foot long. Capt. _Barnarda_ first sailed from his Ships in the Lake _Valasco_, one Hundred and forty Leagues West, and then 436 E. N. E. to 77 Degrees of Latitude. Admiral _de Fonte_, after he had dispatched Capt. _Barnarda_ on the Discovery of the North and East Part of the _Tartarian Sea_.' We may suppose, from the Manner in which this Part was managed, that there was a great Necessity to get the Translation finished in any Manner. As the Difficulties of the Translation increased, the Design of this Account being only Amusement, the Translator thought it would answer the Purpose to give the Account in gross. The Date, the 22d _June_, is an apparent Error, by reason _de Fonte_ did not enter into Lake _Belle_, as will be shewn hereafter, until that Time. Admiral _de Fonte_ dispatched one of his Captains to _Pedro de Barnarda_, to sail up a fair River, gentle Stream, and deep Water. Then the Translation breaks off abruptly, and the Translator renders the following Part as an Account of _Bernarda_'s Voyage, not observing how just a Connection there is with _de Fonte_ dispatching one of his Captains to _Bernarda_; and what follows being the Orders sent by him, and the Instructions for _Bernarda_; instead of being _Bernarda_'s Account of his Expedition, and not observing how consistent it is with being a summary Recital of those Instructions these Words are which follow, Admiral _de Fonte_, after he had dispatched Captain _Bernarda_ on the Discovery, _&c._ As to his dispatching one of his Captains, he must be supposed to have besides the Captain of the Ship he was in, also one called an Admiral's Captain. The Instructions were of such Consequence, that a less Person might not be so properly employed, nor consistent with the Respect due to _Bernarda_. _De Fonte_ and _Bernarda_ were Strangers here; but these Parts had been already discovered, as it is expresly said that _two Pater Jesuits_ had been here two Years, and made Observations as far as the Latitude 66. From their Discoveries we may conclude, that these Instructions were formed which _Bernarda_ received, and those of the whole Course of the Voyage; and it was necessary that _de Fonte_ should not only mention that he had dispatched _Bernarda_, but should also, with the Brevity due to a Letter, mention the Orders with which he dispatched him. And further from what is expressed in those Orders, as to the River, the Course and Soundings, what Fish were in the River and Lake, the Road or Harbour which was to be found in the Lake, the Temper and Disposition of the Inhabitants, it evidently appears that there had been a prior Discovery of these Parts, and Observations made of every Thing worthy of Consideration, and necessary also at this Time to be mentioned to _Bernarda_. To let him know that his Ship could pass up the River, would find a Harbour in the Lake, he had nothing to fear from the Natives, and would meet with Provisions. There leaving his Ship he might be furnished with _Periagos_ to proceed. And I understand his Directions to steer first North and North-east, then North and North-west, that he might make no Mistake by pursuing or entering into any other Openings which might present themselves in his Course up, and which from their Appearance might perplex him, as to which of them he was to enter; no uncommon Thing, as those who have been to Northward on like Undertakings will allow. 'The Admiral sailed up a very navigable River, which he named _Rio los Reys_, that run nearest N. E. but on several Points of the Compass 60 Leagues, at low Water, in a fair navigable Channel, not less than 4 or 5 Fathom Water. It flowed on both Rivers near the same Water, in the River _Los Reys_, 24 Feet Full and Change of the Moon; a S. S. E. Moon made high Water. It flowed in the River _Haro_, 22 Feet and a half Full and Change. They had two Jesuits with them, that had been on their Mission to 66 Degrees of North Latitude, and had made curious Observations.' _De Fonte_, having dispatched _Bernarda_, sets out on his Part of the Expedition, and proceeds up the River _Los Reys_, at the Entrance of which he had arrived the fourteenth of _June_. During his Stay, until _Bernarda_ was dispatched and sailed, he seems to have taken an accurate Account of the Tides in both Rivers. The Distance up the River was more than sixty Leagues, and though a good navigable Channel, yet would require a great Precaution in his Proceeding with the two Ships; Tide Times and the Night would make it necessary for him to bring too; for had he touched the Ground with either of them, the Delay that might have followed on such Accident, might have defeated this Part of the Undertaking, and the most important, and which, therefore, was allotted to him to execute. Their having had two Jesuits with them seems an additional Note. That two Jesuits should be sent into those Parts to make Observations, is but consistent with the general Practice of the Jesuits to go on Missions into all Parts of the Globe, engaged by a special Vow, not injoined any other Order, to be always ready to go and preach whithersoever they shall be sent. These Jesuits are by no Means a singular Instance of the People of that Order being great Adventurers, when we consider those who ventured to the _Philippinas_ and _Japan_, enforced by the Vow, puffed up with the Vanity of popular Applause, the Favour of the President, and the Hope of being acceptable to the rest of the Order on their return from such Mission, expecting by such Mission to add to the Wealth or Reputation of the Order. The Effect of this Mission seems to have been they had acquired the Favour of the Natives. Had made some Observations of the Country, but principally to Northward, as to which they seem not to have got a perfect Account; though they did a great deal for the Time, the Unseasonableness of the Winter, and the melting Weather in the Spring considered; nor is it strange they should not get a perfect Account, in a Country so intermixed with Waters, which hide themselves in their Courses between inaccessible Mountains; and in many Places where they are to be come at, are deceitful in their Appearance, as to what they really are, whether Lakes, Gulphs of the Sea, or Inlets. As they proceeded to the Northward, they thought it the Part that principally claimed their Observation. Were of Opinion as to the Northward, that it was Part of the Continent of _New Spain_, or they would not have lead _de Fonte_ to _Los Reys_, but caused him to proceed up that Streight which separated the Part they had been in from _New Spain_. As to this Mission not being known to the Publick, these Jesuits must have been sent from _Europe_ into _New Spain_; and they would so far regard their Obedience to the Pope, as to pay due Respect to the King of _Spain_'s Authority, in observing the established Maxim of the Time, as to keep their Discoveries a Secret from the Publick or other Nations. And as to all Missionaries who went into _New Spain_, the King of _Spain_ hath a Power to call them to Account, by the Pope's Permission, though not permitted in _Old Spain_ to meddle with ecclesiastical Affairs, or ecclesiastical Men. 'A Letter from Captain _Barnarda_, dated the 27th of _June_ 1740, that he had left his Ship in the Lake _Valasco_, betwixt the Islands _Barnarda_ and the Peninsula _Conibasset_, a very safe Port; it went down the River from the Lake 3 Falls, 80 Leagues, and fell into the _Tartarian_ Sea in 61 Deg. with the Pater Jesuits, and 36 Natives, in three of their Boats, and 20 of his _Spanish_ Seamen; that the Land trended away North East; that they should want no Provision, the Country abounding with Venison of three Sorts, and the Sea and Rivers with excellent Fish (Bread, Salt, Oil, and Brandy they carried with them) that he should do what was possible. The Admiral, when he received the Letter from Captain _Barnarda_, was arrived at an _Indian_ Town called _Conosset_, on the South Side Lake _Belle_, where the two Pater Jesuits on their Mission had been two Years; a pleasant Place. The Admiral, with his two Ships, enter'd the Lake the 22d of _June_.' The Letter from _Bernarda_ being dated the 27th of _June_, it is impossible he should finish all that Business in four Days, which he gives _de Fonte_ an Account of: This also confirms its being a Mistake as to the 22d of _June_, being the Time he received his Dispatches. It might well take _Bernarda_ from the fourteenth of _June_ to the twenty-seventh to receive his Dispatches, to pass up the River, and to the Peninsula in Lake _Valasco_, procure the Natives, who were not under his Command, get all Things fitted, and set out. And what this Letter contains, makes it evident it could be no Account of his Voyage that was before-mentioned. This Letter is apparently an Answer to the Dispatches _Bernarda_ received from _de Fonte_. He mentions, that he had left his Ship, agreeable to Orders, and in a safe Port; gives an Account how he was equipped to proceed; the Number of the Persons he had with him; that he had thirty-six of the Natives, which is conformable to the Character given of them, a friendly honest People, and shews the Influence of the Jesuits. These Natives, by joining in the Expedition, were Hostages for the good Behaviour of the others towards his People left behind, and an Assurance to _Bernarda_ for the Security of his Ship left at the Port, were of great Use as Pilots as to the Coast, and also in sailing and managing their _Periagos_. Their having these _Periagos_ implies they had a Country abounding with Waters; and it was their usual Way of passing from one Part to another, Time and Experience had made them expert in the Management of them; and by shifting from one Part to the other as the Seasons required for hunting or fishing, and by Excursions out of their own Country either for War or Curiosity, as is the Nature of _Indians_, they were become acquainted not only with the inland Waters, but also the Sea Coasts. _De Fonte_ had ordered Captain _Bernarda_ that he should sail one Hundred and fifty Leagues West (but is rather to be believed a Mistake from not understanding the Compass, _Oeste_ and _Este_ being so similar) and then four Hundred and thirty-six Leagues East North East to 77 Degrees of Latitude. In Answer to which _Bernarda_ here mentions, that from the Lake _Valasco_ there was a River in which there was three Falls, eighty Leagues in Distance, and fell into the _Tartarian Sea_, in Latitude 61; that the Land trended away North East, and that he would do what was possible. By which Expression it is plain, that he did not pursue the exact Course that _de Fonte_ directed; probably that Course was pointed out to _Bernarda_ by which the Jesuits had travelled to Latitude 66, but pursued a Course more immediate and direct to attain to Latitude 77, the Back of _Baffin_'s Bay, as to which the Natives had informed him; and that though he did not pursue the Course directed by _de Fonte_, which he found not to be so consistent with the Design he was sent on, yet he would do all that was possible to answer that Design. And the Expression also implies, that he was sensible he should meet with Difficulties, which he might expect from the Climate, the Ice, and the Fatigue; but as to the Article of Provisions, was in no Fear on that Account. As to what is mentioned as to Venison of three Sorts, they were the small Deer, the Moose, and the Elk, all which are in the Northern Parts about _Hudson_'s Bay, and the _Labrador_ Coast. The Name of _Haro_ given to the River is a particular Compliment to _Don Haro_, who was the Head of the Houses of _Valasco_; and the Name of _Valasco_, in Compliment to the other Houses, of that Family. Which Respect shewn by _de Fonte_ seems to indicate a particular Connection with, or his being related to that Family, as already mentioned. _Valasco_, as here wrote, with a _va_, as those Families did write it at that Time, and one of that Family, who was Constable of _Castile_, in his Titles is named _John Ferdinandes de Vallasco_, Constable of _Castilia_, &c. now Lord of the Houses of _Vallasco_, &c. and by the Orthography in the Letter being so conformable with that which was used at that Time, and not with a _ve_ as at present, we have very good Reason to suppose, that the Letter was not only wrote in _Spanish_, but also by _de Fonte_ on his return from his Voyage. Don _Ferdinandez_ was living in 1610, and succeeded by his Son, in his Title and Honour of Constable of _Castile_, _Don Bernardino_, who was living at the Time of the Voyage. 'The Admiral entered the Lake an Hour before high Water, and there was no Fall or Cataract, and 4 and 5 Fathom Water, and 6 and 7 Fathom Water generally in the Lake _Belle_. There is a little Fall of Water half Flood, and an Hour and Quarter before high Water the Flood begins to set gently into Lake _Belle_: The River is fresh at 20 Leagues Distance from the Mouth or Entrance of the River _Los Reyes_. The River and Lake abounds with Salmon, Salmon Trouts, Pikes, Perch and Mullets, and two other Sorts of Fish peculiar to that River, admirable good; and Lake _Belle_ also abounds with all those Sorts of Fish large and delicate: And Admiral _de Fonte_ also says, the Mullets catched in _Rios Reyes_ and Lake _Belle_, are much delicater than are to be found, he believes, in any Part of the World.' _De Fonte_ was not inactive from the 14th to the 22d of _June_. Various Courses, contrary Winds, waiting for the Tides at times; from the Circumstance of the Tide as to Lake _Belle_, that there is a Fall until half Flood, and it is an Hour and Quarter only before high Water that the Flood makes in, evidences that there was a Current against him; and it is further evident, as on his return he was but two Days running from _Conosset_ to the Entrance of the River _Los Reyes_. _De Fonte_ is very particular in his Account, being now to take a Survey of the Parts through which a Passage was expected, and in which Parts he now was. He mentions the Trial of the Tides at _Los Reyes_ and _Haro_; gives a particular Account of the Navigation up _Los Reyes_, and to Lake _Belle_; that it was fresh Water after they were sixty Miles up the River; and what is no immaterial Circumstance in this Affair, shews how far the Waters from Westward flowed up, which he instances in the Account of the Fish. That such as came out of the Sea into the Land or fresh Waters to spawn at those Seasons, and afterwards return to the Sea, went no further than Lake _Belle_; for here he found the Mother Fish, as he describes them, large and delicate, superior to those in the River, and indulges his Fancy, so delicate as, he believes, they are not to be exceeded in any other Part of the World. _De Fonte_, in his Orders to _Bernarda_, shewed it was fresh Water in Part of _Haro_, and in the Lake _Conibasset_, from the Salmon and Perch, in which he means Sea Perch, which come into fresh Waters at this Season of the Year. 'The first of _July_ 1640, Admiral _de Fonte_ sailed from the rest of his Ships in the Lake _Belle_, in a good Port, covered by a fine Island, before the Town of _Conosset_, from thence to a River I named _Parmentiers_, in Honour of my industrious judicious Comrade Mr. _Parmentiers_, who had most exactly marked every Thing in and about that River.' We now proceed to consider the Remainder of Admiral _de Fonte_'s Letter, which was published in _June_ 1708. Admiral _de Fonte_, when he received the Letter from Capt. _Bernarda_, was arrived at an _Indian_ Town called _Conosset_, in the Lake _Belle_; and as he entered such Lake the twenty-second, probably arrived at the Town the same Day; staid eight Days, and then sailed the first of _July_. That _Bernarda_ should write, as to the Situation of his Affairs, must have been before concerted between them, they having been informed by the Jesuits or _Parmentiers_, that it was practicable for _Bernarda_ to send such Message, that the Admiral might know whether _Bernarda_ had met with any Accident as to his Ship, or any other Obstacle to his Proceeding, as he might assist him from those Ships Companies then with the Admiral. How the Letter was conveyed is not expressed; probably by a Seaman with an _Indian_ Guide (the Distance between the Admiral and _Bernarda_, at this Time, will be considered hereafter) who would use all possible Expedition both by Land and Water: Had the Advantage of very short Nights. _De Fonte_ would not proceed until he received this Account, though ready as soon as he received it. As _de Fonte_ sailed on the first of _July_, that Account must have come to his Hand the thirtieth of _June_. The Ships being secure in a good Harbour, and the Command left with _Ronquillo_, the Admiral proceeds to the River _Parmentiers_, so named in Honour of Mons. _Parmentiers_, whom he stiles his Comrade, and commends his Industry and Judgment in the Survey of such River, and the Parts adjacent. From his being stiled his Comrade, he was in no Command, as he could not have a Commission without having been bred in the Service, and a Native of _Spain_. Therefore being a Person immediately necessary for to have on this Occasion, he is introduced under the Character of a Friend and Companion. Mr. _Gage_ mentions, Chap. xv. of his new Survey of the _West Indies_, one _Thomas Rocalono_, a _Frenchman_, a Prior of the Cloister of _Cemitlan_, who, with himself, was the only Stranger in that Country, by which he means in that Part where he was; and it implies there being others in other Parts, which falsifies the Assertion that no _Frenchman_ was ever admitted in _Peru_. The Countries of _Quivira_ and _Anian_ were represented, at that Time, to be barren or desolate; as is also evident from the Description of the Inhabitants eating raw Flesh, drinking Blood, and in all Respects suitable to the Character of the _Eskemaux Indians_, who by Choice, not Necessity, make Use of such Diet when out a hunting or travelling, which expresses those Parts to be very inhospitable, and where the _Indians_ only frequent at certain Seasons, in Pursuit of the wild Game, and for fishing. And _Cibola_ is represented as a Country which hath a Cultivation, where the _Indians_ constantly live, and seem a different People from those of _Quivira_ and _Anian_. This is agreeable to the Accounts given at that Time, which is sufficient to shew that the Jesuits could not expect that they should be able, or would undertake to pass through such a Country as _Quivira_ and _Anian_ in Pursuit of their Discoveries to Northward; therefore must have taken some Opportunity of being conveyed there, which could only be by some Persons who had been on these Coasts, and had, through Necessity, Interest, or Curiosity, passed up these Waters, and surveyed the adjacent Country in Pursuit of something which might turn out to their private Emolument: Nor were such Attempts unprecedented, even on our Parts, though the Hazards were much greater. The private Trade carried on by the People from _Boston_, in _Hudson_'s Bay, before there was a Grant to the Company; which Trading might not have come to the Knowledge of the People in _England_, or been known to the Publick for a Series of Years, had it not been for an Accident which happened to Captain _Gillam_, who thereupon made a Discovery of this Trade. Nor is there the least Improbability but that _Parmentiers_ had, on some Occasion, introduced himself into these Parts, had invited the Jesuits to a Mission there, who, on other Missions, had undertaken what hath been much more hazardous, and succeeded. There were sufficient Motives for that Undertaking; the Northern Bounds were then unknown, so that they could not affirm _America_ to be Continent, nor certainly to be an Island distinguished from the old World. This is the Account Mr. _Gage_ gives us, Chap. xiii. and mentioning that he will not write, as many do, by Relation and Hearsay, but by more sure Intelligence, Insight and Experience. He says _Quivira_ is seated on the most Western Part of _America_, just over against _Tartary_; from whence, being not much distant, some suppose that the Inhabitants came into this new World. The West Side of _America_, if it be not Continent with _Tartary_, it yet disjoined by a small Streight. Here then was a sufficient Matter to encourage a Mission of this Sort, and to keep a Progress to the Eastward, or in _America_, with the Discoveries that were going on by the Missionars sent to _Japan_; and there was a Propriety in this being done, as the Coasts of both were supposed to be at no great Distance from each other: And this was expresly the Purpose of their Mission, as it is said they had been to Latitude 66, and made curious Observations, on which Account they were with _Bernarda_. As _Parmentiers_ went to the Eastward with _de Fonte_, who must have had a different Motive from them for coming into those Parts, he must have had his own private Emolument in view, his better Success in which depended on his Secrecy, as he thereby prevented others from interfering; which Consideration would prevail with him, as with all Traders, superior to any Satisfaction the Publick might have from his Informations; and as Trade would be carried on most successfully where the Inhabitants were more numerous, we find he had found his Way to Eastward, apparently the most populous, as the Jesuits had gone to the Northward and Westward, principally as most consistent with their Plan; tho' _Conosset_ was where the Jesuits had been first introduced, where their courteous Behaviour and Management of the Natives, would be of Advantage to _Parmentiers_. In searching for the most popular and inhabited Part of the Country, he would become acquainted with the Geography of those Parts necessarily, Depths of Water, Shoals, Tides, which his own Preservation, and the better conducting of himself would naturally lead him to observe; but there might be a more particular Reason for his Observation of the River _Parmentiers_, and of all the Parts about it; and therefore he had been so exact as to the Falls, which were the Obstruction of the Ship Navigation through to the Eastern Sea, that lay beyond the Streights of _Ronquillo_, for his own private Advantage; by opening a new and extensive Trade, he would have greatly promoted it if he had found this Communication practicable for Ships of Burthen. The People that Captain _Tchirikow_ met with on the Coast is no Objection to the Character given of those within Land in this Letter, as it is from Experience known that the _Eskemaux_, who are along the Coast of the _Labrador_, are cruel and thievish; but that _Indians_ of a different Disposition live within Land. As to _Parmentiers_ being the general Interpreter for all, he is not said to be so. He would, for the Benefit it would be to him in his Trade, endeavour to learn the Language, and would of course acquire something of it unavoidably, as he frequented amongst the _Indians_: And it must be observed, though there are many different Nations, and there is a Difference in Dialect, yet there is a Language which all those Nations will understand, called the Council Language. That Voyages had been made to these Parts more than once is evident, as the Jesuits staid there two Years, therefore did not return with the same Opportunity by which they came there, but another; and it is probable that there had been a Voyage prior to that, which had encouraged them to undertake this Mission. In what Manner _de Fonte_ proceeded, the Boats and Number of Persons he had with him, the Translator hath omitted. It is mentioned, that _de Fonte_ sailed from the rest of his Ships; the River _Parmentiers_ hath Falls of thirty-two Feet perpendicular Height from its Source to where it issues into Lake _de Fonte_; so again, on the South Side Lake _Belle_ on board our Ships; and had it been with his Ship, his Inference that there was no North-west Passage would have been unjust, as his meeting with this Ship the Vessel from _Boston_, would have effectually proved the contrary. 'We passed eight Falls, in all 32 Foot, perpendicular from its Source out of Lake _Belle_; it falls into the large Lake I named Lake _de Fonte_, at which Place we arrived the 6th of _July_. This Lake is 160 Leagues long, and 60 broad; the Length is East North East, and West South West, to twenty or thirty, in some Places sixty Fathom deep; the Lake abounds with excellent Cod and Ling, very large and well fed; there are several very large Islands, and ten small ones; they are covered with shrubby Woods; the Moss grows six or seven Foot long, with which the Moose, a very large Sort of Deer, are fat with in the Winter, and other lesser Deer, as Fallow, _&c._ There are Abundance of wild Cherries, Strawberries, Hurtleberries, and wild Currants; and also of wild Fowls, Heath Cocks and Hens; likewise Partridges and Turkeys; and Sea Fowl in great Plenty. On the South Side the Lake is a very large fruitful Island, had a great many Inhabitants, and very excellent Timber, as Oaks, Ashes, Elm and Fir Trees, very large and tall.' We here again see the Form of the Letter, _de Fonte_ expressing himself, as in the first Part of the Letter, _I named Parmentiers_, _my industrious_; and there are other Instances. The River _Parmentiers_, which is the Communication by which the Waters of Lake _Belle_ are conveyed into the Lake _de Fonte_, so named we may suppose not in Compliment to himself, which would be absurd, but of his Family, as the Expression is, _I named Lake de Fonte_, though it almost deserves the Name of a Mediterranean Sea; but from having a superior Water near it, with which it communicated, _de Fonte_ calls it a Lake. It is not a casual naming of Places, or Waters, as _Hudson_'s Bay, given to that great Mediterranean Sea, and continued, but the Names of the Waters he passed through, would be given with Exactness and Propriety. In the Lake _de Fonte_ there was a great Depth of Water, also Banks, as there is said to be in some Parts twenty or thirty Fathom Water, as is also evident from the Cod and Ling there, and which instance it to be a Salt Water Lake. It was the Season when these Fish come to the Northward to spawn. The shrubby Wood on the Islands, the Moss for the Subsistence of the Deer hanging on the Trees, the wild Cherries and other Fruits ripening at that Season of the Year, are all corresponding Tokens of his being advanced to the North-east Part of _America_, is agreeable in all the above Respects to the Country Northward and Westward in _Canada_, about the River _St. Lawrence_, to the interior Parts of the Country of _Labrador_, in Lat. 56; but as you proceed further to Northward, the high rocky Mountains, which in this Part are only confined to the Coast, then extend more inland, increase in their Height, and in Lat. 59° and 60°, the whole Country, as far as _Baffin_'s Bay, seems to consist only of Ridges of barren Mountains, interspersed with Waters; and the Progress of the Productions, as to Trees and Plants, gradually decreases from a more flourishing to an inferior Sort, as you proceed to Northward; in Lat. 59, on the Western Side of _Hudson_'s Bay to the Northward of _Seal_ River, there is no Wood, only Grass and a small Shrub of about a Foot in Heighth, which continues, as far as it is known to Westward, and a thin Soil, with a hard rocky Stone just below the Surface, and very frequently there are large Ponds of standing Water. _De Fonte_ seems to have made a Stop at the Island at the South of Lake _de Fonte_, to take Refreshment, and make Inquiry as to the _Boston_ Ship, it being out of his Course, or on any other Account to go there. 'The 14th of _July_ we sailed out of the East North-east End of the Lake _de Fonte_, and passed a Lake I named the _Estricho de Ronquillo_, thirty-four Leagues long, two or three Leagues broad, twenty, twenty-six and twenty-eight Fathom of Water; we passed this Streight in ten Hours, having a stout Gale of Wind, and a whole Ebb. As we sailed more Easterly the Country grew very sensibly worse.' What follows, 'as it is in the North and South Parts of _America_,' appears to me an additional Comment. _De Fonte_ mentions, as he went more Easterly the Country grew worse; from which it may be supposed he found the Alteration to begin when he was come to the Eastern Part of the Lake, and more so, as he passed the Streights of _Ronquillo_. Where the Streight of _Ronquillo_ terminated _de Fonte_ makes no mention; gives us no Account of the Soundings or Tides; but his Silence here, and the preceding Circumstances, sufficiently prove that he thought himself then in some Branch of the _Atlantick Ocean_. And it is to be observed there is the same affected Silence here as to the Part he was come into, as when he had left the Western Ocean and entered the North-east Part of the _South Sea_ to pass up to _Los Reys_. 'The 17th we came to an _Indian_ Town, and the _Indians_ told our Interpreter Mons. _Parmentiers_, that a little Way from us lay a great Ship, where there never had been one before.' The _Indian_ telling the Interpreter _Parmentiers_, which expresses a Kind of Acquaintance made between them, and _de Fonte_'s passing out of the Lake into the Sea, coming to a Town, and _Parmentiers_ knowing the Language, is an Evidence of _Parmentiers_' having been there before. And we may suppose, that from the Time they left the River _Parmentiers_, _de Fonte_ had been on the Inquiry, it being now Time to expect the People from _Boston_; and what the _Indian_ told him was in pursuance of such Inquiry. 'We sailed to them, and found only one Man advanced in Years, and a Youth; the Man was the greatest Man in the Mechanical Parts of the Mathematicks, I had ever met with; my second Mate was an _Englishman_, an excellent Seaman, as was my Gunner, who had been taken Prisoners at _Campechy_, as well as the Master's Son; they told me the Ship was of _New England_, from a Town called _Boston_. The Owner and the whole Ship's Company came on board the thirtieth; and the Navigator of the Ship, Captain _Shapley_, told me, his Owner was a fine Gentleman, and _Major General_ of the largest Colony in _New England_, called the _Maltechusets_; so I received him like a Gentleman, and told him my Commission was to make a Prize of any People seeking a North-west or West Passage into the _South Sea_; but I would look on them as Merchants trading with the Natives for Bevers, Otters and other Furs and Skins, and so for a small Present of Provisions I had no need on, I gave him my Diamond Ring, which cost me twelve Hundred Pieces of Eight (which the modest Gentleman received with difficulty) and having given the brave Navigator _Captain Shapley_, for his fine Charts and Journals, a Thousand Pieces of Eight, and the Owner of the Ship, _Seimor Gibbons_, a quarter Cask of good _Peruan_ Wine, and the ten Seamen, each twenty Pieces of Eight, the sixth of _August_, with as much Wind as we could fly before and a Current, we arrived at the first Fall of the River _Parmentiers_.' _De Fonte_ makes no Delay, but immediately proceeds as the Case required; finds an old Man aboard, the Man (as being a great Mechanick might be very useful on such an Expedition) and a Youth, might venture to stay, their Age would plead as to any Severity that might be intended by _de Fonte_; and through the Fear of which Severity the others retired into the Woods, where they could manage without being sensible of those Difficulties which _Europeans_ apprehend. To leave the Ship without any one aboard, _de Fonte_ could of Course have taken her as being deserted; and by their Retirement into the Woods, his Pursuit of them there would have alarmed the _Indians_, and more especially if he had attempted any Severity, it might have been fatal to him and his Company, from the Resistance they might have met with, not only from the _Boston_ People, but the _Indians_ assisting them, as they would have considered it as an Insult, an Exercise of Power which they would apprehend he had no Right to use in those Parts, as to a People who were trading with them, and been the Occasion that the _Spaniards_ would have been no more received as Friends in those Parts. _De Fonte_ had particularly provided himself with some _Englishmen_, who, by a friendly Converse with the People from _Boston_, might endeavour to learn their Secrets, and prepare them the better by what they would be instructed to tell them to come to a Compliance with the Admiral's Intentions. The Result of this Affair _de Fonte_ only mentions; but they would not have staid away so long, would have returned sooner aboard, had they only left the Ship on Account of Trade. Trade was only a secondary Object, the Discovery was the principal, and they would not have staid in one Place, at this Season, had they not been necessitated through a Fear of _de Fonte_ so to do. It may be supposed the _Englishmen_ who were with _de Fonte_, two of whom were from _Campechy_, and the other become Catholick, as he was married to the Master's Daughter, they would not act either with much Sincerity or Truth as to their own Countrymen, but managed with the old Man to bring the Owner, Navigator, and rest of the Crew aboard. On their return the Navigator of the Ship was the first who waited on the Admiral, and he calls him Captain _Shapley_, his Name _Nicholas Shapley_, who was famous as a Navigator, for his Knowledge in the Mathematicks and other Branches of Science, that the common People supposed he dealt in the Magick Art, and had the Name given him of _Old Nick_, not by the People of _Boston_, but by a Set of Libertines as they termed them, and who had separated from the People of _Boston_, and gone to live by themselves at _Piscatua_, where he was settled at a Place called _Kittery_, in the Province of _Main_; the Name of _Kittery_ given by his Brother _Alexander Shapley_, to a Tract of Land he had settled on there; and they write the Name _Shapley_ exactly in the Manner in which it is wrote in the Letter. The Brother _Alexander_ was a Cotemporary at _Oxford_ with Captain _James_, who went on Discovery, and his Acquaintance. The Descendants of _Alexander_, a genteel People, were not many Years since living at _Kittery_; but _Nicholas Shapley_ retired to _New London_, where he had a Son that was living in the Year one Thousand seven Hundred and fifty-two, a Fisherman. The Family at _Kittery_ were very shy as to giving any Information as to what they knew in this Affair, upon an Application by the Author of these Observations, or looking into _Alexander_'s Papers, as an officious Person had got beforehand, and discouraged them from giving any Gratification of this Sort, under Pretence, if their Papers were seen, it might give some Insight into a Lawsuit depending between the Branches of the Family, or expected to be commenced; and that there was a great Reward for the Discovery of a North-west Passage, which, if the Account was attained from them they would be intitled to a Part, which by this Means they would be deprived of. Jealousies of this Kind raised by a pretended, at least an ignorant Friend, against the Application of a Stranger, who assured them he was superior to any Trick of that Sort, and would give them any Satisfaction in his Power as they should propose, occasioned a Disappointment. The Son of Captain _Nicholas_, upon an Application made by the Author likewise, had nothing but his Father's Sea Chest, in which, there were once a great many Papers, and which his Mother, the Wife of Captain _Nicholas_, made a great Account of; but the Son being an illiterate Man, had made Use of them in the Family as waste Paper. I have mentioned him as illiterate, but he was a well meaning Man, and he had heard his Mother talk something about such an Affair; but I shall not lay a Stress upon the Account he gave, as he may be supposed prompted by the earnest Manner of the Inquiry to give grateful Answers, in Expectation of a Reward. The Number of Settlers in all _Piscatua_, the Province of _Main_ included, did not at that Time exceed four Hundred People, but is now become a well settled Country; yet there was amongst the antient People about _Kittery_, a Tradition of Captain _Nicholas_ having been on such a Voyage, and as to which, on proper Application to Persons who have Influence, and will make due Inquiry, it appears to me the Publick will receive a farther Satisfaction than they may at present expect. A considerable Merchant who lived at _Falmouth_ in _Piscatua_, a Man of Character, no Way biassed for or against a North-west Passage, but as he is since dead, I may take the Liberty to say, married a Daughter of his late Excellency Governor _Weymouth_, mentioned an Anecdote respecting his Father, who was a very antient Man: That when the Dispute was between the late Governor _Dobbs_ and Captain _Middleton_, he said, Why do they make such a Fuzz about this Affair, our _Old Nick_ (meaning Captain _Shapley_) was through there? And this antient Gentleman had been an Intimate of Captain _Shapley_'s. Early in the Year before this Voyage Major General _Gibbons_ went with others over to _Piscatua_, to have a Conference about Church Matters; and Mr. _Alexander Shapley_ was one on the Part of the Settlers in _Piscatua_, and who had but returned from _England_ the Fall before. At this Meeting, probably, they fixed on the Time and Manner of executing the Design, which they had before concerted. This whole Affair was concerted in an obscure Part, the Affair not known to the People of _Boston_, as it was more to the Purpose of those who undertook it to keep it a Secret; and probably Major _Gibbons_ was more inclined it should be so, as he had before met with two Disappointments. The Characters of the Persons were such, as by whom it is very reasonable to suppose such an Expedition might be undertaken. Mr. _Alexander Shapley_ was a Merchant, a lively, active, enterprising Man; sufficient to this Purpose hath been said of his Brother: And we may add to the Character of Major General _Gibbons_, it was said of him, that he was much of a Gentleman, a brave, social and friendly Man, had the latter End of the Year 1639 a Commission to be Captain of the Fort, was one of the Council, also concerned in Church Matters, as appears from Records. But during the Time that this Voyage was making, that worthy Pastor of _Boston_ and great Antiquarian Mr. _Prince_, who, from a generous Disposition to get at the Truth, used extraordinary Industry in this Affair, by searching the Records in the old Church there in the Year 1752, could not find his Hand set to any Thing, or any Matters relating to Major General _Gibbons_, tho' he found Papers signed by him frequently before, and other Transactions in which he is mentioned to be concerned, also after the Time of this Voyage, and the only Objection that he could find was, that the Wife of Major General _Gibbons_ must have had a seven Months Child, if he went on such Voyage, as it was a Custom in the Church of _Boston_, at that Time, that the Child should be brought to be baptized the _Sunday_ after it was born; and by the Register it appears that this was the Case, according to the Time that it must be supposed he returned. The Name was _Edward Gibbons_; and _Seimor_ is a Mistake of the Translator, not observing that as _de Fonte_ respectfully stiles _Shapley_ Captain, he would not mention the Owner by his Christian Name only, a fine Gentleman and a Major General, but stiles him agreeable thereto after the _Spanish_ Manner _Sennor_; and this Mistake of the Translator, as to the Name, and not observing that the _Major General_ and the Owner were one and the same Person, shews that the Translator and Editors knew nothing of the Persons mentioned. What is said of the largest Colony in _New England_, called the _Maltechusets_: The Dominions of _New England_ consisted, at that Time, of the Colonies of _Plymouth_, _Massachusets_, and _Connecticut_, of which _Massachusets_ was the largest, as _New Hampshire_, _Piscatua_, and the Province of _Main_, were under its Jurisdiction: And it is a little remarkable that the Admiral should call it the _Maltechusets_; he apprehended it a Mistake, though so exact as to the Names _Shapley_ and _Gibbons_; seems to have given the Alteration agreeable to his own Ideas, and that it must have Reference to _Malta_. The old Man told them the Ship was of _New England_, from the Town called _Boston_, which was the only Place where they could fit out properly or conveniently, the Part where _Shapley_ lived consisting only of a few scattered Houses, and as it was very frequent from _Boston_ to make Voyages to the Northward, their true Design for further Discoveries might remain a Secret to all but themselves. _De Fonte_'s Address to _Gibbons_ as the Owner, represented so on this Occasion to serve the Purpose, though the Vessel seems to have been _Alexander Shapley_'s, implies that he understood, or took the Advantage on finding they had been trading with the _Indians_, that they had two Purposes in their Undertaking, to discover a Passage, and to trade. As to the first, _de Fonte_ tells him he had an Order to make a _Prize of any People seeking a West or North-west Passage_, speaking in general Terms, not of them only, so concealing the Advice he had received as to their particular undertaking of this Discovery; nor could it be peculiarly understood as to the Subjects of _England_, for the _Danes_ also, to their immortal Honour, had before attempted the same Discovery; and in Consequence let him know that the Part he was in was of the Dominions of the Crown of _Spain_, as his Commission could be of no Force beyond the Extent of that Dominion. _De Fonte_'s Address likewise implied, that as he would consider them only as Traders, that he would not make Prisoners of them on that Account; but expected after this Adventure that others would learn to keep nearer home, for Fear of falling into a like Accident, and meeting not with the same favourable Treatment. Nevertheless he takes effectual Measures to embarrass them on their Return, and obliges them to stay no longer in those Parts, as he takes from them what _de Fonte_ calls a small Present of Provisions, which he had no Need on, but he knew they might, and as to which, the Affair of Provisions, he gave such an Attention to, through the Course of his Voyage; and though small what he accepted in respect to the Subsistance of those he had with him, yet as the Sequel will shew, was afterwards the Occasion of infinite Distress to the _Boston_ People. The Gift in return, which is pompously mentioned at twelve Hundred Pieces of Eight, when we consider the Price Things bore of this Sort where he purchased it, in _Peru_, as he estimates by Pieces of Eight, the Manner of Valuation in those Parts, would not be to _Gibbons_ a Hundred Pounds Sterling; and the Present to the Seamen must be considered as in lieu of these Provisions; and by this Means of mutual Presents countenanced what was absolutely extorted by Force, as was the Case with _Shapley_, as to his Charts and Journals, which he would not have parted with, but constrained through Fear; and by his _English_ Seamen _de Fonte_ could let them know that the Provisions, Charts, and Journals would be acceptable. He executed his Design in this Manner, that if the _Boston_ People returned there could be no proper Foundation for the Court of _England_ to take Umbrage at his Proceeding. The Generosity of _de Fonte_ so exceeding what their Present and the Charts and Journals could be worth, would be considered as to make them some Satisfaction for their Disappointment; for the Fears they had been put into, and their being detained there; the Gift of Wine, might be from a Respect to _Major General Gibbons_, as an Officer, whom _de Fonte_ stiles modest, tho' he might perceive it to be the Effect of his Uneasiness on being thus intercepted. In all other Respects, what he gave was a Debt which the Crown of _Spain_ would pay, would be considered as Money advanced in their Service; a Sum of no Consideration with them, as he had met with these People, procured their Charts by which they got into the Secret, by what Way they had advanced so far, and probably very particular Charts and Journals of the other Voyagers whom _Gibbons_ was acquainted with; and he would endeavour to be furnished with all Materials which he could probably procure before that he set out. It would be greatly commended by the Court of _Spain_ the artful Management of _de Fonte_ in distressing these People, and not with a seeming Intention, and giving an absolute Discouragement to other Adventurers, who would be afraid of falling into the _Spaniards_ Hands, whom it would be supposed constantly frequented those Parts. _De Fonte_ only mentions the Issue of this Affair, what would be immediately necessary for the Court to know; he mentions no intervening Circumstances, nor what Time there was between their Examination and the Presents, whether he or they sailed first, but it must be supposed they were more than a Day together, and that _de Fonte_ would see them out of those Parts, as, if they had staid longer, they might probably have supplied themselves well with Provisions, and proceeded further; but as they were circumstanced, they would be put under a Necessity to set out for home, would be glad to leave him the first Opportunity; and as _de Fonte_ seems to be waiting for a Wind, which he had the sixth of _August_, and it had in the interim been fair for the _Boston_ People, they were certainly gone before that _de Fonte_ set out on his Return. In the Ecclesiastical History of _New England_, by the Reverend _Cotton Mather_, published at _London_ in 1702, in Folio, in his Account of wonderful Sea Deliverances, Book the sixth, is _The wonderful Story of Major Gibbons_. 'Among remarkable _Sea Deliverances_, no less than three several Writers have published that wherein Major _Edward Gibbons_ was concerned. A Vessel bound from _Boston_ to some other Parts of _America_, was, through the Continuance of contrary Winds, kept so long at Sea, that the People aboard were in extreme straits for Want of Provision, and seeing that nothing here below could afford them any Relief, they looked upwards unto Heaven, in humble and fervent Supplications. The Winds continuing still as they were, one of the Company made a sorrowful Motion that they should, by a _Lot_, single out _One_ to die, and by Death to satisfy the ravenous Hunger of the rest. After many a doleful and fearful Debate upon this Motion, they came to a Result, that _it must be done_! The _Lot_ is cast; one of the Company is taken; but where is the Executioner that shall do the terrible Office upon a poor Innocent? It is a Death now to think who shall act this bloody Part in the Tragedy: But before they fall upon this involuntary and unnatural Execution, they once more went unto their zealous _Prayers_; and, behold, while they were calling upon God, he answered them, for there leaped a mighty Fish into their Boat, which, to their double Joy, not only quieted their outrageous Hunger, but also gave them some Token of a further Deliverance: However, the Fish is quickly eaten; the horrible _Famine_ returns, the horrible Distress is renewed; a black Despair again seizes their Spirits: For another Morsel they come to a second _Lot_, which fell upon another Person; but still they cannot find an Executioner: They once again fall to their importunate Prayers; and, behold, a second Answer from above; a great Bird lights, and fixes itself on the mast; one of the Men spies it, and there it stands until he took it by the Wing with his Hand. This was a second _Life from the Dead_. This Fowl, with the Omen of a further Deliverance in it, was a sweet Feast unto them. Still their Disappointments follow them; they can see no Land; they know not where they are: Irresistable Hunger once more pinches them: They have no Hope to be saved but by _a third Miracle_: They return to another _Lot_; but before they go to the Heart-breaking Talk of slaying the Person under _Designation_, they repeat their Addresses unto the God of Heaven, their former _Friend in Adversity_; and now they look and look again, but there is nothing: Their Devotions are concluded, and nothing appears; yet they hoped, yet they staid, yet they lingered: At last one of them spies a Ship, which put a new Hope and Life into them all: They bear up with their Ship; they man their Longboat; they go to board the Vessel, and are admitted. It proves a _French_ Pyrate: Major _Gibbons_ Petitions for a little Bread, and offers all for it; but the Commander was one who had formerly received considerable Kindnesses of Major _Gibbons_ at _Boston_, and now replied chearfully, Major _Gibbons_, not an Hair of you, or your Company, shall _perish if it lies in my Power to_ preserve _you_. Accordingly he supplied their Necessities, and they made a comfortable End of their Voyage.' There are nine other Accounts, in each of which the Places the Persons were bound to are particularly mentioned. In this Account (the Design being only to shew the wonderful Deliverance of _Gibbons_) Dr. _Mather_ could not mention the Place to which the Voyage had been made in any other Manner, than _to some other Parts of America_, which hath an exact Correspondence with the Voyage in which Major _Gibbons_ was intercepted by _de Fonte_; for that Voyage was properly to several Parts, not being to one particular Part of _America_; which Parts were, at that Time, nameless. It is said further, that their Misfortune was occasioned by contrary Winds. _De Fonte_ had a fair Wind from the sixth of _August_ to the fifth of _September_, and for a longer Time, so contrary to the _Boston_ Ship; afterwards they had the Wind again contrary, when they came into the Ocean, being North-west or to Westward of it, as they could see no Land; the Land expected to be seen may be supposed the Land of _Newfoundland_, or they were to Eastward and Southward of the Gulph of _St. Lawrence_: And which Account of the Weather is agreeable to the Time of the Year that they were there, the latter End of _September_, or Beginning of _October_, being the Equinoctial Gales. Also as to the Fish which must have been a Sturgeon, which Fish frequently jump into Boats; and shews, as the Boat was out, that they had then moderate Weather, but contrary; though a hard Gale succeeded, as one of the Birds of Passage, which are also then going to Southward, was blown off the Coast and tired, rested on the Mast. Far be it from me to reckon these as mere Accidents, and not the Assistances of the Almighty, but a Relief which the Almighty sent them by Contingencies which are natural: And as to the Ship, which was a _French_ Pirate, she had probably come with a fresh Wind out of the Gulph of _St. Lawrence_, and Standing to Eastward of _Sables_ to clear that Island and _Nautuchet_, for which she had a fair Wind; and it is said the Commander had an Acquaintance with Major _Gibbons_, and received Favours from him at _Boston_; but I must add an Anecdote, to shew that there might also be another Reason assigned, which would not be suitable to be published with that Account; _Alexander Shapley_ had used to hold a Correspondence with these Kind of Gentry, as is evident from a severe Censure on him on that Account, recorded in the Council Book at _Boston_. It was a _Ship_ that Major _Gibbons_ was in when intercepted by _de Fonte_; and this Account also mentions a Ship. After the Death of _Major Gibbons_, his Family, according to the Account of a very ancient Gentlewoman at _Boston_, removed to _Bermuda_; which Lady, who was near ninety Years of Age, had some traditional Account of the _Major_ having been such a Voyage to discover a new Way to the _East Indies_, and suffered much from the Snow and Ice, went through a great many Hardships, and, she said, she thought it was from _Boston_ that he set out. The Persons discovered by Mons. _Groseliers_, at what he calls an _English_ Settlement, near Port _Nelson_, as it is now termed, were _Benjamin_ the Son of Captain _Zachary Gillam_, and some others, from _Boston_, who were the same Year taken to _Canada_, whose Journal of that Voyage the Author hath seen, and this Circumstance is mentioned in it, which Persons have been mistaken for Major _Gibbons_ and his Company. 'We arrived at the River _Parmentiers_ the 11th of _August_ 86 Leagues, and was on the South Side Lake _Belle_ on board our Ships the 16th of _August_, before the fine Town _Conosset_, where we found all Things well, and the honest Natives of _Conosset_ had, in our Absence, treated our People with great Humanity, and Capt. _de Ronquillo_ answered their Civility and Justice.' We have been before told, that the Admiral went sixty Leagues up _Los Reyes_, which I take to be the whole Distance between the Entrance of _Los Reyes_ to _Conosset_ in Lake _Belle_; and if we transpose the above Words, 'arrived at _Parmentiers_ the eleventh of _August_, and was on the South Side Lake _Belle_ eighty-six Leagues on board our Ships the sixteenth of _August_,' then we have the Distances respecting every Part of _de Fonte_'s Course thro' Land, from _Los Reyes_ to _Conosset_ sixty Leagues, from _Conosset_ to Lake _de Fonte_ _eighty-six Leagues_, from the Entrance of Lake _de Fonte_ to the Streight of _Ronquillo_ one Hundred and sixty Leagues, from the Entrance of the Streight of _Ronquillo_ to the Sea thirty-six Leagues. The Time that _de Fonte_ was passing down the River of _Parmentiers_, and the Time he took to return, are equal, which is plainly owing to his being obliged to wait the Tides for getting over the Falls both Ways. The sixth of _July_ they had entered the Lake _de Fonte_, and by the fifteenth were through the Streights of _Ronquillo_, and at the _Indian_ Town the seventeenth, so they were eleven Days from their Entrance into the Lake _de Fonte_; but in their return the same Way only five, favoured by a strong Current which the Wind occasioned to set into the Lake, and having as much Wind as they could fly before, and now came directly back; whereas in their Passage out they had made some Delays. The Course to _Conosset_ being nearest North-east, I compute it to be in Lat. 56 Deg. Long. 118° 2´ from _London_. The Entrance of Lake _de Fonte_ (supposing the Course of the River _Parmentiers_ and from _Conosset_ East North East) in Lat. 59° 4´. Long. 113°. The Entrance of the Streights of _Ronquillo_ East North East, in Lat. 61 Deg. 8 Min. Long. 98 Deg. 48 Min. the Course through the Streights to enter the Sea North by East, such Entrance to be in Lat. 62 Deg. 48 Min. Long. 98 Deg. 2 Min. which Course must be consistent with _de Fonte_'s Account that a strong Current set in, as by this Course such Current must be accelerated, if it set to the Southward, by the Wind from the Northward, or if it was from the Southward, would be opposed in going to the Northward. _De Fonte_ proceeds to give an Account of the good Estate in which he found all Things on his Return; mentions the Honesty and Humanity of the Natives, and the prudent Conduct of Captain _Ronquillo_, who answered their Civility and Justice. For they had, during the Time of _de Fonte_'s Absence, procured, by dealing with the Natives, Store of good Provisions to salt, Venison, Fish; also one Hundred Hogsheads of _Indian_ Maiz; besides the Service this would be of on their Return, procured pursuant to _de Fonte_'s Order, it employed the People, with the other necessary Work about the Ships after so long a Run, and kept them from brangling with the Natives. The Natives were also employed to their Interest, which preserved them in good Humour; and a Justice in dealing preserved their Friendship. 'The 20th of _August_ an _Indian_ brought me a Letter to _Conosset_, on the Lake _Belle_, from Captain _Bernarda_, dated the 11th of _August_, where he sent me Word he was returned from his cold Expedition, and did assure me there was no Communication out of the _Spanish_ or _Atlantick_ Sea, by _Davis_ Streight; for the Natives had conducted one of his Seamen to the Head of _Davis_ Streight, which terminated in a fresh Lake, of about 30 Mile in Circumference, in the 80th Degree of North Latitude; and that there was prodigious Mountains North of it, besides the North-west from that Lake the Ice was so fixed, that from the Shore to 100 Fathom of Water, for ought he knew from the Creation; for Mankind knew little of the wonderful Works of God, near the North and South Poles: He writ further, that he had sailed from _Basset_ Island North East, and East North East, and North East and by East, to the 79th Degree of Latitude, and the Land trended North, and the Ice rested on the Land.' The Orders _Bernarda_ received were to sail up a River North and North East, North and North West, which River I suppose to have emptied itself near to _Los Reyes_ into the South-east Part of the _South Sea_; and it is not uncommon, in _America_, that two great Rivers should have their Entrances contiguous to each other; and I suppose _Conabasset_, afterwards called _Basset_, to be in Lat. 58 Deg. 10 Min. to the Westward of _Los Reyes_ in Long. 122 Deg. 9 Min. from _London_. The Course up the River _Haro_ North 14 Deg. West; and as _Conosset_ is laid down in Lat. 56 Deg. Long. 118 Deg. 2 Min. the Distance from _Basset_ to _Conosset_ is one Hundred and seventy-seven Miles; the Course North 46 Deg. West. The Letter by the first Messenger was dated the 27th of _June_, and is received the fourth Day, as he could not come a direct Course, we may suppose he travelled fifty Miles a Day, which is an extraordinary Allowance, the greatest Part by Water, and Light most of the Night. We know he would go Part by Water in Lake _Belle_, and Lake _Belle_ issuing its Waters both by _Los Reyes_ and the River _Parmentiers_, must receive some considerable Influx of Waters by which it is formed, as well as to give a constant Supply of the Waters that issue from it, and which must be principally or only from the Northward, for it cannot be supposed to receive its Waters from the Southward, and discharge them there again, and which the Messenger would make Use of as soon as possible, and come down Stream. The second Messenger, who is expresly mentioned to be an _Indian_, is nine Days a coming. But _Bernarda_ mentions nothing as to his Ship or People in this Account, only says he is returned from his cold Expedition, therefore probably he sent away the _Indian_ as soon as he could after he entered the River, which ran into the _Tartarian_ Sea, in Lat. 61. If this was the Case, we may suppose that the Waters which came into the Lake _Belle_ head a great Way up in the Country. _Bernarda_ had Directions, after he left Lake _Valasco_, to sail one Hundred and forty Leagues West, and then four Hundred and thirty Leagues North East by East to seventy-seven Degrees of Latitude. _Bernarda_, in his Letter of the 27th of _June_ observes, there was a River eighty Leagues in Length, not comprehended in his Instructions or Orders, and emptied itself in the _Tartarian_ Sea; and says, in his Letter of the 11th of _August_, that he sailed from the Island _Basset_ North-east; with that Course, when he entered the _Tartarian_ Sea, in Latitude 61, his Longitude would be 116 Deg. he then begins the Course _de Fonte_ directed him, one Hundred and forty Leagues East North East; and he mentions on his Return he had steered that Course, keeping the Land aboard. So that _West_ and the Land trending _North East_, are Mistakes in the Publication in _April_; but the mentioning how the Land trended, shews he was then entering the Sea; for to talk of Land, with respect to a River, is absurd; and with the Course and Distance he steered would be in Lat. 63 Deg. 39 Min. and Long. 110 Deg. from _London_: Then he steers four Hundred and thirty-six Leagues North East and by East, and that brings him into Latitude 79 Deg. Long. 87 Deg. from _London_. But the Land trending North, and with Ice, which would be dangerous for the _Periagos_; and as the Land trended North, where he was appearing to him to be the nearest Part he could attain to to go to the Head of _Davis_ Streight; and as to the Distance over Land, and the Propriety of sending a Messenger, the _Indians_ would inform him; he sends a Seaman over with an _Indian_ to take a Survey of the Head of such Streights, by us called _Baffin_'s Bay; which Name was not at that Time generally received. Which Seaman reports, that it terminated in the eightieth Degree of Latitude, in a Lake of about thirty Miles in Circumference, with prodigious Mountains North of it, which indeed formed that Lake, or is a Sound, as that of Sir _James Lancaster_ and of _Alderman Jones_; and along the Shore, from the Lake North-west, the Ice was fixed, lying a great Distance out, which was very consistent with there being no Inlets there, the Waters from which would have set it off. The Distance that the _Indian_ and Sailor travelled would not exceed fifty Miles; and their mentioning the high Mountains to Northward imply, that they were in a more level Country where they were to take this View. Light all Night, the Snow off the Ground, and the Heighth of Summer there. It is no vain Conjecture to suppose that the Journey was practicable, even if performed all the Way by Land, and much easier, which is not the least improbable, if they had an Opportunity of making Part of it by Water. _Bernarda_ proceeding thus far in the _Tartarian_ Sea, and entering in Latitude 61, is no Way contradictory to the _Russian_ Discoveries; and by the _Tartarian_ Sea is meant, the Sea which washes the Northern Coasts of _Tartary_, and is supposed to extend round the Pole. Those Discoveries are agreeable to the _Japanese_ Map, as to the North-east Parts of _Asia_, and North-west Parts of _America_, brought over by _Kemper_, and in which Map there is expressed a Branch of the _Tartarian_ Sea or Gulph, extending to the Southward, agreeable to this Account of _de Fonte_. Who calls it, with respect to _Asia_, the North and East Part of the _Tartarian_ Sea. Which compared with what _de Fonte_ says, as to sailing down the River to the North-east Part of the _South Sea_, these Expressions cast a mutual Light on each other, and that the _Archipelagus of Saint Lazarus_ is a Gulph or Branch of the Sea, in the like Manner. Places which are in one and the same Latitude, have not an equal Degree of Heat or Cold, or are equally fertile or barren, the Difference in these Respects chiefly consists in their Situation. The Country of _Labrador_, which is to Eastward of _Hudson_'s _Bay_, in Latitude 56, almost as high a Latitude as Port _Nelson_, is a Country capable of being improved by Agriculture, and would supply all the Necessaries of Life, though intermixed with rugged and craggy Mountains. The Winter's not so severe as in the more Southern Parts of _Hudson_'s _Bay_, as the Earth is not froze there, as it is in the same and lower Latitudes about that Bay: Also People have wintered in the _Labrador_, wearing only their usual Cloathing: Therefore drawing a Parallel between Port _Nelson_ and _Conosset_, as to the Infertility of one, therefore the other being in the same Latitude, could not produce Maiz to supply _Ronquillo_, is an Objection which hath no Foundation in it. The higher the Latitude the quicker is the Vegetation; and as _Indian Corn_ or _Maiz_ may be planted and gathered in three Months in lower Latitudes, it may be in an equal or less Time in higher Latitudes, in a good Soil. As to Port _Nelson_, or _York Fort_, in _Hudson_'s _Bay_, it is a low Country through which two large Rivers pass, with the Bay in Front, and nothing is certainly known of the more inland Parts. The physical Obstacles that are produced against our giving Credit to this Account of _de Fonte_, from the Depth of the Falls at the Entrance of Lake _Belle_ in the River _Parmentiers_, and from the River _Bernarda_ passed up, are, from not understanding what is expressed by the Word Falls amongst the _Americans_. They mean by a Fall wherever there is the least Declivity of the Water; and the Fall of thirty-two Feet in the River _Parmentiers_, doth not mean a perpendicular Fall, as the Objector would have it understood, however ridiculous to suppose it, but eight gradual Descents, from the Beginning of which to the Extremity of the last there was a Difference of thirty-two Feet, and which became level or even at the Time of high Water. What _Bernarda_ says as to his cold Expedition, a Person used to the Climate of _Peru_ might justly say so, of the Nights and Evenings and Mornings, at that Time of the Year, in the Latitude of seventy-nine, though temperate in Latitude fifty-six; and the whole Disposition of the Country, the immense high Lands, their barren and desert Aspect, in Places their Summits covered with perpetual Snow, the Ice fixed to the Shores, Sheets of floating Ice in the Waters, the immense Islands, frequently seeing Whales, Sea-horse, and a great Variety of the Inhabitants of those Waters, which do not frequent the Southern Parts: The Whole a Scene so different from the Verdure and Delights of the Plains about _Lima_, and from the pleasing Views that present themselves on running along the Coasts of _Peru_, _Bernarda_ might well be affected with such Scene as to express himself, that Mankind knew little of the wonderful Works of God, especially near the North and the South Poles. But he was not so ignorant as to report, that he saw Mountains of Ice on the Land, as well as in the Sea, though he might see them forming between Points of Land, which jetted out into the Sea; and such a Column of Ice would appear to him as something very curious. That these Parts were inhabited does not appear, for it was a Native of _Conibasset_ that conducted the Seaman over the Land; and, at that Season of the Year, the fresh Waters are thawed, no Snow on the low and level Lands, only on the extreme Summits of the Hills. What is objected as to the Affability of the Inhabitants, that it is not consistent with the Character of the _Indians_. Hospitality is the Characteristick of the _Indians_ towards Strangers, until such Time as they are prejudiced from some ill Treatment; and by the Account given by Sir _Francis Drake_, as to the _Indians_ of _California_, and by the _Spaniards_ who surveyed the Western Coasts, and the Islands lying off, they are represented in general as a kind, tractable People, and of a docile Temper. As to the Dispatch used by _Indians_ in carrying Expresses, or their Runners as they term them, to carry Messages from one Nation to another, they will gird themselves up with the Rhind of Trees, and keep going incessantly great Distances with a surprising Agility Night and Day, taking little either of Sleep or other Refreshments, and keep a direct Course, and in the Night steer either by the Moon or Stars. Nor is there any Thing miraculous in these Journeys, which the Expresses performed, either as to Distance or as to Time, especially as they passed through a Country abounding with Waters, and which Country being inhabited they could be supplied with Canoes, or they would find Floats at the Places where they usually pass the Waters. _Bernarda_ meeting _de Fonte_ at a Port up the River _Rio los Reyes_, shews he had Persons aboard who could direct him there, therefore must have been previously there; and they can be supposed to be no other than the Jesuits, which is a further Proof of the Jesuits having been before in these Parts. It was consistent that the Ships should join and return home together. From where _Bernarda_ came to with his Ship was one Hundred and twenty Miles to _Conosset_: His Letter from thence was dated the 29th of _August_, and _de Fonte_ sailed the second of _September_: It may be supposed the Letter came to Hand the first of _September_, which is four Days, and the Express had now all the Way by Water, and mostly against Stream. _De Fonte_, to shew that he had preserved the Affection of the Natives, mentions that he was accompanied with them; and they were of Assistance to him in the Pilotage down the River. _De Fonte_ adds, he had sent a Chart with the Letter, which is misunderstood, as if such Chart had come to the Hands of the Editors; _which will make this much more demonstrative_, were Words added by them; but it was usual in all the Naval Expeditions to have Persons aboard whom they called _Cosmographers_, to take Draughts of Places, and compose their Charts, and at that Time a very reputable Employment. _Miguel Venegas_, a _Mexican_ Jesuit, published at _Madrid_ in 1758, a Natural and Civil History of _California_; a Translation of which was published in _London_ in 1759, in two Volumes; and Vol. i. P. 185, says, 'To this �ra (the last Voyage he mentions was in 1636) belongs the Contents of a Paper published at _London_, under the Title of the Narrative of _Bartholomew de Fuentes_, Commander in Chief of the Navy in _New Spain_ and _Peru_, and President of _Chili_, giving an Account of the most remarkable Transactions and Adventures in this Voyage, for the Discovery of a Passage from the _South Sea_, to that of the North in the Northern Hemisphere, by Order of the Viceroy of _Peru_ in the Year 1640. This Writing contains several Accounts relating to _California_; but without entering into long Disputes, let it suffice to say, that little Credit is to be given to this Narrative. For the same Reason we have before omitted the Accounts of Voyages made from the _South Sea_ to the North round beyond _California_, and those of a contrary Direction, of which an Account is given by Captain _Seixas_ and _Lobero_, in _Theatro Naval_, in _Spanish_ and _French_; and particularly of that _Spaniard_ who is supposed, in three Months, to have come from _Puerto de Navidad_ and _Cabo Corientes_ to _Lisbon_. These and other Accounts dispersed in different Books, we designedly omit, as they want the necessary Authenticity.' This Work was published with a Design to induce the Court of _Spain_ to a further Conquest of, an intire Reduction of, and the full settling of _California_, as of the utmost Importance to Religion and the State; and one of the Arguments is, for their immediate putting what he recommends in Execution, the repeated Attempts of the _English_ to find a Passage into the _South Sea_. And observes, 'Should they one Day succeed in this, why may not the _English_ come down through their Conquests, and even make themselves Masters of _New Mexico_, _&c._' which implies, that he did not look on such an Attempt as void of all Hopes of Success; and he again says, 'Whoever is acquainted with the present Disposition of the _English_ Nation, and has heard with what Zeal and Ardour the Project for a North-west Passage has been espoused by many considerable Persons, will be convinced that the Scheme is not romantick, and it would not be surprizing if the Execution of it should one Day come under Deliberation.' Thus artfully hints, should the Scheme come under Deliberation, the Event would be to be feared; and though he ascribes his Opinion of its not being romantick, is, to many considerable Persons having espoused the Scheme, yet he tacitly applies to their own Knowledge, to what the Court of _Spain_ knows as to this Passage. He then proceeds, 'If this should ever happen,' the Deliberation, 'what would be the Condition of our Possessions?' The Deliberation would, from Consequences that would follow on such a Deliberation, endanger our Possessions. _Don Cortez_ informed the King, by a Letter of the 15th of _October_ 1524, that he was building two Ships, to get a Knowledge of the Coast yet undiscovered between the River of _Panaco_ and _Florida_, and from thence to the Northern Coast of the said Country of _Florida_, as far as the _Baccaloo_, 'It being certain, as he expresses himself, that on that Coast is a Streight running into the _South Sea_'--'God grant that the Squadron may compass the End for which it is designed, namely, to discover the Streight, which I am fully persuaded they will do, because in the Royal Concerns of your Majesty nothing can be concealed; and no Diligence or Necessaries shall be wanting in me to effect it.' Again, 'I hereby inform your Majesty, that by the Intelligence I have received of the Countries on the upper Coast of the sending the Ships along, it will be attended with great Advantage to me, and no less to your Majesty. But acquainted as I am with your Majesty's Desire of knowing this Streight, and likewise of the great Service it would be to your Royal Crown.' Vol. i. P. 130. Agreeable to this Letter several Attempts were made by Sea to discover whether _Florida_ was Part of the Continent, or separated by a Streight; but whether _Cortez_ pursued his Design by searching between _Florida_ along the Coast of _Baccaloos_, _Newfoundland_, and the _Terra de Labrador_, for a Streight, by which there was a Passage from the _North_ to the _South Sea_ is uncertain. _Florida_ comprehended the Country from the Cape of _Labrador_ to the Cape _de los Martires_, or of _Martyrs_, opposite to the Island of _Cuba_. From thence to the Streights of _Magellan_ was called _Peruan Part_. The King of _Portugal_, with a View of finding a shorter Passage to those Parts of the _Indies_, which he had discovered, than by the Cape of _Good Hope_, sent, in the Year fifteen Hundred, _Gasper de Corte Real_ to the North of _America_, who landed on the _Terra de Labrador_; also gave his Name to a Promontory on that Coast which he called _Promonterium Corteriale_. The Name of _Labrador_ implies a fertile Country, and given in Distinction from the high barren mountainous Country to Northward, which _Gasper_ discovered in Latitude sixty, and to the Southward of it. But this Distinction seems to have been soon lost, and the Name of _Labrador_ is now given to the whole Coast. From the Knowledge we have of these Parts we may conclude, that the _Promonterium Corteriale_ was what we at present name _Cape Chidley_, and the Islands _de Demonios_, where _Gasper_ lost a Vessel, those Islands now named _Button_'s Islands; and it was _Hudson_'s Streights to which he gave the Name of the River of the _Three Brothers_, though the Reason of his giving that Name is not known to us. We may perceive from this Account of _Gasper_'s Voyage, who did not proceed to Westward to make a Passage, but coasted down the main Land, the Accounts of their being a _Portuguese_ who made a Voyage through the Streights of _Anian_, calling a Promontory after his Name _Promonterium Corteriale_, hath had some Foundation in Truth; and in what is said by _Frisius_, an antient Geographer, calling it the Streights of _Three Brothers_, or _Anian_ (which that Word imports) because three Brothers had passed through a Streight from the _North_ to the _South Sea_. It is also apparent that the Name of _Anian_ was first given by _Gasper Corterialis_ (for some particular Reason unknown to us) to that Part, which is now _Hudson_'s Streights. Though in Time this became a proper Name to express a Streight by which there is a Passage from the _North_ to the _South Sea_, and is contended for to be the proper Name of the Streight that divides _Asia_ from _America_, by which there is a Communication with the _Tartarian_ and _Southern Ocean_. After a Discovery of these Coasts had been made to Northward, the following Year the King of _Portugal_ sent _Americus Vespusino_ to Southward, to discover the Land there. _Cortez_'s Designs seem to have their Foundation in these Expeditions of the _Portuguese_; but it was not until after the Year 1513, that the _South Sea_ was discovered, and the _Portugueze_ had discovered the _Moluccas_, that the finding a Streight to the Northward, by which a Passage might be made to the _South Sea_, became a Matter of particular Attention, and was the first and principal Object of _Cortez_'s Attention after he had become Master of the Capital of _Mexico_ in 1521; and this Opinion of a Passage to Northward continued during the Reign of _Charles_ the Fifth. Who in the Year 1524 sent from _Old Spain_ to discover a Passage to the _Moluccas_ by the North of _America_, without Success; but _Esteven Gomez_, who was sent on that Expedition, brought some _Indians_ home with him. Then in the Year 1526 _Charles_ the Fifth wrote to _Cortez_, in Answer to his Letters, and orders him to send the Ships at _Zacapila_ to discover a Passage from _New Spain_ to the _Moluccas_. From this Time, the Year 1526, the Opinion of there being a Streight was generally received, though on what Foundation does not appear. It was certainly on some better Reason than _Gasper_'s Discoveries; and a Consideration of the Importance such a Passage would be of to the King of _Spain_ with respect to the _Spice_ Islands. It is not consistent with the Characters of the Emperor _Charles_ the Fifth, and of _Cortez_, when there were so many other solid Projects to pursue and this was preferred, to suppose that they should go, at that Time, on a meer visionary Scheme. The same Opinion of a Passage to Northward prevailed in the Time of _Philip_ the Second, and in the Year 1596 he sent Orders to the Viceroy of _Mexico_ for discovering and making Settlements in proper Parts of _California_, and one Reason assigned was, 'There was much Talk about the Streight of _Anian_, through which the _South Sea_ was said to communicate with that of the _North_, near _Newfoundland_; and should the _English_ find out a practicable Passage on that Side, our Dominions, which then included all _Portuguese India_, would be no longer secure, all the Coast from _Acapulco_ to _Culiacan_ being quite defenceless, and from _Culiacan_ Northward, not one single Settlement was made on the whole Coast.' Hist. Cal. V. i. P. 163. That now not only the Opinion of there being a Streight prevailed, but it was also fixed as to the Part, and had the Name of _Anian_. The Opinion of a Passage still existed in the Reign of _Philip_ the Third; and the same political Motives induced him to order the Conquest of _California_ to be undertaken with all possible Expedition; and one Reason assigned is, 'His Majesty also found among other Papers a Narrative delivered by some Foreigners to his Father, giving an Account of many remarkable Particulars which they saw in that Country, when driven thither by Stress of Weather from the Coast of _Newfoundland_; adding, they had passed from the _North Sea_ to the _South_, by the Streight of _Anian_, which lies beyond Cape _Mendocino_; and that they had arrived at a populous and opulent City, walled and well fortified, the Inhabitants living under a regular Policy, and were a sensible and courteous People; with many other Particulars well worth a further Enquiry.' It must be considered this is given us in the History of _California_, V. ii. P. 239, from the _Monarchia Indiana_ of _Juan Torquemada_, a learned _Franciscan_, published at _Madrid_ in 1613, and republished in 1723, Vol. i. P. 629, That a Paper of this Sort was found in the Cabinet of _Philip_ the Second, was thought deserving the Attention of _Philip_ the Third. However the Matter of it is represented here, for nothing could be published but what was first perused and altered, so as to make it consistent with the Interest of Holy Church, the State, or good Manners, before it was licensed, such Paper must have contained some material Intelligence as to a Passage; and if is said to have contained _some remarkable Particulars_. Neither would the Work have been licensed, if what is related as to their having been such a Paper, had not been true. _Torquemada_, Vol. i. P. 20, quotes _Francisco Lopez de Gomara_, deemed a careful Writer, and Author of the History of the _Indies_. Who says the Snowy Mountains are in forty Degrees, and the furthermost Land that is laid down in our Maps; but the Coast runs to the Northward until it comes to form an Island by the _Labrador_, or as separated from _Greenland_; and this Extremity of the Land is five Hundred and ten Leagues in Length. As to what is said as to the Latitude of forty Degrees in this Quotation from _Gomara_, _Torquemada_ hath prefixed a Map to his Work, _agreeable_ to that formed by the King's Cosmographers, in which he hath made the most Western and Northern Part of the Land in almost forty-seven Degrees, and then the Land trends to the Eastward, and the _Serras Nevadas_ are represented to extend a great Length along the Coast, and to Latitude 57 Degrees. Mentions, Vol. i. P. 16, the Royal Cosmographers do not insert any Thing in their Charts of the Sea Coasts but what they have upon Oath, or from creditable Persons; and 'They make a Supputation in the Northern Parts of Islands, which do not lie near or contiguous to the Lands of _Europe_; as to which Islands, not long since discovered, the one is called _Iceland_, the other _Greenland_, which are the Bounds, Limits, or Marks, that divide the Land of the _Indies_ from any other Part howsoever situated or disposed;' afterwards observes, which Islands are not far from the _Labrador_; from which it is plain he calls _America_ an Island. And this is agreeable to what _Acosta_ says, in the Sense which I understand him, that _Quivira_ and _Anian_ extend to the Western Extremity of _America_; and that the Extremity of the Kingdom of _Anian_ to the North extends under the _Polar_ or _Artick_ Circle, and, if the Sea did not prevent it, would be found to join the Countries of _Tartary_ and _China_; and the Streight of _Anian_ takes its Course through the Northern Region, under the Polar Circle, towards _Greenland_, _Iceland_, _England_, and to the Northern Parts of _Spain_. By _Greenland_ I understand the Land to Northward, which is the North Part of _Hudson_'s Streights, and _Cumberland_ Isles; and that this Streight should determine here is agreeable to what _Cortez_ says he would send to search as far as the _Baccallaos_, (which was a Name given by _Cabot_ in 1496) for the Streight by which he expected a Passage from the _North_ to the _South Sea_. By _Iceland_ is meant, as is apparent from a View of such Map hereunto annexed, the Land to Northward of Cape _Farewel_, or the _Proper Greenland_. _Gomara_ mentions these Islands had not been long discovered. It is apparent from the Map, that they had a very imperfect Account of these Discoveries, which were made by _Frobisher_ and _Davis_, who also were far from being exact in their Computations of the Longitude. In this Map prefixed to _Torquemada_'s Work, and here annexed, the Southern Part of _Newfoundland_ is laid down in Lat. 55, nine Degrees more to the Northward than it ought to be, for which Reason the _Labrador_, _Greenland_, and _Iceland_, are placed much further to Northward than they ought to be placed, and are made to extend beyond the Polar Circle. It is from this Supposition of _Newfoundland_ being in so high a Latitude that _Acosta_ says, _the Streight of Anian_ takes its Course through the Northern Region under the Polar Circle towards _Greenland_ and _Iceland_. In the same Map the extremest Point of _California_, answerable to Cape _St. Lucas_, is laid down in Longitude 105 Degrees from the Meridian of _Ferro_, and the Extremity of the Land to Westward a Cape to Northward of Cape _Fortunes_, but to which no Name is given, and in Latitude 47, is placed in 135 Degrees from the Meridian of _Ferro_; the Difference of Longitude is 30 Degrees. This Map, published by _Torquemada_, was constructed before the Year 1612, therefore prior to a Map published in _Holland_ in 1619, under the Title of _Nova Totius Orbis Descriptio_, prefixed to the Voyage of _George Spilbergen_, in which the Errors of _Torquemada_'s Map, as to the Situation of _Newfoundland_, and the Places to Northward are corrected; yet great Errors are committed as to the Parts to Westward of _America_, making eighty-five Degrees of Longitude between Cape _St. Lucas_ and the Extremity of the Land to Westward and Northward in Lat. 42; and ninety-five Degrees between Cape _St. Lucas_ and the Extremity of the Land nearest to _Asia_. The Reason of this Difference is plain, they both err with respect to those Parts, of which they had not authenticated Accounts. [Illustration: Map of the Americas. _The_ Original _from which this_ Map _is copied was published in 1608 by the authority of_ Philip IV. King of Spain, _in the 1^(st) Edition of_ Torquemadas MONARQUIA INDIANA _Vol. 1._] _Cortez_ wrote to the Emperor that he had sent People on Discovery, both by Land and Water, it was not designed that their Discoveries should be communicated, as _Cortez_ intended to turn them to his own private Advantage. But when _Mendoza_ fitted out two Armaments, one by Land under the Command of _Coronado_, and the other by Sea under _Alarcon_; _Alarcon_ was ordered to Latitude 53, to join the Land Forces, and to make a Survey of the Coast, and see if there was a Passage or a Communication by Water through those Countries which _Coronado_ was to discover and subdue, with the _South Sea_. As to _Coronado_, the _Franciscans_ had been before in those Parts, and they gave Information and Direction as to his Part of the Expedition; but as to the Part that _Alarcon_ had, on what Information he was ordered to go to Latitude 53, and what Probability there was that it was possible for him to find such Passage, and join the Land Forces, does not appear. But from his not finding such Passage, not joining the Land Forces, and proceeding no further than the Lat. 36, though his Reason for not going further is, that the Land then trended to the Northward, which he supposed would put him further off from the Army, whom he knew were in ten Days March of him, and the Excuse of Sickness and ill Condition of his Vessels, occasioned him to return before his Time; yet his Conduct threw the whole Disgrace of the ill Success of that Expedition on _Alarcon_, both with the Emperor and the Viceroy: And what he wrote to the Emperor was not attended to. He wrote to the Emperor, 'That it was for him only, and not in Subordination to the Viceroy, that he had conquered, discovered, and entered on the _Californias_, and all those Lands on the Coasts of the _South Sea_; that he had learnt that some of those Lands were not far from the Coasts of _Grand China_; that there was but a small Navigation to the _Spice_ Islands, which he knew was wished for at that Time; that it engaged all his Thoughts, and was his most ardent Desire to undertake such Navigation.' _Torquem._ Vol. i. P. 609. On _Alarcon_'s Return _Juan Rodrique de Cabrillo_ was fitted out, who went as far as Lat. 44. Sickness, Want of Provisions, and his Ships not being of sufficient Strength for those Northern Seas, obliged him to return, though he was designed to go further to Northward. The Ships returning from the _Philippines_, which was also an Expedition in the Time of Viceroyship of _Mendoza_, fell in with the Land in Lat. 42, and found it all to be _Terra Firma_, from a Cape there, which they named _Mendocino_ to the Port of _La Navidad_. In 1602 _Vizcaino_ went, and then the Discovery was made by _Martin de Aguilar_; and _Torquemada_ tells us, Vol. i. Lib. 5. P. 725. That if there had not been, only fourteen healthy Persons when they were at Cape _Blanco_, they were resolved to pass thro' the Streight, which they named _Anian_, and which Streight is said to be there; and P. 719, speaking of the Entrance of _Martin Aguilar_, it is understood to be a River, by which you may pass to a great City, which the _Hollanders_ discovered coming through the Streight, which is the Streight of _Anian_, and which City, he says, was named _Quivira_. These Voyages, and we have Accounts of no others, could not have furnished the Cosmographers the principal Materials for composing their Map, and it must have been agreeable to those Materials, besides the Accounts of these Voyages sent to _Old Spain_, that they set down the utmost Limits of the Western Coast to be in the Longitude of 135 Decrees from the Meridian of _Ferro_. Therefore it was their Opinion at that Time that one Hundred and thirty-five Degrees was near the Difference of Longitude of the Entrance of the Streight of _Anian_ in the _South Sea_, accounting the Longitude from the Meridian of _Ferro_. For which Reason the _Spaniards_ can never be understood to mean by the Streight of _Anian_ the Streight which separates _Asia_ and _America_, now named _Beering_'s _Streight_, and by which there is a Communication between the Sea of _Tartary_, or the _Frozen Ocean_, and the _South Sea_. It is something remarkable, and supports what hath been before said as to Deficiency of the _Spanish_ Records, what Jesuit _Venegas_, the Author of the History of _California_, says, Vol. ii. P. 228, 'I was extremely desirous of finding Capt. _Sebastian Vizcaino_'s Narrative, and the Representations of the Council to his Majesty _Philip_ the Third, especially the Maps, Plans, Charts of his Voyage and Discoveries, in order to communicate the Whole to the Publick. Accordingly at my Request Search was made in the Secretary's Office of the Council of the _Indies_: But in this Intention of being serviceable to the Publick I have been disappointed.' And he again observes, on the Governor of _Cinaloa_ being ordered to pass over and take a Survey of the Coasts, Islands, Bays, Creeks, and the Disposition of the Ground of _California_, in the Year 1642, Vol. i. P. 188, 'There would have been little Occasion, says he, for this preparatory Survey, after so many others which had been continually making for above a Century, had the Reports, Narratives, Charts, Draughts and Maps, which were made, or should have been made, by so many Discoveries still continued in being. But these are the Effects of a Want of a proper Care in preserving Papers, a Fault to be regretted by Persons in Power, to whom they would be of Service in the Conduct of Affairs, and by private Persons, on the Account of their Interest, or as Entertainments of a commendable Curiosity.'--'But by the Loss of some Papers, either thro' a Change in the Government, or Irregularity in the Records, the whole Advantage of an Expedition is lost.' From this Declaration by one who being a Jesuit, and of _Mexico_, composing a Work entirely for the publick Service, under the Direction of the Jesuits; by their Influence could attain the Sight of any Papers which were thought interesting as to the Work he was composing; and his last Reflection is not confined to the Records of _Old Spain_ only; it is apparent what Uncertainty there is of attaining any Evidence from such Records, as to the Discoveries made in the first Century after the Conquest of _Mexico_, and for a long Time after. The Narrative of _Vizcaino_'s Voyage, and every Thing thereto relating, as to any remaining Records might have become disputable, had not _Torquemada_ collected it, and published it amongst other Accounts; yet what _Torquemada_ hath preserved is but imperfect, as is apparent from a Journal of that Voyage, preserved in a private Hand at _Manilla_, and a Sight of large Extracts from which the Author hath been favoured by a Gentleman in _London_. It is owing to what _Torquemada_ and some others have collected of the Accounts which the Religious were the Authors of, that the Publick have the Accounts of those Parts; but such Voyages and Accounts as have not met with the same Means of being preserved, the Publick, from such Neglect, know nothing of them. It is plain from _Gomara_'s Account, also from _Acosta_'s, that great Discoveries had been made in these Parts, but as to many of such Discoveries, by whom is not known; and _Venegas_ says, Vol. i. P. 30, the River _Santo Thome_ was discovered in the Year 1684; 'And tho' I do not find, says he, in the Narratives of that Expedition (of Admiral _Otondo_) that _Otondo_ ever went ashore only to visit the Harbours of the Eastern Coast and the Gulph; yet from the ardent Curiosity of Father _Kino_, and the great Concern he had in the Affairs of _California_, I cannot think that he should be mistaken in any Particular relating to the Discovery: That Father _Kino_, both in his large Manuscript Map, and likewise in the lesser Impression, places the River of _Santo Thome_ as rising between the 26th and 27th Degrees of N. Latitude, and, after crossing the whole Peninsula, discharging itself into the _South Sea_, in the 26th Deg. and forming at its Mouth a large Harbour, which he calls _Puerto de Anno Nuevo_, being discovered in the Year 1685. On both Sides the River are Christian Villages, as is evident from their Names; _Santiago_, _Santo Innocentes_, _&c._ yet, in the Accounts of that Time, I do not meet with any Intelligence of this Discovery; to which I must add, that in the subsequent Relations no mention is made of any such River, Settlements or Harbours, though even little Brooks, are taken Notice of.' And he observes many other Difficulties occur about this Coast. This Harbour made by the River _Santo Thome_, is evidently that which _de Fonte_ and others call _Christabel_. Some Settlements had been made there, as these Names were given, but either deserted from the Barrenness of the Country, or had been only frequented by those who went out private Adventurers, in order to trade with the Natives. But as to which River, Settlements and Harbour, were not the Names preserved by Father _Kino_, it would not have been known that any Persons had been in those interior Parts of _California_, or that there were such River and Harbour. Father _Kino_ looked upon it as a Thing so well known, as he had no Occasion to defend himself, by giving the Reason of his inserting those Names to protect himself from the Reproach of Posterity. And _Venegas_ before tells us, that as to the Discoveries which had been made for a Century passed, the Papers were lost. Between the Year sixteen Hundred and eighty-five, and the Time of _Venegas_'s Publication, though in the Year sixteen Hundred and eighty-five, it was well known that there was such a River as _St. Thome_, this River is exploded out of the Maps by the Geographers, on Account of the Uncertainty; not duly considering that there was as full a Proof as could be required with respect to so unfrequented a Part. The Account being from a Person whose Business it was to make Observations there, who had been so laborious and accurate as to discover, what had been so long desired to be known, whether _California_ was an Island or not, as to which he was believed; and the Truth hath been confirmed by later Observations of what he had reported, That it was not an Island. Therefore there was no Foundation for any Uncertainty in this Case, the same as with respect to the Letter of _de Fonte_, owing to the Neglect of a proper Enquiry into the Circumstances relating to it, by such an Inquiry the Uncertainty would have been removed. What hath been said is to shew that the Argument on which so great a Stress is laid, that there is no Account of this Voyage amongst the _Spanish_ Records, is an Argument of no Weight against the Authenticity of this Account; and that as a Publication of this Voyage was not permitted, an Account of such Voyage could not be perpetuated by the Religious, the only probable Means at that Time of preferring it from Oblivion. As it was intended what was the Effect of this Expedition should be kept a Secret, it is not consistent there should be many written Accounts of it; the Officers concerned would be cautious of letting Transcripts be made from their Journals; and it may be attributed to an extraordinary Accident, rather than to what could be expected, that a Copy of the Letter of _de Fonte_ should ever come into the Possession of the _English_. These Observations being previously made, we are better enabled to consider, what we have before inserted, the Objection of _Venegas_ for not inserting this Account of _de Fonte_, as being of little Credit; but he seems rather to wish that we would be of his Opinion, than to imagine that he could convince us by any Arguments; therefore excuses himself as to the Length of the Dispute he might be engaged in. His Manner of expressing himself with respect to this Disappointment in the Secretary's Office, shews he hath a Manner of Address that his Words will admit of a further constructive Meaning than what is set down. The principal Object of his Writing is to incite the Court of _Spain_ to prepare in Time against the ill Consequences of the _English_ making a Discovery of a Passage; and he is to be understood, that it is not only his Opinion that the finding of such a Passage is practicable, but he apprehends it is of the Opinion of the Court also. Declares, that such Opinion hath prevailed from the first settling of _Mexico_, and that there really is a Passage in such a Manner as a Person who published an Account of this Sort would be permitted to express himself, to have it pass the Approbation of the Licenser; and does not desire to suppress the Account of _de Fonte_, as it is an absolute Contradiction to what he would infer, there being a Passage, and in such Letter it is declared there is no North-west Passage. For he must have had further and better Authorities for his Assertions of there being a Passage than such, as that single Assertion would prevail against. But desired to suppress this Account, as it was an Account which he knew it was more consistent with the Designs of the Court, it should be continued in Oblivion than revived. Mentions it therefore as the _Contents of a_ Paper published in _London_, which contained a Narrative of little Credit; and to give the better Authority to what he says, as he could not trust to the Opinion that might be had of such Account on a fair Representation of the Title; to support the Character he gave of it, therefore uses Art, misrepresenting such Title; says it was _by Order of the Viceroy of_ Peru, _in the Year_ 1640, and _giving an Account of the most material Transactions and Adventures in this Voyage_. Was the Letter so entituled, the _Transactions_ and _Adventures_ of a Commander in Chief of the Navy, in _New Spain_, he would not be singular in his Opinion, but it would be understood by every one as a Romance, and not deserving of Credit. This Misrepresentation is intentionally done; for if he never saw the Letter, or had not a right Account of it, on what Authority could he assert it was of little Credit; and that it would engage him in a long Dispute, a Dispute which his Sagacity would point out to him how to determine in a very few Lines, by proving that there was no such Person as _de Fonte_, Admiral of _New Spain_; which it was in his Power to do had it been the Case. But what he mentions is so far from a Denial of there being such a Person Admiral of _New Spain_, that he gives us the Name, and sets forth the Character _de Fonte_ was in, in a more proper Manner than we have it expressed in the Title of the Letter. _Bartholomew de Fuentes, Commander in Chief of the Navy in New Spain and Peru, and President of Chili_; and he is to be understood not to mean that there was no such Person, but that the Narrative is not credible as to any such Voyage having been made by Admiral _de Fonte_. By a Schedule of the King of _Spain_ in 1606 to the Governor of the _Philippines_, _Vizcaino_ was to be again fitted out to discover a Harbour on the Western Coast of _California_, for the Reception of the _Aquapulco_ Ship; but the Death of _Vizcaino_ prevented that Design being carried into Execution; as the Court had found so many Disappointments, and such ill Success in these Undertakings, they did not think proper to entrust it to any other Person in the _Philippines_ or _New Spain_. And _Venegas_ says, Hist of _Cal._ Vol. i. P. 180. 'During the succeeding nine Years inconsiderable Voyages only were made to _California_, and these rather to fish for Pearls, or procure them by Barter, than to make any Settlement, and therefore they have been thought below any separate Account, especially as in the subsequent Royal Commissions they are only mentioned in general without any Circumstances.' Though Commissions were given to go into these Parts, without any Account remaining to whom, and on what particular Occasion; it is not to be doubted as in all Commissions of this Nature they would be under an Obligation to make a Report to the Court, and it is not to be understood that these Commissions were continued for nine Years only; and therefore what hath been said as to _Parmentiers_ and the Jesuits, their having been in these Parts, is not the least improbable. By these Commissions they were not confined to the Gulph of _California_, is evident from Father _Kino_, as already mentioned, giving Names in his Map to Villages, or occasional Settlements rather, on the River _Santo Thome_: And he says, P. 299, what made Father _Kino_ desirous of discovering whether _California_ was an Island or not, 'That all the Moderns had placed it as an Island, there being extant also some Journals of Mariners, according to which they went round _California_ through a Streight, and gave the Parts and Places through which they passed their own Names.' It appears from this Account they were permitted, by these Commissions, to rove about, though not to make Settlements, induced by their private Advantage, and the Advantage to the Government was from their Discoveries. Also Vol. i. P. 182, he mentions, 'That a great many private Persons, from the Coast of _Culiacan_ and _Chametla_, made Trips in small Boats to the Coast of _California_, either to fish for Pearls, or purchase them of the _Indians_;' which is agreeable to _de Fonte_'s Account of the Master and Mariners he procured at _Zalagua_ and _Compostilo_. We may also observe what the Missionaries say, as to the Tides at the Head of the Bay, which still adds to the Authenticity of this Account. 'In those Parts the Tide shifts every six Hours; the Flood, with a frightful Impetuosity, rises from three to seven Fathoms, overflowing the flat Country for some Leagues, and the Ebb necessarily returns with the same dangerous Violence.--However the Pilot went on Shore in the Pinnace, at several Parts, in order to make a complete Drawing of it for his Chart; was equally convinced that this Cape was the Extremity of the Gulph of _California_, and that the Waters beyond it were those of the River _Colorado_.' Therefore it was, from the exact Observation of the Tide which this Pilot took so much Pains to make, an unsettled Point from whence the Tide proceeded. Which, at the Time of _de Fonte_'s Expedition, was said to come from the Northward, agreeable to the then prevailing Opinion of _California_ being an Island. According to the usual Practice, though the true Cause of a Phænomena is unknown, to quote that Phænomena that favours a System which there is a Desire to establish as a Truth, not only in support of but to confirm such System, as to render the Truth of it unquestionable. After _Vizcaino_'s Death, and though the Court of _Spain_ was disappointed as to finding able and sufficient Persons in _New Spain_ whom they could intrust, yet Adventures were made by private Persons, at their own Expence, both for Discovery and Settlements; yet these could not be undertaken without the Permission of his Majesty, who had taken it into his own Hand to grant such Commissions, and mostly required a Voyage to _Old Spain_ to attain them; and the next Expedition that was made, at the Crown's Expence, was conducted by an Admiral from _Old Spain_, who arrived in _New Spain_ in 1643, Admiral _Cassanate_, with full Power and Necessaries to equip a Fleet, and make Settlements in _California_; and he sailed on such Expedition in 1644. By which it is apparent that there were Ships at that Time in _New Spain_ proper for such Expeditions. As he came into these Parts within three Years after _de Fonte_'s Expedition, and took the Command as Admiral of _New Spain_ when he arrived, it is to be supposed the Expedition _Cassanate_ was sent on was too fatiguing for _de Fonte_, who was therefore retired to his Government of _Chili_. In the Year 1649 Admiral _Cassanate_, in Reward for his Services, being after the same Manner promoted to the Government of _Chili_, _de Fonte_ must be dead at that Time. This Circumstance fixes the Period in which the Copy of this Letter was taken. As what _Venegas_ says as to the Account (which Account hath been before mentioned) given by _Seyxas y Lovera_, as to its wanting the necessary Authenticity. Besides the usual Licences, wherein the Licencers declare there is nothing contrary to good Manners, and besides being dedicated to the King in his Royal and Supreme Council of the _Indies_, _Seyxas_'s Book hath the Licence and Approbation of the Professor of Divinity in the University of _Alcara_, Preacher to the King, and Principal of a College of Jesuits in _Madrid_. Hath also the Approbation and Licence of the Professor of Erudition and Mathematicks in the Imperial College of the Company of the Jesuits at _Madrid_. What unfavourable Opinion soever we may entertain of the Principles of these Persons, we must have such an Opinion of their Prudence, that they would not sign their Approbation to a Book while it contained an unnecessary Lie, which could be easily expunged, or until they were satisfied as to the Authenticity of this Account which _Seyxas_ gives of _Peche_'s Voyage, having been published in various Places. And it is indisputable from the Countenance his Book received, he was looked on at that Time as a deserving honest Man. _Venegas_ designedly omits other Accounts dispersed in various Books for Want of necessary Authenticity; but it is not to be understood that he absolutely denies that such Accounts are true. Neither is there so great an Improbability in such Discoveries having been made, as some of these Accounts mention, as is imagined, when such Accounts are duly considered. We have already mentioned one Account which engaged the Attention of the King of _Spain_, therefore must have been of some Authority. There is another Account (unless it be the same Account differently represented) of a Ship that, to the Northward of Cape _Blanco_, on the Coast of _California_, passed through the Streight into the _North Sea_, and to _Old Spain_, which was also made known to the King of _Spain_, mentioned by _Torquemada_, Vol. i. P. 725. Most of the Discoveries are reported to have been made by Ships coming from the _Moluccas_, or from the _Philippine_ Islands to the Eastward, and which have met with bad Weather. And what, in those Times, Ships were necessitated to do, if there was a Continuance of hard Gales of Wind, we may learn from the Schedule of _Philip_ the Third, History of _California_, Vol. i. P. 175, after mentioning a Harbour found by _Vizcaino_, on the Western Coast of _California_, adds, 'And lies very convenient for Ships returning from the _Philippine_ Islands to put into, and thus, in case of Storms, avoid the Necessity of making for _Japan_, as they have several Times done, and expended great Sums of Money. Besides, they usually have Sight of the Coast of _China_, which is an additional Benefit, as knowing where they are, they will not as formerly, in case of bad Weather, make for _Japan_, or those Islands, as the same Winds which would carry them thither, bring them into this Harbour. Again, P. 177, considering how much it concerns the Security of Ships coming from those Islands, in a Voyage of no less than 2000 Leagues, on a wide and tempestuous Sea, that they should be provided with a Port where they might put in and furnish themselves with Water, Wood, and Provisions: That the said Port of _Monterey_ lies in 37 Degrees, nearly about half Way the Voyage.' A Ship flying before the Wind, and the People steering her towards the Coast of _America_, to avoid _Japan_ and the Islands, making a Cape Land on the Coast of _California_, would run for what they supposed a Harbour, and the bad Weather continuing might proceed up the Bay or Opening they were then in, to meet with the Inhabitants, in order to obtain Refreshments, and to learn where they were, by which Means find a Passage. As Ships were distressed in hard Gales of Wind, in the Manner the Schedule mentions, there is no Improbability of a Passage being first accidentally discovered by a single Ship coming from Sea with a leading Wind into a large Opening, in Expectation of a Harbour, though such Discovery hath not been made by Ships intentionally sent along Shore for that Purpose. It is to be observed, the People of the _Philippine_ Islands are those who most talked of a Passage: They informed _Peche_ and others; and it is easily accounted for why they should do so: For if the _Portugueze_ made the Discovery in a Ship from the _Moluccas_, there was a constant Intercourse between them and the People of the _Philippines_; and whether the Discovery was made by the _Spaniards_ or _Portugueze_, some of the Company who were aboard such Ship as had passed through the Streight from the _South_ to the _North Sea_, would return to the _Moluccas_ or the _Philippines_; and others would meet their Acquaintance from thence in _Portugal_ or _Old Spain_; who would take Pleasure in relating to them the Accounts of their Voyage, and which they who heard those Accounts would be equally fond of communicating to others, especially when they returned back to the _Indies_. By which Means it would be known that there had been such a Discovery; and it would be out of the Power of the King of _Spain_ or _Portugal_ to prevent its being so far known, but could prevent the Account of such Discovery being published, or the Particulars communicated to Foreigners. In the Year 1568 _Salvatierra_, a Gentleman of _Spain_, who had accidentally landed in _Ireland_ from the _West Indies_, gave an Account of a Passage having been made by one _Andrew Urdanietta_, and by the Circumstances of that Account it was about the Year 1556 or 1557. This _Urdanietta_ was a Friar, was with and greatly assisted _Andrew Miguel Lopez de Legaspi_ in the Expedition to the _Philippine_ Islands in the Year 1564, and was called the celebrated Religious _Andrew de Urdanietta_. His being thus employed, and so serviceable in this Expedition to the _Philippine_ Islands, as he is said to have been, implies, that he had a prior Knowledge of those Parts, and must have been there before; and the Character that _Salvatierra_ gave of him to Sir _Hugh Sydney_, then Lord Deputy of _Ireland_, and Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_, was, that he was the greatest Discoverer by Sea that was in that Age. _Salvatierra_ said that _a North-west Passage_ was constantly believed to be in _America_ navigable; and that _Urdanietta_ had shewed him at _Mexico_ eight Years before _Salvatierra_ arrived in _Ireland_, a Chart made from his own Observations in a Voyage in which he came from _Mare del Zur_ into _Germany_, through this North-west Passage, wherein such Passage was expressed, agreeing with _Ortelius_'s Map: That _Urdanietta_ had told the King of _Portugal_ of it as he came there from _Germany_ in his return home; but the King earnestly intreated him not to discover this Secret to any Nation: _For that_ (said he) _if_ England _had once a Knowledge and Experience of it, it would greatly hinder the King of_ Spain _and me_. And _Salvatierra_ was himself persuaded of a Passage by the Friar _Urdanietta_, and by the common Opinion of the _Spaniards_ inhabiting _America_. It was this Account with some other that gained the Attention of the greatest Men of that Age to pursue the Discovery of a North-west Passage. Neither would _Dudley_, _Walsingham_, or Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_, and other honourable Persons about the Court, be deceived with fictitious Stories, and pursue a Phantom. Could the great Abilities and Penetration of a _Walsingham_ be defective in this Respect, which was so perfect in all other Respects, as to be the Admiration of the present Age. Those who condemn this Account, and some other Accounts of this Sort, have not considered, that upon a slight Surmise or Suspicion only they put their Judgments in Competition with and in Contradiction to the Judgments of those great Men, who embraced no Opinion as to any Matter but what was founded in Reason, and all the Circumstances relating to which they had first fully considered, and which Opinion they adhered to. As to a North-west Passage, making a Distinction between the Disappointments as to the effecting the Discovery of a Passage, and the Probability there was of their being such Passage. The King of _Spain_ was equally successless as to the Execution, and at the same Time as much assured of the Practicability of making it; for which Reason Secretary _Walsingham_ was concerned at his Death, as the Attention of the Publick was drawn to a _North-east_ Passage, by which nothing more was proposed than a Trade to _Cathæy_ or _China_, and that a North-west Passage was neglected on the Part of the _English_. It was an Opinion received in _England_ in the Year 1560, or earlier, that there was such a Passage; and before the _Philippines_ were settled by the _Spaniards_. Soon after the Discovery of _Urdanietta_, _Frobisher_, who set out in 1576, is said to have projected his Design, and made an Application for fifteen Years before. Did not succeed in the City probably, as they might not see any certain Advantage; but when he applied to the Court he succeeded. On what Plan he went is also evident, to find an Entrance to Northward of the _Labrador_; for when he fell in with the South-west Part of _Greenland_, it was supposed by him to be the _Labrador_ Coast. There is another Account on the Oath of _Thomas Cowles_ of _Bedmester_, taken the 9th of _April_ 1579, at a Time when Oaths were considered by all People as solemn and sacred Obligations to declare the Truth. He says that six Years before, he heard a _Portugueze_ read a Book which he set out six Years before in print in the _Portugal_ Tongue, declaring that he, _Martin Chacke_, had found, now twelve Years past, a Way from the _Portugal Indies_ through the Gulph of _Newfoundland_, which he thought to be in Latitude 59° of the North Pole, by Means that he being in the said _Indies_ with four Ships of great Burthen, and he himself being in a small Ship of eighty Ton, far driven from the Company of the other four Ships with a West Wind; after that he had passed along by a great Number of Islands, which were in the Gulph of the said _Newfoundland_, and after that he overshot the Gulph, he set no more Sight on any other Land, until he fell in with the North-west Part of _Ireland_; and from thence he took his Course homeward, and by that Means came to _Lisbon_ four or five Weeks before the other Ships. But the Books were afterwards called in by the King's Order. This Passage was made about ten Years after that of _Urdanietta_; and it is probable _Chacke_ was encouraged to proceed through such Passage, from the Report or an Account which he had heard of such Passage having been before made. It is evident he met with some Difficulties in such Passage which delayed him, as the Ships were at _Lisbon_ so soon after him, and as he expresses that he was far driven from the other four Ships he left them in a low Latitude, and being got to the Northward, without any Expectation of rejoining them, proceeded intentionally to make his Voyage by the Passage; which he would not have done to the Hazard of losing his Vessel and Cargo, for he was not on Discovery, but returning to _Lisbon_ in Company with other loaden Vessels, from whom he was separated, unless he had been assured that what he undertook was practicable, and a Passage had been made by some Vessel before that Time. This Account was received as a Truth by the principal People of the Kingdom, who certainly made a due Enquiry as to the Character of the Person who made the Affidavit with respect to his Capacity, there would be a proper Precaution also, at the Time of administering such Affidavit, that it was exact and only what he knew positively as to this Matter, tho' there might be other Circumstances which he was not so positive in. And as this Account was at that Time believed, it must have been on better Reasons than can be at present urged by any one to call the Veracity of this Account in Question. _Juan de Fuca_ (the Account is from _Purchase_ and _North-west Fox_) was an ancient Pilot, who had been in the _West India_ of _Spain_ for near forty Years, and had sailed as Mariner and Pilot to many Places thereof in Service of the _Spaniards_. He was Pilot of three small Ships which the _Viceroy_ of _Mexico_ sent from thence, armed with a hundred Soldiers, under a _Spaniard_ Captain, to discover the Streights of _Anian_ along the Coast of the _South Sea_, and to fortify in that Streight, to resist the Passage of the _English_ Nation, but by Reason of a Mutiny which happened amongst the Soldiers, for some ill Practices of the Captain, the Voyage was overset, and they returned to _New Spain_. The Viceroy sent _de Fuca_ out again in 1592, with a small Caravel and Pinnace, armed with Mariners only, for the Discovery of the said Streights. Finding the Land to trend North and North-east, with a broad Inlet between 47 and 48, he entered it, and sailing therein more than twenty Days, found the Land trending still, sometimes North-west, sometimes North-east, and also South-eastward, far broader Sea than at the said Entrance; and passed by diverse Islands in that Entrance. He went upon Land in several Places, and saw some People on Land, clad in Beasts Skins; and that the Land was very fruitful, and rich of Gold and Silver, and Pearls, and other Things like _Nova Hispania_. Being entered thus far in the said Streight, and come into the _North Sea_ already, and finding the Sea wide enough every where, and to be about thirty or forty Leagues wide in the Streight where he entered; he thought he had well discharged his Office, and done the Thing he was sent to do; and that he not being armed to resist the Force of the savage People, that might happen to assault him, therefore set sail and returned to _Nova Hispania_, where he arrived at _Aquapulco, Anno 1592_, hoping to be well rewarded by the Viceroy for his Voyage so performed. The Viceroy received him kindly, and gave him Promises; but after an Expectation of two Years the Viceroy wished him to go to _Spain_, where the King would reward him; and he accordingly went. He was well received at Court; but after long Suit could get no Reward to his Content, so stole away and came to _Italy_, to live amongst his Kindred in his own Country, being very old, a _Greek_ by Birth, born in the Island of _Sepholonica_, and his proper Name _Apostollos Valerianos_. _De Fuca_ went first to _Leghorn_, then to _Florence_, where he met one _John Dowlass_, an _Englishman_, a famous Mariner, ready coming for _Venice_, to be a Pilot for a _Venetian_ Ship to _England_; they went in Company to _Venice_. _Dowlass_ being acquainted with Mr. _Lock_, at least a considerable Merchant if not a Consul there; gave him an Account of this _de Fuca_, and introduced him to Mr. _Lock_, who gave Mr. _Lock_ the preceding Account; and made a Proposal, if Queen _Elizabeth_ would make up the Loss which he had sustained aboard the _Aquapulco_ Ship taken by Captain _Cavendish_, which was to the Value of sixty Thousand Ducats, he would go to _England_, and serve her Majesty to discover the _North-west Passage_ into the _South Sea_, and engage his Life for the Performance, with a Ship of forty Tons and a Pinnace. They had two several Meetings on this Occasion; and _Lock_, at _de Fuca_'s Request, wrote to the old Lord _Treasurer Cecil_, Sir _Walter Rawleigh_, and Mr. _Richard Hackluit_, the Cosmographer, desiring a Hundred Pounds for to pay his Passage to _England_. His Friends wrote _Lock_ Word, the Action was very well liked, if the Money could be procured. As no great Expectations were to be had from this Answer, _de Fuca_ left _Venice_ in a Fortnight after, pursued his Design of going to _Greece_, and there died. There is nothing in this Relation but what is very natural and simple. _De Fuca_'s Demand was excessive, for which Reason, probably, as a Man who over-rated his Services, he was not rewarded by the _Viceroy_ or the _King_; yet the _Viceroy_ availed himself of him, by sending him to Court to give an Account of his Voyage, which he might be ordered to do, as another Expedition was desired, and a Representation for that Purpose made by the Viceroy _Luis Velasco_, as is mentioned in the Schedule of the King. History of _California_, P. 173. It did not appear that he could certainly perform what he undertook, concluding he was in the _North Sea_, from such Sea returned back to _New Spain_, therefore had not acquired a Knowledge of the Entrance into the Streights from the Eastward; which was the Difficulty that obstructed this Discovery on the Part of the _English_, and had been so much sought after, but unsuccessfully. His Age was also a very material Objection, that he would scarce be able to bear the Fatigue of such a Voyage, his Desire to undertake which immediately proceeded from his Avarice: Nor was it confident that the Hundred Pounds should be sent over to bring him to _England_, if the other Part of the Terms could not be complied with; which seems to be the Meaning of the Expression, the Action is well liked of if the Money could be procured. And _de Fuca_, whose Motive for proposing this Undertaking, was to be satisfied for his Loss by Captain _Cavendish_, would not have altered his Design of going into his own Country, and proceeded to _England_, unless he was assured of his being so gratified on a Performance of what he undertook. _Dowlass_, who was a good Mariner, as he travelled with him, and kept his Company, would have had particular and frequent Conversation with _de Fuca_, and who, as a Mariner, was more capable of finding out if his Account was true, and was thoroughly satisfied it was so, as he spoke to Mr. _Lock_ about him. Neither _Lock_ nor _Dowlass_ could have any sinister Views, but only animated by a publick Spirit to do their Country so acceptable a Service, which it was thought to be in _England_, as it is said the Action is well liked of. As to _de Fuca_ being taken Prisoner by Captain _Cavendish_, and how did he escape out of the Hands of the _English_? When the Ship was taken all the People were put ashore on the Coast of _California_, the Goods were taken out, and then the Ship was set a Fire, which burnt to the Water Mark, the Wreck floated ashore, they erected Jury-masts in her, and fortunately got to _Aquapulco_. _De Fuca_ says, the Cause he thought of the ill Reward he had of the _Spaniards_ was, that they understood very well the _English_ Nation had now given over all their Voyages for the Discovery of a _North-west Passage_, wherefore they feared not them to come any more that Way into the _South Sea_; and therefore they needed not his Service therein any more: Which is so far agreeable to the Accounts of those Times, that, after the Death of Sir _Francis Walsingham_, the Discovery of a North-west Passage had no Patron at Court; and Sir _Francis_ had particularly interested himself in procuring _Davis_ to go on his last Expedition. The Discovery was not re-assumed until the Year 1602, by the _Muscovy_ Company, who had never engaged as a Company in this Discovery; but having made some successless Attempts, as to the North-east Passage, fitted out Capt. _George Weymouth_ for the Discovery of a North-west Passage, which it is observable was the same Year with _Vizcaino_'s Expedition. And it is observable the next Expedition for the Discovery of a North-west Passage, was not until the Year 1606, when Mr. _John Knight_ was fitted out; and the same Year the King of _Spain_ orders _Vizcaino_ on a third Expedition, but _Vizcaino_ died, though in the interim _Vizcaino_ had been to _Old Spain_, to make Application to make a fresh Attempt, at his own Expence, and he could not obtain Permission of his Majesty. As the Expeditions which the Court of _Spain_ order peremptorily to be undertaken, correspond as to the Time with those from _England_, shews a Jealousy on the Part of the King of _Spain_ that the _English_ might succeed as to a Passage through the Streights. And though it is mentioned as the principal Design in the Expeditions by Order of the King of _Spain_, is the Discovery of a Harbour for the _Aquapulco_ Ship, the Publick understood there was yet a farther Design, and as much may be collected from the King of _Spain_'s Schedule in 1606. Count _de Monterey_, 'by pursuing the Discovery intended by _Don Luis de Velasco_, wrote to me concerning, and was of Opinion that small Vessels from the Harbour of _Aquapulco_ were the fittest; and that in the Discovery might be included the Coasts and Bays of the Gulph of _California_, and of the Fishery, to which, in my Letter of the 27th of _September_ 1599, I ordered to be answered, that the Discovery, and making Draughts, with Observations of that Coast, and the Bays along it, having appeared to me _highly convenient_, it was my Will he should immediately put it in Execution, without troubling himself about _California_, unless occasionally--And _Sebastian Vizcaino_ carefully informed himself of these _Indians_, and many others, whom he discovered along the Coast for above eight Hundred Leagues; and they all told him, that up the Country there were large Towns, Silver, and Gold; whence he is inclined to believe that great Riches may be discovered, especially as, in some Parts of the Land, Veins of Metal are to be seen; and that the Time of their Summer being known, a farther Discovery might be made of them by _going within_ the Country, and that the Remainder of it may be discovered along the Coast, as it reaches beyond 42 Degrees, the Limits specified to the said _Sebastian Vizcaino_ in his Instructions.' Though these Orders were received in _Mexico_ in 1599, no Voyage was set out on until 1602, the Time that _Weymouth_ sailed, then probably enforced by additional Orders from the Court of _Spain_. The Expedition which was overturned by the Mutiny of the Soldiers, seems to have been about the Time of Captain _Davis_'s Expedition; for _de Fuca_ says, after the Voyage was so ill ended, the Viceroy set him out again in 1592, which implies a Distance of Time between the first and second Voyage. The Instructions _Vizcaino_ had in the first Voyage were given by the Viceroy, for it was the Viceroy who appointed him, and were formed according to the Opinion that the Land beyond forty-two Degrees took a Course to Westward and Southward of West. And the Maps were constructed agreeable thereto, therefore the King says, '_Vizcaino_ had represented to him that the Coast, as far as 40 Degrees, lies North-west and South-east, and that in the two other Degrees, which makes up the 42 Degrees, it lies North and South,' and, as before mentioned, says, 'and that the Remainder of it may be discovered along the Coasts, as it reaches beyond 42 Degrees, the Limits specified to the said _Sebastian Vizcaino_ in his Instructions.' Therefore when _Martin Aguilar_ got to 43 Degrees and found an Opening, he concluded, as the Coast was represented to be terminated to the Northward, by the Maps and Charts in Use, that this must be the desired Streights; and therefore said on their Return, 'they should have performed a great deal more, had their Health not failed them; for it is certain that only fourteen Persons enjoyed it at _Cape Blanco_. The General and those that were with him had a mind to go through the Streight, which they call of _Anian_, and is said to be thereabouts. It had been entered by the foreign Ship, who gave Intelligence of it to the King, describing its Situation, and how through that Passage one might reach the _North Sea_, and then sail back to _Spain_, along _Newfoundland_ and the Islands of _Baccalaos_, to bring an Account of the Whole to his Majesty.' _Torquemada_, Vol. i. P. 725. But it is very plain the King had another Information of this Matter, and as to the Extent of the Land to Northward. _Luis de Velasco_ was the Viceroy in whose Time the Expedition of _de Fuca_ was; and the Expedition of _Vizcaino_ was under the Direction of the Count _de Monterey_, who was either not informed of what had been done by _de Fuca_, or might not think _de Fuca_'s Account of sufficient Authority to justify him, the Viceroy, in drawing his Instructions agreeable thereto; contrary to the general Opinion of the Cosmographers at that Time, and the Description they gave of the Coasts in their Maps. It must appear from what hath been said that there are no such great Improbabilities in the Accounts of _Salvatierre_, _Chacke_, or _de Fuca_, as hath been represented. It is also evident that the _English_ had great Expectations of succeeding; and the Court of _Spain_ had great Apprehensions we should meet with Success, and be enabled to attain a Passage by the Streight of _Anian_ into the _South Sea_; for which there must have been some reasonable Foundation both on the Part of the one and the other. The _English_ were first induced to attempt the Discovery of such a Passage, from the Accounts which they had from _Spain_ of there being such a Passage. The Court of _Spain_ entertained, as hath been shewn, an Opinion of there being such a Passage from the Time they conquered _Mexico_; and, agreeable to what _Torquemada_ says, had a certain Account of it, or at least an Account which appeared to the King to be authentick. What that Account really contained we do not know, nor was it consistent that it should be made publick; therefore what is said as to the Particulars of it are but Conjecture, and Representations upon Reports, for which the Reporters could have no real Authority. As _Vizcaino_ regretted being prevented, by the Sickness of his People that he could not go round the World, and have carried home to _Old Spain_ his Account of his Expedition. This firm Persuasion that he should have accomplished his Passage to _Old Spain_, by the Streight of _Anian_, must have been from some Information which he had received before he set out, that such Passage was practicable: Neither is it mentioned as if he proposed making a Discovery of it, but as of a Thing before done. It was the Opinion of all those who were with him, that it was practicable; which is agreeable to what _Salvatierra_ informed Sir _Hugh Sydney_, and Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_, That a _North-west Passage from us to_ Cathay _was constantly believed in_ America _navigable_. _Vizcaino_, who is represented as a Commander of great Conduct and Discretion (and which the Account of his Voyage expresses him to have been) would not have attempted to make a Passage thro' such Streights, to the Hazard, perhaps entire Loss, of the King's Ships, and what he had before done rendered of no Effect, unless he had a discretionary Power either to pass to _Old Spain_ by these Streights, or return to _Aquapulco_. After the Expedition of _Knight_ failed, and _Vizcaino_ died, we hear of no other Expeditions at the Expence of or by the positive Order of the Court of _Spain_ until that of Admiral _Cassanate_, who went the third Year after the Expedition of _de Fonte_, to make a Survey of the Coast of _California_; yet we have no Reason to conclude there were no other Expeditions, but it is rather to be supposed that, after the _English_ had proceeded in their Discoveries as far as _Hudson_'s Bay, the Court of _Spain_ thought it necessary, and found an effectual Way of keeping their Expeditions, both in respect to their Equipment and what was done on such Expeditions a Secret, by sending Officers from _Old Spain_ to conduct them, and as to which the Religious would not think themselves at Liberty to make any Publication without the Permission of the Court. Having no Intercourse by Trade with those Parts, we cannot be acquainted with what is transacted in those Parts, any further than what the _Spanish_ Writers are permitted to inform us, and the imperfect and uncertain Intelligence of those who have been cruizing in those Seas. The _Spanish_ Nation have been particularly cautious of keeping the Knowledge of their Coast secret: Neither was it known, in the Year 1745, that an exact Survey was made of those Coasts until _Pasco Thomas_ annexed to his Account of Lord _Anson_'s Expedition, published in 1745, a Copy of a Manuscript, which Manuscript contained an Account of the Latitudes and Longitudes of all the most noted Places in the _South Sea_, corrected from the latest Observations by _Manuel Monz Prieto_, Professor of Arts in _Peru_, and are composed with as much Precision and Exactness, as Tables of that Sort are usually made; but when these Coasts were surveyed to the Northward, to attain a Knowledge of which was formerly attended with such immense Difficulty; and to what Purpose and what Trade is carried on there, we are at present entire Strangers to. It is by Accident only that we have this Account; and if the _Spanish_ Nation have used this Precaution, with respect to the Knowledge of their Coasts, undoubtedly they would use the same Caution with respect to giving us any Insight as to how we might find a more ready Access to such Coasts by a _North-west_ Passage. The Point of _Sueste del Estrech d'Anian_, inserted in such Tables, shews the Opinion of the Streights is far from being exploded; but it is acknowledged by the Geographers of _Peru_ and _New Spain_, at the present Time, that there are such Streights. The naming the _South Point_ of the _Streight_ implies there is Land to the Northward, as to which it doth not seem to be consistent with the Purpose of the Person who composed this Table to take any Notice, but that there is such Land is confirmed by the _Russian_ Discoveries. The Extent of _America_ to Northward and Westward, that _America_ and _Asia_ were contiguous and only separated by a Streight, that _California_ was an Island, that a _Passage_ by the _North-east_ was practicable, have been by later _Geographers_ treated as _Chimeras_, contrary to the earliest Accounts, and the Reports of the first Discoverers, and which, by later Accounts, the Consequence of actual Observations are found to be true. There was a Simplicity and Honour in the People of that Age; there was no Motive for telling the Lie, that they faithfully reported the Discoveries they made, and if a Falshood was discovered it might be dangerous in the Consequences; their Voyages were not lucrative Jobs, in Hopes of a Repetition of which they formed their Accounts accordingly. There was no particular System to support, for the Parts they went to were entirely unknown, that a Reward and Reputation should be procured through a prevailing Interest to such as spoke in Favour of the System. While those to whose Fidelity and Assiduity alone it would be owing that such Discoveries were made, though repeated Endeavours were used to render the Undertaking ineffectual; and through whose Means alone the Truth would be made known to the Publick; should be ill spoken of, accused of Bribery, discountenanced, and the whole Merit ascribed to, where it would be least deserved, and, in Truth, where there could not be the least Pretension. Nevertheless the Reward given would be an Instance of a generous Regard in those who had Power to bestow of rewarding Merit, though they were inevitably deceived as to the proper Persons to whom such Reward should have been given. No Authorities have been produced from Tradition or History which oppose the Probability of there being a North-west Passage, or the Reality of this Account of _de Fonte_, which the more we examine the less there appears to be of a Falsity, the Circumstances of it so consistent and united, and there are so many extra Circumstances which concur with that Account, that we cannot but admit to be an incontestable Truth. We have not had a full Account of the Voyages and Expeditions of the _Spaniards_ in _New Spain_, as some of them have not been permitted to be published. _Venegas_ particularly mentions, Vol. i. P. 14, and in other Parts, There are also Accounts of Voyages made to other Parts of the World, which are only preserved in the Collections of the Curious, and it is known but to few Persons that such Voyages were ever made. There are some Voyages which are mentioned to have been made, but cannot, after the most diligent Inquiries, be procured; yet it is no just Objection to the Authenticity of such Voyages, or as to their not having been made. What the first Discoverers represented as to the Extent of _America_, its being contiguous to _Asia_, as to _California_, and as to a North-east Passage, being in all Respects found to be true, there is the greatest Reason to believe that there is a North-west Passage; and it is consistent with that Precaution which the _Spanish_ Nation have made Use of, that we should not have any authentick Accounts relating to such Passage, which they were desirous of discovering as a shorter Way to the _Spice_ Islands and the _Indies_. But when the King of _Portugal_ and _Spain_ came to an Agreement as to the _Moluccas_, the principal Reason for making such Discovery was determined, and it became their mutual Interest that it should not be known that there was such a Passage. Their continued Silence with respect to such Passage, implies they are acquainted with there being such a Passage, though not to an Exactness. It cannot imply they are dubious, when we consider the Number of Circumstances there are already mentioned, which express the contrary. There are Circumstances in _de Fonte_'s Account which shew the Inference of there being no _North-west Passage_ is not just, though just as far as it appeared to _de Fonte_, as the River _Parmentiers_ was not navigable for Shipping. One Circumstance is, that in the River _Haro_, and Lake _Velasco_, there were Salmon Trouts and large white Perch; also in _Los Reyes_ and Lake _Belle_, but in Lake _de Fonte_ excellent Cod and Ling; which are Fish that always abide in the Salt Water, the others come out of the Salt Water into the fresh Waters to spawn. Which _de Fonte_ would account for that they came into the Lake _de Fonte_ from the _North Sea_, and when he passed the Streight of _Ronquillo_, supposed himself to be in that Sea, or from the Intelligence that he obtained from _Shapley_ that he was in a Gulph or Branch of it. Another Circumstance, as it flowed in the River _Los Reyes_ twenty-two Feet, and in _Haro_ twenty-four, and but a small Tide went into Lake _Belle_, _de Fonte_ concluded that the Western Tide terminated there, and that as the Waters rose to such a Heighth at the Entrance of those Rivers, that it was a Gulph he was in which confined these Waters and occasioned their rise at such Entrances of the Rivers. That the Tides in _Parmentiers_, Lake _de Fonte_, and the Streights of _Ronquillo_, were from the _North Sea_. But by later Observations of the Rise of the Tides, a Tide cannot proceed from _Hudson_'s Bay to that Sea where _Shapley_ was met by _de Fonte_, than through the Streights of _Ronquillo_ into the great Lake of _de Fonte_, and afterwards to rise so high in the River _Parmentiers_. Neither can such a Tide proceed through the broken Land to Northwards of _Hudson_'s Streights, named _Cumberland_ Isles (formerly _Estotland_) and which extend as far as Latitude 70; for it is evident the Strength of such Tides is spent in _Hudson_'s Bay and _Baffin_'s Bay: For at the Bottom of _Hudson_'s Bay it flowed but two Feet, at the Bottom of _Fretum Davis_ or _Baffin_'s Bay, but one Foot. Which is agreeable to the Opinion of all the Discoverers of that Time, as to the Eastern Tide from the Proportion that the great Spaces or Seas which were to receive it bore to the Inlets by which it came in, that the Force of such Tide must be consumed in such Seas, and therefore expected to meet with a Tide from Westward, which counterchecked the Eastern Tide. On the other Hand, if we consider this Tide to be from the Western Ocean, such Tide forced through various Entrances up a Streight as that of _de Fuca_, must enter the Sea where _Shapley_ was met, with great Impetuosity; rise in Heighth proportionable to the Width in all Openings that there are to receive it. As it is the Tide round _Greenland_, and that which comes from the Southward along the Coast of _Labrador_, being both received in those Indraughts of _Hudson_'s Streights, and the broken Lands of _Cumberland_ Isles, which causes the Rise of the Tides there. It may be supposed that the _North-east_ Part of the _South Sea_, and the Streight of _de Fuca_, received the Tides which set to Eastward along the Western Main from _Beering_'s Streights, and the Tide which comes from the Southward along the Coast of _California_. That the Tide is not from the _Tartarian Sea_, in Lake _de Fonte_, _&c._ is evident from _Bernarda_'s Account, who shews there is no Communication with that Sea and the Sea that _Shapley_ was met in. As to the Cod and Ling in Lake _de Fonte_, or as to Salmon, it is not known that there are either Cod, Ling or Salmon in _Hudson_'s Bay: Neither have there been found Shoals or Banks to which the Cod could repair; nor is it known that any Cod have been catched beyond Latitude 57; an Article to which _Davis_ was particularly attentive: Therefore it is not probable that they should come from the _North Sea_ through _Hudson_'s Bay to Lake _de Fonte_. _De Fonte_ mentions Shoals in the North-east Part of the _South Sea_, which he passed up. And in _Vizcaino_'s Voyage there is an Account that, off the Island _Geronymo_ on the Coast of _California_, the Ships Companies supplied themselves with Cod and Ling; which shews there are Cod and Ling in those Seas. It was reasonable for _de Fonte_ to suppose that the Cod and Ling came from the Eastward from the _Baccaloos_, neither could he otherwise suppose, as the contrary is only known from Observations made much later than that Time. _Fox_ had advanced in 1635, when he published the Account of his Voyage, that there was a free and open Communication of the Western Ocean with _Hudson_'s Bay: Which was looked on as an incontestable Fact until the Voyage of Captain _Middleton_. What _Fox_ said was consistent with the Opinion which all the Discoverers had of the Proximity of the Western Ocean; who therefore judged of the Probability of their Success in the Parts they went into, from the Course of the Tides, which if there was no Western Tide there was no Passage. This probably prevented that Success, as to a Discovery of a Passage, which through their Assiduity might otherwise have been obtained, had they not paid such a Regard to the Tides, but made a due Survey of the Inlets and Openings of the Coast, which on their not finding that a Western Tide came from thence they deserted, which was also the Case as to Captain _Moor_ in the Search of _Pistol Bay_ as called, to Southward of Lord _Southwell_'s Isles, there was no Western Tide; therefore a compleat Discovery of that Part was not made. It is to be considered that the Northern and Eastern Parts of _America_, are more intermixed with Waters than the Parts to Southward are, being a high mountainous Country. The Mountains chiefly consisting of a brown rocky Substance, not penetrable by the melting Snows or Spring Rains, which therefore run off into the Levels and Valleys, and form inland Seas, great Lakes, and Inlets, which vent their Waters into the Ocean, necessary for carrying off that great Quantity and vast Bodies of Ice which are formed in the Winter in those Parts, not to be dissolved, as the greater Part is which is formed to the Southward, by the Influence of the Sun. The Northern and Westward Part of _America_ is also mountainous, and high Ridges of Mountains were seen from the Head of _Wager_ Bay on the opposite Shore of what appeared to be a Lake; therefore there must be Lakes and Seas to Westward, Reservoirs for the melting Snows and Rains, also some Outlet or Channel to carry off the great Quantities of Ice also formed in those Parts; and with which _Barnarda_'s Account is consistent, and the greatest Reservoir and Discharge seems to be to the Northward by that North-east Part of the _Tartarian Sea_. The Lake _Velasco_, Lake _Belle_, Lake _de Fonte_, may be all supposed to proceed from the same Cause, the melting Snows and Rains, receive the Ice from the Waters which run into them, which, from the Strength of the Currents and Tides, is soon shot from the Shores of such Lakes, broken to Pieces and carried off into some Passage or Inlet into the _South Sea_; and such a Vent or Channel to carry off such Bodies of Ice must necessarily be, agreeable to what is known by Observation in other Parts. The Objection of the great Distance it is between the Ocean and the Sea at the Back of _Hudson_'s Bay, and where _Shapley_ was met, will appear of no Validity when we consider the Distance between the Streights of _Gibraltar_ and the Northern Part of the _Black Sea_. Between the Entrance of the _Sound_ to the Entrance of the _White Sea_, between which there is Communication of Waters, or very nearly so. And from Point _Comfort_ in _Hudson_'s Bay to Alderman _Smith_'s Sound in _Baffin_'s Bay, between which there is a Communication of Waters without entering into the _Ocean_ or _Davis_ Streights. From Lake _Superior_ to the Streights of _Belle Isle_ at the Back of _Newfoundland_, or to _Cape Breton_, is near forty Degrees of Longitude, or equal to 390 Leagues. And Lake _Superior_ hath a Communication with _Hudson_'s Bay. This great Afflux of Waters form such Meanders and Labyrinths, as it is impossible to say whether there is a Communication of Waters, or whether the Waters are divided by smaller or larger Tracts or Slips of Land, without an absolute Survey. The Lands so double or fold one within the other, that unless you get a proper Sight of such Lands so as to distinguish this, to discover the Opening that is between them, there is an Appearance of a Continuance of the Land, and consequently of a Termination of the Waters. So long as the Tide Argument prevailed it was not thought necessary to be so accurate in the Searches. A Sight of the Land trending a Course contrary to that Course which the Discoverers were to pursue to make a Passage, and the Tide coming from the Eastward, rendered a Search any further in those Parts unnecessary: and it may be owing to the great Impropriety of adopting a particular System, more than to any other Cause, that the Discovery of a North-west Passage was not made by those brave industrious Discoverers, who in a Series succeeded each other from _Frobisher_ to _James_ and _Fox_. This seems to be certain, that there must be one great Channel, as _Hudson_'s Streights are to Eastward, also to Westward though intricate by which the Waters to Westward pass into the _South Sea_, and as that to Northward, the North-east Part of the _Tartarian Sea_. We already know there is not a Communication by _Hudson_'s Bay, thro' any Inlet by which the Waters do come in there or sufficient for that Purpose; neither round the Head of _Repulse_ Bay, for then the Current would have been met coming from Westward. Therefore such Channel must be to Southward and Westward, consistent with _de Fuca_'s Account of a Streight, in some such Manner as is represented in the Map annexed. Which Account also agreeable to that of _Peche_. _De Fuca_ says, he sailed twenty-six Days up such Streight before he entered the Sea; that the Streight grew wider before he entered the Sea. If we allow him fifteen Leagues a Day, from the Entrance of such Streights out of the _South Sea_ to where he entered the Sea, by him supposed the _North Sea_, the Distance is 390 Leagues. As he mentions that he found it wide enough every where, this Expression shews that he did not suppose himself in the Ocean, but in a Gulph of the Ocean. And _Martin Chacke_ expresses himself, that after he overshot the _Gulph_, he set no more Sight on any other Land. Therefore the Distance is agreeable to that Distance which _de Fuca_ must have gone to come into that Sea where _de Fonte_ met _Shapley_; the Description that he saw both Shores, makes a Consistency also in those Accounts. Before _de Fonte_'s Expedition, _Hudson_'s Bay had been discovered, yet that Discovery made no Alteration as to the Accounts of _de Fuca_ and _Chacke_, as _Fox_ said beyond Lat. 64, round that Land there was incontestably a Communication with the Western Ocean. Here is an Agreement in three Accounts, by separate Persons at a Distance of Time, who had no Intelligence of what had been done by each other; for _Chacke_ was a _Portugueze_; and as _de Fuca_ had made his Report to the Viceroy of _New Spain_ of what he had done, and what he had done seems to be mostly accounted of by himself, therefore no Regard might be had to it in drawing _de Fonte_'s Instructions: All which three Accounts agree in there being a Sea to Westward of _Hudson_'s Bay. _De Fuca_ mentions he was ashore; saw Marks of Gold and Silver; Marquisates the same which was made such an Account of after _Frobisher_'s return from his first Voyage, and from which it may be inferred it was a barren mountainous Country which _de Fuca_ passed through. He was afraid of the Natives, who were clad in Beast Skins; and from whose Behaviour he must have had some Apprehension that they would cut him off, as he mentions that he was not armed against them. _De Fonte_ is very express as to the civil Behaviour of those _Indians_ he met with, so contrary to the Character of those whom _de Fuca_ saw. Therefore those whom _de Fuca_ saw were the _Eskemaux_, who frequent the mountainous and desolate Parts, and near to the Salt Waters where they can catch Fish, also the Seal and the Whale, from which they get many Conveniencies besides what is necessary for their Subsistance; who are mentioned to be also on other Parts of the Coast of _California_; are represented as a fierce and barbarous People, who hold no Treaty or Amity with their Neighbours, who are always in Fear of them. That _de Fonte_ should not pass up the North-east Part of the _South Sea_, but go through Land, must have been, that the North-east Part of the _South Sea_ was represented as a Gulph, not a Streight, from some Observations made prior to that Expedition, as to which the Observers might be deceived, by its taking a Southerly Course through some Inlet or Opening obscured by Islands, or the Entrance narrow, that they concluded it only to be some small Branch which soon terminated; having, at the same Time, a large open Channel before them, which they finding afterwards surrounded with Land, concluded there was no Communication with any other Waters, but that they had seen the Extremity of these Waters to Eastward. That these Waters took a Course through that desert mountainous Country, until they joined with the Waters of the Streights that _de Fuca_ came up, the People of _Conosset_ might not be able to give a just Account of, as they lived so far to Northward and Eastward. Though they, as the Natives of _Conibasset_ also came occasionally into the North-east Part of the _South Sea_; the one mostly frequented to Northward and Eastward, the other to Northward and Westward, as is apparent from _de Fonte_'s Account; where they had level and fruitful Tracts, as they produced so much Maiz; a hunting Country, as there were three Sorts of Deer; also Fish in their Waters. Whereas the Country on the opposite Shore of the North-east Part of the _South Sea_, as is apparent from being the Resort of the _Eskemaux_, would be rugged, rocky, and remarkably barren, with little Intermixtures of level and fruitful Spots. Therefore the People of _Conosset_, or _Conibasset_, would have no Inducements to go into those Parts. May be supposed the opposite Coast was the Limits of their Enemy's Country, with whom if they went to War, and knew that the Waters of the North-east Part of the _South Sea_ did communicate to Southward with other Waters; yet it cannot be imagined that they went up those Waters so far in their Enemy's Country of so wild a Disposition, where they were always in Danger of being surprized, as to know whether those Waters joined with the Sea in which _Shapley_ was met. Might also be jealous if the Jesuits, or _Parmentiers_, or others who came there, were very particular in their Enquiries, that they intended to go and reside amongst their Enemies, which, as the Nature of _Indians_ is, would cause them to be on the Reserve, and slack in their Informations, as to those Parts. That those Persons who were in those Parts before this Expedition of _de Fonte_, got no Information of this Streight, or of the Waters, as to the Course of them to Southward, there must be a considerable main Land to Southward of Lake _Belle_ and Lake _de Fonte_, as is expressed in the Map, and as to the Sea to Eastward, that Part of it which was to Southward of _Ronquillo_, no more would be apprehended of it, being unacquainted as to the Streight, than that it was a Part of that Sea contiguous to _Hudson_'s Bay; and it not being known at that Time but the Tides came from the Eastward, would have no Reason to infer, from the Sea running to Southward, that it communicated with a Streight there. To take away the Improbability of what is here advanced, we should reflect what Assurances former Discoverers gave, that had but the Season permitted to proceed, they should certainly have made a Passage; though when an Attempt was again made they found their Mistake; and from Observations then made, they saw good Reason to have a different Opinion as to the Nature of the Passage from what they had before, and very reasonable, as their Searches were made in Parts entirely unknown; and as to the Appearance of the Land, the Course of the Waters, and the Set of the Tides, the most judicious might be deceived. The _Spanish_ Nation had not been able to make out a Passage by their various Attempts, agreeable to the Accounts of private Persons, which probably might give an Opportunity for the Representations of the Jesuits to be attended to, who would urge every Argument in Behalf of their Discovery, and endeavour to invalidate the former Accounts as to a Passage; which by that Time, from the ill Success as to discovering a Passage, might not be at that Time so much thought of; and as Difference in Time produces a Change in Opinions, whatever makes for the reigning Opinion is adopted, as every Thing that is contradictory is depreciated. The Arguments for the Opinion which prevailed before for a navigable Passage might be treated as fallacious and insignificant, and the Instructions for the Expedition of _de Fonte_ might be drawn agreeable to the Jesuits Plan, whom it is evident knew nothing of a Streight, but considered the Land of _America_ as one continued Continent to Latitude 66. And whatever Weight this Conjecture may have, it is apparent from the Consideration of _de Fonte_'s Letter, that the Instructions were drawn from the Information of some who had been before in those Parts: And by whom can it be supposed more properly that the Court received the Information which they had than from the Jesuits, whose Understanding and Character would admit them to a free Converse with the Minister on a less Occasion than they would now have, to give an Account of those Parts they had been in. The _Court_ of _Spain_ does not seem, from the Proceedings, to be of the same Opinion with the _Jesuits_, or _de Fonte_ after his return. As the Governor of _Cinoloa_ is immediately ordered to take a Survey of the Coasts and Harbours of _California_. And the next Year Admiral _Cassanate_ is sent from _Old Spain_; and it is probable the Court was not of the Opinion of the _Jesuits_ when they gave this Information, but formed the Instructions for _de Fonte_ agreeable thereto. As the most expedient Method, at that Time, for intercepting the People from _Boston_, was to go the Way they gave an Account of with the Boats through Land, as the Ships might meet with Difficulties and Delays in passing up the Streights, also ran great Hazard; the _Boston_ Ship might pass them unperceived. Whereas, on the Plan which was pursued, if they heard by the Natives that the _Boston_ Ship had passed, and taken her Course further to Southward or Westward, _de Fonte_ would have repaired aboard his Ship, proceeded down _Los Reyes_, and with the Diligence which he would have made Use of, fell in with the _Boston_ Ship either in such _North-east_ Part of the _South Sea_, or on the Coast of _California_, leaving Orders for _Barnardo_ how to act in this Respect on his return. From which Conduct, and the Look-out that was kept on the Coast of _Mexico_ and _Peru_, it would have been also impossible for the _Boston_ People, unacquainted with these Parts, and not expecting such a Diligence was used to intercept them, to have made a successful Voyage. That there is a Sea to the Westward of _Hudson_'s Bay is reported by the _Indians_, and is represented to have Ice in it like _Hudson_'s Bay. Governor _Dobbs_, in his Account of the Countries adjoining to _Hudson_'s Bay (P. 19.) mentions from _Joseph le France_, that their Savages reported that in the Bottom of the Northern Bay there is a Streight, they can easily discover Land on the other Side: They had never gone to the End of that Streight. They say there is Ice there all the Year, which is drove by the Wind, sometimes one Way sometimes another. The _Indians_, who are called _Northern Indians_, having their Habitations to North-west of _Churchill_, mention a Sea to the Westward of them, and which is from _Churchill_ Factory in _Hudson_'s Bay twenty-five Days Journey, not a direct Course, but from the round they are obliged to take. They speak of the _Eskemaux Indians_ to Eastward of them, but never give an Account of any other Nations to Northward or Westward of them. Mr. _Scroggs_, who was sent out by the _Hudson_'s Bay Company in 1722, had two Northern _Indians_, whom he carried with him, when he was in about Lat. 62. knew the Country very well, and had a great Desire to go home, saying they were but two or three Days Journey from their Family. And the Northern _Indians_ who were with Captain _Middleton_, were desirous of his going near the Shore, between Lat. 62 Deg. and 64. In Lat. 63° and 14´, Captain _Middleton_ put two of the _Indians_ ashore, who were desirous of returning to their own Country. And the Author saw an _Indian_, whose Daughter had married a Northern _Indian_ and been home with her, direct his own Son to sketch out on a Board with a burnt Stick, the Coast of that Sea, which his Son did, and the Father afterwards took and corrected it where he said the Son had mistook. Governor _Dobbs_, in the Account mentioned P. 45, mentions, 'that _Joseph le France_ was acquainted with an _Indian_, who lived at some Distance from _Nelson_ River in _Hudson_'s Bay, who, about 15 Years before that Time, went to War against a Nation living Northward on the Western Ocean of _America_. When they went they carried their Families with them, and hunted and fished from Place to Place for two Winters and one Summer, having left their Country in Autumn, and in _April_ following came to the Sea Side, on the Western Coast, where they immediately made their Canoes. At some little Distance they saw an Island, which was about a League and a Half long when the Tide was out, or Water fell, they had no Water betwixt them and the Island, but when it rose it covered all the Passage betwixt them and the Island, as high up as the Woods upon the Shore. There they left their Wives and Children, and old Men, to conduct them home and provide them with Provisions, by hunting and shooting for them on the Road; and he, with thirty Warriors, went in Quest of their Enemies the _Tete Plat_. After they parted with their Families they came to a Streight, which they passed in their Canoes. The Sea Coast lay almost East and West; for he said the Sun rose upon his Right Hand, and at Noon it was almost behind him as he passed the Streight, and always set in the Sea. After passing the Streight they coasted along the Shore three Months, going into the Country or Woods as they went along to hunt for Provisions. He said they saw a great many large black Fish spouting up Water in the Sea. After they had coasted for near three Months, they saw the Footsteps of some Men on the Sand; then judged they were near their Enemies, quitted their Canoes, went five Days through the Woods to the Banks of a River, found their Enemy's Town, made an Attack, the Enemy rallied and put them to flight.' Then proceeds, 'upon which they fled to the Woods, and from thence made their Escape to their Canoes before their Enemies overtook them, and after a great deal of Fatigue got to the Streight; and, after getting over, they all died one after the other, except this old Man, of Fatigue and Famine, leaving him alone to travel to his own Country, which took him up about a Year's Time.' When he reached the River _Sakie_ he met his Friends again, who relieved him. The _Indians_ that this antient _Indian_ went to War against, (and this _Indian_ was living at _York Fort_ in _Hudson_'s Bay in 1746) are mentioned to be the _Tete Plat_, or _Plascotez de Chicus_. The Part which they inhabit is variously laid down by the Geographers; by some in Lat. 67, Long. 265 East from _Ferro_, which is the extremest Longitude that their Country is laid down in. Mons. _de Lisle_ and others place them in Lat. 63, and Long. 280 East from _Ferro_, so their true Situation is uncertain. Yet it is apparent that they do not live near to or on the Coast of the _South Sea_, or Western Ocean. For what _Joseph le France_ in this Account, and so of all _Indians_, meant by the Word Sea is any Mass or Collection of Salt Waters which have a Tide. P. 38, in the same Work, giving an Account of the _Indians_ passing down to _York Fort_. 'The River _de Terre Rouge_, and from that Place they descend gradually to the Sea.' By which _Joseph le France_ means _Hudson_'s Bay. Governor _Dobbs_ mentioning the Western Ocean of _America_ is a Mistake, which he was led into as having a Consistency with the System which he had adopted. These Warriors left their own Country in Autumn, are said to have lived near _Port Nelson_ or _York Fort_, and were at the Sea Side in _April_. Their not being sooner is not to be attributed to the Length of the Journey but to the Season of the Year. The old _Indian_ was a Year returning to his own Country; but he was fatigued and almost famished, so labouring under a great Debility, and had his Food to seek in whatever Manner he could procure it. The Winter also came on soon after his return from the Enemy. They were on the Western Side of the Land, which separates _Hudson_'s Bay from that Sea, where they saw so great a Tide. Afterwards passed a Streight, which Streight lay North and South. The Sea they came from and the Sea they passed into after such Streight, laid East and West. They continually kept the Western Shore, as that was the Side on which their Enemy lived; and though they were so long as three Months in their Passage, they were obliged to go every Day ashore to hunt, being thirty in Company, required a pretty considerable Subsistance. Their Canoes can bear no Serge or Wave when the Wind blows, therefore are obliged to keep close to the Shore, and must go to the Bottom of each Bay. This Account agrees both with that of _de Fonte_ and _de Fuca_. The Sea they imbarked on was that at the Back of _Hudson_'s Bay, and the Streight might be formed by some Island, or both the Shores approach each other, tho' the Account is not sufficiently intelligible to make any Description of it in the Map. _De Fuca_ says the Streight grew wider when he entered such Sea, which seems to imply it had been narrow. And the _Indians_, as before-mentioned, said there was a Streight, and they can perceive the Land on the other Side. _De Fuca_ also mentions he went ashore, and found the Land fruitful, and rich of Gold and Silver and Pearls, and other Things, like _Nova Hispania_. Which shews it was a mixed Country; for a fruitful Country and a Produce of Gold and Silver is not a Description compatible with one and the same Part. The one we may suppose the Description of the Parts nearer the Ocean, the other of the Parts where the _Tete Plat_ live: But the old _Indian_ seems also to make a Distinction; for he says they went to hunt in the Country and the Woods. When they had passed the Streight, they came into the broader Part of the Streight of _Anian_, which appeared to them to be a Sea. As to the Place of their Imbarkation, they would be directed by where they could procure Birch to make their Canoes. The true Situation of the Part they went to, nor where they imbarked is not to be determined with any Certainty; but it doth not carry the least Probability that they went to War with a People more than a thousand Miles distant. It is scarce probable they had ever heard the Name of the Inhabitants of those Parts, much more so acquainted with their Situation as to be able to form a Plan of going to conquer them. There must have been some particular Cause for their going to War with a People so far off; what that was it would be difficult to imagine; if it was only to shew their Prowess, they must have had Enemies nearer home, against whom there was a greater Probability of succeeding. Neither could it be at that Distance, as they had one continued Scene of Fatigue until they reached the Streights; their Hearts broken by Reason of the Disappointment, the Heat of Summer, no venturing ashore but for a very short Time, either for Food or Refreshment, as they expected the Conquerors to follow them with Canoes, it would have been impossible for them to have reached the Streight. If they had a hundred Leagues a direct Course until they attained the Place of their Imbarkation, and by going round the Bays, might be near twice that Distance, the Current also against them, it would be sufficient, stout young Fellows, and full of Blood as they were, for what they underwent to be fatal to them. It is evident the Streight was not far from where they imbarked, and the Relation seems to express it so, as they had such a Fatigue in attaining to it. Allowing the _Tete Plat_ to be in Long. 108 Degrees from _London_, and the true Course was W. S. W. or E. N. E. on their return, with a Distance of a hundred Leagues, they would alter their Latitude 114 Miles, and make 277 Miles Departure, which, with 27 Miles to a Degree, would make the Place of their Imbarkation to be in Longitude 98 from _London_, about the Longitude of _Ronquillo_. As to the Latitude where the _Tete Plat Indians_ live, and as to the Longitude it is but conjecture; there is such a Discordancy and Contradiction in the Maps, there is such Uncertainty, that the North-west and West Parts beyond _Hudson_'s Bay in the Latitude of _Churchill_, seem to be entirely unknown. But this is to be observed, and which has been my Direction in these Observations, the _Northern Indians_ and the _Home Indians_ about the Factory of _York_ Fort, mention these _Tete Plat Indians_, and speak of them as their Enemies, therefore they cannot be at so great a Distance as the Western Ocean, neither further than where I have supposed their Country to be. For as the Time the _Indians_ were going there three Months, that is not to be considered so much with respect to the Distance, as they would choose a proper Season, when there were the fewest _Indians_ in the Towns, and were mostly engaged abroad in their Summer hunting. Perhaps there are no People who plan better in the Partizan Way, and execute with more Success. They fix the Time they intend to make their Attack before they set out, then proceed easily and gradually towards their Enemy's Country, allowing a Sufficiency of Time in which they may recover any Accident by which they might be delayed, as unseasonable Weather, Difficulty and Disappointments as to procuring Subsistance, or any Indisposition, that they go to Action in their full Strength and Vigour; as an _Indian_ who conducts an Expedition would be as much contemned for Want of Prudence, on his Return to the Towns, as he would for his Want of Conduct in leading his People to an Attack, and when the Enemy was too powerful not bringing them off without the Loss of a Scalp. In either of which Cases the young People, who observe freely the most exact Discipline, and implicitly obey what he orders, would not go any more to War with him. Which Way the _Boston_ Ship made this Passage is uncertain. _Gibbons_ was acquainted with _Bylot_, was Shipmate with him in Sir _Thomas Button_'s Voyage. _Bylot_ was also with _Gibbons_ the Time he lost his Season, by being detained in the Ice. _Bylot_ made an Expedition for Discovery of a Passage in the Year 1615, on Sir _Thomas Button_ having at a Trial of a Tide off the Island of _Nottingham_, in _Hudson_'s Streights, found it came from the North-west, and to be from an Opening at the Back of _Cary_'s _Swans-nest_, this Tide he went in Pursuit of; and was as far up as Lat. 65 Deg. 26 Min. then supposed where he was was nothing but a Bay, but could not (he had gone up the East) return down the West Shore. Whether _Gibbons_ took his Information from _Bylot_, and pursued his Plan, is uncertain, and found his Way round the Head of _Repulse_ Bay. He was also acquainted with what _Fox_ had done, who went into Lat. 66 Deg. 5 Min. so further than _Bylot_, who did not return down the Western Shore; but his People being indisposed, and not finding a North-west Tide, he hastened home. These Parts, therefore, were not properly searched, the Conclusion drawn for there not being a Passage there, being that the Tide came from the Eastward. Or whether _Gibbons_ went through _Hudson_'s Bay is equally uncertain. The undiscovered Parts of which Bay, or the Openings that were not determined in the Expedition in the Year 1747, are in a Map hereto annexed. But the Termination of _Chesterfield_'s or _Bowden_'s Inlet hath been since searched by the Direction of the _Hudson_'s Bay Company, and a Plan made of it, which I have not seen. Their Design was to go as far up such Inlet until it terminated, or there was a Passage into another Water. But as it is terminated by Land, and if there is no Inlet or Opening left on the North or South Shore unsearched, or a Survey taken from the Heights, by which they could be satisfied there was no Communication with any other Waters by which there could be a Passage, it is to be concluded that _Chesterfield_ Inlet is no Streight or Passage as was expected, and it appeared to be as far as the _Californias_ Boat went up, according to the Report made at that Time. The People who had been in the Boat belonging to the _California_, when the Ship was going up _Wager_ Bay, where, from the Depth of the Water, the Breadth between both Shores, the high mountainous Land, there was great Reason to believe there was a Streight or Passage: Those People declared, if there was a Streight they were assured that _Chesterfield_ Inlet was a Streight also. There remains then to be searched for the Discovery of a Passage, the Opening called _Pistol Bay_, in _Hudson_'s Bay. That Part which _Bylot_ and _Fox_ left undetermined, along the Coast to Southward of _Baffins_ Bay called _Cumberland_ Isles, which entirely consists of large Inlets and broken Lands. We may be too premature in our Conclusions as to the Impracticability of such a Passage from the high Latitude and the Shortness of the Season, as we have the Instance of the _Boston_ Ship, which was so far advanced in the Sea to Westward of _Hudson_'s Bay in the Month of _August_; and some Time would be taken up in finding out the Way. The strong Tides that set in, and the Current when to Westward, which there is apparently in the other Sea, may give an Expedition that may compensate against the Shortness of the Season. It is but a short Time that would be required to pass that Part of the Passage which lies in those high Latitudes, as the Course would be soon altered to the Southward. [Illustration: Map of The _DISCOVERIES_ made in the NORTH WEST PARTS _OF_ HUDSONS BAY. By Cap^t. Smith in 1746 & 1747.] _Seyxas y Lovera_, in his _Theatro Naval Hydrographico_, in the seventh Chapter, P. 426, says, 'North-east of _America_ there is the Coast of _Greenland_, from sixty to sixty-eight Degrees, where there is to the East the Entrance of the Streight of _Frobisher_. North-west in the different Islands which compose the Northern Parts of _America_, there is the Entrance of the Streight of _Hudson_, where the _North Sea_ communicates with the _South Sea_, passing out of the Entrance of the Streight of _Anian_, which runs North-east and South-west to the Northward of the Island of _California_, which Streight is hid by great Gulphs on the Part that is North of _America_, which contain such great Islands, as _Cumberland_ (or _Estoliland_) that are more than one hundred Leagues in Length from North-east to South-west, and their Extremity from East to West more than seventy Leagues.'--Page 44. 'Some hold it for certain that you can sail from _Spain_ to _China_ through those Streights, or to _Japan_, or to the Lands of _Eso_, in three Months. As says also Doctor _Pedro de Syria_; but it is the Opinion of _D. T. V. Y._ Author of the History of the _Imperial_ States of the World, that he holds it for uncertain whether there is such Streight by which you can pass from the _North_ to the _South Sea_.--P. 45. There were some of the Subjects of the King of _France_, who offered themselves, if they could get his Majesty's Licence, to perform that Voyage in four Months; entering the _Canal de Hudson_ from out of the Ocean, with a Course North-west or West North-west, taking always a Sight of the Coast at Noon, they should attain to the Height of the _Arctic_ Circle, or one Degree more, as in making that Voyage they will be favoured in that Part by the Currents and Winds from the East and South-east, and afterwards in their Passage by the Streight of _Anian_, the Winds and Currents would be from the North.--It is said that some Strangers (on what Occasion is not said) have gone that Rout; and that there is in the Archives of the Admiralty of _Lisbon_, and of the _Contratacion at Seville_, a Copy of such Rout; what I here observe is the same with what _Don Francisco de San Millan_ observes, from which or from the Copy of which Rout to be seen in various Languages, or the Disposition of the said Streights, he holds it for certain that there is such a Course, and relates, That a _Hollander_, on the Evidence of a _Spaniard_ who was aboard his Ship, from the North of _California_, forced by the Winds from South-west, attained to sixty-six Degrees North-east, afterwards took a Course East, and East South-east, came into fifty-eight Degrees, when he entered the _North Sea_ to Northward of _Terra Nova_, from thence to _Scotland_, and from _Scotland_ to _Lisbon_, in less than three Months from the Port of _Nativadad_ to _Lisbon_, of which Voyage he makes no Doubt.' And _Seyxas_ observes, he hath seen many other Accounts of Voyages made from _Holland_, also from _England_, to the _South Sea_ in three or four Months, which he much doubts, from the Shortness of the Time; also as in the _Spanish_ Historians they have an Account of what passes in the several Parts of the _South Sea_, in _Cathay_, and _China_, and no such Thing is to be found in the _Bibliotheca_ of the Licentiate _Antonio de Leon_, which sets forth all the Discoveries and Voyages which have been made from any Region from the Year 1200 in _America_. It is plain from the Account of _Seyxas_, he doth not determine absolutely for a Passage, but that there is a Passage is his Opinion. His chief Objection is to the Accounts from the Brevity of the Time in which the Voyages were said to be performed, and there being no Account in a careful Writer of the Discoveries made in those Parts. He doth not confine the Passage to _Hudson_'s Bay, as I understand him, but to the Streight and the other Openings to Northward through _Cumberland_ Isles, and that they go up into as high a Latitude as the _Arctic_ Circle. Which is agreeable to _Acosta_'s Account, and gives a further Explanation to his Meaning than I have already done. As to which Isles, and to the Northward and Eastward of _Cary_'s _Swans-nest_, it is apparent, from the Perusal of the Voyages, there hath been no certain Account on a compleat Discovery as to those Parts. What he says as to the Voyage of the _Hollander_, it must be observed it was while _Holland_ was under the _Spanish_ Government in the Reign of _Philip_ the Second, and seems to be the same Voyage, of which Mention hath been made that an Account was found amongst the Papers of that Prince. It hath been shewn to have been the constant Opinion of there being a North-west Passage, from the Time soon after which the _South Sea_ was discovered near the Western Part of _America_, and that this Opinion was adopted by the greatest Men not only in the Time they lived, but whose Eminence and great Abilities are revered by the present Age. That there is a Sea to Westward of _Hudson_'s Bay, there hath been given the concurrent Testimony of _Indians_; and of Navigators and _Indians_ that there is a Streight which unites such Sea with the Western Ocean. The Voyage which lead us into these Considerations, hath so many Circumstances relating to it, which, now they have been considered, shew the greatest Probability of its being authentick; which carry with them as much the Evidence of a Fact, afford as great a Degree of Credibility as we have for any Transaction done a long Time since, which hath not been of a publick Nature and transacted in the Face of the World, so as to fall under the Notice of every one, though under the Disadvantage that the Intent on one Part must have been to have it concealed and buried in Oblivion. Transacted also by Persons in a private Part of the World, who only spoke of it amongst their Friends at home, being themselves Strangers to what they had effected, and made little Account of their Voyage. Besides the Chagrin of their Disappointment, and the illnatured Reflections it might subject them to, they might think it also best not to communicate it to the Publick, as it might encourage others to the like Undertaking, and so they fall into the Hands of the _Spaniards_, not only at the Hazard of their Ship, but their Lives, or at least subject them to many Hardships such as they had sustained to no Purpose. Therefore they thought proper to say little about their Discovery, as it might only be a Means of entrapping some brave Adventurers, who might be animated by their Example to a like Undertaking. These would be and were, by its being so little published on their Parts, (and no Accounts of it in _England_, which shews their Friends were under an Injunction not to make it publick) the Resolutions of such sensible and sagacious Men as _Gibbons_ and _Shapley_ were agreeable to which they acted. All which Circumstances considered, what Degree of Evidence can be required more than hath been given to authenticate this Account of _de Fonte_? Those who argue against a North-west Passage have no better Foundation for their Arguments, Than that there is no Tide from Westward. Which is arguing only for the Truth of a System, and hath nothing to do with the Reality of a Passage, and in all Probability hath been the principal Occasion that a Passage hath not been compleated: For a different Course of the Land, and no Tide from Westward, concluded any further Searches in such Part, but on a due Survey made of the Map, as the Tide will enter up the Streight of _de Fuca_, and probably other contiguous Entrances which are not yet known, besides the North-east Branch of the _South Sea_, which we suppose to join with such Streight; the Tide would fill that Sea on the Back of _Hudson_'s Bay, and the Openings but be checked to the Northward by the Current; and may be hindered from coming into _Hudson_'s Bay through the Inlet from Causes not known, or there being great Indraughts on the opposite Shore, which may take off the Force of the Tide, and cause it to come but a small Way up such Inlet. There is Reason to believe the proper Passage is up the Streight of _de Fuca_, therefore that is the proper Streight of _Anian_, as _de Fonte_ proceeded no further than _Los Reyes_, and declared there was no North-west Passage; but the North-east Part of the _South Sea_ hath a Communication, as is expressed in the Map, in describing which a Certainty cannot be expected, or an Exactness but what may be contradicted if a Discovery be made. The Design of the Map, besides what relates to the Expedition of _de Fonte_, is to shew there is a Streight, called the Streight of _de Fuca_. A Sea at the Head of that Streight, at the Back of _Hudson_'s Bay, from which Sea there is a Passage either by an Inlet into _Hudson_'s Bay, or by a Streight at the Head of _Repulse_ Bay, and so to Northward of _Hudson_'s Bay; from which Streight there is a Passage into the _North Sea_, either to Eastward of the Land of _Cary_'s _Swans-nest_ into _Hudson_'s Streight, or by _Cumberland_ Isles, and expressed in the Map in the Manner that the respective Accounts represent, according to our Understanding of them, with a Submission to Correction and superior Judgment. But an absolute Contradiction without invalidating the Accounts on which such Map is constructed, or to say there is no North-west Passage, which it is impossible should be determined until a Search is made in the Parts which remain to be searched, are no Objections, are only Opinions, without any Authority to support them, which Time must rectify. To make an Expedition to discover whether there is a Passage by those Parts which remain unsearched, purposely from _England_, is what I think an honest, disinterested, or impartial Person cannot recommend, as such Expeditions might be repeated with great Expence, and the Event uncertain. The Government gave their Assistance, and the Generosity of the Merchants hath been sufficiently experienced, both in _England_ and _America_: Therefore it becomes every one whose Intention it is solely that such a beneficial Service should be done to avoid proposing what, might, in the Consequence, be an unnecessary Expence to Government, and abuse the Generosity of the Merchants. The Ships which went on these Expeditions, after they left the _Orkneys_, had no Place to put into, neither could they there Wood or Water, or conveniently repair a Damage. If they met with a Delay in passing _Hudson_'s Streights, they were obliged, from the small Part of the Season that was remaining, to go to the _Hudson_'s Bay Factories to winter; that they might have the more Time the next Year; were obliged to go to the Factories earlier than they were necessitated on Account of the Weather, in order to get their Ships laid up, and every other Convenience for wintering prepared before that the Winter set in. The _Hudson_'s Bay Company, jealous of a Design to interfere with their Trade, probably their Fears not ill grounded, the Consequence was, there was no Cordiality between the Factors and the Captains. The Ships People, by wintering, suffered in their Health, great Wages going on, a Consumption of Provisions, a Spirit of Discontent and Opposition amongst the inferior Officers, which obstructed the Success of the next Summer. To obviate all which in any future Proceedings, a Discovery was undertaken on the Coast of _Labrador_, to find Harbours on that Coast which Ships; could repair to if necessary on their Voyage out, or to repair to on their return, which they could be at sooner than at the Factories, stay longer on Discovery, and return the same Year to _England_. How well this Attempt answered the Design, may be collected from the Extract from a Journal of a Voyage hereunto annexed, performed in the Year 1753, giving an Account of the Coast of _Labrador_. As what is now to be done in the Discovery of a Passage in _Hudson_'s Bay may be effected in a Summer, and if there is the desired Success, an Inlet found by which there is a Passage into the Sea adjacent out of that Bay, the Vessel which makes such Discovery, and all Ships at their return by such Inlet, will have no Occasion to go to the Southern Part of the Bay, it will be out of their Course, but proceed through the Streights to _Labrador_, there Wood and Water, get fresh Fish, and other Refreshments; can repair any Damage either as to their Masts, or their Hull, and return the same Year to _England_ by the common Tract of the _Newfoundland_ Ships, and not to go to the _Orkneys_. That there was a good fishing Bank, a Coast convenient for carrying on a Fishery, a Fur Trade, also for Whalebone and Oil with the _Eskemaux Indians_, was a Discovery the Consequence of that Attempt from _America_. To take the Benefit of which Discovery seems now to be the Intention of the Publick. And a Survey of such Coast being ordered to be made by the Government, if such Survey is extended so far as to those Parts, in which as already mentioned such Passage must be, and without it is so far extended, the Design of attaining a true Geographical Account of the Northern Coasts of _America_ would be incompleat. By this Means it must be known whether there is such a Passage, the Probability of which is unquestionable. Also by such Survey a better Account will be got which Way the Whales take their Courses, and consequently where it is best to go in Pursuit of them. Also as to those _Eskemaux_ who frequent to Northward of _Hudson_'s Streights, where they retire to, and a proper Place be found to keep a Fair with them. As these _Eskemaux_ as well as those on _Greenland_ Side, who have not come into those Parts any long Duration of Time, being the same Kind of _Indians_ with those in the _South Sea_, and as they transport themselves and Families from one Part to another by Water, it seems highly probable that it is by such a Passage or Streight that they have got so far to Eastward. This Discovery of a Passage can be made without any additional Expence, wove in with other Services, as was in the Discoveries which were ordered to be made by the King of _Spain_ on the Coasts of _California_. The Propriety of a Vessel to make such a Survey, and the Abilities and Fidelity of the Persons will be undoubtedly taken Care for. The Run from _Labrador_, let it be from any Harbour, will be but small to any where, where it is necessary to make the Survey. The Persons sent will go fresh out of Harbour, whereas, with a Run from the _Orkneys_, the People are fatigued; will now be refreshed as if they had not come from _Europe_. Will be out from such Harbour but a few Weeks, in a fine Season of the Year, no Way debilitated by the Scurvy, and in a few Summers will be enabled to compleat their Survey of that Coast; using such an Assiduity as they proceed as not to leave any Part on Supposition or Trust, but being assured where any Inlet or Opening determines. A Person who understands _Eskemaux_, and one or more _Eskemaux_ to be procured, would be of Service as Pilots, and to give an Account of the adjacent Country. And there is no Vessel (it is mentioned as perhaps it is not so very well known) so proper and serviceable for this long-shore Work as a Marble-head Schooner, about sixty Tons, fortified as to the Ice, and would be at all Times a useful Tender, and a proper Boat if necessary to be left at the _Labrador_. What would give due Force to such Expeditions, would be the Commodore of the Man of War being so near, under whose Eye the Whole would be done, who would direct their fitting out, receive their Report on their return, order a Review if necessary, and be the Occasion of that due Subordination and Obedience both of Officers and Men, which it is often very difficult to effect on such Voyages. Merit will then be distinguished, and the Credulity of the Persons at home will not be imposed on, and no Discouragement of those who distinguish themselves in the Execution of such laudable Attempts. Such a Passage being discovered, and the Sea entered to Westward of _Hudson_'s Bay, the Manner of proceeding afterwards must be left to superior Judgment. APPENDIX. AN ACCOUNT Of Part of the Coast and Inland Part of THE LABRADOR: BEING An EXTRACT from a Journal of a Voyage made from _Philadelphia_ in 1753. The Coast of _Labrador_ to Northward of the Latitude of 57 Deg. 30 Min. is represented by Captain _Benjamin Gillam_ (an Extract of whose Journal the Author had) as a perilous Coast, and without any Inlets; therefore the Design was to fall in with the Land to Southward of that Latitude, which was attempted _August_ the 2d; a thick Fog, but expected when more in with the Land to have clear Weather. They saw Ice at times the whole Day, and in the Evening found themselves imbayed in a Body of Ice, and plainly perceiving Points of Rocks amongst the Ice, stood out again during the whole Night for a clear Sea, which they fortunately obtained the next Morning. It was then proposed to stand yet more Southward, to make the Land in Latitude 56°, and search the Inlet of _Davis_. From the 3d to the 9th had various Weather, the Air temperate, Calms and light Winds, thick Fogs for some Days, the latter Part of the Time haizey, with Rain, which was succeeded the 10th of _August_ with a hard Gale of Wind that moderated on the 11th, and clear Weather: Saw Rockweed, some Kelp, Land Birds, a Number of large Islands of Ice, but no flat Ice; concluded in the Afternoon that they saw the Looming of the Land in Lat. 56 Deg. 2 Min. Long. 56 Deg. 42 Min. at Eight at Night had Soundings 95 Fathom, at Ten at Night 80 Fathom. _August_ the 12th, fine pleasant Weather; at Eight o'Clock had 40 Fathom Soundings, and at Ten made the Land, bearing W. by S. ten Leagues. Many Islands of Ice, but the Wind contrary for _Davis_'s Inlet, stood towards another Opening which promised a good Harbour; but not being able to attain it before Night, stood on and off until the next Morning, fine pleasant Weather; and _August_ the 13th, by Four in the Morning, were in with the Land. A Whaleboat, with proper Hands, was sent to sound a-head, and find a Harbour. Soon after a Cry was heard from an Island to Northward; there appeared to be five Persons. Some Rings, Knives, Scissors, and Iron Hoop, being taken by the People into the Boat, after rowing about a League they entered into a small Harbour, near the Place where the five Persons were first seen, but who had retired. Entering the Harbour they saw Shallops built after the _Newfoundland_ Manner, at Anchor, with Buoys and Cables, a Mast, a square Yard athwart, with a Sail bent, a Tilt made of Seal Skins abaft. These Boats were tarred, that Summer's Work. Upon the Sight of these Boats a Doubt arose whether they were _Indians_ whom they had seen, or some unfortunate Shipwrecked People. When the Boat got further into the Harbour two _Eskemaux Indians_ came off, the one a Man in Years, the other a young Man. The elder Man had a small black Beard. The elder Man being presented with a Ring, immediately put it on his Finger; the young Man did the same when one was presented him. Both declined accepting Pieces of Iron Hoop, a very agreeable Present to the _Eskemaux_ on the Western Side _Hudson_'s Bay. They knew what Fire-arms were, which they saw in the Boat: Also asked for some Pork, which they saw, and had been taken into the Boat for Fear the Schooner and the Boat should be separated; and, on the Boatsmen not having a Knife immediately ready, they produced a Knife apiece; and the elder Man used the Word _Capitaine_ in his Address; had a Complaisance in his Behaviour. From these Circumstances it was plain they carried on a Trade with the _French_; tho' the latest _French_ Authors represented them as a savage People, who would never have any Commerce with them. And a Motive for this Undertaking was from an Opinion, that no Trade had been carried on in these Parts, either by _Europeans_ or _Americans_, the printed Accounts and common Report both agreed in this. It was apparent to whom these Boats belonged; and there were more than twenty _Eskemaux_ ashore, of various Sexes and Ages, who kept shaking of old Cloaths for Sale; and the elder Man pressed the People in the Boat very much to come ashore, also to bring the Schooner to an Anchor, which was standing on and off; but as the Day advanced, the Situation the Schooner was in, being many small Islands about, and a fine Opening which promised a good Harbour in the main Land, they declined the Invitation; and there was an _Eskemaux_ ready with a large Coil of Whalebone, seemingly for the Boat to warp in to a small Cove and make fast with. These Civilities were acknowledged by a Present being sent to those ashore, and after shewing where they intended for, the Boat returned aboard the Schooner. The People on board the Schooner, as they advanced towards the Inlet where they expected a Harbour, hoisted their Ensign, which was very large, and fired two Swivels by way of Salute; soon after the _Eskemaux_ displayed on the Rocks a large white Ensign, on a high Pole; and when there was Occasion to lower the Schooner's Colours, the _Eskemaux_ lowered theirs; the Schooner's Colours being again hoisted, they hoisted theirs; but a Squall of Sleet and Rain came on, which prevented their having a further Sight of each other. At Six in the Evening the Schooner was anchored in a convenient Harbour, a level Shore, with high rocky Land, bare in Spots, the other Parts covered with a good Herbage and large Groves of Trees, Firs, Spruce, and Pine. An Evening Gun was fired to give the Natives Notice where the Schooner was, and also a good Watch was set. _August_ the 14th, at Day, they fired a Swivel aboard the Schooner, and displayed their Colours as a Signal for Trade; and a Party went ashore to ascend the Heighths. The largest Trees did not exceed ten Inches Diameter, and fifty Feet in Heighth; many Runs of excellent Water, Ponds in level Spots; the Country had an agreeable Aspect, a plentiful Herbage, the Flowers were now blown, the Berries not ripened, and the _Angelica_, of which there was great Quantity, not seeded. They had a very laborious Walk before they attained the desired Summit; the Musquetoes very troublesome. Being on an extraordinary Eminence they saw the North and South Point of the main Land, or two Capes which form a Bay, the Northermost was computed to be something to the Northward of Latitude 56, and the Southermost in Latitude 55. The Shore high and bold, to Northward a Number of Reefs of Rocks lying out a great Way into the Sea, in the Southern Part of the Bay many Islands and two Inlets. Sixty Islands of Ice of large Dimensions in Sight. In the ascending this Heighth, saw many Moose Deer Paths, Tracts of other Animals; and in the Ponds Trouts of about ten Inches in Length. On the Shores few Fowl but Ducks, and a Plenty of Muscles. The Weather very warm and pleasant. The Schooner's People found a Barrel, a Hogshead Stave, and a Piece of hewed Wood, on which it was conjectured that this was no unfrequented Harbour. The next Morning, the 15th of _August_, the Boat was sent to carry two Persons to the Head of the Harbour, that they might travel to a Mountain about ten Miles off, to take a View of the inland Part of the Country. When the Boat returned, the People brought Word they had seen the Ruins of a Timber House. The Boat was again manned to go and take a Survey of it; and it appeared to have been a House built for some Persons to winter in, of Logs joined together, part standing, with a Chimney of Brick and Stone entire. The House consisted of three Rooms, a Log Tent near, and a Pit dug in which they seemed to have buried their Beer. The Ground cleared at a Distance round: The Woods burnt, several Hogsheads and Barrels, and seemingly a great Waste of Biscuit, Pork, Salt Fish, and other Provisions, which seemed as if those who had been here had retired with great Precipitation; neither had been long gone, as there were fresh Feet Marks on the Strand, and some Trees lately hewn. The Marks on the Cask shewed that the People were from _London_; and it was supposed that as the _Eskemaux_ had not come to trade, there had been a Fray between the _Eskemaux_ and these People; and when they considered the compleat Manner in which the Boats were equipped and rigged, doubted whether the _Eskemaux_ had not overpowered them, and had some of the People with them. The great Earnestness with which the elder of the _Eskemaux_ made Signs for the People in the Boat to go ashore, seemed to be with a particular Design: Therefore it was thought prudent to be very careful in the Watch at Night, to strike the Bell every half Hour, to keep a continual Walk on Deck, and call _All is well_, that the _Eskemaux_ might hear, if they should intend a Surprize, that the People aboard were on their Guard. The Morning of the 16th they run up to the Head of the Harbour with the Schooner, to Wood and Water, there being Plenty of Wood ready cut, and a Place conveniently dammed up to confine a fine Stream of excellent Water which came from the Heighths. There was then found several Pieces of printed Books, in _German_ and _English_, the _English Moravian_ Hymns. Peas, Beans, Turnips, and Radishes planted, which seemed as if they would come to no great Perfection, and judged to have been sowed about three Weeks. The wooding and watering was finished by Ten at Night, but with no small Trouble on Account of the Musquetoes, though great Smoaks made to keep them off. The two Persons who had been sent to view the inland Country returned in the Morning, after having spent a rainy Night in the Woods; gave an Account that they had been forced to go round several small Lakes, which made the Way longer than expected; and the Mountain was very steep and rugged: Saw several large Spots of excellent Meadow: The Timber much the same as that on the Shores of the Harbour: That they saw two Inlets to Northward, extending a great Way into the Land: That it was only the Branch of an Inlet that the Vessel was at Anchor in; but they saw the Termination of the Inlet to be in large Ponds. The 17th of _August_ the Schooner was to return to her first Anchorage, with an Intention to search the Inlets to Northward; but the Wind proved contrary, and a hard Gale, though the Weather pleasant. The 18th the Wind moderated, and the Schooner returned to her former Anchorage; but the Wind did not serve to quit the Harbour until the 19th in the Afternoon; the Interval of Time had been filled up in brewing Spruce Beer, and doing other necessary Work with respect to the Sails and Rigging. At Six in the Evening was close in with the Island, where they had seen the _Eskemaux_, but now gone. It was not until the 21st, by reason of Calms and Currents, that they attained to the Inlet to Northward. Those who had been sent out with the Boat to sound a-head, had seen on the Shore an _Eskemaux_ Encampment, from which they were but very lately retired, and brought from thence a Piece of a Jawbone of a Spermaceti Whale, which was cut with a Hatchet. It was plain from that the _Eskemaux_ were supplied with Iron Tools: They also found a Piece of an Earthen Jar. They judged there had been about eleven Tents. The 22d of _August_, in the Morning, the Ship's Company catched some Cod; they were but small, but fine full Fish. The Whaleboat was sent up with some Hands, to sound and find a Harbour: And three Persons went on Shore to a high Summit, about four Miles off, to view the Country: Saw in their Way many Tracts of Deer, a deep Soil, good Grass, and met with several large level Spots, with Ponds of Water; thick Groves of Timber, and a plentiful Herbage. The Country, from this Summit, appeared to consist of Ridges and Mountains; and as the Weather changed from fine and pleasant, to thick and hazey, they saw the Clouds settle on several Ridges of the Mountain, near them, as also on the Heighth where they were, and under them. And when they returned the People on board said they had had some smart Showers of Rain, which those who had been on the Heighth were not sensible of. In the Afternoon they proceeded with the Schooner to a Harbour which those who had been sent out with the Whaleboat had discovered, an extraordinary fine Harbour; and it may be here observed in general, that most of the Harbours are very fine ones. There are many of them, and not far the one from the other. There were on the Shore, in many Places, the Remainder of _Eskemaux_ Encampments, but some Time since they had been there. Timbers of Boats, on the Shores, which were much decayed, had laid long in the Weather; in the Carpenter's Opinion the Boats they had belonged to must have been built fifteen or twenty Years, seemed to be the Timbers of such Boats as had been seen with the _Eskemaux_. The succeeding Day there was such Weather as they could not proceed; the Day after, the 25th, run up the Inlet about eight Leagues from the Harbour, which was about eighteen Leagues from the Entrance of the Inlet. As they proceeded they found the Country more level, thick Woods, intermixed with Birch Trees, and both Shores afforded a pleasant Verdure. They could not proceed further with the Schooner, by Reason of Falls; which, being surveyed the next Day, might be passed with the Schooner, but with some Difficulty. Therefore early in the Morning of the 27th, at a proper Time of Tide, when the Falls were level, a Party went in a Whaleboat, with a small Boat in tow loaded with Provisions, Bedding, and a Sail for a Tent, to explore the Head of the Inlet. The furthest they could get with the Boat was about five Leagues, being intercepted by impassable Falls, about 300 Feet in Length, and forty Feet their perpendicular Height, though of gradual Descent. The Fall Rocks, but the Bank of the Northern Shore, which was steep, was a Kind of Marl, without any Mixture of Stone; and no frozen Earth here, or in any other Part, usual in _Hudson_'s Bay, as was proved by repeated Experiments: Therefore it may be concluded that this is a more temperate Climate in Winter than in any Part about _Hudson_'s Bay, in the same or lower Latitudes. From the first Falls to the second there were large Levels along Shore, the Mountains at a considerable Distance within Land, especially those on the North Side. The Mountains and Shores thick cloathed with Pine, Spruce, Birch, and Alder, much larger and of better Growth than those Trees nearer the Sea Coast; some Pines measured twenty-five Inches in Diameter. In a Pond, on the North Shore, saw two Beaver Houses, and there were Plenty of Beaver Marks, as Dams, Trees barked and felled by them. The Water was fresh between the first and second Falls. Poles of _Indian_ Tents in many Places along Shore, Lodgments only for single Families, tied together with Strips of Deer Skin, and no Encampments after the _Eskemaux_ Manner, shewed that a different _Indians_ from the _Eskemaux_ resorted into this Part. The whole Country had a pleasant Appearance; but as they came near to the upper Falls, the Verdure of the Woods, barren Points of Rocks that exalted themselves, terminating the View, the Disposition of the Woods which had all the Regularity of Art, joined to the Freedom of Nature, the Gloom of the Evening, the slow steady Course of the Water, and the Echoes of the rumbling Fall, afforded such a Scene as affected even those that rowed; and they said, it was the pleasantest Place they had ever seen. On a level Point, beautifully green, situated at a small Distance from an Opening in the Woods, and in full View of and Hearing of the Falls, there were the Poles of an _Indian_ Tent, which, from the Ashes scarce cold, a Breast-bone of a wild Goose, with some little Meat on it that had been broiled, Pieces of Birch Bark left, seemed to have been not long deserted, and the Situation was such as expressed the late Inhabitants to have the softest Sensations. In coming up the Inlet they had found where there had been a small Fire made, as supposed, to dress Victuals, but put out or covered with Turf, a usual Practice amongst Southern _Indians_ to conceal the Smoke, when they suppose the Enemy is near. The Boats were securely harboured, a Tent erected, with a good Fire before it, and the People rested securely all Night. The next Day, _August_ the 28th, two Persons were detached to a Summit, in Appearance about twelve Miles off, others went and hung Strings of Beads, Combs, Knives, and other Peltry, on the Trees, some at a Mile, and others at a further Distance, from where they kept their Camp all Day, to invite the _Indians_ to a Converse with them; but no _Indians_ were seen, nor any Thing meddled with. Those who had walked to take the View from the Summit, saw the Water above the Falls extend a great Distance into the Country, but not the Termination of it, passing through Meadow Lands of large Dimensions, and by the Foot of small rising Land, they saw a large high Ridge of blue Mountains at a great Distance, running North and South, which was supposed to be the Bounds of the new discovered Sea in _Hudson_'s Bay: Saw several other Ridges of Land, but seemingly more level than those to Seaward; passed over in travelling several Spots of excellent Soil, the Timber of good Size and Growth. There was a great Plenty of Grass and Herbage; walked a great Way in an _Indian_ Path, and saw several marked Trees, as is practised amongst the Southern _Indians_. They returned in the Evening, much fatigued with the Heat of the Sun, and swelled with the Bites of Musquetoes, and a small black Fly, like those in _England_ called a Midge. Those that staid at the Encampment were also much plagued with these Insects. The Latitude of the upper Falls was 54 Deg. 48 Min. near the imaginary Line that bounded the _English_ and _French_ Limits in these Parts; and it being supposed that the two Inlets, seen from the Height above the Harbour where they first anchored, would terminate in the _French_ Limits; they therefore had declined making any Search there, and proceeded to search the Inlet to Northward. The next Morning they set out to return to the Schooner, with a Design to search the other Inlet to Northward, seen from the Mountain at the Back of the first Harbour, but not seen since by Reason of a high Ridge of Mountains, as it was supposed, that covered it. In the Night there had been a sharp Frost, and early in the Morning a thick Fog. About Ten in the Morning they were returned to the Schooner. Several of the People, contrary to the written Instructions which were left, had rambled from the Vessel, got on the Heights, rolled down the _Indian_ Marks, which are Stones that they put up one on another on the Knolls and Summits of Hills, to direct them in their journeying; a Proceeding which was highly dissatisfactory to the Commander, considering the Disposition which it was found the Natives were in, and whom, with the greatest Industry, they could not get a Sight of. The People had shot some few Fowl, which were plentier in this Inlet than any where that they had seen, but very shy and wild. They sailed that Afternoon to the Harbour which they were at when they first entered this Inlet. _August_ the 29th they sailed out of this Inlet to go to the Northward, keeping within a Ledge of Islands, as they might pass no Part of the Coast unsearched. Met with some Difficulties amongst the Shoals and Rocks; but about Four in the Afternoon were clear of all, and plyed to Windward to enter the third or more Northern Inlet, which they had now open. Saw at the Head of a pretty deep Cove, on the South Side in that Inlet, a strong Smoke arise, and that immediately answered by a lesser Smoke on the Northern Side of the Inlet. The Smoke on the Northern Side the Inlet continued towering and freshening; on seeing which they immediately steered for the Cove, supposing the Smoke to be made by the Natives as a Signal for Trade; but were delayed entering by the Tide of Ebb. At Sunset were surprised with a Squall of Wind, which came on in a Moment, and the Schooner in extreme Danger of being ashore on the Rocks. A hard Gale succeeded, but they fortunately attained a Harbour, which had been before discovered by the Boat, and rode secure. The 31st of _August_, the Weather being moderate, two Persons went over the Heights to the Head of the Cove, in Pursuit of the Natives; and three Persons went in a Boat to the Head of the Cove, with some trading Goods, and to pass the two who walked, over the Water if it ran up into the Country, and the Natives should be on the opposite Shore; but after rowing up about two Leagues they found a Termination of the Water, landed and ascended the Heights, where they found a very large Plain, without Ponds, and a fine Soil, which they passed over and descended into a Valley, thick Groves, good Grass, and large Ponds. Here they met with a Bear; which one of the People firing too precipitately missed. Several Bears had been seen before, some Foxes, many Tracts of Wolves, both on the Shores and Inland, and in one Place Otter Paths. Three of the People were sent to return with the Boat aboard, and two set out to go up a Mountain which promised a good Sight of the Country, and seemed possible that they might attain to the Summit of it, and return to the Schooner that Night; but were deceived by the Height of the Mountain as to the Distance they were from it. In the Ascent they found great Declivities and Hollows in the Sides of the Mountain, the Rocks rent in a most surprising Manner, having Rents or Fissures in them from thirty to seventy Feet in Depth; some tremendous to look down, and not above two or three Feet in Breadth. The Dogs that were with them would not, after looking down, jump over them, but howled and took a Sweep round. In the Levels and Hollows on the Side there lay great Heaps of fallen Rock. Some Stones or solid Pieces of ten or fifteen Tons Weight, besides innumerable lesser Pieces. And found a Patch of Snow in one of the Hollows, about forty Feet in Breadth, and fourteen Feet in perpendicular Height, frozen solid, and seemed of the same Consistence with the Islands of Ice. The Persons, though constantly labouring, did not attain to the Top of the Mountain until about Half an Hour before Sunset, where they found a thin Air, and a fresh sharp cold Wind; though below, and in their Ascent, they had experienced pleasant warm Weather, and little Wind. From the Mountain they perceived a Smoke, about ten Miles off more inland, the usual Practice of the _Indians_ in the Evenings, when they form their Camps, to make a Fire to dress their Provisions, and to be by all Night; and it was then suspected that they were flying more inland, and that the Smokes seen the Night before were Signals from one Party to another to retire on seeing the Schooner, supposing us Enemies. It was too late that Night to return to the Head of the Cove, therefore encamped that Night on the Side of the Mountain in the Woods, near to a level Spot without the least Unevenness of above six Hundred Feet in Breadth, and three Hundred over, exactly resembling a Pavement without any Fissure or Opening in it. The next Day got to the Head of the Cove, near twelve Miles from the Mountain; on a Signal made the Boat fetched them aboard, where the People expressed in their Countenances a universal Joy at seeing their Commander safe returned, which was a great Satisfaction to him, as it was an Instance more sincerely expressed than by formal Words addressed to him, that they looked on their Security to depend on his Preservation. The Wind was contrary to their getting out of the Harbour that Afternoon; but the Boats were employed in seeking the best Channel for the Schooner to go out at. The Morning of _September_ the 2d, the Wind proved favourable, and that Evening they got a good Way up the third Inlet. When they were some Way up the Inlet, they discovered a Smoke upon an Island at the Entrance of the Inlet, and, when at Anchor, a Smoke also on the North Shore. Therefore by Day-light, _September_ the 3d, the Time when Smokes are most discernable and looked out for by the _Indians_, a Person was sent to fire the Brush on an Eminence ashore, to answer that Smoke seen on the North Shore the Night before. Then the Schooner proceeded up the Inlet, and by Ten o'Clock was come to the Extremity of it, which terminated in a Bay of very deep Water, surrounded by very steep Mountains, with Groves of Trees on them; but they found a good Anchorage in a Cove, and an excellent Harbour. The Heights being ascended, it was perceived there was a narrow Streight out of this Inlet, which communicated with Ponds. And that there was a fourth Inlet to Northward, and which extended further to Westward than the Inlet which the Vessel was now in, and about four Miles off, beyond the Hills there appeared a towering Smoke, upon the Sight of which the Persons who went to take the View returned aboard to get some Provisions, and a Parcel of trading Goods, and set out again with an Intention to seek the Natives, and spend the Night amongst them. The Boat put them ashore where it was thought most convenient and nearest Place to the Smoke, but it proved otherwise; for after travelling about three Miles they fell in with a Chain of Ponds, which they were forced to go round. Hot sultry Weather, the Woods thick, without the least Breath of Wind, infinite Number of Musquetoes and Midges. But by being thus to go round the Ponds, had the Satisfaction of seeing several Beavers Dams made to keep out the Tide Waters. They saw a Continuance of the Smoke, and shaped a Course for it; but when on the Heights perceived that the Smoke was on an Island about two Miles off the Shore in the fourth Inlet, therefore returned to the Vessel that Night. The 4th of _September_, in the Morning, they towed out of the Harbour they were in, the Wind soon after sprung up, and by Night they go out of the Inlet, and anchored amongst some Islands, just at the Entrance of the fourth Inlet. The next Morning, _September_ the 5th, entered the fourth Inlet; but being becalmed a small Time catched above fifty Cod, much such as they had before taken. By Twelve o'Clock were abreast of the Island where they had seen the Smoke on the 3d, and which was four Leagues from the Entrance: Could perceive no Natives, but several Fires, and that there had been a great burning of the Brush; soon after saw a Snow lying at an Anchor, which hoisted _English_ Colours, and fired a Gun. They hoisted the Colours aboard the Schooner, fired a Swivel, and bore away for the Snow. The Wind was fresh, and, as the Schooner was entering the Harbour, two People came running over the Rocks, hailed, but it could not be well understood what they said; but it was a friendly Precaution as to some Rocks which lay off there. The Snow's People then took to their Boat, and made a Trip to view the Schooner as she was coming to an Anchor, and then returned aboard. A Whaleboat was hoisted out, and a Person sent in it to go aboard the Snow, and know where she was from, and to let the Captain know they would be glad to see him aboard the Schooner. The Person sent, and Capt. _Elijah Goff_ the Commander of the Snow, returned aboard in a short Time; and the Particulars of what the Captain related were, That the Snow was fitted out by Mr. _Nesbit_, a Merchant in _London_: That he, the present Captain, had been the Year before Mate of the same Vessel on this Coast: That she was then fitted out by _Bell, Nesbit_ and Company; the intended Voyage kept a great Secret. They had, the Year before as a Captain, a _Dane_ who had used the _Greenland_ Trade, and could talk the _Eskemaux_ Language. That the Snow had been at _Newfoundland_, and afterwards came on the _Labrador_ Coast; but being Strangers to the Coast, and the Captain very obstinate, the Vessel was several Times in Danger, which raised a Mutiny amongst the People, who had formed a Resolution of seizing the Ship, and bearing away for _Newfoundland_; which Mutiny was appeased, and the People consented to go to the _Labrador_, where they harboured _July_ the 20th, in the same Harbour which the Schooner first entered this Year. They brought with them four of the _Unitas Fratrum_, or _Moravian_ Brethren, who were to remain during the Winter, to attain an Acquaintance with the Natives, and lay a Foundation of Trade: That the House, the Ruins of which the Discoverer saw, was built for the Residence of these Brethren; and, being compleated by the Beginning of _September_, the Snow left them in Possession of it, and set out to make Discoveries, and pursue a Trade to Northward: That they had some Trade in _Nesbit_'s Harbour, the Name they had given to the Harbour where the House was, and also on the Coast before they arrived at the Harbour: That when they went to Northward; in about Lat. 55° 40´ off the Islands, amongst which the Schooner had harboured the preceding Night, some _Eskemaux_ came aboard, and told the _Dane_ Captain there were some trading Boats come from the Northward, with Plenty of Trade, and advised the Captain to come where they were. The Captain asked, Why they would not come along Side? The _Eskemaux_ said, It was dangerous on Account of the Surf. The Captain and six others went in the Ship's Boat, with a Quantity of Goods to trade, but had no Fire Arms with them, though advised to take them; but the Captain said, No, they were very honest Fellows. Captain _Goff_ saw the Boat go round an Island, upon which there was a Number of Natives; but the Island hindered him from having any further Sight of the Boat. After the Boat had been gone about an Hour, he saw one or two of the _Eskemaux_ with his Glass peep over the Rocks; but never after saw any more of the Boat, the Snow's People, or the _Eskemaux_. That the Snow lay at a League Distance from the Island; he had no other Boat, one being left with the _Moravian_ Brethren. Capt. _Goff_ waited three Days, and then returned with the Snow to the Harbour where the House was. The Snow being short of Hands, he took the _Moravian_ Brethren aboard, leaving a Quantity of Provisions sufficient to subsist the unhappy People who were missing should they come there, until his Return. They put the Key of the House and a Letter in a Hole of a Tree; but on his Return this Year found the House in Ruins, the Casks and Hogsheads broke to Pieces, and the Key and Letter gone. That what was sowed there was by Way of Experiment. Capt. _Goff_ judged that the _Eskemaux_ traded with the _French_, as their Fishgiggs, Knives, and Boats, were _French_; and the _Eskemaux_ told them there was a Settlement of twenty _Europeans_ to Southward, which they supposed to be somewhere to Southward of Lat. 55, the Latitude of the Cape they had named Cape _Harrison_, which is the Southermost Cape that forms the Bay in which is _Nesbit_'s Harbour, and the high Saddleback Land within, which is first seen off at Sea they named _St. John_'s. He said that one of the _Eskemaux_ offered a Quantity of Whalebone for a Cutlass, which they are very fond of; the _Danish_ Captain insisted on having more, the _Eskemaux_ answered, If he would not take it that Capt. _Saleroo_ would; alluding, as supposed, to the Captain or Factor at the _French_ Settlement. The Boats the _Eskemaux_ had were _French_: They spoke many _French_ Words. And the Women worked the Boats, turned them to Windward, and were very expert in the Management of them. The Account given by the Master who went in the Schooner's Boat to fish for Cod (Capt. _Goff_ not having yet got any) to the People in the Boat was, That Mr. _Nesbit_ was only, in this Case, an Agent or Factor for the _Moravian_ Brethren, who aimed at a Settlement in these Parts, and to attain a Propriety by a prior Possession, but that no Propriety would be allowed of by our Government: That Petitions had been flung into the Board of Trade for Patents for the _Labrador_, but were rejected, and a free Trade would be permitted to all the Subjects of _Great Britain_; which open Trade was the original Design on which this Discovery was undertaken by the People in _America_; the Execution of which was not only interrupted by private Persons stealing the Scheme, and being before hand, but hath been a great Hindrance to the Fisheries being carried on in those Parts, a Trade established with the inland _Indians_ and the _Eskemaux_, and further Advantages which will be known, on our being better acquainted with those Parts. For as to this Severity of the _Eskemaux_, inexcusably barbarous, yet there were some Provocations which might have been avoided, and which incited those _Eskemaux_ to this Act, whose Hatred and Revenge, the Character of most _Indians_, are rouzed at the slightest Causes. It appears from a Journal of the Boatswain, wherein he makes a Valuation of the Trade, that they had bought a Hundred Weight of Whalebone for Six-pence. The _Eskemaux_ were also treated with great Contempt and Rudeness. A Person aboard had bought a Pair of _Eskemaux_ Boots; and carrying them into his Cabbin, an _Eskemaux_ followed claiming the Boots as his, saying that he who sold them had no Right to sell them; and the Buyer settled the Matter by presenting a Pistol at his Head. On which the _Eskemaux_ cried out in the _French_, _Tout_, _Comerado_, and retired. Capt. _Goff_ came this Year in Hopes to recover the People who were missing with the Boat, and to make a further Essay as to the Trade, but brought no Settlers with him, intended immediately for the Coast, which he could not attain to on Account of the Ice, and went to _Trinity_ Bay in _Newfoundland_, where he staid some Time. Sailed from thence the 27th of _June_; the 2d of _July_ saw _French_ Ships in the Streights of _Belle Isle_, retarded by the Ice; and the 9th of _July_ joined Capt. _Taylor_ in a Sloop of about 35 Tons, fitted out from _Rhode Island_ to go in Pursuit of a _North-west Passage_; and if not successful to come down on the Coast of _Labrador_. Capt. _Goff_ said he had learned by Capt. _Taylor_ that the _Philadelphia_ Schooner would be out, and he should have suspected this to be her, but she entered the Inlet so readily, and came up with that Boldness as could not but think that the Schooner was a _French_ Vessel acquainted with the Coast; and he had received Orders to avoid any Harbour in which a _French_ Ship should appear. Capt. _Taylor_ had seen a large _French_ Sloop in Latitude 53, and to the Northward three hundred _Eskemaux_, who had nothing to trade but their old Cloaths, and who were going further to Northward, but were hindered by the Ice. Capt. _Goff_ and _Taylor_, who had entered into an Agreement to associate, were eight Days grappled to the Ice, and did not arrive at _Nesbit_'s Harbour until the 20th of _July_. But had traded with some of the _Eskemaux_ before, though for small Matters, and had some of these _Eskemaux_ aboard for three successive Days, who then left them, and came no more aboard the Vessels. Capt. _Goff_ suspected, though he had altered his Dress, that they had then recollected him. The 1st of _August_ they sailed from _Nesbit_'s Harbour, and attained to this Inlet where he now was; and on the 11th sailed to the Northward, when Capt. _Taylor_ left him; and on the 25th returned here again. That the Smoke which the Persons saw on the Island when they travelled over Land, and which the Schooner passed that Day, was made by his Order, but that he had not made any other Smoke, and this was for a Direction for his Longboat, gone to the Northward to trade, and to signify to Capt. _Taylor_ his being in the Harbour, whose Return he expected. Capt. _Goff_ said he had been in no Inlet but _Nesbit_'s Harbour, and in this where the Snow was; and that Capt. _Taylor_, in the Snow's Longboat, had searched the Head of this Inlet, shewed a Draught of the Coast, which was defective, as he knew nothing of the intermediate Inlets. Had no Account of the inland Country; of there being any Beaver or other Furs to be acquired there; or of there being any Mines, of which the Schooner's People had seen many Instances, and had collected some Ore. Capt. _Goff_ had two _Dutch_ Draughts of the Coast, made from late Surveys; but they were very inaccurate, the Views taken from Sea, and there the Land appeared close and continued; the Inlets, excepting that in which they now were, appearing like small Bays, their Entrance being covered by Islands. They had, this Year, found the Corpse of one of those who went in the Boat, stripped and lying on an island. It being rainy Weather, and the Wind contrary to the Schooner's going up the Inlet, they were detained, and on _September_ the 8th the Snow's Longboat returned, after having been out fourteen Days, with some Whalebone, and a Quantity of _Eskemaux_ Cloathing, which being examined to find out if the _Eskemaux_ wore Furs, there was only seen a small Slip of Otter Skin on one of the Frocks. And Capt. _Goff_, being asked, said he never saw any Furs amongst them. It is pretty evident the _Eskemaux_ only pass along this Coast, to go and trade with the _Eskemaux_ in _Hudson_'s Streights, and occasionally put in as Weather or other Occasions may make it necessary, which keeps the Native or inland _Indians_ from the Coast, as they are their Enemies. The _Eskemaux_ go up to Latitude 58, or further North; there leave their great Boats, pass a small Neck of Land, taking their Canoes with them, and then go into another Water which communicates with _Hudson_'s Streights. Carry their Return of Trade into _Eskemaux_ Bay, where they live in Winter; and the _French_ made considerable Returns to _Old France_, by the Whalebone and Oil procured from these People. And this Account is agreeable to the best Information that could be procured. While the Schooner's People were viewing the Cloaths, Word was brought that the _Eskemaux_ were coming, who may be heard shouting almost before that they can be discerned, the Schooner's People repaired aboard. On the Colours aboard the Snow being hoisted, the Schooner's People displayed theirs; but the Snow being the nearest, and the Snow's People so urged the _Eskemaux_ to come along-side them, that they were afraid to pass. The _Eskemaux_ had no large Boats with them, only their Canoes, three of which came afterwards along-side the Schooner. It was perceived that none of the leading People were in the Canoes; they exposed no Marks or Shew of any Trade they had, which was usual for them to lay on the Outside their Canoes; nevertheless they were presented with Rings. It was some Time before they began to trade with the Snow's People, and then it was carried on in a very peremptory Manner. The People in the Schooner, a light Wind springing up, weighed Anchor, with a Design to proceed up the Inlet, expecting to be followed by the _Eskemaux_, when they saw that they were not Associates with the Snow's People, so to have a future Opportunity of trading with them. It was also consistent with the Design they had of searching this Inlet, the first Opportunity that offered. They took their Leave of Capt. _Goff_ as they passed, and when advanced further beat their Drum. The _Eskemaux_ quitted the Snow and came after the Schooner. The Fire Arms were all primed and in order aboard the Schooner, but concealed; each Man had his Station; and they were ordered to treat the _Eskemaux_ as Men, and to behave to them in an orderly Manner; no hallooing, jumping, or wrestling with them when they came aboard; not to refuse some of the _Eskemaux_ to come aboard, and let others, as there were but nine Canoes in all. As the _Eskemaux_ came along-side the Schooner, they were presented each with a Biscuit, a Person standing in the main Chains with a Basket of Biscuit for that Purpose. Then they aboard the Schooner shewed a Kettle, a Hatchet, and some other Things, which seemed much to please the _Eskemaux_. One of them attempting to get into the Schooner, two of the People helped him in: He was received civilly on the Quarter-deck; the trading Box shewed him, a Spoon, a Knife, and a Comb with which he touched his Hair and seemed desirous of, were given him. Other _Eskemaux_ were by this Time aboard. They were presented with Fish-hooks, small Knives, Combs, and a King _George_'s Shilling apiece, which they carefully put into their Sleeves. In the interim the _Eskemaux_ who came first aboard was gone to the Side, and called to another yet in the Canoe under the Title of _Capitaine_. The _Eskemaux_ so called to immediately came aboard, saluted the Commander with three Congees, and kissed each Cheek. He was presented with a Spoon and a Knife. Being shewn the Goods, appeared very desirous of a File, offering old Cloaths for it. But the Commander signified he would not trade for old Cloaths, but _Shoeeock_ (which is Whalebone in their Language) or Skins; and the latter he denoted to the _Capitaine_ by a Piece of white Bear Skin that the _Capitaine_ had brought in his Hand. The _Capitaine_ expressed by his Action that he had not either Bone or Skins: He was then presented with the File; was shewed a Matchcoat, which he surveyed very accurately; signed to the Commander if he was not come round from the South-west, meaning, as supposed, from _Quebeck_ or the Gulph of _St. Lawrence_. Afterwards took the Commander under his Arm, and shewed a Desire of going into the Cabbin, which was complied with. He passed the Door first, and sat down in as regular a Manner as any _European_, having first accurately looked about him; but there were no Fire-Arms in Sight. Refused Wine, drank Spruce Beer; was shewed a Sample of all the Kind of Goods, with which he seemed well pleased; and it was signified to him that there was Plenty of them. While in the Cabbin the other _Eskemaux_ who were on Deck, called to their _Capitaine_, they were invited down. Three of the _Eskemaux_ came, but it was observable the _Capitaine_ covered the Goods with a Woollen Cloth, which lay on the Table. They were presented with Beef and Pudding, which they took, and returned on Deck. The _Eskemaux Capitaine_ put the Goods into the Box himself very honestly, and seeming to admire a small Brass-handled Penknife, it was presented to him. He then returned on Deck, pointed to the Sun, lowered his Hand a little, then made a Sign of sleeping by shutting his Eyes, and laying his Hand to his Cheek, and shewed with his Hand to have the Schooner to come to an Anchor just above. By which it was understood that a little after that Time the next Day he would be there with Trade. The Schooner, being by this Time opposite to a narrow Passage or Streight formed by Islands, through which the _Eskemaux_ had come into this Inlet, the _Capitaine_ ordered his People into their Canoes, and retired with a Congee himself, after repeating the Commander's Name, to see if he had it right, and which he had been very industrious to learn while he was in the Cabbin. The Commander attended him to the Side; and seeing in his Canoe a War-bow and Arrows, which are of a curious Construction, pressed him to let him have them, though the same Thing as asking a Man to part with the Sword he wore. The _Capitaine_, by Signs, shewed he could not part with it, and seemed to express it with great Reluctance that he could not. This Circumstance, and their having no Women with them, caused the Schooner's People to think they looked upon themselves, when they set out, as coming amongst their Enemies. The Drum was beat until they were out of Sight; and the _Capitaine_, just before he lost Sight of the Schooner by being shut in by the Islands, pointed to the Sun, and the anchoring Place. The _Eskemaux_, while aboard, behaved with great Decency and Silence; though at first they began to jump and halloo, as they had done aboard the Snow; but finding the People of the Schooner not so disposed, soon left off. Soon after the Schooner was anchored in an excellent Harbour, the Snow's Boat came along-side, with the first Mate and Agent. They were asked to mess; and it being enquired of them how far they had been with the Longboat in the last Trip, said to Latitude 57° 14´: Had seen no _Eskemaux_, but within a few Days, though they had been out fourteen Days. The Mate said, that he had chased a trading Boat, with two _Eskemaux_ in it, who had endeavoured to avoid them, and dodged amongst the Islands; but he came up with them as though he had been a Privateer's Boat; run bolt aboard them, and so frightened the _Eskemaux_ that they fell on their Knees, cried out, _Tout Comerado_, and they would have given him all they had. He said they took out the Whalebone, which he brought aboard, about a Hundred and fifty Weight, and paid them for it as much as he saw the Captain give. He saw other _Eskemaux_ at times ashore, where they invited him, but would not venture; and fired a Blunderbuss, charged with thirteen Bullets, over them, which caused some of them to fall down, others to bow. Some _Eskemaux_ came along-side, and traded their Cloaths; but with great Fear, crying out, _Tout Comerado_, as he had four Men armed standing in the Bow of the Boat. Said that those _Eskemaux_ had, who were just gone from the Schooner, the Peoples Cloaths who had been trepanned the last Year, particularly a brown Waistcoat, which had had white Buttons on it, and a white Great-coat. The Great-coat meant was a _French_ Matchcoat, which the _Eskemaux_ Captain had on, made up in a Frock according to the Manner that they wear them. The supposed brown Jacket was a _French_ brown Cloth, and there were two _Eskemaux_ who had them. The Mate said the Schooner's People had talked of some Inlets; but no Answer was made, on which he declared there was no Inlet between _Nesbit_'s Harbour and where they then were, nor any Inlet to Northward between that and Latitude 57° 14´. After making some Enquiries, as to what the Schooner's People further intended, quitted, and made for the Streight the _Eskemaux_ had passed through. This is mentioned as an Instance of what Caution should be used, as to the Choice of Persons sent on Expeditions to explore unfrequented or unknown Parts, as the Adventurers may be Sufferers, and the Reason of their being so a Secret, and thereon pronounce decisively no Advantages are to be made, thus deprived of what might be greatly to their private Emolument in Time under a proper Conduct, and to the Benefit of the Publick. And there is a further Misfortune attending an improper Choice, which every social and generous Man will consider. That according to the Impressions that _Indians_ receive on the first Acquaintance, a lasting Friendship may be expected, or an Enmity and Jealousy very difficult to remove, who, in the interim, will execute their Revenge; not on those who gave the Offence, but on all indiscriminately of the same Complexion, when an Opportunity offers. Reasons would be unnecessarily urged in Support of what Experience proves, and of which there have been several melancholy Examples on this Coast. By a Privateer from _New York_, some Years since, the first Offence was given; those who have gone since have done nothing to mollify or abate this Enmity and Revenge. There could be no Expectation of a Reconciliation with these _Indians_, to the great Improvement of Commerce in various Branches, but by the Measures taken, the sending some of his Majesty's Ships into these Parts to explore and get a Knowledge of the Coast; and the Commanders to establish a Regulation, which will be a Satisfaction and Encouragement to every fair Trader; and where the Trade long since might have been brought to some Perfection, had it not been from the little dirty Avarice of those employed by private Adventurers, who hindered the original Design having a due Effect; and by interfering the one with the other, to their mutual Prejudice, they prevented those Returns on their Voyages which might have been otherwise made. The Consequence was, all future Attempts were dropt, and it was indeed rendered almost impossible that any fresh Undertakings should meet with Success, by the Difficulties flung in the Way on Account of the Natives, but which will now be effectually removed by the Government giving their Assistance. The next Morning three People were sent from the Schooner to go on the Heights, to discover the Water the _Eskemaux_ had gone into, and to see if the _Eskemaux_ were coming. The Account brought back was, that there was seen an _Indian_ trading Boat or Shallop under Sail, which presently tacked and stood towards four other Shallops. They all lowered Sail, and the _Eskemaux_ seemed to be consulting together. Soon after the People saw the Snow's Longboat coming, the Shallops hoisted Sail, then went one Canoe, afterwards two more, to the Snow's Longboat, while the Shallops crouded away. The Schooner's People, after this Time, had no Opportunity of seeing the _Eskemaux_; and attributed their coming no more to their Fear of meeting the Longboat, or the bad Weather, it being wet and blustering for the several succeeding Days. But they learned, after the Schooner had returned to _Philadelphia_, that those in the Snow's Longboat followed the Shallops, came up with them, and took what they had. The Reason is apparent for their not coming to the Schooner as they had no Trade, and as they might have a Suspicion that the Schooner's People had a Connivance with those in the Boat, especially as they might see the three People from the Schooner standing on the Heights. The Commander searched the Head of this Inlet, the Shores of which were the most barren of any that had yet been seen, from the Sea to the Head of it, about nine Leagues. Upon their Return they found the Snow gone; they then went through the Streight by which they saw the _Eskemaux_ pass to explore that Water. From this the Discoverer passed between Islands, without going out to Sea into a second Inlet; and from that to a third from where he had met the Snow, and the seventh from _Nesbit_'s Harbour. And the seventh or last Inlet ran a North and Westerly Course, and terminated the furthest inland, or had the most Western Longitude of any of the Inlets; and its Head about fifteen Leagues from the Sea. These last three Inlets to Seaward are separated by very large Islands, and have Islands lying off directly athwart their Entrance, so that it is difficult to discover, when within these Islands, that there is any Outlet to the Sea. The Islands have little Wood on them, and are mostly barren Rock; but the main Land much as in the other Parts, only the Inland more level. The blue Ridge of Mountains appeared plainer than from any other Part. The Latitude of the furthest Inlet about 56. Having explored these respective Waters and adjacent Country, and _Davis_'s Inlet, consequently, though it is difficult to which properly to affix the Name; and the Autumn being far advanced, as was apparent from the Birch Leaves becoming yellow, the Berries Frost-bit, the Pines and Spruce turning brown, severe Gales, Snow and Sleet at times, and excessive cold on the high Land; so as nothing further could be carried on with any Spirit, but excessive Fatigue, and the Health of the People, as well preserved as on first setting out, would be now impaired, with no certain Prospect of doing any Thing further that was material, sufficient Harbours having been found; on the 20th of _September_ they set out on their Return. Leaving the Land favoured with pleasant Weather, an Opportunity waited for to make an accurate Survey of the Fishing Bank, and to find the Distance it lay from the Land, which from the Soundings on making the Land, the seeing the Islands of Ice aground, and the Account of _Davis_, was known to be there, and named by him _Walsingham_'s Bank, after the true Patriot and generous Patron of a Discovery of a North-west Passage. Sounding about a League from Land, with one Hundred and fifty Fathom of Line, had no Ground. At about six Leagues from Land, twenty-five Fathoms afterwards various Soundings, and catched a great many Cod, large and full fed, reckoned by the People aboard, to be very extraordinary Fish, some of whom from _Boston_ followed the Employ of fishing for Cod. The Bank was concluded to be about nine Leagues broad, and ninety Fathom Soundings on the going off it, on the Eastern Side; and it was concluded, on a pretty good Assurance, that it reaches from Lat. 57 to Lat. 54, if not further; but the Weather proving boisterous, as they ran to the Southward, could not continue their Soundings. The Schooner sounded with a Hundred and fifty Fathom of Line, close by an Island of Ice, of a surprising Magnitude, between the Bank and the Shore, which was aground, and they did not get Soundings. FINIS. ERRATA. Page 16. L. 23. de Fuentes. The, _read_ de Fuentes, the. 44. L. 11. de Fonte's, _read_ de Fonte's Account. 45. L. 36. Don Ronquillo, _read_ Don Pennelossa. 49. L. 18. from, _read_ in. 54. L. 11. to the Southward, _read_ to the Northward. 61. L. 15. it, _read_ this Mission. 67. L. 29. as that worthy, _read_ that worthy. 82. L. 6. New Spain, _read_ Florida. L. 9. Florida, _read_ Peruan Part. 83. L. 28. is consistent, _read_ is not consistent. 90. L. 17. Rivers and Harbours, _read_ River and Harbour. 106. L. 32. in the Year 1746, _read_ until the Year 1745. 111. L. 6. between the Sea, _read_ the Ocean and the Sea. 136. L. 14. nigh Summit, _read_ high Summit. DIRECTIONS for placing the MAPS. Map of _de Fonte_'s Discoveries, in Front. Map of _New Spain_, from _Torquemada_, Page 86. Map of the Discoveries in _Hudson_'s Bay, Page 122. Just published, in QUARTO, Very proper to be bound with this Book, I. VOYAGES from ASIA to AMERICA, Made by the _Russians_ for completing the Discoveries of the North-west Coast of _America_. Translated from the _High Dutch_ of M. MULLER, of the Royal Academy of _Petersburgh_. Illustrated with Maps. The Second Edition. II. The History of KAMTSCHATKA and the KURILSKI ISLANDS, with the Countries adjacent. Illustrated with Maps and Cuts. Published at _Petersburgh_ in the _Russian_ Language, by Order of her Imperial Majesty; and translated into _English_ by JAMES GRIEVE, M.D. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes The sidenotes April 1708 and June 1708 were printed at the beginning of each page of the chapter in the original. This duplication has been removed. The corrections in the Errata list have been implemented, the first of which is on page 15, not 16. Hyphenation has been standardised. Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Other variations in spelling, punctuation and accents are as in the original. Italics are represented thus _italic_. The long s has been replaced throughout. 
4019	----	THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR WILD The Story of the Exploring Expedition Conducted by Leonidas Hubbard, Jr. by Dillon Wallace L.H. Here, b'y, is the issue of our plighted troth. Why I am the scribe and not you, God knows: and you have his secret. D.W. "There's no sense in going further--it's the edge of cultivation," So they said, and I believed it... Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated--so: "Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges-- Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!" --Kipling's "The Explorer." PREFACE TO THE SIXTH EDITION Three years have passed since Hubbard and I began that fateful journey into Labrador of which this volume is a record. A little more than a year has elapsed since the first edition of our record made its appearance from the press. Meanwhile I have looked behind the ranges. Grand Lake has again borne me upon the bosom of her broad, deep waters into the great lonely wilderness that lured Hubbard to his death. It was a day in June last year that found me again at the point where some inexplicable fate had led Hubbard and me to pass unexplored the bay that here extends northward to receive the Nascaupee River, along which lay the trail for which we were searching, and induced us to take, instead, that other course that carried us into the dreadful Susan Valley. How vividly I saw it all again--Hubbard resting on his paddle, and then rising up for a better view, as he said, "Oh, that's just a bay and it isn't worth while to take time to explore it. The river comes in up here at the end of the lake. They all said it was at the end of the lake." And we said, "Yes, it is at the end of the lake; they all said so," and went on, for that was before we knew--Hubbard never knew. A perceptible current, a questioning word, the turn of a paddle would have set us right. No current was noticed, no word was spoken, and the paddle sent us straight toward those blue hills yonder, where Suffering and Starvation and Death were hidden and waiting for us. How little we expected to meet these grim strangers then. That July day came back to me as if it had been but the day before. I believe I never missed Hubbard so much as at that moment. I never felt his loss so keenly as then. An almost irresistible impulse seized me to go on into our old trail and hurry to the camp where we had left him that stormy October day and find if he were not after all still there and waiting for me to come back to him. Reluctantly I thrust the impulse aside. Armed with the experience gained upon the former expedition, and information gleaned from the Indians, I turned into the northern trail, through the valley of the Nascaupee, and began a journey that carried me eight hundred miles to the storm-swept shores of Ungava Bay, and two thousand miles with dog sledge over endless reaches of ice and snow. While I struggled northward with new companions, Hubbard was always with me to inspire and urge me on. Often and often at night as I sat, disheartened and alone, by the camp-fire while the rain beat down and the wind soughed drearily through the firtops, he would come and sit by me as of old, and as of old I would hear his gentle voice and his words of encouragement. Then I would go to my blankets with new courage, resolved to fight the battle to the end. One day our camp was pitched upon the shores of Lake Michikamau, and as I looked for the first time upon the waters of the lake which Hubbard had so longed to reach, I lived over again that day when he returned from his climb to the summit of the great grey mountain which now bears his name, with the joyful news that there just behind the ridge lay Michikamau; then the weary wind-bound days that followed and the race down the trail with all its horrors; our kiss and embrace; and my final glimpse of the little white tent in which he lay. And so with the remembrance of his example as an inspiration the work was finished by me, the survivor, but to Hubbard and to his memory belong the credit and the honour, for it was only through my training with him and this inspiration received from him that I was able to carry to successful completion what he had so well planned. My publishers inform me that five editions of our story have found their way into the hearts and homes of those who cannot visit the great northern wilds, but who love to hear about them. I shall avail myself of this opportunity to thank these readers for the kindly manner in which they have received the book. This reception of it has been especially gratifying to me because of the lack of confidence I had in my ability to tell the story of Hubbard's life and glorious death as I felt it should be told. The writing of the story was a work of love. I wished not only to fulfil my last promise to my friend to write the narrative of his expedition, but I wished also to create a sort of memorial to him. I wanted the world to know Hubbard as he was, his noble character, his devotion to duty, and his faith, so strong that not even the severe hardships he endured in the desolate north, ending only with death, could make him for a moment forget the simple truths that he learned from his mother on the farm in old Michigan. I wanted the young men to know these things, for they could not fail to be the better for having learned them; and I wanted the mothers to know what men mothers can make of their sons. An unknown friend writes me, "To dare and die so divinely and leave such a record is to be transfigured on a mountain top, a master symbol to all men of cloud-robed human victory, angel-attended by reverence and peace...a gospel of nobleness and faith." And another, "How truly 'God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.' Mr. Hubbard went to find Lake Michikamau; he failed, but God spelled 'Success' of 'Failure,' and you brought back a message which should be an inspiration to every soul to whom it comes. The life given up in the wilds of Labrador was not in vain." Space will not permit me to quote further from the many letters of this kind that have come to me from all over the United States and Canada, but they tell me that others have learned to know Hubbard as he was and as his friends knew him, and that our book has not failed of its purpose. The storms of two winters have held in their icy grasp the bleak land in which he yielded up his life for a principle, and the flowers of two summers have blossomed upon his grave, overlooking the Hudson. But it was only his body that we buried there. His spirit still lives, for his was a spirit too big and noble to be bound by the narrow confines of a grave. His life is an example of religious faith, strong principle, and daring bravery that will not be forgotten by the young men of our land. New York, June 1, 1906. D. W. PREFACE TO ELEVENTH EDITION As the eleventh edition of this book goes to press, the opportunity is given for a brief prefatory description of a pilgrimage to Hubbard's death-place in the Labrador Wilderness from which I have just returned. For many years it had been my wish to re-visit the scene of those tragic experiences, and to permanently and appropriately mark the spot where Hubbard so heroically gave up his life a decade ago. Judge William J. Malone, of Bristol, Connecticut, one of the many men who have received inspiration from Hubbard's noble example, was my companion, and at Northwest River we were joined by Gilbert Blake, who was a member of the party of four trappers who rescued me in 1903. We carried with us a beautiful bronze tablet, which was designed to be placed upon the boulder before which Hubbard's tent was pitched when he died. Wrapped with the tablet was a little silk flag and Hubbard's college pennant, lovingly contributed by his sister, Mrs. Arthur C. Williams, of Detroit, Michigan. These were to be draped upon the tablet when erected and left with it in the wilderness. Our plan was to ascend and explore the lower Beaver River to the point where Hubbard discovered it, and where, in 1903, we abandoned our canoe to re-cross to the Susan River Valley a few days before his death. Here it was our expectation to follow the old Hubbard portage trail to Goose Creek and thence down Goose Creek to the Susan River. Of our journey up the Beaver River suffice it to say that we met with many adventures, but proceeded without serious accident until one day our canoe was submerged in heavy rapids, the lashings gave way, and to our consternation the precious tablet, together with the flag and pennant, was lost in the flood. After two days' vain effort to recover the tablet and flags we continued on the river until at length further ascent seemed unpractical. From this point, with packs on our backs, we made a difficult foot journey of several days to the Susan River valley. I shall not attempt to describe my feelings when at last we came into the valley where Hubbard died and where we had suffered so much. Man changes with the fleeting years and a civilized world changes, but the untrod wilderness never changes. Before us lay the same rushing river I remembered so well, the same starved forest of spruce with its pungent odor, and there was the clump of spruce trees in which our last camp was pitched just as I had seen it last. Malone and Blake remained by the river bank while I approached alone what to me was sacred ground. Time fell away, and I believe that I expected, when I stepped beside the boulder before which his tent was pitched when we said our last farewell on that dismal October morning ten years ago, to hear Hubbard's voice welcome me as of old. The charred wood of his camp fire might, from all appearances, have but just grown cold. The boughs, which I had broken and arranged for his couch, and upon which he slept and died, were withered but undisturbed, and I could identify exactly the spot where he lay. There were his worn old moccasins, and one of the leather mittens, which, in his last entry in his diary he said he might eat if need be. Near the dead fire were some spoons and other small articles, as we had left them, and scattered about were remnants of our tent. Lovingly we put ourselves to our task. Judge Malone, with a brush improvised from Blake's stiff hair, and with white lead intended for canoe repairs, lettered upon the boulder this inscription: Leonidas Hubbard, Jr., Intrepid Explorer And Practical Christian Died Here Oct. 18, 1903. "Whither I go ye know, and the way ye know." John XIV.--4. Then with hammer and chisel I cut the inscription deep into the rock, and we filled the letters with white lead to counteract the effect of the elements. It was dark when the work was finished, and by candlelight, beneath the stars, I read, from the same Testament I used in 1903, the fourteenth of John and the thirteenth of First Corinthians, the chapters which I read to Hubbard on the morning of our parting. Judge Malone read the Fiftieth Psalm. We sang some hymns and then knelt about the withered couch of boughs, each of us three with the feeling that Hubbard was very close to us. In early morning we shouldered our packs again, and with a final look at Hubbard's last camp, turned back to the valley of the Beaver and new adventures. DILLON WALLACE. Beacon-on-the-Hudson, November eighteenth, 1913. CONTENTS I. The Object of the Expedition II. Off at Last III. On the Edge of the Wilderness IV. The Plunge into the Wild V. Still in the Awful Valley VI. Searching for a Trail VII. On a Real River at Last VIII. "Michikamau or Bust!" IX. And There was Michikamau! X. Prisoners of the Wind XI. We Give It Up XII. The Beginning of the Retreat XIII. Hubbard's Grit XIV. Back Through the Ranges XV. George's Dream XVI. At the Last Camp XVII. The Parting XVIII. Wandering Alone XIX. The Kindness of the Breeds XX. How Hubbard Went to Sleep XXI. From Out the Wild XXII. A Strange Funeral Procession XXIII. Over the Ice XXIV. Hubbard's Message Acknowledgment is due Mr. Frank Barkley Copley, a personal and literary friend of Mr. Hubbard, for assistance rendered in the preparation of this volume. D. W. New York, January, 1905. THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR WILD I. THE OBJECT OF THE EXPEDITION "How would you like to go to Labrador, Wallace?" It was a snowy night in late November, 1901, that my friend, Leonidas Hubbard, Jr., asked me this question. All day he and I had been tramping through the snow among the Shawangunk Mountains in southern New York, and when the shades of evening fell we had built a lean-to of boughs to shelter us from the storm. Now that we had eaten our supper of bread and bacon, washed down with tea, we lay before our roaring campfire, luxuriating in its glow and warmth. Hubbard's question was put to me so abruptly that it rather startled me. "Labrador!" I exclaimed. "Now where in the world is Labrador?" Of course I knew it was somewhere in the north-eastern part of the continent; but so many years had passed since I laid away my old school geography that its exact situation had escaped my memory, and the only other knowledge I had retained of the country was a confused sense of its being a sort of Arctic wilderness. Hubbard proceeded to enlighten me, by tracing with his pencil, on the fly-leaf of his notebook, an outline map of the peninsula. "Very interesting," I commented. "But why do you wish to go there?" "Man," he replied, "don't you realise it's about the only part of the continent that hasn't been explored? As a matter of fact, there isn't much more known of the interior of Labrador now than when Cabot discovered the coast more than four hundred years ago." He jumped up to throw more wood on the fire. "Think of it, Wallace!" he went on, "A great unknown land right near home, as wild and primitive to-day as it has always been! I want to see it. I want to get into a really wild country and have some of the experiences of the old fellows who explored and opened up the country where we are now." Resuming his place by the blazing logs, Hubbard unfolded to me his plan, then vague and in the rough, of exploring a part of the unknown eastern end of the peninsula. Of trips such as this he had been dreaming since childhood. When a mere boy on his father's farm in Michigan, he had lain for hours out under the trees in the orchard poring over a map of Canada and making imaginary journeys into the unexplored. Boone and Crockett were his heroes, and sometimes he was so affected by the tales of their adventures that he must needs himself steal away to the woods and camp out for two or three days. It was at this period that he resolved to head some day an exploring expedition of his own, and this resolution he forgot neither while a student nor while serving as a newspaper man in Detroit and New York. At length, through a connection he made with a magazine devoted to out-of-door life, he was able to make several long trips into the wild. Among other places, he visited the Hudson Bay region, and once penetrated to the winter hunting ground of the Mountaineer Indians, north of Lake St. John, in southern Labrador. These trips, however, failed to satisfy him; his ambition was to reach a region where no white man had preceded him. Now, at the age of twenty-nine, he believed that his ambition was about to be realised. "It's always the way, Wallace," he said; "when a fellow starts on a long trail, he's never willing to quit. It'll be the same with you if you go with me to Labrador. You'll say each trip will be the last, but when you come home you'll hear the voice of the wilderness calling you to return, and it will lure you away again and again. I thought my Lake St. John trip was something, but while there I stood at the portals of the unknown, and it brought back stronger than ever the old longing to make discoveries, so that now the walls of the city seem to me a prison and I simply must get away." My friend's enthusiasm was contagious. It had never previously occurred to me to undertake the game of exploration; but, like most American boys, I had had youthful dreams of going into a great wild country, even as my forefathers had gone, and Hubbard's talk brought back the old juvenile love of adventure. That night before we lay down to sleep I said: "Hubbard, I'll go with you." And so the thing was settled--that was how Hubbard's expedition had its birth. More than a year passed, however, before Hubbard was able to make definite arrangements to get away. I believe it was in February, 1903, that the telephone bell in my law office rang, and Hubbard's voice at the other end of the wire conveyed to me the information that he had "bully news." "Is that so?" I said. "What's up? "The Labrador trip is all fixed for this summer," was the excited reply. "Come out to Congers to-night without fail, and we'll talk it over." In accordance with his invitation, I went out that evening to visit my friend in his suburban home. I shall never forget the exuberance of his joy. You would have thought he was a boy about to be released from school. By this time he had become the associate editor of the magazine for which he had been writing, but he had finally been able to induce his employers to consent to the project upon which he had set his heart and grant him a leave of absence. "It will be a big thing, Wallace," he said in closing; "it ought to make my reputation." Into the project of penetrating the vast solitudes of desolate Labrador, over which still brooded the fascinating twilight of the mysterious unknown, Hubbard, with characteristic zeal, threw his whole heart and soul. Systematically and thoroughly he went about planning, in the minutest detail, our outfit and entire journey. Every possible contingency received the most careful consideration. In order to make plain just what he hoped to accomplish and the conditions against which he had to provide, the reader's patience is asked for a few minutes while something is told of what was known of Labrador at the time Hubbard was making preparations for his expedition. The interior of the peninsula of Labrador is a rolling plateau, the land rising more or less abruptly from the coast to a height of two thousand or more feet above the level of the sea. Scattered over this plateau are numerous lakes and marshes. The rivers and streams discharging the waters of the lakes into the sea flow to the four points of the compass--into the Atlantic and its inlets on the east, into Ungava Bay on the north, Hudson Bay and James Bay on the west, and the Gulf of St. Lawrence on the south. Owing to the abrupt rise of the land from the coast these rivers and streams are very swift and are filled with a constant succession of falls and rapids; consequently, their navigation in canoes--the only possible way, generally speaking, to navigate them--is most difficult and dangerous. In this, to a large extent, lies the explanation as to why only a few daring white men have ever penetrated to the interior plateau; the condition of the rivers, if nothing else, makes it impossible to transport sufficient food to sustain a party for any considerable period, and it is absolutely necessary to run the risk of obtaining supplies from a country that may be plentiful with game one year and destitute of it the next, and in which the vegetation is the scantiest. The western part of the peninsula, although it, too, contains vast tracts in which no white man has set foot, is somewhat better known than the eastern, most of the rivers that flow into Hudson and James Bays having been explored and correctly mapped. Hubbard's objective was the eastern and northern part of the peninsula, and it is with this section that we shall hereafter deal. Such parts of this territory as might be called settled lie in the region of Hamilton Inlet and along the coast. Hamilton Inlet is an arm of the Atlantic extending inland about one hundred and fifty miles in a southwesterly direction. At its entrance, which is two hundred miles north of Cape Charles, the inlet is some forty miles wide. Fifty miles inland from the settlement of Indian Harbour (which is situated on one of the White Bear Islands, near the north coast of the inlet at its entrance), is the Rigolet Post of the Hudson's Bay Company--the "Old Company," as its agents love to call it--and here the inlet narrows down to a mere channel; but during the next eighty miles of its course inland it again widens, this section of it being known as Groswater Bay or Lake Melville. The extreme western end of the inlet is called Goose Bay. Into this bay flows the Grand or Hamilton River, one of the largest in Labrador. From its source among the lakes on the interior plateau, the Grand River first sweeps down in a southeasterly direction and then bends northeasterly to reach the end of Hamilton Inlet. The tributaries of the lakes forming the headwaters of the Grand River connect it indirectly with Lake Michikamau (Big Water). This, the largest lake in eastern Labrador, is between eighty and ninety miles in length, with a width varying from six to twenty-five miles. The Grand River, as well as a portion of Lake Michikamau, some years ago was explored and correctly mapped; but the other rivers that flow to the eastward have either been mapped only from hearsay or not at all. Of the several rivers flowing into Ungava Bay, the Koksoak alone has been explored. This river, which is the largest of those flowing north, rises in lakes to the westward of Lake Michikamau. Next to the Koksoak, the George is the best known of the rivers emptying into Ungava Bay, as well as the second largest; but while it has been learned that its source is among the lakes to the northward of Michikamau, it has been mapped only from hearsay. Now if the reader will turn to the accompanying map of Labrador made by Mr. A. P. Low of the Canadian Geological Survey, he will see that the body of water known as Grand Lake is represented thereon merely as the widening out of a large river, called the Northwest, which flows from Lake Michikamau to Groswater Bay or Hamilton Inlet, after being joined about twenty miles above Grand Lake by a river called the Nascaupee. Relying upon this map, Hubbard planned to reach early in the summer the Northwest River Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, which is situated at the mouth of the Northwest River, ascend the river to Lake Michikamau, and then, from the northern end of that lake, beat across the country to the George River. The Geological Survey map is the best of Labrador extant, but its representation as to the Northwest River (made from hearsay) proved to be wholly incorrect, and the mistake it led us into cost us dear. After the rescue, I thoroughly explored Grand Lake, and, as will be seen from my map, I discovered that no less than five rivers flow into it, which are known to the natives as the Nascaupee, the Beaver, the Susan, the Crooked, and the Cape Corbeau. The Nascaupee is the largest, and as the inquiries I made among the Indians satisfied me that it is the outlet of Lake Michikamau, it is undoubtedly the river that figures on the Geological Survey map as the Northwest, while as for the river called on the map the Nascaupee, it is in all likelihood non-existent. There is a stream known to the natives as Northwest River, but it is merely the strait, one hundred yards wide and three hundred yards long, which, as shown on my map, connects Groswater Bay with what the natives call the Little Lake, this being the small body of water that lies at the lower end of Grand Lake, the waters of which it receives through a rapid. Hubbard hoped to reach the George River in season to meet the Nenenot or Nascaupee Indians, who, according to an old tradition, gather on its banks in late August or early September to attack with spears the herds of caribou that migrate at that time, passing eastward to the sea coast. It is reported that while the caribou are swimming the river the Indians each year kill great numbers of them, drying the flesh for winter provisions and using the skins to make clothing and wigwam-covering. Hubbard wished not only to get a good story of the yearly slaughter, but to spend some little time studying the habits of the Indians, who are the most primitive on the North American continent. Strange as it may seem to some, the temperature in the interior of Labrador in midsummer sometimes rises as high as 90 degrees or more, although at sunset it almost invariably drops to near the freezing point and frost is liable at any time. But the summer, of course, is very short. It may be said to begin early in July, by which time the snow and ice are all gone, and to end late in August. There is just a hint of spring and autumn. Winter glides into summer, and summer into winter, almost imperceptibly, and the winter is the bitter winter of the Arctic. If the season were not too far advanced when he finished studying the Indians, Hubbard expected to cross the country to the St. Lawrence and civilisation; otherwise to retrace his steps over his upward trail. In the event of our failure to discover the Indian encampment, and our finding ourselves on the George short of provisions, Hubbard planned to run down the swift-flowing river in our canoe to the George River Post at its mouth, and there procure passage on some fishing vessel for Newfoundland; or, if that were impossible, to outfit for winter, and when the ice formed and the snow came, return overland with dogs. Hubbard knew that by ascending the Grand River he would be taking a surer, if longer, route to Lake Michikamau; but it was a part of his project to explore the unknown country along the river mapped as the Northwest. I have called this country unknown. It is true that in the winter of 1838 John McLean, then the agent of the Hudson's Bay Company at Fort Chimo, a post situated on the Koksoak River about twenty miles above its mouth, passed through a portion of this country in the course of a journey he made with dogs from his post to Northwest River Post. His route was up the Koksoak and across country to the northern end of Lake Michikamau, which he followed for some little distance. After leaving the lake he again travelled eastward across country until at length he came upon the "Northwest" or Nascaupee River at a point probably not far above Grand Lake, from which it was easy travelling over the ice to the post. The record left by him of the journey, however, is very incomplete, and the exact route he took is by no means certain. Whatever route it was, he returned over it the same winter to Fort Chimo. His sufferings during this trip were extreme. He and his party had to eat their dogs to save themselves from starvation, and even then they would surely all have perished had it not been for an Indian who left the party fifty miles out of Chimo and fortunately had strength enough to reach the post and send back relief. Later McLean made several summer trips with a canoe up the George River from Ungava Bay and down the Grand River to Hamilton Inlet; but never again did he attempt to penetrate the country lying between Lake Michikamau and Hamilton Inlet to the north of Grand River. The fact was that he found his Grand River trips bad enough; the record he has left of them is a story of a continuous struggle against heartbreaking hardships and of narrow escapes from starvation. It is asserted that a priest once crossed with the Indians from Northwest River Post to Ungava Bay by the Nascaupee route; but the result of my inquiries in Labrador convinced me that the priest in question travelled by way of the Grand River, making it certain that previous to Hubbard's expedition no white man other than McLean had ever crossed the wilderness between Hamilton Inlet and Lake Michikamau by any route other than the aforesaid Grand River. As has been pointed out, McLean made but a very incomplete record of his journey that took him through the country north of the Grand River, so that Hubbard's project called for his plunge into a region where no footsteps would be found to guide him. Not only this, but the George River country, which it was his ultimate purpose to reach, was, and still remains, terra incognita; for although McLean made several trips up and down this river, he neither mapped it nor left any definite descriptions concerning it. Here, then, was an enterprise fully worthy of an ambitious and venturesome spirit like Hubbard. Here was a great, unknown wilderness into which even the half-breed native trappers who lived on its outskirts were afraid to penetrate, knowing that the wandering bands of Indians who occasionally traversed its fastnesses themselves frequently starved to death in that inhospitable, barren country. There was danger to be faced and good "copy" to be obtained. And so it was ho for the land of "bared boughs and grieving winds"! II. OFF AT LAST Labrador's uncertain game supply presented more than one vexed problem for Hubbard to solve. Naturally it would be desirable to take with us sufficient provisions to guard against all contingencies; but such were the conditions of the country for which we were bound, that if the expedition were at all heavily loaded it would be impossible for it to make any headway. Hubbard, therefore, decided to travel light. Then arose the question as to how many men to take with us. If the party were large--that is, up to a certain limit--more food might possibly be carried for each member than if the party were small; but if game proved plentiful, there would be no danger from starvation whether the party were large or small; for then short stops could be made to kill animals, dry the flesh and make caches, after the manner of the Indians, as supply bases to fall back upon should we be overtaken by an early winter. And if the game should prove scarce, a small party could kill, on a forced march, nearly, if not quite, as much as a large party; and requiring a proportionately smaller amount of food to maintain it, would consequently have a better chance of success. Taking all things into consideration, Hubbard decided that the party should be small. To guard against possible disappointment in the way of getting men, Hubbard wrote to the agent of the Hudson's Bay Company at Rigolet, asking whether any could be obtained for a trip into the interior either at that post or at Northwest River. The agent replied that such a thing was highly improbable, as the visits of the Indians to these posts had become infrequent and the other natives were afraid to venture far inland. Hubbard then engaged through the kind offices of Mr. S. A. King, who was in charge of the Hudson's Bay Company Post at Missanabie, Ontario, the services of a Cree Indian named Jerry, that we might have at least one man upon whom we could depend. Jerry was to have come on to New York City to meet us. At next to the last moment, however, a letter from Mr. King informed us that Jerry had backed down. The Indian was not afraid of Labrador, it appeared, but he had heard of the dangers and pitfalls of New York, and when he learned that he should have to pass through that city, his courage failed him; he positively refused to come, saying he did not "want to die so soon." We never had occasion to regret Jerry's faint-heartedness. Mr. King engaged for us another man who, he wrote, was an expert canoeman and woodsman and a good cook. The man proved to be all that he was represented to be--and more. I do not believe that in all the north country we could have found a better woodsman. But he was something more than a woodsman--he was a hero. Under the most trying circumstances he was calm, cheerful, companionable, faithful. Not only did he turn out to be a man of intelligence, quick of perception and resourceful, but he turned out to be a man of character, and I am proud to introduce him to the reader as my friend George Elson, a half-breed Cree Indian from down on James Bay. The first instance of George's resourcefulness that we noted occurred upon his arrival in New York. Hubbard and I were to have taken him in charge at the Grand Central Station, but we were detained and George found no one to meet him. Despite the fact that he had never been in a city before, and all was new to him, his quick eye discovered that the long line of cabs in front of the station were there to hire. He promptly engaged one, was driven to Hubbard's office and awaited his employer's arrival as calm and unruffled as though his surroundings were perfectly familiar. Our canoe and our entire outfit were purchased in New York, with the exception of a gill net, which, alas! we decided to defer selecting until we reached Labrador. Our preparations for the expedition were made with a view of sailing from St. Johns, Newfoundland, for Rigolet, when the steamer Virginia Lake, which regularly plies during the summer between the former port and points on the Labrador coast, should make her first trip north of the year. A letter from the Reid-Newfoundland Company, which operates the steamer, informed us that she would probably make her first trip to Labrador in the last week in June, and in order to connect with her, we made arrangements to sail from New York to St. Johns on June 20th, 1903, on the Red Cross Line steamer Silvia. On the 19th Hubbard personally superintended the placing of our outfit on board ship, that nothing might be overlooked. As the Silvia slowly got under way at ten o'clock the next morning, we waved a last farewell to the little knot of friends who had gathered on the Brooklyn pier to see us off. We were all very light-hearted and gay that morning; it was a relief to be off at last and have the worry of the preparation over. Mrs. Hubbard was a member of the party; she was to accompany her husband as far as Battle Harbour, the first point on the Labrador coast touched by the Virginia Lake. June 24th was my birthday, and early that morning, before we sailed from Halifax, at which port we lay over for a day, Hubbard came into my stateroom with a pair of camp blankets that he had been commissioned by my sisters to present to me. He had told me he had enough blankets in his outfit and to take none with me. How strangely things sometimes turn out! Those blankets which Hubbard had withheld in order that I might be agreeably surprised, were destined to fulfil an office, up there in the wilds for which we were bound, such as we little suspected. We reached St. Johns on the morning of Friday, the 26th, and promptly upon our arrival were introduced to the mysterious ways of the Reid-Newfoundland Company. The Virginia Lake, we were told, already had gone north to Labrador, was overdue on her return trip and might not be in for several days. Hubbard, however, set immediately to work purchasing the provisions for his expedition and supervising their packing. The following day, on the advice of the general passenger agent of the Reid-Newfoundland Company, we took the evening train on their little narrow-gauge railroad to Whitbourne, en route to Broad Cove, where we were informed we should find excellent trout fishing and could pleasantly pass the time while awaiting the steamer. The Reid-Newfoundland Company failed to carry out its agreement as to our transportation to Broad Cove, and we had considerable trouble in reaching there, but we found that no misrepresentation had been made as to the fishing; during the two days we were at Broad Cove we caught all the trout we cared for. Having received word that the Virginia Lake had returned to St. Johns, and would again sail north on Tuesday, June 30th, Hubbard and Mrs. Hubbard on the morning of that day took the train to St. Johns, to board the steamer there and see that nothing of our outfit was left behind. George and I broke camp in time to take the evening train on the branch road to Harbour Grace, where, it was agreed, we should rejoin the others, the steamer being scheduled to put in there on its way north. When I had our camp baggage transferred next morning to the wharf, and George and I had arrived there ourselves, we found also waiting for the steamer several prospectors who were going to "The Labrador," as the country is known to the Newfoundlanders, to look for gold, copper, and mica. All of them apparently were dreaming of fabulous wealth. None, I was told, was going farther than the lower coast; they did not attempt to disguise the fact that they feared to venture far into the interior. Around the wharves little boats were unloading caplin, a small fish about the size of a smelt. I was informed that these fish sold for ten cents a barrel, and were used for bait and fertiliser. My astonishment may be imagined, therefore, when I discovered that on the Virginia Lake they charged thirty-five cents for three of these little fish fried. At ten o'clock our boat came in, and a little after noon we steamed out of the harbour, Hubbard and I feeling that now we were fairly on our way to the scene of our work. Soon after rejoining Hubbard, I learned something more of the mysterious ways of the Reid-Newfoundland Company. The company's general passenger agent, avowing deep interest in our enterprise, had presented Hubbard with passes to Rigolet for his party. Hubbard accepted them gratefully, but upon boarding the steamer he was informed that the passes did not include meals. Now such were the prices charged for the wretchedly-cooked food served on the Virginia Lake that a moderately hungry man could scarcely have his appetite killed at a less expense than six dollars a day. So Hubbard returned the passes to the general passenger agent with thanks, and purchased tickets, which did include meals, and which reduced the cost considerably. The Virginia Lake is a steamer of some seven hundred tons burden. She is subsidised by the Newfoundland Government to carry the mails during the fishing season to points on the Labrador coast as far north as Nain. She is also one of the sealing fleet that goes to "the ice" each tenth of March. When she brings back her cargo of seals to St. Johns, she takes up her summer work of carrying mail, passengers, and freight to The Labrador--always a welcome visitor to the exiled fishermen in that lonely land, the one link that binds them to home and the outside world. She has on board a physician to set broken bones and deal out drugs to the sick, and a customs officer to see that not a dime's worth of merchandise of any kind or nature is landed until a good round percentage of duty is paid to him as the representative of the Newfoundland Government, which holds dominion over all the east coast of Labrador. This customs officer is also a magistrate, a secret service officer, a constable, and what not I do not know--pretty much the whole Labrador Government, I imagine. The accommodations on the Virginia Lake were quite inadequate for the number of passengers she carried. The stuffy little saloon was so crowded that comfort was out of the question. I had to use some rather impressive language to the steward to induce him to assign to me a stateroom. Finally, he surrendered his own room. The ventilation was poor and the atmosphere vile, but we managed to pull through. Our fellow-passengers were all either prospectors or owners of fishing schooners. There was much ice to be seen when the heavy veil of grey fog lifted sufficiently for us to see anything, and until we had crossed the Strait of Belle Isle our passage was a rough one. It was on the Fourth of July that we saw for the first time the bleak, rock-bound coast of Labrador. In all the earth there is no coast so barren, so desolate, so brutally inhospitable as the Labrador coast from Cape Charles, at the Strait of Belle Isle on the south, to Cape Chidley on the north. Along these eight hundred miles it is a constant succession of bare rocks scoured clean and smooth by the ice and storms of centuries, with not a green thing to be seen, save now and then a bunch of stunted shrubs that have found a foothold in some sheltered nook in the rocks, and perchance, on some distant hill, a glimpse of struggling spruce or fir trees. It is a fog-ridden, dangerous coast, with never a lighthouse or signal of any kind at any point in its entire length to warn or guide the mariner. The evening was well upon us when we saw the rocks off Cape Charles rising from the water, dismal, and dark, and forbidding. All day the rain had been falling, and all day the wind had been blowing a gale, lashing the sea into a fury. Our little ship was tossed about like a cork, with the seas constantly breaking over her decks. Decidedly our introduction to Labrador was not auspicious. Battle Harbour, twelve miles north of Cape Charles, was to have been our first stop; but there are treacherous hidden reefs at the entrance, and with that sea the captain did not care to trust his ship near them. So he ran on to Spear Harbour, just beyond, where we lay to for the night. The next day I made the following entry in my diary: "Early this morning we moved down to Battle Harbour, where Mrs. Hubbard left us to return home. It was a most dismal time and place for her to part from her husband, but she was very brave. It was not yet six o'clock, and we had had no breakfast, when she stepped into the small boat to go ashore. A cold, drizzling rain was falling, and the place was in appearance particularly dreary; no foliage nor green thing to be seen--nothing but rocks, cold and high and bleak, with here and there patches of snow. They pointed out to us a little house clinging to the rocks high up. There she is to stay until the steamer comes to take her home, to spend a summer of doubts and hopes and misgivings. Poor little woman! It is so hard for those we leave behind. I stood aside with a big lump in my throat as they said their farewell." Up there in the dark wilderness for which we were bound Hubbard talked with me frequently of that parting. On July 6th, the day after we left Battle Harbour, the captain informed us for the first time that the boat would not go to Rigolet on the way up, and gave us the option of getting off at Indian Harbour at the entrance to Hamilton Inlet or going on to Nain with him and getting off at Rigolet on the way back. Hubbard chose the former alternative, hearing which the customs officer came to us and hinted that nothing could be landed until we had had an interview with him. The result of the interview was that Hubbard paid duty on our entire outfit. The next morning, Tuesday, July 7th, we reached Indian Harbour. Amid a chorus of "Good-bye, boys, and good luck!" we went ashore, to set foot for the first time on Labrador soil, where we were destined to encounter a series of misadventures that should call for the exercise of all our fortitude and manhood. III. ON THE EDGE OF THE WILDERNESS The island of the White Bear group upon which is situated the settlement of Indian Harbour is rocky and barren. The settlement consists of a trader's hut and a few fishermen's huts built of frame plastered over with earth or moss, and the buildings of the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, a non-sectarian institution that maintains two stations on the Labrador coast and one at St. Anthony in Newfoundland, each with a hospital attached. The work of the mission is under the general supervision of Dr. Wilfred T. Grenfell, who, in summer, patrols the coast from Newfoundland to Cape Chidley in the little floating hospital, the steamer Strathcona, and during the winter months, by dog team, visits the people of these inhospitable shores. The main station in Labrador is at Battle Harbour, and at this time Dr. Cluny Macpherson was the resident physician. Dr. Simpson, a young English physician and lay missionary, was in charge of the station at Indian Harbour. This station, being maintained primarily for the benefit of the summer fishermen from Newfoundland, is closed from October until July. Dr. Simpson had a little steamer, the Julia Sheridan, which carried him on his visits to his patients among the coast folk. We were told by the captain of the Virginia Lake that the Julia Sheridan would arrive at Indian Harbour on the afternoon of the day we reached there; that she would immediately steam to Rigolet and Northwest River with the mails, and that we undoubtedly could arrange for a passage on her. This was the reason that Hubbard elected to get off at Indian Harbour. The trained nurse, the cook, and the maid-of-all-work connected with the Indian Harbour hospital ("sisters," they call them, although they do not belong to any order) boarded the Virginia Lake at Battle Harbour and went ashore with me in the ship's boat, when I landed with the baggage. Hubbard and George went ashore in our canoe. A line of Newfoundlanders and "livyeres" stood ready to greet us upon our arrival. "Livyeres" is a contraction of live-heres, and is applied to the people who live permanently on the coast. The coast people who occasionally trade in a small way are known as "planters." In Hamilton Inlet, west of Rigolet, all of the trappers and fishermen are called planters. There the word livyere is never heard, it having originated with with the Newfoundland fishermen, who do not go far into the inlet. The "sisters" who landed with us had difficulty in opening their hospital, as the locks had become so rusted and corroded that the keys would not turn. We offered our assistance, and after removing the boards that had been nailed over the windows to protect them from the winter storms, we found it necessary to take out a pane of glass in order that Hubbard might unlatch a window, crawl through and take the lock off the door. The sisters then told us that Dr. Simpson might not arrive with the Julia Sheridan until the following day, and extended to us the hospitality of the station, which we thankfully accepted, taking up our temporary abode in one of the vacant wards of the hospital. Our first afternoon on Labrador soil we spent in assorting and packing our outfit, while the Newfoundlanders and livyeres stood around and admired our things, particularly the canoe, guns, and sheath-knives. Their curiosity was insatiable; they inquired the cost of every conceivable thing. The next afternoon (Wednesday) Dr. Simpson arrived on his steamer, and, to our great disappointment, we learned that the Julia would not start on the trip down the inlet until after the return of the Virginia Lake from the north, which would probably be on Friday or Saturday. The Labrador summer being woefully short, Hubbard felt that every hour was precious, and he chafed under our enforced detention. We were necessarily going into the interior wholly unprepared for winter travel, and hence must complete our work and make our way out of the wilderness before the rivers and lakes froze and canoe travel became impossible. Hubbard felt the responsibility he had assumed, and could imagine the difficulties that awaited us should his plans miscarry. Accordingly, he began to look around immediately among the fishermen and livyeres for someone with a small boat willing to take us down the fifty miles to Rigolet. Finally, after much persuasion and an offer of fifteen dollars, he induced a young livyere, Steve Newell by name, to undertake the task. Steve was a characteristic livyere, shiftless and ambitionless. He lived a few miles down the inlet with his widowed mother and his younger brothers and sisters. For a week he would work hard and conscientiously to support the family, and then take a month's rest. We had happened upon him in one of his resting periods, but as soon as Hubbard had pinned him down to an agreement he put in an immediate plea for money. "I'se huntin' grub, sir," he begged. "I has t' hunt grub all th' time, sir. Could 'un spare a dollar t' buy grub, sir?" Hubbard gave him the dollar, and he forthwith proceeded to the trader's hut to purchase flour and molasses, which, with fat salt pork, are the great staples of the Labrador natives, although the coast livyeres seldom can afford the latter dainty. While we were preparing to start, Hubbard asked Steve what he generally did for a living. "I hunts in winter an' fishes in summer, sir," was the reply. "What do you hunt? "Fur an' partridges, sir. I trades the fur for flour and molasses, sir, an' us eats th' partridges." "What kind of fur do you find here?" "Foxes is about all, sir, an' them's scarce; only a chance one, sir." "Do you catch enough fur to keep you in flour and molasses?" "Not always, sir. Sometimes us has only partridges t' eat, sir." We started at five o'clock in the evening in Steve's boat, the Mayflower, a leaky little craft that kept one man pretty busy bailing out the water. She carried one ragged sail, and Steve sculled and steered with a rough oar about eighteen feet long. An hour after we got under way a blanket of grey fog, thick and damp, enveloped us; but so long are the Labrador summer days that there still was light to guide us when at eleven o'clock Steve said: "Us better land yere, sir. I lives yere, an' 'tis a good spot t' stop for th' night, sir." I wondered what sort of an establishment Steve maintained, and drawing an inference from his personal appearance, I had misgivings as to its cleanliness. However, anything seemed better than chilling fog, and land we did--in a shallow cove where we bumped over a partly submerged rock and manoeuvred with difficulty among others, that raised their heads ominously above the water. As we approached, we made out through the fog the dim outlines, close to the shore, of a hut partially covered with sod. Our welcome was tumultuous--a combination of the barking of dogs and the shrill screams of women demanding to know who we were and what we wanted. There were two women, tall, scrawny, brown, with hair flying at random. The younger one had a baby in her arms. She was Steve's married sister. The other woman was his mother. Each was loosely clad in a dirty calico gown. Behind them clustered a group of dirty, half-clad children. Steve ushered us into the hut, which proved to have two rooms, the larger about eight by ten feet. The roof was so low that none of us could stand erect except in the centre, where it came to a peak. In the outer room were two rough wooden benches, and on a rickety table a dirty kerosene lamp without a chimney shed gloom rather than light. An old stove, the sides of which were bolstered up with rocks, filled the hut with smoke to the point of suffocation when a fire was started. The floor and everything else in the room were innocent of soap and water. George made coffee, which he passed around with hardtack to everybody. Then all but Steve and our party retired to the inner room, one of the women standing a loose door against the aperture. Steve curled up in an old quilt on one of the benches, while Hubbard, George and I spread a tarpaulin on the floor and rolled in our blankets upon it. We were up betimes the next morning after a fair night's sleep on the floor. We again served hardtack and coffee to all, and at five o'clock were once more on our way. A thick mantle of mist obscured the shore, and Hubbard offered Steve a chart and compass. "Ain't got no learnin', sir; I can't read, sir," said the young livyere. So Hubbard directed the course in the mist while Steve steered. Later in the day the wind freshened and blew the mist away, and at length developed into a gale. Finally the sea rose so high that Steve thought it well to seek the protection of a harbour, and we landed in a sheltered cove on one of the numerous islands that strew Hamilton Inlet, where we then were--Big Black Island, it is called. George had arisen that morning with a lame back, and when we reached the island he could scarcely move. The place was so barren of timber we could not find a stick long enough to act as a centre pole for our tent, and it was useless to try to pitch it. However, the moss, being thick and soft, made a comfortable bed, and after we had put a mustard plaster on George's back to relieve his lumbago, we rolled him in two of our blankets under the lee of a bush and let him sleep. Then, as evening came on, Hubbard and I started for a stroll along the shore. The sun was still high in the heavens, and the temperature mildly cool. A walk of a mile or so brought us to the cabin of one Joe Lloyd, a livyere. Lloyd proved to be an intelligent old Englishman who had gone to Labrador as a sailor lad on a fishing schooner to serve a three-years' apprenticeship. He did not go home with his ship, and year after year postponed his return, until at last he married an Eskimo and bound himself fast to the cold rocks of Labrador, where he will spend the remainder of his life, eking out a miserable existence, a lonely exile from his native England. After he had greeted us, Lloyd asked: "Is all the world at peace, sir?" He had heard of the Boer war, and was pleased when we told him that it had ended in a victory for the British arms. His hunger for news touched us deeply, and we told him all that we could recall of recent affairs of public interest. I have said that his hunger for news touched us. As a matter of fact, few things have impressed me as being more pathetic than that old man's life up there on that isolated and desolate island, where he spends most of his time wistfully longing to hear something of the great world, and painfully recalling the pleasant memories of his childhood's home and friends, and the green fields and spring blossoms he never will know again. And Lloyd's story is the story of perhaps the majority of the settlers on The Labrador. The old man had a fresh-caught salmon, and we bought it from him. We then sat for a few minutes in his cabin. This was a miserable affair, not exceeding eight by ten feet, and, like Steve's home, so low we could not stand erect in it. The floor was paved with large, flat stones, and the only vent for the smoke from the wretched fireplace was a hole in the roof. Midway between the fire and the hole hung a trout drying. In this room Lloyd and his Eskimo wife live out their life. During our visit the wife sat there without uttering a word. Her silence was characteristic; for, somewhat unlike our women, the women of Labrador talk but little. When we had bidden Lloyd farewell, we carried the salmon we had obtained from him back to camp, where Hubbard tried to plank it on a bit of wreckage picked up on the shore. It fell into the fire, and there was great excitement until, by our united efforts, we had rescued it, and had seen part of it safely reposing in the frying pan, while Steve set to work boiling the remainder in our kettle with slices of bacon. As the gale continued to blow, it was decided that we should remain in camp until early morning. Hubbard directed Steve to pull the boat around to a place where it would be near the water at low tide. He and I then threw down the tent, lay on it, pulled a blanket over us and prepared for sleep. It was about eleven o'clock, and darkness was just beginning to fall. Out in the bay a whale was blowing, and in the distance big gulls were screaming. It was our first night out in the open in Labrador, and all was new and entrancing; and as slumber gradually enwrapped us, it seemed to us that we had fallen upon pleasant times. At one o'clock (Friday morning) we awoke. By the light of the brilliant moon we made coffee, called George and Steve and ate our breakfast of cold salmon and hardtack. George's lumbago was very bad, and he was unable to do any work. The rest of us portaged the outfit two hundred yards to the boat, which, owing to Steve's miscalculations as to the tide, we found high and dry on the rocks. Working in the shallow water, with a cloud of mosquitoes around our heads, it took us until 4.30 o'clock to launch her, by which time daylight long since had returned. Once more afloat, we found that the wind had entirely died away, and Steve's sculling pushed the boat along but slowly. Grampuses raised their big backs everywhere, and seals, upon which they prey, were numerous. The water was alive with schools of caplin. At eleven o'clock we made Pompey Island, a mossy island of Laurentian rock about thirty-five miles from Indian Harbour. Here we stopped for luncheon, and after much looking around, succeeded in finding enough sticks to build a little fire. I made flapjacks, and Hubbard melted sugar for syrup. While we were eating, I discovered in the far distance the smoke of a steamer. We supposed it to be the Julia Sheridan. Rushing our things into the boat, we put off as quickly as possible to intercept her. We fired three or four shots from our rifle, but got only a salute in recognition. Then Hubbard and I scramble into the canoe, which we had in tow, and began to paddle with might and main to head her off. As we neared her, we fired again. At that she came about--it was the Virginia Lake. They took us on board, bag, baggage, and canoe, and Steve was dismissed. In an hour we were in sight of Rigolet, and I saw a Hudson's Bay Company Post for the first time in my life. As our steamer approached, a flag was run up in salute to the top of a tall staff, and when it had been caught by the breeze, the Company's initials, H. B. C., were revealed. The Company's agents say these letters have another significance, namely, "Here Before Christ," for the flag travels ahead of the missionaries. The reservation of Rigolet is situated upon a projection of land, with a little bay on one side and the channel into which Hamilton Inlet narrows at this point on the other. Long rows of whitewashed buildings, some of frame and some of log, extend along the water front, coming together at the point of the projection so as to form two sides of an irregular triangle. A little back of the row on the bay side, and upon slightly higher ground, stands the residence of the agent, or factor as he is officially called, this building being two stories high and otherwise the most pretentious of the group. It is commonly called the "Big House," and near it is the tall flagstaff. Between the rows of buildings and the shore is a broad board walk, which leads down near the apex of the triangle to a small wharf of logs. It was at this wharf that our little party landed. Hubbard presented his letter of introduction from Commissioner Chipman of the Hudson's Bay Company to Mr. James Fraser, the factor, and we received a most cordial welcome, being made at home at the Big House. We found the surroundings and people unique and interesting. There were lumbermen, trappers, and fishermen--a motley gathering of Newfoundlanders, Nova Scotians, Eskimos and "breeds," the latter being a comprehensive name for persons whose origin is a mixture in various combinations and proportions of Eskimo, Indian, and European. All were friendly and talkative, and hungry for news of the outside world. Lying around everywhere, or skulking about the reservation, were big Eskimo dogs that looked for all the world like wolves in subjection. We were warned not to attempt to play with them, as they were extremely treacherous. Only a few days before a little Eskimo boy who stumbled and fell was set upon by a pack and all but killed before the brutes were driven off. The night we arrived at Rigolet the pack killed one of their own number and ate him, only a little piece of fur remaining in the morning to tell the tale. Within an hour after we reached the post, Dr. Simpson arrived on the Julia Sheridan; but as he had neglected to bring the mail for Northwest River Post that the Virginia Lake had left at Indian Harbour, he had to return at once. Dr. Simpson not being permitted by his principles to run his boat on Sunday, unless in a case of great necessity, we were told not to expect the Julia Sheridan back from Indian Harbour until Monday noon; and so we were compelled to possess our souls in patience and enjoy the hospitality of Mr. Fraser. I must confess that while I was anxious to get on, I was at the same time not so greatly disappointed at our enforced delay; it gave me an opportunity to see something of the novel life of the post. While at Rigolet we of course tried to get all the information possible about the country to which we were going. No Indians had been to the post for months, and the white men and Eskimos knew absolutely nothing about it. At length Hubbard was referred to "Skipper" Tom Blake, a breed, who had trapped at the upper or western end of Grand Lake. From Blake he learned that Grand Lake was forty miles long, and that canoe travel on it was good to its upper end, where the Nascaupee River flowed into it. Blake believed we could paddle up the Nascaupee some eighteen or twenty miles, where we should find the Red River, a wide, shallow, rapid stream that flowed into the Nascaupee from the south. Above this point he had no personal knowledge of the country, and advised us to see his son Donald, whom he expected to arrive that day from his trapping grounds on Seal Lake. Donald, he said, had been farther inland and knew more about the country than anyone else on the coast. Donald did arrive a little later, and upon questioning him Hubbard learned that Seal Lake, which, he said, was an expansion of the Nascaupee River, had been the limit of his travels inland. Donald reiterated what his father had told us of Grand Lake and the lower waters of the Nascaupee, adding that for many miles above the point where the Nascaupee was joined by the Red we should find canoe travel impossible, as the Nascaupee "tumbled right down off the mountains." Up the Nascaupee as far as the Red River he had sailed his boat. He had heard from the Indians that the Nascaupee came from Lake Michikamau, and he believed it to be a fact. This convinced us that the Nascaupee was the river A. P. Low, of the Geological Survey, had mapped as the Northwest. The Red River Donald had crossed in winter some twenty miles above its mouth, and while it was wide, it was so shallow and swift that he was sure it would not admit of canoeing. He could not tell its source, and was sure the Indians had never travelled on it. In answer to Hubbard's inquiries as to the probability of our getting fish and game, Donald said there were bears along the Nascaupee, but few other animals. He had never fished the waters above Grand Lake, but believed plenty of fish were there. On Seal Lake there was a "chance" seal, and he had taken an occasional shot at them, but they were very wild and he had never been able to kill any. Strange as it may seem, none of the men with whom we talked mentioned that more than one river flowed into Grand Lake, although they unquestionably knew that such was the case. Their silence about this important particular was probably due to the fact, that while the Labrador people are friendly to strangers, they are somewhat shy and rarely volunteer information, contenting themselves, for the most part, with simple answers to direct questions. Furthermore, they are seldom able to adopt a point of view different from their own, and thus are unable to realise the amount of guidance a stranger in their country needs. In fact I discovered later that Skipper Blake and his son, who have spent all their lives in the vicinity of Hamilton Inlet, never dreamed anyone could miss the mouth of the Nascaupee River, as they themselves knew so well how to find it. We were sitting in the office of the post on Sunday, comfortably away from the fog that lay thick outside, when we were startled by a steamship whistle. Out we all ran, and there, in the act of dropping her anchor, was the Pelican, the company's ship from England. In the heavy fog she had stolen in and whistled before the flag was raised, which feat Captain Grey, who commands the Pelican, regarded as a great joke on the post. Once a year the Pelican arrives from England, and the day of her appearance is the Big Day for all the Labrador posts, as she brings the year's supplies together with boxes and letters from home for the agents and the clerks. From Rigolet she goes to Ungava, then returns to Rigolet for the furs there and once more steams for England. We found Captain Grey to be a jolly, cranky old seadog of the old school. He has been with the Hudson's Bay Company for thirty years, and has sailed the northern seas for fifty. He shook his head pessimistically when he heard about our expedition. "You'll never get back," he said. "But if you happen to be at Ungava when I get there, I'll bring you back." "Sandy" Calder, the owner of lumber mills on Sandwich Bay and the Grand River, who came from Cartwright Post on Sandwich Bay with Captain Grey on the Pelican, also predicted the failure of our enterprise. But Hubbard said to me that he had heard such prophecies before; that they made the work seem all the bigger, and that he could do it and would. At noon on Monday Dr. Simpson came with the Julia Sheridan, and we said good-bye to Rigolet. The voyage down the inlet to Northwest River Post was without incident, except that the good doctor was much concerned as to the outcome of our venture, saying: "Don't leave your bones up there to whiten, boys, if you can possibly help it." We reached Northwest River at two o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, and found the post to be much the same as Rigolet, except that its whitewashed buildings were all strung out in one long row. The welcome we received from Mr. Thomas Mackenzie, the agent there in charge, was most gratifying in its heartiness. Mr. Mackenzie is a bachelor, tall, lean, high-spirited, and the soul hospitality. Hubbard promptly dubbed him a "bully fellow." Probably this was partly due to the fact that he was the first man in Labrador to give us any encouragement. We had not been there an hour when he became infected with Hubbard's enthusiasm and said he would pack up that night and be ready to start with us in the morning, if he only were free to do so. To our great disappointment and chagrin, we found that Mackenzie had no fish nets to sell. We had been unable to obtain any at Rigolet, and now we were told that none was to be had anywhere in that part of Labrador. Hubbard realised fully the importance of a gill net as a part of our equipment and had originally intended to purchase one before leaving New York; but he was advised by Mr. A. P. Low of the Canadian Geological Survey that it would be better to defer its purchase until we reached Rigolet Post or Northwest River, where he said we could get a net such as would be best adapted to the country. Hubbard had no reason to doubt the accuracy of this information, as Mr. Low had previously spent several months at these posts when engaged in the work of mapping out the peninsula. Conditions, however, had changed, unfortunately for us, since Mr. Low's visit to Labrador. Seeing the quandary we were in, Mackenzie got out an old three-inch gill net that had been lying in a corner of one of his buildings. He said he was afraid it was worn out, but if we could make any use of it, we might take it. We, too, had our doubts as to its utility; but, as it was the best obtainable, Hubbard accepted it thankfully and Mackenzie had two of his men unravel it and patch it up. During the afternoon we got our outfit in shape, ready for the start in the morning. Following is a summary of the outfit taken from an inventory made at Indian Harbour: Our canoe was 18 feet long, canvas covered, and weighed about 80 pounds. The tent was of the type known as miner's, 6 1/2 x 7 feet, made of balloon silk and waterproofed. We had three pairs of blankets and one single blanket; two tarpaulins; five duck waterproof bags; one dozen small waterproof bags of balloon silk for note books; two .45-70 Winchester rifles; two 10-inch barrel .22-calibre pistols for shooting grouse and other small game; 200 rounds of .45-70 and 1,000 rounds of .22-calibre cartridges; 3 1/4 x 4 1/4 pocket folding kodak with Turner-Reich Verastigmat lens; thirty rolls of films of one dozen exposures each, in tin cans, waterproofed with electricians' tape; a sextant and artificial horizon; two compasses and our cooking utensils and clothing. At Indian Harbour we had four 45-pound sacks of flour, but Hubbard gave one sack to the pilot of the Julia Sheridan, and out of another sack he had given the cook on the Julia sufficient flour for one baking of bread, and we had also used some of this bag on our way from Indian Harbour to Rigolet. This left two 45-pound bags and about thirty pounds in the third bag, or 120 pounds in all. There were, perhaps, 25 pounds of bacon, 13 pounds lard, 20 pounds flavoured pea meal, 9 pounds plain pea flour in tins, 10 pounds tea, 5 pounds coffee, 8 pounds hardtack, 10 pounds milk powder, 10 pounds rice, 8 pounds dried apples, 7 pounds salt, 7 or 8 pounds tobacco and 30 pounds sugar. This outfit, it will be remembered, was designed for three men. Hubbard tried to hire some of the native to accompany us a few miles into the interior and carry additional provisions that we might cache, but failed; they were all "too busy." Mackenzie treated us royally during the evening we spent at his post, and we enjoyed his hospitality to the utmost, knowing that it was to be our last night under shelter for weeks to come. Now we were on the very edge of the wilderness. To-morrow we should enter the unknown. IV. THE PLUNGE INTO THE WILD It was nine o'clock on Wednesday morning, July 15, that we made the start. Our canoe, laden deep with our outfit, was drawn up with its prow resting snugly on the sandy bottom of the little strait that is locally known as the Northwest River. Mackenzie and a group of swarthy natives gathered on the shore to see us off. All but the high-spirited agent were grave and sceptical, and shook their heads at our persistency in going into a country we had been so frequently warned against. The atmosphere was crisp, pure, and exhilarating. The fir trees and shrubs gave out a delicious perfume, and their waving tops seemed to beckon us on. The sky was deep blue, with here and there a feathery cloud gliding lazily over its surface. The bright sunlight made our hearts bound and filled our bodies with vigour, and as we stood there on the edge of the unknown and silent world we had come so far to see, our hopes were high, and one and all we were eager for the battle with the wild. "I wish I were going with you; good-bye and Godspeed!" shouted Mackenzie, as we pushed the canoe into deep water and dipped our paddles into the current. In a moment he and the grave men that stood with him were lost to view. Up through the strait into the Little Lake we paddled, thence to the rapid where the waters of Grand Lake pour out. With one end of a tracking line, Hubbard sprang into the shallow water near the shore below the swift-running stream, and with the other end fastened to the bow of the canoe, pulled it through the rapid. A "planter's" family in a cabin near by watched us wonderingly. Then we were in Grand Lake. Hubbard remarked that it looked like Lake George, save that the hills were lower. For a few miles above its outlet the shores on both sides of the lake are low. Then on the south come bluffs that rise, stern and grand in their nudity, almost perpendicularly from the deep, clear water, while on the north come lower hills, the most part wooded, that retreat more gently from the rocky shore. Heading for the extreme upper of the lake, where Low's map and the natives had led us to expect we should find the Northwest or Nascaupee River, we paddled along the north shore to a point where we stopped among the rocks for a luncheon of flapjacks and syrup. We were away without waste of time, paddling diagonally across the lake to the south shore. The fleecy clouds had now thickened, and a few drops of rain had fallen. In our course across the lake we passed Cape Corbeau (Raven), but were so far out that the mouth of the river of that name, which is just east of it, escaped our attention. Cape Corbeau, it had been named by a French missionary, because the ravens build their nests on its rocky top, and, perched high up, croak at you warningly from afar. Always the ravens are there. Involuntarily, as one croaked above our heads, "Nevermore" echoed through my mind. "And my soul from out that shadow shall be lifted nevermore." There were dark shadows ahead of us among the rocks and the forests, and--But in a moment the thought was drowned and forgotten in the beauties of the scenery. Beauties?--yes; for bleak and desolate Labrador has a beauty and a charm all its own. Two hours after passing Cape Corbeau the rain began to pour, and at 7.30 o'clock, when we made camp on the south shore, we were well soaked. We resumed our journey at 5.30 in the morning. A stiff breeze was blowing, but by keeping in the lee of the shore we made good progress. At ten o'clock, when we found it necessary to cross to the north shore so as to shorten the distance, there was a rising sea, and we had to lighten the canoe and ferry the cargo over in two loads. It was soon after one o'clock that we reached the upper end of the lake, where we found a stream about 125 yards wide that flowed with a swift current from out a little lake. Into this lake after luncheon we paddled, and when we reached its upper end, there was the mouth of a river, which we immediately hailed as the Nascaupee, the stream that was to lead us up to Lake Michikamau. Its mouth was wide, and it seemed to answer so well all the descriptions we had heard of the river for which we were searching that the possibility of our being mistaken never once entered our heads; in fact, we remained under the impression that it was the Nascaupee until the last. But we were mistaken. We had passed the Nascaupee five miles below, where it empties, together with the Crooked River, into a deep bay extending northward from Grand Lake. At its mouth the Nascaupee is divided by an island into two streams, and this island is so thickly covered with trees, and the streams on either side of it are so narrow, that when we crossed along in front of the bay no break in the line of woods at the mouth of the river was perceptible. Perhaps it will be said we should have explored the bay. I know now myself that should have been done, but in justice to Hubbard it must be remembered that none of us then had any reason to suppose we should find a river at any place other than the extreme upper end of the lake. Time and time again Hubbard had asked the few natives who had been there if the Nascaupee entered Grand Lake at its extreme upper end, and the answer invariably had been: "Yes, sir; he do." Furthermore, it will have to be taken into consideration how hard pressed Hubbard was by the fear that the short summer would end before he had completed his work, and by the consequent necessity of pushing on with all possible speed. The river up which we started to ascend with light hearts was the Susan, a river which was to introduce us promptly to heart-breaking hardships, a river which is to me associated with the most tragic memories. On the southerly side of the little lake Porcupine Hill raises its spruce-covered head a thousand feet above the water. Proceeding up the Susan, we found that the river valley was enclosed by low ridges covered with spruce and a few scattering white birch and aspen trees. For the most part the banks of the river were steep and high; where they were low the river formed little pond expansions. For a mile above its mouth we had good canoeing. Up to this point the river was not more than thirty yards wide, and was deep, with little current. Then it began gradually to widen and become shallow and swift, with a boulder-strewn bottom. Soon we had to jump into the water, and with Hubbard at the end of the tracking line, and George and I at either end of the canoe, haul, lift, and push the heavily laden boat up the river, while we floundered over the boulders. Sometimes we would be able to get into the canoe and pole, but never for long. Around the worst places we portaged the whole outfit, canoe and all. It was desperately hard work, and when night came on and we went into camp, we were only two miles above the little lake. Hard as it was, we should not have minded our work in the rapids so much had it not been for the flies. For the first time we now realised the full form of what had been told us about the fly pest of Labrador. We had considered them annoying at Rigolet and Northwest River, but as soon as we began to buck the rapids they came upon us in clouds. They got into our nostrils, into our ears, into our mouths, into our eyes even, and our faces and hands were streaked with blood from their bites. They were villainous, hellish. Hubbard frequently remarked that the mosquitoes seemed friendly in contrast--and the mosquitoes were by no means considerate of our feelings and comfort either. We had purchased some cheesecloth at Rigolet for face nets, but the trial we had given it during the afternoon had proved that it was too closely woven for us to see through it and do our work, and it was useful only as some measure of protection for our ears and necks. On our faces we also tried some "fly dope" that we had purchased in New York, but it kept the pests away for a few minutes only. The ordinary Labrador fly is smaller than a pinhead. You do not feel it until after it has had its bite, and then the sensation is like that of a fiery itch. In addition to this kind, we had to withstand the attacks of flies called by the natives "bulldogs." These beasts are about the size of the top joint of one's thumb. They are well named. When they bite, you feel it immediately beyond a doubt. We used to say they bit out pieces of our flesh entire and flew up into the trees to eat them, and we used frequently to beg George to try his luck at shooting the brutes. However, it must be said to the credit of both kinds of flies that they have one good habit--they "knock off" work at the approach of the cool of evening, thus giving you a chance to bathe as well as sleep. The rain was still pouring when we pitched our tent that first night, but we had a good supper and were reasonably cheerful. There were flapjacks dripping with the syrup of melted sugar, and bacon, and hot bread, and coffee. "With this sort of work before us," said Hubbard, "we must keep well fed." "The river," said I, "certainly is the limit. If the Indians have to travel on it much, I feel sorry for them." "Well," said Hubbard, "we've surely got our work cut out. At this rate we're going to make pretty slow progress." "Blake told us," I ventured, "we could paddle up the river eighteen or twenty miles, and that he had sailed his boat up that far. I'd be willing to bet he never sailed it up this stream." "Oh," replied Hubbard, "he was mistaken in the distance. This must be the place where he said the river tumbled off the mountain. What do you say, boys," he added, "to throwing away some of the outfit? We'll never make any progress if we attempt to carry it all." "Let's stick to it a little longer," suggested George. However, we decided to abandon some clothing and a pail containing about four pounds of lard; and as George, particularly, was opposed to leaving behind us any provisions, it was decided to eat of them lavishly and pay no attention to the hunt for the present. All night it continued to rain, and we broke camp and started forward on Friday morning, July 17, in a drenching downpour. George thought this was rather hard. While Hubbard was out of hearing, he told me that the Indians never travelled in the rain, and that he had never been expected to do so before. The fact was that George had never before been on an expedition where there was so much necessity for haste. We found the river on the second day to be even worse than our worst fears had pictured it, and it kept growing worse as we ascended. The water was so swift and shoal that we could take only a part of the outfit in the canoe, which meant that we had to return at intervals for the rest and track all the way, Hubbard pulling on the line while George and I waded and pushed. Sometimes we were scarcely knee deep in the water, and at other times we would sink up to our armpits. Frequently we were swept off our feet. Once or twice we forced the canoe and outfit through the thick willows and alders that lined the river, and dragged them up the steep bank and attempted to portage; but the country here had been burned and fallen trees were piled high in every direction, so that we were compelled to return to the river and resume our efforts in the raging torrent. The work was awful, it was heartrending; and though we exerted ourselves to the utmost from six o'clock in the morning until eight at night, we advanced our camp only two miles that day. And when we gathered around the fire at night, how we did "cuss" that river! None of us, however, was discouraged, nor flinched at the prospect. Our oil-tanned, cowhide moccasins and woollen trousers were beginning to show the result of the attacks of bush, rock, and water, but our blue flannel shirts and soft felt hats were still quite respectable. Our coats we had left behind us as an unnecessary encumbrance. While George was cooking breakfast on Saturday morning (July 18), a red squirrel barked at us from a near-by tree. Drawing his pistol from its holster, Hubbard said: "Wallace, let's see who shall have the honour of bringing to George the first game of the trip." I acquiesced, and walking around the tree, caught the first glimpse of the squirrel. At it I carefully aimed my pistol, and down it came. It made a tiny morsel for three men, but as the "first game of the trip," we hugely enjoyed it when George served it in a pot of soup. At six o'clock we broke camp and laboured on, facing the same desperate conditions that we had met the day before. It is true that the rain had ceased to fall, but the good weather brought out the flies in increasing swarms. We fairly breathed flies, and we dreaded them far more than the hard work. Since they attacked us first, we had left our faces unwashed so as to retain the "dope," and they were streaming with a mixture of grease, dirt, blood, and perspiration. The return of the sun also sent the mercury soaring. At noon that Saturday it registered 90 degrees in the shade. Always at sunset, however, the temperature dropped with startling suddenness, and a variation of from fifty to sixty degrees between the maximum and minimum record for one day was not an unusual thing as long as summer lasted. Floundering up the boulder-strewn river that Saturday, we found the heat so oppressive that it seemed to us we had got into the torrid zone instead of up to within a few hundred miles of the Arctic Circle. We resolved, however, that the obstacles interposed against our advance by the unfeeling wild should make us fight only the harder, George and I receiving much inspiration from Hubbard, to whom difficulties were a blessing and whose spirit remained indomitable up to the very end. And when we sat down to our evening meal by a cosey fire, we had the satisfaction of knowing that we had doubled our previous day's record and were four miles further up the river. On our first Sunday out we remained in camp to rest. We were all pretty tired, and enjoyed the long sleep in the morning. The day was fine, but very warm. In the morning Hubbard caught about twenty small trout, and after luncheon he and George went up the river on a scouting trip. When they returned in the evening, they reported important discoveries. First they had come upon a small, rocky stream flowing into our river from the south, which stream Hubbard felt sure must be the Red River the Blakes had told us about, and a mile above that a two-mile stretch of good water. But the discovery that pleased Hubbard the most was some old cuttings that apparently had been made by Indians; he was of the opinion, as were all of us, that they indicated we really were on the Mountaineer Indian trail to Michikamau, and that we undoubtedly soon should come upon lakes and other good water that would carry us through; and the discoveries of the scouting trip buoyed up our spirits wonderfully. On Monday morning (July 20) George took an axe and cut us a portage route from our camp through a swamp a mile and a half to the foot of a hill. This route we covered three times. It was impossible for one man alone to carry the canoe through the swamp, and in addition to it and the firearms we had at this period to transport about five hundred pounds of baggage made up into packs of about seventy-five pounds each. At first Hubbard and I found seventy-five pounds a pretty good load to carry, and neither of us could get even that on his back without help from George; but later on we learned to back and carry with comparative ease a hundred pounds or more. In packing we never used either shoulder or chest straps, relying solely upon the head strap, which passes across the forehead. When, after much groaning and sweating, we finally arrived with all of our outfit at the foot of the hill, it took the combined efforts of all three of us to get the canoe to the top, whence we followed an old caribou trail for a mile along the summit, camping just above the smooth water that Hubbard and George had seen on Sunday. We were all completely exhausted when we reached camp. While staggering along with the canoe a hundred yards from the tent, I became so weak that I suddenly sank to the ground and the others had to come to my rescue and bring in the canoe. But the night was cool and starry, and we sat long by our fire and talked and drank pea soup and tea, and when it came time for us to turn in to our soft bed of fragrant spruce boughs, our troubles had been quite forgotten. The good water that Hubbard and George thought was two miles long shortened down, when we actually came to it the next morning, to less than half a mile, affording us only a meagre opportunity to make use of the canoe. For a little distance we again bucked the rapids, and then left the river for a rough portage of a mile and a half over the hills on the shore. Again at night we were exhausted, but again we had a fine camp on a point overlooking the river. The crisp air came laden with the perfume of spruce and balsam. On the surrounding hills the fir trees were darkly silhouetted against the sky, radiant with its myriads of stars. The roar of the river could be heard dying away into a mere murmur among the hills below. "Boys," said Hubbard, after we had made a good supper of a mess of trout I had caught at midday, "this pays for all the hard work." Undoubtedly Hubbard was in fine fettle that evening, and as we lay before the fire with that delicious feeling of languor which comes from conscientious toil, he entertained George and me with quotations from his favourite author, Kipling, while we puffed comfortably upon our pipes. One verse he dwelt upon, as it seemed particularly appropriate to our position. It was: When first under fire, if you're wishful to duck, Don't look or take heed of the man that is struck; Be thankful you're living and trust to your luck, And march to your front like a soldier." V. STILL IN THE AWFUL VALLEY The next day (Wednesday, July 22) was by far the most disheartening of our journey up the valley of the Susan. We portaged all day through gullies and swamps and over rough ridges, covering in all about two miles and a half. All of us were overcome by the hard work in the burning sun and the poisonous bites of the flies. I was the most susceptible to the attacks of the flies; for ten days I was fairly sick from the poison they instilled. The faces, bands, and wrists of all of us were badly swollen and very sore. My face was so swollen I could scarcely see. In the morning when we started forward the temperature was down to thirty-three degrees, but at noon it had risen to ninety-two. Hubbard was attacked with diarrhoea, and I with vomiting. We were all too exhausted to eat when we stopped for luncheon, and lay on the moss for an hour's rest, with the tent drawn over us to protect us from the flies. On a low, barren knoll we cached that day eighty rounds of .45-70 cartridges and 300 rounds of .22's, George marking the spot with a circle of stakes. That left us 120 rounds of .45-70's and 500 rounds of .22's. It had become strictly necessary to lighten our packs, and we had begun to drop odds and ends every day. In the afternoon Hubbard shot with his pistol a spruce partridge (grouse); it was the first seen by us on the trip. Together with a yellowlegs George had shot, it seasoned a pot of pea soup. We camped that night on a bluff, barren point, and Hubbard named it "Partridge Point" in bonour of our first bird. On Thursday (July 23) Hubbard lay in the tent all day sick. All he was able to eat was some hardtack dipped in tea. At his request George and I scouted for trails. Each of us carried a rifle and wore at his belt a pistol and a cup in addition to the sheath knife we never were without. In our pockets we placed a half-pound package of pea meal. George started westward up the river, and I put for a high, barren bill two miles to the north. As I climbed the hill I heard gulls on the other side, which told me water lay in that direction, and when I reached the top, there at my feet, like a silver setting in the dark green forest, lay a beautiful little shoe-shaped lake. For miles and miles beyond the ridge I was on, the country was flat and covered with a thick spruce growth. To the northeast of the lake at my feet I could see the glimmer of other water among the trees, and I decided to go on and investigate. In doing so, I managed to get myself lost. Descending the hill to the lake, I made my way through the thick spruce growth in the swamp along the shore. A splash in the water startled me, and soon I found the fresh tracks of a caribou. As he had winded me, I knew it was useless to try to follow him. Pressing my way on to the northeast, I came upon another small lake and several small creeks. At midday I built a fire and made a cup of pea meal porridge. While waiting for my meal to cook, I read a letter that a friend had given me in New York, "to be opened after one week's canoeing in Labrador." It was like a letter just received from home. In the afternoon the sun became obscured by gathering clouds, and in the thick underbrush through which my course led me I could see scarcely twenty yards ahead. I attempted to get my direction with the compass, but the needle would not respond. Trusting, however, to my ability to find my course without it, I made my way on past two more lakes. A grouse fluttered up before me, and I brought it down with a pistol shot. After tying it to my belt, I decided it was time to turn back home, as we called our camp, and struck off by what I hoped would be a short cut through the swamp. Then it was that I lost my bearings, and at dusk, when I hoped to reach the first lake I had seen in the morning, I found myself on the shore of a lake I had never seen before. Too weary to cook the grouse, or even build a fire and make a cup of porridge, I threw myself on a flat rock, pillowed my head on the trunk of a fallen spruce tree, drew a handkerchief over my face to keep away the clouds of mosquitoes, and slept soundly. At dawn I arose, built a fire, repaired my compass, and ate a cup of porridge. I was not frightened, because with my compass again in working order I knew I should have no difficulty in finding the river, which must be somewhere to the south and which must lead me back to camp. So to the southward I took my course, pushing my way through thick brush and over marshes where the ground under my feet went up and down like the waves of the sea. Towards noon I reached a barren hill, and from its summit saw the river just beyond and the site of one of our old camping places that I knew was eighteen miles below our last camp. Down to the shore of the river I hurried, and built a fire for luncheon. The partridge at my belt had been torn into shreds by the bushes, and again a cup of porridge had to serve me for a meal. It was dark when I reached camp, to find Hubbard greatly worried and George away looking for me. There had been some good-natured arguments between Hubbard and me as to the merits of our respective compasses, and as he now appeared to have the better of it, he took advantage of the occasion to chaff me unmercifully. Then when George returned they both had fun with me for getting lost. "That's all right," I said, "your turn, Hubbard, will come later. You haven't been lost yet, because you haven't been out of sight of camp alone. Anyway, I just stayed out for a quiet evening by myself." My absence on Friday did not delay our progress any; for Hubbard was still unable to travel. On Saturday (July 25) he had not yet fully recovered, but he decided to push forward. A drizzling rain was falling as we started. Each of us carried a load some four miles up the valley and returned; and then Hubbard, with a second load, went ahead to make camp, while George and I, with the remainder of the baggage, endeavoured to drag the canoe upstream. Darkness came on when we were two miles below camp. While fording the river, I was carried off my feet by the current and nearly swept over the fall with a pack around my neck. Then George and I left the canoe on the bank for the night, and each with his pack proceeded to push his way through the thick willows and alders and over the rocks. It was so dark we could not see each other. Falling down constantly and struggling to our feet again, we stumbled on through the pitchy blackness and down-pouring rain, until suddenly we discerned the glowing light of our campfire and came upon Hubbard frying bacon. George and I were too tired to eat; we were glad to lie down in our wet clothes on the bed of spruce boughs that was ready for us and forget our troubles in sleep. We rested on Sunday--and ate. A partridge I had shot the day before was served stewed with rice and bacon for dinner, while for supper we had twenty-two trout that Hubbard caught in the morning, served with apple sauce and hot bread. This high living fully recompensed us for our hard fight against nature and the elements, and once more full of hope we lay down to sleep. In the morning (Monday, July 27) Hubbard arose with a feeling of depression, but fair progress during the day brightened him up. A typical fall wind blew all day, and we were very wet and very cold when we went into camp at night. But with the coming of evening the clouds were driven away before the wind, affording us an occasional glimpse of the new moon hanging low in the heavens; and this, together with the sound of the river and the roaring campfire, soon cheered us up. No matter how weary and discouraged we were during the day, our evening fire invariably brought to us a feeling of indescribable happiness, a sweet forgetfulness of everything but the moment's comfort. Our fire that Monday night was no exception to the general rule, but after supper, while we were luxuriantly reclining before it on a couch of boughs, Hubbard gave expression to a strange feeling that had been growing on him and me in the last few days. It was almost as if the solitude were getting on our nerves. Hubbard was munching a piece of black chocolate, which he dipped at intervals in a bit of sugar held in the palm of his left hand, when he said: "It's queer, but I have a feeling that is getting stronger from day to day, that we are the only people left in the world. Have you fellows experienced any such feeling?" "Yes," said I; "I have. I have been feeling that we must forever be alone, going on, and on, and on, from portage to portage, through this desolate wilderness." "That's it exactly," said Hubbard. "You sort of feel, that as you are now, so you always have been and always will be; and your past life is like a dream, and your friends like dream-folk. What a strange sensation it is! Have you felt that way, George?" George took the pipe from his mouth, blew out a cloud of tobacco smoke to join the smoke of the fire, and spat meditatively over his shoulder. "Don't know as I have," he grunted. "I know there's mighty good huntin' down the bay; and I've been thinkin' of Rupert's House [the Hudson's Bay Company Post on James Bay where he was born], and what the fellus I know there are doin' these days. I can't say they seem like dream-folks to me; they're real enough, all right." Hubbard and I laughed. Solitude was an old story to our friend, the English-Indian, and our "feelings" must have seemed to him highly artificial, if not affected. Our progress on Tuesday and Wednesday (July 28 and 29) was the old story of hard tracking in the river and difficult portaging. The weather was cloudy and a chill wind blew. On Tuesday we advanced our camp a little more than three miles, and on Wednesday a little more than four. This continued slow work gave Hubbard serious concern, and the condition of our larder and wardrobe was not reassuring. Our bacon and sugar were going fast. Fish had become an absolute necessity, and our catches had been alarmingly small. There was also a lamentable lack of game. Far below we had heard the chatter of the last red squirrel, and seen the last bear signs and the last tree barked by porcupines. There were caribou trails a-plenty, but seldom a fresh track. A solitary rabbit had crossed our trail since we entered the valley, and there were no more rabbit runs visible. We could only hope that as we neared the "height of land," we should find more game--find plenty of caribou, at least, on the moss-covered barrens. We had also noted a change in the timber growth; neither birch nor aspen had we seen for a week. Our moccasins were breaking through the bottoms, and this was a serious matter; for while George had an extra pair, Hubbard and I had only those on our feet. Hubbard's feet were very sore. Two of his toe nails came off on Wednesday night, and a wide crack, which must have made walking very painful, appeared in one of his heels. The nearest thing we had to adhesive plaster was electrician's tape, and with this he bandaged his heel, and tied it and his toes up with pieces of cotton rags we had brought for cleaning rifles. It was on Thursday, July 30, that we reached the point where another good-sized stream comes into the Susan, or where the river may be said to divide into two branches. We found that the southerly branch came over a low fall from the west, while the other, or northerly branch, flowed down from the northwest. The southerly branch was fully as large as the northerly--narrower but deeper--and not nearly so swift and rocky. We were very uncertain as to which branch to follow, and Hubbard sent George on a scouting trip up the southerly stream, which we shall call Goose Creek, while he himself climbed a knoll to get a look at the country. A half mile or so up Goose Creek George found a blaze crossing the stream from north to south, which he pronounced a winter blaze made by trappers, as the cuttings were high up on the trees and freshly made. Half a mile above the blaze George came upon the rotten poles of an old Indian wigwam, and this discovery made Hubbard happy; he accepted it as evidence that Goose Creek was the river mapped as the "Northwest" and the Indian route to Michikamau. Accordingly it was decided to follow the southerly branch, and to leave the main stream at this point. I was glad to leave the valley of the Susan. Our whole course up the valley had been torturous and disheartening. We had been out fifteen days from Northwest River Post and had covered only eighty miles. Hubbard had been ill, and I had been ill. Always, as we pressed onward, I dreaded the prospect of retracing our steps through the Susan Valley. I hated the valley from end to end. I have more reason to hate it now. To me it is the Valley of the Shadow of Death. VI. SEARCHING FOR A TRAIL When we portaged into Goose Creek on Friday, July 31st, Hubbard had quite recovered from his illness, I, too, was well again, and our appetites had returned. It is true that my legs and feet were much swollen from the continuous work in the cold river, but the swelling caused me no inconvenience. All of us, in fact, were in better shape for the fight against the wild than at any time since the start. For three or four miles up Goose Creek the rapids were almost continuous, and we had to portage for practically the whole of the distance. On August 1st and 2d the weather was cold, with a raw wind and a continuous downpour of rain. At night the rain kept up a steady drop, drop, drop through our tent. On the 2d, owing to the inclemency of the weather, we did not travel; but the morning of the 3d brought brilliant sunshine and with the perfume of the forest in our nostrils we pushed on, soon reaching a flatter and a marshy country, where the creek deepened and narrowed with a sluggish current. Here the paddling was good, and for a little way we made rapid progress. In this marshy stretch by the creek's bank we saw a beaver house, and George stepped out of the canoe to examine it. "They're livin' here," he remarked. "If we're not too far away when we camp to-night, I'm comin' down with a rifle and watch for 'em. They come out to play in the water in the evenin' and it's not hard to get 'em." "What's the use of killing them?" I asked. "What could you do with a beaver if you got him?" "I'd cook it, and we'd have a good snack of beaver meat," said George. "They're the finest kind of eatin', and I'd go a good way for a piece of beaver tail; it's nice and greasy, and better than anything you ever ate." As we paddled on, George continued to extol the virtues of beaver meat, expatiating on many a "good snack" of it that he had consumed. However, he did not return to the beaver house, for more important things that evening claimed our attention. It was on this day that we reached a point where our branch creek itself separated into two branches. Upon scouting them, we discovered that each of these branches had for its origin a lake, the two bodies of water from which they flowed being close together some three miles to the westward. Apparently they were small lakes, but we hoped to find that they belonged to a chain that would carry us into the country, and their discovery encouraged us to push on. This hope was strengthened by Indian wigwam poles that we found in the vicinity. The poles, it is true, were old, indicating that the Indians had not been there for several years; but as it had been a long time since they had ceased to visit regularly Northwest River Post, we thought we had reason to believe that the poles marked what had been a permanent trail rather than the course of a hunting expedition. Hubbard was particularly observant of these old Indian signs. He was anxious to find them, and delighted when he did find them. "Here are the signs," he would say, "we are on the right trail." But we were not on the right trail. The right trail--the Nascaupee route--was miles to the northward. We eventually did stumble upon a trail to Michikamau, but it was another one--a very old one--and we found it only to lose it again. While we were following up Goose Creek the condition of our commissariat troubled us not a little. The scarcity of game had forced us to draw heavily upon our stores. Only a little of our lard and a small part of our twenty-five pounds of bacon remained. "We must hustle for grub, boys," Hubbard frequently remarked. Our diet, excepting on particular occasions, was bread and tea, fish when we could get them, and sometimes a little pea soup. The pea meal, plain and flavoured, was originally intended as a sort of emergency ration, but we had drawn on our stock of it alarmingly. Our flour, too, was going rapidly, and the time was drawing near when we felt that the ration of bread must be cut down. The only thing, perhaps, that we really craved was fresh meat. For several days after leaving the post we had experienced a decided craving for acids, but that craving had been partially satisfied when, on the barren hills that border the Valley of the Susan, we found a few cranberries that had survived the winter. Every day while we were on Goose Creek we caught a few small trout. When we halted for any purpose, Hubbard always whipped the stream. He was a tireless as well as an expert fisherman. He would fish long after I had become discouraged, and catch them in pools where they positively refused to rise for me. The trout thus obtained were relished, but a fish diet is not strengthening, neither is it satisfying, and as we had had no fresh meat since the day we landed at Indian Harbour a month before, our longing for it had become importunate. Imagine our joy, then, when on August 3d, the day we discovered the petering out of Goose Creek, some fresh meat came our way. Most unexpectedly was the day turned into one of feasting and thanksgiving. As we were preparing, soon after passing the beaver house, to pack at the foot of a rapid just below a little pond expansion, Hubbard saw four geese swimming slowly down the stream. He and George had just lifted their packs from the canoe, while I, some little distance off, had mine on my back. Hubbard had his rifle in his hands. George, who caught sight of the geese almost as soon as Hubbard, grabbed my rifle from the canoe. "Drop!" cried Hubbard, and down we all fell behind the little bank over which the birds had been sighted. There was fresh meat swimming towards us, and while we lay waiting for it to come in sight around the little head of land the excitement was intense. Soon the leader appeared, and Hubbard and George fired almost simultaneously. If ever there was a goose that had his goose cooked, it was that poor, unfortunate leader. One of the bullets from the .45-70 rifles that were aimed at him went through his neck, cutting the bone clean and leaving his head hanging by two little bits of skin. The other bullet bored a hole through his body, breaking both wings. I did not blame him when he keeled over. The leader disposed of, Hubbard and George again fired in quick succession, and two of the other geese dropped just as they were turning back upstream and vainly trying to rise on their wings, which were useless so soon after the moulting season. The second shot emptied George's rifle. He threw it down, grabbed a paddle and went after one of the birds, which, only slightly wounded, was flopping about in the water. Meanwhile Hubbard had fired twice at the fourth goose and missed both times. His rifle also being empty now, he cast it aside, seized his pistol, ran around the bank and jumped into the water in time to head off the remaining goose as it was flopping upstream. That brought the goose between him and George, and the bird was so bewildered that Hubbard had time to fire at him twice with his pistol and kill him, while George effectually disposed of the wounded goose by swatting him over the head with the paddle. Thus all four birds were ours, and our exultation knew no bounds. We shouted, we threw our hats in the air and shouted again. Lifting the birds critically, we estimated that we had on hand about fifty pounds of goose meat. More luck came to us that same day when we halted for luncheon at the foot of some rapid water. As soon as we stopped, Hubbard, as usual, cast a fly, and almost immediately landed a half-pound trout. Then, as fast as I could split them and George fry them, another and another, all big ones, fell a victim to his skill. The result was that we had all the trout we could eat that noon, and we ate a good many. It was late in the afternoon when we reached the point where the two brooks joined to form Goose Creek. Our scouting was finished in less than two hours, and we went into camp early: for, as Hubbard expressed it, we were to have a "heap big feed," and George reminded us that it would take a good while to roast a goose. Our camp was pitched at the foot of a semi-barren ridge a half-mile above the junction of the brooks. George built a big fire--much bigger than usual. At the back he placed the largest green log he could find. Just in front of the fire, and at each side, he fixed a forked stake, and on these rested a cross pole. From the centre of the pole he suspended a piece of stout twine, which reached nearly to the ground, and tied the lower end into a noose. Then it was that the goose, nicely prepared for cooking, was brought forth. Through it at the wings George stuck a sharp wooden pin, leaving the ends to protrude on each side. Through the legs he stuck a similar pin in a similar fashion. This being done, he slipped the noose at the end of the twine over the ends of one of the pins. And lo and behold! the goose was suspended before the fire. It hung low--just high enough to permit the placing of a dish under it to catch the gravy. Now and then George gave it a twirl so that none of its sides might have reason to complain at not receiving its share of the heat. The lower end roasted first, seeing which, George took the goose off, reversed it and set it twirling again. After a time he sharpened a sliver of wood, stuck it into the goose and examined the wound critically. "Smells like a Christmas goose when one goes through the kitchen dead hungry before dinner," said Hubbard. "Um-m-n!" I commented. In a little while George tried the sharp splinter again. Hubbard and I watched him anxiously. White juice followed the stick. Two hours had passed, and the goose was done! Events now came crowding thick and fast. First, George put the steaming brown goose in his mixing basin, and deftly and rapidly disjointed it with his sheath knife. Meanwhile, with nervous haste, Hubbard and I had drawn our knives, and with the tin basin of goose before us, all three of us plumped down in a half-circle on the thick moss in the light of the bright-blazing fire. Many of the rules of etiquette were waived. We stood not on the order of our falling to, but fell to at once. We eat, and we eat, at first ravenously, then more slowly. With his mouth full of the succulent bird, George allowed he would rather have goose than caribou. "I prefer goose to anything else," said he, and proceeded to tell us of goose hunts "down the bay" and of divers big Indian feasts. At length all the goose was gone but one very small piece. "I'll eat that for a snack before I sleep," said George, as he started to put the giblets to stew for breakfast. The fire died down until nothing remained save a heap of glowing embers. For a long time we sat in the darkness over an extra pot of tea. At first, silence; and then, while George and I puffed complacently on our pipes, Hubbard, who never smoked, entertained us with more of Kipling. "The Feet of the Young Men" was one of his favourites, and that night he put more than his usual feeling into the words: "Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose-- Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain; Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues, Now the Red Gods make their medicine again! Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the black-tail mating? Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry? Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting, Or the sea-trout's jumping--crazy for the fly? He must go--go--go away from here! On the other side the world he's overdue. 'Send your road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o'er you And the Red Gods call for you!" Again the silence. The northern lights flashed and swept in fantastic shapes across the sky, illuminating the fir tops in the valley and making the white lichens gleam on the barren hill above us. We thought of the lake ahead with its old wigwams, and the promise it held out of an easy trail to Michikamau made us feel sure that the worst part of our journey was ended. Thus we sat supremely happy and content until long past midnight, when we went to our tent and our bed of fragrant spruce boughs, to be lulled asleep by the murmuring waters of the creek below. The brooks into which Goose Creek divided near our camp of course would not permit of canoeing, and the morning after our feast (August 4) we portaged through a swamp into the lake that fed the southerly one. We called this small body of water Mountaineer Lake, because the Mountaineer Indians had been there. Besides numerous cuttings and the remains of wigwams, we found the ruins of a drying stage where they had cured meat or fish. From Goose Camp to the lake shore George carried the canoe, and Hubbard and I each a pack. Then while George and I returned for the remaining packs, Hubbard waited by the lake. As he sat there alone, a caribou waded into the water less than a hundred feet away, stopped and looked fearlessly at him for a few moments, and then walked leisurely off into the woods. "It seemed as if he wanted to shake hands with me," Hubbard said when he told us of the incident. He had to let the deer depart in peace, because both rifles were back with the last loads at Goose Camp, and his pistol was in his bag. Needless to say, we were bitterly disappointed at losing the first deer we had seen, and it taught us the lesson always to take one rifle forward with the first load on a portage. We spent the afternoon scouting in different directions, and discovered that the only inlet to Mountaineer Lake ended in a bog a mile or so up. A mile or more to the westward, however, George discovered another and much larger lake, which in honour of him we shall call Lake Elson. An old trail led from Mountaineer Lake to Lake Elson, which George pronounced to be a caribou trail, but which Hubbard believed to be an old portage, because it led from lake to lake by the most direct course. There were no axe cuttings, however, to indicate that the Indians had followed it. We tried the troll in Mountaineer Lake, but caught nothing. Apparently there was nothing there but trout, of which fish I caught eight at the inlet. I shot with my pistol a muskrat that was swimming in the lake, but George did not cook it, as he said the flesh would be too strong at that season. It was raining again and the mosquitoes were out in millions, but with three geese still on hand and a good lake ahead we were indifferent to such troubles as that, although our clothing was not now in a condition successfully to withstand much bad weather. Rags, in fact, were beginning to appear upon us all. One of Hubbard's trousers legs was ripped clear down the front, and it was continually streaming behind in the wind and getting caught in the bushes, despite his efforts to keep it in place with pieces of twine. At length he patched it with a piece of white duffel, and exhibited his tailoring feat to us with much pride. About noon on August 5, after a two-mile portage, we reached Lake Elson. On the way Hubbard sighted two caribou. He dropped his pack and grabbed his rifle. They were 250 yards away and partially hidden by the timber, and as they were approaching him, he waited, believing he would get a better shot. But, while he was waiting, what he called a "cussed little long-legged bird" scared them off, by giving a sharp, shrill cry of alarm, which the deer evidently were clever enough to construe as meaning that something out of the ordinary was happening. Lake Elson proved to be about three and a half miles long and a half mile wide. It lay in a basin surrounded by wooded hills. The northerly portion was dotted with low, mound-like islands of drift, with two or three irregular, rocky islands, all completely wooded. It was a beautiful sheet of water, and, like all the lakes in Labrador, as clear as crystal and very cold. On the northerly side there were narrow straits and inlets, doubtless connecting the lake with others to the northwest that were hidden by the growth. The outlet was at the southern end. It flowed through a pass in a low ridge of hills that extended for a great distance east and west, and emptied into a small lake, the waters of which were discharged through a creek that flowed through a pass in another low ridge that ran parallel with the first as far as we could see. Between the two ridges was a marsh that extended westward for many miles. The ridges and the hills surrounding the lakes were covered with spruce and balsam. Nowhere along our route since we left Northwest River Post, however, had we seen any timber of commercial value; the largest trees did not exceed eight inches in diameter, the generality being much smaller. We were somewhat disconcerted upon finding no further signs of Indians, and feared we had lost the trail. Neither trapper's blaze nor trapper's cutting was to be seen; for now we were beyond their zone and in a country that apparently no white man and no breed had ever viewed. We selected a site for our camp near the outlet at the southern end of the lake. In the afternoon Hubbard and George went to some bluffs that could be seen two or three miles to the southward, to scout for a route to Michikamau and find the Indian trail if possible. I remained behind to make camp. The days were now shortening rapidly; it was dark before eight o'clock. In the grey of the twilight George returned. When he hailed me, I was fishing in the outlet just below the camp, standing on a rock in midstream to which I had waded. "Come 'long up to camp," he called. Once in the wilderness, we made no distinctions as to master and servant; we were all companions together. Hence George's familiar manner of address. "When I land two more trout," I shouted back. "You've got enough; come 'long now," he pleaded. There was that in his tone that excited my curiosity; he seemed all of a sudden to have acquired an unusual fondness for my society. "What's the matter, George?" I asked. "I've been about lost," he returned. "Come on and I'll tell you." I was astonished. I had seen George drop a pack in the bush, where everything for miles around looked alike to me, and without marking the spot or apparently taking note of any guiding signs, he would go directly to it again. I was with him one pitch-dark night when he left a pack among alders and willows in the depth of a marsh, and in the morning he went back two miles straight to the very spot. How a man that could do this could get lost was beyond my understanding. I hurried up to camp. "How did it happen, George?" I asked. "I just got turned 'round," he replied. "I didn't have any grub, and I didn't have a pistol, or a fishhook, or any way to get grub, and I didn't have a compass, and I was scared." "But don't you know how you got lost?" I persisted. "No, I don't," said George. "I just got lost. But I found myself pretty quick. I never got lost before." The only way I could account for it was that he had permitted his thoughts to wander. I asked him what he would have done if he had not been able to find his way back. "Gone to the highest hill I could see," he answered with a grin, "and made the biggest smoke I could make at its top, and waited for you fellus to find me." While we were talking George was busily engaged in making the fire, putting a goose to boil and preparing water for tea. The twilight deepened, and ere we realised it darkness had come. Every moment we expected to hear Hubbard, but he did not appear. "Another man lost," said I, with a forced lightness that illy concealed the anxiety George and I both felt; we knew that Hubbard not only had nothing to eat, but no matches to make a fire. Frequently we stopped our work and talk, to peer into the gathering night and listen for the breaking of a twig. At length I took my rifle and fired at intervals half a dozen shots; but the reports echoed and died away without a reply. A damp north wind chilled the air, and the gloom seemed particularly oppressive. "Hubbard will have a hard night out there in the bush," said George. "Yes," I replied; "I don't suppose we can expect him back now before morning; and when a man is lost in this wild country it's pretty hard to find a little tent all by itself." I was thinking of my own experience farther back, and what might happen should Hubbard fail to find us or we him. He was not so fortunate as I had been, in that there was no river to guide his return. However, at five o'clock in the morning he appeared. He had spent a miserable night on a ridge two miles to the southward, wet and shivering, with no fire, and tormented by mosquitoes. He reported that from the ridge he could hear the roar of a rapid. Darkness had prevented him from going on, and he had not seen the rapid, but he was sure it was a part of a big river. At first he was loath to admit he had been lost, doubtless remembering how he and George had "guyed" me when I had been out all night and my prediction that his turn would come; but when George confessed to having gone astray also, he made a clean breast of it, telling us he was "lost good and plenty, and scared some, too." Now I had my innings, and I must confess I took great delight in returning some of the chaff they had given me. Hubbard decreed, in consequence of these experiences--getting lost--that thereafter each man at all times should have on his person an emergency kit, to consist of matches, a piece of fish line, some hooks and two or three flies, enclosed in a film box waterproofed with electrician's tape. We remained in our camp on Lake Elson for two days in order to scout and dry fish. It was the best fishing place we had yet come to. During our stay we had all the trout we could eat, and we dried and smoked forty-five large ones. The scouting proved that Hubbard's "big river" was an important discovery. It lay two miles to the south of us, flowing to the southeast. Hubbard sent George to look at it, and he reported that it certainly came from large lakes, as it was big, deep and straight. Could it come from Lake Michikamau? While George was away Hubbard and I took a trip in the canoe around the lake and through some inlets. At the northeast we discovered a creek flowing into the lake, and as there were some old Indian wigwams and cuttings near it, indicating the possibility of its being part of a trail, we seriously considered the advisability of following it up. From a knoll near by we could see to the northwest other lakes into which the creek might possibly lead us; but, after returning to camp, we considered the situation fully in the light of George's report of the big river, and we decided that to the big river we should go. This decision was not to prove an error of judgment; for the big river was none other than the Beaver--an important part of an old trail of the Indians to Lake Michikamau. VII. ON A REAL RIVER AT LAST We broke camp in the forenoon of August 7th, and a few hours later, after making two trips back and forth, we arrived with our baggage on the bank of our new river. At last we had a real river to travel on, its average width being between 100 and 150 yards. None of us, of course, then knew that our real river was the Beaver, and that in taking to it we had stumbled upon an old Indian route to Lake Michikamau. If we had known this, it would have made a great difference in our fortunes. Immediately below the point where we portaged into the river, wooded ridges on either side hugged it close, forming a narrow valley. Just above us the valley broadened, and a mile or so up a big hill reared its barren summit above the black spruce trees at its base, standing there like a lonely sentinel among the little hills that bordered the widening river basin. Despite the fact that we had reached a real river, we still had rapids to encounter, and we had to make so many short portages that after we had ascended the river two miles it was time to camp. We pitched our tent on a rising plateau just below a stretch of rushing water. As soon as we stopped, Hubbard tried to fish, and while I made camp he landed fifteen trout averaging nearly half a pound each. They were most welcome, as the time had come when we had to live off the country. Our bread ration was now cut down to one-third of a loaf a day for each man. As we had no lard, it was made simply of flour, baking powder, and water. It was baked in our frying pan, and a loaf was about eight inches in diameter and one inch thick, so that our daily ration was but a morsel. We also decided that from now on we should use pea meal only on rare occasions, and to reserve our other provisions, with the exception of a few dried apples, tea, coffee and a little chocolate and cocoa, to give us a start should we at any time find it necessary to make a sudden dash for the Post. Our clothing was rapidly disintegrating. The front of Hubbard's trouser leg was all torn open again, and once more he had to resort to pieces of twine. We had frequent discussions at this period as to whose appearance was the most beautiful. For a time Hubbard and I would claim the distinction each for himself, but it usually ended by our conceding the distinction to George. As a matter of fact, with our unkempt hair and beards and our rags, we now formed as tough looking a party of tramps as ever "came down the pike." That night in camp I cut up my canvas leggings and used pieces of the canvas to rebottom my moccasins, sewing it on with shoemaker's thread. It was a glorious evening. A big moon rising over the bluffs beyond us transformed the river into a silvery thread stretching far down through the dark valley. Behind us the black spruce forest made our roaring fire seem more cheerful in contrast. A cold east wind had driven away the flies and the mosquitoes. Supper eaten, our cup of contentment was full to the brim. After all, the wilderness was not so inhospitable. Who would be anywhere else, if he could? Not one of us. With the sensation that we were the only people in Labrador, a fancy struck me and I suggested to my companions that we ought to organise some sort of government. "We'll make you, Hubbard," I said, "the head of the nation and call you the Great Mogul. Of course you will be commander-in-chief of the army and navy and have unlimited power. We're your subjects." "I suspect," replied Hubbard, "you are looking for a political job. However, I, of course, stand ready, like our politicians at home, to serve the country when duty calls--if there's enough in it. As the Great Mogul of Labrador, I appoint you, Wallace, Chief Justice and also Secretary of State. George I shall appoint Admiral of the Navy." "Where are my ships?" asked George. "Ships!", exclaimed Hubbard. "Well, there will be only one for the present. But she's a good staunch one--eighteen feet long, with a beam of thirty-three and a half inches. And she carries two quick-fire rifles." With these and other conceits we whiled away the beautiful evening hours. What a difference there was in the morning! We awoke--it was Saturday, August 8--to find that the east wind had increased in force and was accompanied by a driving, chilling rain. Reluctantly we broke camp, and began a day of back-breaking, disheartening work. The wind soughed dismally through the forests, and it was as though late autumn had overtaken us in a night. The spruce boughs, watersoaked, seemed to hang low for no other purpose than to strike us in the face at every step, and the willows and alders along the river that now and again obstructed our way appeared to be thicker and wetter than ever. Under these conditions we had made six portages, the longest of which was about three-quarters of a mile, and covered in all about four and a half miles, when one o'clock came and we gave up the fight for the day, to make our Sunday camp and try to get fish. We were ravenously hungry, and ate even the heads of the dried trout we had for luncheon, these being the last of those we caught and smoked on Lake Elson. During the afternoon we put out for the first time the old gill net Mackenzie had given us, and by hard work with the rod caught a few more trout for supper. It still poured on Sunday morning. Hubbard fished all day, and I the greater part of the forenoon. The net product of our labor was forty-five trout, most of them little fellows. The gill net yielded us nothing. In the afternoon George and I took the rifles and started out in different directions to look for caribou. Neither of us found any fresh tracks. I returned at dusk, to find George already in camp and our supper of boiled fish ready to be eaten. Our sugar was all gone by this time, and our supply of salt was so low that we were using hardly any. In spite of us the salt had been wet in the drenching rains we had encountered all up the Susan Valley, and a large part of it had dissolved. While we all craved sugar and other sweets, I believe Hubbard suffered the most from their absence. Perhaps the fact that George and I used tobacco and he did not, was the explanation. He was continually discussing the merits of various kinds of cake, candies, and sweet things generally. Our conversation too often turned to New York restaurants, and how he would visit various ones of them for particular dishes. Bread undoubtedly was what we craved the most. "I believe I'll never refuse bread again," Hubbard would say, "so long as there's a bit on the table." Monday (August 10) brought with it no abatement of the driving rain and cold east wind. Working industriously for half an hour before breakfast, Hubbard succeeded in landing a single small trout, which fell to me, while he and George ate thick pea meal porridge, of which they were very fond. We made several short portages during the morning, and, despite the dismal weather, our spirits brightened; for we came upon old wigwam poles and axe cuttings, which we accepted as proof that we were now surely on the Indian trail to Michikamau. Towards noon Hubbard said: "Well, boys, we're on the right road, we've covered three miles this morning, and this rain is killing, so we'll pitch camp now, and wait for the weather to clear and try to get some fish ahead. There are fish here, I know, and when the wind changes we'll get them." After warming ourselves by a big fire and eating luncheon, Hubbard and I took our rods and fished the greater part of the afternoon, catching between us twelve or fifteen trout. "You had better cook them all for supper, George," said Hubbard. "This is my mother's birthday, and in honour of it we'll have an extra loaf of bread and some of her dried apples. And I tell you what, boys, I wish I could see her now." On the following day (Tuesday, August 11) the weather had somewhat moderated, but the east wind continued, and the rain still fell during all the forenoon. We could get no fish at our camp, and at two in the afternoon started forward, all of us hungry and steadily growing hungrier. Hubbard whipped the water at the foot of every rapid and tried every pool, but succeeded in getting only a very few trout. While he fished, George and I made the portages, and thus, pushing on as rapidly as possible, we covered about four miles. While George and I were scouting on Sunday, we had each caught sight of a ridge of rocky mountains extending in a northerly and southerly direction, which we estimated to be from twenty to twenty-five miles to the westward. Previous to Tuesday, these mountains had not been visible from the river valley, but on that day they suddenly came into view, and they made us stop and think, for they lay directly across our course. However, we did not feel much uneasiness then, as we decided that our river must flow through a pass in the mountains far to the north, and follow them down before turning east. Our camp on Tuesday night was rather a dreary one; but before noon on Wednesday (August 12) the clouds broke, big patches of blue sky began to appear, and with a bit of sunshine now and again, our hearts lightened as we proceeded on our journey. At the foot of a half-mile portage Hubbard caught fourteen trout, and our luncheon was secure. Three more portages we made, covering in all about three miles, and then we shouted for joy, for there ahead of us lay open water. Along it for five miles we gaily canoed before stopping for luncheon. Hungry? Yes, we were hungry even after devouring the fourteen trout and drinking the water they were boiled in--I could have eaten fifty like them myself--but our spirits were high, and we made merry. For the first time since leaving Grand Lake there was good water behind us and good water before us. At the last rapid we portaged the country had flattened out. Wide marshes extended along the south bank of the river, with now and then a low hill of drift. The north side was followed by a low ridge of drift, well wooded. We landed for luncheon on the south bank, at the foot of a wooded knoll, and there we made an interesting discovery, namely, the remains of an old Indian camp and the ruins of two large birch-bark canoes. In November, at Northwest River Post, I heard the story of those canoes. Twelve years before, it appears, the band of Indians that had camped there, being overtaken by early ice, was forced to abandon its canoes and make a dash for the Post. Game was scarce, and the fish had gone to deeper waters. The Indians pushed desperately on overland, but one by one they fell, until at last the gaunt fiend, Starvation, had claimed them all. Since that time no Indian has ever travelled that trail--the route to Michikamau upon which we had stumbled was thereupon abandoned. The Indians believe the trail is not only unlucky, but haunted; that if while on it they should escape Starvation--that terrible enemy which nearly always dogs them so closely--they are likely to encounter the spirits of them that died so many years ago. Not knowing anything of this tragic story, we merrily ate our luncheon on the very spot where others in desperation had faced death. It was to us an old Indian camp, and an additional reason for believing we were on the right trail, that was all. While we ate, the sun came out brilliantly, and we resumed our paddling feeling ready for almost anything that might happen. And something soon did happen--something that made the day the most memorable so far of the trip. No rapids intercepted our progress, and in an hour we had paddled three miles, when, at a place where the river widened, a big woodland stag caribou suddenly splashed into the water from the northern shore, two hundred yards ahead. I seized my rifle, and, without waiting for the canoe to stop, fired. The bullet went high. The caribou raised his head and looked at us inquisitively. Then Hubbard fired, and with the dying away of the report of his rifle, George and I shouted: "You hit 'im, Hubbard; you've got 'im!" The wounded caribou sank half way to his knees, but struggled to his feet again. As he did so, Hubbard sent another shot at him, but missed. Slowly the big deer turned, and began to struggle up the bank. Again Hubbard and I fired, but both shots went low. We ran the canoe to shore, and while I made it fast, Hubbard and George ran breathlessly ahead to where the caribou had disappeared. I followed at once, and soon came upon them and the caribou, which fallen thirty yards from the river with a bullet through his body just back of the left shoulder. A trail of blood marked his path from the river to where he lay. As the animal floundered there in the moss, Hubbard, with the nervous impetuosity he frequently displayed, fired again against George's protest, the bullet entering the caribou's neck and passing down through his tongue the full length. Then George caught the thrashing animal by the antlers, and while he held its head down Hubbard cut its throat. We made our camp right where the caribou fell. It was an ideal spot on the high bank above the river, being flat and thickly covered with white moss. The banks at this point were all sand drift; we could not find a stone large enough to whet our knives. George made a stage for drying while Hubbard and I dressed the deer. Our work finished, we all sat down and roasted steaks on sticks and drank coffee. The knowledge that we were now assured of a good stock of dried meat, of course, added to the hilarity of feast. As we thought it best to hoard our morsel of flour, it was a feast of venison and venison alone. While waiting for our meat to dry, we had to remain in camp for three or four days. On the next afternoon (Thursday, August 13) Hubbard and I paddled about three miles up the river to look for fish, but we got no bites, probably because of the cold; in the morning there had been a fringe of ice on the river shore. "We'll take it easy," said Hubbard while we were paddling upstream, "and make a little picnic of it. I'm dead tired myself. How do you feel, Wallace?" "I feel tired, too," I said. "I have to make an extra effort to do any work at all." Hubbard was inclined to attribute this tired feeling to the freedom from strain after our nerve-racking work of the last few weeks, while I hazarded the opinion that our purely meat diet had made us lazy. Probably it was due to both causes. As Hubbard was anxious to obtain definite knowledge as to what effect the high ridge of rocky mountains had upon our river, George and I, with the object of ascertaining the river's course, left camp in the canoe on Friday morning (August 14), taking with us, in addition to our emergency kits, our cups, some tea, and enough caribou ribs for luncheon. We portaged around a few short rapids, and then, about eight miles above our camp, came upon a lake expansion of considerable size with many inlets. On the northerly side of the lake was a high, barren hill, which afforded us a splendid view of the surrounding country. Winding away to the southeast was the river we had ascended. To the west was a series of lake expansions connected by narrow straits, and beyond them were the mountains, which we estimated rose about 2,500 feet above the country at their base. In sheltered places on their sides, patches of ice and snow glistened in the sunshine. Barren almost to their base, not a vestige of vegetation to be seen anywhere on their tops or sides, they presented a scene of desolate grandeur, standing out against the blue sky like a grim barrier placed there to guard the land beyond. As I gazed upon them, some lines from Kipling's "Explorer" that I had often heard Hubbard repeat were brought forcibly to my mind: "Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges-- Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!" Let us call these ranges the Kipling Mountains. To the north, hill after hill, with bald top rising above the stunted trees on its sides, limited our range of vision. Far away to the south stretched a rolling, wooded country. To the eastward the country was flatter, with irregular ranges of low hills, all covered with a thick growth of spruce and fir balsam. Beyond the point where the water flowed from it southeasterly into the river we had ascended, the lake at the foot of our hill seemed to extend directly eastward for four for five miles; but the thick wood of the valleys and low-lying hills made it difficult to see just where it ended, so that from where we stood it was impossible to tell what course the river took--whether it came from the east, bending about in the lake expansion below us, or flowed from the west through the lake expansions beyond. Away off to the northeast an apparently large lake could be discerned, with numerous mound-like islands dotting its surface. For a long time we stood and gazed about us. Far to the southeast a tiny curl of smoke rose heavenward in the clear atmosphere. That was Hubbard's campfire--the only sign of life to be seen in all that wide wilderness. The scene was impressive beyond description. It gave me a peculiar feeling of solemnity and awe that I shall never forget. We found on our hill a few dead twigs of sub-Arctic shrubbery with which to make a fire to broil our caribou ribs, and gathered some mildly acid berries of a variety neither of us had ever seen before, which we ate as a dessert. After luncheon George said he thought we had better go to the westward to look for the river. "But how can it come through those mountains?" I asked. "I don't know as it can," he replied. "But," pointing to one of the range, "I want to take a look at the country beyond from that high mountain." So we returned to our canoe, and paddled to the westward a few miles through two lake expansions, which brought us to the foot of the mountains. We landed at a place where a small creek tumbled down through a rocky pass. George went up his mountain alone. During his absence, with my emergency kit, I caught ten six-inch trout to be divided between us for supper, as only two of our caribou ribs remained. Near dark George came back. After climbing half way to the summit of his mountain, he had encountered perpendicular walls of rock that blocked his further progress. We made a fire of old wigwam poles, and roasted our fish before it on a flat stone. A quart of hot tea between us washed down our meagre supper, and then we made a bed of boughs. But when we tried to sleep the icy wind that blew through the pass caused us to draw closer to the fire, before which we alternately sat and lay shivering throughout the night. Having brought no axe with us, we could not build a fire of any size. I do not believe either of us slept more than half an hour. "Which would you rather have, Wallace, a piece of bread or a blanket?" George would ask at frequent intervals. "Bread," I always answered. At that he would chuckle. We had tasted nothing but venison and fish since the day we killed the caribou, and for bread we had an inexpressible craving. "Anyway," George would say, "this cold will weaken the flies." And with this reflection he continued to comfort us as the nights became chillier. In the morning we had to break the ice to get water for our tea, which with the two remaining caribou ribs constituted our breakfast. George then made another attempt at his mountain. Again he failed to reach the summit, and I failed to induce any more trout to rise. In a somewhat despondent mood we turned back, and paddled for some distance into the lake expansions to the eastward of the point where our river flowed out. Although we were compelled to start for "home" before obtaining any definite knowledge of the course of the river, we were of the opinion that it came from the east. For all we knew, however, the river might end in those lake expansions; we could not tell, as no current could be discerned, and having no food we could not continue the search. It was five o'clock in the evening when we reached camp, tired out and as hungry as two wolves, and we astonished Hubbard with the amount of venison we put out of sight. While George was temporarily out of hearing, Hubbard said: "It's bully good to see you back again, Wallace. I was disappointed when you didn't come back last night, and I've been dead lonesome. I got thinking of my wife and home, and the good things to eat there, and was on the verge of homesickness." "We were mightily disappointed, too, at not getting back," said I between mouthfuls. "Up there on the lakes we put in the toughest night yet, and we were thinking of the venison and warm blankets down here at camp." Hubbard was much discouraged and depressed at our report of the uncertain course of the river, although he was careful to conceal his feelings from George. The next day (Sunday, August 16) we cut up our canvas guncases and used some of the material to re-bottom our moccasins. What was left over we put away carefully for future use. George cracked the caribou bones and boiled out the marrow grease. He stripped the fat from the entrails and tried out the tallow, preserving even the cracklings or scraps. "We'll be glad to eat 'em yet," said he. One of the hoofs he dressed and put with our store of meat. We preserved everything but the head, the entrails and three of the hoofs. The tallow we found an excellent substitute for lard. In the afternoon Hubbard and I caught thirty trout in an hour at the rapid a mile and a half above our camp, and a few more in the river close by the camp. High living during the day raised all of our spirits. For breakfast we had the caribou heart, which George thought at first he would roast but changed his mind and served stewed. For dinner we had the tongue, the tidbit of the animal, boiled with pieces of other parts. Hubbard's second bullet had torn out the centre of the tongue, but what there was of it was delicious. And at night we had the trout caught during the afternoon, to which, as a Sunday luxury, was added a cake of bread. When we gathered around the fire in the evening Hubbard had entirely recovered from his depression and took a more hopeful view of the river. We discussed the matter thoroughly, and decided that the river George and I had seen coming from the eastward must take a turn farther north and break through the Kipling Mountains, and that it might prove to be Low's Northwest River we all thought was possible. At the same time we could not disguise the fact that it was extremely probable we should have to portage over the mountains, and the prospect was far from pleasing; but, ragged and almost barefooted though we were, not a man thought of turning back, and on Monday morning, August 17th, we prepared to leave Camp Caribou and solve the problem as to where lay the trail of Michikamau. VIII. "MICHIKAMAU OR BUST!" The temperature was three degrees below freezing when grey dawn at half past four o'clock that Monday morning bid us up and on. The crisp air and the surpassing beauty of the morning stirred within us new hope and renewed ambition. And the bags of jerked venison and the grease gave us faith that we should succeed in reaching our goal. Though we had some food in stock, there was to be no cessation in our effort to get fish; our plan was for Hubbard to try his rod at the foot of every rapid while George and I did the portaging. Before midday Hubbard had forty trout, one of them sixteen inches long--the biggest we had caught yet. We stopped for luncheon on the sandy shore of a pretty little lake expansion, and ate the whole morning's catch, fried in caribou tallow, with unsweetened coffee to wash it down. Then on we pushed towards the Kipling Mountains. At a narrow strait between two lakes we left Hubbard to fish, George and I going on two miles farther to the place where we had spent that chilly night while scouting, and where our camp for this night was to be pitched. Our object in going there was to give George another chance to view the country on the other side of the mountain range. This time he was to try another peak. As he disappeared up the mountain side, I paddled back to get Hubbard, who was awaiting me with a good string of big trout. The two-mile stretch of lake from where Hubbard was fishing to our camping ground was as smooth as a sheet of glass. The sun hanging low over the mountains and reflecting their nude forms in the silvery water, and the dark green forest of fir trees on the shores moved Hubbard to exclamations of delight. "Oh, if it could be painted just as it appears now!" he said. "Why, Wallace, this one scene is worth all the groaning we've done to get here. It's grand! grand!" At dark George returned to camp with the report that from his peak he could see only higher mountains looming up to the westward. In the shadow of the grey rocks of the grim old mountains that so stubbornly held their secret of what lay beyond, we had a good supper of trout and were happy, though through the gulch the creek roared defiance at us, and off in the night somewhere a loon would break out at intervals in derisive laughter. At the base of the mountains the narrow lake reflected a million stars, and in their kindly light the snow and ice patches on the slopes above us gleamed white and brilliant. With our day's work the listlessness from which we had recently suffered had entirely disappeared, and we felt ready to undertake any task, the more difficult the better. Hubbard suggested giving up route hunting if our river ended where we then were, and striking right across the mountains with our outfit on our backs, and we received the suggestion with enthusiasm. He talked, too, a great deal about snowshoeing in winter to St. Augustine on the St. Lawrence, cutting across country from the Kenemish River, which flows into Groswater Bay opposite Northwest River Post. This trip, which he held out as a possibility in the event of our missing the last steamer out from Rigolet, seemed to appeal to him immensely. "I don't care if we are too late for the steamer," he said; "that snowshoeing trip would be a great stunt." We found a great many wigwam poles near and in the pass hard by our camp, while by the creek we came across the remains of both summer and winter camps, probably those of hunters. "One of the beggars was high-toned," said George; "he had a stove." This was evidenced by the arrangement of stones within the circle of wigwam poles, and a few pieces of wood cut stove-size. On Tuesday morning (August 18) we turned back and into the long, narrow lake expansions to the eastward, and soon satisfied ourselves that this was the right course. Our thermometer registered 28 degrees that morning. The day dawned clear and perfect; it was a morning when one draws in long breaths, and one's nerves tingle, and life is a joy. Early in the forenoon we reached rapids and quickly portaged around them; all were short, the largest being not more than half a mile. At ten o'clock we ate luncheon at the foot of one of the rapids where we caught, in a few minutes, fourteen large trout. Just above this rapid the river opened into long, narrow lakes, and the canoeing was superb. Suddenly the river took a sharp turn to the westward, and appeared to lead directly into the mountains. At that we sent up three rousing cheers--the river problem seemed to be solved; apparently the road to Michikamau lay straight before us. A little above the bend in the river we came upon an old gander and goose and two unfeathered young. The gander with a great squawk and flapping wings took to the bush, but we killed the old goose with a rifle, and George "knocked over," as he expressed it, one of the young ones with a pistol. More luck (and food) came to us a little later. While George and I portaged around the last rapid that evening, Hubbard caught fifty trout averaging over a pound each. They jumped greedily to the fly, four or five rising at every cast. Above this rapid the river again took the form of a long, narrow lake--a lake so beautiful that we were entranced. It was evening when we arrived, and the very spirit of peace seemed to brood over the place. Undoubtedly we were the first white men that had ever invaded its solitude, and the first human beings of any kind to disturb its repose for many years. On the north a barren, rocky bluff rose high above the water; at all other places the shores were low and wooded. A few miles to the westward could be seen the barren Kipling Mountains, and between them and us was a ridge of low hills covered with black-green spruce. The sun was setting in our faces as we paddled slowly along the lake, and as it went down behind the mountains a veil was gradually drawn over the lovely scene. Not a breath of air was stirring, and hardly a sound broke the stillness save the ripple at the bow of the canoe and the soft splash of the paddles. In the placid waters two otters were swimming and diving. One was timid and remained at a distance, but the other was bold and inquisitive and came close to the canoe. Here and there all over the lake, its mirror-like surface was broken by big jumping trout. Two loons laughed at us as we drew the canoe on to the sandy beach of a low jutting point, and they continued to laugh while we pitched our camp in the green woods near the shore and prepared our supper of roast goose. It was a feast day. With goose, plenty of trout and good water for paddling, it was a time to eat, drink, and be merry. Our high spirits still remained when we broke camp in the morning (Wednesday, August 19), but they were destined soon to be dashed. Not long after we started we found ourselves in good-sized lakes, with arms extending in every direction. All day we hunted for the river, but found only small streams emptying into the lakes. The country now was much rougher, and much more rocky and barren, than any we had seen since we left the coast. The trees were more stunted and gnarled, and the streams usually had a bed-rock bottom. In the course of the day Hubbard shot three rock ptarmigans--"rockers," George called them. They were the first we had seen, and were still wearing their mottled summer dress; later in the season they are a pure, spotless white. Towards evening we made our way to a point on the northwesterly part of the lakes where a small stream came through a mountain pass, and there went into camp. We were much disappointed at our failure to find the river, but not disheartened. In order to make certain that we had not overlooked it, we decided to paddle back the next day as far as the last rapid and make one more careful search. Failing then to find the river, we should portage through the mountain pass at the entrance to which we had camped. "Do you remember," asked Hubbard, "the slogan of the old Pike's Peakers?--'Pike's Peak or Bust?'" "Yes," said I; "and very often they busted." "Well," said Hubbard, "we'll adopt it and change it to our needs. 'Michikamau or Bust,' will be our watchword now." And sitting around the fire, we all took it up and repeated determinedly, "Michikamau or Bust!" The morning of the next day (Thursday, August 20) we occupied in mending our moccasins with parts of the caribou skin. George also took the venison from the bags and hung it over the fire to give it a little more drying, as it had begun to mould. In the afternoon Hubbard and I, in accordance with the plan we had adopted, paddled back over our course and re-explored the lower lakes. We discovered nothing new. The fact was that these lakes were the source of the Beaver River. While we were paddling about we came upon two old and two young loons. The old ones tried to lure us away from their young, by coming very near the canoe. The young loons made frequent dives, but we succeeded in catching one of them. Finally, however, we restored it to its parents, and when the loon family was re-united there was great rejoicing in the household. In the pool at the foot of the last rapid we spent an hour fishing, and caught eighty-one trout, averaging, perhaps, a half-pound each. Upon our return to camp in the evening we dressed our catch and hung the fish to dry over a slow, smoky fire. The river having come to an end, our only course now was to cross the mountains, and on Friday (August 21), with "Michikamau or Bust!" for our slogan, we began our portage along the stream that flowed through the pass near our camp. A heavy rain was falling. During the first part of the day, in the course of which we crossed three small ponds, the travelling was fairly good; but during the latter part it was exceedingly rough and difficult. We pitched our tent that night on the divide; in other words, we had reached the place where small streams flowed both east and west. The cold rain continued when we broke camp the next morning (Saturday, August 22). For a time we again encountered rough work, forcing a passage over rocks and through thick brush and scrambling down high banks, and then, as we neared the end of the pass, the portage became less difficult. Before noon we came upon a lake of considerable size and unmistakable signs that in directing our course through the pass we had kept upon the old Indian trail. On the edge of the lake--we shall call it Lake Hope--trees had been blazed to make plain the exact point where the portage trail left the water, and near this place were sweat holes where the medicine men had given baths to the sick. Much drift wood showing axe cuttings was on the shore, and we picked up an old canoe paddle of Indian make. All this led us to believe we were on waters connected directly with Lake Michikamau (which was the fact), and we thought that possibly we had reached a deep bay said to extend from the main body of the lake some thirty miles in a southeasterly direction. Where we launched our canoe the mountain pass was very narrow, and on the southerly side, rising almost perpendicularly from the water to a height of eight or nine hundred feet, stood a hill of absolutely bare rock. The wind was blowing the rain in sheets over its face, and, despite the wet and chill, we paused to enjoy the grandeur of the scene. We had travelled about six miles through the pass, and this hill marked its end; the mountain barrier that at one time seemed so formidable had not proved so difficult to cross after all. And in accomplishing the pass we had reached the great interior plateau--the land that lay hidden behind the ranges. After we had paddled along Lake Hope a hundred yards, we struck a sharp-pointed rock that tore a hole through the bottom of the canoe. This accident forced us to take refuge on a near-by island where George could repair the damage and procure gum from the spruce trees to cover the patch. Sunshine came with Sunday morning (August 23), and we dried our blankets and camp outfit before starting forward, so that it was after ten o'clock when we quit the island. Lake Hope proved to be long and narrow, and we soon realised that it could not be Michikamau's southeast bay; but at the western end we hoped to find a strait connecting it with another lake, and as we approached the western end with a feeling of uncertainty as to what lay beyond, George remarked: "It's like goin' into a room where there's a Christmas tree." Sure enough there was a strait, and as we turned into it, we saw beyond big water stretching away to the westward for miles. "There's a Christmas tree without a doubt," said Hubbard. We felt positive now that this second lake was Michikamau's southeast bay, and we broke the solemn stillness of the wilderness with three lusty cheers. It is violating no confidence to say here that the second lake was not Michikamau's southeast bay; it was simply the peculiarly-shaped body of water that appears on my map under the name, Lost Trail Lake. Two and a half miles up Lost Trail Lake we climbed a barren ridge, where we found blueberries, mossberries and bake-apple berries. The latter berry is salmon-coloured, and grows on a plant resembling that of the strawberry. The berry itself resembles in form the raspberry, and has a flavour like that of a baked apple, from which fact it derives its name. It ripens after the first frost. The mossberry is small and black, resembling in shape and size the blueberry, and is sweet and palatable after being touched with frost. It is usually found on the moss clinging to rocks. On the ridge it grew in abundance, and we ate a great many. The blueberry of Labrador is similar to the blueberry of the United States. Some distance beyond where we got the berries we went into camp. Trolling on the way, we caught a namaycush (lake trout), the first we had seen on the trip. In our camp on Lost Trail Lake we were held all of Monday (August 24) by a gale that beat the water into a fury. We took advantage of the opportunity to try our gill net, sinking it on the lee shore, but it was so rotten it would not hold a fish large enough to get fast in it, and we finally threw it away as a useless encumbrance. In the course of the day Hubbard and climbed a hill not far away, while I remained in camp to do some "chores." They found bake-apple berries in abundance--the only spot we came across where they grew in any great quantity--and had a good look at a lake we had previously sighted two miles to the north. This lake was larger than the one we were on, being about twenty-five miles long; it was, in fact, the largest body of water by far that we had seen since leaving Grand Lake. Its size impressed Hubbard with the fatal belief that it, rather than Lost Trail Lake, was connected with Michikamau, and to it he decided to go. Our experience there led us to call it Lake Disappointment. We portaged into it on Tuesday morning (August 25). Our course was over a neck of land which was mostly soft marsh partially covered with spruce. We did not know then that in abandoning Lost Trail Lake for Lake Disappointment we were wandering from the Indian trail to Michikamau. Some Indians I met during the winter at Northwest River Post told me that a river flowed out of the western end of Lost Trail Lake into the very southeast bay of Lake Michikamau we were longing so much to see. This was the trail. And we lost it. We ate our luncheon on the southern shore of Lake Disappointment. That afternoon and the next two days (August 26 and 27) we spent in paddling about the lake in a vain search for a river. Thirty or more miles a day we paddled, and found nothing but comparatively small creeks. One of these we followed almost to its source, and then returned to the lake again. We were living pretty well. While we were on these lakes near the mountains we killed four geese and one spruce-grouse, and caught about eighty half-pound trout, two two-pound namaycush and a five-pound pike. The pike we got in this unsportsmanlike manner: We were fishing for trout in a creek that emptied into Lake Disappointment in a succession of falls, and found that while there were some above the lower fall, none could be induced to rise where the creek at the foot of the lower fall made an ideal pool for them. We were lunching on a rock near this pool when Hubbard suddenly remarked: "There's only one reason why trout don't rise here." "What's that?" I asked. "Pike," he answered laconically, and left his luncheon to fasten a trolling hook on his trout line. After he had fixed a piece of cork to the line for a "bobber," he baited the hook with a small live trout and dropped it into the pool. "Now we'll have a pike," said he. Scarcely had he resumed his luncheon when the cork bobbed under, and he grabbed his rod to find a big fish on the other end. He played it around until it was near the shore, and as it arose to the surface I put a pistol bullet through its head. Then Hubbard hauled in the line, and he had our five-pound pike. There were two occasions when we felt particularly like feasting. One was when we were progressing with a clear course ahead and were happy, and the other was when we were not sure of the way and were blue. That night we were blue; so we had a feast of goose and pike. Hubbard planked the pike, and it was excellent. All of our food was eaten now without salt, but we were getting used to its absence. After our feast Hubbard astonished George and me by taking out a new pipe I had brought along to trade with the Indians, and filling it with the red willow bark George and I had been mixing with our tobacco. We watched him curiously as he lighted it; for, with the exception of a puff or two on a cigarette, he had never smoked before. He finished the pipe without flinching. I asked him how he liked it. "Pretty good," he said. Then after a pause he added: "And I'll tell you what; if ever I start out again on another expedition of this sort, I am going to learn to smoke; watching you fellows makes me believe it must be a great comfort." George and I had been mixing red willow bark with our tobacco, because our stock had become alarmingly low. In fact, it would have been entirely gone had not Hubbard presented us with some black plug chewing he had purchased at Rigolet to trade with the Indians. The plugs, having been wet, had run together in one mass; but we dried it out before the fire, and, mixed with the bark, it was not so bad. Later on George and I took to drying out the tea leaves and mixing them with the tobacco. On Wednesday morning (August 26) when we left camp to continue the search for a river, we decided to leave the caribou skin behind us; its odour had become most offensive, and in spite of our efforts to keep out the flies they had filled it with blows and it was now fairly crawling with maggots. On Thursday when we were passing the same way, George gave a striking example of his prescience. He was at the stern paddle, and turned the canoe to the place where we had left the hide. "What are you stopping for?" asked Hubbard. "I thought I would get that caribou skin, wash it off, and take it along," said George. "What in the world do you expect to do with it? "Well," answered George quietly, "we may want to eat it some day." Hubbard and I both laughed. Nevertheless Hubbard jumped out of the canoe with George and helped him wash the skin, and we took it along. And, as George predicted, the day came when we were glad we did. It was on Thursday night that, disgusted and weary, we gave up the search for a river. Our camp was on the north shore of Lake Disappointment, down near the western end. Hubbard now expressed the opinion that we should have to portage north or northwest across country. His idea was that by proceeding north we should eventually reach the river that Low had mapped as flowing from Michikamau, the so-called Northwest. If we reached the latitude in which the river was supposed to be and could not find it, Hubbard's plan then called for our turning directly west. The situation that confronted us was serious. Hubbard had recently had another attack of diarrhoea, and was weak. The patches we put on our moccasins would last only a day or two, and we were practically barefoot. Our rags were hanging in strips. Our venison was going rapidly, and our flour was practically gone. To portage across country meant that we should probably not have many opportunities for fishing, as we should not have any stream to follow. Getting game had proved uncertain. Even were we to face towards home, we had not sufficient provisions to carry us half way to Northwest River Post. That Thursday evening in camp we discussed the situation from all sides. We knew that if we pressed on winter in all probability would overtake us before we reached a post, but we decided that we should fight our way on to Lake Michikamau and the George River. There was no doubt about it, we were taking a long chance; nevertheless, we refused to entertain the thought of turning back. Daring starvation, we should on the morrow start overland and see what lay beyond the hills to the northward. "Michikamau or Bust!" was still our slogan. IX. AND THERE WAS MICHIKAMAU! From the northwesterly end of Lake Disappointment we portaged on Friday (August 28) across a neck of land to two small, shallow lakes that lay to the northward, and in the teeth of a gale paddled to the northern shore of the farther lake. There we went into camp for the day in order that Hubbard might rest, as he was still weak from the effects of his recent illness. We took advantage of the opportunity to patch up our moccasins and clothing as best we could, and held a long consultation, the outcome of which was, that it was decided that for the present, at least, we should leave behind us our canoe and the bulk of our camp equipment, including the tent, and push on with light packs, consisting of one blanket for each man, an axe, the two pistols, one rifle, and our stock of food. Before us there apparently stretched miles of rough, rocky country. Our equipment and stock of food at this time made up into four packs of about 100 pounds each. The canoe, water-soaked and its crevices filled with sand, must now have weighed nearly a hundred pounds. It was a most awkward thing to carry over one's head when the wind blew, and where there were rocks there was danger of the carrier falling and breaking, not only the canoe, but his own bones. This meant that if our entire outfit were taken along, practically every bit of land we travelled would have to be covered twice. In leaving the canoe behind, we, of course, should have to take chances on meeting intervening lakes; but, once in the region of northern Michikamau, there seemed a fair chance of our falling in with Indians that would take us down the George River, and the advantages of light travel were obvious with winter fast approaching. The stock of food we had to carry would not weigh us down. The dried venison had been reduced to a few pounds, so that we had to eat of it sparingly and make our principal diet on boiled fish and the water in which it was cooked. We had just a bit of flour, enough to serve bread at rare intervals as a great dainty. Nothing remained of our caribou tallow and marrow grease. It is true we held in reserve the "emergency ration"; but this consisted only of eighteen pounds of pea meal, a pint of rice, and a small piece of bacon. This ration we had pledged ourselves to use only in case of the direst necessity, should we be compelled to make a forced retreat, and we felt we must not think of it at this time as food on hand. In camp on Friday night I could see that Hubbard was worrying considerably. Nervously active by habit, he found delay doubly hard. The days we had spent on Lake Disappointment in a vain search for a river had been particularly trying on his nerves, and had left him a prey to many fears. The spectre of an early winter in this sub-Arctic land began to haunt him constantly. The days were slipping away and were becoming visibly shorter with each sunset. If we could get to the Indians on the George, we should be safe; for they would give us warm skins for clothing and replenish our stock of food. But should we meet with more delays, and arrive on the George too late for the caribou migration, and fail to find the Indians, what then? Well, then, our fate would be sealed. Hubbard was the leader of the expedition and he felt himself responsible, not only for his own life, but, to a large extent, for ours. It is little wonder, therefore, that he brooded over the possibilities of calamity, but with youth, ambition, and the ardent spirit that never will say die, he invariably fought off his fears, and bent himself more determinedly than ever to achieve the purpose for which he had set out. Frequently he confided his fears to me, but was careful to conceal all traces of them from George. In light marching order we went out on Saturday morning (August 29), making rapid progress to the northward, through a thick growth of small spruce timber and over a low ridge; but scarcely had we gone a mile when we were compelled to halt. There in front of us was a small lake extending east and west. It was not more than an eighth of a mile across it, but a long distance around it. Back we went for the canoe, and at the same time brought forward the whole camp outfit. Again we tried light marching order, and again a lake compelled us to go back for the canoe and outfit. And thus it was all day: a stretch of a mile or so; then a long, narrow lake to cross, until finally we were forced to admit that our plan of proceeding with light packs and without the canoe was impracticable. Hubbard was feeling stronger on Saturday evening, and we had a pleasant camp. George made a big fire of tamarack, and we lay before it on a couch of spruce boughs and ate tough boiled venison and drank the broth; and, feeling we had made some progress, we were happy, despite the fact that we were in the midst of a trackless wilderness with our way to Michikamau and the Indians as uncertain as ever. Sunday morning (August 30) broke superbly beautiful, and the day continued clear and mild. We made an early start; for every hour had become precious. While we were doing this cross-country work without any streams to guide us, it was George's custom to go ahead all the way from half a mile to two miles and blaze a trail, so that when we were travelling back and forth bringing up the packs and the canoe we might not go astray. In the course of the morning we came to two small lakes, which we paddled over. We had believed that our goose chases were over; for these birds now having grown their feathers, could fly, and were generally beyond the reach of our pistols and the uncertain aim of a rifle at anything on the wing. For two days we had heard them flying, and now and then would see them high in the air. But while we were crossing one of the small lakes this Sunday, five geese walked gravely down the bank and into the water ahead of the canoe. One of them we got with a pistol shot; the others flew away. In another lake we reached late in the day we came upon five or six ducks. They were not far away, but dived so frequently we were unable to shoot them with pistol or rifle. A shotgun might have enabled us to get nearly all the geese as well as the ducks and other game we saw on the wing and in the water on other occasions. We often expressed the regret that we had no shotgun with us. At one time Hubbard had intended that one should be taken, but later decided that the ammunition would be too bulky. A low, semi-barren ridge running east and west lay just beyond the small blue-green lake in which we saw the ducks towards evening. About seven miles beyond the ridge to the north was a short range of high, barren mountains that were perhaps a trifle lower than the Kipling Mountains. Upon ascending the ridge we heard the rushing of water on the other side, which sound proved to come from a small fall on a stream expanding and stretching out, to the eastward in long, narrow lakes. Apparently these lakes were the headquarters of a small river flowing to the southeast, and in all probability here was the source of the Red River, which, as I have described, flows into the Nascaupee some fifteen or eighteen miles above Grand Lake. The whole character of the country had now changed. It was very rocky and steadily growing more barren. Ridges and hills extended to the mountains on the north. Great boulders were piled in confusion behind us and in front of us. Portaging over them had been most difficult and dangerous. A misstep might have meant a broken leg, and as it was, the skin had been pretty nearly all knocked off of our shins from the instep to the knee. Below the fall we had discovered was a deep pool in which Hubbard caught, with his emergency kit and a tamarack pole, twenty trout averaging twelve inches in length. We camped near this pool. The hard work of the day had brought on Hubbard another attack of his old illness; apparently it was only by a great exertion of will-power that he kept moving at all during the afternoon, and at night he was very weak. Before supper he drank a cup of strong tea as a stimulant, and was taken immediately with severe vomiting. Watching his suffering, the thought came to me whether, disregarding all other considerations, I should not at this point strongly insist on the party turning back. I was aware, however, of the grim determination of the man to get his work done, and was convinced of the uselessness of any attempt to sway him from his purpose. Moreover, I myself was hopeful of our ability to reach the caribou grounds; I felt sure that Hubbard's grit would carry him through. Looking back now, I can see I should have at least attempted to turn him back, but I am still convinced it would have been useless. I thoroughly believe only one thing would have turned the boy back at that time--force. After this vomiting ceased, Hubbard said he felt better, but he ate sparingly of the boiled fish we had for supper. George and I also felt a bit weak, and our stomachs were continually crying out for bread or some other grain food. As we reclined before the fire, Hubbard had George tell us of various Indian dishes he had prepared. After he had entered into these gastronomic details with great gusto, George suddenly said: "Wouldje believe it, fellus?--I once threw away a whole batch of cookies." "No!" we both cried. "Fact," said George. "For Heaven's sake," said Hubbard, "why did you do it?" "Well," said George, "it was when I first went cookin' in a surveyor's camp. The cookies wasn't as good as I thought they ought to be, and I was so ashamed of 'em that I took the whole lot out and buried 'em. Supposin'," added George, in an awed whisper, "supposin' we had 'em now!" "Why what in the world would you do with them?" asked Hubbard. "Um!" grunted George. "Well, I guess we'd find a way to use 'em, all right." The story of the buried cookies started us all to talking of doughnuts, and cake, and pie, and Hubbard extolled the merits of the chocolate served at one of the New York hotels. "Wallace," he at length asked, "do you like pig's knuckles?" "I like," I replied, "anything that can be eaten." "Well," confided Hubbard, "I know a place down on Park Row where they serve the best pigs' knuckles you ever ate. I used to go there for them when I was on the old Daily News. They cook them just right, and serve a big plate of nice greasy cabbage or sauerkraut with them, and a cup of pretty good coffee. We'll have to go there some time when we get back." And until it was time to go to sleep Hubbard continued to talk of the good dinners he had eaten when a child and of those his wife had recently prepared at his Congers home. As he had decided that before proceeding farther we should know something of the country that lay to the northward, Hubbard on Monday morning (August 31) sent George on a scouting trip to the short range of mountains just ahead. He and I planned to spend the day catching and drying fish. For some reason the fish refused to rise near the camp, and Hubbard, who was so weak he could hardly stand, returned to lie down, while I went farther down the stream. Towards luncheon-time I returned with only two or three small fish. Hubbard was still resting in the tent, but soon after I had begun to repair my fishing rod by the fire he came out and joined me. "Oh, how glad I'll be, Wallace," he said, "to get to Michikamau and finish my work here and get home again! I've been wondering when that will be. I'm afraid," he added slowly, "I've been a bit homesick to-day." "We'll surely get there soon, old man," I said encouragingly, "and when we do get there, we'll appreciate it more than ever. Just think how it will be to eat good bread, and all we want of it." "Yes," he said, "and then we'll be glad we came here, and can laugh at the recollection of these terrible ridges, and the whole awful country, and the hard times we've been through. I'm dead glad I had just you two fellows come with me. If I'd had a single man that growled about the grub and work, or wanted to quit, it would have been hell. But we haven't had a growl or a word about quitting or turning back." "There's no reason for quitting," said I. "And as for growling, there's no call for it. We've done the best we could, and that's enough to make any real man satisfied." "That's so," said Hubbard. "Take things as they come and make the best of them--that's good philosophy. I was thinking that here it is the last of August, and we don't know where we are; and it bothered me some as I lay there in the tent. But we've done our best and ought to be satisfied." In the afternoon I took my rod and went about three miles to the westward, where I came upon an isolated pond with no apparent outlet. Everywhere I could see the trout jumping, and by sundown had as long a string of them as I could conveniently carry. It was an hour after dark when I reached camp. George had returned, and they were beginning to fear that I was lost. George had climbed the mountains, and he reported a fair line of travel to the northwest, with a "long lake that looked like a river," and, some distance northwest of that, "big water" and a tolerably good route for portages. What he told us led Hubbard to decide to continue on with the canoe and our entire outfit. George brought back with him two grouse he had shot. The next morning (Tuesday, September 1) Hubbard was much better, and we began September with a renewed effort. It was rough and painful portaging over rocks and knolls. Every forty or fifty rods we came upon deep ponds with water so clear we could see the pebbles on the bottom. Between these ponds boulders were piled indiscriminately. In directing our course to the northwest we avoided the mountains that had lain just ahead. For two days we pushed on among the boulders, then over a wide marsh and through a heavy spruce growth, which brought us, on September 3d, to George's "lake that looked like a river." Let us call it Mary Lake. Along Lake Mary we paddled, in the pouring rain that began that day, some five miles to its western end; and there, near a creek that flowed into it, we found the remains of an old Indian camp. George looked the camp over critically and remarked: "The beggars killed two caribou, and they broke every bone up and boiled out the last drop of grease." "What was it--a summer or a winter camp?" asked Hubbard. "A summer," said George. "And they'd been fishing, too. There's a good fishing place--just try it!" We did try it, and we had a fairly good catch of large trout. For supper we had a few of the trout boiled, together with the water, with one spoonful of flour for each man stirred in. We ate the fish entire, entrails, head, and all, and from that time on we let no part of the fish we caught be thrown away. Everything now in the way of food George divided carefully into three equal parts, even the fish broth. By this time we had not enough flour on hand to make more than half a dozen cakes of bread, and we continued to use only a spoonful or two a day for each man, mixing it with game or fish broth; in this way we hoped it would satisfy to some extent our craving for grain, and last longer. As evening approached the sky cleared, and a big full moon tipped the fir trees with silver and set Lake Mary to gleaming. The air was filled with the perfume of the balsam and spruce, and it acted as a tonic on our spirits and drove away the depression of the day's work in the rain. Hubbard seemed to be as full of vim as ever, and all of us were quite contented. Sitting on the couch of boughs, George looked up at the sky and said: "There's a fine Indian story about that moon." Of course Hubbard and I begged that he tell it to us. "Well," said George, "it's a long story about a boy and girl that lived together in a wigwam by a great water. Their father and mother were dead, and the boy had learned to be a great hunter, because he had to hunt for them both, though he was young. One day he found a tree that was very high, and he climbed it, and told his sister to climb it with him; and they climbed higher and higher, and as they climbed, the tree grew taller and taller; and after a while they reached the moon. And then the boy laid down to sleep, and after a while he woke up with a bright light shinin' in his face--it was the sun passin' 'long that way. The boy said he would set a snare for the sun and catch it, and the next night he had his snare set when the sun came 'long, and he caught the sun, and then it was always bright on the moon. "There's a lot more to that story," added George, after a pause, "and I'll tell it to you some time; but it's too long and too late to tell it to-night." Unfortunately we never heard the continuation of the tale. George often hinted at interesting folklore stories about the milky way and different stars, and various other things in nature; but this was the nearest approach to a story we ever wrung from him. From our last camp on Lake Disappointment to our camp at the western end of Lake Mary we had travelled about twenty-five miles. In leaving the latter camp on September 4th we inclined our course directly west, to reach the "big water" George had seen from his mountain. During the next four days we encountered bad weather. As evening came on the sky would clear and remain clear until morning, when the clouds and rain would reappear. On the 4th there was sleet with the rain, and on the 6th we had our first snow, which soon was washed away, however, by rain. Our progress on the 4th was along the edge of a marsh between two low, wooded ridges, and then over the marsh and through several ponds, upon the shore of one of which we camped early in order that George might climb a hill, view the country and decide upon the shortest and best route to the "big water." He reported it about three miles ahead. It had been our rule to defer our bathing until the evening's chill had quieted the flies, but now there was no need of that, as the colder weather had practically killed them for the season. About this time I noticed that Hubbard did not take his usual bath, and I remarked: "The weather is getting pretty cold for bathing in the open, isn't it?" "Yes," said Hubbard; "but I wouldn't let that stop me if I weren't ashamed of my bones. To tell you the truth, Wallace, I'm like a walking skeleton." It was true. We were all very thin, but our lack of food told upon Hubbard's appearance the most, as he was naturally slender. The "big water" George thought was only three miles away proved to be like the wisp of hay that is held before the donkey's nose to lead him on. Day after day we floundered through swamps and marshes, over rocky, barren hills, and through thick growths of willows and alders, and at the end of the day's journey it would apparently be as far off as ever. The explanation was that in the rarefied atmosphere of interior Labrador distances are very deceptive; when George reported that the "big water" was three miles ahead it must have been fully fifteen. On the 5th, while crossing the barrens we came upon some blueberries and after eating our fill we were able to gather enough to supply each man with a big dish of them for supper. We were working our way over some bluffs on the afternoon of the 6th, when George, who was carrying the canoe, became separated from Hubbard and me. The wind was blowing hard, and he had difficulty in keeping the boat above his head. Suddenly I heard a call, and, looking back, saw George running after me, empty-handed. Hubbard did not hear the call, and went on. I dropped my pack, and waited for George to come up. "You fellus better wait for me," he panted. "I can't manage the canoe alone in the wind, and if we get separated, I might strike the lake one place and you somewhere else. And," added George, sententiously, "you fellus have got the grub." We shouted to Hubbard to wait, and when he answered, George and I returned for the canoe. Hubbard, however, kept on, and George and I carried the canoe ahead until we reached the thick woods into which he had disappeared; then George went back for my pack. Presently we heard Hubbard call from the depths of the woods, and a little later the sound of an axe. As we learned later, he had dropped his pack, and was blazing a trail towards us in order that he might find it again. He was as nervous as George had been over his narrow escape from being permanently separated from the rest of the party, and at a time when such a happening would have had serious consequences for us all. Under the best of circumstances, the prospect of being left alone in the midst of that inhospitable wilderness was enough to appal. On the 7th we reached a creek, and launched the canoe. Hubbard went ahead to fish below the rapids in the creek while George and I brought down the canoe and outfit, making several short portages. That night we camped two miles down the stream. Hubbard had caught, by hard work, thirty small trout, half of which we ate for supper. We were still ravenously hungry after we finished the trout, but the bag contained only one more meal of venison and we did not dare draw on it. This, together with the difficulty we were having in reaching the "big water," set Hubbard to worrying again. He was especially anxious about the sufficiency of the material he had gathered for a story, fearing that if he failed to reach the caribou grounds there would not be enough to satisfy his publishers. I told him I thought he already had enough for a "bang-up" story. "Anyway," I said, "we'll reach the caribou grounds, and see the Indians yet. George and I will go with you to the last ditch; you can count on us to the finish." "All right," said Hubbard, evidently relieved. "If you boys aren't sick of it, it's on to the caribou grounds, late or no late. But I feel I've got you fellows in a tight place." "We came with our eyes open," I replied, "and it's not your fault." On the morning of September 8th, following our stream out to a shoal, rocky bay, we reached the "big water" at last. It was the great body of water that I have mapped out as Windbound Lake. Forty miles we had portaged from Lake Disappointment. We were practically out of food of any kind. Looking over the great expanse of water stretching miles away to the westward, we wondered what our new lake had in store for us of hope and success, of failure and, despair. Would it lead us to Michikamau? If not, what were we to do? On its farther shore, about twenty miles to the northwest, rose in solemn majesty a great, grey mountain, holding its head high above all the surrounding world. It shall be known as Mount Hubbard. To this mountain we decided to paddle and view the country. Instinctively we felt that Michikamau lay on the other side. We launched our canoe after a light luncheon of trout and a small ptarmigan George had shot. Once in the course of the afternoon we stopped paddling to climb a low ridge near the shore and eat cranberries, which we found in abundance on its barren top. From the ridge we could see water among the hills in every direction. In the large lake at our feet were numerous wooded islands. We camped at dusk on one of these islands, and on Wednesday, September 9th, launched our canoe at daybreak, to resume our journey to Mount Hubbard. We reached its base before ten o'clock. Blueberries grew in abundance on the side of the mountain, which, together with the country near it, had been burned. One of us, it was decided, should remain behind to pick berries, while the others climbed to the summit. I volunteered for the berrypicking, but I shall always regret it was not possible for me to go along. Before Hubbard and George returned, I had our mixing basin filled with berries, and the kettle half full. The day was clear, crisp and delightful--one of those perfect days when the atmosphere is so pure and transparent that minute objects can be distinguished for miles. On the earth and on the water, not a thing of life was to be seen. The lake, relieved here and there with green island-spots; the cold rocks of distant mountains to the northeast; the low, semi-barren ridges and hills that we had travelled over bounding the lake to the eastward, and a ridge of green hills west of the lake that extended southward from behind Mount Hubbard as far as the eye could reach--all combined to complete a scene of vast and solemn beauty; and I, alone on the mountain side picking blueberries, felt an inexpressible sense of loneliness--felt myself the only thing of life in all that boundless wilderness-world. From the moment Hubbard and George had left me, I had not seen or heard them. But up the mountain they went through the burnt spruce forest, up for four miles over rocks, up and up to the top; and then to the westernmost side of the peak they went and looked--looked to the West; and there, only a few miles away, lay Michikamau with its ninety-mile expanse of water--the lake we so long had sought for and fought so desperately to reach. It was there, just beyond the ridge I had seen extending to the southward. X. PRISONERS OF THE WIND It was four o'clock in the afternoon, when the sun was getting low, that I, near the base of the mountain and still industriously picking berries, heard a shout from Hubbard and George at the canoe on the shore of the lake below. I was anxious to hear the result of their journey, and hurried down. "It's there! it's there!" shouted Hubbard, as I came within talking distance. "Michikamau is there, just behind the ridge. We saw the big water; we saw it!" In our great joy we fairly hugged each other, while George stood apart with something of Indian stoicism, but with a broad grin, nevertheless, expanding his good-natured features. We felt that Windbound Lake must be directly connected with Michikamau, and that we were now within easy reach of the caribou grounds and a land of plenty. It is true that from the mountain top Hubbard and George had been unable to trace out the connection, as Windbound Lake was so studded with islands, and had so many narrow arms reaching out in the various directions between low, thickly-wooded ridges, that their view of the waters between them and Michikamau was more or less obscured; but they had no doubt that the connection was there. "And," added Hubbard, after I had heard all about the great discovery, "good things never come singly. Look there!" I looked where he pointed, and there on the rocks near George's feet lay a pile of ptarmigans and one small rabbit. I picked them up and counted them with nervous joy; there were nine--nine ptarmigans, and the rabbit. "You see," said Hubbard reverently, "God always gives us food when we are really in great need, and He'll carry us through that way; in the wilderness He'll send us manna." On similar occasions in the past Hubbard had made like remarks to this, and he continued to make them on similar occasions in the future. Invariably they were made with a simplicity that robbed them of all cant; they came from the man's real nature. While George dressed three of the birds, Hubbard and I built a fire on the rocks by the shore. Since early morning, when we had a breakfast of thin soup made with three thin slices of bacon and three spoonfuls of flour, we had had nothing to eat, and our hunger was such, that while dinner was cooking, we each took the entrails of a bird, wrapped them as George told us the Indians did, on the end of a stick, broiled them over the fire and ate them greedily. And when the ptarmigans were boiled what a glorious feast we had! In using a bit of bacon for soup in the morning we had drawn for the first time on our "emergency ration"--the situation seemed to warrant it; nevertheless, we were as bent as ever on hoarding this precious little stock of food. At five o'clock we paddled up the lake to the northeast, to begin our search for the connection with Michikamau. Hubbard dropped a troll as we proceeded, and caught two two-pound namaycush, which, when we went into camp at dusk on a small island, George boiled entire, putting into the pot just enough flour to give the water a milky appearance. With this supper we had some of the blueberries stewed, and Hubbard said they would have been the "real thing if we only had a little sugar for them." All day on September 10th we continued our search for the connection with Michikamau, finally directing our course to the southwest where a mountain seemed to offer a view of the waters in that direction. It was dark when we reached its base, and we went into camp preparatory to climbing to the summit in the morning. We had been somewhat delayed by wind squalls that made canoeing dangerous, and before we made camp rain began to fall. We caught no fish on the troll that day, but Hubbard shot a large spruce-grouse. At our evening meal we ate the last of our ptarmigans and rabbit. "George," said Hubbard, after we had eaten our supper, "you have a few more of mother's dried apples there. How would it be to stew them to-night, and stir in a little flour to thicken them? Wouldn't they thicken up better if you were to cook them to-night and let them stand until morning?" "Guess they would," replied George. "There ain't many of 'em here. Shall I put them all to cook? "Yes," said Hubbard, "put them all to cook, and we'll eat them for breakfast with that small trout Wallace caught and the two ptarmigan entrails." In the morning (September 11th) we drew lots for the trout, and George won. So he took the fish, and Hubbard and I each an entrail, and, with the last of the apples before us that Hubbard's mother had dried, sat down to breakfast. "How well," said Hubbard, "I remember the tree on the old Michigan farm from which these apples came! And now," he added, "I'm eating the last of the fruit from it that I shall probably ever eat." "Why," said George, "don't you expect to get back to eat any more?" "That isn't it," replied Hubbard. "Father signed a contract for the sale of the farm last spring, and they're to deliver the property over to its new owners on the fifteenth of this month. Father wanted me to come to the farm and run it, as he's too old to do the work any longer; but I had other ambitions. I feel half sorry now I didn't; for after all it's home to me, and always will be wherever I go in the world. How often I've watched mother gathering these apples to dry! And then, the apple butter! Did you ever eat apple butter, boys?" George had not, but I had. "Well," continued Hubbard, "there was an old woman lived near us who could make apple butter better than anybody else. Mother used to have her come over one day each fall and make a big lot for us. And, say, but wasn't it delicious! "I've told you, Wallace, about the maple sugaring on the farm, and you had some of the syrup I brought from there when I visited father and mother before I came away on this trip. We used to bring to the house the very first syrup we made in the spring, while it was hot--the first, you know, is always the best--and mother would have a nice pan of red hot tea biscuits, and for tea she'd serve the biscuits with cream and the hot new syrup. And sometimes we'd mix honey with the syrup; for father was a great man with bees; he kept a great many of them and had quantities of honey. He had a special house where he kept his honey, and in which was a machine to separate it from the comb when the comb was not well filled. In the honey house on a table he always had a plate with a pound comb of white clover honey, and spoons to eat it with; and he invited every visitor to help himself. "Once, I remember, a neighbour called on father, and was duly taken out to the honey house. He ate the whole pound. 'Will you have some more?' asked father. 'Don't care if I do,' said the neighbour. So father set out another pound comb, which the neighbour proceeded to put out of sight with a facility fully equal to that with which he demolished the first. 'Have some more,' said father. 'Thanks,' said the neighbour, 'but maybe I've had enough.' I used to wonder how the man ever did it, but I guess I myself could make two pounds of honey disappear if I had it now." Hubbard poured some tea in the cup that had contained his share of the apple sauce, and after carefully stirring into the tea the bit of sauce that clung to the cup, he poured it all into the kettle in which the sauce had been cooked and stirred it again that he might get the last bit of the apples from the tree on that far-away Michigan farm. Then he poured it all back into his cup and drank it. "I believe it sweetened the tea just a little," he said, "and that's the last of mother's sweet apples." Breakfast eaten, we had no dinner to look forward to. Of course there was the "emergency ration," but we felt we must not draw on that to any extent as yet. Hubbard was much depressed, perhaps because of his reminiscences of home and perhaps because of our desperate situation. We still had to find the way to Michikamau, and the cold rain that fell this morning warned us that winter was near. The look from the mountain top near our camp revealed nothing, owing to the heavy mist and rain. Once more in the canoe, we started southward close to the shore, to hunt for a rapid we had heard roaring in the distance. Trolling by the way, we caught one two-pound namaycush. The rapid proved to be really a fall where a good-sized stream emptied into the lake. We had big hopes of trout, but found the stream too shoal and rapid, with almost no pools, and we caught only a dozen small ones. Towards evening we took a northwesterly course in the canoe in search of the lake's outlet to Michikamau. While paddling we got a seven-pound namaycush, which enabled us to eat that night. Our camp was on a rock-bound island, partially covered with stunted gnarled spruce and fir trees. The weather had cleared and the heavens were bright with stars when we drew our canoe high upon the boulder-strewn shore, clear of the breaking waves. The few small trout we had caught we stowed away in the bow of the canoe, as they were to be reserved for breakfast. Early in the morning (September 12th) we were awakened by a northeast gale that threatened every moment to carry our tent from its fastenings, and as we peered out through the flaps, rain and snow dashed in our faces. The wind also was playing high jinks with the lake; it was white with foam, and the waves, dashing against the rocks on the shore, threw the spray high in the air. Evidently there was no hope of launching the canoe that day, and assuming indifference of the driving storm that threatened to uncover us, we settled down for a much-needed morning sleep. At ten o'clock George crawled out to build a fire in the lee of some bushes and boil trout for a light breakfast. Soon he stuck his head in the tent, and his face told us something had happened even before he said: "Well, that's too bad." "What's too bad?" asked Hubbard anxiously. "Somebody's stole the trout we left in the canoe." "Who?" asked Hubbard and I together. "Otter or somebody--maybe a marten." (George always referred to animals as persons.) We all went again to look and make sure the fish were not there somewhere; but they were really gone, and we looked at one another and laughed, and continued to make light of it as we ate a breakfast of soup made of three little slices of bacon, with two or three spoonfuls of flour and rice. We occupied the day in talking--visiting, Hubbard called it--and mending. Hubbard made a handsome pair of moccasins, using an old flour sack for the uppers and a pair of skin mittens for the feet. George did some neat work on his moccasins and clothing, and I made my trousers look quite respectable again, and ripped up one pair of woollen socks to get yarn to darn the holes in another. Altogether it was rather a pleasant day, even though Hubbard's display of his beautiful new moccasins did savour of ostentation and thereby excite much heartburning on the part of George and me. Our second day on the island was Sunday, September 13th. We awoke to find that the wind, rain, and sleet were still with us. Our breakfast was the same as all our meals of the previous day--thin bacon soup. The morning we spent in reading from the Bible. Hubbard read Philemon aloud and told us the story. I read aloud from the Psalms. George, who received his religious training in a mission of the Anglican Church on James Bay, listened to our reading with reverent attention. Towards noon the storm began to moderate, and in a short stroll about the island we found some blueberries and currants, which we fell upon and devoured. At one o'clock the wind abated to such an extent that we succeeded in leaving the island and reaching the mainland to the northeast. The wind continuing to abate, we paddled several miles in the afternoon looking in vain for the outlet. In the course of our search we caught a namaycush, and immediately put to shore to eat it. While it was being cooked we picked nearly a gallon of cranberries on a sandy knoll. We camped near this spot, and for supper had a pot of the cranberries stewed, leaving enough for two more meals. For several days past now, when George and I were alone, he had repeated to me stories of Indians that had starved to death, or had barely escaped starvation, and a little later he spoke of these things in Hubbard's presence. To me he would tell how weak he was becoming, and how Indians would get weaker and weaker and then give up to it and die. He also spoke of how he had heard the big northern loons cry at night farther back on the trail, which cries, he said, the Indians regarded as sure signs of coming calamity. At the same time he was cheerful and courageous, never suggesting such a thing as turning back. His state of mind was to me very interesting. Apparently two natures were at war within him. One--the Indian--was haunted by superstitious fears; the other--the white man--rejected these fears and invariably conquered them. In other words, the Indian in him was panicky, but the white man held him fast. And in seeing him master his superstitious nature, I admired him the more. Until this time it had been Hubbard's custom to retire to his blankets early, while George and I continued to toast our shins by the fire and enjoy our evening pipe. Then George would turn in, and I, while the embers died, would sit alone for an hour or so and let my fancy form pictures in the coals or carry me back to other days. In our Sunday night's camp on Windbound Lake, however, Hubbard sat with me long after George was lost in sleep, and together we talked of the home folks and exchanged confidences. I observed now a great change in Hubbard. Heretofore the work he had to do had seemed almost wholly to occupy his thoughts. Now he craved companionship, and he loved to sit with me and dwell on his home and his wife, his mother and sister, and rehearse his early struggles in the university and in New York City. Undoubtedly the boy was beginning to suffer severely from homesickness--he was only a young fellow, you know, with a gentle, affectionate nature that gripped him tight to the persons and objects he loved. Our little confidential talks grew to be quite the order of things, and often as the days went by we confessed to each other that we looked forward to them during all the weary work hours; they were the bright spots in our dreary life. A tremendous gale with dashes of rain ushered in Monday morning, September 14th. Again we were windbound, with nothing to do but remain where we were and make the best of it. A little of our thin soup had to serve for breakfast. Then we all slept till ten o'clock, when Hubbard and I went out to the fire and George took a stroll through the bush on the shore, in the hope of seeing something to shoot. While I cleaned my rifle and pistol, Hubbard and I chatted about good things to eat and the days of yore. "Well, Wallace," he said, "I suppose that father and mother are to-day leaving the old farm forever, and that I never can call it home again. I dreamed of it last night. Over fifty years ago father cleared that land when he was a young man and that part of Michigan was a wilderness. He made a great farm of it, and it has been his home ever since. How I hate to think of them going away and leaving it to strangers who don't love it or care more for it than any other plot of ground where good crops can be raised! Daisy [his sister] and I grew up together there, and I used to tell her my ambitions, and she was always interested. Daisy gave me more encouragement in my work than anyone else in the world. I'd never have done half so well with my work if it hadn't been for Daisy." After a moment's silence, he continued: "That hickory cleaning rod for the rifle we lost on a portage on the big river [the Beaver] father cut himself on the old farm and shaped it and gave it to me. That's the reason I hated so to lose it. If we go back that way, we must try to find it. Father wanted to come with me on this trip; he wanted to take care of me. He always thinks of me as a child; he's never quite realised I'm a grown man. As old as he is, I believe he could have stood this trip as well as I have. He was a forty-niner in California, you know, and has spent a lot of his life in the bush." When George returned--empty-handed, alas!--we had our dinner. The menu was not very extensive--it began with stewed cranberries and ended there. The acid from the unsweetened berries made our mouths sore, but, as George remarked, "it was a heap better than not eatin' at all." Perhaps I should say here that these were the hungriest days of our journey. What we suffered later on, the good Lord only knows; but we never felt the food-craving, the hunger-pangs as now. In our enforced idleness it was impossible for us to prevent our thoughts from dwelling on things to eat, and this naturally accentuated our craving. Then, again, as everyone that has had such an experience knows, the pangs of hunger are mitigated after a certain period has been passed. In the afternoon George and I took the pistols and ascended a low ridge in the rear of the camp to look for ptarmigans. Soon George exclaimed under his breath: "There's two! Get down low and don't let 'em see you; the wind blows so they'll be mighty wild. I'll belly round to that bush over there and take a shot." He crawled or wriggled along to the bush, which was the nearest cover and about forty yards from the birds. With a dinner in prospect, I watched him with keen anxiety. I could see him lying low and carefully aiming his pistol. Suddenly, bang!--and one of the birds fluttered straight up high in the air, trying desperately to sustain itself; then fell into the brush on the hillside below. At that George raised his head and gave a peculiar laugh--a laugh of wild exultation--an Indian laugh. He was the Indian hunter then. I never heard him laugh so again, nor saw him look quite as he did at that moment. As the other bird flew away, he rose to his feet and shouted: "I hit 'im!--did you see how he went? Now we'll find 'im." But we didn't. We beat the bushes high and low for an hour, and finally in disappointment and disgust gave up the search. The bird lay there dead somewhere, but we never found it, and we returned to camp empty-handed and perhaps, through anticipation, hungrier than ever. On Tuesday (September 15th) the high west wind had not abated, and the occasional sleet-squalls continued. We were dreary and disconsolate when we came out of the tent and huddled close to the fire. For the first time Hubbard heard George tell his stories of Indians that starved. And there we were still windbound and helpless, with stomachs crying continually for food. And the caribou migration was soon to begin, if it had not already begun, and there seemed no prospect of the weather clearing. We made an inventory of the food we were hoarding for an emergency, and found that in addition to about two pounds of flour, we had eighteen pounds of pea meal, a little less than a pint of rice, and a half a pound of bacon. George then told another story of Indians that starved. At length he stopped talking, and we sat silent for a long while, staring blankly at the blazing logs. Slowly the minutes crawled. In great gusts the wind swept down, howling dismally among the trees and driving the sleet into our faces. Still we sat cowering in silence when Hubbard arose, pushed the loose ends of the partially burned sticks into the fire and stood with his back to the blaze, apparently deep in thought. Presently, turning slowly towards the lake, he walked down through the intervening brush and stood alone on the sandy shore contemplating the scene before him--the dull, lowering skies, the ridges in the distance, the lake in its angry mood protesting against his further advance, the low, wooded land that hid the gate to Michikamau. Weather-beaten, haggard, gaunt and ragged, he stood there watching; then seemed to be lost completely in thought, forgetful of the wind and weather and dashing spray. Finally he turned about briskly, and, with quick, nervous steps, pushed through the brush to the fire, where George and I were still sitting in silence. Suddenly, and without a word of introduction, he said: "Boys, what do you say to turning back?" XI. WE GIVE IT UP For a moment I was dazed at the thought--the thought of turning back without ever seeing the Indians or caribou hunt, and I could not speak. George, however, soon found his tongue. He was still willing to go on, if need be, and risk his life with us. "I came to go with you fellus," he said, "and I want to do what you fellus do." "But," I said to Hubbard, "don't you think it will be easier to reach the Indians on the George, or even the George River Post, than Northwest River Post? We must surely be near the Indians; we shall probably see the smoke of their wigwams when we reach Michikamau. It is likely we shall find them camping on the big lake--either Mountaineers or Nascaupee--and if we get to them they'll surely help us." "Yes," answered Hubbard, "if we get to them they'll help us; but these miserable westerly and northwesterly gales may keep us on these waters indefinitely, or even on the shore of Michikamau at a spot where we may not be able to launch our canoe or reach the Indians for days, and that would be fatal. The caribou migration is surely begun, and perhaps is over already, and there's no use in going ahead." I saw his point and acquiesced. "I suppose it's best to turn back as soon as the wind will let us," I said; "for it's likely to subside only for a few hours at a time at this season, and perhaps if we don't get out when we can, we may never get out at all. But what does George say?" I asked, turning to our plucky companion. "Oh," said he, "I'd like to turn back, and I think it's safest; but I'm goin' to stick to you fellus, and I'm goin' where you go." "Well," said Hubbard, "what's the vote?--shall we turn back or go on?" "Turn back," said I. "Very well, then" he replied quietly; "that's settled." The decision reached, George's face brightened perceptibly, and I must confess we all felt better; a great burden seemed to have been lifted from our shoulders. It had required courage for Hubbard to acknowledge himself defeated in his purpose, but the acknowledgment once made, we thought of only one thing--how to reach home most quickly. Hubbard was now satisfied that the record of our adventures would make a "bully story," even without the material he had hoped to gather on the George, and his mind being easy on that point, he discussed with animation plans for the homeward trip. "We'll have to catch some fish here," he said, "to take us over the long portage to Lake Disappointment. We ought to be able to dry a good bit of namaycush, and on the way we'll probably have a good catch of trout at the long lake [Lake Mary], and another good catch where I used the tamarack pole. And then when we get to Lake Disappointment we ought to get more namaycush." "Yes," said I; "and the berries should help us some." "What do you think the chances of getting caribou are?" Hubbard asked George. "We saw some comin' up," replied George, "and there ought to be more now; I guess we'll find 'em." "If we kill some caribou," continued Hubbard, "I think we'd better turn to and build a log shack, cure the meat, make toboggans and snowshoes, wait for things to freeze up, and then push on to the post over the snow and ice. We can get some dogs at the post, and we'll be in good shape to push right on without delay to the St. Lawrence. It'll make a bully trip, and we'll have lots of grub. What would we need to get at the post, George?" "Well," said George, "we'd need plenty of flour, pork, lard, beans, sugar, tea, and bakin' powder; and we might take some condensed milk, raisins, currants, rice, and molasses, and I'd make somethin' good sometimes." "That's a good idea," said Hubbard, whose mouth was evidently watering even as mine was. "And we might take some butter, too. And how would oatmeal go for porridge?--don't you think that would be bully on a cold morning?" "Yes," assented George; "we could eat molasses on it, or thin up the condensed milk." "We shall probably have caribou meat that we can take along frozen," Hubbard went on. "Frozen caribou meat is bully; it's better than when it's fresh killed. Did you ever eat any, Wallace?" "No," said I; "the only caribou meat I've ever eaten was what we've had here." "Then," said Hubbard, "there's a rare treat in store for you. The first I ever ate was on my Lake St. John trip. The Indian I had with me used to chop off pieces of frozen caribou with an axe, and fry it with lard, and we'd just drink down the grease. It was fine." "It's great," said George. "Well," said Hubbard, coming back to the present, "I'm dead glad we've decided to strike for the post. If this wind will ever let up, we must get at it and catch some fish. I lay awake most of last night thinking it all over and planning it all." "I was awake most of the time, too," said George; "my feet were mighty cold." There was no fishing on the day we decided to turn back, as the wind confined us to camp, and all we had to eat was rice and bacon soup; but our anticipations of home to some extent overcame the clamour of our stomachs, and we passed the time chatting about the things we intended to do when we regained "God's country." "I'm going to take a vacation," said Hubbard. "I'll visit father and mother, if they're in the east, and sister Daisy, and maybe go to Canada with my wife and stay a little while with her people. What will you do, boys?" I told of my plans to visit various relatives, and then George described a trip he was going to make to visit a sister whom he had not seen since he was a little boy, closing the description with a vivid account of the good things he would have to eat, and what he would cook himself. It was always so--no matter what our conversation was about, it sooner or later developed into a discussion of gastronomy. In the evening Hubbard had me make out a list of the restaurants we intended to visit when we got back to New York and take George to. I have the list yet, but since my return I have never had the heart to go near any of the places it mentions. From the talk about restaurants Hubbard suddenly turned to lumber camps, asking George and me if we had ever visited one. We replied that we had not, and wondered what had brought lumber camps into his mind. We soon learned. "You've missed something," he said. "We'll make it a point to call at Sandy Calder's camp when we go back, and make him give us a feed of pork and beans and molasses to sop our bread in. They're sure to have them." "Do they have cake and pie?" asked George. "Yes, in unlimited quantities; and doughnuts, too--at least they used to in the Michigan lumber camps I've visited." "That sounds good," I remarked--"the pork and beans and molasses, best of all. When I was a boy I was fond of bread and molasses--good, black molasses--but I haven't eaten any since. I'd like to have a chance at some now." "So should I," said Hubbard; "I'd just roll my bread in it lumberjack fashion." "Do they have gingerbread in the camps?" asked George. "Yes," said Hubbard; "gingerbread is always on the table." "How do they make it? "Well, I don't just know; but I'll tell you what, George--if you want to know, I'll ask Mrs. Hubbard to show you when we get home, and I know she'll be delighted to do it. She's the best cook I ever knew." "Do you think she would mind?" "Oh, no; she'd be very glad to do it. You must stop at our house for a while before you go back to Missanabie, and she will teach you to cook a good many things." And so our conversation continued until we turned to our blankets and sought the luxury of sleep, I to dream I was revelling in a stack of gingerbread as high as a house that my sisters had baked to welcome me home. To our ever-increasing dismay, the northwest gale continued to blow almost unceasingly during the next few days. Sometimes towards evening the wind would moderate sufficiently to permit us to troll with difficulty along the lee shore of an island, but seldom were we rewarded with more than a single namaycush, and so far from our getting enough fish to carry us over our long portage to Lake Disappointment, we did not catch enough for our daily needs, and were compelled to draw on our little store of emergency provisions. On Wednesday (September 16th) we ate the last bit of bacon and the last handful of rice we had so carefully hoarded. We succeeded that day in reaching the rapid where we caught the few trout that some animal stole from us, and there we camped. From this point we believed we could more readily gain the bay where we had entered the lake, and begin our retreat when the wind subsided. The Canada jay, a carrion bird about the size Of a robin that is generally known through the north as the "whiskey jack," had always hovered about our camps and been very tame when, in the earlier days of our trip, we had refuse to throw away; but now these birds called at us from a greater distance, seeming to know we were looking at them with greedy eyes. George told us that their flesh had saved many an Indian from starvation, and that the Indians looked upon them with a certain veneration and would kill them only in case of the direst need. Our compunctions against eating carrion birds had entirely disappeared, and the course of the whiskey jacks in holding aloof from camp when they were most needed used to make George furious. "See the blamed beggars!" he would ejaculate. "Just look at 'em! We've been feedin' 'em right long, and now when it's their turn to feed us, look at 'em go!" On Thursday (September 17th) George got his revenge. Stealthily he crept upon a whiskey jack in the bush and shot it with a pistol. "They're pretty tough," he said, upon returning with his prize to camp, "and will take a long time to cook." We did not care for that; we ate that bird, bones and all, stewed in a big pot of water with two or three spoonfuls of flour and an equal amount of pea meal. That was our breakfast. We had no luncheon; for although we spent the entire day trolling up and down the lee shore, it was not until evening that we caught any fish. The wind was icy and set us all a-shiver, our hands were benumbed by the cold water, and we were just beginning to despair when we landed a two-pound namaycush, and a little later a five-pounder. Then, wet to the skin and chilled to the bone, we paddled back to camp, to cheer ourselves up with a good fire and a supper of one-third of the larger fish, a dish of stewed sour cranberries and plenty of hot tea. "I feel more satisfied every time I think of our decision to turn back," said Hubbard, as, with supper eaten, we reclined comfortably before the fire. "I had a pretty hard night of it though, on Monday; for I hated to turn back without seeing the Indians." "I was awake thinkin' about it, too," said George. "I told you about havin' cold feet, and that they kept me awake." He paused, and we felt that something was coming. At length out it came: "Well, they did, but that wind out in the lake kept me awake more than the cold feet. I knew that wind was makin' the huntin' good down the bay, the game was comin' down there now, and the young fellus I used to hunt with had been wishin' for this very wind that was keepin' us here, and they were glad to see it, and were out shootin' waveys [a species of wild goose]; and here we boys was, up against it for sure." Hubbard and I had to laugh at George's confession, and we joked him a little about being homesick. "Well," said Hubbard, "we'll soon get away now; this wind must let up some time. Talking about the bay reminds me that I want to arrange for a trip to Hudson's Bay next summer. I want a nice, easy trip that I can take Mrs. Hubbard on. I'd like to go up early and return in the fall, and maybe get some wavey shooting. Could you get one or two good men besides yourself to go with us, George?" George said he thought he could, and after Hubbard had invited me to make one of the party, they went into minute details as to the food they would take with them, planning an elaborate culinary outfit. Just before George went to bed, Hubbard and I, using the trees that stood close to the fire for a support, stretched a tarpaulin over our heads, to shelter us from the rain and sleet. Beyond the circle of our bright-blazing fire the darkness was profound. As the wind in great blasts swept over the tops of the trees, its voice was raised to piercing shrieks that gradually died away into low moans. We thought of the vast wilderness lying all about us under the pall of a moonless and starless night. Where had all the people in the world gone to, anyway? But, sitting there on our couch of boughs beneath the tarpaulin, in the grateful warmth of the high-leaping flames, we found it very cosey. And we talked of the places and persons that were somewhere beyond the solitudes. "You don't mind sitting here for a while and chatting, do you, b'y?" said Hubbard. "It's very cold and shivery in the tent." "B'y" was a word we had picked up from the Newfoundland fishermen, who habitually use it in addressing one another, be the person addressed old or young. At first Hubbard and I called each other "b'y" in jest, but gradually it became with us a term almost of endearment. "No, b'y," I answered; "I would much rather be out here with you than in the tent." "I was thinking," said Hubbard, "of how I loved, in the evening after dinner last winter, to sit before the wood fire in our grate at Congers, and watch the blaze with Mina [Mrs. Hubbard] near me. What a feeling of quiet, and peace, and contentment, would come to me then!--I'd forget all about the grind at the office and the worries of the day. That's real happiness, Wallace--a good wife and a cheerful fireside. What does glory and all that amount to, after all? I've let my work and my ambition bother me too much. I've hardly taken time for my meals. In the morning I'd hurry through breakfast and run for my train. I haven't given my wife and my home the attention they deserve. That wife of mine, Wallace, deserves a great deal of attention. She's always thinking of my comfort, and doing things to please me, and cooking things I like. But I must be boring you with all this talk about my own affairs." "No, b'y," I said; "I like to hear about them. I've always been interested in witnessing how happy you and your wife have been together." "She's been a good wife to me, Wallace; and as time has gone on since our marriage we've grown closer and closer together." "I see you're like every other man that gets a good wife--you've found the real key to the house of a man's happiness." "That's so. A single man, or a man with an uncongenial wife whom he doesn't love and who doesn't love him, may be as rich as Croesus, and gain all the honours in the world, and he won't possess an atom of the happiness of a poor man congenially married. Did I ever tell you about the day I was married?--the trouble I had?" "I don't remember that you did. Although I suspected something unusual on foot, I didn't hear of your marriage until after the deed was done. You didn't take me into your confidence, you know." "That was because we had never camped together then, b'y. If we had camped together, I'd have told you all about it. Mina and I had not intended to get married so soon. We were to have been married in the spring, but that January I received an assignment for a trip through the South, and I knew it would keep me away until after our wedding date. I didn't want to postpone the wedding, so I decided, if I could get Mina's consent, to make my trip our honeymoon. She was at her parents' home in Canada, and there was no time to lose, and I telegraphed asking her to come on at once and get married. She was a brick and consented, and then I was in such a nervous state of anticipation I was afraid the folks where I was stopping would discover something was up, so the day before I expected Mina to arrive I ran over to Jersey to spend the night with my old friend Dr. Shepard, the minister. "Well, Mina's train was due at the Grand Central Station early in the morning, and I had to catch a train from Jersey a little after five o'clock to meet her. I was afraid I'd oversleep, and I kept awake nearly all night. Long before the train was due I was down at the station and took a seat in the waiting room. And what do you suppose I did?" "What?" said I. "Why," said Hubbard, with a cheerful grin, "I fell to thinking so hard about what was going to happen that I sat there in the station and let the train I was so afraid to lose come and go without ever hearing it." Under the sleet-covered tarpaulin, there in the interior of Labrador, Hubbard and I laughed heartily. "And was the bride-elect kept waiting?" I asked. "No," said Hubbard; "I hustled over a couple of miles to another line and got a train there, and as Mina fortunately didn't arrive as early as expected, I was in time." The fire had died down and the darkness was beginning to close in upon us. I arose to renew the fire, and when the logs had begun to blaze again, and I had resumed my seat, I saw that the drawn and haggard look had returned to Hubbard's face, and that he was staring wistfully out over the fire into the impenetrable gloom. "What is it, b'y?" I said. "That was a great trip, Wallace--that southern trip. I want to visit some of the places again with Mina and live over our honeymoon. And," he went on--"yes, I want some more of the good southern cooking. You ought to eat their cornbread, Wallace!--there's nothing like it anywhere else in the world. They cook corn meal in a dozen ways, from corn pone to really delicate dishes. And they know how to cook chickens, too. Their chickens and yams and cornbread are great. It makes my mouth water to think of even the meals I've eaten in the mountaineers' cabins--wild hog, good and greasy; wild honey, hoecake, and strong black coffee. When I get home I'm going to experiment in camp with cooking corn meal, and I've got an idea that a young sucking pig roasted before the fire like George roasted the goose would be great." There we were, plunged once more into a discussion about food, and it was after midnight when the talk about roasting pigs, and stuffing pigs, and baking this, and baking that, came to an end. Even then Hubbard was loath to seek the tent, it was so "cold and shivery"; but he expressed himself as being fairly comfortable when he had followed my example and toasted himself thoroughly before the fire immediately before turning in with a pair of socks on his feet that had been hung up to warm. On Friday (September 18th) a fierce northwest gale again kept us on the lee shore, and all we got on the troll was a three-quarter-pound namaycush. Hubbard and I also fished conscientiously at the rapid near which we were still camping, and our combined efforts yielded us only two eight-inch trout and a twenty-inch trout. Trying as we were to get fish ahead for our long portage, it was most depressing. Despite the steady gnaw, gnaw at the pit of our stomachs, we had cut down our meals to the minimum amount of food that would keep us alive; we were so weak we no longer were sure where our feet were going to when we put them down. But all the fish we had to smoke was two or three. And on Friday night we ate the last bit of our flour; it was used to thicken the water in which we boiled for supper some entrails, a namaycush head and the two little trout we had caught during the day. All that night the northwest gale was accompanied by gusts of rain and snow. On Saturday (September 19th) the mercury dropped to 32 degrees, and the air was raw. Not a single fish were we able to catch. George and I smoked a pipe for breakfast, while Hubbard imbibed the atmosphere. A bit of the smoked fish we had hoped to keep, boiled with a dash of pea meal in the water, did us for luncheon and supper. Heretofore we had slept each rolled in his own blanket, but it was so cold in the tent that night we had to make a common bed by spreading one blanket beneath us on a tarpaulin and lying spoon-fashion with the other two blankets drawn over us. The blankets were decidedly narrow for three men to get under, and it was necessary for us to lie very close together indeed; but our new method enabled us to keep fairly warm and we continued its use. On Sunday (September 20th) the temperature dropped to 29 and the squalls continued. In desperation we broke camp in the morning and tried to cross the lake with our outfit, but the wind soon drove us back to shelter. While we were out on the lake we caught a namaycush on the troll, and this fish we had for luncheon, together with some cranberries we found on a ridge near where we had taken refuge on the shore. A little later I was attacked with vomiting and faintness. When I tried to swing an axe, I reeled and all but lost consciousness. Late in the afternoon the squalls subsided, and we made another attempt to escape from the prison in which we were slowly starving. Fortunately the wind continued fair and there were no cross-seas; and on and on we paddled in the direction of--home! Oh, the great relief of it! For nearly two weeks we had been held on that dreadful lake. Day after day the relentless storm had raged, while hunger leered at us and tormented us with its insistent clamour as we, with soaked rags and shivering bodies, strove vainly to prevent the little stock of food from diminishing that we felt was our only hold on life. And now we were going home! Darkness had long since fallen when we reached an island near the point where we had entered the lake. In a driving rain we pitched our camp. For supper we had the last of the little stock of fish that we had been able to dry. This meant that, in addition to our stock of tea, the only food we had left on hand was sixteen pounds of pea meal. But we did not worry. We were going home. And on Monday morning, September 21st, though the wind was again blowing a gale, and the passage among the spray-covered rocks was filled with risk, we paddled over to the mainland, ready to begin our race for life down the trail we had fought so hard to ascend. XII. THE BEGINNING OF THE RETREAT Upon reaching the mainland we stopped to assort and dry our baggage. All of us felt we had entered upon a race against starvation, and everything that was not strictly necessary to aid our progress to Northwest River Post we threw away. In addition to many odds and ends of clothing we abandoned about three pounds of tea. Tea was the one thing of which we had carried an abundance, and though we had used it freely, we had more than we deemed necessary to carry us through. While we were nearing the shore, we sighted three little ducklings bobbing up and down in the tumbling waves and repeatedly diving. They were too far off to reach with a pistol, and Hubbard took his rifle. It seemed almost like attacking a fly with a cannon, but with our thoughts on grub, none of us was impressed with its incongruity then. After Hubbard had fired two or three shots, one of the ducklings suddenly turned over. We paddled to it with feverish haste, and found that it had been stunned by a ball that had barely grazed its bill. It was a lucky shot; for if the bullet had gone through the duckling's body there would have been little left of it to eat. While George and I were drying the camp equipment, Hubbard caught five small trout in the stream that emptied into the lake at this point--the stream we had followed down. These fish we ate for luncheon. Once more ready to start, we pushed up the stream to the place where we had last camped before reaching the lake, and there we again pitched our tent. For supper we made soup of the duckling. It was almost like coming home to reach this old camping ground, and it cheered us considerably. The first day of the forty-mile portage we had to make before reaching fairly continuous water had been, as a whole, depressing. Rain, accompanied by a cold wind, began to fall early in the afternoon. The weather was so cold, in fact, that the trout would not rise after we caught the five near the lake, and this made us uneasy as to how the fishing would prove farther down the trail. The day's journey, moreover, had made it clear, in spite of our efforts to hide the fact from one another, that we were much weaker than when we last had made portages. We had reached the stage where none of us could carry the canoe alone. Decidedly we were not the same men that had set out so blithely from the post eight weeks before. As for myself, I had shortened my belt thirteen inches since July 15th. It became the custom now for George and me to go ahead with the canoe for a mile or so while Hubbard brought forward in turn each of the three packs for about an eighth of a mile. Then George and I would return to him, and, each taking a pack, we would advance to the place where the canoe had been left. Sometimes, however, this routine was varied, Hubbard now and then helping George with the canoe while I juggled with the packs until they returned to me. Despite the fact that we had fewer as well as lighter packs to carry than on the up trail, our progress was slower because of our increasing weakness. Whereas it had taken us three days on the up trail to portage the fifteen miles between Lake Mary and Windbound Lake, it now took us five days to cover the same ground. On Tuesday, the 22d, the second day of our portage, it rained all the time, and for the greater part of the day we floundered through marshes and swamps. We caught no fish and killed no game. Hubbard tried to stalk a goose in a swamp, wading above his knees in mud and water to get a shot; but he finally had to fire at such long range that he missed, and the bird flew away, to our great disappointment. Our day's food consisted of half a pound of pea meal for each man. During the day Hubbard had an attack of vomiting, and at night, when we reached our second camping ground above the lake, we were all miserable and thoroughly soaked, though still buoyed up by the knowledge that we were going home. The cold rain continued on the 23d until late in the day, when the sky cleared and evening set in cold and crisp. That day I was attacked with vomiting. Our food was the same as on the day previous, with the addition of some mossberries and cranberries we found on the barren ridge over which we crossed. It was another day of hard portaging on stomachs crying for food, and when we pitched our camp we were so exhausted that we staggered like drunken men. Silent and depressed, we took our places on the seat of boughs that George had prepared by the roaring fire; but after we had eaten our meagre supper and drunk our tea, and our clothes had begun to dry in the genial glow, we found our tongues again; and, half forgetting that, starving and desperate, we were still in the midst of the wilderness, far from human help, we once more talked of the homes that were calling to us over the dreary wastes; talked of the dear people that would welcome us back and of the good things they would give us to eat; talked until far into the night, dreading to go to the cold tent and the wet blankets. We awoke on the morning of the 24th to find six inches of snow on the ground and the storm still raging, with the temperature down to 28. Soon after we began plodding through the snow on a pea-soup breakfast, George left us to hunt geese. The night before he had told Hubbard he would kill a goose in the morning, if he were permitted to go on with a rifle. He had heard the geese flying, and believed they had alighted for the night in a small lake some distance ahead. The knowledge that he was a famous goose hunter "down the bay" made his confidence impressive; still we were doubtful about his succeeding in his quest; for the geese had been so hard to approach of late we were beginning to fear we should never shoot any more. For half an hour after George had taken his pack and a rifle and gone on, Hubbard and I slowly followed his trail through the snow. Then in the distance we heard a "Bang!" and after a short interval, "Bang!--Bang!"--three shots in all. "He's seen them," said Hubbard. "And shot one," said I. "I'm not so sure of that," returned Hubbard; "I'm afraid they flew and he tried to wing them, and if that's the case the chances are against him." Presently we came upon George's pack near the western end of the little lake, and we stopped and anxiously waited for him to appear. In a few moments he came. "You can kick me," he began with apparent disgust; then, observing the look of keen disappointment upon Hubbard's haggard face, he quickly changed his tone. "That's all right, fellus," he said; "I got a goose. I saw 'em out there fifty yards from shore, and I bellied along through the brush as close as I dared, and fired and knocked one over. Then the others flew out about two hundred yards farther, and I thought I'd chance another shot; for if I didn't try I wouldn't get another, and if I did I might knock one over. So I shot again and did get another. Then the rest of the flock rose up, and I tried to wing one, but missed, and they've gone now. But there's two dead ones out in the lake." Joy?--the word fails to express our feeling. George and I hurried back for the canoe, and when we paddled out, there, sure enough, were the two geese, one dead and the other helpless with a broken wing. George ended the life of the wounded goose with a pistol, and we paddled back to our packs and built a big fire in the lee of a thick clump of trees. The snow had turned into a fierce, driving rain, but that did not bother us. To dress the geese did not take long. We put the giblets and entrails to boil immediately, and, to quiet our impatience while waiting for them to cook, George cut from the necks a piece of skin and fat for each of us. These we warmed on the end of a stick, taking great care not to heat them enough to permit a single drop of the oil to escape from the fat; then, half raw as they were, we ate them down greedily and found them delicious. It was really wonderful how much happiness that bit of game brought us. As we were eating the giblets and entrails and drinking the broth, we freely admitted that never before had we sat down to such a banquet. "And," remarked Hubbard, "just think how original is our menu. I'll bet there isn't a menu in New York that contains boiled goose entrails." On the 25th the fierce northwest gale still blew, and the air was again filled with snow. But still we pushed onward. Let the wind blow, and the snow and rain come as they liked, they could not stop us--we were going home. We portaged this day to another of our old camps by a small lake. On the evening before we had eaten the wings and feet of the geese boiled. For breakfast we had half a goose, for luncheon we had pea soup, and at night we had the other half of the goose left over from the morning. We scorched the bones in the fire and ate even them. These meals did not begin to satisfy our appetites, but they were sufficient to give us a little new life. While we were sitting around the fire Hubbard wished me to promise to spend Thanksgiving Day with him that year--if we reached home in time. For two years I had spent the day at his home, and Thanksgiving, he said, must be our reunion day always. No matter what happened, we must always make a special effort to spend that day together in the years to come. We must never drift apart. We were brothers, comrades--more than brothers. We had endured the greatest hardships together, had fought our way through that awful country together, had starved together; and never had there been misunderstanding, never a word of dissension. From this time on we talked less about what we should eat when we reached civilisation. True, we would sometimes lapse into restaurant and home-dinner talks, but we fought against it as much as possible, realising that to permit our thoughts to dwell on good things to eat accentuated our distress. Gradually we talked more and more of childhoods days, and incidents, long forgotten, came vividly before us. It was a psychological phenomenon I cannot account for; but it was the case with all of us--Hubbard, George, and myself. During these trying times we had one never-failing source of amusement, which, because it was the only one, was all the more valued and taken advantage of. I refer to our appearance. George had shaved once since we had gone into the country, but neither Hubbard nor I had known the caress of a razor since we left the post on July 15th. None of us had felt the loving touch of the scissors upon his hair since leaving New York in June, and our heads were shaggy masses of more or less dishevelled and tangled locks. Long-continued exposure to sun and storm and the smoke of campfires had covered our faces with a deep coat of brown. Our eyes were sunken deep into their sockets. Our lips were drawn to thin lines over our teeth. The skin of our faces and hands was stretched tight over the bones. We were almost as thin, and almost the colour of the mummies one sees in museums. As for our clothing, it was still hanging upon us, and that is about all that can be said of it. Our trousers, full of rents, were tied together with pieces of fish line. The bottoms of our moccasins were so hopelessly gone that we had our feet wrapped in rags, with pieces of fishline tied around what remained of the uppers. Our flannel shirts were full of rents. Around our necks we wore red bandanna handkerchiefs. Our soft felt hats had become shapeless things so full of rents that if it were not for the bandanna handkerchiefs we wore in them our hair would have protruded at every point. Frequently we would picture ourselves walking into our homes or through the streets of New York as we then were, and laugh at the thought. "Wallace," Hubbard would say, "the cops wouldn't let you walk a block; they'd run you in sure. You're the most disreputable-looking individual I ever saw, by long odds." And I would retort: "I'd make a good second to you; for you're the worst that ever happened." It was on Saturday morning, the 26th, that we reached the western end of Lake Mary and completed fifteen miles of our forty-mile portage. We pitched our tent, as we had done before, on the site of the old Indian camp, near the brook George had pointed out as a good fishing place. The rain and wind continued in the morning, but at midday the sun came out and we were able to dry our blankets. Always we waited for the sun to dry the blankets; for we had had so many articles of clothing burned while hanging before the fire we did not dare to trust the blankets near it. While we were following our old trail to the lake, Hubbard decapitated a duck with a rifle bullet, and we went into camp with high hopes of more food in the way of fish. Hubbard's rod was hopelessly broken, so he took mine, now much wound with linen thread, but, still usable if not very pliable, and while I made camp and George prepared the duck for luncheon, he caught twenty trout of fair size, which caused our spirits to run high. Luncheon over, Hubbard resumed his fishing, and I stole away with my rifle along the marshes in the hope of seeing a caribou. When I returned towards dusk without having sighted any game, I found a stage over the fire and George hanging up trout to dry. Hubbard, it appeared, had caught ninety-five more. Our exultation knew no bounds. We had not dreamed of any such catch as that. By remaining in camp and fishing another day, we should, at this rate, be able to dry nearly enough trout to see us through to Lake Disappointment. We were as happy and as free from care as children. Our great success here made us feel sure that down below, where we had caught so many fish on our inbound journey, we should again get plenty--all we should need, in fact--and our safety seemed assured. We admitted we had felt doubts as to the outcome, which we had not expressed out of consideration for one another. But now we felt we could look forward to reaching home as a certainty. And, feeling freer to indulge our fancies, our talk at once returned to the good things we were going to eat. Sunday, the 27th, was warm and clear, with a southwest wind, and everything seemed favourable for more fish. For breakfast we ate the last of our goose, and for luncheon trout entrails and roe. While George and I were drying fish during the forenoon, Hubbard caught fifty more. One big fellow had sores all over his body, and we threw it aside. Towards noon the fish ceased to rise, the pool probably being fished out. After luncheon I again left camp with my rifle in the vain hope of sighting a caribou. The gloom of night was beginning to gather when I returned. As I approached, stepping noiselessly on the mossy carpet of the forest, I saw Hubbard sitting alone by the bright-burning fire, mending his moccasins. Something in his attitude made me pause. He was bareheaded, and his long, unkempt hair hung half way down to his shoulders. As he sat there in the red glow of the fire, with the sombre woods beyond and the lonely stretch of lake below, and I took note of his emaciated form and his features so haggard and drawn, I seemed for the first time to realise fully the condition to which the boy had been brought by his sufferings. And while I stood there, still unobserved, I heard him softly humming to himself: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." How strangely the old hymn sounded among those solitudes! After a little I again started to advance, and as I stepped upon a dry branch Hubbard stopped his singing and looked up quickly. "Wallace," he exclaimed, "I'm glad to see you! George and I have been having a long Sunday talk and we missed you. We were wishing you'd come. No luck?" "No," said I; "nothing but old trails; not a fresh track anywhere. What were you talking about?" "We had a chapter from the Bible and a little talk about it. I've been thinking about my class of boys in the Sunday-school at Congers, and how glad I'll be to get back to them again; I've a lot I want to tell them. It's restful just to think of that little church, and this Sunday afternoon I've been thinking about it a good deal." George was lying in the tent, and Hubbard and I joined him and continued our conversation there. Hubbard spoke of the luck we had had in catching trout, saying: "It's God's way of taking care of us so long as we do our best." It was wonderful to see how, as his body became weaker, his spirit grew brighter. Steadily he became more gentle and affectionate; the more he suffered the more his faith in the God of his youth seemed to increase. Early the next morning (September 28th) George, who was the first to be stirring, poked his head into the tent, and with an air of mystery asked me for my pistol. A moment later we heard a shot. Hubbard and I both looked out, to see George returning with empty hands and an expression of deep chagrin. "What are you shooting at now?" asked Hubbard. "The blackest marten I ever saw," said George. "I knocked him over, but he got on his feet again and was into the lake and away before I could reach him. The beggar was right here in camp tryin' to make off with that fish with sores we threw away. He might have made good eatin' if we'd got him." As the day was squally with snow, and a heavy wind was kicking up a sea on the lake, we decided to remain in camp another day and smoke the fish a little more. While we kept the smoke going under the stage, we sat by the fire and chatted. The day's rations consisted of three fish for each man at each of the three meals. By way of a little variety we roasted some of the fish on sticks. We were all very weak, but George explained that away. "The Indians," he said, "always go to pieces after they've been hard up for a while and finally get grub. Then they feed up and get strong again. It's the grub comin' all of a sudden that makes you weak. Your mind feelin' easier, you feel you can't do anything." Hubbard and I agreed that George was right. Our minds certainly had relaxed; homeward bound with enough fish on hand to last us for several days, we had no doubts as to the future. We decided, however, that whatever the weather conditions in the morning might be, we should break camp and push on with the greatest possible speed, as it was the part of wisdom to make our supply of fish carry us down the back trail as far as possible. So we went to our blankets more than eager for the morning's start, and more confident we should get out safely than at any time since we began the retreat. XIII. HUBBARD'S GRIT Two things soon became plain after our struggle back to the post was resumed. One was that winter was fast closing in upon us; the other was that Hubbard's condition was such as might well cause the gravest concern. The morning that we broke camp on Lake Mary (Tuesday, September 29th), was ushered in by a gale from the west and driving snow. The mercury had dropped to 24, and all of us were a-shiver when we issued from the tent. While George and I were preparing the outfit for travel Hubbard caught twelve trout in the pool. On the lake we encountered as heavy a sea as our little canoe could weather, and we had to struggle hard for an hour to reach the farther shore. Upon landing, Hubbard was again attacked with diarrhoea. George and I carried the packs up the high bank to a sheltered spot in the woods, but when I returned to Hubbard he insisted on helping me to carry the canoe. Up the steep ascent we laboured, and then, as we put the canoe down, Hubbard said: "I'm dead tired and weak, boys; I think I'll have to take a little rest." After building him a roaring log fire, George and I carried the canoe a mile and a half ahead through the driving snow, which was of the wet kind that clings to every bush and tree, robing the woods in a pure and spotless white that inevitably suggests fairyland. But I was not in a mood to admire the beauty of it all. Upon our return to Hubbard he announced that we should have to camp where we were for the day, that he might have time to recuperate. The delay affected him keenly. We should eat nearly as much food in our idleness as we should in moving onward, and the thought of drawing on our thirty-five pounds of dried fish without making progress was anything but pleasant. The wintry weather did not worry us; for we knew the snow then falling would disappear before the ground became covered for good, and we felt sure we should reach the Susan Valley before freezing-up time, in which event ice would assist rather than retard our progress, as even with the Susan River open it would be impossible to use the canoe in its shoal, rapid waters. As for Hubbard's condition, I suppose it worried me more than anyone else. George had failed to note the signs of increasing weakness in our leader that I had, and Hubbard himself was so under the influence of his indomitable spirit that for a long time he apparently did not realise the possibility of an utter collapse. By the campfire that night he was confident we should be able to make up the next day for the delay caused by his weakness. For a long time he sat silently gazing into the fire, but as he had just been expressing a longing to see his wife, if only for a moment, I knew he did not see the blaze before him. He was looking into another fire--a big, wood fire in an old-fashioned fireplace in the cheerful sitting-room of a far-away Congers home, and his wife was by his side. He put out his arm to draw her closer to him. I could see it all and understand--understand the look of perfect happiness that his fancy's picture brought to his face. But when George arose to throw some more logs on the fire, the shower of sparks that flew heavenward brought him suddenly back to reality--to the snow-covered woods of Labrador. "I hope we shall be able to find another house in Congers with a fireplace such as our old one had," he said, turning to me as if he knew I had been reading his thoughts. "In the evening we sit long before the fire without lighting a lamp. Sometimes we make believe we're camping, and make our tea and broil some bacon or melt some cheese for our crackers over the coals, and have a jolly time. I want you, b'y, to visit us often and join us in those teas, and see if you don't find them as delightful as we do." The next morning (September 30th) Hubbard said he was much better, and gave the order to advance. We made a short march, camping just beyond the long swamp on the edge of the boulder-strewn country we had found so hard to traverse on the upward trail. On the way we stopped for a pot of tea at a place in the swamp where we had previously camped, and there discovered a treasure; namely, the bones of a caribou hoof we had used in making soup. We seized upon the bones eagerly, put them in the fire and licked the grease off them as it was drawn out by the heat. Then we cracked them and devoured the bit of grease we found inside. It was agreed that from this point George and I should carry the canoe about two miles ahead, while Hubbard carried the packs to a convenient place beyond the swamps and there pitched camp. It was about dusk when George and I, after a laborious struggle among the boulders and brush, put the canoe down and turned back. As we approached the place that had been selected for a camp, we looked expectantly for the glow of the fire, but none was to be seen. At length we heard axe strokes, and came upon Hubbard cutting wood. He greeted us with rather a wan smile. "I've been slow, boys," he said. "I haven't got the firewood cut yet, nor the boughs for the bed. I've only just pitched the tent." "I'll get the other axe," I said quickly, "and help you while George builds the fire." "No, no," he protested; "you get the boughs while I'm getting the wood." "I can get the boughs after we have the wood chopped; it won't take me long and you must let me help you." At that Hubbard said, "Thank you, b'y," in a tone of great relief. Then he added slowly, "I'm still a bit weak, and it's hard to work fast to-night." It was the first time since we left the post that he consented to anyone doing any part of his share of the work. It is true that since we had turned back I had been relieving him of his share of carrying the canoe, but I was able to do so only by telling him I much preferred toting the boat to juggling with the packs. From this time on, however, he consented, with less resistance, to George or myself doing this or that while he rested by the fire. The fact was he had reached the stage where he was kept going only by his grit. October began with tremendous gales and a driving rain mixed with sleet, that removed all traces of the snow. The sleet stung our faces, and we frequently had to take refuge from the blasts in the lee of bushes and trees so as to recover our breath; but we managed to advance our camp three miles on the first, pitching the tent on the shore of one of the limpid ponds among the boulders. For supper we ate the last of the dried fish, which again left us with only the diminishing stock of pea meal, and none of us did much talking when we crouched about the fire. On Friday (October 2d), with high hopes of getting fish, we hurried ahead with our packs to the pool where Hubbard had caught the big trout with his emergency kit and the tamarack pole, and near which we had camped for a day while he rested and George made a trip to the mountains from which he discovered Lake Mary and Windbound Lake. The sight of the old camping place brought back to me the remembrance of how sick Hubbard had been there a month before, and how the thought had come to me to try to make him give up the struggle. The weather was very unfavourable for trouting--a cold west wind was blowing accompanied by snow squalls--but Hubbard caught two within a few minutes, and George boiled them with a bit of pea meal for luncheon. Then, leaving Hubbard to try for more fish, George and I went back to the canoe. While we were returning to camp, George shot a duck with my rifle. It was a very fat black duck, and we gloated long over its fine condition. Only three more trout rewarded Hubbard's afternoon's work. However, we had duck for supper, and were nearer home, and that comforted us. I remember that while we sat by the fire that evening George produced from somewhere in the recesses of his pockets a New York Central Railroad timetable on which was printed a buffet lunch menu, and handed it to us with the suggestion that we give our orders for breakfast. Hubbard examined it and quickly said: "Give me a glass of cream, some graham gems, marmalade, oatmeal and cream, a jelly omelette, a sirloin steak, lyonnaise potatoes, rolls, and a pot of chocolate. And you might bring me also," he added, "a plate of griddle cakes and maple syrup." Every dish on that menu card from end to end we thoroughly discussed, our ultimate conclusion being that each of us would take a full portion of everything on the list and might repeat the order. It was on this evening also that, while calculating the length of time it would take us to travel from point to point on our back trail, we began the discussion as to whether it would be better to stick to the canoe on the "big river" (the Beaver) and follow it down to its mouth, wherever that might be, or abandon the canoe at the place where we had portaged into the river from Lake Elson, and make a dash overland with light packs to the Susan Valley and down that valley to the hunters' cabins we had seen at the head of Grand Lake, where we hoped we might find a cache of provisions. Hubbard was strongly in favour of the latter plan, while George and I favoured the former. As the reader knows, I had a great dread of the Susan Valley, and expressed my feelings freely. But we all had the idea that the "big river" emptied into Goose Bay (the extreme western end of Hamilton Inlet), and Hubbard reasoned that we might reach the broad waters of the bay far from a house, be windbound indefinitely and die of starvation on the shore. On the other hand, we were sure of the route through the Susan Valley, and, in his opinion, it would be better to bear the ills we had borne before than fly to others we know not of. I cannot deny that his argument had weight, but we decided that for the present we should hold the matter in abeyance. One thing we felt reasonably sure of, and that was we should get fish in the big river, and we eagerly counted the days it would take us to reach it. Bright and cold and crisp was Saturday morning (October 3d), with black wind-driven clouds and occasional snow squalls later in the day. About noon, when Hubbard had gone ahead with a pack, George and I sighted two small black ducks while we were canoeing across a pond. They were quietly swimming about fifty yards in front of us. I passed my rifle ahead to George. He carefully knelt in the canoe, and took a deliberate aim while I held my breath. Then, Crack! went the rifle, and but one duck rose on the wing. Quick as a flash, without removing the rifle from his shoulder, George threw the lever forward and back. Instantly the rifle again spoke, and the bird in the air tumbled over and over into the water. The first duck had been decapitated; the other received a bullet through its body. The moment was intense; for we had only a little fish for breakfast, and the outlook for other meals had seemed dismal indeed; but George was stoicism itself; not a word did he utter, nor did a feature of his face change. When, after picking up the ducks, we touched the shore, I jumped out, took his hand and said "George, you're a wonder." But he only grinned in his good-natured way and remarked: "We needed 'em." Tying the birds' legs together, he slung them over his shoulder, and proudly we marched to the place where Hubbard was awaiting us, to make his heart glad with our good fortune. One of the ducks we ate on the spot, and the other we had for supper at our camp by a little pond among the moonlit hills. The thermometer registered only 10 degrees above zero on Sunday morning (October 4th), but there was not a cloud in the sky, and we should have enjoyed the crisp, clear air had it not been for the ever-present spectre of starvation. All the food we had besides the pea meal was two of the fish Hubbard had caught two days before. One of these we ate for breakfast, boiled with a little pea meal. Our old trail led us up during the forenoon to the shore of one of the larger of the small lakes with which the country abounded. This lake we crossed with difficulty, being compelled to break the ice ahead of the canoe with our paddles. On the opposite shore we stopped to make a fire for tea--that was all we thought we should have for luncheon; just tea. George stepped into the timber to get wood, and in a moment returned and asked me for my pistol. "I saw a partridge in there," he said quietly. Presently Hubbard and I heard the pistol crack, and we counted, at short intervals, four shots. "There's something up," said Hubbard, and we started to our feet just as George came in view with a grin on his face and four spruce-grouse in his hand. He always did those things in that quiet, matter-of-fact way. Two of the birds George cooked immediately, and as he served to each an equal share, Hubbard said: "Boys, we should thank the Lord for this food. It has seemed sometimes, I know, as if He had forgotten us; but He has not. Just now when we needed food so much He gave us these partridges. Let us thank Him." So we bowed our heads for a moment, we three gaunt, ragged men, sitting there by our fire in the open, with the icy lake at our backs and the dark wilderness of fir trees before us. During the afternoon we bagged two more grouse. Hubbard shot them as they fluttered up before him on the trail, and a meal on the morrow was assured. The day's work practically completed our forty-mile portage; for we camped at night on the first little lake north of Lake Disappointment. It was well that we had about reached fairly continuous water. None of us would have been able to stand much longer the strain of those rough portages day after day. Fortunate as we had been in getting game at critical moments since leaving Windbound Lake, the quantity of food we had eaten was far below that which was necessary to sustain the strength of men who had to do hard physical work. It had become so that when we tried to sit down our legs would give way and we would tumble down. Hubbard was failing daily. He habitually staggered when he walked, and on this last day of our long portage he came near going all to pieces nervously. When he started to tell me something about his wife's sister, he could not recall her name, although it had been perfectly familiar, and this and other lapses of memory appeared to frighten him. For a long time he sat very still with his face buried in his hands, doubtless striving to rally his forces. And the most pitiable part of it was his fear that George and I should notice his weakness and lose courage. But he rallied--rallied so as again to become the inspirer of George and me, he who was the weakest physically of the three. XIV. BACK THROUGH THE RANGES In our camp on the first little lake north of Lake Disappointment we ate on Monday morning (October 5th) the last of the grouse we had killed on the previous day, and when we started forward we again were down to the precious little stock of pea meal. In a storm of snow and rain we floundered with the packs and canoe through a deep marsh, until once more we stood on the shore of the big lake where we had spent the weary days searching for a river--Lake Disappointment. We built a fire on the shore to dry our rags and warm ourselves; for we were soaked through and shivering with the cold. Then we launched the canoe and paddled eastward. Late in the afternoon we landed on an island that contained a semi-barren knoll, but which otherwise was wooded with small spruce. On the knoll we found an abundance of mossberries, and soon after we had devoured them we happened upon a supper in the form of two spruce-grouse. George and Hubbard each shot one. The sun's journey across the sky was becoming noticeably shorter and shorter, and before we had realised that the day was spent, night began to close in upon us, and we pitched camp on the island. In the morning (October 6) our breakfast flew right into camp. George crawled out early to build a fire, and a moment later stuck his head in the tent with the words, "Your pistol, Wallace." I handed it out to him, and almost immediately we heard a shot. Then George reappeared, holding up another spruce-grouse. "This grub came right to us," he said; "I knocked the beggar over close by the fire." While we were eating the bird, Hubbard told us he had been dreaming during the night of home. Nearly every day now we heard that he had been dreaming the night before of his wife or his mother; they were always giving him good things to eat, or he was going to good dinners with them. It had rained hard during the night, but with early morning there came again the mixture of rain and snow we had endured on the day before. When we put off in the canoe, we headed for the point where we expected to make the portage across the two-mile neck of land that separated Lake Disappointment from Lost Trail Lake; but soon we were caught by a terrific gale, and for half an hour we sat low in the canoe doing our best with the paddles to keep it headed to the wind and no one speaking a word. The foam dashed over the sides of our little craft, soaking us from head to foot. Tossed violently about by the big seas, we for a time expected that every moment would be our last. Had George been less expert with the stern paddle, we surely should have been swamped. As it was we managed, after a desperate struggle, to gain the lee side of a small, rocky island, upon which we took refuge. At length the wind abated and the lake became calmer, and, venturing out once more, we made for the mainland some distance to the west of where we had intended to make our portage. There we stumbled upon a river of considerable size flowing in a southwesterly direction from Lake Disappointment into Lost Trail Lake. This river we had missed on the up trail and here had lost the old Indian trail to Michikamau. I volunteered to take my rifle and hunt across the neck of land separating the two lakes while Hubbard and George ran the rapids; but presently I heard them calling to me, and, returning to the river, found them waiting on the bank. "We'll camp just below here for the night," said Hubbard, "and finish the river in the morning. I couldn't manage my end of the canoe in a rapid we were shooting and we got on a rock. You'd better shoot the rapids with George after this." I suppose Hubbard's weakness prevented him from turning the canoe quickly enough when occasion required, and he realised it. All we had to eat that night was a little thin soup made from the pea meal, and an even smaller quantity had to serve us for breakfast. In the morning (October 7th) we shot the rapids without incident down into Lost Trail Lake, and, turning to the eastward, were treated to a delightful view of the Kipling Mountains, now snow-capped and cold-looking, but appearing to us so much like old friends that it did our hearts good to see them. It was an ideal Indian summer day, the sun shining warmly down from a cloudless sky. Looking at the snow-capped peaks that bounded the horizon in front of me, I thought of the time when I had stood gazing at them from the other side, and of the eagerness I had felt to discover what lay hidden beyond. "Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges-- Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!" Well, we had gone. And we had found what lay hidden behind the ranges. But were we ever to get out to tell about it? We stopped on the shore of Lost Trail Lake to eat some badly-needed cranberries and mossberries. The mossberries, having been frozen, were fairly sweet, and they modified, to some extent, the acid of the cranberries, so that taken together they made a luncheon for which we, in our great need, were duly grateful. After eating as many of the berries as our stomachs would hold, we were able to pick a pan of them to take with us. Paddling on, we passed through the strait connecting Lost Trail Lake with Lake Hope, and, recalling with grim smiles the enthusiastic cheers we had sent up there a few weeks before, sped rapidly across Lake Hope to the entrance of our old mountain pass, camping for the night on a ridge near the old sweat holes of the medicine men. Our supper consisted of a little more pea soup and half of the panful of berries. While we were lying spoon-fashion under the blankets at night, it was the custom for a man who got tired of lying on one side to say "turn," which word would cause the others to flop over immediately, usually without waking. On this night, however, I said "turn over," and as we all flopped, Hubbard, who had been awake, remarked: "That makes me think of the turnovers and the spicerolls mother used to make for me." And then he and I lay for an hour and talked of the baking days at the homes of our childhood. Under-the-blanket talks like this were not infrequent. "Are you awake, b'y?" Hubbard would ask. "Yes, b'y," I would reply, and so we would begin. If we happened to arouse George, which was not usual, Hubbard would insist on his describing over and over again the various Indian dishes he had prepared. Weak as we were upon leaving Lake Hope (October 8), we did an heroic day's work. We portaged the entire six miles through the mountain pass, camping at night on the westernmost of the lakes that constitute the headwaters of the Beaver River, once more on the other side of the ranges. We did this on a breakfast of pea soup and the rest of our berries, and a luncheon of four little trout that Hubbard caught in the stream that flows through the pass. I shot a spruce grouse in the pass, and this bird we divided between us for supper. It was a terrible day. The struggle through the brush and up the steep inclines with the packs and the canoe so exhausted me that several times I seemed to be on the verge of a collapse, and I found it hard to conceal my condition. Once Hubbard said to me: "Speak stronger, b'y. Put more force in your voice. It's so faint George'll surely notice it, and it may scare him." That was always the way with Hubbard. Despite his own pitiable condition, he was always trying to help us on and give us new courage. As a matter of fact, his own voice was getting so weak and low that we frequently had to ask him to repeat. And the day ended in a bitter disappointment. On our uptrail we had had a good catch of trout at the place where the stream flowing out of the pass fell into the lake near our camp, and it was the hope of another good catch there that kept us struggling on to reach the end of the pass before night. But Hubbard whipped the pool at the foot of the fall in vain. Not a single fish rose. The day had been bright and sunshiny, but the temperature was low and the fish had gone to deeper waters. It was a dismal camp. The single grouse we had for supper served only to increase our craving for food. And there we were, with less than two pounds of pea meal on hand and the fish deserting us, more than one hundred and fifty miles from the post at Northwest River. By the fire Hubbard again talked of home. "I dreamed last night," he said, "that you and I, Wallace, were very weak and very hungry, and we came all at once upon the old farm in Michigan, and mother was there, and she made us a good supper of hot tea biscuits with maple syrup and honey to eat on them. And how we ate and ate!" But George's customary grin was missing. In silence he took the tea leaves from the kettle and placed them on a flat stone close by the fire, and in silence he occasionally stirred them with a twig that he broke from a bush at his back. At length, the tea leaves having dried sufficiently, he filled his pipe from them, and I filled my pipe. We had not had any tobacco to smoke for many days. The silence continued. On my right sat George, his cheeks sunken, his eyes deep down in their sockets, his long black hair falling over his ears--there he sat stiffly erect, puffing his tea leaves with little apparent satisfaction and gazing stoically into the fire. I could guess what was passing through his mind--the stories of the Indians that starved. On my left was Hubbard. He had assumed the attitude that of late had become characteristic when he was dreaming of his wife and his mother and his far-away home. His elbows were resting on his knees, and his hands were supporting his head. His long hair hid his bony fingers and framed his poor, wan face. His sunken eyes, with their look of wistful longing, were fixed on the blazing logs. The silence became so oppressive that I had to break it: "George," I said, "were you never hungry before?" "Never in my life was short of grub till now," he answered shortly. At that Hubbard, aroused from his reverie, looked up. "Well, I can tell you, George," he said, "there are worse places than Labrador to starve in." "How's that?" grunted George. "If you had been as hungry as I have been in New York City, you'd know what I mean," said Hubbard. "It's a heap worse to be hungry where there's lots of grub around you than in the bush where there's none. I remember that when I first went to New York, and was looking for work, I found myself one rainy night with only five cents in my pocket. It was all the money I had in the world, and I hadn't any friends in the city, and I didn't want to write home, because nearly all the people there had no faith in my venture. I was soaking wet and good and hungry; I hadn't been eating much for several days. Well, I went to a bakery and blew in my last nickel on stale rolls and crullers and took them to my room. Then I took off my wet clothes and got into bed to get warm and snug, and there I ate my rolls and crullers, and they were bully. Yes, I remember that although my room rent was overdue, and I didn't know where my breakfast was coming from, I was supremely happy; I sort of felt I was doing the best I could." We went to bed that night feeling that our lives now depended on whether fish could be caught below. More than anxious were we for the morrow, because then we should go to the first rapid on the Beaver River below the lakes, and there in the pool, where two fishings had yielded us more than one hundred and thirty trout on the up trail, test our fortunes. The morning (October 9th) dawned crisp and wintry. The sun rose in a cloudless sky and set all the lake a-glinting. On the peaks of the Kipling Mountains the sunbeams kissed the snow, causing it to gleam and scintillate in brilliant contrast to the deep blue of the heavens above and the dark green of the forests below. Under normal circumstances we should have paused to drink in the beauty of it all; but as we in our faithful old canoe paddled quickly down over the lake I am afraid that none of us thought of anything save the outcome of the test we were to make of our fortunes at the rapid for which we were bound. It is difficult to be receptive to beauty when one has had only a little watered pea meal for breakfast after a long train of lean and hungry days. We were glad only that the sun was modifying the chill air of the dawn, thus increasing our chance of getting fish. How friendly the narrow lake looked where we had seen the otter at play at sunset and where the loons had laughed at us so derisively. And the point, where we had camped that August night and roasted our goose seemed very homelike. We stopped there for a moment to look for bones. There were a few charred ones where the fire had been. They crumbled without much pressure, and we ate them. No trout were jumping in the lake now--its mirror-like surface was unbroken. All was still, very still. To our somewhat feverish imagination it seemed as if all nature were bating its breath as if tensely waiting for the outcome at the fishing pool. I can hardly say what we expected. I fear my own faith was weak, but I believe Hubbard's was strong--his was the optimistic temperament. How glad we were to feel the river current as it caught the canoe and hurried it on to the rapid! Suddenly, as we turned a point in the stream, the sound of the rushing waters came to us. A few moments more and we were there. Just above the rapid we ran the canoe ashore, and Hubbard with his rod hurried down to the pool and cast a fly upon the water. XV. GEORGE'S DREAM Since the weather had become colder we always fished with bait, if any were available, and so, when after a few minutes a small trout took Hubbard's fly, he made his next cast with a fin cut from his first catch. Before he cast the fly, George and I ran the canoe through the rapid to a point just below the pool where we had decided to camp. Then, leaving George to finish the work of making camp, I took my rod and joined Hubbard. All day long, and until after dusk, we fished. We got sixty. But they were all tiny, not averaging more than six inches long. The test of our fortunes was not encouraging. Hubbard especially was disappointed, as he had been cherishing the hope that we might catch enough to carry us well down the trail. And what were sixty little fish divided among three ravenous men! We ate fifteen of them for luncheon and eighteen for supper, and began to fear the worst. The pea meal now was down to one and a half pounds. It was late when we gave up trying to get more fish, but we sat long by the fire considering the possibility of finding scraps at the camp down the Beaver where we had killed the caribou on August 12. The head, we remembered, had been left practically untouched, and besides the bones there were three hoofs lying about somewhere, if they had not been carried off by animals. We knew that these scraps had been rotting for two months, but we looked forward hopefully to reaching them on the morrow. No lovelier morning ever dawned than that of Saturday (October 10th), and until midday the weather was balmy and warm; but in the afternoon clouds began to gather attended by a raw west wind. While George and I shot the rapids, Hubbard fished them, catching in all seventeen little trout. Some of the rapids George and I went through in the canoe we should never, under ordinary conditions, have dreamed of shooting. But George expressed the sentiments of all of us when he said: "We may as well drown as starve, and it's a blamed sight quicker." Only when the river made actual falls did George and I resort to portaging. However, we did not make the progress we had hoped, and much disappointed that we could not reach Camp Caribou that night, we camped at the foot of the last fall above the lake expansion on the shore of which George and I had ascended a hill to be rewarded with a splendid view of the country and the Kipling Mountains. Our day's food consisted of three trout each at each of our three meals. Sunday (October 11th) was another perfect day. It was wintry, but we had become inured to the cold. We each had a pair of skin mittens, which although practically gone as to the palms, served to protect our hands from the winds. Before we started forward I read aloud John xvii. Again in the morning we divided nine little trout among us, and the remaining eight we had for luncheon. The weather was now so cold that do what we would we never again could induce a trout, large or small, to take the bait or rise to the fly. In the course of the day George took two long shots at ducks, and missed both times; it would have been phenomenal if he hadn't. There was one fall that we could not shoot, and we landed on the bank to unload the canoe. All three of us tried to lift the canoe so as to carry it about thirty yards down to where we could again launch it, but we were unable to get it to our heads and it fell to ground with a crash. Then we looked at one another and understood. No one spoke, but we all understood. Up to this time Hubbard and I had kept up the fiction that we were "not so weak," but now all of us knew that concealment no longer was possible, and the clear perception came to us that if we ever got out of the wilderness it would be only by the grace of God. With difficulty we dragged the canoe to the launching place, and on the way found the cleaning rod Hubbard's father had made for him, which had been lost while we were portaging around the fall on our upward journey. Hubbard picked the rod up tenderly and put it in the canoe. An hour before sunset we reached Camp Caribou, the place where we had broiled those luscious steaks that 12th of August and had merrily talked and feasted far into the night. Having dragged the canoe up on the sandy shore, we did not wait to unload it, but at once staggered up the bank to begin our eager search for scraps. The head of the caribou, dried and worm-eaten, was where we had left it. The bones we had cut the meat from were there. The remnants of the stomach, partially washed away, were there. But we found only two hoofs. We had left three. Up and down and all around the camp we searched for that other hoof; but it was gone. "Somebody's taken it," said George. "Somebody's taken it, sure--a marten or somebody." When all the refuse we could find had been collected, and the tent had been pitched on the spot where it stood before, George got a fire going and prepared our banquet of bones and hoofs. The bit of hair that clung to the skin on the upper part of the hoofs he singed off by holding them a moment in the fire. Then, taking an axe, he chopped the hoofs and bones up together, and placed some of the mess in the kettle to boil. A really greasy, though very rancid, broth resulted. Some of the bones and particularly the hoofs were maggoty, but, as Hubbard said, the maggots seemed to make the broth the richer, and we drank it all. It tasted good. For some time we sat gnawing the gristle and scraps of decayed flesh that clung to the bones, and we were honestly thankful for our meal. The bones from which we made our broth were not thrown away. On the contrary we carefully took them from the kettle and placed them with the other bones, to boil and reboil them until the last particle of grease had been extracted. There was little left on the head save the hide, but that also was placed with the pile of bones, as well as the antlers, which were in velvet, and what remained of the stomach and its contents. After we had finished gnawing our bones, George sat very quiet as if brooding over some great problem. Finally he arose, brought his camp bag to the fire, and, resuming his seat, went low into the recesses of the bag. Still holding his hand in the bag, he looked at me and grinned. "Well?" said I. "Sh-h-h," he replied, and slowly withdrawing his hand held up--an ounce package of cut plug tobacco! I stared at the tobacco, and then again caught George's eye. Our smiles became beatific. "I've been savin' this for when we needed it most," said George. "And I guess the time's come." He handed me the package, and I filled my pipe, long unused to anything save leaves from the teapot and red willow bark. Then George filled his pipe. From the fire we took brands and applied them to the tobacco. Deep, deep were our inhalations of the fragrant smoke. "George," said I, "however in the world could you keep it so long?" "Well," said George--puff, puff--"well, when we were gettin' so short of grub"--puff--"thinks I"--puff--"the time's comin'"--puff, puff--"when we'll need cheerin' up"--puff--"and, says I,"--puff--"I'll just sneak this away until that time comes." "George," said I, lying back and watching the smoke curl upward in the light of the fire, "you are not a half bad sort of a fellow." "Wallace," said be, "we'll have a pipeful of this every night until it is gone." "I'd try it, too," said Hubbard wistfully, "but I know it would make me sick, so I'll drink a little tea." After he had had his tea, he read to us the First Psalm. These readings from the Bible brought with them a feeling of indescribable comfort, and I fancy we all went to our blankets that night content to know that whatever was, was for the best. With the first signs of dawn we were up and had another pot of bone broth. Again the morning (October 12th) was crisp and beautiful, and the continuance of the good weather gave us new courage. While the others broke camp, I went on down the river bank in the hope of finding game, but when, after I had walked a mile, they overtook me with the canoe I had seen nothing. While boiling bones at noon, we industriously employed ourselves in removing the velvet skin from the antlers and singeing the hair off. In the afternoon we encountered more rapids. Once Hubbard relieved me at the stern paddle, but he was too weak to act quickly, and we had a narrow escape from being overturned. While making camp at night, George heard a whiskey jack calling, and he sneaked off into the brush and shot it. We reserved it as a dainty for breakfast. As we sat by the fire gnawing bones and chewing up scorched pieces of antlers, we again discussed the question as to whether we should stick to the canoe and run the river out to its mouth or abandon the canoe where we had entered the river. As usual George and I urged the former course. "When you're in the bush stick to your canoe as long as you can," said George; "that's always a good plan." But Hubbard was firm in the belief that we should take the route we knew, and renewed his argument about the possibility of getting windbound on Goose Bay, into which we thought the river flowed. Being windbound had for him especial terrors, due, I suppose, to his normally active nature. Another thing that inclined him towards taking the old trail was his strong faith that we should get trout in the outlet to Lake Elson, where we had such a successful fishing on the inbound journey. He argued, furthermore, that along what we then thought was the Nascaupee River we should be able to recover the provisions we had abandoned soon after plunging into the wild. "However," he said in closing, "we'll see how we feel about it to-morrow. I'll sleep on it." I remember I dreaded so much a return to the Susan Valley that I told Hubbard it seemed like suicide to leave the river we were on and abandon the canoe. I felt strongly on the subject and expressed my opinion freely. But it was a question of judgment about which one man's opinion was as likely to be right as another's and, recognising this, we never permitted our discussions as to the best course to follow to create any ill-feeling. On Tuesday (October 13th) the weather continued to favour us. We shot the rapids without a mishap, and camped at night within three miles of where we had entered the river. But still the question about leaving it was undecided. The whiskey jack and a bit of pea meal helped our pot of bone broth at breakfast, and in addition to more broth we had in the evening some of the caribou stomach and its contents and a part of a moccasin that Hubbard had made from the caribou skin and had worn full of holes. Boiled in the kettle the skin swelled thick and was fairly palatable. Clouds and a sprinkle of rain introduced the morning of Wednesday (October 14th). While the bones were boiling for breakfast, George brought out the caribou skin that he had picked up on the shore of Lake Disappointment after we had abandoned it. Now as he put a piece of it in the kettle, we recalled his prophecy that some day we might want to eat it, and laughed. Into the pot also went one-sixth of a pound of pea meal together with a few lumps of flour that we carefully scraped from a bag we had thrown away in the summer and found near the camp. While we were eating this breakfast (and really enjoying it) we again considered the problem as to whether or not we should leave the river. In the course of the discussion George said quietly: "I had a strange dream about that last night, fellus." We urged him to tell us what it was. "It was a strange dream," he repeated, and hesitated. Then: "Well, I dreamed the Lord stood before me, very beautiful and bright, and He had a mighty kind look on His face, and He said to me: 'George, don't leave this river--just stick to it and it will take you out to Grand Lake where you'll find Blake's cache with lots of grub, and then you'll be all right and safe. I can't spare you any more fish, George, and if you leave this river you won't get any more. Just stick to this river, and I'll take you out safe.' "The Lord was all smilin' and bright," continued George, "and He looked at me very pleasant. Then He went away, and I dreamed we went right down the river and came out in Grand Lake near where we had left it comin' up, and we found Blake there, and he fed us and gave us all the grub we wanted, and we had a fine time." It was quite evident that George was greatly impressed by his dream. I give it here simply for what it is worth. At the same time I cannot help characterising it as remarkable, not to say extraordinary; for none of us had had even a suspicion that the river we were on emptied into Grand Lake at all, much less that its mouth was near the point where we left the lake. But I myself attached no importance to the dream at the time, whatever I may think now; I was chiefly influenced, I suppose, in my opposition to the abandonment of the river by the unspeakable dread I had felt all along of returning to the Susan Valley--was it a premonition?--and no doubt it was only natural that Hubbard should disregard the dream. "It surely was an unusual dream," he said to George; "but it isn't possible, as you know, for this river to empty into Grand Lake. We were talking about leaving the river until late last night, and you had it on your mind--that's what made you dream about it." "May be it was," said George calmly; "but it was a mighty strange dream, and we'd better think about it before we leave the river. Stick to the canoe, Hubbard, that's what I say. Wallace and I 'll shoot the rapids all right. They're sure to be not so bad as we've had, and I think they'll be a lot better. We can run 'em, can't we, Wallace?" I added my opinion to George's that there would be more water to cover the rocks farther down, and said that however bad the rapids might be I should venture to take the stern paddle in every one that George dared to tackle. But Hubbard only said: "I still think, boys, we should take the trail we know." "That means suicide," I said for the second time, rather bitterly, I fear. "We'll surely leave our bones in that awful valley over there. We're too weak to accomplish that march." Once more Hubbard marshalled his arguments in favour of the overland route, and George and I said no more that morning. Soon after we relaunched the canoe something occurred to change the current of our thoughts. A little way ahead of us, swimming slowly down the river, George espied a duck. No one spoke while we landed him, rifle in hand, on the bank. Cautiously he stole down among the alders and willows that lined the shore, and then crawled on hands and knees through the marsh until the duck was opposite to him. It seemed a very small thing for a rifle target while it was moving, and as George put the rifle to his shoulder and carefully aimed, Hubbard and I watched him with nerves drawn to a tension. Once he lowered the rifle, changed his position slightly, then again raised the weapon to his shoulder. He was deliberation personified. Would he never fire? But suddenly the stillness of the wilderness was broken by a loud, clear report. And Hubbard and I breathed again, breathed a prayer of gratitude, as we saw the duck turn over on its back. With his long black hair falling loosely over his ears, ragged, and dripping wet with the marsh water, George arose and returned to us. Stopping for a moment before entering the canoe, he looked heavenward and reverently said: "The Lord surely guided that bullet." It was still early in the morning when we arrived at the point where we had portaged into the river. George prepared the duck--small it was but very fat--for a delicious, glorious luncheon, and while it was cooking we had our last discussion as to whether or not we should leave the river. "Well," I at length said to Hubbard, "a final decision can be deferred no longer. It's up to you, b'y--which route are we to take?" "I firmly believe," said Hubbard, "that we should stick to our old trail." George and I said no more. The question was settled. Hubbard was the leader. Immediately after luncheon we set to work preparing for the march overland. In addition to several minor articles of equipment, we decided to leave behind us the artificial horizon, the sextant box, and one of the axes. When our light packs had been prepared, we turned the canoe bottom up on the river bank. I hated to leave it. I turned once to pat and stroke the little craft that had carried us so far in safety. To me it was one of our party--a dear friend and comrade. It seemed cruel to abandon it there in the midst of the wilderness. In my abnormal state of mind I could scarcely restrain the tears. But the best of friends must part, and so, shouldering our light packs, we bid the canoe a last farewell, and staggered forward to the horrors in store for us on the trail below. XVI. AT THE LAST CAMP We began our march back to the Susan Valley with a definite plan. Some twenty-five miles below, on the Susan River, we had abandoned about four pounds of wet flour; twelve or fifteen miles below the flour there was a pound of powdered milk, and four or five miles still further down the trail a pail with perhaps four pounds of lard. Hubbard considered the distances and mapped out each day's march as he hoped to accomplish it. We had in our possession, besides the caribou bones and hide, one and one-sixth pounds of pea meal. Could we reach the flour? If so, that perhaps would take us on to the milk powder, and that to the lard; and then we should be within easy distance of Grand Lake and Blake's winter hunting cache. Hubbard was hopeful; George and I were fearful. Hubbard's belief that we should be able to reach the flour was largely based on his expectation that we should get fish in the outlet to Lake Elson. His idea was that the water of the lake would be much warmer than that of the river. He had, poor chap! the fatal faculty, common to persons of the optimistic temperament, of making himself believe what he wanted to believe. Neither George nor I remarked on the possibilities or probabilities of our getting fish in Lake Elson's outlet, and just before we said good-bye to the canoe Hubbard turned to me and said: "Wallace, don't you think we'll get them there? Aren't you hopeful we shall?" "Yes, I hope," I answered. "But I fear. The fish, you know, b'y, haven't been rising at all for several days, and perhaps it's better not to let our hopes run too high; for then, if they fail us, the disappointment won't be so hard to bear." "Yes, that's so," he replied; "but it makes me feel good to look forward to good fishing there. We will get fish there, we will! Just say we will, b'y; for that makes me feel happy." "We will--we'll say we will," I repeated to comfort him. Under ordinary conditions we should have found our packs, in their depleted state, very easy to carry; but, as it was, they weighed us down grievously as we trudged laboriously up the hill from the river and over the ridge to the marsh on the farther side of which lay Lake Elson. On the top of the ridge and on the slope where it descended to the marsh we found a few mossberries, which we ate while we rested. Crossing the marsh, we stepped from bog to bog when we could, but a large part of the time were knee-deep in the icy water and mud. Our feet at this time were wrapped in pieces of a camp blanket, tied to what remained of the moccasin uppers with pieces of our old trolling line. George and I were all but spent when we reached our old camping ground on the outlet to Lake Elson, and what it cost Hubbard to get across that marsh I can only imagine. As soon as we arrived Hubbard tried the fish. It did not take him long to become convinced that there was no hope of inducing any to rise. It was a severe blow to him, but he rallied his courage and soon apparently was as full of confidence as ever that we should be able to reach the flour. While Hubbard was trying the fish, George looked the old camp over carefully for refuse, and found two goose heads, some goose bones, and the lard pail we had emptied there. "I'll heat the pail," he said, "and maybe there'll be a little grease sticking to it that we can stir in our broth." Then, after looking at us for a moment, he put his hand into the pail and added: "I've got a little surprise here. I thought I'd keep it until the bones were boiled, but I guess you might as well have it now." From out of the pail he brought three little pieces of bacon--just a mouthful for each. I cannot remember what we said, but as I write I can almost feel again the thrill of joy that came to me upon beholding those little pieces of bacon. They seemed like a bit of food from home, and they were to us as the rarest dainty. George reboiled the bones with a piece of the hide and the remainder of the deer's stomach, and with this and the goose bones and heads we finished our supper. We were fairly comfortable when we went to rest. The hunger pangs were passing now. I have said that at this time I was in an abnormal state of mind. I suppose that was true of us all. The love of life had ceased to be strong upon us. For myself I know that I was conscious only of a feeling that I must do all I could to preserve my life and to help the others. Probably it was the beginning of the feeling of indifference, or reconciliation with the inevitable, that mercifully comes at the approach of death. In the morning (Thursday, October 15th) we again went over our belongings, and decided to abandon numerous articles we had hitherto hoped to carry through with us--my rifle and cartridges, some pistol ammunition, the sextant, the tarpaulin, fifteen rolls of photograph films, my fishing rod, maps, and note book, and various other odds and ends, including the cleaning rod Hubbard's father had made for him. "I wonder where father and mother are now," said Hubbard, as he took a last look at the cleaning rod. For a few moments he clung to it lovingly; then handed it to me with the words, "Put it with your rifle and fishing rod, b'y." And as I removed the cartridge from the magazine, and held the rifle up for a last look before wrapping it in the tarpaulin, he said: "It almost makes me cry to see you leave the fishing rod. If it is at all possible, we must see that the things are recovered. If they are, I want you to promise me that when you die you'll will the rod to me. It has got us more grub than anything else in the outfit, and it's carried us over some bad times. I'd like to have it, and I'd keep and cherish it always." I promised him that he certainly should have it. Well, the rod was recovered. And now when I look at the old weather-beaten piece of wood as it reposes comfortably in my den at home, I recall this incident, and my imagination carries me back to those last fishing days when Hubbard used it; and I can see again his gaunt form arrayed in rags as he anxiously whipped the waters on our terrible struggle homeward. It is the only thing I have with which he was closely associated during those awful days, and it is my most precious possession. As we were chewing on a piece of hide and drinking the water from the reboiled bones at breakfast, Hubbard told us he had had a realistic dream of rejoining his wife. The boy was again piteously homesick, and when we shouldered with difficulty our lightened packs and began the weary struggle on, my heart was heavy with a great dread. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, but the day was mild. Once or twice while skirting Lake Elson we halted to pick the few scattering mossberries that were to be found, once we halted to make tea to stimulate us, and at our old camp on Mountaineer Lake we again boiled the bones and used the water to wash down another piece of the caribou hide. In the afternoon George took the lead, I followed, and Hubbard brought up the rear. Suddenly George stopped, dropped his pack, and drew Hubbard's pistol, which he carried because he was heading the procession. Hubbard and I also halted and dropped our packs. Into the brush George disappeared, and we heard, at short intervals, the pistol crack three times. Then George reappeared with three spruce-grouse. How our hearts bounded! How we took George's hand and pressed it, while his face lighted up with the old familiar grin! We fingered the birds to make sure they were good and fat. We turned them over and over and gloated over them. George plucked them at once that we might see their plump bodies. It is true we were not so very hungry, but those birds meant that we could travel just so much the farther. We pushed on that we might make our night camp at the place where we had held the goose banquet on the 3d of August--that glorious night when we were so eager to proceed, when the northern lights illuminated the heavens and the lichens gleamed on the barren hill. Hubbard, I noticed, was lagging, and I told George quietly to set a slower pace. Then, to give Hubbard encouragement, I fell to the rear. The boy was staggering fearfully, and I watched him with increasing consternation. "We must get him out of here! We must! We must!" I kept saying to myself. The camping place was only two hundred yards away when he sank on the trail. I was at his side in a moment. He looked up at me with a pitiful smile, and spoke so low I could scarcely hear him. "B'y, I've got to rest here--a little--just a little while...you understand...My legs--have given out." "That's right, b'y, take a little rest," I said. "You'll be all right soon. But rest a little. I'll rest a bit with you; and then we'll leave your pack here, and you walk to camp light, and I'll come back for your pack." In a few minutes he got bravely up. We left his pack and together walked slowly on to join George at the old goose camp on Goose Creek. Then I returned for the pack that had been left behind. George boiled one of the grouse for supper. Hubbard told us he was not discouraged. His weakness, he said, was only momentary, and he was sure he would be quite himself in the morning, ready to continue the march homeward. After supper, as he was lying before the fire, he asked me, if I was not too tired, to read him the latter part of the sixth chapter of Matthew. I took the Book and read as he requested, closing with the words: "Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith? Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed? (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. But seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. Take therefore no thought for the morrow; for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." "How beautiful, how encouraging that is!" said Hubbard, as I put away the Book. He crawled into the tent to go to sleep. Then: "I'm so happy, b'y, so very, very happy to-night...for we're going home...we're going home." And he slept. Before I lay down I wrote in my diary: "Hubbard is in very bad shape--completely worn out physically and mentally--but withal a great hero, never complaining and always trying to cheer us up." George said he was sick when he went to rest, and that added to my concern. Friday morning (October 16th) came clear, mild, and beautiful. I was up at break of day to start the fire, and soon was followed by George and a little later by Hubbard. We all said we were feeling better. George shot a foolhardy whiskey jack that ventured too near the camp, and it went into the pot with a grouse for breakfast. The meal eaten, we all felt very much stronger, but decided that more outfit must be abandoned. I gave George my extra undershirt and a blue flannel shirt, both of which he donned. Every scrap we thought at the time we could do without, including many photograph films and George's blanket, was cached. After Hubbard read aloud John xv, we resumed the struggle. Naturally George and I relieved Hubbard of everything he would permit us to. The fact was, we could not have taken much more and moved. When Hubbard broke down on the trail, it was strictly necessary for me to make two trips with the packs; although his weighed something less than ten pounds, I could not have carried it in addition to my own if my life had depended upon it. Just below the place where Hubbard caught so many fish that day in August that we killed the geese, we stopped for a moment to rest. Hardly had we halted when George grabbed Hubbard's rifle, exclaiming, "Deer!" About four hundred yards below us, a magnificent caribou, his head held high, dashed across the stream and into the bush. He was on our lee and had winded us. No shot was fired. One fleeting glance, and he was gone. Our feelings can be imagined. His capture would have secured our safety. We struggled on. At midday we ate our last grouse. At this stopping place George abandoned his waterproof camp bag and his personal effects that he might be able to carry Hubbard's rifle. This relieved Hubbard of seven pounds, but he again failed before we reached our night camp. It was like the previous evening. With jaws set he tottered grimly on until his legs refused to carry him farther, and he sank to the ground. Again I helped him into camp, and returned for his pack. We pitched the tent facing a big rock so that the heat from the fire, blazing between, might be reflected into the tent, the front of which was thrown wide open. Of course George and I did all the camp work. Fortunately there was not much to do; our camps being pitched on the sites of previous ones, we had stakes ready to hand for the tent, and in this part of the country we were able to find branches and logs that we could burn without cutting. We still had one axe with us, but neither George nor I had the strength to swing it. The night was cold and damp. For supper we had another piece of the caribou hide, and water from the much-boiled bones with what I believed was the last of the pea meal--about two spoonfuls that Hubbard shook into the pot from the package, which he then threw away. As we reclined in the open front of the tent before the fire, I again read from the Bible, and again a feeling of religious exaltation came to Hubbard. "I'm so happy, and oh! so sleepy," he murmured, and was quiet. He did not make his usual entry in his diary. In my own diary for this date I find: "Hubbard's condition is pitiable, but he bears himself like the hero that he is--trying always to cheer and encourage us. He is visibly failing. His voice is very weak and low. I fear he will break down at every step. O God, what can we do! How can we save him!" On Saturday (October 17th) threatening clouds overcast the sky, and a raw wind was blowing. It penetrated our rags and set us a-shiver. At dawn we had more water from the bones and more of the hide. Cold and utterly miserable, we forced our way along. Our progress was becoming slower and slower. But every step was taking us nearer home, we said, and with that thought we encouraged ourselves. At noon we came upon our first camp above the Susan River. There George picked up one of our old flour bags. A few lumps of mouldy flour were clinging to it, and he scraped them carefully into the pot to give a little substance to the bone water. We also found a box with a bit of baking powder still in it. The powder was streaked with rust from the tin, but we ate it all. Then Hubbard made a find--a box nearly half full of pasty mustard. After we had each eaten a mouthful, George put the remainder in the pot. He was about to throw the box away when Hubbard asked that it be returned to him. Hubbard took the box and sat holding it in his hand. "That box came from Congers," he said, as if in a reverie. "It came from my home in Congers. Mina has had this very box in her hands. It came from the little grocery store where I've been so often. Mina handed it to me before I left home. She said the mustard might be useful for plasters. We've eaten it instead. I wonder where my girl is now. I wonder when I'll see her again. Yes, she had that very box in her hands-in her hands! She's been such a good wife to me." Slowly he bent his head, and the tears trickled down his cheeks. George and I turned away. It was near night when we reached the point near the junction of the Susan River and Goose Creek where we were to cross the river to what had been our last camping ground in the awful valley, and which was to prove our last camp in Labrador. Hubbard staggered along during the afternoon with the greatest difficulty, and finally again sank to the ground, completely exhausted. George took his pack across the river. While he crouched there on the trail, Hubbard's face bore an expression of absolute despair. At length I helped him to his feet, and in silence we forded the shallow stream. Our camp was made a short distance below the junction of the streams, among the fir trees a little way from the river bank. Here and there through the forest were numerous large rocks. Before one of these we pitched the tent, with the front of it open to receive the heat from the fire as it was reflected from the rock. More bone water and hide served us for supper, with the addition of a yeast cake from a package George had carried throughout the trip and never used. Huddling in the front of the tent, we counselled. "Well, boys," said Hubbard, "I'm busted. I can't go any farther--that's plain. I can't go any farther. We've got to do something." In the silence the crackling of the logs became pronounced. "George," Hubbard continued, "maybe you had better try to reach Blake's camp, and send in help if you're strong enough to get there. If you find a cache, and don't find Blake, try to get back with some of the grub. There's that old bag with a little flour in it--you might find that. And then the milk powder and the lard farther down. Maybe Wallace could go with you as far as the flour and bring back a little of it here. What do you say, b'y?" "I say it's well," I answered. "We've got to do something at once." "It's the only thing to do," said George. "I'm willin', and I'll do the best I can to find Blake and get help." "Then," said Hubbard, "you'd better start in the morning, boys. If you don't find the bag, you'd better go on with George, Wallace; for then there would be no use of your trying to get back here. Yes, boys, you'd better start in the morning. I'll be quite comfortable here alone until help comes." "I'll come back, flour or no flour," I said, dreading the thought of his staying there alone in the wilderness. We planned it all before Hubbard went to sleep. George and I, when we started in the morning, were to carry as little as possible. I thought I should be able to reach the flour bag and be back within three days. We were to prepare for Hubbard a supply of wood, and leave him everything on hand that might be called food--the bones and the remainder of the hide, a sack with some lumps of flour sticking to it that I had recovered at this camp, and the rest of the yeast cakes. George and I were to depend solely on the chance of finding game. "I'm much relieved now," said Hubbard, when it had all been settled. "I feel happy and contented. I feel that our troubles are about ended. I am very, very happy and contented." He lay down in his blanket. After a little he said: "B'y, I'm rather chilly; won't you make the fire a little bigger." I threw on more wood, and when I sat down I told him I should keep the fire going all night; for the air was damp and chill. "Oh, thank you, b'y," he murmured, "thank you. You're so good." After another silence, the words came faintly: "B'y, won't you read to me those two chapters we've had before?--the fourteenth of John and the thirteenth of First Corinthians... I'd like to hear them again, b'y... I'm very... sleepy... but I want to hear you read before... I go... to sleep." Leaning over so that the light of the fire might shine on the Book, I turned to the fourteenth of John and began: "'Let not your heart be troubled'" I paused to glance at Hubbard. He was asleep. Like a weary child, he had fallen asleep with the first words. The dancing flames lit up his poor, haggard, brown face; but upon it now there was no look of suffering; it was radiant with peace. George lay by his side, also asleep. Thus I began a night of weary vigil and foreboding. My heart was heavy with a presentiment of something dreadful. In the forest beyond the fire the darkness was intense. There was a restless stir among the fir tops; then a weary, weary sighing. The wind had arisen. I dozed. But what was that! I sat suddenly erect. On the canvas above me sounded a patter, patter, patter. Rain! Gradually the real and the seeming became blended. Beyond the fire-glow, on the edge of the black pall of night, horrid shapes began to gather. They leered at me, and mocked me, and oh! they were telling me something dreadful was going to happen. A sudden jerk, and I sat up and stared wildly about me. Nothing but the sighing tree-tops, and the patter, patter, patter of the rain. The fire had died down. I struggled to my feet, and threw on more wood. Again the horrid shapes leered at me from out the gloom. Then I heard myself exclaiming, "No, no, no!" The nameless dread was strong upon me. I listened intently for Hubbard's breathing. Had it ceased? I crawled over and peered long and anxiously at his face--his face which was so spectral and wan in the uncertain firelight. Twice I did this. A confused sense of things evil and malicious, a confused sense of sighing wind and pattering rain, a confused sense of starts and jerks and struggles with wood, and the night wore on. The black slowly faded into drab. The trees, dripping with moisture, gradually took shape. The day of our parting had come. XVII. THE PARTING It was a drizzling rain, and the sombre clouds hung low in the sky. The wind appeared to be steadily increasing. The day was Sunday, October 18th. Presently George sat up, rubbed his eyes and gazed about him for a moment in bewilderment. "Mornin', Wallace," he said, when he had collected his senses, "that blamed rain will make the travellin' hard, won't it?" He tied the pieces of blanket to his feet, and started for the river to get a kettle of water with which to reboil the bones. The movement aroused Hubbard, and he, too, sat up. "How's the weather, b'y?" he asked. "It makes me think of Longfellow's 'Rainy Day,"' I replied. "'The day is cold, and dark, and dreary.'" "Yes," he quickly returned; "but "'Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.'" I looked at him with admiration. "Hubbard," I exclaimed, "you're a wonder! You've a way of making our worst troubles seem light. I've been sitting here imagining all sorts things." "There's no call to worry, by," he smilingly said; "we'll soon have grub now, and then we can rest and sleep--and get strong." He arose from his blanket, and walked out of the tent to look at the sky. Slowly he returned, and sank wearily down. "I'm feeling stronger and better than I did last night," he said; "but I'm too weak to walk or stand up long." When our breakfast of bones and hide boiled with a yeast cake was ready, he sat up in the tent to receive his share. While drinking the water and chewing the hide, we again carefully considered how long it should take George to reach Grand Lake, and how long it would be before help could arrive, if he were able to obtain any, and how long it would require me to reach the flour and return. It was, roughly speaking, forty miles to Grand Lake, and fifteen miles to the flour. That there was room for doubt as to whether my strength would carry me to the flour and back again, we all recognised; and we fully realised, that if George failed to reach Grand Lake, or, reaching there, failed to find Blake or Blake's cache, our doom would be sealed; but so long had death been staring us in the face that it had ceased to have for us any terror. It was agreed, however, that each man should do his best to live as long as possible. I told Hubbard I should do my utmost to be back in three days, even if I did not find the flour. Hubbard remained seated in the front of the tent while George and I went about gathering a supply of wood that we thought should last him until someone returned. George also brought a kettle of water from the river, and thoughtfully placed it near the fire for Hubbard's use in boiling the bones and hide, all of which we left with him together with the yeast and some tea. I also turned over to him the pair of blankets he had delivered to me at Halifax--the birthday gift from my sisters. These preparations for Hubbard's comfort completed, George and I returned to the tent to arrange the kits we were to take with us. Hubbard sat in the middle of the tent towards the rear; George and I on either side of him in the front. Hubbard gave George his pistol and compass, and I had my own pistol and compass. The pistols we fastened to our belts along with a sheath knife and tin cup. Having a case for my compass, I wore it also on my belt; George placed his in his pocket. Each of us had half a blanket, this to be our only covering at night. George placed his half, together with a tea pail and some tea, in the waterproof bag he had been using to carry food. This bag he bound with a pack strap, leaving a loop to sling over his shoulder. I also bound my half a blanket with a pack strap, thinking as I did so that I soon might want to eat the strap. And then, when George and I had filled our waterproof boxes with wax taper matches, and placed a handful of pistol cartridges in our pockets, we were ready to start. At this point I suggested it might be well for each man to make a note of such disposition as he desired made of his effects. George made an entry in his note book, and asked Hubbard to write when we were gone a letter to Mr. King, the Hudson's Bay Company's agent at Missanabie, in reference to his (George's) affairs at that post. I then made the last entry in my diary, and with it wrote what I believed might be a last message to my sisters and my friend and associate in business, Mr. Alonzo G. McLaughlin. I put the diary with my other papers in my camp bag, and placed the bag in the rear of the tent, where the note Hubbard was to write for George was also to be placed; we believed that if worst came to worst the tent was more likely to be found than our bodies down on the trail. Hubbard had been watching us silently while we did these things, and now he said: "Wallace, if you get out of this, and I don't, you'll have to write the story of the trip." I expressed some doubt as to my ability, but he made me promise I would do the best I could. I also promised, at his request, that if I survived him I should place his diary in his wife's hands. "Thank you, b'y," he said. "And now before you leave me won't you read to me again?--I want to hear that fourteenth chapter of John and the thirteenth of First Corinthians. I fell asleep last night while you were reading, I was so tired. I'm sleepy now, very sleepy; but I'll keep awake this time while you read." I got my testament from my camp bag and read both chapters through, noting as I read that the look of happiness and peace was returning to Hubbard's poor, wan face. When I had finished, he said quietly: "Thank you, b'y, thank you very much. Isn't that comforting?--'Let not your heart be troubled.' It makes me feel good. I've faith that we'll all be saved. I'm not worried. McLean was caught just as we are. He sent a man for help and got out all right. God will send us help, too." "Yes," said I, "and we shall soon be safe home." "We'll soon be safe home" repeated Hubbard--"safe home. How happy that makes me feel!" It was time for George and me to go. But I could not say good-bye just yet. I turned my back to Hubbard and faced the fire. The tears were welling up into my eyes, and I struggled for self-control. George sat silent, too, and his face was strangely drawn. For a full ten minutes we sat silently gazing into the fire. Finally George arose. "Well, Wallace, we'd better start now." "Yes," I said; "we'd better start." I collected myself as best I could, and, turning to Hubbard, held out my hand. "Good-bye, b'y; I'll be back soon." And then, as I looked into his poor, wistful eyes, I broke down and sobbed. I crawled over to him, and put my arm about him. I kissed his cheek, and he kissed my cheek. We embraced each other, and for a moment held our faces close together. Then I drew away. George was crying, too. The dear fellow went over to Hubbard, stooped and kissed his cheek. "With God's help, I'll save you, Hubbard!" Hubbard kissed his cheek, and they embraced. George slung his bundle on his shoulder, and I took up mine. We turned to go. But I had to return. I stooped and again kissed Hubbard's cheek, and he again kissed mine. He was quite calm--had been calm throughout. Only his eyes shone with that look of wistful longing. "Good-bye, boys, and God be with you!" "Good-bye!" "Good-bye!" And George and I left him. About twenty yards away I turned for a last look at the tent. Hubbard evidently had immediately lain down; for he was not to be seen. All I saw was the little peak of balloon silk that had been our home for so many weeks, the fire blazing between it and the big rock, the kettle of water by the fire, and the white moss and the dripping wet fir trees all about. * * * * * Some one hundred and fifty yards farther on George and I forded a brook, after which our course was through closely-grown, diminutive fir trees until we came to a series of low, barren knolls. On these knolls we found some mossberries. Then we pushed on. It was dreadfully slow travelling. The wind was in the east, and was rising. The drizzling rain had become a downpour, and it was dashed into our faces in sheets. The cold was increasing. Our hands were stiff and numb. Somewhat after midday George threw down his pack. "We'll have a spell [rest] and a cup of tea to warm us up," he said. I did not protest. The previous night had been a trying one, and I was very tired. We drew together some wood. With his sheath-knife George whittled some shavings, and a fire was soon blazing. When the kettle had been placed over the fire to boil, George drew out of his bag a package--yes, it was a half-pound package of pea meal! At first I could not believe my eyes, and I stood stupidly staring as George prepared to stir some of it into the kettle. At length I found my tongue. "George," I cried indignantly, "where did you get that pea meal?" "Hubbard gave it to me this morning while you were gettin' wood," he answered promptly. "But why did you take it? "He made me take it. I didn't want to, but he said I must. He said we'd be workin' hard, and we'd need it, and if we didn't have somethin' to eat, we couldn't travel far and couldn't get help to him. We ought to have it as much for his sake as for ours, he said, and I had to take it from him to make him feel right." Hubbard had evidently reserved that last half-pound of pea meal to be used in a last extremity, and as the argument he had used to force it on George had been at least specious, I could say nothing. George put one-third of the package (one-sixth of a pound) into the kettle, and we each drank a pint of the soup. It was very thin, but it did us good. After a half-hour's rest, we pressed on as rapidly as possible, but when night overtook us we could not have travelled more than six miles from camp. To the storm, as well as our weakness, was due our slow progress. As the afternoon wore on, the storm became furious. The rain descended in drenching sheets, and staggering blasts of wind drove it into our faces. Even if darkness had not stopped us, further progress in the face of the tempest would have been impossible. We selected for our bivouac as sheltered a spot as possible in a spruce growth, hauled together a good supply of small dead trees and made a fire. For supper we had one-half of what remained of the pea meal, reserving the other half (one-sixth of a pound) for breakfast. There was a little comfort to be gained from the fire. The rain still descended upon us in sheets. The blast of wind drove the smoke into our eyes and blinded us. Despite our weariness we could not sleep. George lay down, but I sat crouching before the fire. We tried to keep our pieces of blanket over our heads, but when we did so we nearly suffocated. Now and again one or the other would rise to throw on more wood. Towards midnight the wind shifted, and snow began to fall. It fell as I never saw snow fall before. And the wind never ceased, and the smoke was more blinding than ever, and the night grew colder. There were fully six inches of snow on the ground when the clouds broke just before dawn, and before the first rays of the sun greeted us the wind died away. It was Monday, October 19th. With the return of daylight we ate the rest of the pea meal, and resumed our march down the valley. The daylight proved that my eyes had been greatly affected by the smoke of our night's fire. Everything had a hazy appearance. George complained of the same trouble. Soon after we started, George came upon a grouse track in the fresh snow, and followed it to a clump of bushes a short distance off. He aimed his pistol with great care, but the bullet only knocked a few feathers out of the bird, and it flew away, to George's keen chagrin and my bitter disappointment. The flour bag we were to look for was on the opposite or south side of the river, and it was necessary to cross. Before noon we reached a place at which George said it would be as easy to ford the stream as at any other. The icy water came almost up to our armpits, but we made the other shore without mishap. There we halted to build a fire and thaw ourselves out; for immediately upon emerging from the river our clothing froze hard and stiff. While waiting we had some hot tea, and as quickly as possible pushed on. We must reach the flour bag that night. I found it hard to keep the pace George was setting, and began to lag wofully. Several times he had to wait for me to overtake him. We came upon a caribou trail in the snow, and followed it so long as it kept our direction. To some extent the broken path aided our progress. In the afternoon we came upon another grouse track. George followed it to a clump of trees, where the bird was discovered sitting on a limb. This time his aim was accurate, and the bird fell at his feet. Quickly he plucked the wings, cut them off and handed me one with the remark: "They say raw partridge is good when a fellus' weak." It was delicious. I ate the wing, warm with the bird's life blood, bones and all, and George ate the other wing. I soon found it utterly impossible to keep George's pace, and became so exhausted that I was forced to take short rests. At length I told George he had better go ahead and look for the flour; that I should rest, follow his trail and overtake him later. He went on, but just over the bare knoll we were crossing I found him sitting in the snow waiting for me. "I don't feel right to go ahead and leave you," he said. "Do you see that second knoll?" He pointed to one of a series of round barren knolls about half a mile down the river. "Yes," I answered. "Well, don't you remember it? No? Why, that's where we camped when we threw the flour away, and that's where we'll stop to-night. We'd better eat a mouthful to help us on." He had plucked the head and neck of the grouse, and now proceeded to cut them off near the body. To me he gave the neck, and ate the head himself--raw, of course. It was just dusk when we reached the knoll George had designated. Straightway he went to a bush, ran his hand under it and pulled out--the bag we were looking for. We opened it eagerly. As has been said, we left about four pounds of flour in it. Now there was a lump of green and black mould. However, we rejoiced at finding it; for it was something and it might sustain our lives. It might send George to the lard, and keep Hubbard and me until help could arrive. On this side of the Susan the country for some distance had been burned; but, while there were no standing trees, and the place was entirely unsheltered, fallen spruce trees covered the ground in every direction, so we found no difficulty in getting together a good pile of dry wood for our night's fire, and we soon had a rousing big one going. For supper we ate all of the grouse boiled with some of the flour mould stirred in. It was a splendid supper. I had not sat long before the fire when I felt a strange sensation in my eyes. It was as if they had been filled with sharp splinters, and I found it impossible to open them. I was afflicted with smoke-blindness, which is almost identical in its effect to snow-blindness. George filled my pipe with dried tea leaves and just a bit of his precious tobacco; then lit it for me, as I could not see to do it myself. After our smoke we lay down, and I slept heavily; it was practically the first sleep I had had in three days. Some time in the night George awoke me to make me eat a little of a concoction of the mouldy flour and water, cooked thick and a trifle burned after the style of nekapooshet, an Indian dish of which George was very fond. At the first signs of dawn he again roused me, saying: "It's time to be up, Wallace. We're goin' to have more snow to travel in." He was right. The clouds were hanging low and heavy, and the first scattering flakes were falling of a storm that was to last for ten days. I was able to open my eyes in the morning, but everything still looked hazy. We boiled some of the wretched mouldy flour for breakfast, and then divided what remained, George taking the larger share, as he had the most work to do. Looking critically at my share, he asked: "How long can you keep alive on that?" "It will take me two days to reach Hubbard," I replied, "and the two of us might live three days more on it--on a pinch." "Do you think you can live as long as that?" said George, looking me hard in the eye. "I'll try," I said. "Then in five days I'll have help to you, if there's help to be had at Grand Lake. Day after to-morrow I'll be at Grand Lake. Those fellus'll be strong and can reach camp in two days, so expect 'em." It was time for us to separate. "George," I asked, "have you your Testament with you?" "It's the Book of Common Prayer," he said, drawing it from his pocket; "but it's got the Psalms in it." He handed me the tiny leather-covered book, but I could not see the print; the haze before my eyes was too thick. I returned the book to him, and asked him to read one of the Psalms. Quite at haphazard, I am sure, he turned to the ninety-first, and this is what he read: "Whoso dwelleth under the defence of the Most High; shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. "I will say unto the Lord, Thou art my hope, and my stronghold: my God, in him will I trust. "For he shall deliver thee from the snare of the hunter: and from the noisome pestilence. "He shall defend thee under his wings, and thou shalt be safe under his feathers: his faithfulness and truth shall be thy shield and buckler. "Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night: nor for the arrow that flieth by day; "For the pestilence that walketh in darkness: nor for the sickness that destroyeth in the noon-day. "A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right hand: but it shall not come nigh thee. "Yea, with thine eyes shalt thou behold: and see the reward of the ungodly. "For thou, Lord, art my hope: thou hast set thine house of defence very high. "There shall be no evil happen unto thee: neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. "For he shall give his angels charge over thee: to keep thee In all thy ways. "They shall bear thee in their hands: that thou hurt not thy foot against a stone. "Thou shalt go upon the lion and adder: the young lion and the dragon shalt thou tread under thy feet. "Because He hath set His love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him up, because he hath known my name. "He shall call upon me, and I will hear him: yea, I am with him in trouble; I will deliver him and bring him to bonour. "With long life will I satisfy him: and show him my salvation" The Psalm made a deep impression upon me. "For he shall give his angels charge over thee: to keep thee in all thy ways." How strange it seems, in view of what happened to me, that George should have read that sentence. We arose to go on our separate ways, George twenty-five miles down the valley to Grand Lake, and I fifteen miles up the valley to Hubbard. The snow was falling thick and fast. "You'd better make a cape of your blanket," suggested George. "Let me fix it for you." He placed the blanket around my shoulders, and on either side of the cloth where it came together under my chin made a small hole with his knife. Through these holes he ran a piece of our old trolling line, and tied the ends. Then he similarly arranged his own blanket. I held out my hand to him. "Good-bye, George. Take care of yourself." He clasped my hand warmly. "Good-bye, Wallace. Expect help in five days." Near the top of a knoll I stopped and looked back. With my afflicted eyes I could barely make out George ascending another knoll. He also stopped and looked back. I waved my hand to him, and he waved his hand to me and shouted something unintelligible. Then he disappeared in the snow, and as he disappeared a silence came on the world, to remain unbroken for ten days. XVIII. WANDERING ALONE With every hour the storm gathered new force, and over the barren knolls, along which my course for some distance lay, the snow whirled furiously. The track George and I had made on our downward journey soon was obliterated. Once in the forenoon, as I pushed blindly on against the storm, I heard a snort, and, looking up, beheld, only a few yards away, a big caribou. He was standing directly in my path. For a second he regarded me, with his head thrown back in fear and wonder; and then, giving another snort, he dashed away into the maze of whirling snow. My eyes troubled me greatly, and the pain at length grew so intense that I was forced to sit down in the snow for perhaps half an hour with both eyes tightly closed. I was keeping some distance from the river, as the obstructions here were fewer than near the bank. In the afternoon it occurred to me that I might have turned in my course, and I took my compass from its case, to satisfy myself that I was going in the right direction; but my sight was so impaired that I could not read the dial, nor be certain which way the needle pointed. And I wondered vaguely whether I was becoming totally blind. My day's progress was not satisfactory. I had hoped to reach the place where George and I had forded the river, and cross to the north shore before bivouacking, but in the deepening snow it was impossible. With the first indications of night, I halted in a thick spruce grove near the river and drew together a fairly good supply of dead wood. On the under side of the branches of the fir trees was generally to be found a thick growth of hairy moss, and with a handful of this as tinder it did not take me long to get a good fire blazing. Close to the fire I threw a pile of spruce boughs that I broke from low branches and the smaller trees. I melted snow in my cup for water, and in this put a few lumps of mould from the flour bag, eating the mixture after it had cooked a while. On the couch of boughs by the fire I spent a fairly comfortable night, waking only at intervals to throw on more wood and shake the snow from my back. The storm was still raging in the morning (Wednesday, October 21st). With the first grey streaks of dawn, I boiled another cup of snow water and mould, and then, slinging the flour bag over my shoulder, began my day's struggle. The snow was now knee-deep. Soon I reached the fording place. The river was beginning to freeze over. For two or three yards from shore the ice bore my weight; then I sank up to my waist in the cold current. Approaching the other shore, I broke the outer ice with my arms until it became thick enough to permit me to climb out upon it. The ice that immediately formed on my clothing make walking impossible, and reluctantly I halted to build a fire and dry myself. This took fully an hour and a half, to my extreme vexation. I realised now that my hope of reaching Hubbard that night was vain. While I dried my clothing, I made a cup of tea. I had just enough left for two brewings, so after drinking the tea I preserved the leaves for further use, wrapping them carefully in a bit of rag. Once more on my way up the valley, I found, to my consternation and almost despair, that my eyes would again compel me to stop, and for nearly an hour I sat with them closed. That night, with the snow still falling, though very lightly, I made my couch of boughs by a fairly comfortable fire, and rested well. On Thursday morning (October 22d) a light snow was failing, and the weather was very cold. The cup of thin gruel that I made from the green lumps of mould nauseated me, and I had to brew some tea to settle my stomach and stimulate me. With my piece of blanket drawn over my head to protect my ears from the biting wind, and with my hands wrapped in the folds, I continued my struggle towards camp. I had to force my way, blindly and desperately, through thick clumps of fir trees, and as the branches were hanging low under their weight of feathery snow, I continually received a deluge of snow in my face. My stock of matches was small and time was precious, and I did not stop at noon to build a fire. Even when night began to close in upon me I still plodded on, believing that I now must be near Hubbard. The snow was falling gently, and as there was a moon behind the clouds the night was sufficiently light for me to make my way tediously through the trees, with the roar of the rapids to guide me. It must have been near midnight when, utterly exhausted, I was forced to abandon the hope of finding Hubbard before morning. Fearing that the mould would again sicken me, I ate nothing when I halted; I simply collected a few dry sticks and huddled for the remainder of the night by a miserable fire, dozing and awaking with a shudder from awful dreams. The storm continued during the night, and with the morning of Friday (October 23d) broke upon the world and me with renewed fury. I prepared myself another dose of the mould, and forced it down. I was nervously anxious to get on and find Hubbard. I knew I must be near him now, although the snow had changed the whole face of the country and obliterated all the landmarks. Soon I crossed a brook, frozen and covered with snow, that I felt must be the one near our camp. Eagerly I looked about me for the tent. Because of the falling snow and the snow-bent branches, I could scarcely see twenty yards in any direction. From snow-covered rock to snow-covered rock I went, believing each in turn to be the tent, but always to meet disappointment. Repeatedly I stopped to peer into the maze of snow for smoke. But there was none. Again and again I shouted. But there was no answer. The tent was really near me, but it kept its secret well. I travelled on and on. I became desperate. Over and over I repeated to myself, "I must find Hubbard before night comes--I must find him--I must--I must." At length the first signs of night warned me that I must collect my wood, that I might be as comfortable as possible through the dreary hours of darkness. As night came on the storm moderated. The wind ceased. An unwonted, solemn, awful stillness came upon the world. It seemed to choke me. I was filled with an unutterable, a sickening dread. Hubbard's face as I had last seen it was constantly before me. Was he looking and waiting for me? Why could I not find him? I must find him in the morning. I must, I must. Before going to sleep I made some more gruel and tea, drinking them both as a duty. The snow was falling gently on Saturday (October 24th), the wind had mercifully abated, and the temperature was somewhat milder. After more gruel and the last cup of tea I was to have in my lonely wanderings, I renewed my search for Hubbard. I decided that possibly I was below the camp, and pushed on to the westward. Finally I became convinced I was in a part of the country I had never seen before. I began to feel that possibly I was far above the camp; that a rescuing party had found Hubbard, and that, as my tracks in the snow had been covered, they had abandoned the hope of finding me and had returned. They might even have passed me in the valley below; it was quite possible. But perhaps George's strength had failed him, and help never would come to any of us. I turned about, and again started down the valley. After a time I attempted to cross the ice on the river, to try and discover some familiar landmark on the south shore. In midstream, where the current had not permitted thick ice to form, I broke through. The water was nearly up to my armpits. Standing there with the icy current swirling about me, I said, "What's the use?" It seemed to me I had reached the limit of human endurance. Instead of trying to struggle on, how much pleasanter to permit myself to sink beneath the water and thus end it all! It would be such a relief to die. Then there came to me the remembrance that it was my duty to live as long as I could. I must do my best. As long as I had any strength left, I must exert myself to live. With a great effort I climbed out on the hard ice, and made my way back to the north shore. Night was approaching. I staggered into the spruce growth, and there came upon the same brook I have previously mentioned as crossing. Near its bank I made my night fire. That fire was within two hundred yards of the tent. Perhaps it is just as well that I did not know it. The snow, which had fallen rather mildly, all day, thickened with the coming of night. All the loose wood was now buried under the snow, and it was with difficulty that I gathered a scant supply for the night. My wet rags were freezing hard and stiff. I moved about, half-dazed. I broke only a few branches for my bed, and sat down. Scarcely had I done so when a woman's voice came to me, kindly and low and encouraging. "Hadn't you better break a few more boughs?" it said. "You will rest better then." There was no mistaking the voice. It was clear and distinct. It was the voice of my wife, who had been dead for more than three years. I remember it did not impress me as being at all strange that my wife, who was dead, should be speaking to me up there in the Labrador wilderness. It seemed to me perfectly natural that she should be looking after my comfort, even as she had done in life. I arose and broke the boughs. I am not a spiritist. I have never taken any stock in the theory that the spirits of the dead are able to communicate with the living. So far as I have thought about them at all, it has been my opinion that spiritists are either fools or frauds. But I am endeavouring to give a faithful account of my feelings and sensations at the time of which I am writing, and the incident of the voice cannot be ignored. Perhaps it was all a delusion--an hallucination, if you will, due to the gradual breaking down of my body and mind. As to that, the reader can form his own conclusions. Certain it is, that from this time on, when I needed help and encouragement the most, I felt a vague assurance that my wife was by my side; and I verily believe, that if it had not been for this,--hallucination, delusion, actuality, reality, or whatever it may have been,--I should now be in a land where the truth about these things is probably known for certain. At times I even thought I saw my wife. And often, often throughout those terrible days her voice came to me, kindly and low and encouraging. When I felt I really could plod no farther through the snow, her voice would tell me not to lose heart, but to do my best, and all would be right in the end. And when, wearied beyond measure at night, I would fall into a heavy sleep, and my fire would burn low, a hand on my shoulder would arouse me, and her voice would tell me to get up and throw on more wood. Now and again I fancied I heard the voice of my mother, who died when I was a boy, also encouraging and reassuring me. Indescribably comforting were those voices, whatever their origin may have been. They soothed me, and brought balm for my loneliness. In the wilderness, and amid the falling snow, those that loved me were ministering unto me and keeping me from harm. At least, so it seemed to me. And now, as I think of those dear voices, and feel once more that loving touch on my shoulder, there comes back to me that verse from the Psalm George read at our parting--"For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways." It is all like a half-dream to me now. I know that after Saturday night (October 24th), when I bivouacked within a stone's throw of Hubbard's tent, I lost all count of the days, and soon could not recall even the month. I travelled on and on, always down the valley. Sometimes I fancied I heard men shouting, and I would reply. But the men did not come, and I would say to myself over and over again, "Man proposes, God disposes; it is His will and best for all." The flour mould nauseated me to such an extent that for a day at a time I could not force myself to eat it. The snow clogged in all that was left of my cowhide moccasins (larigans), and I took them off and fastened them to my belt, walking thereafter in my stocking feet. I wore two pairs of woollen socks, but holes already were beginning to appear in the toes and heels. The bushes tore away the legs of my trousers completely, and my drawers, which thus became the sole protection of my legs from the middle of my thighs down, had big holes in them. Each night I cut a piece of leather from my moccasin uppers, and boiled it in my cup until morning, when I would eat it and drink the water. I found afterward, carefully preserved in my match box, one of the brass eyelets from the moccasins. Probably I put it away thinking I might have to eat even that. I knew there was something the matter with my feet; they complained to me every night. They seemed to me like individuals that were dependent upon me, and they told me it was my duty to care for them. But I gave no heed to their complaints. I had enough to do to care for myself. My feet must look out for themselves. Why should I worry about them? And still it snowed, night and day--sometimes gently, sometimes blindingly; but always it snowed. Once while plodding along the side of a rocky hill, I staggered over the edge of a shelving rock and fell several feet into a snow drift. I was uninjured, but extricating myself was desperately hard work, and it was very pleasant and soft in the snow, and I was so tired and sleepy. Why not give it up and go to sleep? But she was with me, and she whispered, "Struggle on, and all will be well," and reluctantly I dragged my poor old body out. There were times when the feeling was strong upon me that I had been alone and wandering on forever, and that, like the Wandering Jew, I must go on forever. At other times I fancied I was dead, and that the snow-covered wilderness was another world. Instinctively I built my fire at night under the stump of a fallen tree, if I could find one; for the rotten wood would smoulder until morning, and a supply of other wood was very hard to get. One evening I remember crossing the river, which had now gone into its long winter sleep tucked away under a blanket of ice and snow, and building a fire under a rotten stump on the south side behind a bank near the shore. I felt that I must be well down the valley. My supply of wood was miserably small, but I had worked hard all day and could not gather any more. I fell down by the fire and struggled against sleep. She told me I must not sleep. When I dozed, her hand on my shoulder would arouse me. Thus the night passed. At dawn I realised in a vague sort of way that the clouds had at last broken away; that the weather was clear and biting cold. Before me was the river. It had been a raging torrent when I first saw it; now it lay quiet and still under its heavy winter blanket. At my back the low bank with its stunted spruce trees hid the ridge of barren, rocky hills and knolls that lay beyond. A few embers of the rotten stump were smouldering, sending skyward, with each fitful gust of the east wind, a fugitive curl of smoke. A few yards away lay a dead tree, with its branches close to the snow. If I could break some of those branches off, and get them back to my smouldering stump, I might fan the embers into a blaze, get some heat and melt snow in my cup for a hot drink. Not that I craved the drink or anything else, but it perhaps would give me strength to go just a little farther. I pulled my piece of ragged blanket over my shoulders and struggled to my feet. It was no use. I swayed dizzily about, took a few steps forward and fell. I crawled slowly back to the smouldering stump and tried to think. I felt no pain; I was just weary to the last degree. Should I not now be justified in surrendering to the overpowering desire to sleep? Perhaps, I argued, it would strengthen me. I could no longer walk; why not sleep? But still I was told that I must not... Was Hubbard still waiting and watching for me to come back?--somewhere in that still wilderness of snow was he waiting and watching and hoping? Perhaps he was dead, and at rest. Poor Hubbard... Why did not the men come to look for us--the trappers that George was to send? Had they come and missed me, and gone away again? Or was George, brave fellow, lying dead on the trail somewhere below? How long had I been wandering, anyway... My sisters in far-away New York, were they hoping and praying to hear from me? Perhaps they never would. There was a certain grave in a little cemetery on the banks of the dear old Hudson. It had been arranged that I should lie beside that grave when I went to sleep forever. Would they find my bones and take them back?... How enthusiastic Hubbard had been for this expedition! It was going to make his reputation, he thought. Well, well, man proposes, God disposes; it was His will and best for all. I found myself dozing, and with an effort to recover myself sat up straight. The sun was making its way above the horizon. I looked at it and hoped that its warming rays would give me strength to do my duty--my duty to live as long as I could. Anyway, the storms had passed! the storms had passed! I dozed again. It may have been that I was entering upon my final sleep. But gradually I became hazily conscious of an unusual sound. Was it a shout? I was aroused. I made a great effort and got on my feet. I listened. There it was again! It was a shout, I felt sure it was a shout! With every bit of energy at my command, I sent up an answering "Hello!" All was silent. I began to fear that again I had been deceived. Then over the bank above me came four swarthy men on snow-shoes, with big packs on their backs. XIX. THE KINDNESS OF THE BREEDS The unintelligible words that George shouted to me from the knoll after we parted on Tuesday (October 20th) were an injunction to keep near the river, as the men he would send to rescue Hubbard and me would look for us there. As he proceeded down the valley his progress was slow and tedious, owing to his weakness, the rough country, and the deepening snow. Towards noon he came upon the newly made track of a porcupine, followed it a short distance into a clump of trees, where he soon saw the round quill-covered animal in the snow and shot it. Immediately he built a fire, and singed off quills and hair. Then, as he related to me afterwards, he considered, talking aloud to himself, what was best to do with his prize. "There's them fellus up there without grub," he said. "Maybe I'd better turn about and take 'em this porcupine. But if I do, it won't last long, and then we'll be worse off than ever. This snow's gettin' deeper all the time, and if it gets so deep I can't walk without snowshoes, we'll all die for sure. No, I'd better go on with this porcupine to help me." So after boiling a piece of the porcupine in his tea kettle and eating it, he continued down the valley. By his fires be always talked to himself to keep himself company, and that night he said: "This 's been a tough day, and I ain't where I ought to be. But I'll eat a good snack of this porcupine now with some of the flour, and in the mornin' I'll have another good snack, and that'll make me stronger and I can travel farther to-morrow. I ought to get most to Grand Lake to-morrow night." But so far from getting anywhere near Grand Lake the next day, he did not complete his twenty-five-mile journey for several days to come. The snow became so deep he could hardly push through it. He carefully hoarded the bones of his porcupine, thinking he might have to eat them; but Providence sent him more food. When the first porcupine was eaten, he came upon and killed another, and when that was gone, he shot a third. He also succeeded in shooting several grouse. If it had not been for this game, he would not have lived to do the hard work that was before him. The pieces of blanket in which his feet were wrapped were continually coming off, and frequent halts were necessary to readjust them. He must not let his feet freeze; for then he would not be able to walk, and not only would he perish himself, but "there'd be no hope for them fellus up there." One day he came upon a man's track. He was exultant. That it was a trapper's trail he had no doubt. Staggering along it with all the speed he could command, he shouted wildly at every step. Presently he discovered that he was following his own trail; he had been travelling in a circle. The discovery made him almost frantic. He stopped to reason with and calm himself. Said he, so that all the listening wilderness might hear: "Them fellus up there in the snow have got to be saved. I said to Hubbard, 'With God's help I'll save you,' and I'm a-goin' to if my legs hold out and there's anybody at Grand Lake." And then he went on. His progress down the valley that day was only a mile and a half. It was most discouraging. He must do better. The powdered milk we had abandoned he did not find, but on October 26th he recovered our old lard pail. Some of the lard he ate, some he used in cooking a grouse, and the rest he took along with him. Below the place where he bivouacked that night the snow was not so deep, and early the next morning George once more beheld the broad waters of Grand Lake. The journey he had expected to make in three days had actually taken him seven. He arrived at Grand Lake three days after I, wandering in the valley above, lost all track of time. A few miles above its mouth the Susan River bends to the southward, and from that direction reaches the little lake that lies just north of the extreme western end of Grand Lake, so that George, proceeding down the river on the south bank, eventually came to the little lake's western shore. Along this shore he made his way until he reached the point of land formed by the little lake and the branch of the Beaver River that flows a little south of east to merge its waters in the little lake with those of the Susan. The water here had not been frozen, and George found his further progress arrested. He was in a quandary. The trapper's tilt for which he was bound was on the south shore of Grand Lake about seven or eight miles from its western end, and in order to reach the tilt he would have to continue on south around the end of the lake. The land on the other side of the swirling stream to which George had come was the island at the mouth of the Beaver that separates it into two branches, and which forms the western shore of the swift stream or strait that, flowing to the southward, discharges the waters of the little lake into Grand Lake. George thought, however, that this island was a part of the western boundary of Grand Lake, and he determined to reach it. But how? To swim across was impossible. Well, then, he would build a raft. And, although he had no implements, he did. He hauled together several fallen trees, laid them in a row and bound them at one end with his pack strap and at the other with a piece of our old trolling line. When this was done, he hacked himself a pole with his sheath-knife, threw his bag containing a piece of a porcupine and some grouse on the raft, launched it, jumped on it himself and pushed out into the stream. One or two good shoves George gave with his pole, and then found he no longer could touch bottom. He was at the mercy of the swift current. Down into the little lake he was swept, and thence through the strait right out into Grand Lake. A high sea was running, and the frail raft promptly began to fall to pieces. "Have I escaped starvin' only to drown?" thought George. It certainly looked like it. "But," said he to himself, "if I drown them fellus up there will be up against it for sure." So he determined not to drown. He got down on his hands and knees, and, although the icy seas broke relentlessly over him, he held the floating sticks in place, at the same time clinging tenaciously to his food bag; for, as he confided to me later, "it would have been just as bad to escape drownin' only to starve as it would have been to escape starvin' only to drown." Farther out on the broad bosom of the lake George was carried. "Now," said he, "if I jump, I'll drown; and if I don't, I'll drown anyway. So I guess I'll hang on a little longer." And hang on he did for something like two hours, when the wind caught his raft and drove it back to the southern end of the island at the mouth of the Beaver. "You can't lose me," said George, as he landed. He and his game bag were saved, but his difficulties were not ended by any means. While the wind was driving him back, George caught sight of the branch of the Beaver that flows almost due south directly into Grand Lake, forming the island's western shore. Standing on this shore, he made a shrewd guess. "I'll bet," he said, "my dream was right, and here we have the same river we were on when we said good-bye to the canoe." What interested him the most, however, was a row boat he espied a little south of the island on the opposite shore. Apparently it had been abandoned. "If can reach that boat," said George, "and it'll float and I don't find Blake or any grab at his tilt, I'll put right off for the post, and send help from there to them fellus up there." There was no doubt about it, he would have to take chances with another raft. Although his rags were beginning to freeze to his body, he did not stop to build a fire, neither did he wait to eat anything. At first it seemed hopeless to try to launch a raft; for the bank on the western side of the island was very steep. Farther north, however, ice had formed in the river for some distance from the shore, and to this ice George dragged fallen trees and bound them as he had done before. It was the labour of hours, the trees having to be dragged for considerable distances. Once more afloat, George found no difficulty in touching bottom with his pole, and in the gathering dusk he reached the other shore. Supposing that he was still many miles from a place where there was any possibility of finding a human being, he decided to bivouac for the night; but first he must examine the rowboat he had sighted from the island. This made necessary the fording of a small stream. Hardly had he emerged from the water, when, from among the spruce trees farther back from the shore, there came a sound that brought him to a sudden standstill and set his heart to thumping wildly against his ribs. It was a most extraordinary sound to hear when one supposed one was alone in a wilderness, and when all had been solemnly still save for the dashing of waves upon a shore. On the night air there came floating to George the cry of a little child. "When I heard that youngster scream," said George, in telling me about the incident, "I knew folks was there, and I dropped my bag, and I tore my piece of blanket from my shoulders, and I runned and I runned." In the course of the summer Donald Blake had built himself a log house on the spot to which George was so wildly fleeing. The rowboat George had spied belonged to him, but the house, standing back in a thick clump of trees, had not been visible from the water. On the evening of George's arrival, Donald and his brother Gilbert were away, and Donald's wife and another young woman who stayed with her to keep her company were alone. The latter young woman, with Mrs. Blake's baby in her arms, was standing at the door of the house, when suddenly she heard a crashing noise in the bush in front of her, and the next moment there loomed up before her affrighted vision in the gloaming the apparition of a gaunt and ragged man, dripping wet, and running towards her with long, black hair and straggling beard streaming in the wind. She turned and fled into the house. "O Mrs. Blake! O Mrs. Blake!" she cried, "'tis somethin' dreadful comin'! 'tis sure a wild man!" Greatly alarmed, Mrs. Blake went to the door. George, panting and still dripping, stood before her. "Lord ha' mercy!" she piously exclaimed, throwing up her arms. "Don't be scared, ladies," panted George; "I couldn't hurt a rabbit. Ain't there any men here?" His ingratiating manner reassured the frightened women, and explanations followed. All the natives of the vicinity of Hamilton Inlet had been wondering what had become of us, and Mrs. Blake quickly grasped the situation. Kindness itself, she took George in. Donald and Gilbert, she said, would be back directly. She made him hot tea, and put on the table for him some grouse stew, molasses, and bread and butter, all the time imploring him to sit down and warm himself. But George was too excited to sit down. Up and down he paced, the melting ice on his rags making tiny rivulets on his hostess's spotless floor. Most of the breeds who live near the western end of Hamilton Inlet are remarkably cleanly, this probably being due to their Scotch blood. George at length calmed himself sufficiently to turn his attention to the meal that had been prepared for him. He had salt for his meat, molasses to sweeten his tea and a bountiful supply of good bread. He ate greedily, which fact he soon had cause to regret; for later in the evening he began to bloat, and for several days thereafter he writhed with the colic. But for the present he thought of nothing save the satisfaction of the appetite that had been regenerated by the food he had been able to obtain after leaving me. It was especially difficult for him to tear himself away from the bread. As there must be an end to all things, however, George eventually stopped eating, and then he started to go for his bag. But Mrs. Blake said: "No, Donald'll get he. Sit down, sir, and rest." A little later Donald and Gilbert appeared. We had made Donald's acquaintance, it will be remembered, at Rigolet; it was he who had sailed his boat up the Nascaupee and had given us the most information about that river. When he had heard George's story, there was no need to urge him to make haste. Lithe, ambitious, and in the habit of doing a dozen things at a time, Donald was activity itself. His brother Gilbert, a young fellow of seventeen, commonly called Bert, was also eager to start to the rescue of Hubbard and me. They told George it was fortunate he had arrived when he did, as in a day or so they would have been away on their trapping paths. "But didn't you see Allen Goudie's tilt, sir?" asked Donald, when George had finished telling about his trip down what he supposed to be the Nascaupee River. "She's on th' Nascaupee right handy to th' bank, and in fair sight from th' river, sir." "If there's a tilt on the Nascaupee," said George, "you can kick me." Donald asked him to tell more about the river we were on, and George drew a rough map of its leading features. Then it was that George learned that the river of our distress was really the Susan. "And we passed right by the mouth of the Nascaupee?" he asked. He was informed that such was the case. "Well," said George, "I'll be blamed!" "Blamed" was George's most violent expletive; I never heard him use profanity. Donald told George he must not think of going back with the rescuing party, as his weakness would retard its progress. So George marked on the map he had made of the Susan's course the general situation of our last camp. He warned Donald that the deep snow up the valley might have prevented me from reaching the tent, but that in any event they would find me near the river. Hearing that, Donald quickly decided that more men were needed for the rescuing party; for if either Hubbard or I was found alone the party would have to separate in order to continue the search for the other man. The packs, besides, would be too heavy for two men to carry and make the rapid progress that was necessary. Fortunately Allen Goudie and a young fellow named Duncan McLean were at the former's winter tilt on the Nascaupee, seven miles across the lake from Donald's. The hour was late and the lake was rough, but Donald and Gilbert started for them in their rowboat immediately after making ready their packs of provisions and camp equipment, prepared for an early start up the Susan the next day. At noon (October 28th) they were back with both Allen and Duncan, and at once loaded the packs into the boat. Then the four men rowed up through the little lake to the first rapid on the Susan, hauled the boat up on the shore, donned their snowshoes, shouldered their packs, and started up the valley. Running when they could, which the rough country would not permit of their doing often, they camped at night ten miles above their boat. The next morning (October 29th) they cached some provisions to lighten their packs, and as they proceeded fired a rifle at intervals, thinking there was now a chance of coming upon either Hubbard or me. As a matter of fact they must have passed me towards evening. They were on the north side of the river, and it was the evening when I staggered down the north shore, to cross the ice at dusk and make my last bivouac in the lee of a bank on the south shore. Whether I had crossed the river before they came along, or whether, hidden by the trees and the falling snow, I passed them unobserved on the same shore, I do not know; the fact is, they camped that night about a mile and a half above me, and about twelve miles below Hubbard's tent. There was only one thing that saved me from being left alone to die--these trappers' keen sense of smell. In the morning (October 30th) while they were breaking camp preparatory to continuing on up the valley, Donald Blake fancied that he smelled smoke. He spoke to Allen Goudie about it, and both men stood and sniffed the air. Yes, Allen smelled smoke, too. It was unmistakable. The wind was blowing up the valley; therefore someone must have a fire below them. Hastily finishing the work of breaking camp, the four men shouldered their packs and turned back. Close down to the shore of the river they scrambled, and hurried on, shouting and discharging a rifle. At length they paused, to give exclamations of satisfaction. They had found my track leading across the ice to the other shore. Only a moment they paused, and then, following the trail, they broke into a run, redoubling their shouts and repeatedly discharging the rifle. They had smelled my smouldering rotten stump, but if a whiff of smoke was now rising it was too small for them to see. My trail, however, led them to the bank over which they heard my feeble answering shout. So down the bank they scrambled, to come to a sudden halt, transfixed with amazement, as they told me afterwards, that such a wreck as I could stand and live. The spectacle I presented certainly must have been an unusual one--a man all skin and bones, standing in drawers and stocking feet, with the remnants of a pair of trousers about his hips, there in the midst of the snow-covered forest. They were heavily clad and had their caps pulled far down over their ears to protect them from the biting wind, while I did not even have my hat on. It was some time before I could realise that living men were before me. As if in a half-dream, I stood stupidly gazing at them. But with the return of sensibility I recollected that George had gone to find Donald Blake, and gradually it dawned upon me that he was there. I spoke his name "Donald Blake." At that Donald stepped forward and grasped my hand warmly and firmly like an old friend. "Did George get out and send you?" I asked. "Yes, sir; it was he that sent us, sir. He's safe at my house." "Have you found Hubbard?" "Not yet, sir. We smelled smoke a mile and a half above, where our camp was last night, an' came down to find you, sir." I remember telling Donald that he had better leave me something to eat, and go on to Hubbard as fast as he could. He replied that Duncan and Bert, the two young fellows, would stay with me, while he and Allen would continue on up the valley. During this talk, the kind-hearted trappers had not been idle. While two of them cut wood for a rousing fire and put the kettle on for tea, the others made a cosey couch close to the blaze and sat me on it. They gave me a very small piece of bread and butter. "You'd better eat just a small bit at first, sir," said Allen. "You're fair starved, and much grub at th' beginnin' might be th' worse for you." Before I had my tea, Donald and Allen were ready to start. Allen hesitated for a moment; then asked: "If the other man be dead, sir?" "Dead?" I said. "Oh, no, he won't be dead. You'll find him in the tent waiting for you." "But if he be dead?" persisted Allen. "He may be, and we sure can't bring th' body out now, sir." Although still struggling against the fear that my reason told me was only too well founded, I requested, that in the event of what they thought possible proving to be the case, they wrap the body in the blankets they would find in the tent, and build for it a stage high enough from the ground to protect it from animals. I also asked that they bring back with them all the things they should find in the tent, including the rifle and camera, and especially the books and papers of all descriptions. Promising that all should be done as I wished, and again cautioning me against eating too much, Allen and Donald departed, leaving me a prey to anxiety and fear as to the news they should bring back. XX. HOW HUBBARD WENT TO SLEEP A pot of hot tea soon was ready, and I drank some of it. "I hopes you feels better, sir," then spoke young Duncan MacLean. "A smoke'll taste good now. Got a pipe, sir?" I produced my pipe, and he held out to me a plug of tobacco. "Take he an' fill th' pipe, sir." With the plug in my possession, I drew my sheath-knife to cut it. But Gilbert Blake objected. "He's a big un, sir, to cut tobacca with. Let me fill he, sir." Obediently I handed him my pipe to be filled, and when it had been returned to me one of the boys struck a match and held it to the bowl while I puffed. Then Duncan took the plug from the log where Gilbert had left it, and, holding it out to me, said: "He's yours, sir; I brought he for you. An'," added Duncan impressively, "there's more when he's gone, sir." The tea and the great leaping blaze warmed me, the tobacco stimulated me, and my tongue was loosed. I talked and I talked. It was good to have human society and human sympathy again. The boys told me how George had finally reached them after his struggles, and what news of the world they had heard. After a little they gave me a bit more bread, and told me I had better sleep while they built a break to keep the wind, which had shifted to the west, from my couch. And, while watching them fell trees for the wind-break and vaguely wondering whether I should ever be strong and able to move about like that again, I did go to sleep. When, after an hour had passed, I awoke, the boys made me drink more tea and eat another piece of bread. Then Duncan took his rifle, and remarking, "The 's deer signs right handy, an' a bit o' deer's meat might do you good, sir," strode off into the bush. Late in the afternoon he returned without having been rewarded in his hunt, and took a seat with Gilbert near my feet as I reclined on the boughs. Twilight came and then darkness, and I, lying before the crackling flames, wondered, as they burned ever brighter, whether Donald and Allen had yet found Hubbard, and hoped against hope that they had found him alive. Instinctively I felt that I should prepare for the worst, but I cudgelled my brain for specious arguments to make myself believe he had survived, and went on hoping. My feet had been paining me all day. I tried to take off my socks, but blood clots held them fast to the raw flesh. The fact was, they had been frozen. It was hardly to be wondered at--the wonder was, how I, wandering for ten days in a bitter snowstorm almost naked as to my lower extremities, escaped with my life. Under ordinary circumstances, a physician has told me, the exposure would have killed me in short order; but, having been living in the open for months, I had become gradually inured to the cold, and the effect of the exposure was thus greatly mitigated. There were only two or three nights on the entire trip when any of us went to bed with dry feet, and that none of us ever had the slightest symptom of a cold certainly speaks volumes for an out-of-door life. Although I ate very sparingly on the day the trappers found me, I soon began to suffer greatly from bloating and nausea. In the night I was very ill. The boys did everything they could for me. They were excellent nurses, those rough, brown fellows of the forest, anticipating my every wish. When once or twice in the night I tried to walk a few steps from the fire to relieve my nausea, their faces and actions showed plainly their concern. That I might not stagger into the fire, they would rise to stand between it and me. One of them remained awake all night, to keep the fire going and to help me should I need anything. The sun was again showing itself above the horizon, setting the expanse of fir trees and snow aglow, and the boys, having placed the kettle over the fire for breakfast, were cutting more wood, when Donald and Allen suddenly came over the bank, as they had done on the morning before. Their packs were as large as ever, and they had Hubbard's rifle. I knew at once that the worst had happened. "His wife and mother!"--like lightning the thought flashed through my mind. A dizziness came over me, and for a moment I could not breathe. Donald spoke: "Yesterday evenin' we found th' tent, sir. He were fastened up tight with pins on th' inside, an' hadn't been opened since th' snow began. Says I to Allen, sir, 'Th' poor man's dead, 'tis sure he's dead.' An' Allen he opened th' tent; for I had no heart to do it, sir, and there th' poor man was, wrapped all up in th' blankets as if sleepin', sir. But he were dead, sir, dead; and he were dead for a long time. So there was nothin' to do but to wrap th' poor man safe in th' things that were there, an' bring back th' papers an' other things, sir." We kept silent, we five men, until Donald added: "We saw a place when right handy to th' tent where you'd had a fire by a brook, sir." "Yes," I said; "I built that fire--so that really was the brook near our tent!" "'Twere th' mercy of God, sir," said Allen, "that you didn't know th' poor man were there dead; you would ha' given up yourself, sir." Having a superstitious horror of the dead, Donald would not touch the body, and without assistance Allen had been unable to place it on a stage as I wished. However, he arranged it carefully on the ground, where, he assured me, it would be perfectly safe. He suggested that I permit them to bury the body where it was, as it would be quite impossible to transport it over the rough country for weeks to come, or until Grand Lake had frozen solid and the ice on the Susan River rapids become hard enough to bear the weight of men with a sled. Both Donald and Allen were willing to go back to the log-house on Grand Lake, and get the tools necessary for digging the grave. But it would be bad enough for me to return home without Hubbard alive, and I felt that I simply must get the body out and take it with me. And, although the trappers could not understand my reasons, I refused to consent to its burial in the wilderness. In spite of their superior knowledge of the country and the weather conditions, I felt that the body could be taken down to the post later, but recognised the impracticability, if not impossibility, of undertaking the task immediately. When Donald and Allen turned over to me the papers they had found in the tent, I took up Hubbard's diary wondering if he had left a last message. In the back part of the book was a letter to his mother, a note to his wife, the evident attempt again to write to his wife, and the letter to the agent at Missanabie written on George's behalf. From these I turned hastily to the diary proper. Yes, there was an entry written on the day George and I had left him, and this is what I read: "Sunday, October 18th, 1903. "Alone in camp, junction Nascaupee and some other stream--estimated (overestimated, I hope) distance above head of Grand Lake 33 miles. "For two days past we have travelled down our old trail with light packs. We left a bit of flour--wet--about 11 miles below here--12 miles (approx.) below that about a pound of milk powder--4 miles below that about 4 pounds of lard. We counted on all these to help us out in our effort to reach the head of Grand Lake where we hoped to find Skipper Tom Blake's trapping camp and cache. On Thursday, as stated, I busted. Friday and Saturday it was the same. I saw it was probably hopeless for me to try to go farther with the boys, so we counselled last night and decided they should take merely half a blanket each, socks, etc., some tea, tea pail, cups and the pistols, and go on. They will try to reach the flour to-morrow. Then Wallace will try to bring a little and come back to me. George will go on to the milk and lard and to Skipper Blake's, if he can, and send or lead help to us. I want to say here that they are two of the very best, bravest and grandest men I ever knew, and if I die it will not be because they did not put forth their best efforts. Our past two days have been trying ones. I have not written my diary because so very weak. Day before yesterday we caught sight of a caribou, but it was on our lee, and winding us got away before a shot could be fired. Yesterday at our old camp we found the end we had cut from a flour bag. It had a bit of flour sticking to it. We boiled it with our old caribou bones, and it strengthened the broth a little. We also found a can of mustard we had thrown away. Mina gave it to me as we were coming away, saying she had no use for it and it might be good for plasters here. I sat and held it in my hand a long time thinking how it came from Congers and our home, and what a happy home it was, and what a dear, dear girl presided. Then I took a bite of it and it was very good. We mixed some in our bone soup and it seemed to stimulate us. We had a bit of caribou skin in that same pot. It swelled up thick and was very good. Last night I fell asleep while the boys were reading to me. This morning I was very, very sleepy. After the boys left--they left me tea, the caribou bones and another end of a flour sack found here, a rawhide caribou moccasin and some yeast cakes--I drank a cup of strong tea and some bone broth. I also ate some of the really delicious rawhide (boiled with bones) and it made me stronger--strong to write this. The boys have only tea and 1-2 pound of pea meal. Our parting was most affecting. I did not feel so bad. George said: 'The Lord help us, Hubbard. With His help I'll save you if I can get out.' Then he cried. So did Wallace. Wallace stooped and kissed my cheek with his poor, sunken bearded lips--several times--and I kissed his. George did the same, and I kissed his cheek. Then they went away. God bless and help them. "I am not so greatly in doubt as to the outcome. I believe they will reach the flour and be strengthened, that Wallace will reach me, that George will find Blake's cache and camp and send help. So I believe we will all get out. My tent is pitched in open-tent style in front of a big rock. The rock reflects the fire, but now it is going out because of the rain. I think I shall let it go and close the tent till rain is over, thus keeping out wind and saving wood. To-night or to-morrow perhaps the weather will improve, so I can build fire, eat the rest of my moccasins and have some more bone broth. Then I can boil my belt and oil-tanned moccasins and a pair of cowhide mittens. They ought to help some. "I am not suffering. The acute pangs of hunger have given way to indifference. I'm sleepy. I think death from starvation is not so bad. But let no one suppose I expect it. I am prepared--that is all. I think the boys will be able, with the Lord's help, to save me." Bravo, Hubbard! nothing could down your spirit for long, could there? So high was your spirit that you could not know it was impossible for your poor old body to hold it any longer. Your hand was firm when you wrote, b'y, speaking eloquently of that which most of all was you. "It is a man's game," you said one day, in referring to our desperate struggle to reach those we loved. Well, you played it to the limit, b'y, and it was a man's death. My friend, I am proud of you. * * * * * Putting down the coverless book in which Hubbard's brave last words had been written, I sat and thought. The tea, the bones and the other things we had left with him had been found in the tent with the body. The tent was closed as he said he was going to close it, and the snow, which began to fall that Sunday night, had not been disturbed. He had been found well wrapped in the blankets, as if sleeping. Yes, it was quite evident that after making that last entry in his diary on the day we left him, he had lain down, and there all alone amid the solitudes of desolate Labrador, there in the wild that had called to him with a voice to which he must needs harken, had gone to sleep, and sleeping had not awakened. XXI. FROM OUT THE WILD Donald and Allen returned at once to the log house on Grand Lake, leaving with the boys and me their tent and tent-stove. Donald also gave me a pair of high sealskin boots with large, soft moccasin bottoms. It was their expectation that we should remain in camp until they got back with other things to aid my journey out; but, although I was still very ill, and the heated tent was comfortable, I found waiting irksome, and at daylight the next morning (Sunday, November 1st) the boys and I pulled up stakes. To protect my hands during the journey I made a pair of mittens from a piece of blanket duffel that had been brought back from the tent where Hubbard was. A pretty good path had been trodden in the snow by the trips of my rescuers up and down the valley, and following along it, with Duncan and Gilbert on their snowshoes ahead of me packing it down still further, I did not sink very deeply; nevertheless, such was the condition of my feet that every step I took was painful. As the boys carried all that was to be carried, I managed, however, to walk about ten miles during the day. We camped at a place where the four trappers on their journey in had cached a fat porcupine. For supper I ate a bit of the meat and drank some of the broth, and found it very nourishing. On the following day we met Donald and Allen as they were returning to aid us. Allen brought with him a pair of trousers to cover my half-naked legs. At sunset we reached the rowboat, which had been left near the mouth of the Susan, and as we approached Donald's log-house something more than an hour later a rifle was fired as a signal that we were coming. When we landed, George was there on the starlit shore to welcome us. I hardly knew him. His hair had been cut, he had shaved off his ragged beard, and he was dressed in clean clothing that Donald had lent him. He, of course, had heard of Hubbard's death from Donald and Allen, and when he clasped my hand in a firm grip to help me from the boat, he said: "Well, Wallace, Hubbard's gone." "Yes," I said, "Hubbard's gone." He was good enough to say he was glad I had escaped, and then in silence we followed the trail up to the house the first human habitation I had seen for months. There was only one room in the house, and there all of us, men and women alike, slept as well as ate; but it was scrupulously clean--the floor, table, chests and benches had been scoured until they shone and to me it seemed luxurious. The family did everything for me that was within their power. Donald gave me fresh underclothes, and his wife made me drink some tea and eat some rice and grouse soup before I lay down on the bed of skins and blankets they had prepared for me on the floor by the stove. My two-days' walk had completely exhausted me, and I had a severe attack of colic and nausea. George then told me of his sufferings. Mrs. Blake, it appeared, had baked a batch of appetising buns, and George, not profiting by his experience after his indiscretion on the night of his arrival, had partaken thereof with great liberality, the result being such as to induce the reflection, "Have I escaped drownin' and starvin' only to die of over-feedin'?" The women of the household slept in bunks fastened to the wall, and while they prepared themselves for their night's rest the lamps were turned low and we men discreetly turned our backs. Just before this incident we had family worship, which consisted of readings from the Bible and the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, in accordance with the usual custom of the household. Donald, our host, professed not to be a religious man, but never a day passed that he did not offer thanks to his Maker, he regularly subscribed one-tenth of his income to the support of the Methodist Mission, he would not kill a deer or any other animal on Sunday if it came right up to his door, his whole life and his thoughts were decent and clean, and he was ever ready to abandon his work and go to the rescue of those who needed help. It may be thought strange that he should observe the forms of the Anglican Church in his family worship and subscribe to the Methodist Mission. The explanation is, that denominations cut absolutely no figure in Labrador; to those simple-hearted people, whose blood, for the most part, is such a queer mixture of Scotch, Eskimo, and Indian, there is only one church--the Church of Jesus Christ,--and whenever a Christian missionary comes along they will flock from miles with the same readiness to hear him whatever division of the Church may claim his allegiance. So accustomed had I become to living in the open that I soon found the atmosphere of the closed room unendurable, and several times during the night I had to go out to breathe. I was down on the shore of Grand Lake for a breath of the crisp winter air when the sun rose. It was glorious. Not a cloud was there in all the deep blue vault of the heavens, and, as the sunbeams peeked over Cape Corbeau, the lake was set a-shimmering and the snow on the surrounding hills radiated tiny shafts of fire. It was to me as if the sun were rising on a new world and a new life. Our hardships and their culminating tragedy seemed to belong to a dim and distant past. What a beautiful world it was after all! and how I thanked God that I lived! Allen Goudie had offered George and me the use of his sailboat in returning to Northwest River Post, and it was agreed that he and Duncan should row us over to his tilt on the Nascaupee. So after breakfast George and I said good-bye to Donald and the rest of his household, and three hours later were welcomed by Allen's wife. Again we received every attention that kindly hearts could suggest. We remained at Allen's two days while he and Duncan made a pair of oars and fitted up the sailboat for our trip to the post. With the soap and warm water and bandages provided by Mrs. Goudie I was able to dress my feet. One foot especially had been affected, and from it I cut with a jack knife much gangrenescent flesh. It was on Thursday morning, November 5th, that George and I, warmly dressed in Donald's and Allen's clothes, set sail in a snowstorm for the post through the thin ice that was forming in the river. Upon reaching Grand Lake we found the wind adverse and the snow so thick we could not see our course, but after we had hovered about a fire on the shore until well into the afternoon, the wind shifted to the west and the storm abated, enabling us to proceed a little farther on our journey, or until signs of approaching night compelled us to take refuge in a trapper's tilt near Cape Blanc on the southern shore. This was the tilt that George, in his struggle out, had supposed he would have to reach to get help. It was about six by seven feet, and as it contained a tent-stove we were able to make ourselves comfortable for the night after our supper of tea and bread and butter and molasses thoughtfully provided by Mrs. Goudie. The next morning was clear and beautiful, and although there was scarcely wind enough to fill the single sail of our little craft, we made an early start. Towards noon the wind freshened and soon was blowing furiously. The seas ran high, but George and I had become so used to rough weather and had faced danger so often that we ran right on in front of the gale, I at the tiller, and he handling the sail rope and bailing the water out when occasionally we shipped a sea. The rate at which we travelled quickly brought us to the rapid at the eastern end of the lake, and through this we shot down into the Little Lake, and thence through the strait known as the Northwest River out into Groswater Bay. It was about 3.30 o'clock in the afternoon when, turning sharply in below the post wharf, we surprised Mackenzie, the agent, and Mark Blake, the company's servant, in the act of sawing wood close down by the shore. That they were astonished by the sudden appearance of the boat with its strange-looking occupants, was evident. They dropped their crosscut saw, and stood staring. In a moment, however, Mackenzie recognised George, who, having had a hair cut and a shave, looked something like his old self, and came to the conclusion that the other occupant of the boat must be I. He came quickly forward, and, grasping my hand as I stepped from the boat, asked abruptly: "Where's Hubbard?" "Dead," I said. "Dead of starvation eighty miles from here." Mark Blake, a breed but not related to Donald, took charge of George, and as Mackenzie and I walked to the post house, I gave him a brief account of Hubbard's death and my rescue. He had been warmly attracted to Hubbard, and his big heart was touched. I saw him hastily brush away a tear. Taking me into the kitchen, he instructed his little housekeeper, Lillie Blake, Mark's niece, to give me a cup of cocoa and some soda biscuit and butter, while he made a fire in the dining-room stove. Lillie cried all the time she was preparing my lunch. "I feels so sorry for you, sir," she said. "An' 'tis dreadful th' poor man's starvin', an' he were such a pretty man. In th' summer I says, before you went t' th' bush, sir, he's sure a pretty man. 'Tis wonderful sad, 'tis wonderful sad t' have he die so." Oh, that pleasant kitchen, with the floor and all the woodwork scrubbed white and the rows of shining utensils on the shelves! And the comfort of the great wood-burning stove roaring out a tune to us on that frosty winter evening! As I sat there sipping the deliciously rich cocoa, Mackenzie joined me, and while Lillie cooked the dinner I must tell him over and over again my story. And in spite of herself the tender-hearted little housekeeper would cry and cry. The dinner, which consisted of grouse, potatoes, marmalade, bread, and tea, was served in the dining room, which was also the living room. Mackenzie sat at the head of the table, I at the foot, and on a lounge to one side sat Atikamish, a small Mountaineer Indian hunting dog, gravely alert for the bones his master would occasionally toss to him. Atikamish had very good table manners. He caught the bones neatly and deftly, and he invariably chewed them up without leaving his seat or changing his position. My appetite was returning, and I ate well; but it was fully two weeks before I could eat without experiencing distress later. When that blessed time arrived, I never could get enough; Lillie was always pressing me to eat, and for a time I had at least six meals a day. After dinner Mackenzie got Mark Blake to cut my hair and shave off my beard. Then he took me to my room upstairs, where a stove was crackling out a welcome and a big tub of warm water had been prepared for me. After my bath, he again came up to rub my legs, which were much swollen from frostbite, and to dress my foot with salve. In a suit of Mackenzie's flannel pajamas I then went to my soft bed, and lay snug and warm under the blankets. It was the first real bed I had lain in for nearly four months, and oh, the luxury of it! It is impossible for me to express the gratitude I feel towards those good friends. They nursed me with the tenderest care. Mackenzie's big Scotch heart and the woman's sympathetic instinct of the little housekeeper anticipated my every want, and he and she never could seem to satisfy themselves with doing things for my comfort. When I left the post with Hubbard I weighed 170 pounds; a week after my return I weighed ninety-five. But with the care they took of me my general health was soon restored, and I rapidly put on flesh. My difficulties, however, were not yet ended. Hubbard's body was still to be recovered from the wild and repatriated, and during the long months that ensued before it could be reached I lived in constant dread lest it should be destroyed by animals, until at length the dread amounted almost to an obsession. Moreover, the gangrene in my foot became worse, and if it had not been for the opportune arrival in that dreary land of an unfortunate young medical student, it in all likelihood would have killed me. XII. A STRANGE FUNERAL PROCESSION The young medical student was George Albert Hardy, of Prince Edward Island. Everybody called him "Doctor," and for all practical purposes he was a regular physician and surgeon; for if he had been able to do two or three months' more hospital work he would have received his degree. The reason he had hastily abandoned his studies and sought professional service with the lumber company that maintains camps at the western end of the Hamilton Inlet was that he had fallen a victim to consumption. He arrived at Northwest River Post on November 8th on a small schooner that brought supplies from Rigolet for Mackenzie and the Muddy Lake lumber camp at the mouth of the Grand River. The schooner remained only an hour at Northwest River, and Dr. Hardy had to continue on to Muddy Lake with her, but he found time to operate on my left foot, which was badly affected, and advise me how to continue its treatment myself. The doctor said that the mail boat, the Virginia Lake, which had carried him to Rigolet, would return there within three weeks for her last trip to Newfoundland of the season, and he urged me to take advantage of that opportunity to go home, and get proper treatment for my feet. The temptation was great, but I felt it was my duty not to leave Labrador without Hubbard's body. It was my plan to engage dog teams and start with the body for the coast so soon as it could be brought to the post. Everybody agreed that it could not be recovered before January, and Mackenzie argued strongly against the practicability of transporting it with dogs, suggesting that we place it in the old post mission chapel until navigation opened in the spring, when it could be sent home on the mail steamer. But I knew I must get home as soon as possible, and my mind was made up to take the body with me, if I had to haul it all the way to Quebec. The great toe on my left foot growing steadily worse, it became necessary for me again to see the doctor. Groswater Bay and Goose Bay by this time were frozen solid, and on December 4th I travelled to Muddy Lake, where Dr. Hardy was stationed, by dog team and komatik, Willie Ikey, an Eskimo employed by Monsieur Duclos, the manager of the French trading post across the Northwest River, acting as my driver. Upon my arrival I was cordially welcomed by Mr. Sidney Cruikshanks, the lumber "boss"; Mr. James McLean, the storekeeper, and Dr. Hardy. It was arranged that I should stop and sleep with the doctor at McLean's house. The doctor did some more cutting, and under his careful treatment my foot so improved that it was thought I could with safety return to the post on December 15th, to prepare letters and telegrams for the winter mail, which was scheduled to leave there by dog team for Quebec on the 18th. It was the 20th before the mail got away, and with it went the first news of Hubbard's death to reach his relatives and friends. My dispatches, forwarded from Chateau Bay, the outpost of the Canadian coast telegraph service, were received in New York on January 22d, the letters two months later. Immediately upon my return to Northwest River, my feet began to trouble me again. Word was sent to Dr. Hardy, who, regarding it as a call of duty, arrived on December 31st. I very much regret to say, that in responding to the call, Dr. Hardy received a chill that hastened, if it did not cause, his death. After examining my feet upon his arrival, he advised me to return with him to Muddy Lake. So it was arranged that George, with Mackenzie's dogs and komatik, should drive Dr. Hardy and me to the Kenemish lumber camp, twelve miles across Groswater Bay, where there was a patient that required attention, and that from there Hardy and I should go on to Muddy Lake with other dogs. Alas! the doctor never saw Muddy Lake again. Before starting, I learned from Allen Goudie and Duncan MacLean, who came from the interior to spend New Year's Day, that Grand Lake was frozen hard and an attempt might be made to bring out Hubbard's body. Accordingly, I engaged Duncan MacLean and Tom Blake, also a breed, to undertake the task with George, and to recover, so far as possible, the photographic films and other articles we had abandoned at Goose Camp and Lake Elson. Blake was the father of Mackenzie's housekeeper, and lived at the rapid at the eastern end of Grand Lake. As he had, at the request of friends, frequently prepared bodies for burial, it was arranged that he should head the expedition, while George acted as guide, and the agreement was that, weather permitting, the party should start inland on January 6th. A coffin, made by the carpenter at Kenemish was all ready to receive the body when it should arrive at the post. George was to have driven Dr. Hardy and me to Kenemish on January 3d, but as there was a stiff wind blowing and the thermometer registered 40 degrees below zero, we postponed our departure until the following day. The morning was clear, and the temperature was 34 below. The dogs, with a great howling and jumping, had hardly settled down to the slow trot which with only fair travelling is their habitual gait, when we observed that the sky was clouding, and in an incredibly short time the first snowflakes of the gathering storm began to fall. Soon the snow was so thick that it shut us in as with a curtain, and eventually even old Aillik, our leader, was lost to view. "Bear well t' th' east'ard, an' keep free o' th' bad ice; the's sure t' be bad ice handy t' th' Kenemish," had been Mark Blake's parting injunction. So George kept well to the eastward as, hour after hour, we forged our way on through the bending, drifting snow. At length we came upon land, but what land we did not know. The storm had abated by this time, and a fresh komatik track was visible, which we proceeded to follow. On all sides of us ice was piled in heaps as high as a house. We had been travelling altogether about six hours, and the storm had ceased, when we came upon a tilt on the shore of a deep bay, and, close by it, a man making passes with a stick at a large wolf, which, apparently emboldened by hunger, was jumping and snarling about waiting for a chance to spring in upon him. The noise of our approaching komatik caused the wolf to slink off, and then the man hurried to the tilt, reappeared with a rifle and shot the beast as it still prowled among the ice hills. He proved to be Uriah White, a trapper. Not at all excited by his adventure, he welcomed us to his tilt. In throwing off his mittens to fire his rifle at the wolf, he had exposed his naked hands to the bitter cold, and they had been frost-bitten. While thawing out his hands at a safe distance from the stove, he informed us that he had been "handy 'nuf to he [meaning the wolf] to see that he were a she." The condition of my feet had not permitted me to leave the komatik during our long journey, and I suffered severely from the cold. George and, alas! Hardy, were also thoroughly chilled, though they had occasionally exercised themselves by running behind. Uriah prepared for us some hot tea and hardtack, and gave us our bearings. We were about four miles east of Kenemish, and an hour later we arrived there. The lumber camp at the mouth of the Kenemish River is composed of a saw mill, a storehouse in which also live the native helpers, a cookhouse, a part of which is given over to lodgings for the Nova Scotian lumbermen, and a log stable for the horses that do the general work about the camp and in the woods. Hugh Dunbar, the engineer, extended a warm welcome to the doctor and me, and his wife, who did the camp cooking, made us comfortable in the cookhouse. I was destined to remain at the camp for many weeks, and I cannot help testifying to the gratitude I feel to those lumber folk, especially Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar, Wells Bently, the storekeeper; Tom Fig, the machinist, and Archie McKennan, Leigh Stanton and James Greenan. The chill he had received during the trip from Northwest River so affected Dr. Hardy that he was unable to proceed to Muddy Lake. Two days after our arrival he had a severe hemorrhage, and the following day another. They forced him to take to his bed, and thereafter he rose only occasionally for half an hour's rest in a chair. He was a deeply religious nature, and, realising that he was doomed, he awaited the slow approach of death with calm resignation. And my feet steadily grew worse. Three days after our arrival at Kenemish I could not touch them to the floor. The doctor and I lay on couches side by side. I could not even bear the weight of the bed-clothes on my feet, and Dunbar built a rack from the hoops of an old flour barrel to protect them. Under the doctor's direction, Mrs. Dunbar every day removed the bandages from my feet, cleansed them with carbolic acid water and rebandaged them. Dunbar and the other men carried me in their arms when it was necessary for me to be taken from my couch. My temperature ran up until it reached 103 1/2. The doctor then said there was only one way to save my life--to cut off my legs. "And," he added, "I'm the only one here that knows how to do it, and I'm too weak to undertake it. So were both going to die, Wallace. There's nothing to fear in that, though, if you trust in God." The doctor was an accomplished player of the violin, but he had left his own instrument at Muddy Lake, and the only one he could obtain at Kenemish was a miserable affair that gave him little satisfaction. So while he lay dying by the side of his patient who he thought was also dying, he, for the most part, gratified his love of music and sought to comfort us both by softly singing in his sympathetic tenor voice the grand old hymns of the church. "Lead Kindly Light" and "Nearer My God to Thee" were his favourites, and every syllable was enunciated clearly and distinctly. But he was mistaken in thinking that I, too, was to die. Soon there was an improvement noticeable in the condition of both of my feet, and gradually they grew better. "It's truly a miracle that the Lord is working," said the doctor. "You were beyond human aid. I've prayed from the bottom of my heart that you'd get well. I've prayed a dozen times a day, and now the prayer is answered. It's the only one of my prayers," he added sadly, "that has been answered since I have been in Labrador." During January and February the cold was terrific. The spirit thermometer at the camp was scaled down to 64 degrees below zero, and on several days the spirit disappeared below the scale mark before 8 o'clock in the evening. For a week the temperature never, even at midday, rose above 40 below. The old natives of the bay said there never had been such a winter before. Not a man in the camp escaped without a frozen nose and the cheeks and chins of all of them were black from being nipped by the frost. Bently declared that he froze his nose in bed, and Mrs. Bently bore witness to the truth of the statement. But Bently's nose was frosted on an average of once a day. Nearly all of this time I lay at the lumber camp worrying about Hubbard's body. One day late in January, when I had been hoping that the body had been safely brought out, Mackenzie and George arrived from Northwest River with the news that the storms had been so continuous it had not been deemed wise to attempt the journey inland. I wished to be removed at once to the post, thinking that my presence there might hasten matters, but Dr. Hardy said there would be no use of having two dead men, and I was forced to be content with promises that the expedition would get under way as soon as possible. Early in February the doctor said I might try my feet on the floor. The result was the discovery that my knees would not bear me, and that I should have to learn to walk all over again. Recovering the use of my legs was a tedious job, and it was not until February 29th that I was able to return to Northwest River. After leaving Kenemish I never saw the unfortunate young doctor again; for he died on March 22d. Back at Northwest River, I was able to stir things up a bit, and bright and early on Tuesday morning, March 8th, George, Tom Blake, and Duncan MacLean, composing the expedition that was to recover Hubbard's body, at last left the post, prepared for their difficult journey into the interior. I regretted much that my physical condition made it impossible for me to accompany them. Their provisions were packed on an Indian flat sled or toboggan, and their tent and other camp equipment on a sled with broad flat runners that I had obtained especially for the transportation of the body from some Indians that visited the post. At the rapid they were to get Tom Blake's dogs to haul their loads to Donald Blake's at the other end of Grand Lake. After that, the hauling was all to be done by hand, as it is quite impossible to use dogs in cross-country travelling in Labrador. In the course of the afternoon snow squalls developed, and all day Wednesday and Thursday the snow fell heavily. I knew the storm would interfere with the progress of the men, but I hoped they had succeeded in reaching Donald's, and were at that point holding themselves in readiness to proceed. What was my disappointment, then, when towards noon on Sunday Douglas and Henry Blake, Tom's two young sons, came to the post to announce that their father was at home! He had made a start up Grand Lake, they said, but the storms had not permitted the party to advance any farther than the Cape Corbeau tilt. Douglas had accompanied the men to Cape Corbeau, which point it had taken an entire day to reach, as the dogs, even with the men on their snowshoes tramping a path ahead, sank so deeply in the snow that they could hardly flounder along, to say nothing of hauling a load. It was evident, therefore, that the dogs would retard rather than accelerate the progress of the party on Grand Lake, and when the Cape Corbeau tilt was reached on Tuesday night it was decided that Douglas should take them back to the rapid. On Wednesday morning the storm was raging so fiercely that it was considered unsafe to go ahead for the present. George, moreover, complained of a lame ankle, and said he required a rest. So Tom came to the conclusion that if he remained at the tilt he would be eating the "stock of grub" to no purpose, and when Douglas turned homeward with the dogs he went with him. George and Duncan were to stay at the tilt until the travelling became better, Douglas said, and then push on to Donald's and wait for Tom there. Douglas's story made it plain that the weather conditions on Grand Lake had been fierce enough to appal any man, but as there had been no snow since Friday night I could not understand what Tom was doing at the rapid on Sunday, and with Mackenzie's consent I had Mark immediately harness the post dogs and drive me up to his house. I arrived there considerably incensed by his inactivity, but I must say that his explanation was adequate. He asked me if I had been able to see anything of Grand Lake, and made me realise what it meant to be out there with a high west wind of Arctic bitterness drifting the snow in great clouds down its thirty-seven miles of unbroken expanse. There was no doubt that the men had done the best they could, and after instructing Tom that, if more provisions were needed, to obtain them at Donald's at my expense, and receiving from him an assurance that he would again start for Hubbard's body as soon as the weather would permit, I returned, mollified, to the post. It was on this day (Sunday, March 13th) that I received my first news from home and the outside world, Monsieur Duclos, who had been on a trip north, bringing me two telegrams from New York. They conveyed to me the comforting assurance that all was well at home, being replies to the dispatches I had sent in December. Received at Chateau Bay, they had been forwarded to me three hundred and fifty miles by dog teams and snowshoe travellers. Tom Blake started on Monday morning, the 14th, and Tuesday at noon joined George and Duncan at Donald's. On Wednesday the three men began their march up the Susan. The weather continuing fair, they made good progress and had no difficulty in finding the site of our last camp. Hubbard's body, with the tent lying flat on top of it, was under eight feet of snow. Near the spot a wolverine had been prowling, but the body was too deeply buried for any animal to scent it, and in its quiet resting place it lay undisturbed. It was fortunate that it had not been placed on a stage, as I had suggested; for in that event it would undoubtedly have been destroyed. Continuing on inland, the men recovered the photographic films, the sextant, my fishing rod, and other odds and ends we had dropped on the trail as far back as Lake Elson. Tom and Duncan praised George unstintingly for the unvarying accuracy with which he located the things. With the country and smaller trees buried under a great depth of snow, and no landmarks to guide him, George would lead the other men on, and, with no searching about or hesitancy, stop and say, "We'll dig here." And not once did his remarkable instinct play him false. "'Tis sure wonderful," said Tom, in telling me about it. "I ne'er could ha' done it, an' no man on Th' Labrador could ha' done it, sir. Not even th' Mountaineers could ha' done it." And Duncan seconded Tom's opinion. On Sunday, March 27th, I was sitting in the cosey post house wondering where George and the others were, when suddenly George appeared from out the snow that the howling gale was whirling about. My long suspense was ended. The body had been recovered in good condition, George said. Wrapped in the blankets that Hubbard had round him when died--the blankets he had so gaily presented me with that June morning on the Silvia--and our old tarpaulin, which George had recovered farther back on the trail, it had been dragged on the Indian sled forty miles down over the sleeping Susan River, and thence out over Grand Lake to the Cape Corbeau tilt, where the men had been compelled to leave it the day before owing to the heavy snowstorm that then prevailed. From the tilt the men had gone on to Tom's house at the rapid to spend the night, and George had now come down to the post to relieve my mind with the news that the body was safe. It was arranged that the next morning George and Duncan should take the post dogs and komatik, drive up to Cape Corbeau and bring the body down. The morning was calm and fine, and they started early. It was a strange funeral procession that returned. The sun was setting when, on their way back, with the body lashed to the komatik, they passed over the rapid where Hubbard that beautiful July morning had sprung vigorously into the water to track the canoe into Grand Lake. How full of hope and pleasurable anticipation he had been when we paddled through the Little Lake! Over the snow and ice that now hid the lake the seven dogs that were hauling his corpse strained and tugged, ever and anon breaking into a trot as George and Duncan, running on their snowshoes on either side of the komatik, urged them forward with Eskimo exclamations or cracked their long whip over a laggard. No need to urge any one of them on, however, when they came in sight of the post. Darkness was falling. Knowing that their daily meal was near at hand, the dogs broke into a run, and with much howling and jumping swung around the point and up to the buildings. XXIII. OVER THE ICE With the body at the post, it was my intention to hire dog teams, and, accompanied by George, start with it at once for home, travelling up Hamilton Inlet to the ocean, and then down along the coast to Battle Harbour, or some port farther south, where we might happen on a ship that would take us away from the land where we had suffered so much. More than three weeks elapsed, however, before we could get away from the Northwest River. It was about 325 miles over the ice to Battle Harbour, and Mackenzie and the others continued to argue against the feasibility of my plan. For a time it did seem as if it would be impossible to carry it out. First of all, I had trouble with Hubbard's coffin. When we received the body, the plain spruce box that had been made for it was found not to be deep enough. I sent over a request to James Greenan, the carpenter at Kenemish, that another one be made as speedily as possible. He replied that the last board they had on hand had been used in making a coffin for poor Dr. Hardy, but said that if I would return to him the coffin we had, he believed he could raise the sides to the requisite height. Mackenzie immediately despatched Mark with the dogs and komatik to carry the coffin to Kenemish, and on April 4th it was returned with the necessary alterations. The body meanwhile had lain wrapped in the blankets and tarpaulin in a storehouse where the temperature practically was as low as it was out of doors. Now we placed it in the box with salt as a preservative, and everything was ready for our long journey. Then arose the question as to where I could get dogs. Two teams were needed, one for the body and one for our baggage. Not a dog owner could I find who would undertake the task. I sent imploring messages for twenty-five miles around, but all to no purpose. They would not even undertake the ninety-mile journey to Rigolet. Some, I knew, did not like the idea of travelling with a corpse, and others, like Tom Blake, did not have enough dogs to haul our loads. In despair I went to Monsieur Duclos on April 19th and urged him to lend me his team to take us as far as Rigolet, telling him that Mackenzie was willing to let us have his team for the trip to Rigolet, but that another was needed. The French post dogs had just returned from a long journey, and Monsieur Duclos said they were not fit for travel, but finally, to my great joy, he very kindly consented to let me have them, with Belfleur, a French-Indian, as driver, after they had a couple of days' rest. It was Mackenzie's custom to make an annual trip to Rigolet on post business, and this usually took place in May; but he expedited his arrangements so as to be able to leave with us and thus save his dogs an additional journey. Belfleur arrived with his dogs early on the morning of April 21st. Unfortunately Fred Blake, Mackenzie's driver, was not on hand, but it was decided that Belfleur should go ahead with George and the coffin, and that Mackenzie and I should follow with the baggage the next morning. It was nine o'clock when the eight dogs that were to haul the two men and the coffin got under way. All the natives were sorry to see George go, his genial manners and cheerful grin having made him a prime favourite. Mackenzie's little housekeeper and Mark Blake's wife, who had been George's hostess, wept copiously. Mackenzie, Fred Blake, and I got off at six o'clock the next morning. Our seven big dogs were howling and straining on the long traces as I said good-bye to all the good friends that had been so kind to me and had gathered to see me leave. It took us until evening of the following day to reach Rigolet. The Eskimo dogs almost invariably leave a house and arrive at one with a great flourish, but between times they settle down to a gentle pace and have to be urged on with exclamations and much snapping of the whip. Ours were much better travellers than those belonging to the French post, and, despite the fact that they had a heavier load to haul and were one less in number, we overtook George and Belfleur on the afternoon of the second day. A part of the time Mackenzie and Fred ran beside the komatik on their snowshoes to get warm, but my knees were still so weak that I had to stick to the komatik all the way. We spent the night at the log cabin of a breed, and before noon the next day came to the cabin of one Bell Shepard, where we learned George and Belfleur had spent their second night. It is considered a gross beach of etiquette on The Labrador to pass a man's house without stopping for bread and tea, and so we had to turn in to see Bell. As he served us with refreshment, he gave us a startling bit of news, to wit: that there was a great war raging in the outside world, with Great Britain, the United States, and Japan on one side, and Russia, France, and Germany on the other. "I's sure 'tis true, sir," he insisted, upon observing that Mackenzie and I appeared incredulous. "I's just come frum Rigolet, an' Scott, th' trader, had th' word by th' telegraph to Chateau. So 'tis sure true, sir, an' 'tis bad word for us poor folk on Th' Labrador, with th' prices to go up, as they tells me they sure will, on flour an' pork." We found out later that such a report had really spread up the coast from dog driver to dog driver until it had reached Rigolet, and it was not until I got to Battle Harbour that I learned that its basis was the beginning of the conflict between Russia and Japan. At Rigolet we were again hospitably received by Fraser, the factor. The news of Hubbard's death had preceded us; in fact it had been carried up and down the coast all the way from Cape Charles to Cape Chidley. Awaiting me was a letter from Dr. Cluny Macpherson, of the Deep Sea Mission at Battle Harbour, who, I was informed, had recently been to Rigolet and had hoped to see me. The letter proved to contain much valuable information as to stopping places and the probabilities of getting dogs between Rigolet and Battle Harbour, as well as the good news that a steamer was expected at Battle Harbour early in May. I also learned from Fraser that Mr. Whitney, editor of Outing magazine, of which Hubbard had been the associate editor, had sent a message to the telegraph operator at Chateau Bay requesting him to lend me every assistance possible and "to spare no expense." Well-meant though the message was, it had the effect of increasing my difficulties. Duly exaggerated and embellished, it had spread up the coast until every dog owner gained the impression that a little gold mine was about to pass through his country. I found this out when I tried to get dog teams to carry me to Cartwright Post, the next stage on my journey. A haughty person named Jerry Flowers, it appeared, had a monopoly just then of the dog-team business in the vicinity of Rigolet, and when we arrived at the post he proceeded to deal with me in the high-handed manner common to trust magnates. The regular rate paid by traders for transportation over the eighty odd miles between Rigolet and Cartwright was from ten to twelve dollars a team, but for the two teams I needed Jerry expected me to pay him sixty dollars. While I was still arguing with the immovable Jerry, John Williams, an old livyere, fortunately arrived from West Bay, which is half way to Cartwright, and Fraser used his influence with John to such good purpose that he consented to take us with his dog team at least as far as his home at the regular rate. John had only six dogs, but he told us we should be able to get an additional team at William Mugford's two miles beyond Rigolet. The strait at Rigolet was open, and when, late in the afternoon of Monday, April 25th, we bade Mackenzie and Fraser farewell, George and I, with our baggage and Hubbard's body, were taken across through the cakes of floating ice in one of the Company's big boats, manned by a crew of brawny post servants. On the other shore we loaded the baggage and coffin on John's komatik, and with him driving the dogs and George and I walking behind on snowshoes, we reached Mugford's at dusk. There we stopped for the night, being served with the meals that the people all down the coast usually eat at that time of the year--bread and molasses and tea. With one or two exceptions we had to sleep on the floor at the places where we stopped; for the houses generally contained only one room divided by a partition. Almost all of the houses had low extensions used as a storage place, and there Hubbard's body would rest over night. Never did we pay anything for our entertainment; poor as the people are, they would be greatly offended if a traveller they took in offered them money. Generally speaking, we had good weather for our long journey to Battle Harbour and pretty fair going. Day after day we followed the coast line south, crossing from neck of land to neck of land over the frozen bays and inlets. Sometimes we encountered ridges on the necks of land, and then we would have to help the dogs haul the loads to the top. Resuming our places on the komatiks, we would coast down the slopes, with the dogs racing madly ahead to keep from being run over. If the descent was very steep, a drag in the form of a hoop of braided walrus hide would be thrown over the front of one of the komatik runners, but even then the dogs would have to run their hardest to preserve a safe distance between them and us, and out on the smooth ice of the bays we would shoot, to skim along with exhilarating swiftness. As we proceeded south we were interested in observing signs of spring. Towards the end of our journey we encountered much soft snow and water-covered ice. Mugford agreed to help us out with his four dogs as far as West Bay. Arriving there, we found that only one team was procurable for the rest of the trip to Cartwright, so John Williams continued on with us all the way. Forty or fifty miles a day is about all that dogs can be expected to accomplish with average going, and we spent two days between Rigolet and Cartwright, reaching the Hudson's Bay Company Post at Sandwich Bay on the evening of Wednesday, April 27th, to receive kindly welcome from the agent, Mr. Swaffield. Again at Cartwright we had some difficulty in getting dogs, and it was not until Friday morning that we could push on. These delays were exasperating, for I was bent on catching the steamer that Dr. Macpherson informed me in his letter was due at Battle Harbour early in May. Our journey resumed, it was a case of fighting dog owners all the way. Seal Islands, about ninety miles farther down the coast, we reached on Saturday night, April 30th. There we had the good fortune to be entertained by a quaint character in the person of Skipper George Morris, a native trader. He had been expecting us, and he greeted me as if I had been his long-lost brother. "Dear eyes!" he exclaimed, wringing my hand in his bluff, cordial way; "Dear eyes! but I'se glad to see you--wonderful glad!" The skipper's house was far above the average of those on the coast. It had two floors with two rooms each, and his good wife kept everything clean and bright. Soon after our arrival the skipper got out for our edification two shotguns--one single, and the other double-barrelled--each of which was fully six feet long from butt to muzzle and had a bore of one and one-half inches. "Th' Boers ha' been fightin' England," said he, "an' I got un [the gun] t' fight, sir. Dear eyes! if th' Boers ha' come handy t' us, I thinks I could ha' kept un off, sir. I knows I could wi' them guns. I'd sure ha' shot through their schooners, sir, if un was big as th' mail boat an' steamers like th' mail boat. I'd ha' shot through un, sir, an' th' mail boat's a big un, sir, as you knows." The next day was May Day. I knew that at home the birds and the flowers had returned, and that in dear old New York gay parties of children were probably marching to the parks. What a May Day it was on The Labrador! The morning ushered in a heavy snow storm, with a tremendous gale. Thinking of the steamer due at Battle Harbour, I suggested that, despite the storm, we might make a start. But the skipper exclaimed: "Dear eyes! an' start in this gale! No, no, th' dogs could ne'er face un, sir." And as George and our drivers thought likewise, we spent the day resting with the old skipper and his wife, warmly housed and faring sumptuously on wild duck, while the storm outside seemed to shake the world to its very foundations. On May 2d the snow had almost ceased falling and the wind had somewhat subsided, when at eleven o'clock we parted from the quaint old skipper whose "Dear eyes!" continued to lend emphasis to his remarks up to the last that we saw of him. Rounding a point of land soon after leaving Seal Islands, we came suddenly upon two runaway dogs from a team that had been stormbound at Seal Islands like ourselves. The runaways were thoroughly startled by our sudden appearance, and took to their heels, with our teams, composed respectively of ten dogs and twelve dogs, after them. The ice we were on had been swept clear of snow by the wind, the hauling was easy, and our dogs almost flattened themselves out in their effort to get at the strangers and chew them up. The pace became terrific, but there was nothing to do but hold on tight and trust to luck. For perhaps five miles our wild ride lasted, and then, the strange dogs turning to the snow-covered land, our teams abandoned the race and condescended to pay some heed to their masters' excited observations. Fortunately the chase had carried us in the direction for which we were bound. Early in the afternoon we reached a cache of cod heads, and stopped while the dogs were fed one each. Poor brutes! they had had nothing to eat since Friday night--this was Monday--and I imagine a rather scant meal even then; for at this time of the year the stock of salt seal meat and fat and dried cod heads and caplin that the natives put up in the summer and fall for dog food is nearly exhausted, and what remains is used very economically. Often the dogs receive only one scanty meal every other day. Our drivers had intended to feed their teams at Seal Islands, but on account of the scarcity of dog food none could be purchased. At four o'clock in the afternoon we reached Norman Bay, where we found a miserable hut unoccupied save by an abundance of filth, two cats, and one hen. As there were no tracks visible in the snow, the people evidently had been away since the storm began on Saturday night. We built a fire in the stove, made tea and fed ourselves, the cats, and the hen from our grub bag. I invariably insisted that our drivers travel as long as there was light, which at this season lasted until after eight o'clock, and we pushed on until we came to Corbett's Bite, a place that also rejoices in the name of New York, the same having been facetiously bestowed upon it by some fisherman wag, because four small huts had been collected there to make a "city." The inhabitants of New York had all moved to their fishing quarters farther out on the coast when we arrived, and we took possession for the night of the best of the huts. Filth and slush lay an inch deep on the floor of the single room. A hole in the roof provided a means of escape for the smoke from the fire we built in an improvised fireplace, and, at the same time, a constant source of fear on our part lest some of the dogs which roamed at will over the roof, fall through it and into our fire. An old bench and loose boards taken from a semi-partition in the room served as beds for our party, and we passed a fairly comfortable night. We were off at daylight, and at half-past eight that morning (May 3d) reached Williams Harbour, where I had hoped to engage the teams of John and James Russell and proceed immediately to Battle Harbour, which place was now only a few miles off. But the Russells were away and did not return until night, so that we were unable to proceed until the following morning. With their teams of eight and six dogs the Russells got us away early, however, and at half-past eleven that morning (May 4th) we arrived at Fox Harbour, eight miles across the bay from Battle Harbour. Now a new problem presented itself, which was all the more exasperating for the reason that we were in sight of our goal. The ice pack was in the bay, and it was quite impossible to cross it until the wind might shift and blow the pack out. It is true that by a tortuous trail some thirty miles around we could with dogs reach Cape Charles, just below Battle Harbour; but none of the few drivers that knew the trail was anxious to undertake the journey, and as the probabilities were that even if we did succeed in reaching Cape Charles we should be in the same fix there as where we were, our only course seemed to be to remain at Fox Harbour and wait. No vessel, they told us, had yet arrived either at Battle Harbour or Cape Charles. George Wakeham, an old English fisherman from Devonshire, who had spent forty years of his life on The Labrador and had an Eskimo wife, welcomed us to his house. Near it was an eminence called Watch Hill, from which the general situation of the ice pack could be observed. Day after day I climbed Watch Hill, and for hours at a time with a telescope viewed the ice and gazed longingly at Battle Harbour in the distance. On the morning of the ninth day the pack appeared to be spreading, and I decided to run the risk of getting fast in the ice, and make at least an attempt to start. So George and I and the five natives that were to row us over got the boat afloat, prepared for a start immediately after luncheon. Meanwhile George and I ascended Watch Hill for another look at the ice pack. Upon scanning the distant shore line through the telescope we discovered a speck moving in the bay away over near Battle Harbour. A little later we were assured that it was a big row-boat laboriously making its way through the ice. It came nearer and nearer, obviously headed for Fox Harbour. At noon it arrived, and its brawny crew of fishermen said they had come for us. Dr. Macpherson had sent them. The steamer that the doctor had written me was expected had arrived at Cape Charles with a cargo for a new whale factory, and probably would sail for Newfoundland the next day. Having heard we were on our way down the coast, and divining that we were held at Fox Harbour by the ice, Dr. Macpherson had sent the boat so that we might be sure to get the steamer. I marvelled greatly at these evidences of the doctor's thoughtfulness for us who were absolute strangers to him, and was deeply touched. We placed the coffin in the boat, together with our baggage, and started at once. The men had instructions to take us directly to the ship as she lay off Cape Charles, and after a row of about thirteen miles we reached her at five o'clock in the afternoon. She was the Aurora, one of the Newfoundland sealing fleet. It was like reaching home to be on shipboard again, and I felt that my troubles were ended. The mate, Patrick Dumphry, informed me, however, that her commander, Captain Abraham Kean, was at Battle Harbour, and that the steamer would not sail before the following night. So, wishing to have Hubbard's coffin prepared for the voyage, and to meet and thank Dr. Macpherson, I had the men row me back the five miles to Battle Harbour. There I learned that, upon receiving the first news of my proposed attempt to bring out Hubbard's body, Dr. Macpherson had made a special trip of twenty-five miles to Chateau Bay, to telegraph to New York suggesting that arrangements be made with Bowering & Co., the owners of the Aurora, to have that steamer pick us up at Battle Harbour. Perhaps I should say here that the kindness of the doctor to us was only what might have been expected from a gentleman by birth and breeding who, with his charming wife, buries himself on the desolate coast of Labrador, in order to do his Master's work. Pitiable indeed would be the condition of the poor folk on The Labrador were it not for Dr. Grenfell and his brave co-workers of the Deep Sea Mission. For hundreds of miles along the coast they travel on their errands of mercy, braving the violent storms of the bitter Arctic winter, sleeping in the meanest of huts, and frequently risking their lives in open boats on the raging sea. Many is the needy one for whom they have found work, many is the stricken soul that they have comforted, and many is the life that their medical skill has saved. At the doctor's house I received my first letters from home, and the first accurate news of what had been transpiring in the outside world. While there I also met Captain Kean. Unfortunately the people in New York had not made the arrangement Dr. Macpherson had suggested, but the captain assumed the responsibility of carrying us to Newfoundland, saying that we should go as his guests. He is a former member of the Newfoundland parliament, and a man of influence as well as initiative, and it was lucky for us that he commanded the Aurora, else we, in all probability, should have had to push farther down the coast with dogs, or waited at Battle Harbour for the first appearance of the mail boat. The next day (Friday, May 13th) a firm of traders at Battle Harbour, under Dr. Macpherson's supervision, lined Hubbard's coffin with sheet lead and sealed it hermetically. The body was still frozen and in good condition. In the afternoon we were taken to the Aurora by Dr. Macpherson and a crew of his men, and established in the cabin, while Hubbard's coffin was carefully stowed away in the hold, there to remain until it was transferred at St. Johns to the Silvia, the steamer on which my old friend, so full of life and ambition, had sailed from New York, and which now was to carry him back a corpse. Because of a delay in getting her unloaded, the Aurora did not sail until Saturday evening. The sky was all aglow with a gorgeous sunset when we weighed anchor and steamed out of Cape Charles Harbour down across the straits of Belle Isle. The night was equally glorious. As darkness fell, the sky and sea were illuminated by the northern lights. There was no wind and the sea was calm. Close to our port side an iceberg with two great spires towered high above us; another large iceberg was on our starboard. Before us Belle Isle and the French shore were dimly visible. Behind us the rocky coast of Labrador gradually faded away. XXIV. HUBBARD'S MESSAGE Out voyage from Labrador to Newfoundland was uneventful, and on Tuesday morning, May 17th, the Aurora steamed into St. Johns Harbour. I was on the bridge with Captain Kean when we passed through the narrows, eagerly looking to see if the ship was there that was to take us home. To my great satisfaction the Silvia was at her wharf, and George and I lost no time in presenting ourselves to my old friend Captain Farrell, her commander, who was engaged on deck when we arrived. He literally took me to his arms in welcome, and like everyone in St. Johns showed me the greatest consideration and kindness. Bowring & Company, the owners of the Aurora, placed at my disposal their steam launch and such men as I needed, to aid me in the transference of the body from the Aurora to the Silvia, and they would make no charge for either this service or for our passage from Cape Charles to St. Johns. On Friday morning, May 20th, the Silvia sailed from St. John's, and one week later (Friday the 27th), with her flag at half mast, steamed slowly to her dock in Brooklyn. It was a sad home-coming. Scarcely a year before, Hubbard, light-hearted and gay, filled with hope and ambition and manly vigour, had stood by my side on that very deck as together we waved farewell to the friends that were gathered now to welcome George and me back. I thought of how, when we were fighting our way across the desolate wilderness, he had talked of, and planned for, this hour; and thought of his childlike faith that God would take care of us and lead us safely out. And then I asked myself why George and I, whose faith was so much the weaker, had been spared, while Hubbard, who never lost sight of the religion of his youth, was left to die. I felt that I was the least deserving. And I lived. And Hubbard died. Why? I had no answer to the question. That was God's secret. Perhaps Hubbard's work, in the fulness of His plan, had been completed. Perhaps He still had work for me to do. We laid him to rest in a beautiful spot in the little cemetery at Haverstraw, at the very foot of the mountains that he used to roam, and overlooking the grand old Hudson that he loved so well. The mountains will know him no more, and never again will he dip his paddle into the placid waters of the river; but his noble character, his simple faith, a faith that never wavered, but grew the stronger in his hour of trouble, his bravery, his indomitable will--these shall not be forgotten; they shall remain a living example to all who love bravery and self-sacrifice. The critics have said that Hubbard was foolhardy, and without proper preparation he plunged blindly into an unknown wilderness. I believe the early chapters of this narrative show that these criticisms are unfounded, and that Hubbard took every precaution that could occur to a reasonable mind. Himself a thorough student of wilderness travel, in making his preparations for the journey he sought the advice of men of wider experience as to every little detail and acted upon it. Others tell how fish-nets might have been made from willow bark "after the manner of the Indians," and describe other means of securing food that they claim men familiar with woodcraft would have resorted to. The preceding chapters show how impracticable it would have been for us to have consumed our small stock of provisions while manufacturing a fish-net from bark; and how we did resort to every method at our command of procuring food. Unfortunately we fell upon a year of paucity. The old men of the country bore witness that never before within their memory had there been such a scarcity of game. But by far the most serious criticism of all, to my mind, is that against the object of the expedition. It has been said that, even had Hubbard succeeded in accomplishing everything that he set out to do, the result would have been of little or no value to the world. In answer to this I cannot do better than to quote from the eloquent tribute to Hubbard's expedition made by his old college friend, Mr. James A. LeRoy, in the magazine issued by the Alumni Association of their alma mater. "Editorial wiseacres," says Mr. LeRoy, "may preach that such efforts as Hubbard made are of no great immediate value to the world, even if successful. But the man who is born with the insatiable desire to do something, to see what other men have not seen, to push into the waste places of the world, to make a new discovery, to develop a new theme or enrich an old, to contribute, in other words, to the fund of human knowledge, is always something more than a mere seeker for notoriety; he belongs, however slight may be his actual contribution to knowledge, however great his success or complete his failure, to that minority which has from the first kept the world moving on, while the vast majority have peacefully travelled on with it in its course. The unpoetical critic will not understand him, will find it easy to call him a dreamer; yet it is from dreams like these that have come the world's inspirations and its great achievements." Without any trace of the finicality that so often is pure morbidity, Hubbard was the most conscientious man I ever knew, a man who was continually thinking of others and how he might help them. Doubtless some will see in his brave life's struggle only a determination to win for himself a recognised place as a writer and expert upon out-of-door life; but those who were privileged to enjoy his intimacy know that the deep, underlying purpose of the man was to fit himself to deliver to the world a message that he felt to be profoundly true--a message that should inspire his fellow-men to encounter the battle of life without flinching, that should make them realise that unceasing endeavour and loyalty to God, their conscience and their brothers are indeed worth while. He died before he reached the goal of his ambition, but I do not believe that his message was undelivered. Only men that have camped together in a lonely, uninhabited country can in any degree comprehend the bond of affection and love that drew Hubbard and me ever closer to each other, as the Labrador Wild lured us on and on into the depths of its desolate waste. "The work must be done," he used to say, "and if one of us falls before it is completed, the other must finish it." His words ring in my ear as a call to duty. I see his dear, brave face before me now. I feel his lips upon my cheek. The smoke of the camp-fire is in my blood. The fragrance of the forest is in my nostrils. Perhaps it is God's will that I finish the work of exploration that Hubbard began. 
35338	----	|=================================================| | MR. WELLS HAS ALSO WRITTEN | | The following Novels: | | | | TONO BUNGAY | | LOVE AND MR. LEWISHAM | | KIPPS ANN VERONICA | | THE HISTORY OF MR. POLLY | | and THE NEW MACHIAVELLI | | | | Numerous short stories now published | | in a single volume under the title. | | THE COUNTRY OF THE BLIND | | | | The following fantastic Romances: | | | | THE TIME MACHINE | | THE WONDERFUL VISIT | | THE INVISIBLE MAN | | THE WAR OF THE WORLDS | | THE SEA LADY | | IN THE DAYS OF THE COMET | | THE SLEEPER AWAKES | | THE FOOD OF THE GODS | | THE WAR IN THE AIR | | THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON | | and THE ISLAND OF DOCTOR MOREAU | | | | And a series of books upon social and political | | questions of which | | | | A MODERN UTOPIA | | FIRST AND LAST THINGS (RELIGION) | | NEW WORLDS FOR OLD | | THE FUTURE IN AMERICA | | and ANTICIPATIONS | | are the chief. | |=================================================| MARRIAGE BY H. G. WELLS "And the Poor Dears haven't the shadow of a doubt they will live happily ever afterwards."--_From a Private Letter_. [Illustration] NEW YORK DUFFIELD & COMPANY 1912 COPYRIGHT, 1912 DUFFIELD & COMPANY _FRATERNALLY TO ARNOLD BENNETT_ BOOK THE FIRST MARJORIE MARRIES MARRIAGE CHAPTER THE FIRST A DAY WITH THE POPES § 1 An extremely pretty girl occupied a second-class compartment in one of those trains which percolate through the rural tranquillities of middle England from Ganford in Oxfordshire to Rumbold Junction in Kent. She was going to join her family at Buryhamstreet after a visit to some Gloucestershire friends. Her father, Mr. Pope, once a leader in the coach-building world and now by retirement a gentleman, had taken the Buryhamstreet vicarage furnished for two months (beginning on the fifteenth of July) at his maximum summer rental of seven guineas a week. His daughter was on her way to this retreat. At first she had been an animated traveller, erect and keenly regardful of every detail upon the platforms of the stations at which her conveyance lingered, but the tedium of the journey and the warmth of the sunny afternoon had relaxed her pose by imperceptible degrees, and she sat now comfortably in the corner, with her neat toes upon the seat before her, ready to drop them primly at the first sign of a fellow-traveller. Her expression lapsed more and more towards an almost somnolent reverie. She wished she had not taken a second-class ticket, because then she might have afforded a cup of tea at Reading, and so fortified herself against this insinuating indolence. She was travelling second class, instead of third as she ought to have done, through one of those lapses so inevitable to young people in her position. The two Carmel boys and a cousin, two greyhounds and a chow had come to see her off; they had made a brilliant and prosperous group on the platform and extorted the manifest admiration of two youthful porters, and it had been altogether too much for Marjorie Pope to admit it was the family custom--except when her father's nerves had to be considered--to go third class. So she had made a hasty calculation--she knew her balance to a penny because of the recent tipping--and found it would just run to it. Fourpence remained,--and there would be a porter at Buryhamstreet! Her mother had said: "You will have Ample." Well, opinions of amplitude vary. With numerous details fresh in her mind, Marjorie decided it would be wiser to avoid financial discussion during her first few days at Buryhamstreet. There was much in Marjorie's equipment in the key of travelling second class at the sacrifice of afternoon tea. There was, for example, a certain quiet goodness of style about her clothes, though the skirt betrayed age, and an entire absence of style about her luggage, which was all in the compartment with her, and which consisted of a distended hold-all, a very good tennis racquet in a stretcher, a portmanteau of cheap white basketwork held together by straps, and a very new, expensive-looking and meretricious dressing-bag of imitation morocco, which had been one of her chief financial errors at Oxbridge. The collection was eloquent indeed of incompatible standards.... Marjorie had a chin that was small in size if resolute in form, and a mouth that was not noticeably soft and weak because it was conspicuously soft and pretty. Her nose was delicately aquiline and very subtly and finely modelled, and she looked out upon the world with steady, grey-blue eyes beneath broad, level brows that contradicted in a large measure the hint of weakness below. She had an abundance of copper-red hair, which flowed back very prettily from her broad, low forehead and over her delicate ears, and she had that warm-tinted clear skin that goes so well with reddish hair. She had a very dainty neck, and the long slender lines of her body were full of the promise of a riper beauty. She had the good open shoulders of a tennis-player and a swimmer. Some day she was to be a tall, ruddy, beautiful woman. She wore simple clothes of silvery grey and soft green, and about her waist was a belt of grey leather in which there now wilted two creamy-petalled roses. That was the visible Marjorie. Somewhere out of time and space was an invisible Marjorie who looked out on the world with those steady eyes, and smiled or drooped with the soft red lips, and dreamt, and wondered, and desired. § 2 What a queer thing the invisible human being would appear if, by some discovery as yet inconceivable, some spiritual X-ray photography, we could flash it into sight! Long ago I read a book called "Soul Shapes" that was full of ingenious ideas, but I doubt very much if the thing so revealed would have any shape, any abiding solid outline at all. It is something more fluctuating and discursive than that--at any rate, for every one young enough not to have set and hardened. Things come into it and become it, things drift out of it and cease to be it, things turn upside down in it and change and colour and dissolve, and grow and eddy about and blend into each other. One might figure it, I suppose, as a preposterous jumble animated by a will; a floundering disconnectedness through which an old hump of impulse rises and thrusts unaccountably; a river beast of purpose wallowing in a back eddy of mud and weeds and floating objects and creatures drowned. Now the sunshine of gladness makes it all vivid, now it is sombre and grimly insistent under the sky of some darkling mood, now an emotional gale sweeps across it and it is one confused agitation.... And surely these invisible selves of men were never so jumbled, so crowded, complicated, and stirred about as they are at the present time. Once I am told they had a sort of order, were sphered in religious beliefs, crystal clear, were arranged in a cosmogony that fitted them as hand fits glove, were separated by definite standards of right and wrong which presented life as planned in all its essential aspects from the cradle to the grave. Things are so no longer. That sphere is broken for most of us; even if it is tied about and mended again, it is burst like a seed case; things have fallen out and things have fallen in.... Can I convey in any measure how it was with Marjorie? What was her religion? In college forms and returns, and suchlike documents, she would describe herself as "Church of England." She had been baptized according to the usages of that body, but she had hitherto evaded confirmation into it, and although it is a large, wealthy, and powerful organization with many minds to serve it, it had never succeeded in getting into her quick and apprehensive intelligence any lucid and persuasive conception of what it considered God and the universe were up to with her. It had failed to catch her attention and state itself to her. A number of humorous and other writers and the general trend of talk around her, and perhaps her own shrewd little observation of superficial things, had, on the other hand, created a fairly definite belief in her that it wasn't as a matter of fact up to very much at all, that what it said wasn't said with that absolute honesty which is a logical necessity in every religious authority, and that its hierarchy had all sorts of political and social considerations confusing its treatment of her immortal soul.... Marjorie followed her father in abstaining from church. He too professed himself "Church of England," but he was, if we are to set aside merely superficial classifications, an irascible atheist with a respect for usage and Good Taste, and an abject fear of the disapproval of other gentlemen of his class. For the rest he secretly disliked clergymen on account of the peculiarity of their collars, and a certain influence they had with women. When Marjorie at the age of fourteen had displayed a hankering after ecclesiastical ceremony and emotional religion, he had declared: "We don't want any of _that_ nonsense," and sent her into the country to a farm where there were young calves and a bottle-fed lamb and kittens. At times her mother went to church and displayed considerable orthodoxy and punctilio, at times the good lady didn't, and at times she thought in a broad-minded way that there was a Lot in Christian Science, and subjected herself to the ministrations of an American named Silas Root. But his ministrations were too expensive for continuous use, and so the old faith did not lose its hold upon the family altogether. * * * * * At school Marjorie had been taught what I may best describe as Muffled Christianity--a temperate and discreet system designed primarily not to irritate parents, in which the painful symbol of the crucifixion and the riddle of what Salvation was to save her from, and, indeed, the coarser aspects of religion generally, were entirely subordinate to images of amiable perambulations, and a rich mist of finer feelings. She had been shielded, not only from arguments against her religion, but from arguments for it--the two things go together--and I do not think it was particularly her fault if she was now growing up like the great majority of respectable English people, with her religious faculty as it were, artificially faded, and an acquired disposition to regard any speculation of why she was, and whence and whither, as rather foolish, not very important, and in the very worst possible taste. And so, the crystal globe being broken which once held souls together, you may expect to find her a little dispersed and inconsistent in her motives, and with none of that assurance a simpler age possessed of the exact specification of goodness or badness, the exact delimitation of right and wrong. Indeed, she did not live in a world of right and wrong, or anything so stern; "horrid" and "jolly" had replaced these archaic orientations. In a world where a mercantile gentility has conquered passion and God is neither blasphemed nor adored, there necessarily arises this generation of young people, a little perplexed, indeed, and with a sense of something missing, but feeling their way inevitably at last to the great releasing question, "Then why shouldn't we have a good time?" Yet there was something in Marjorie, as in most human beings, that demanded some general idea, some aim, to hold her life together. A girl upon the borders of her set at college was fond of the phrase "living for the moment," and Marjorie associated with it the speaker's lax mouth, sloe-like eyes, soft, quick-flushing, boneless face, and a habit of squawking and bouncing in a forced and graceless manner. Marjorie's natural disposition was to deal with life in a steadier spirit than that. Yet all sorts of powers and forces were at work in her, some exalted, some elvish, some vulgar, some subtle. She felt keenly and desired strongly, and in effect she came perhaps nearer the realization of that offending phrase than its original exponent. She had a clean intensity of feeling that made her delight in a thousand various things, in sunlight and textures, and the vividly quick acts of animals, in landscape, and the beauty of other girls, in wit, and people's voices, and good strong reasoning, and the desire and skill of art. She had a clear, rapid memory that made her excel perhaps a little too easily at school and college, an eagerness of sympathetic interest that won people very quickly and led to disappointments, and a very strong sense of the primary importance of Miss Marjorie Pope in the world. And when any very definite dream of what she would like to be and what she would like to do, such as being the principal of a ladies' college, or the first woman member of Parliament, or the wife of a barbaric chief in Borneo, or a great explorer, or the wife of a millionaire and a great social leader, or George Sand, or Saint Teresa, had had possession of her imagination for a few weeks, an entirely contrasted and equally attractive dream would presently arise beside it and compete with it and replace it. It wasn't so much that she turned against the old one as that she was attracted by the new, and she forgot the old dream rather than abandoned it, simply because she was only one person, and hadn't therefore the possibility of realizing both. In certain types Marjorie's impressionability aroused a passion of proselytism. People of the most diverse kinds sought to influence her, and they invariably did so. Quite a number of people, including her mother and the principal of her college, believed themselves to be the leading influence in her life. And this was particularly the case with her aunt Plessington. Her aunt Plessington was devoted to social and political work of an austere and aggressive sort (in which Mr. Plessington participated); she was childless, and had a Movement of her own, the Good Habits Movement, a progressive movement of the utmost scope and benevolence which aimed at extensive interferences with the food and domestic intimacies of the more defenceless lower classes by means ultimately of legislation, and she had Marjorie up to see her, took her for long walks while she influenced with earnestness and vigour, and at times had an air of bequeathing her mantle, movement and everything, quite definitely to her "little Madge." She spoke of training her niece to succeed her, and bought all the novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward for her as they appeared, in the hope of quickening in her that flame of politico-social ambition, that insatiable craving for dinner-parties with important guests, which is so distinctive of the more influential variety of English womanhood. It was due rather to her own habit of monologue than to any reserve on the part of Marjorie that she entertained the belief that her niece was entirely acquiescent in these projects. They went into Marjorie's mind and passed. For nearly a week, it is true, she had dramatized herself as the angel and inspiration of some great modern statesman, but this had been ousted by a far more insistent dream, begotten by a picture she had seen in some exhibition, of a life of careless savagery, whose central and constantly recurrent incident was the riding of barebacked horses out of deep-shadowed forest into a foamy sunlit sea--in a costume that would certainly have struck Aunt Plessington as a mistake. If you could have seen Marjorie in her railway compartment, with the sunshine, sunshine mottled by the dirty window, tangled in her hair and creeping to and fro over her face as the train followed the curves of the line, you would certainly have agreed with me that she was pretty, and you might even have thought her beautiful. But it was necessary to fall in love with Marjorie before you could find her absolutely beautiful. You might have speculated just what business was going on behind those drowsily thoughtful eyes. If you are--as people say--"Victorian," you might even have whispered "Day Dreams," at the sight of her.... She _was_ dreaming, and in a sense she was thinking of beautiful things. But only mediately. She was thinking how very much she would enjoy spending freely and vigorously, quite a considerable amount of money,--heaps of money. You see, the Carmels, with whom she had just been staying, were shockingly well off. They had two motor cars with them in the country, and the boys had the use of the second one as though it was just an old bicycle. Marjorie had had a cheap white dinner-dress, made the year before by a Chelsea French girl, a happy find of her mother's, and it was shapely and simple and not at all bad, and she had worn her green beads and her Egyptian necklace of jade; but Kitty Carmel and her sister had had a new costume nearly every night, and pretty bracelets, and rubies, big pearls, and woven gold, and half a score of delightful and precious things for neck and hair. Everything in the place was bright and good and abundant, the servants were easy and well-mannered, without a trace of hurry or resentment, and one didn't have to be sharp about the eggs and things at breakfast in the morning, or go without. All through the day, and even when they had gone to bathe from the smart little white and green shed on the upper lake, Marjorie had been made to feel the insufficiency of her equipment. Kitty Carmel, being twenty-one, possessed her own cheque-book and had accounts running at half a dozen West-end shops; and both sisters had furnished their own rooms according to their taste, with a sense of obvious effect that had set Marjorie speculating just how a room might be done by a girl with a real eye for colour and a real brain behind it.... The train slowed down for the seventeenth time. Marjorie looked up and read "Buryhamstreet." § 3 Her reverie vanished, and by a complex but almost instantaneous movement she had her basket off the rack and the carriage door open. She became teeming anticipations. There, advancing in a string, were Daffy, her elder sister, Theodore, her younger brother, and the dog Toupee. Sydney and Rom hadn't come. Daffy was not copper red like her sister, but really quite coarsely red-haired; she was bigger than Marjorie, and with irregular teeth instead of Marjorie's neat row; she confessed them in a broad simple smile of welcome. Theodore was hatless, rustily fuzzy-headed, and now a wealth of quasi-humorous gesture. The dog Toupee was straining at a leash, and doing its best in a yapping, confused manner, to welcome the wrong people by getting its lead round their legs. "Toupee!" cried Marjorie, waving the basket. "Toupee!" They all called it Toupee because it was like one, but the name was forbidden in her father's hearing. Her father had decided that the proper name for a family dog in England is Towser, and did his utmost to suppress a sobriquet that was at once unprecedented and not in the best possible taste. Which was why the whole family, with the exception of Mrs. Pope, of course, stuck to Toupee.... Marjorie flashed a second's contrast with the Carmel splendours. "Hullo, old Daffy. What's it like?" she asked, handing out the basket as her sister came up. "It's a lark," said Daffy. "Where's the dressing-bag?" "Thoddy," said Marjorie, following up the dressing-bag with the hold-all. "Lend a hand." "Stow it, Toupee," said Theodore, and caught the hold-all in time. In another moment Marjorie was out of the train, had done the swift kissing proper to the occasion, and rolled a hand over Toupee's head--Toupee, who, after a passionate lunge at a particularly savoury drover from the next compartment, was now frantically trying to indicate that Marjorie was the one human being he had ever cared for. Brother and sister were both sketching out the state of affairs at Buryhamstreet Vicarage in rapid competitive jerks, each eager to tell things first--and the whole party moved confusedly towards the station exit. Things pelted into Marjorie's mind. "We've got an old donkey-cart. I thought we shouldn't get here--ever.... Madge, we can go up the church tower whenever we like, only old Daffy won't let me shin up the flagstaff. It's _perfectly_ safe--you couldn't fall off if you tried.... Had positively to get out at the level crossing and _pull_ him over.... There's a sort of moat in the garden.... You never saw such furniture, Madge! And the study! It's hung with texts, and stuffed with books about the Scarlet Woman.... Piano's rather good, it's a Broadwood.... The Dad's got a war on about the tennis net. Oh, frightful! You'll see. It won't keep up. He's had a letter kept waiting by the _Times_ for a fortnight, and it's a terror at breakfast. Says the motor people have used influence to silence him. Says that's a game two can play at.... Old Sid got herself upset stuffing windfalls. Rather a sell for old Sid, considering how refined she's getting...." There was a brief lull as the party got into the waiting governess cart. Toupee, after a preliminary refusal to enter, made a determined attempt on the best seat, from which he would be able to bark in a persistent, official manner at anything that passed. That suppressed, and Theodore's proposal to drive refused, they were able to start, and attention was concentrated upon Daffy's negotiation of the station approach. Marjorie turned on her brother with a smile of warm affection. "How are you, old Theodore?" "I'm all right, old Madge." "Mummy?" "Every one's all right," said Theodore; "if it wasn't for that damned infernal net----" "Ssssh!" cried both sisters together. "_He_ says it," said Theodore. Both sisters conveyed a grave and relentless disapproval. "Pretty bit of road," said Marjorie. "I like that little house at the corner." A pause and the eyes of the sisters met. "_He's_ here," said Daffy. Marjorie affected ignorance. "Who's here?" "_Il vostro senior Miraculoso_." "Just as though a fellow couldn't understand your kiddy little Italian," said Theodore, pulling Toupee's ear. "Oh well, I thought he might be," said Marjorie, regardless of her brother. "Oh!" said Daffy. "I didn't know----" Both sisters looked at each other, and then both glanced at Theodore. He met Marjorie's eyes with a grimace of profound solemnity. "Little brothers," he said, "shouldn't know. Just as though they didn't! Rot! But let's change the subject, my dears, all the same. Lemme see. There are a new sort of flea on Toupee, Madge, that he gets from the hens." "_Is_ a new sort," corrected Daffy. "He's horrider than ever, Madge. He leaves his soap in soak now to make us think he has used it. This is the village High Street. Isn't it jolly?" "Corners don't _bite_ people," said Theodore, with a critical eye to the driving. Marjorie surveyed the High Street, while Daffy devoted a few moments to Theodore. The particular success of the village was its brace of chestnut trees which, with that noble disregard of triteness which is one of the charms of villages the whole world over, shadowed the village smithy. On either side of the roadway between it and the paths was a careless width of vivid grass protected by white posts, which gave way to admit a generous access on either hand to a jolly public house, leering over red blinds, and swinging a painted sign against its competitor. Several of the cottages had real thatch and most had porches; they had creepers nailed to their faces, and their gardens, crowded now with flowers, marigolds, begonias, snapdragon, delphiniums, white foxgloves, and monkshood, seemed almost too good to be true. The doctor's house was pleasantly Georgian, and the village shop, which was also a post and telegraph office, lay back with a slight air of repletion, keeping its bulging double shop-windows wide open in a manifest attempt not to fall asleep. Two score of shock-headed boys and pinafored girls were drilling upon a bald space of ground before the village school, and near by, the national emotion at the ever-memorable Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria had evoked an artistic drinking-fountain of grey stone. Beyond the subsequent green--there were the correctest geese thereon--the village narrowed almost to a normal road again, and then, recalling itself with a start, lifted a little to the churchyard wall about the grey and ample church. "It's just like all the villages that ever were," said Marjorie, and gave a cry of delight when Daffy, pointing to the white gate between two elm trees that led to the vicarage, remarked: "That's us." In confirmation of which statement, Sydney and Rom, the two sisters next in succession to Marjorie, and with a strong tendency to be twins in spite of the year between them, appeared in a state of vociferous incivility opening the way for the donkey-carriage. Sydney was Sydney, and Rom was just short for Romola--one of her mother's favourite heroines in fiction. "Old Madge," they said; and then throwing respect to the winds, "Old Gargoo!" which was Marjorie's forbidden nickname, and short for gargoyle (though surely only Victorian Gothic, ever produced a gargoyle that had the remotest right to be associated with the neat brightness of Marjorie's face). She overlooked the offence, and the pseudo-twins boarded the cart from behind, whereupon the already overburthened donkey, being old and in a manner wise, quickened his pace for the house to get the whole thing over. "It's really an avenue," said Daffy; but Marjorie, with her mind strung up to the Carmel standards, couldn't agree. It was like calling a row of boy-scouts Potsdam grenadiers. The trees were at irregular distances, of various ages, and mostly on one side. Still it was a shady, pleasant approach. And the vicarage was truly very interesting and amusing. To these Londoners accustomed to live in a state of compression, elbows practically touching, in a tall, narrow fore-and-aft stucco house, all window and staircase, in a despondent Brompton square, there was an effect of maundering freedom about the place, of enlargement almost to the pitch of adventure and sunlight to the pitch of intoxication. The house itself was long and low, as if a London house holidaying in the country had flung itself asprawl; it had two disconnected and roomy staircases, and when it had exhausted itself completely as a house, it turned to the right and began again as rambling, empty stables, coach house, cart sheds, men's bedrooms up ladders, and outhouses of the most various kinds. On one hand was a neglected orchard, in the front of the house was a bald, worried-looking lawn area capable of simultaneous tennis and croquet, and at the other side a copious and confused vegetable and flower garden full of roses, honesty, hollyhocks, and suchlike herbaceous biennials and perennials, lapsed at last into shrubbery, where a sickle-shaped, weedy lagoon of uncertain aims, which had evidently, as a rustic bridge and a weeping willow confessed, aspired to be an "ornamental water," declined at last to ducks. And there was access to the church, and the key of the church tower, and one went across the corner of the lawn, and by a little iron gate into the churchyard to decipher inscriptions, as if the tombs of all Buryhamstreet were no more than a part of the accommodation relinquished by the vicar's household. Marjorie was hurried over the chief points of all this at a breakneck pace by Sydney and Rom, and when Sydney was called away to the horrors of practice--for Sydney in spite of considerable reluctance was destined by her father to be "the musical one"--Rom developed a copious affection, due apparently to some occult æsthetic influence in Marjorie's silvery-grey and green, and led her into the unlocked vestry, and there prayed in a whisper that she might be given "one good hug, just _one_"--and so they came out with their arms about each other very affectionately to visit the lagoon again. And then Rom remembered that Marjorie hadn't seen either the walnut-tree in the orchard, or the hen with nine chicks.... Somewhere among all these interests came tea and Mrs. Pope. Mrs. Pope kissed her daughter with an air of having really wanted to kiss her half an hour ago, but of having been distracted since. She was a fine-featured, anxious-looking little woman, with a close resemblance to all her children, in spite of the fact that they were markedly dissimilar one to the other, except only that they took their ruddy colourings from their father. She was dressed in a neat blue dress that had perhaps been hurriedly chosen, and her method of doing her hair was a manifest compromise between duty and pleasure. She embarked at once upon an exposition of the bedroom arrangements, which evidently involved difficult issues. Marjorie was to share a room with Daffy--that was the gist of it--as the only other available apartment, originally promised to Marjorie, had been secured by Mr. Pope for what he called his "matutinal ablutions, _videlicet_ tub." "Then, when your Aunt Plessington comes, you won't have to move," said Mrs. Pope with an air of a special concession. "Your father's looking forward to seeing you, but he mustn't be disturbed just yet. He's in the vicar's study. He's had his tea in there. He's writing a letter to the _Times_ answering something they said in a leader, and also a private note calling attention to their delay in printing his previous communication, and he wants to be delicately ironical without being in any way offensive. He wants to hint without actually threatening that very probably he will go over to the _Spectator_ altogether if they do not become more attentive. The _Times_ used to print his letters punctually, but latterly these automobile people seem to have got hold of it.... He has the window on the lawn open, so that I think, perhaps, we'd better not stay out here--for fear our voices might disturb him." "Better get right round the other side of the church," said Daffy. "He'd hear far less of us if we went indoors," said Mrs. Pope. § 4 The vicarage seemed tight packed with human interest for Marjorie and her mother and sisters. Going over houses is one of the amusements proper to her sex, and she and all three sisters and her mother, as soon as they had finished an inaudible tea, went to see the bedroom she was to share with Daffy, and then examined, carefully and in order, the furniture and decoration of the other bedrooms, went through the rooms downstairs, always excepting and avoiding very carefully and closing as many doors as possible on, and hushing their voices whenever they approached the study in which her father was being delicately ironical without being offensive to the _Times_. None of them had seen any of the vicarage people at all--Mr. Pope had come on a bicycle and managed all the negotiations--and it was curious to speculate about the individuals whose personalities pervaded the worn and faded furnishings of the place. The Popes' keen-eyed inspection came at times, I think, dangerously near prying. The ideals of decoration and interests of the vanished family were so absolutely dissimilar to the London standards as to arouse a sort of astonished wonder in their minds. Some of the things they decided were perfectly hideous, some quaint, some were simply and weakly silly. Everything was different from Hartstone Square. Daffy was perhaps more inclined to contempt, and Mrs. Pope to refined amusement and witty appreciation than Marjorie. Marjorie felt there was something in these people that she didn't begin to understand, she needed some missing clue that would unlock the secret of their confused peculiarity. She was one of those people who have an almost instinctive turn for decoration in costume and furniture; she had already had a taste of how to do things in arranging her rooms at Bennett College, Oxbridge, where also she was in great demand among the richer girls as an adviser. She knew what it was to try and fail as well as to try and succeed, and these people, she felt, hadn't tried for anything she comprehended. She couldn't quite see why it was that there was at the same time an attempt at ornament and a disregard of beauty, she couldn't quite do as her mother did and dismiss it as an absurdity and have done with it. She couldn't understand, too, why everything should be as if it were faded and weakened from something originally bright and clear. All the rooms were thick with queer little objects that indicated a quite beaver-like industry in the production of "work." There were embroidered covers for nearly every article on the wash-hand-stand, and mats of wool and crochet wherever anything stood on anything; there were "tidies" everywhere, and odd little brackets covered with gilded and varnished fir cones and bearing framed photographs and little jars and all sorts of colourless, dusty little objects, and everywhere on the walls tacks sustained crossed fans with badly painted flowers or transfer pictures. There was a jar on the bedroom mantel covered with varnished postage stamps and containing grey-haired dried grasses. There seemed to be a moral element in all this, for in the room Sydney shared with Rom there was a decorative piece of lettering which declared that-- "Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose." There were a great number of texts that set Marjorie's mind stirring dimly with intimations of a missed significance. Over her own bed, within the lattice of an Oxford frame, was the photograph of a picture of an extremely composed young woman in a trailing robe, clinging to the Rock of Ages in the midst of histrionically aggressive waves, and she had a feeling, rather than a thought, that perhaps for all the oddity of the presentation it did convey something acutely desirable, that she herself had had moods when she would have found something very comforting in just such an impassioned grip. And on a framed, floriferous card, these incomprehensible words: |================================| |THY GRACE IS SUFFICIENT FOR ME. | |================================| seemed to be saying something to her tantalizingly just outside her range of apprehension. Did all these things light up somehow to those dispossessed people--from some angle she didn't attain? Were they living and moving realities when those others were at home again? The drawing-room had no texts; it was altogether more pretentious and less haunted by the faint and faded flavour of religion that pervaded the bedrooms. It had, however, evidences of travel in Switzerland and the Mediterranean. There was a piano in black and gold, a little out of tune, and surmounted by a Benares brass jar, enveloping a scarlet geranium in a pot. There was a Japanese screen of gold wrought upon black, that screened nothing. There was a framed chromo-lithograph of Jerusalem hot in the sunset, and another of Jerusalem cold under a sub-tropical moon, and there were gourds, roses of Jericho, sandalwood rosaries and kindred trash from the Holy Land in no little profusion upon a what-not. Such books as the room had contained had been arranged as symmetrically as possible about a large, pink-shaded lamp upon the claret-coloured cloth of a round table, and were to be replaced, Mrs. Pope said, at their departure. At present they were piled on a side-table. The girls had been through them all, and were ready with the choicer morsels for Marjorie's amusement. There was "Black Beauty," the sympathetic story of a soundly Anglican horse, and a large Bible extra-illustrated with photographs of every well-known scriptural picture from Michael Angelo to Doré, and a book of injunctions to young ladies upon their behaviour and deportment that Rom and Sydney found particularly entertaining. Marjorie discovered that Sydney had picked up a new favourite phrase. "I'm afraid we're all dreadfully cynical," said Sydney, several times. A more advanced note was struck by a copy of "Aurora Leigh," richly underlined in pencil, but with exclamation marks at some of the bolder passages.... And presently, still avoiding the open study window very elaborately, this little group of twentieth century people went again into the church--the church whose foundations were laid in A.D. 912--foundations of rubble and cement that included flat Roman bricks from a still remoter basilica. Their voices dropped instinctively, as they came into its shaded quiet from the exterior sunshine. Marjorie went a little apart and sat in a pew that gave her a glimpse of the one good stained-glass window. Rom followed her, and perceiving her mood to be restful, sat a yard away. Syd began a whispered dispute with her mother whether it wasn't possible to try the organ, and whether Theodore might not be bribed to blow. Daffy discovered relics of a lepers' squint and a holy-water stoup, and then went to scrutinize the lettering of the ten commandments of the Mosaic law that shone black and red on gold on either side of the I.H.S. monogram behind the white-clothed communion table that had once been the altar. Upon a notice board hung about the waist of the portly pulpit were the numbers of hymns that had been sung three days ago. The sound Protestantism of the vicar had banished superfluous crosses from the building; the Bible reposed upon the wings of a great brass eagle; shining blue and crimson in the window, Saint Christopher carried his Lord. What a harmonized synthesis of conflicts a country church presents! What invisible mysteries of filiation spread between these ancient ornaments and symbols and the new young minds from the whirlpool of the town that looked upon them now with such bright, keen eyes, wondering a little, feeling a little, missing so much? It was all so very cool and quiet now--with something of the immobile serenity of death. § 5 When Mr. Pope had finished his letter to the _Times_, he got out of the window of the study, treading on a flower-bed as he did so--he was the sort of man who treads on flower-beds--partly with the purpose of reading his composition aloud to as many members of his family as he could assemble for the purpose, and so giving them a chance of appreciating the nuances of his irony more fully than if they saw it just in cold print without the advantage of his intonation, and partly with the belated idea of welcoming Marjorie. The law presented a rather discouraging desolation. Then he became aware that the church tower frothed with his daughters. In view of his need of an audience, he decided after a brief doubt that their presence there was unobjectionable, and waved his MS. amiably. Marjorie flapped a handkerchief in reply.... The subsequent hour was just the sort of hour that gave Mr. Pope an almost meteorological importance to his family. He began with an amiability that had no fault, except, perhaps, that it was a little forced after the epistolary strain in the study, and his welcome to Marjorie was more than cordial. "Well, little Madge-cat!" he said, giving her an affectionate but sound and heavy thump on the left shoulder-blade, "got a kiss for the old daddy?" Marjorie submitted a cheek. "That's right," said Mr. Pope; "and now I just want you all to advise me----" He led the way to a group of wicker garden chairs. "You're coming, mummy?" he said, and seated himself comfortably and drew out a spectacle case, while his family grouped itself dutifully. It made a charming little picture of a Man and his Womankind. "I don't often flatter myself," he said, "but this time I think I've been neat--neat's the word for it." He cleared his throat, put on his spectacles, and emitted a long, flat preliminary note, rather like the sound of a child's trumpet. "Er--'Dear Sir!'" "Rom," said Mrs. Pope, "don't creak your chair." "It's Daffy, mother," said Rom. "Oh, _Rom!_" said Daffy. Mr. Pope paused, and looked with a warning eye over his left spectacle-glass at Rom. "Don't creak your chair, Rom," he said, "when your mother tells you." "I was _not_ creaking my chair," said Rom. "I heard it," said Mr. Pope, suavely. "It was Daffy." "Your mother does not think so," said Mr. Pope. "Oh, all right! I'll sit on the ground," said Rom, crimson to the roots of her hair. "Me too," said Daffy. "I'd rather." Mr. Pope watched the transfer gravely. Then he readjusted his glasses, cleared his throat again, trumpeted, and began. "Er--'Dear Sir,'" "Oughtn't it to be simply 'Sir,' father, for an editor?" said Marjorie. "Perhaps I didn't explain, Marjorie," said her father, with the calm of great self-restraint, and dabbing his left hand on the manuscript in his right, "that this is a _private_ letter--a private letter." "I didn't understand," said Marjorie. "It would have been evident as I went on," said Mr. Pope, and prepared to read again. This time he was allowed to proceed, but the interruptions had ruffled him, and the gentle stresses that should have lifted the subtleties of his irony into prominence missed the words, and he had to go back and do his sentences again. Then Rom suddenly, horribly, uncontrollably, was seized with hiccups. At the second hiccup Mr. Pope paused, and looked very hard at his daughter with magnified eyes; as he was about to resume, the third burst its way through the unhappy child's utmost effort. Mr. Pope rose with an awful resignation. "That's enough," he said. He regarded the pseudo-twin vindictively. "You haven't the self-control of a child of six," he said. Then very touchingly to Mrs. Pope: "Mummy, shall we try a game of tennis with the New Generation?" "Can't you read it after supper?" asked Mrs. Pope. "It must go by the eight o'clock post," said Mr. Pope, putting the masterpiece into his breast pocket, the little masterpiece that would now perhaps never be read aloud to any human being. "Daffy, dear, do you mind going in for the racquets and balls?" The social atmosphere was now sultry, and overcast, and Mr. Pope's decision to spend the interval before Daffy returned in seeing whether he couldn't do something to the net, which was certainly very unsatisfactory, did not improve matters. Then, unhappily, Marjorie, who had got rather keen upon tennis at the Carmels', claimed her father's first two services as faults, contrary to the etiquette of the family. It happened that Mr. Pope had a really very good, hard, difficult, smart-looking serve, whose only defect was that it always went either too far or else into the net, and so a feeling had been fostered and established by his wife that, on the whole, it was advisable to regard the former variety as a legitimate extension of a father's authority. Naturally, therefore, Mr. Pope was nettled at Marjorie's ruling, and his irritation increased when his next two services to Daffy perished in the net. ("Damn that net! Puts one's eye out.") Then Marjorie gave him an unexpected soft return which he somehow muffed, and then Daffy just dropped a return over the top of the net. (Love-game.) It was then Marjorie's turn to serve, which she did with a new twist acquired from the eldest Carmel boy that struck Mr. Pope as un-English. "Go on," he said concisely. "Fifteen love." She was gentle with her mother and they got their first rally, and when it was over Mr. Pope had to explain to Marjorie that if she returned right up into his corner of the court he would have to run backwards very fast and might fall over down the silly slope at that end. She would have to consider him and the court. One didn't get everything out of a game by playing merely to win. She said "All right, Daddy," rather off-handedly, and immediately served to him again, and he, taken a little unawares, hit the ball with the edge of his racquet and sent it out, and then he changed racquets with Daffy--it seemed he had known all along she had taken his, but he had preferred to say nothing--uttered a word of advice to his wife just on her stroke, and she, failing to grasp his intention as quickly as she ought to have done, left the score forty-fifteen. He felt better when he returned Marjorie's serve, and then before she could control herself she repeated her new unpleasant trick of playing into the corner again, whereupon, leaping back with an agility that would have shamed many a younger man, Mr. Pope came upon disaster. He went spinning down the treacherous slope behind, twisted his ankle painfully and collapsed against the iron railings of the shrubbery. It was too much, and he lost control of himself. His daughters had one instant's glimpse of the linguistic possibilities of a strong man's agony. "I told her," he went on as if he had said nothing. "_Tennis!_" For a second perhaps he seemed to hesitate upon a course of action. Then as if by a great effort he took his coat from the net post and addressed himself houseward, incarnate Grand Dudgeon--limping. "Had enough of it, Mummy," he said, and added some happily inaudible comment on Marjorie's new style of play. The evening's exercise was at an end. The three ladies regarded one another in silence for some moments. "I will take in the racquets, dear," said Mrs. Pope. "I think the other ball is at your end," said Daffy.... The apparatus put away, Marjorie and her sister strolled thoughtfully away from the house. "There's croquet here too," said Daffy. "We've not had the things out yet!".... "He'll play, I suppose." "He wants to play."... "Of course," said Marjorie after a long pause, "there's no _reasoning_ with Dad!" § 6 Character is one of England's noblest and most deliberate products, but some Englishmen have it to excess. Mr. Pope had. He was one of that large and representative class which imparts a dignity to national commerce by inheriting big businesses from its ancestors. He was a coach-builder by birth, and a gentleman by education and training. He had been to City Merchant's and Cambridge. Throughout the earlier half of the nineteenth century the Popes had been the princes of the coach-building world. Mr. Pope's great-grandfather had been a North London wheelwright of conspicuous dexterity and integrity, who had founded the family business; his son, Mr. Pope's grandfather, had made that business the occupation of his life and brought it to the pinnacle of pre-eminence; his son, who was Marjorie's grandfather, had displayed a lesser enthusiasm, left the house at the works for a home ten miles away and sent a second son into the Church. It was in the days of the third Pope that the business ceased to expand, and began to suffer severely from the competition of an enterprising person who had originally supplied the firm with varnish, gradually picked up the trade in most other materials and accessories needed in coach-building, and passed on by almost imperceptible stages to delivering the article complete--dispensing at last altogether with the intervention of Pope and Son--to the customer. Marjorie's father had succeeded in the fulness of time to the inheritance this insurgent had damaged. Mr. Pope was a man of firm and resentful temper, with an admiration for Cato, Brutus, Cincinnatus, Cromwell, Washington, and the sterner heroes generally, and by nature a little ill-used and offended at things. He suffered from indigestion and extreme irritability. He found himself in control of a business where more flexible virtues were needed. The Popes based their fame on a heavy, proud type of vehicle, which the increasing luxury and triviality of the age tended to replace by lighter forms of carriage, carriages with diminutive and apologetic names. As these lighter forms were not only lighter but less expensive, Mr. Pope with a pathetic confidence in the loyalty of the better class of West End customer, determined to "make a stand" against them. He was the sort of man to whom making a stand is in itself a sombre joy. If he had had to choose his pose for a portrait, he would certainly have decided to have one foot advanced, the other planted like a British oak behind, the arms folded and the brows corrugated,--making a stand. Unhappily the stars in their courses and the general improvement of roads throughout the country fought against him. The lighter carriages, and especially the lighter carriages of that varnish-selling firm, which was now absorbing businesses right and left, prevailed over Mr. Pope's resistance. For crossing a mountain pass or fording a river, for driving over the scene of a recent earthquake or following a retreating army, for being run away with by frantic horses or crushing a personal enemy, there can be no doubt the Pope carriages remained to the very last the best possible ones and fully worth the inflexible price demanded. Unhappily all carriages in a civilization essentially decadent are not subjected to these tests, and the manufactures of his rivals were not only much cheaper, but had a sort of meretricious smartness, a disingenuous elasticity, above all a levity, hateful indeed to the spirit of Mr. Pope yet attractive to the wanton customer. Business dwindled. Nevertheless the habitual element in the good class customer did keep things going, albeit on a shrinking scale, until Mr. Pope came to the unfortunate decision that he would make a stand against automobiles. He regarded them as an intrusive nuisance which had to be seen only to be disowned by the landed gentry of England. Rather than build a car he said he would go out of business. He went out of business. Within five years of this determination he sold out the name, good will, and other vestiges of his concern to a mysterious buyer who turned out to be no more than an agent for these persistently expanding varnish makers, and he retired with a genuine grievance upon the family accumulations--chiefly in Consols and Home Railways. He refused however to regard his defeat as final, put great faith in the approaching exhaustion of the petrol supply, and talked in a manner that should have made the Automobile Association uneasy, of devoting the rest of his days to the purification of England from these aggressive mechanisms. "It was a mistake," he said, "to let them in." He became more frequent at his excellent West End club, and directed a certain portion of his capital to largely indecisive but on the whole unprofitable speculations in South African and South American enterprises. He mingled a little in affairs. He was a tough conventional speaker, rich in established phrases and never abashed by hearing himself say commonplace things, and in addition to his campaign against automobiles he found time to engage also in quasi-political activities, taking chairs, saying a few words and so on, cherishing a fluctuating hope that his eloquence might ultimately win him an invitation to contest a constituency in the interests of reaction and the sounder elements in the Liberal party. He had a public-spirited side, and he was particularly attracted by that mass of modern legislative proposals which aims at a more systematic control of the lives of lower class persons for their own good by their betters. Indeed, in the first enthusiasm of his proprietorship of the Pope works at East Purblow, he had organized one of those benevolent industrial experiments that are now so common. He felt strongly against the drink evil, that is to say, the unrestricted liberty of common people to drink what they prefer, and he was acutely impressed by the fact that working-class families do not spend their money in the way that seems most desirable to upper middle-class critics. Accordingly he did his best to replace the dangerous freedoms of money by that ideal of the social reformer, Payment in Kind. To use his invariable phrase, the East Purblow experiment did "no mean service" to the cause of social reform. Unhappily it came to an end through a prosecution under the Truck Act, that blot upon the Statute Book, designed, it would appear, even deliberately to vitiate man's benevolent control of his fellow man. The lessons to be drawn from that experience, however, grew if anything with the years. He rarely spoke without an allusion to it, and it was quite remarkable how readily it could be adapted to illuminate a hundred different issues in the hospitable columns of the _Spectator_.... § 7 At seven o'clock Marjorie found herself upstairs changing into her apple-green frock. She had had a good refreshing wash in cold soft water, and it was pleasant to change into thinner silk stockings and dainty satin slippers and let down and at last brush her hair and dress loiteringly after the fatigues of her journey and the activities of her arrival. She looked out on the big church and the big trees behind it against the golden quiet of a summer evening with extreme approval. "I suppose those birds are rooks," she said. But Daffy had gone to see that the pseudo-twins had done themselves justice in their muslin frocks and pink sashes; they were apt to be a little sketchy with their less accessible buttons. Marjorie became aware of two gentlemen with her mother on the lawn below. One was her almost affianced lover, Will Magnet, the humorous writer. She had been doing her best not to think about him all day, but now he became an unavoidable central fact. She regarded him with an almost perplexed scrutiny, and wondered vividly why she had been so excited and pleased by his attentions during the previous summer. Mr. Magnet was one of those quiet, deliberately unassuming people who do not even attempt to be beautiful. Not for him was it to pretend, but to prick the bladder of pretence. He was a fairish man of forty, pale, with a large protuberant, observant grey eye--I speak particularly of the left--and a face of quiet animation warily alert for the wit's opportunity. His nose and chin were pointed, and his lips thin and quaintly pressed together. He was dressed in grey, with a low-collared silken shirt showing a thin neck, and a flowing black tie, and he carried a grey felt hat in his joined hands behind his back. She could hear the insinuating cadences of his voice as he talked in her mother's ear. The other gentleman, silent on her mother's right, must, she knew, be Mr. Wintersloan, whom Mr. Magnet had proposed to bring over. His dress betrayed that modest gaiety of disposition becoming in an artist, and indeed he was one of Mr. Magnet's favourite illustrators. He was in a dark bluish-grey suit; a black tie that was quite unusually broad went twice around his neck before succumbing to the bow, and his waistcoat appeared to be of some gaily-patterned orange silk. Marjorie's eyes returned to Mr. Magnet. Hitherto she had never had an opportunity of remarking that his hair was more than a little attenuated towards the crown. It was funny how his tie came out under his chin to the right. What an odd thing men's dress had become, she thought. Why did they wear those ridiculous collars and ties? Why didn't they always dress in flannels and look as fine and slender and active as the elder Carmel boy for example? Mr. Magnet couldn't be such an ill-shaped man. Why didn't every one dress to be just as beautiful and splendid as possible?--instead of wearing queer things! "Coming down?" said Daffy, a vision of sulphur-yellow, appearing in the doorway. "Let _them_ go first," said Marjorie, with a finer sense of effect. "And Theodore. We don't want to make part of a comic entry with Theodore, Daffy." Accordingly, the two sisters watched discreetly--they had to be wary on account of Mr. Magnet's increasingly frequent glances at the windows--and when at last all the rest of the family had appeared below, they decided their cue had come. Mr. Pope strolled into the group, with no trace of his recent debacle except a slight limp. He was wearing a jacket of damson-coloured velvet, which he affected in the country, and all traces of his Grand Dudgeon were gone. But then he rarely had Grand Dudgeon except in the sanctities of family life, and hardly ever when any other man was about. "Well," his daughters heard him say, with a witty allusiveness that was difficult to follow, "so the Magnet has come to the Mountain again--eh?" "Come on, Madge," said Daffy, and the two sisters emerged harmoniously together from the house. It would have been manifest to a meaner capacity than any present that evening that Mr. Magnet regarded Marjorie with a distinguished significance. He had two eyes, but he had that mysterious quality so frequently associated with a bluish-grey iris which gives the effect of looking hard with one large orb, a sort of grey searchlight effect, and he used this eye ray now to convey a respectful but firm admiration in the most unequivocal manner. He saluted Daffy courteously, and then allowed himself to retain Marjorie's hand for just a second longer than was necessary as he said--very simply--"I am very pleased indeed to meet you again--very." A slight embarrassment fell between them. "You are staying near here, Mr. Magnet?" "At the inn," said Mr. Magnet, and then, "I chose it because it would be near you." His eye pressed upon her again for a moment. "Is it comfortable?" said Marjorie. "So charmingly simple," said Mr. Magnet. "I love it." A tinkling bell announced the preparedness of supper, and roused the others to the consciousness that they were silently watching Mr. Magnet and Marjorie. "It's quite a simple farmhouse supper," said Mrs. Pope. § 8 There were ducks, green peas, and adolescent new potatoes for supper, and afterwards stewed fruit and cream and junket and cheese, bottled beer, Gilbey's Burgundy, and home-made lemonade. Mrs. Pope carved, because Mr. Pope splashed too much, and bones upset him and made him want to show up chicken in the _Times_. So he sat at the other end and rallied his guests while Mrs. Pope distributed the viands. He showed not a trace of his recent umbrage. Theodore sat between Daffy and his mother because of his table manners, and Marjorie was on her father's right hand and next to Mr. Wintersloan, while Mr. Magnet was in the middle of the table on the opposite side in a position convenient for looking at her. Both maids waited. The presence of Magnet invariably stirred the latent humorist in Mr. Pope. He felt that he who talks to humorists should himself be humorous, and it was his private persuasion that with more attention he might have been, to use a favourite form of expression, "no mean jester." Quite a lot of little things of his were cherished as "Good" both by himself and, with occasional inaccuracies, by Mrs. Pope. He opened out now in a strain of rich allusiveness. "What will you drink, Mr. Wintersloan?" he said. "Wine of the country, yclept beer, red wine from France, or my wife's potent brew from the golden lemon?" Mr. Wintersloan thought he would take Burgundy. Mr. Magnet preferred beer. "I've heard there's iron in the Beer, And I believe it," misquoted Mr. Pope, and nodded as it were to the marker to score. "Daffy and Marjorie are still in the lemonade stage. Will you take a little Burgundy to-night, Mummy?" Mrs. Pope decided she would, and was inspired to ask Mr. Wintersloan if he had been in that part of the country before. Topography ensued. Mr. Wintersloan had a style of his own, and spoke of the Buryhamstreet district as a "pooty little country--pooty little hills, with a swirl in them." This pleased Daffy and Marjorie, and their eyes met for a moment. Then Mr. Magnet, with a ray full on Marjorie, said he had always been fond of Surrey. "I think if ever I made a home in the country I should like it to be here." Mr. Wintersloan said Surrey would tire him, it was too bossy and curly, too flocculent; he would prefer to look on broader, simpler lines, with just a sudden catch in the breath in them--if you understand me? Marjorie did, and said so. "A sob--such as you get at the break of a pinewood on a hill." This baffled Mr. Pope, but Marjorie took it. "Or the short dry cough of a cliff," she said. "Exactly," said Mr. Wintersloan, and having turned a little deliberate close-lipped smile on her for a moment, resumed his wing. "So long as a landscape doesn't _sneeze_" said Mr. Magnet, in that irresistible dry way of his, and Rom and Sydney, at any rate, choked. "Now is the hour when Landscapes yawn," mused Mr. Pope, coming in all right at the end. Then Mrs. Pope asked Mr. Wintersloan, about his route to Buryhamstreet, and then Mr. Pope asked Mr. Magnet whether he was playing at a new work or working at a new play. Mr. Magnet said he was dreaming over a play. He wanted to bring out the more serious side of his humour, go a little deeper into things than he had hitherto done. "Mingling smiles and tears," said Mr. Pope approvingly. Mr. Magnet said very quietly that all true humour did that. Then Mrs. Pope asked what the play was to be about, and Mr. Magnet, who seemed disinclined to give an answer, turned the subject by saying he had to prepare an address on humour for the next dinner of the _Literati_. "It's to be a humourist's dinner, and they've made me the guest of the evening--by way of a joke to begin with," he said with that dry smile again. Mrs. Pope said he shouldn't say things like that. She then said "Syd!" quietly but sharply to Sydney, who was making a disdainful, squinting face at Theodore, and told the parlourmaid to clear the plates for sweets. Mr. Magnet professed great horror of public speaking. He said that whenever he rose to make an after-dinner speech all the ices he had ever eaten seemed to come out of the past, and sit on his backbone. The talk centered for awhile on Mr. Magnet's address, and apropos of Tests of Humour Mr. Pope, who in his way was "no mean raconteur," related the story of the man who took the salad dressing with his hand, and when his host asked why he did that, replied: "Oh! I thought it was spinach!" "Many people," added Mr. Pope, "wouldn't see the point of that. And if they don't see the point they can't--and the more they try the less they do." All four girls hoped secretly and not too confidently that their laughter had not sounded hollow. And then for a time the men told stories as they came into their heads in an easy, irresponsible way. Mr. Magnet spoke of the humour of the omnibus-driver who always dangled and twiddled his badge "by way of a joke" when he passed the conductor whose father had been hanged, and Mr. Pope, perhaps, a little irrelevantly, told the story of the little boy who was asked his father's last words, and said "mother was with him to the end," which particularly amused Mrs. Pope. Mr. Wintersloan gave the story of the woman who was taking her son to the hospital with his head jammed into a saucepan, and explained to the other people in the omnibus: "You see, what makes it so annoying, it's me only saucepan!" Then they came back to the Sense of Humour with the dentist who shouted with laughter, and when asked the reason by his patient, choked out: "Wrong tooth!" and then Mr. Pope reminded them of the heartless husband who, suddenly informed that his mother-in-law was dead, exclaimed "Oh, don't make me laugh, please, I've got a split lip...." § 9 The conversation assumed a less anecdotal quality with the removal to the drawing-room. On Mr. Magnet's initiative the gentlemen followed the ladies almost immediately, and it was Mr. Magnet who remembered that Marjorie could sing. Both the elder sisters indeed had sweet clear voices, and they had learnt a number of those jolly songs the English made before the dull Hanoverians came. Syd accompanied, and Rom sat back in the low chair in the corner and fell deeply in love with Mr. Wintersloan. The three musicians in their green and sulphur-yellow and white made a pretty group in the light of the shaded lamp against the black and gold Broadwood, the tawdry screen, its pattern thin glittering upon darkness, and the deep shadows behind. Marjorie loved singing, and forgot herself as she sang. "I love, and he loves me again, Yet dare I not tell who; For if the nymphs should know my swain, I fear they'd love him too," she sang, and Mr. Magnet could not conceal the intensity of his admiration. Mr. Pope had fallen into a pleasant musing; several other ripe old yarns, dear delicious old things, had come into his mind that he felt he might presently recall when this unavoidable display of accomplishments was overpast, and it was with one of them almost on his lips that he glanced across at his guest. He was surprised to see Mr. Magnet's face transfigured. He was sitting forward, looking up at Marjorie, and he had caught something of the expression of those blessed boys who froth at the feet of an Assumption. For an instant Mr. Pope did not understand. Then he understood. It was Marjorie! He had a twinge of surprise, and glanced at his own daughter as though he had never seen her before. He perceived in a flash for the first time that this troublesome, clever, disrespectful child was tall and shapely and sweet, and indeed quite a beautiful young woman. He forgot his anecdotes. His being was suffused with pride and responsibility and the sense of virtue rewarded. He did not reflect for a moment that Marjorie embodied in almost equal proportions the very best points in his mother and his mother-in-law, and avoided his own more salient characteristics with so neat a dexterity that from top to toe, except for the one matter of colour, not only did she not resemble him but she scarcely even alluded to him. He thought simply that she was his daughter, that she derived from him, that her beauty was his. She was the outcome of his meritorious preparations. He recalled all the moments when he had been kind and indulgent to her, all the bills he had paid for her; all the stresses and trials of the coach-building collapse, all the fluctuations of his speculative adventures, became things he had faced patiently and valiantly for her sake. He forgot the endless times when he had been viciously cross with her, all the times when he had pished and tushed and sworn in her hearing. He had on provocation and in spite of her mother's protests slapped her pretty vigorously, but such things are better forgotten; nor did he recall how bitterly he had opposed the college education which had made her now so clear in eye and thought, nor the frightful shindy, only three months since, about that identical green dress in which she now stood delightful. He forgot these petty details, as an idealist should. There she was, his daughter. An immense benevolence irradiated his soul--for Marjorie--for Magnet. His eyes were suffused with a not ignoble tenderness. The man, he knew, was worth at least thirty-five thousand pounds, a discussion of investments had made that clear, and he must be making at least five thousand a year! A beautiful girl, a worthy man! A good fellow, a sound good fellow, a careful fellow too--as these fellows went! Old Daddy would lose his treasure of course. Well, a father must learn resignation, and he for one would not stand in the way of his girl's happiness. A day would come when, very beautifully and tenderly, he would hand her over to Magnet, his favourite daughter to his trusted friend. "Well, my boy, there's no one in all the world----" he would begin. It would be a touching parting. "Don't forget your old father, Maggots," he would say. At such a moment that quaint nickname would surely not be resented.... He reflected how much he had always preferred Marjorie to Daffy. She was brighter--more like him. Daffy was unresponsive, with a touch of bitterness under her tongue.... He was already dreaming he was a widower, rather infirm, the object of Magnet's and Marjorie's devoted care, when the song ceased, and the wife he had for the purpose of reveries just consigned so carelessly to the cemetery proposed that they should have a little game that every one could play at. A number of pencils and slips of paper appeared in her hands. She did not want the girls to exhaust their repertory on this first occasion--and besides, Mr. Pope liked games in which one did things with pencils and strips of paper. Mr. Magnet wished the singing to go on, he said, but he was overruled. So for a time every one played a little game in which Mr. Pope was particularly proficient. Indeed, it was rare that any one won but Mr. Pope. It was called "The Great Departed," and it had such considerable educational value that all the children had to play at it whenever he wished. It was played in this manner; one of the pseudo twins opened a book and dabbed a finger on the page, and read out the letter immediately at the tip of her finger, then all of them began to write as hard as they could, writing down the names of every great person they could think of, whose name began with that letter. At the end of five minutes Mr. Pope said Stop! and then began to read his list out, beginning with the first name. Everybody who had that name crossed it out and scored one, and after his list was exhausted all the surviving names on the next list were read over in the same way, and so on. The names had to be the names of dead celebrated people, only one monarch of the same name of the same dynasty was allowed, and Mr. Pope adjudicated on all doubtful cases. It was great fun. The first two games were won as usual by Mr. Pope, and then Mr. Wintersloan, who had been a little distraught in his manner, brightened up and scribbled furiously. The letter was _D_, and after Mr. Pope had rehearsed a tale of nine and twenty names, Mr. Wintersloan read out his list in that curious voice of his which suggested nothing so much as some mobile drink glucking out of the neck of a bottle held upside down. "Dahl," he began. "Who was Dahl?" asked Mr. Pope. "'Vented dahlias," said Mr. Wintersloan, with a sigh. "Danton." "Forgot him," said Mr. Pope. "Davis." "Davis?" "Davis Straits. Doe." "Who?" "John Doe, Richard Roe." "Legal fiction, I'm afraid," said Mr. Pope. "Dam," said Mr. Wintersloan, and added after a slight pause: "Anthony van." Mr. Pope made an interrogative noise. "Painter--eighteenth century--Dutch. Dam, Jan van, his son. Dam, Frederich van. Dam, Wilhelm van. Dam, Diedrich van. Dam, Wilhelmina, wood engraver, gifted woman. Diehl." "Who?" "Painter--dead--famous. See Düsseldorf. It's all painters now--all guaranteed dead, all good men. Deeds of Norfolk, the aquarellist, Denton, Dibbs." "Er?" said Mr. Pope. "The Warwick Claude, _you_ know. Died 1823." "Dickson, Dunting, John Dickery. Peter Dickery, William Dock--I beg your pardon?" Mr. Pope was making a protesting gesture, but Mr. Wintersloan's bearing was invincible, and he proceeded. In the end he emerged triumphant with forty-nine names, mostly painters for whose fame he answered, but whose reputations were certainly new to every one else present. "I can go on like that," said Mr. Wintersloan, "with any letter," and turned that hard little smile full on Marjorie. "I didn't see how to do it at first. I just cast about. But I know a frightful lot of painters. No end. Shall we try again?" Marjorie glanced at her father. Mr. Wintersloan's methods were all too evident to her. A curious feeling pervaded the room that Mr. Pope didn't think Mr. Wintersloan's conduct honourable, and that he might even go some way towards saying so. So Mrs. Pope became very brisk and stirring, and said she thought that now perhaps a charade would be more amusing. It didn't do to keep on at a game too long. She asked Rom and Daphne and Theodore and Mr. Wintersloan to go out, and they all agreed readily, particularly Rom. "Come on!" said Rom to Mr. Wintersloan. Everybody else shifted into an audience-like group between the piano and the what-not. Mr. Magnet sat at Marjorie's feet, while Syd played a kind of voluntary, and Mr. Pope leant back in his chair, with his brows knit and lips moving, trying to remember something. The charade _was_ very amusing. The word was Catarrh, and Mr. Wintersloan, as the patient in the last act being given gruel, surpassed even the children's very high expectations. Rom, as his nurse, couldn't keep her hands off him. Then the younger people kissed round and were packed off to bed, and the rest of the party went to the door upon the lawn and admired the night. It was a glorious summer night, deep blue, and rimmed warmly by the afterglow, moonless, and with a few big lamp-like stars above the black still shapes of trees. Mrs. Pope said they would all accompany their guests to the gate at the end of the avenue--in spite of the cockchafers. Mr. Pope's ankle, however, excused him; the cordiality of his parting from Mr. Wintersloan seemed a trifle forced, and he limped thoughtfully and a little sombrely towards the study to see if he could find an Encyclopædia or some such book of reference that would give the names of the lesser lights of Dutch, Italian, and English painting during the last two centuries. He felt that Mr. Wintersloan had established an extraordinarily bad precedent. § 10 Marjorie discovered that she and Mr. Magnet had fallen a little behind the others. She would have quickened her pace, but Mr. Magnet stopped short and said: "Marjorie!" "When I saw you standing there and singing," said Mr. Magnet, and was short of breath for a moment. Marjorie's natural gift for interruption failed her altogether. "I felt I would rather be able to call you mine--than win an empire." The pause seemed to lengthen, between them, and Marjorie's remark when she made it at last struck her even as she made it as being but poorly conceived. She had some weak idea of being self-depreciatory. "I think you had better win an empire, Mr. Magnet," she said meekly. Then, before anything more was possible, they had come up to Daffy and Mr. Wintersloan and her mother at the gate.... As they returned Mrs. Pope was loud in the praises of Will Magnet. She had a little clear-cut voice, very carefully and very skilfully controlled, and she dilated on his modesty, his quiet helpfulness at table, his ready presence of mind. She pointed out instances of those admirable traits, incidents small in themselves but charming in their implications. When somebody wanted junket, he had made no fuss, he had just helped them to junket. "So modest and unassuming," sang Mrs. Pope. "You'd never dream he was quite rich and famous. Yet every book he writes is translated into Russian and German and all sorts of languages. I suppose he's almost the greatest humorist we have. That play of his; what is it called?--_Our Owd Woman_--has been performed nearly twelve hundred times! I think that is the most wonderful of gifts. Think of the people it has made happy." The conversation was mainly monologue. Both Marjorie and Daffy were unusually thoughtful. § 11 Marjorie ended the long day in a worldly mood. "Penny for your thoughts," said Daffy abruptly, brushing the long firelit rapids of her hair. "Not for sale," said Marjorie, and roused herself. "I've had a long day." "It's always just the time I particularly wish I was a man," she remarked after a brief return to meditation. "Fancy, no hair-pins, no brushing, no tie-up to get lost about, no strings. I suppose they haven't strings?" "They haven't," said Daffy with conviction. She met Marjorie's interrogative eye. "Father would swear at them," she explained. "He'd naturally tie himself up--and we should hear of it." "I didn't think of that," said Marjorie, and stuck out her chin upon her fists. "Sound induction." She forgot this transitory curiosity. "Suppose one had a maid, Daffy--a real maid ... a maid who mended your things ... did your hair while you read...." "Oh! here goes," and she stood up and grappled with the task of undressing. CHAPTER THE SECOND THE TWO PROPOSALS OF MR. MAGNET § 1 It was presently quite evident to Marjorie that Mr. Magnet intended to propose marriage to her, and she did not even know whether she wanted him to do so. She had met him first the previous summer while she had been staying with the Petley-Cresthams at High Windower, and it had been evident that he found her extremely attractive. She had never had a real grown man at her feet before, and she had found it amazingly entertaining. She had gone for a walk with him the morning before she came away--a frank and ingenuous proceeding that made Mrs. Petley-Crestham say the girl knew what she was about, and she had certainly coquetted with him in an extraordinary manner at golf-croquet. After that Oxbridge had swallowed her up, and though he had called once on her mother while Marjorie was in London during the Christmas vacation, he hadn't seen her again. He had written--which was exciting--a long friendly humorous letter about nothing in particular, with an air of its being quite the correct thing for him to do, and she had answered, and there had been other exchanges. But all sorts of things had happened in the interval, and Marjorie had let him get into quite a back place in her thoughts--the fact that he was a member of her father's club had seemed somehow to remove him from a great range of possibilities--until a drift in her mother's talk towards him and a letter from him with an indefinable change in tone towards intimacy, had restored him to importance. Now here he was in the foreground of her world again, evidently more ardent than ever, and with a portentous air of being about to do something decisive at the very first opportunity. What was he going to do? What had her mother been hinting at? And what, in fact, did the whole thing amount to? Marjorie was beginning to realize that this was going to be a very serious affair indeed for her--and that she was totally unprepared to meet it. It had been very amusing, very amusing indeed, at the Petley-Cresthams', but there were moments now when she felt towards Mr. Magnet exactly as she would have felt if he had been one of the Oxbridge tradesmen hovering about her with a "little account," full of apparently exaggerated items.... Her thoughts and feelings were all in confusion about this business. Her mind was full of scraps, every sort of idea, every sort of attitude contributed something to that Twentieth Century jumble. For example, and so far as its value went among motives, it was by no means a trivial consideration; she wanted a proposal for its own sake. Daffy had had a proposal last year, and although it wasn't any sort of eligible proposal, still there it was, and she had given herself tremendous airs. But Marjorie would certainly have preferred some lighter kind of proposal than that which now threatened her. She felt that behind Mr. Magnet were sanctions; that she wasn't free to deal with this proposal as she liked. He was at Buryhamstreet almost with the air of being her parents' guest. Less clear and more instinctive than her desire for a proposal was her inclination to see just all that Mr. Magnet was disposed to do, and hear all that he was disposed to say. She was curious. He didn't behave in the least as she had expected a lover to behave. But then none of the boys, the "others" with whom she had at times stretched a hand towards the hem of emotion, had ever done that. She had an obscure feeling that perhaps presently Mr. Magnet must light up, be stirred and stirring. Even now his voice changed very interestingly when he was alone with her. His breath seemed to go--as though something had pricked his lung. If it hadn't been for that new, disconcerting realization of an official pressure behind him, I think she would have been quite ready to experiment extensively with his emotions.... But she perceived as she lay awake next morning that she wasn't free for experiments any longer. What she might say or do now would be taken up very conclusively. And she had no idea what she wanted to say or do. Marriage regarded in the abstract--that is to say, with Mr. Magnet out of focus--was by no means an unattractive proposal to her. It was very much at the back of Marjorie's mind that after Oxbridge, unless she was prepared to face a very serious row indeed and go to teach in a school--and she didn't feel any call whatever to teach in a school--she would probably have to return to Hartstone Square and share Daffy's room again, and assist in the old collective, wearisome task of propitiating her father. The freedoms of Oxbridge had enlarged her imagination until that seemed an almost unendurably irksome prospect. She had tasted life as it could be in her father's absence, and she was beginning to realize just what an impossible person he was. Marriage was escape from all that; it meant not only respectful parents but a house of her very own, furniture of her choice, great freedom of movement, an authority, an importance. She had seen what it meant to be a prosperously married young woman in the person of one or two resplendent old girls revisiting Bennett College, scattering invitations, offering protections and opportunities.... Of course there is love. Marjorie told herself, as she had been trained to tell herself, to be sensible, but something within her repeated: _there is love_. Of course she liked Mr. Magnet. She really did like Mr. Magnet very much. She had had her girlish dreams, had fallen in love with pictures of men and actors and a music master and a man who used to ride by as she went to school; but wasn't this desolating desire for self-abandonment rather silly?--something that one left behind with much else when it came to putting up one's hair and sensible living, something to blush secretly about and hide from every eye? Among other discrepant views that lived together in her mind as cats and rats and parrots and squirrels and so forth used to live together in those Happy Family cages unseemly men in less well-regulated days were wont to steer about our streets, was one instilled by quite a large proportion of the novels she had read, that a girl was a sort of self-giving prize for high moral worth. Mr. Magnet she knew was good, was kind, was brave with that truer courage, moral courage, which goes with his type of physique; he was modest, unassuming, well off and famous, and very much in love with her. His True Self, as Mrs. Pope had pointed out several times, must be really very beautiful, and in some odd way a line of Shakespeare had washed up in her consciousness as being somehow effectual on his behalf: "Love looks not with the eye but with the mind." She felt she ought to look with the mind. Nice people surely never looked in any other way. It seemed from this angle almost her duty to love him.... Perhaps she did love him, and mistook the symptoms. She did her best to mistake the symptoms. But if she did truly love him, would it seem so queer and important and antagonistic as it did that his hair was rather thin upon the crown of his head? She wished she hadn't looked down on him.... Poor Marjorie! She was doing her best to be sensible, and she felt herself adrift above a clamorous abyss of feared and forbidden thoughts. Down there she knew well enough it wasn't thus that love must come. Deep in her soul, the richest thing in her life indeed and the best thing she had to give humanity, was a craving for beauty that at times became almost intolerable, a craving for something other than beauty and yet inseparably allied with it, a craving for deep excitement, for a sort of glory in adventure, for passion--for things akin to great music and heroic poems and bannered traditions of romance. She had hidden away in her an immense tumultuous appetite for life, an immense tumultuous capacity for living. To be loved beautifully was surely the crown and climax of her being. She did not dare to listen to these deeps, yet these insurgent voices filled her. Even while she drove her little crocodile of primly sensible thoughts to their sane appointed conclusion, her blood and nerves and all her being were protesting that Mr. Magnet would not do, that whatever other worthiness was in him, regarded as a lover he was preposterous and flat and foolish and middle-aged, and that it were better never to have lived than to put the treasure of her life to his meagre lips and into his hungry, unattractive arms. "The ugliness of it! The spiritless horror of it!" so dumbly and formlessly the rebel voices urged. "One has to be sensible," said Marjorie to herself, suddenly putting down Shaw's book on Municipal Trading, which she imagined she had been reading.... (Perhaps all marriage was horrid, and one had to get over it.) That was rather what her mother had conveyed to her. § 2 Mr. Magnet made his first proposal in form three days later, after coming twice to tea and staying on to supper. He had played croquet with Mr. Pope, he had been beaten twelve times in spite of twinges in the sprained ankle--heroically borne--had had three victories lucidly explained away, and heard all the particulars of the East Purblow experiment three times over, first in relation to the new Labour Exchanges, then regarded at rather a different angle in relation to female betting, tally-men, and the sanctities of the home generally, and finally in a more exhaustive style, to show its full importance from every side and more particularly as demonstrating the gross injustice done to Mr. Pope by the neglect of its lessons, a neglect too systematic to be accidental, in the social reform literature of the time. Moreover, Mr. Magnet had been made to understand thoroughly how several later quasi-charitable attempts of a similar character had already become, or must inevitably become, unsatisfactory through their failure to follow exactly in the lines laid down by Mr. Pope. Mr. Pope was really very anxious to be pleasant and agreeable to Mr. Magnet, and he could think of no surer way of doing so than by giving him an unrestrained intimacy of conversation that prevented anything more than momentary intercourse between his daughter and her admirer. And not only did Mr. Magnet find it difficult to get away from Mr. Pope without offence, but whenever by any chance Mr. Pope was detached for a moment Mr. Magnet discovered that Marjorie either wasn't to be seen, or if she was she wasn't to be isolated by any device he could contrive, before the unappeasable return of Mr. Pope. Mr. Magnet did not get his chance therefore until Lady Petchworth's little gathering at Summerhay Park. Lady Petchworth was Mrs. Pope's oldest friend, and one of those brighter influences which save our English country-side from lassitude. She had been more fortunate than Mrs. Pope, for while Mr. Pope with that aptitude for disadvantage natural to his temperament had, he said, been tied to a business that never gave him a chance, Lady Petchworth's husband had been a reckless investor of exceptional good-luck. In particular, led by a dream, he had put most of his money into a series of nitrate deposits in caves in Saghalien haunted by benevolent penguins, and had been rewarded beyond the dreams of avarice. His foresight had received the fitting reward of a knighthood, and Sir Thomas, after restoring the Parish Church at Summerhay in a costly and destructive manner, spent his declining years in an enviable contentment with Lady Petchworth and the world at large, and died long before infirmity made him really troublesome. Good fortune had brought out Lady Petchworth's social aptitudes. Summerhay Park was everything that a clever woman, inspired by that gardening literature which has been so abundant in the opening years of the twentieth century, could make it. It had rosaries and rock gardens, sundials and yew hedges, pools and ponds, lead figures and stone urns, box borderings and wilderness corners and hundreds and hundreds of feet of prematurely-aged red-brick wall with broad herbaceous borders; the walks had primroses, primulas and cowslips in a quite disingenuous abundance, and in spring the whole extent of the park was gay, here with thousands of this sort of daffodil just bursting out and here with thousands of that sort of narcissus just past its prime, and every patch ready to pass itself off in its naturalized way as the accidental native flower of the field, if only it hadn't been for all the other different varieties coming on or wilting-off in adjacent patches.... Her garden was only the beginning of Lady Petchworth's activities. She had a model dairy, and all her poultry was white, and so far as she was able to manage it she made Summerhay a model village. She overflowed with activities, it was astonishing in one so plump and blonde, and meeting followed meeting in the artistic little red-brick and green-stained timber village hall she had erected. Now it was the National Theatre and now it was the National Mourning; now it was the Break Up of the Poor Law, and now the Majority Report, now the Mothers' Union, and now Socialism, and now Individualism, but always something progressive and beneficial. She did her best to revive the old village life, and brought her very considerable powers of compulsion to make the men dance in simple old Morris dances, dressed up in costumes they secretly abominated, and to induce the mothers to dress their children in art-coloured smocks instead of the prints and blue serge frocks they preferred. She did not despair, she said, of creating a spontaneous peasant art movement in the district, springing from the people and expressing the people, but so far it had been necessary to import not only instructors and material, but workers to keep the thing going, so sluggish had the spontaneity of our English countryside become. Her little gatherings were quite distinctive of her. They were a sort of garden party extending from mid-day to six or seven; there would be a nucleus of house guests, and the highways and byeways on every hand would be raided to supply persons and interests. She had told her friend to "bring the girls over for the day," and flung an invitation to Mr. Pope, who had at once excused himself on the score of his ankle. Mr. Pope was one of those men who shun social gatherings--ostensibly because of a sterling simplicity of taste, but really because his intolerable egotism made him feel slighted and neglected on these occasions. He told his wife he would be far happier with a book at home, exhorted her not to be late, and was seen composing himself to read the "Vicar of Wakefield"--whenever they published a new book Mr. Pope pretended to read an old one--as the hired waggonette took the rest of his family--Theodore very unhappy in buff silk and a wide Stuart collar--down the avenue. They found a long lunch table laid on the lawn beneath the chestnuts, and in full view of the poppies and forget-me-nots around the stone obelisk, a butler and three men servants with brass buttons and red and white striped waistcoats gave dignity to the scene, and beyond, on the terrace amidst abundance of deckchairs, cane chairs, rugs, and cushions, a miscellaneous and increasing company seethed under Lady Petchworth's plump but entertaining hand. There were, of course, Mr. Magnet, and his friend Mr. Wintersloan--Lady Petchworth had been given to understand how the land lay; and there was Mr. Bunford Paradise the musician, who was doing his best to teach a sullen holiday class in the village schoolroom to sing the artless old folk songs of Surrey again, in spite of the invincible persuasion of everybody in the class that the songs were rather indelicate and extremely silly; there were the Rev. Jopling Baynes, and two Cambridge undergraduates in flannels, and a Doctor something or other from London. There was also the Hon. Charles Muskett, Lord Pottinger's cousin and estate agent, in tweeds and very helpful. The ladies included Mrs. Raff, the well-known fashion writer, in a wonderful costume, the anonymous doctor's wife, three or four neighbouring mothers with an undistinguished daughter or so, and two quiet-mannered middle-aged ladies, whose names Marjorie could not catch, and whom Lady Petchworth, in that well-controlled voice of hers, addressed as Kate and Julia, and seemed on the whole disposed to treat as humorous. There was also Fraulein Schmidt in charge of Lady Petchworth's three tall and already abundant children, Prunella, Prudence, and Mary, and a young, newly-married couple of cousins, who addressed each other in soft undertones and sat apart. These were the chief items that became distinctive in Marjorie's survey; but there were a number of other people who seemed to come and go, split up, fuse, change their appearance slightly, and behave in the way inadequately apprehended people do behave on these occasions. Marjorie very speedily found her disposition to take a detached and amused view of the entertainment in conflict with more urgent demands. From the outset Mr. Magnet loomed upon her--he loomed nearer and nearer. He turned his eye upon her as she came up to the wealthy expanse of Lady Petchworth's presence, like some sort of obsolescent iron-clad turning a dull-grey, respectful, loving searchlight upon a fugitive torpedo boat, and thereafter he seemed to her to be looking at her without intermission, relentlessly, and urging himself towards her. She wished he wouldn't. She hadn't at all thought he would on this occasion. At first she relied upon her natural powers of evasion, and the presence of a large company. Then gradually it became apparent that Lady Petchworth and her mother, yes--and the party generally, and the gardens and the weather and the stars in their courses were of a mind to co-operate in giving opportunity for Mr. Magnet's unmistakable intentions. And Marjorie with that instability of her sex which has been a theme for masculine humour in all ages, suddenly and with an extraordinary violence didn't want to make up her mind about Mr. Magnet. She didn't want to accept him; and as distinctly she didn't want to refuse him. She didn't even want to be thought about as making up her mind about him--which was, so to speak, an enlargement of her previous indisposition. She didn't even want to seem to avoid him, or to be thinking about him, or aware of his existence. After the greeting of Lady Petchworth she had succeeded very clumsily in not seeing Mr. Magnet, and had addressed herself to Mr. Wintersloan, who was standing a little apart, looking under his hand, with one eye shut, at the view between the tree stems towards Buryhamstreet. He told her that he thought he had found something "pooty" that hadn't been done, and she did her best to share his artistic interests with a vivid sense of Mr. Magnet's tentative incessant approach behind her. He joined them, and she made a desperate attempt to entangle Mr. Wintersloan in a three-cornered talk in vain. He turned away at the first possible opportunity, and left her to an embarrassed and eloquently silent _tête-à-tête_. Mr. Magnet's professional wit had deserted him. "It's nice to see you again," he said after an immense interval. "Shall we go and look at the aviary?" "I hate to see birds in cages," said Marjorie, "and it's frightfully jolly just here. Do you think Mr. Wintersloan will paint this? He does paint, doesn't he?" "I know him best in black and white," said Mr. Magnet. Marjorie embarked on entirely insincere praises of Mr. Wintersloan's manner and personal effect; Magnet replied tepidly, with an air of reserving himself to grapple with the first conversational opportunity. "It's a splendid day for tennis," said Marjorie. "I think I shall play tennis all the afternoon." "I don't play well enough for this publicity." "It's glorious exercise," said Marjorie. "Almost as good as dancing," and she decided to stick to that resolution. "I never lose a chance of tennis if I can help it." She glanced round and detected a widening space between themselves and the next adjacent group. "They're looking at the goldfish," she said. "Let us join them." Everyone moved away as they came up to the little round pond, but then Marjorie had luck, and captured Prunella, and got her to hold hands and talk, until Fraulein Schmidt called the child away. And then Marjorie forced Mr. Magnet to introduce her to Mr. Bunford Paradise. She had a bright idea of sitting between Prunella and Mary at the lunch table, but a higher providence had assigned her to a seat at the end between Julia--or was it Kate?--and Mr. Magnet. However, one of the undergraduates was opposite, and she saved herself from undertones by talking across to him boldly about Newnham, though she hadn't an idea of his name or college. From that she came to tennis. To her inflamed imagination he behaved as if she was under a Taboo, but she was desperate, and had pledged him and his friend to a foursome before the meal was over. "Don't _you_ play?" said the undergraduate to Mr. Magnet. "Very little," said Mr. Magnet. "Very little--" At the end of an hour she was conspicuously and publicly shepherded from the tennis court by Mrs. Pope. "Other people want to play," said her mother in a clear little undertone. Mr. Magnet fielded her neatly as she came off the court. "You play tennis like--a wild bird," he said, taking possession of her. Only Marjorie's entire freedom from Irish blood saved him from a vindictive repartee. § 3 "Shall we go and look at the aviary?" said Mr. Magnet, reverting to a favourite idea of his, and then remembered she did not like to see caged birds. "Perhaps we might see the Water Garden?" he said. "The Water Garden is really very delightful indeed--anyhow. You ought to see that." On the spur of the moment, Marjorie could think of no objection to the Water Garden, and he led her off. "I often think of that jolly walk we had last summer," said Mr. Magnet, "and how you talked about your work at Oxbridge." Marjorie fell into a sudden rapture of admiration for a butterfly. Twice more was Mr. Magnet baffled, and then they came to the little pool of water lilies with its miniature cascade of escape at the head and source of the Water Garden. "One of Lady Petchworth's great successes," said Mr. Magnet. "I suppose the lotus is like the water-lily," said Marjorie, with no hope of staving off the inevitable---- She stood very still by the little pool, and in spite of her pensive regard of the floating blossoms, stiffly and intensely aware of his relentless regard. "Marjorie," came his voice at last, strangely softened. "There is something I want to say to you." She made no reply. "Ever since we met last summer----" A clear cold little resolution not to stand this, had established itself in Marjorie's mind. If she must decide, she _would_ decide. He had brought it upon himself. "Marjorie," said Mr. Magnet, "I love you." She lifted a clear unhesitating eye to his face. "I'm sorry, Mr. Magnet," she said. "I wanted to ask you to marry me," he said. "I'm sorry, Mr. Magnet," she repeated. They looked at one another. She felt a sort of scared exultation at having done it; her mother might say what she liked. "I love you very much," he said, at a loss. "I'm sorry," she repeated obstinately. "I thought you cared for me a little." She left that unanswered. She had a curious feeling that there was no getting away from this splashing, babbling pool, that she was fixed there until Mr. Magnet chose to release her, and that he didn't mean to release her yet. In which case she would go on refusing. "I'm disappointed," he said. Marjorie could only think that she was sorry again, but as she had already said that three times, she remained awkwardly silent. "Is it because----" he began and stopped. "It isn't because of anything. Please let's go back to the others, Mr. Magnet. I'm sorry if I'm disappointing." And by a great effort she turned about. Mr. Magnet remained regarding her--I can only compare it to the searching preliminary gaze of an artistic photographer. For a crucial minute in his life Marjorie hated him. "I don't understand," he said at last. Then with a sort of naturalness that ought to have touched her he said: "Is it possible, Marjorie--that I might hope?--that I have been inopportune?" She answered at once with absolute conviction. "I don't think so, Mr. Magnet." "I'm sorry," he said, "to have bothered you." "_I'm_ sorry," said Marjorie. A long silence followed. "I'm sorry too," he said. They said no more, but began to retrace their steps. It was over. Abruptly, Mr. Magnet's bearing had become despondent--conspicuously despondent. "I had hoped," he said, and sighed. With a thrill of horror Marjorie perceived he meant to _look_ rejected, let every one see he had been rejected--after encouragement. What would they think? How would they look? What conceivably might they not say? Something of the importance of the thing she had done, became manifest to her. She felt first intimations of regret. They would all be watching, Mother, Daffy, Lady Petchworth. She would reappear with this victim visibly suffering beside her. What could she say to straighten his back and lift his chin? She could think of nothing. Ahead at the end of the shaded path she could see the copious white form, the agitated fair wig and red sunshade of Lady Petchworth---- § 4 Mrs. Pope's eye was relentless; nothing seemed hidden from it; nothing indeed was hidden from it; Mr. Magnet's back was diagrammatic. Marjorie was a little flushed and bright-eyed, and professed herself eager, with an unnatural enthusiasm, to play golf-croquet. It was eloquently significant that Mr. Magnet did not share her eagerness, declined to play, and yet when she had started with the Rev. Jopling Baynes as partner, stood regarding the game with a sort of tender melancholy from the shade of the big chestnut-tree. Mrs. Pope joined him unobtrusively. "You're not playing, Mr. Magnet," she remarked. "I'm a looker-on, this time," he said with a sigh. "Marjorie's winning, I think," said Mrs. Pope. He made no answer for some seconds. "She looks so charming in that blue dress," he remarked at last, and sighed from the lowest deeps. "That bird's-egg blue suits her," said Mrs. Pope, ignoring the sigh. "She's clever in her girlish way, she chooses all her own dresses,--colours, material, everything." (And also, though Mrs. Pope had not remarked it, she concealed her bills.) There came a still longer interval, which Mrs. Pope ended with the slightest of shivers. She perceived Mr. Magnet was heavy for sympathy and ripe to confide. "I think," she said, "it's a little cool here. Shall we walk to the Water Garden, and see if there are any white lilies?" "There are," said Mr. Magnet sorrowfully, "and they are very beautiful--_quite_ beautiful." He turned to the path along which he had so recently led Marjorie. He glanced back as they went along between Lady Petchworth's herbaceous border and the poppy beds. "She's so full of life," he said, with a sigh in his voice. Mrs. Pope knew she must keep silent. "I asked her to marry me this afternoon," Mr. Magnet blurted out. "I couldn't help it." Mrs. Pope made her silence very impressive. "I know I ought not to have done so without consulting you"--he went on lamely; "I'm very much in love with her. It's----It's done no harm." Mrs. Pope's voice was soft and low. "I had no idea, Mr. Magnet.... You know she is very young. Twenty. A mother----" "I know," said Magnet. "I can quite understand. But I've done no harm. She refused me. I shall go away to-morrow. Go right away for ever.... I'm sorry." Another long silence. "To me, of course, she's just a child," Mrs. Pope said at last. "She _is_ only a child, Mr. Magnet. She could have had no idea that anything of the sort was in your mind----" Her words floated away into the stillness. For a time they said no more. The lilies came into sight, dreaming under a rich green shade on a limpid pool of brown water, water that slept and brimmed over as it were, unconsciously into a cool splash and ripple of escape. "How beautiful!" cried Mrs. Pope, for a moment genuine. "I spoke to her here," said Mr. Magnet. The fountains of his confidence were unloosed. "Now I've spoken to you about it, Mrs. Pope," he said, "I can tell you just how I--oh, it's the only word--adore her. She seems so sweet and easy--so graceful----" Mrs. Pope turned on him abruptly, and grasped his hands; she was deeply moved. "I can't tell you," she said, "what it means to a mother to hear such things----" Words failed her, and for some moments they engaged in a mutual pressure. "Ah!" said Mr. Magnet, and had a queer wish it was the mother he had to deal with. "Are you sure, Mr. Magnet," Mrs. Pope went on as their emotions subsided, "that she really meant what she said? Girls are very strange creatures----" "She seems so clear and positive." "Her manner is always clear and positive." "Yes. I know." "I know she _has_ cared for you." "No!" "A mother sees. When your name used to be mentioned----. But these are not things to talk about. There is something--something sacred----" "Yes," he said. "Yes. Only----Of course, one thing----" Mrs. Pope seemed lost in the contemplation of water-lilies. "I wondered," said Mr. Magnet, and paused again. Then, almost breathlessly, "I wondered if there should be perhaps--some one else?" She shook her head slowly. "I should know," she said. "Are you sure?" "I know I should know." "Perhaps recently?" "I am sure I should know. A mother's intuition----" Memories possessed her for awhile. "A girl of twenty is a mass of contradictions. I can remember myself as if it was yesterday. Often one says no, or yes--out of sheer nervousness.... I am sure there is no other attachment----" It occurred to her that she had said enough. "What a dignity that old gold-fish has!" she remarked. "He waves his tail--as if he were a beadle waving little boys out of church." § 5 Mrs. Pope astonished Marjorie by saying nothing about the all too obvious event of the day for some time, but her manner to her second daughter on their way home was strangely gentle. It was as if she had realized for the first time that regret and unhappiness might come into that young life. After supper, however, she spoke. They had all gone out just before the children went to bed to look for the new moon; Daffy was showing the pseudo-twins the old moon in the new moon's arms, and Marjorie found herself standing by her mother's side. "I hope dear," said Mrs. Pope, "that it's all for the best--and that you've done wisely, dear." Marjorie was astonished and moved by her mother's tone. "It's so difficult to know what _is_ for the best," Mrs. Pope went on. "I had to do--as I did," said Marjorie. "I only hope you may never find you have made a Great Mistake, dear. He cares for you very, very much." "Oh! we see it now!" cried Rom, "we see it now! Mummy, have you seen it? Like a little old round ghost being nursed!" When Marjorie said "Good-night," Mrs. Pope kissed her with an unaccustomed effusion. It occurred to Marjorie that after all her mother had no selfish end to serve in this affair. § 6 The idea that perhaps after all she had made a Great Mistake, the Mistake of her Life it might be, was quite firmly established in its place among all the other ideas in Marjorie's mind by the time she had dressed next morning. Subsequent events greatly intensified this persuasion. A pair of new stockings she had trusted sprang a bad hole as she put them on. She found two unmistakable bills from Oxbridge beside her plate, and her father was "horrid" at breakfast. Her father, it appeared, had bought the ordinary shares of a Cuban railway very extensively, on the distinct understanding that they would improve. In a decent universe, with a proper respect for meritorious gentlemen, these shares would have improved accordingly, but the weather had seen fit to shatter the wisdom of Mr. Pope altogether. The sugar crop had collapsed, the bears were at work, and every morning now saw his nominal capital diminished by a dozen pounds or so. I do not know what Mr. Pope would have done if he had not had his family to help him bear his trouble. As it was he relieved his tension by sending Theodore from the table for dropping a knife, telling Rom when she turned the plate round to pick the largest banana that she hadn't the self-respect of a child of five, and remarking sharply from behind the _Times_ when Daffy asked Marjorie if she was going to sketch: "Oh, for God's sake don't _whisper!_" Then when Mrs. Pope came round the table and tried to take his coffee cup softly to refill it without troubling him, he snatched at it, wrenched it roughly out of her hand, and said with his mouth full, and strangely in the manner of a snarling beast: "No' ready yet. Half foo'." Marjorie wanted to know why every one didn't get up and leave the room. She glanced at her mother and came near to speaking. And very soon she would have to come home and live in the midst of this again--indefinitely! After breakfast she went to the tumbledown summer-house by the duckpond, and contemplated the bills she had not dared to open at table. One was boots, nearly three pounds, the other books, over seven. "I _know_ that's wrong," said Marjorie, and rested her chin on her hand, knitted her brows and tried to remember the details of orders and deliveries.... Marjorie had fallen into the net prepared for our sons and daughters by the delicate modesty of the Oxbridge authorities in money matters, and she was, for her circumstances, rather heavily in debt. But I must admit that in Marjorie's nature the Oxbridge conditions had found an eager and adventurous streak that rendered her particularly apt to these temptations. I doubt if reticence is really a virtue in a teacher. But this is a fearful world, and the majority of those who instruct our youth have the painful sensitiveness of the cloistered soul to this spirit of terror in things. The young need particularly to be told truthfully and fully all we know of three fundamental things: the first of which is God, the next their duty towards their neighbours in the matter of work and money, and the third Sex. These things, and the adequate why of them, and some sort of adequate how, make all that matters in education. But all three are obscure and deeply moving topics, topics for which the donnish mind has a kind of special ineptitude, and which it evades with the utmost skill and delicacy. The middle part of this evaded triad was now being taken up in Marjorie's case by the Oxbridge tradespeople. The Oxbridge shopkeeper is peculiar among shopkeepers in the fact that he has to do very largely with shy and immature customers with an extreme and distinctive ignorance of most commercial things. They are for the most part short of cash, but with vague and often large probabilities of credit behind them, for most people, even quite straitened people, will pull their sons and daughters out of altogether unreasonable debts at the end of their university career; and so the Oxbridge shopkeeper becomes a sort of propagandist of the charms and advantages of insolvency. Alone among retailers he dislikes the sight of cash, declines it, affects to regard it as a coarse ignorant truncation of a budding relationship, begs to be permitted to wait. So the youngster just up from home discovers that money may stay in the pocket, be used for cab and train fares and light refreshments; all the rest may be had for the asking. Marjorie, with her innate hunger for good fine things, with her quite insufficient pocket-money, and the irregular habits of expenditure a spasmodically financed, hard-up home is apt to engender, fell very readily into this new, delightful custom of having it put down (whatever it happened to be). She had all sorts of things put down. She and the elder Carmel girl used to go shopping together, having things put down. She brightened her rooms with colour-prints and engravings, got herself pretty and becoming clothes, acquired a fitted dressing-bag already noted in this story, and one or two other trifles of the sort, revised her foot-wear, created a very nice little bookshelf, and although at times she felt a little astonished and scared at herself, resolutely refused to estimate the total of accumulated debt she had attained. Indeed until the bills came in it was impossible to do that, because, following the splendid example of the Carmel girl, she hadn't even inquired the price of quite a number of things.... She didn't dare think now of the total. She lied even to herself about that. She had fixed on fifty pounds as the unendurable maximum. "It is less than fifty pounds," she said, and added: "_must_ be." But something in her below the threshold of consciousness knew that it was more. And now she was in her third year, and the Oxbridge tradesman, generally satisfied with the dimensions of her account, and no longer anxious to see it grow, was displaying the less obsequious side of his character. He wrote remarks at the bottom of his account, remarks about settlement, about having a bill to meet, about having something to go on with. He asked her to give the matter her "early attention." She had a disagreeable persuasion that if she wanted many more things anywhere she would have to pay ready money for them. She was particularly short of stockings. She had overlooked stockings recently. Daffy, unfortunately, was also short of stockings. And now, back with her family again, everything conspired to remind Marjorie of the old stringent habits from which she had had so delightful an interlude. She saw Daffy eye her possessions, reflect. This morning something of the awfulness of her position came to her.... At Oxbridge she had made rather a joke of her debts. "I'd _swear_ I haven't had three pairs of house shoes," said Marjorie. "But what can one do?" And about the whole position the question was, "what can one do?" She proceeded with tense nervous movements to tear these two distasteful demands into very minute pieces. Then she collected them all together in the hollow of her hand, and buried them in the loose mould in a corner of the summer-house. "Madge," said Theodore, appearing in the sunshine of the doorway. "Aunt Plessington's coming! She's sent a wire. Someone's got to meet her by the twelve-forty train." § 7 Aunt Plessington's descent was due to her sudden discovery that Buryhamstreet was in close proximity to Summerhay Park, indeed only three miles away. She had promised a lecture on her movement for Lady Petchworth's village room in Summerhay, and she found that with a slight readjustment of dates she could combine this engagement with her promised visit to her husband's sister, and an evening or so of influence for her little Madge. So she had sent Hubert to telegraph at once, and "here," she said triumphantly on the platform, after a hard kiss at Marjorie's cheek, "we are again." There, at any rate, she was, and Uncle Hubert was up the platform seeing after the luggage, in his small anxious way. Aunt Plessington was a tall lean woman, with firm features, a high colour and a bright eye, who wore hats to show she despised them, and carefully dishevelled hair. Her dress was always good, but extremely old and grubby, and she commanded respect chiefly by her voice. Her voice was the true governing-class voice, a strangulated contralto, abundant and authoritative; it made everything she said clear and important, so that if she said it was a fine morning it was like leaded print in the _Times_, and she had over her large front teeth lips that closed quietly and with a slight effort after her speeches, as if the words she spoke tasted well and left a peaceful, secure sensation in the mouth. Uncle Hubert was a less distinguished figure, and just a little reminiscent of the small attached husbands one finds among the lower crustacea: he was much shorter and rounder than his wife, and if he had been left to himself, he would probably have been comfortably fat in his quiet little way. But Aunt Plessington had made him a Haigite, which is one of the fiercer kinds of hygienist, just in the nick of time. He had round shoulders, a large nose, and glasses that made him look astonished--and she said he had a great gift for practical things, and made him see after everything in that line while she did the lecturing. His directions to the porter finished, he came up to his niece. "Hello, Marjorie!" he said, in a peculiar voice that sounded as though his mouth was full (though of course, poor dear, it wasn't), "how's the First Class?" "A second's good enough for me, Uncle Hubert," said Marjorie, and asked if they would rather walk or go in the donkey cart, which was waiting outside with Daffy. Aunt Plessington, with an air of great _bonhomie_ said she'd ride in the donkey cart, and they did. But no pseudo-twins or Theodore came to meet this arrival, as both uncle and aunt had a way of asking how the lessons were getting on that they found extremely disagreeable. Also, their aunt measured them, and incited them with loud encouraging noises to grow one against the other in an urgent, disturbing fashion. Aunt Plessington's being was consumed by thoughts of getting on. She was like Bernard Shaw's life force, and she really did not seem to think there was anything in existence but shoving. She had no idea what a lark life can be, and occasionally how beautiful it can be when you do not shove, if only, which becomes increasingly hard each year, you can get away from the shovers. She was one of an energetic family of eight sisters who had maintained themselves against a mutual pressure by the use of their elbows from the cradle. They had all married against each other, all sorts of people; two had driven their husbands into bishoprics and made quite typical bishop's wives, one got a leading barrister, one a high war-office official, and one a rich Jew, and Aunt Plessington, after spending some years in just missing a rich and only slightly demented baronet, had pounced--it's the only word for it--on Uncle Hubert. "A woman is nothing without a husband," she said, and took him. He was a fairly comfortable Oxford don in his furtive way, and bringing him out and using him as a basis, she specialized in intellectual philanthropy and evolved her Movement. It was quite remarkable how rapidly she overhauled her sisters again. What the Movement was, varied considerably from time to time, but it was always aggressively beneficial towards the lower strata of the community. Among its central ideas was her belief that these lower strata can no more be trusted to eat than they can to drink, and that the licensing monopoly which has made the poor man's beer thick, lukewarm and discreditable, and so greatly minimized its consumption, should be extended to the solid side of his dietary. She wanted to place considerable restrictions upon the sale of all sorts of meat, upon groceries and the less hygienic and more palatable forms of bread (which do not sufficiently stimulate the coatings of the stomach), to increase the present difficulties in the way of tobacco purchasers, and to put an end to that wanton and deleterious consumption of sweets which has so bad an effect upon the enamel of the teeth of the younger generation. Closely interwoven with these proposals was an adoption of the principle of the East Purblow Experiment, the principle of Payment in Kind. She was quite in agreement with Mr. Pope that poor people, when they had money, frittered it away, and so she proposed very extensive changes in the Truck Act, which could enable employers, under suitable safeguards, and with the advice of a small body of spinster inspectors, to supply hygienic housing, approved clothing of moral and wholesome sort, various forms of insurance, edifying rations, cuisine, medical aid and educational facilities as circumstances seemed to justify, in lieu of the wages the employees handled so ill.... As no people in England will ever admit they belong to the lower strata of society, Aunt Plessington's Movement attracted adherents from every class in the community. She now, as they drove slowly to the vicarage, recounted to Marjorie--she had the utmost contempt for Daffy because of her irregular teeth and a general lack of progressive activity--the steady growth of the Movement, and the increasing respect shown for her and Hubert in the world of politico-social reform. Some of the meetings she had addressed had been quite full, various people had made various remarks about her, hostile for the most part and yet insidiously flattering, and everybody seemed quite glad to come to the little dinners she gave in order, she said, to gather social support for her reforms. She had been staying with the Mastersteins, who were keenly interested, and after she had polished off Lady Petchworth she was to visit Lady Rosenbaum. It was all going on swimmingly, these newer English gentry were eager to learn all she had to teach in the art of breaking in the Anglo-Saxon villagers, and now, how was Marjorie going on, and what was _she_ going to do in the world? Marjorie said she was working for her final. "And what then?" asked Aunt Plessington. "Not very clear, Aunt, yet." "Looking around for something to take up?" "Yes, Aunt." "Well, you've time yet. And it's just as well to see how the land lies before you begin. It saves going back. You'll have to come up to London with me for a little while, and see things, and be seen a little." "I should love to." "I'll give you a good time," said Aunt Plessington, nodding promisingly. "Theodore getting on in school?" "He's had his remove." "And how's Sydney getting on with the music?" "Excellently." "And Rom. Rom getting on?" Marjorie indicated a more restrained success. "And what's Daffy doing?" "Oh! _get_ on!" said Daffy and suddenly whacked the donkey rather hard. "I beg your pardon, Aunt?" "I asked what _you_ were up to, Daffy?" "Dusting, Aunt--and the virtues," said Daffy. "You ought to find something better than that." "Father tells me a lot about the East Purblow Experiment," said Daffy after a perceptible interval. "Ah!" cried Aunt Plessington with a loud encouraging note, but evidently making the best of it, "_that's_ better. Sociological observation." "Yes, Aunt," said Daffy, and negotiated a corner with exceptional care. § 8 Mrs. Pope, who had an instinctive disposition to pad when Aunt Plessington was about, had secured the presence at lunch of Mr. Magnet (who was after all staying on in Buryhamstreet) and the Rev. Jopling Baynes. Aunt Plessington liked to meet the clergy, and would always if she could win them over to an interest in the Movement. She opened the meal with a brisk attack upon him. "Come, Mr. Baynes," she said, "what do your people eat here? Hubert and I are making a study of the gluttonous side of village life, and we find that no one knows so much of that as the vicar--not even the doctor." The Reverend Jopling Baynes was a clergyman of the evasive type with a quite distinguished voice. He pursed his lips and made his eyes round. "Well, Mrs. Plessington," he said and fingered his glass, "it's the usual dietary. The usual dietary." "Too much and too rich, badly cooked and eaten too fast," said Aunt Plessington. "And what do you think is the remedy?" "We make an Effort," said the Rev. Jopling Baynes, "we make an Effort. A Hint here, a Word there." "Nothing organized?" "No," said the Rev. Jopling Baynes, and shook his head with a kind of resignation. "We are going to alter all that," said Aunt Plessington briskly, and went on to expound the Movement and the diverse way in which it might be possible to control and improve the domestic expenditure of the working classes. The Rev. Jopling Baynes listened sympathetically across the table and tried to satisfy a healthy appetite with as abstemious an air as possible while he did so. Aunt Plessington passed rapidly from general principles, to a sketch of the success of the movement, and Hubert, who had hitherto been busy with his lunch, became audible from behind the exceptionally large floral trophy that concealed him from his wife, bubbling confirmatory details. She was very bright and convincing as she told of this prominent man met and subdued, that leading antagonist confuted, and how the Bishops were coming in. She made it clear in her swift way that an intelligent cleric resolved to get on in this world _en route_ for a better one hereafter, might do worse than take up her Movement. And this touched in, she turned her mind to Mr. Magnet. (That floral trophy, I should explain, by the by, was exceptionally large because of Mrs. Pope's firm conviction that Aunt Plessington starved her husband. Accordingly, she masked him, and so was able to heap second and third helpings upon his plate without Aunt Plessington discovering his lapse. The avidity with which Hubert ate confirmed her worst suspicions and evinced, so far as anything ever did evince, his gratitude.) "Well, Mr. Magnet," she said, "I wish I had your sense of humour." "I wish you had," said Mr. Magnet. "I should write tracts," said Aunt Plessington. "I knew it was good for something," said Mr. Magnet, and Daffy laughed in a tentative way. "I mean it," said Aunt Plessington brightly. "Think if we had a Dickens--and you are the nearest man alive to Dickens--on the side of social reform to-day!" Mr. Magnet's light manner deserted him. "We do what we can, Mrs. Plessington," he said. "How much more might be done," said Aunt Plessington, "if humour could be organized." "Hear, hear!" said Mr. Pope. "If all the humorists of England could be induced to laugh at something together." "They do--at times," said Mr. Magnet, but the atmosphere was too serious for his light touch. "They could laugh it out of existence," said Aunt Plessington. It was evident Mr. Magnet was struck by the idea. "Of course," he said, "in _Punch_, to which I happen to be an obscure occasional contributor----" Mrs. Pope was understood to protest that he should not say such things. "We _do_ remember just what we can do either in the way of advertising or injury. I don't think you'll find us up against any really _solid_ institutions." "But do you think, Mr. Magnet, you are sufficiently kind to the New?" Aunt Plessington persisted. "I think we are all grateful to _Punch_," said the Rev. Jopling Baynes suddenly and sonorously, "for its steady determination to direct our mirth into the proper channels. I do not think that any one can accuse its editor of being unmindful of his great responsibilities----" Marjorie found it a very interesting conversation. She always met her aunt again with a renewal of a kind of admiration. That loud authoritative rudeness, that bold thrusting forward of the Movement until it became the sole criterion of worth or success, this annihilation by disregard of all that Aunt Plessington wasn't and didn't and couldn't, always in the intervals seemed too good to be true. Of course this really was the way people got on and made a mark, but she felt it must be almost as trying to the nerves as aeronautics. Suppose, somewhere up there your engine stopped! How Aunt Plessington dominated the table! Marjorie tried not to catch Daffy's eye. Daffy was unostentatiously keeping things going, watching the mustard, rescuing the butter, restraining Theodore, and I am afraid not listening very carefully to Aunt Plessington. The children were marvellously silent and jumpily well-behaved, and Mr. Pope, in a very unusual state of subdued amiability, sat at the end of the table with the East Purblow experiment on the tip of his tongue. He liked Aunt Plessington, and she was good for him. They had the same inherent distrust of the intelligence and good intentions of their fellow creatures, and she had the knack of making him feel that he too was getting on, that she was saying things on his behalf in influential quarters, and in spite of the almost universal conspiracy (based on jealousy) to ignore his stern old-world virtues, he might still be able to battle his way to the floor of the House of Commons and there deliver himself before he died of a few sorely needed home-truths about motor cars, decadence and frivolity generally.... § 9 After lunch Aunt Plessington took her little Madge for an energetic walk, and showed herself far more observant than the egotism of her conversation at that meal might have led one to suppose. Or perhaps she was only better informed. Aunt Plessington loved a good hard walk in the afternoon; and if she could get any one else to accompany her, then Hubert stayed at home, and curled up into a ball on a sofa somewhere, and took a little siesta that made him all the brighter for the intellectual activities of the evening. The thought of a young life, new, untarnished, just at the outset, just addressing itself to the task of getting on, always stimulated her mind extremely, and she talked to Marjorie with a very real and effectual desire to help her to the utmost of her ability. She talked of a start in life, and the sort of start she had had. She showed how many people who began with great advantages did not shove sufficiently, and so dropped out of things and weren't seen and mentioned. She defended herself for marrying Hubert, and showed what a clever shoving thing it had been to do. It startled people a little, and made them realize that here was a woman who wanted something more in a man than a handsome organ-grinder. She made it clear that she thought a clever marriage, if not a startlingly brilliant one, the first duty of a girl. It was a girl's normal gambit. She branched off to the things single women might do, in order to justify this view. She did not think single women could do very much. They might perhaps shove as suffragettes, but even there a husband helped tremendously--if only by refusing to bail you out. She ran over the cases of a number of prominent single women. "And what," said Aunt Plessington, "do they all amount to? A girl is so hampered and an old maid is so neglected," said Aunt Plessington. She paused. "Why don't you up and marry Mr. Magnet, Marjorie?" she said, with her most brilliant flash. "It takes two to make a marriage, aunt," said Marjorie after a slight hesitation. "My dear child! he worships the ground you tread on!" said Aunt Plessington. "He's rather--grown up," said Marjorie. "Not a bit of it. He's not forty. He's just the age." "I'm afraid it's a little impossible." "Impossible?" "You see I've refused him, aunt." "Naturally--the first time! But I wouldn't send him packing the second." There was an interval. Marjorie decided on a blunt question. "Do you really think, aunt, I should do well to marry Mr. Magnet?" "He'd give you everything a clever woman needs," said Aunt Plessington. "Everything." With swift capable touches she indicated the sort of life the future Mrs. Magnet might enjoy. "He's evidently a man who wants helping to a position," she said. "Of course his farces and things, I'm told, make no end of money, but he's just a crude gift by himself. Money like that is nothing. With a clever wife he might be all sorts of things. Without one he'll just subside--you know the sort of thing this sort of man does. A rather eccentric humorous house in the country, golf, croquet, horse-riding, rose-growing, queer hats." "Isn't that rather what he would like to do, aunt?" said Marjorie. "That's not _our_ business, Madge," said Aunt Plessington with humorous emphasis. She began to sketch out a different and altogether smarter future for the fortunate humorist. There would be a house in a good central position in London where Marjorie would have bright successful lunches and dinners, very unpretending and very good, and tempt the clever smart with the lure of the interestingly clever; there would be a bright little country cottage in some pretty accessible place to which Aunt and Uncle Plessington and able and influential people generally could be invited for gaily recreative and yet extremely talkative and helpful week-ends. Both places could be made centres of intrigue; conspiracies for getting on and helping and exchanging help could be organized, people could be warned against people whose getting-on was undesirable. In the midst of it all, dressed with all the natural wit she had and an enlarging experience, would be Marjorie, shining like a rising planet. It wouldn't be long, if she did things well, before she had permanent officials and young cabinet ministers mingling with her salad of writers and humorists and the Plessington connexion. "Then," said Aunt Plessington with a joyous lift in her voice, "you'll begin to _weed_ a little." For a time the girl's mind resisted her. But Marjorie was of the impressionable sex at an impressionable age, and there was something overwhelming in the undeviating conviction of her aunt, in the clear assurance of her voice, that this life which interested her was the real life, the only possible successful life. The world reformed itself in Marjorie's fluent mind, until it was all a scheme of influence and effort and ambition and triumphs. Dinner-parties and receptions, men wearing orders, cabinet ministers more than a little in love asking her advice, beautiful robes, a great blaze of lights; why! she might be, said Aunt Plessington rising to enthusiasm, "another Marcella." The life was not without its adventurous side; it wasn't in any way dull. Aunt Plessington to illustrate that point told amusing anecdotes of how two almost impudent invitations on her part had succeeded, and how she had once scored off her elder sister by getting a coveted celebrity through their close family resemblance. "After accepting he couldn't very well refuse because I wasn't somebody else," she ended gleefully. "So he came--and stayed as long as anybody." What else was there for Marjorie to contemplate? If she didn't take this by no means unattractive line, what was the alternative? Some sort of employment after a battle with her father, a parsimonious life, and even then the Oxbridge tradesmen and their immortal bills.... Aunt Plessington was so intent upon her theme that she heeded nothing of the delightful little flowers she trampled under foot across the down, nor the jolly squirrel with an artistic temperament who saw fit to give an uninvited opinion upon her personal appearance from the security of a beech-tree in the wood. But Marjorie, noting quite a number of such things with the corner of her mind, and being now well under the Plessington sway, wished she had more concentration.... In the evening after supper the customary games were suspended, and Mr. and Mrs. Plessington talked about getting on, and work and efficiency generally, and explained how so-and-so had spoilt his chances in life, and why so-and-so was sure to achieve nothing, and how this man ate too much and that man drank too much, and on the contrary what promising and capable people the latest adherents of and subscribers to the Movement were, until two glasses of hot water came--Aunt Plessington had been told it was good for her digestion and she thought it just as well that Hubert should have some too--and it was time for every one to go to bed. § 10 Next morning an atmosphere of getting on and strenuosity generally prevailed throughout the vicarage. The Plessingtons were preparing a memorandum on their movement for the "Reformer's Year Book," every word was of importance and might win or lose adherents and subscribers, and they secured the undisturbed possession of the drawing-room, from which the higher notes of Aunt Plessington's voice explaining the whole thing to Hubert, who had to write it out, reached, a spur to effort, into every part of the house. Their influence touched every one. Marjorie, struck by the idea that she was not perhaps getting on at Oxbridge so fast as she ought to do, went into the summer-house with Marshall's "Principles of Economics," read for two hours, and did not think about her bills for more than a quarter of the time. Rom, who had already got up early and read through about a third of "Aurora Leigh," now set herself with dogged determination to finish that great poem. Syd practised an extra ten minutes--for Aunt Plessington didn't mind practice so long as there wasn't a tune. Mrs. Pope went into the kitchen and made a long-needed fuss about the waste of rice. Mr. Pope began the pamphlet he had had in contemplation for some time upon the advantages to public order of Payment in Kind. Theodore, who had washed behind his ears and laced his boots in all the holes, went into the yard before breakfast and hit a tennis ball against the wall and back, five hundred and twenty-two times--a record. He would have resumed this after breakfast, but his father came round the corner of the house with a pen in his mouth, and asked him indistinctly, but fiercely, what the _devil_ he was doing. So he went away, and after a fretful interval set himself to revise his Latin irregular verbs. By twelve he had done wonders. Later in the day the widening circle of aggressive urgency reached the kitchen, and at two the cook gave notice in order, she said, to better herself. Lunch, unconscious of this impending shadow, was characterized by a virtuous cheerfulness, and Aunt Plessington told in detail how her seven and twenty nephews and nieces, the children of her various sisters, were all getting on. On the whole, they were not getting on so brilliantly as they might have done (which indeed is apt to be the case with the children of people who have loved not well but too wisely), and it was borne in upon the mind of the respectfully listening Marjorie that, to borrow an easy colloquialism of her aunt's, she might "take the shine out of the lot of them" with a very little zeal and effort--and of course Mr. Magnet. The lecture in the evening at Summerhay was a great success. The chair was taken by the Rev. Jopling Baynes, Lady Petchworth was enthroned behind the table, Hubert was in charge of his wife's notes--if notes should be needed--and Mr. Pope, expectant of an invitation at the end to say a few words about the East Purblow experiment, also occupied a chair on the platform. Lady Petchworth, with her abundant soft blond hair, brightly blond still in spite of her fifty-five years, her delicate features, her plump hands, her numerous chins and her entirely inaudible voice, made a pleasing contrast with Aunt Plessington's resolute personality. She had perhaps an even greater assurance of authority, but it was a quiet assurance; you felt that she knew that if she spoke in her sleep she would be obeyed, that it was quite unnecessary to make herself heard. The two women, indeed, the one so assertive, the other so established, were at the opposite poles of authoritative British womanhood, and harmonized charmingly. The little room struck the note of a well-regulated brightness at every point, it had been decorated in a Keltic but entirely respectful style by one of Lady Petchworth's artistic discoveries, it was lit by paraffin lamps that smelt hardly at all, and it was gay with colour prints illustrating the growth of the British Empire from the battle of Ethandune to the surrender of Cronje. The hall was fairly full. Few could afford to absent themselves from these brightening occasions, but there was a tendency on the part of the younger and the less thoughtful section of the village manhood to accumulate at the extreme back and rumble in what appeared to be a slightly ironical spirit, so far as it had any spirit, with its feet. The Rev. Jopling Baynes opened proceedings with a few well-chosen remarks, in which he complimented every one present either singly or collectively according to their rank and importance, and then Aunt Plessington came forward to the centre of the platform amidst a hectic flush of applause, and said "Haw!" in a loud clear ringing tone. She spoke without resorting to the notes in Hubert's little fist, very freely and easily. Her strangulated contralto went into every corner of the room and positively seemed to look for and challenge inattentive auditors. She had come over, she said, and she had been very glad to come over and talk to them that night, because it meant not only seeing them but meeting her very dear delightful friend Lady Petchworth (loud applause) and staying for a day or so with her brother-in-law Mr. Pope (unsupported outburst of applause from Mr. Magnet), to whom she and social reform generally owed so much. She had come to talk to them that night about the National Good Habits Movement, which was attracting so much attention and which bore so closely on our National Life and Character; she happened to be--here Aunt Plessington smiled as she spoke--a humble person connected with that movement, just a mere woman connected with it; she was going to explain to them as well as she could in her womanly way and in the time at her disposal just what it was and just what it was for, and just what means it adopted and just what ends it had in view. Well, they all knew what Habits were, and that there were Good Habits and Bad Habits, and she supposed that the difference between a good man and a bad man was just that the good man had good habits and the bad one had bad habits. Everybody she supposed wanted to get on. If a man had good habits he got on, and if he had bad habits he didn't get on, and she supposed it was the same with a country, if its people had good habits they got on, and if its people had bad habits they didn't get on. For her own part she and her husband (Hubert gave a little self-conscious jump) had always cultivated good habits, and she had to thank him with all her heart for his help in doing so. (Applause from the front seats.) Now, the whole idea of her movement was to ask, how can we raise the standard of the national habits? how can we get rid of bad habits and cultivate good ones?... (Here there was a slight interruption due to some one being suddenly pushed off the end of a form at the back, and coming to the floor with audible violence, after which a choked and obstructed tittering continued intermittently for some time.) Some of her audience, she remarked, had not yet acquired the habit of sitting still. (Laughter, and a coarse vulgar voice: "Good old Billy Punt!") Well, to resume, she and her husband had made a special and careful study of habits; they had consulted all sorts of people and collected all sorts of statistics, in fact they had devoted themselves to this question, and the conclusion to which they came was this, that Good Habits were acquired by Training and Bad Habits came from neglect and carelessness and leaving people, who weren't fit for such freedom, to run about and do just whatever they liked. And so, she went on with a note of complete demonstration, the problem resolved itself into the question of how far they could get more Training into the national life, and how they could check extravagant and unruly and wasteful and unwise ways of living. (Hear, hear! from Mr. Pope.) And this was the problem she and her husband had set themselves to solve. (Scuffle, and a boy's voice at the back, saying: "Oh, _shut_ it, Nuts! SHUT it!") Well, she and her husband had worked the thing out, and they had come to the conclusion that what was the matter with the great mass of English people was first that they had rather too much loose money, and secondly that they had rather too much loose time. (A voice: "What O!" and the Rev. Jopling Baynes suddenly extended his neck, knitted his brows, and became observant of the interrupter.) She did not say they had too much money (a second voice: "Not Arf!"), but too much _loose_ money. She did not say they had too much time but too much loose time, that is to say, they had money and time they did not know how to spend properly. And so they got into mischief. A great number of people in this country, she maintained, and this was especially true of the lower classes, did not know how to spend either money or time; they bought themselves wasteful things and injurious things, and they frittered away their hours in all sorts of foolish, unprofitable ways. And, after the most careful and scientific study of this problem, she and her husband had come to the conclusion that two main principles must underlie any remedial measures that were attempted, the first of which was the Principle of Payment in Kind, which had already had so interesting a trial at the great carriage works of East Purblow, and the second, the Principle of Continuous Occupation, which had been recognized long ago in popular wisdom by that admirable proverb--or rather quotation--she believed it was a quotation, though she gave, she feared, very little time to poetry ("Better employed," from Mr. Pope)-- "Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do." (Irrepressible outbreak of wild and sustained applause from the back seats, and in a sudden lull a female voice asking in a flattened, thwarted tone: "Ain't there to be no lantern then?") The lecturer went on to explain what was meant by either member of what perhaps they would permit her to call this double-barrelled social remedy. It was an admirable piece of lucid exposition. Slowly the picture of a better, happier, more disciplined England grew upon the minds of the meeting. First she showed the new sort of employer her movement would evoke, an employer paternal, philanthropic, vaguely responsible for the social order of all his dependants. (Lady Petchworth was seen to nod her head slowly at this.) Only in the last resort, and when he was satisfied that his worker and his worker's family were properly housed, hygienically clothed and fed, attending suitable courses of instruction and free from any vicious inclinations, would he pay wages in cash. In the discharge of the duties of payment he would have the assistance of expert advice, and the stimulus of voluntary inspectors of his own class. He would be the natural clan-master, the captain and leader, adviser and caretaker of his banded employees. Responsibility would stimulate him, and if responsibility did not stimulate him, inspectors (both men and women inspectors) would. The worker, on the other hand, would be enormously more healthy and efficient under the new régime. His home, designed by qualified and officially recognized architects, would be prettier as well as more convenient and elevating to his taste, his children admirably trained and dressed in the new and more beautiful clothing with which Lady Petchworth (applause) had done so much to make them familiar, his vital statistics compared with current results would be astonishingly good, his mind free from any anxiety but the proper anxiety of a man in his position, to get his work done properly and earn recognition from those competent and duly authorized to judge it. Of all this she spoke with the inspiring note of absolute conviction. All this would follow Payment in Kind and Continuous Occupation as days follow sunrise. And there would always,--and here Aunt Plessington's voice seemed to brighten--be something for the worker to get on with, something for him to do; lectures, classes, reading-rooms, improving entertainments. His time would be filled. The proper authorities would see that it was filled--and filled in the right way. Never for a moment need he be bored. He would never have an excuse for being bored. That was the second great idea, the complementary idea to the first. "And here it is," she said, turning a large encouraging smile on Lady Petchworth, "that the work of a National Theatre, instructive, stimulating, well regulated, and morally sustaining, would come in." He wouldn't, of course, be _compelled_ to go, but there would be his seat, part of his payment in kind, and the public-house would be shut, most other temptations would be removed.... The lecture reached its end at last with only one other interruption. Some would-be humorist suddenly inquired, _à propos_ of nothing: "What's the fare to America, Billy?" and a voice, presumably Billy's, answered him: "Mor'n _you'll_ ev 'av in _you'_ pocket." The Rev. Jopling Baynes, before he called upon Mr. Pope for his promised utterance about East Purblow, could not refrain from pointing out how silly "in every sense of the word" these wanton interruptions were. What, he asked, had English social reform to do with the fare to America?--and having roused the meeting to an alert silence by the length of his pause, answered in a voice of ringing contempt: "Nothing--_whatsoever_." Then Mr. Pope made his few remarks about East Purblow with the ease and finish that comes from long practice; much, he said, had to be omitted "in view of" the restricted time at his disposal, but he did not grudge that, the time had been better filled. ("No, no," from Aunt Plessington.) Yes, yes,--by the lucid and delightful lecture they had all enjoyed, and he not least among them. (Applause.)... § 11 They came out into a luminous blue night, with a crescent young moon high overhead. It was so fine that the Popes and the Plessingtons and Mr. Magnet declined Lady Petchworth's proffered car, and walked back to Buryhamstreet across the park through a sleeping pallid cornfield, and along by the edge of the pine woods. Mr. Pope would have liked to walk with Mr. Magnet and explain all that the pressure on his time had caused him to omit from his speech, and why it was he had seen fit to omit this part and include that. Some occult power, however, baffled this intention, and he found himself going home in the company of his brother-in-law and Daffy, with Aunt Plessington and his wife like a barrier between him and his desire. Marjorie, on the other hand, found Mr. Magnet's proximity inevitable. They fell a little behind and were together again for the first time since her refusal. He behaved, she thought, with very great restraint, and indeed he left her a little doubtful on that occasion whether he had not decided to take her decision as final. He talked chiefly about the lecture, which had impressed him very deeply. Mrs. Plessington, he said, was so splendid--made him feel trivial. He felt stirred up by her, wanted to help in this social work, this picking up of helpless people from the muddle in which they wallowed. He seemed not only extraordinarily modest but extraordinarily gentle that night, and the warm moonshine gave his face a shadowed earnestness it lacked in more emphatic lights. She felt the profound change in her feelings towards him that had followed her rejection of him. It had cleared away his effect of oppression upon her. She had no longer any sense of entanglement and pursuit, and all the virtues his courtship had obscured shone clear again. He was kindly, he was patient--and she felt something about him a woman is said always to respect, he gave her an impression of ability. After all, he could banish the trouble that crushed and overwhelmed her with a movement of his little finger. Of all her load of debt he could earn the payment in a day. "Your aunt goes to-morrow?" he said. Marjorie admitted it. "I wish I could talk to her more. She's so inspiring." "You know of our little excursion for Friday?" he asked after a pause. She had not heard. Friday was Theodore's birthday; she knew it only too well because she had had to part with her stamp collection--which very luckily had chanced to get packed and come to Buryhamstreet--to meet its demand. Mr. Magnet explained he had thought it might be fun to give a picnic in honour of the anniversary. "How jolly of you!" said Marjorie. "There's a pretty bit of river between Wamping and Friston Hanger--I've wanted you to see it for a long time, and Friston Hanger church has the prettiest view. The tower gets the bend of the river." He told her all he meant to do as if he submitted his plans for her approval. They would drive to Wamping and get a very comfortable little steam launch one could hire there. Wintersloan was coming down again; an idle day of this kind just suited his temperament. Theodore would like it, wouldn't he? "Theodore will think he is King of Surrey!" "I'll have a rod and line if he wants to fish. I don't want to forget anything. I want it to be _his_ day really and truly." The slightest touch upon the pathetic note? She could not tell. But that evening brought Marjorie nearer to loving Magnet than she had ever been. Before she went to sleep that night she had decided he was quite a tolerable person again; she had been too nervous and unjust with him. After all, his urgency and awkwardness had been just a part of his sincerity. Perhaps the faint doubt whether he would make his request again gave the zest of uncertainty to his devotion. Of course, she told herself, he would ask again. And then the blissful air of limitless means she might breathe. The blessed release.... She was suddenly fast asleep. § 12 Friday was after all not so much Theodore's day as Mr. Magnet's. Until she found herself committed there was no shadow of doubt in Marjorie's mind of what she meant to do. "Before I see you again," said Aunt Plessington at the parting kiss, "I hope you'll have something to tell me." She might have been Hymen thinly disguised as an aunt, waving from the departing train. She continued by vigorous gestures and unstinted display of teeth and a fluttering handkerchief to encourage Marjorie to marry Mr. Magnet, until the curve of the cutting hid her from view.... Fortune favoured Mr. Magnet with a beautiful day, and the excursion was bright and successful from the outset. It was done well, and what perhaps was more calculated to impress Marjorie, it was done with lavish generosity. From the outset she turned a smiling countenance upon her host. She did her utmost to suppress a reviving irrational qualm in her being, to maintain clearly and simply her overnight decision, that he should propose again and that she should accept him. Yet the festival was just a little dreamlike in its quality to her perceptions. She found she could not focus clearly on its details. Two waggonettes came from Wamping; there was room for everybody and to spare, and Wamping revealed itself a pleasant small country town with stocks under the market hall, and just that tint of green paint and that loafing touch the presence of a boating river gives. The launch was brilliantly smart with abundant crimson cushions and a tasselled awning, and away to the left was a fine old bridge that dated in its essentials from Plantagenet times. They started with much whistling and circling, and went away up river under overhanging trees that sometimes swished the funnel, splashing the meadow path and making the reeds and bulrushes dance with their wash. They went through a reluctant lock, steamed up a long reach, they passed the queerly painted Potwell Inn with its picturesque group of poplars and its absurd new notice-board of "Omlets." ... Theodore was five stone of active happiness; he and the pseudo-twins, strictly under his orders as the universal etiquette of birthdays prescribes, clambered round and round the boat, clutching the awning rail and hanging over the water in an entirely secure and perilous looking manner. No one, unless his father happened to be upset by something, would check him, he knew, on this auspicious day. Mr. Magnet sat with the grey eye on Marjorie and listened a little abstractedly to Mr. Pope, who was telling very fully what he would say if the Liberal party were to ask his advice at the present juncture. Mrs. Pope attended discreetly, and Daffy and Marjorie with a less restrained interest, to Mr. Wintersloan, who showed them how to make faces out of a fist tied up in a pocket-handkerchief, how to ventriloquize, how to conjure with halfpence--which he did very amusingly--and what the buttons on a man's sleeve were for; Theodore clambering at his back discovered what he was at, and by right of birthday made him do all the faces and tricks over again. Then Mr. Wintersloan told stories of all the rivers along which, he said, he had travelled in steamboats; the Rhine, the Danube, the Hoogly and the Fall River, and particularly how he had been bitten by a very young crocodile. "It's the smell of the oil brings it all back to me," he said. "And the kind of sway it gives you." He made sinuous movements of his hand, and looked at Marjorie with that wooden yet expressive smile. Friston Hanger proved to be even better than Wamping. It had a character of its own because it was built very largely of a warm buff coloured local rock instead of the usual brick, and the outhouses at least of the little inn at which they landed were thatched. Most of the cottages had casement windows with diamond panes, and the streets were cobbled and very up-and-down hill. The place ran to high walls richly suggestive of hidden gardens, overhung by big trees and pierced by secretive important looking doors. And over it all rose an unusually big church, with a tall buttressed tower surmounted by a lantern of pierced stone. "We'll go through the town and look at the ruins of the old castle beyond the church," said Mr. Magnet to Marjorie, "and then I want you to see the view from the church tower." And as they went through the street, he called her attention again to the church tower in a voice that seemed to her to be inexplicably charged with significance. "I want you to go up there," he said. "How about something to eat, Mr. Magnet?" remarked Theodore suddenly, and everybody felt a little surprised when Mr. Magnet answered: "Who wants things to eat on your birthday, Theodore?" But they saw the joke of that when they reached the castle ruins and found in the old tilting yard, with its ivy-covered arch framing a view of the town and stream, a table spread with a white cloth that shone in the sunshine, glittering with glass and silver and gay with a bowl of salad and flowers and cold pies and a jug of claret-cup and an ice pail--a silver pail! containing two promising looking bottles, in the charge of two real live waiters, in evening dress as waiters should be, but with straw hats to protect them from the sun and weather. "Oh!" cried Mrs. Pope, "what a _splendid_ idea, Mr. Magnet," when the destination of the feast was perfectly clear, and even Theodore seemed a little overawed--almost as if he felt his birthday was being carried too far and might provoke a judgment later. Manifestly Mr. Magnet must have ordered this in London, and have had it sent down, waiters and all! Theodore knew he was a very wonderful little boy in spite of the acute criticism of four devoted sisters, and Mr. Magnet had noticed him before at times, but this was, well, rather immense! "Look at the pie-crusts, old man!" And on the pie-crusts, and on the icing of the cake, their munificent host had caused to be done in little raised letters of dough and chocolate the word "Theodore." "Oh, _Mr._ Magnet!" said Marjorie--his eye so obviously invited her to say something. Mr. Pope tried a nebulous joke about "groaning boards of Frisky Hanger," and only Mr. Wintersloan restrained his astonishment and admiration. "You could have got those chaps in livery," he said--unheeded. The lunch was as a matter of fact his idea; he had refused to come unless it was provided, and he had somehow counted on blue coats, brass buttons, and yellow waistcoats--but everybody else of course ascribed the whole invention to Mr. Magnet. "Well," said Mr. Pope with a fine air of epigram, "the only thing I can say is--to eat it," and prepared to sit down. "Melon," cried Mr. Magnet to the waiters, "we'll begin with the melon. Have you ever tried melon with pepper and salt, Mrs. Pope?" "You put salt in everything," admired Mr. Pope. "Salt from those attics of yours--Attic salt." "Or there's ginger!" said Mr. Magnet, after a whisper from the waiter. Mr. Pope said something classical about "ginger hot in the mouth." "Some of these days," said Mr. Wintersloan, "when I have exhausted all other sensations, I mean to try melon and mustard." Rom made a wonderful face at him. "I can think of worse things than that," said Mr. Wintersloan with a hard brightness. "Not till after lunch, Mr. Wintersloan!" said Rom heartily. "The claret cup's all right for Theodore, Mrs. Pope," said Magnet. "It's a special twelve year old brand." (He thought of everything!) "Mummy," said Mr. Pope. "You'd better carve this pie, I think." "I want very much," said Mr. Magnet in Marjorie's ear and very confidentially, "to show you the view from the church tower. I think--it will appeal to you." "Rom!" said Theodore, uncontrollably, in a tremendous stage whisper. "There's peaches!... _There!_ on the hamper!" "Champagne, m'am?" said the waiter suddenly in Mrs. Pope's ear, wiping ice-water from the bottle. (But what could it have cost him?) § 13 Marjorie would have preferred that Mr. Magnet should not have decided with such relentless determination to make his second proposal on the church tower. His purpose was luminously clear to her from the beginning of lunch onward, and she could feel her nerves going under the strain of that long expectation. She tried to pull herself together, tried not to think about it, tried to be amused by the high spirits and nonsense of Mr. Wintersloan and Syd and Rom and Theodore; but Mr. Magnet was very pervasive, and her mother didn't ever look at her, looked past her and away from her and all round her, in a profoundly observant manner. Marjorie felt chiefly anxious to get to the top of that predestinate tower and have the whole thing over, and it was with a start that she was just able to prevent one of the assiduous waiters filling her glass with champagne for the third time. There was a little awkwardness in dispersing after lunch. Mr. Pope, his heart warmed by the champagne and mellowed by a subsequent excellent cigar, wanted very much to crack what he called a "postprandial jest" or so with the great humorist, while Theodore also, deeply impressed with the discovery that there was more in Mr. Magnet than he had supposed, displayed a strong disposition to attach himself more closely than he had hitherto done to this remarkable person, and study his quiet but enormous possibilities with greater attention. Mrs. Pope with a still alertness did her best to get people adjusted, but Syd and Rom had conceived a base and unnatural desire to subjugate the affections of the youngest waiter, and wouldn't listen to her proposal that they should take Theodore away into the town; Mr. Wintersloan displayed extraordinary cunning and resource in evading a _tête-à-tête_ with Mr. Pope that would have released Mr. Magnet. Now Mrs. Pope came to think of it, Mr. Wintersloan never had had the delights of a good talk with Mr. Pope, he knew practically nothing about the East Purblow experiment except for what Mr. Magnet might have retailed to him, and she was very greatly puzzled to account for his almost manifest reluctance to go into things thoroughly. Daffy remained on hand, available but useless, and Mrs. Pope, smiling at the landscape and a prey to Management within, was suddenly inspired to take her eldest daughter into her confidence. "Daffy," she said, with a guileful finger extended and pointing to the lower sky as though she was pointing out the less obvious and more atmospheric beauties of Surrey, "get Theodore away from Mr. Magnet if you can. He wants to talk to Marjorie." Daffy looked round. "Shall I call him?" she said. "No," said Mrs. Pope, "do it--just--quietly." "I'll try," said Daffy and stared at her task, and Mrs. Pope, feeling that this might or might not succeed but that anyhow she had done what she could, strolled across to her husband and laid a connubial touch upon his shoulder. "All the young people," she said, "are burning to climb the church tower. I never _can_ understand this activity after lunch." "Not me," said Mr. Pope. "Eh, Magnet?" "_I'm_ game," said Theodore. "Come along, Mr. Magnet." "I think," said Mr. Magnet looking at Marjorie, "I shall go up. I want to show Marjorie the view." "We'll stay here, Mummy, eh?" said Mr. Pope, with a quite unusual geniality, and suddenly put his arm round Mrs. Pope's waist. Her motherly eye sought Daffy's, and indicated her mission. "I'll come with you, Theodore," said Daffy. "There isn't room for everyone at once up that tower." "I'll go with Mr. Magnet," said Theodore, relying firmly on the privileges of the day.... For a time they played for position, with the intentions of Mr. Magnet showing more and more starkly through the moves of the game. At last Theodore was lured down a side street by the sight of a huge dummy fish dangling outside a tackle and bait shop, and Mr. Magnet and Marjorie, already with a dreadful feeling of complicity, made a movement so rapid it seemed to her almost a bolt for the church tower. Whatever Mr. Magnet desired to say, and whatever elasticity his mind had once possessed with regard to it, there can be no doubt that it had now become so rigid as to be sayable only in that one precise position, and in the exact order he had determined upon. But when at last they got to that high serenity, Mr. Magnet was far too hot and far too much out of breath to say anything at all for a time except an almost explosive gust or so of approbation of the scenery. "Shor' breath!" he said, "win'ey stairs always--that 'fect on me--buful sceny--Suwy--like it always." Marjorie found herself violently disposed to laugh; indeed she had never before been so near the verge of hysterics. "It's a perfectly lovely view," she said. "No wonder you wanted me to see it." "Naturally," said Mr. Magnet, "wanted you to see it." Marjorie, with a skill her mother might have envied, wriggled into a half-sitting position in an embrasure and concentrated herself upon the broad wooded undulations that went about the horizon, and Mr. Magnet mopped his face with surreptitious gestures, and took deep restoring breaths. "I've always wanted to bring you here," he said, "ever since I found it in the spring." "It was very kind of you, Mr. Magnet," said Marjorie. "You see," he explained, "whenever I see anything fine or rich or splendid or beautiful now, I seem to want it for you." His voice quickened as though he were repeating something that had been long in his mind. "I wish I could give you all this country. I wish I could put all that is beautiful in the world at your feet." He watched the effect of this upon her for a moment. "Marjorie," he said, "did you really mean what you told me the other day, that there was indeed no hope for me? I have a sort of feeling I bothered you that day, that perhaps you didn't mean all----" He stopped short. "I don't think I knew what I meant," said Marjorie, and Magnet gave a queer sound of relief at her words. "I don't think I know what I mean now. I don't think I can say I love you, Mr. Magnet. I would if I could. I like you very much indeed, I think you are awfully kind, you're more kind and generous than anyone I have ever known...." Saying he was kind and generous made her through some obscure association of ideas feel that he must have understanding. She had an impulse to put her whole case before him frankly. "I wonder," she said, "if you can understand what it is to be a girl." Then she saw the absurdity of her idea, of any such miracle of sympathy. He was entirely concentrated upon the appeal he had come prepared to make. "Marjorie," he said, "I don't ask you to love me yet. All I ask is that you shouldn't decide _not_ to love me." Marjorie became aware of Theodore, hotly followed by Daffy, in the churchyard below. "I _know_ he's up there," Theodore was manifestly saying. Marjorie faced her lover gravely. "Mr. Magnet," she said, "I will certainly promise you that." "I would rather be your servant, rather live for your happiness, than do anything else in all the world," said Mr. Magnet. "If you would trust your life to me, if you would deign--." He paused to recover his thread. "If you would deign to let me make life what it should be for you, take every care from your shoulders, face every responsibility----" Marjorie felt she had to hurry. She could almost feel the feet of Theodore coming up that tower. "Mr. Magnet," she said, "you don't understand. You don't realize what I am. You don't know how unworthy I am--what a mere ignorant child----" "Let me be judge of that!" cried Mr. Magnet. They paused almost like two actors who listen for the prompter. It was only too obvious that both were aware of a little medley of imperfectly subdued noises below. Theodore had got to the ladder that made the last part of the ascent, and there Daffy had collared him. "_My_ birthday," said Theodore. "Come down! You _shan't_ go up there!" said Daffy. "You _mustn't_, Theodore!" "Why not?" There was something like a scuffle, and whispers. Then it would seem Theodore went--reluctantly and with protests. But the conflict receded. "Marjorie!" said Mr. Magnet, as though there had been no pause, "if you would consent only to make an experiment, if you would try to love me. Suppose you _tried_ an engagement. I do not care how long I waited...." He paused. "Will you try?" he urged upon her distressed silence. She felt as though she forced the word. "_Yes!_" she said in a very low voice. Then it seemed to her that Mr. Magnet leapt upon her. She felt herself pulled almost roughly from the embrasure, and he had kissed her. She struggled in his embrace. "Mr. Magnet!" she said. He lifted her face and kissed her lips. "Marjorie!" he said, and she had partly released herself. "Oh _don't_ kiss me," she cried, "don't kiss me yet!" "But a kiss!" "I don't like it." "I beg your pardon!" he said. "I forgot----. But you.... You.... I couldn't help it." She was suddenly wildly sorry for what she had done. She felt she was going to cry, to behave absurdly. "I want to go down," she said. "Marjorie, you have made me the happiest of men! All my life, all my strength I will spend in showing you that you have made no mistake in trusting me----" "Yes," she said, "yes," and wondered what she could say or do. It seemed to him that her shrinking pose was the most tenderly modest thing he had ever seen. "Oh my dear!" he said, and restrained himself and took her passive hand and kissed it. "I want to go down to them!" she insisted. He paused on the topmost rungs of the ladder, looking unspeakable things at her. Then he turned to go down, and for the second time in her life she saw that incipient thinness.... "I am sure you will never be sorry," he said.... They found Mr. and Mrs. Pope in the churchyard. Mr. Pope was reading with amusement for the third time an epitaph that had caught his fancy-- "Lands ever bright, days ever fair, And yet we weep that _he_ is there." he read. "You know that's really Good. That ought to be printed somewhere." Mrs. Pope glanced sharply at her daughter's white face, and found an enigma. Then she looked at Mr. Magnet. There was no mistake about Mr. Magnet. Marjorie had accepted him, whatever else she had felt or done. § 14 Marjorie's feelings for the rest of the day are only to be accounted for on the supposition that she was overwrought. She had a preposterous reaction. She had done this thing with her eyes open after days of deliberation, and now she felt as though she was caught in a trap. The clearest thing in her mind was that Mr. Magnet had taken hold of her and kissed her, kissed her on the lips, and that presently he would do it again. And also she was asking herself with futile reiteration why she had got into debt at Oxbridge? Why she had got into debt? For such silly little things too! Nothing definite was said in her hearing about the engagement, but everybody seemed to understand. Mr. Pope was the most demonstrative, he took occasion to rap her hard upon the back, his face crinkled with a resolute kindliness. "Ah!" he said, "Sly Maggots!" He also administered several resounding blows to Magnet's shoulder blades, and irradiated the party with a glow of benevolent waggery. Marjorie submitted without an answer to these paternal intimations. Mrs. Pope did no more than watch her daughter. Invisible but overwhelming forces were busy in bringing Marjorie and her glowing lover alone together again. It happened at last, as he was departing; she was almost to her inflamed imagination thrust out upon him, had to take him to the gate; and there in the shadows of the trees he kissed her "good night" with passionate effusion. "Madge," he said, "Madge!" She made no answer. She submitted passively to his embrace, and then suddenly and dexterously disengaged herself from him, ran in, and without saying good-night to anyone went to her room to bed. Mr. Pope was greatly amused by this departure from the customary routine of life, and noted it archly. When Daffy came up Marjorie was ostentatiously going to sleep.... As she herself was dropping off Daffy became aware of an odd sound, somehow familiar, and yet surprising and disconcerting. Suddenly wide awake again, she started up. Yes there was no mistake about it! And yet it was very odd. "Madge, what's up?" No answer. "I say! you aren't crying, Madge, are you?" Then after a long interval: "_Madge!_" An answer came in a muffled voice, almost as if Marjorie had something in her mouth. "Oh shut it, old Daffy." "But Madge?" said Daffy after reflection. "Shut it. _Do_ shut it! Leave me alone, I say! Can't you leave me alone? Oh!"--and for a moment she let her sobs have way with her--"Daffy, don't worry me. Old Daffy! _Please!_" Daffy sat up for a long time in the stifled silence that ensued, and then like a sensible sister gave it up, and composed herself again to slumber.... Outside watching the window in a state of nebulous ecstasy, was Mr. Magnet, moonlit and dewy. It was a high serene night with a growing moon and a scattered company of major stars, and if no choir of nightingales sang there was at least a very active nightjar. "More than I hoped," whispered Mr. Magnet, "more than I dared to hope." He was very sleepy, but it seemed to him improper to go to bed on such a night--on such an occasion. CHAPTER THE THIRD THE MAN WHO FELL OUT OF THE SKY § 1 For the next week Marjorie became more nearly introspective than she had ever been in her life before. She began to doubt her hitherto unshaken conviction that she was a single, consistent human being. She found such discords and discrepancies between mood and mood, between the conviction of this hour and the feeling of that, that it seemed to her she was rather a collection of samples of emotion and attitude than anything so simple as an individual. For example, there can be no denying there was one Marjorie in the bundle who was immensely set up by the fact that she was engaged, and going to be at no very remote date mistress of a London house. She was profoundly Plessingtonian, and quite the vulgarest of the lot. The new status she had attained and the possibly beautiful house and the probably successful dinner-parties and the arrangements and the importance of such a life was the substance of this creature's thought. She designed some queenly dresses. This was the Marjorie most in evidence when it came to talking with her mother and Daphne. I am afraid she patronized Daphne, and ignored the fact that Daphne, who had begun with a resolute magnanimity, was becoming annoyed and resentful. And she thought of things she might buy, and the jolly feeling of putting them about and making fine effects with them. One thing she told Daphne, she had clearly resolved upon; the house should be always full and brimming over with beautiful flowers. "I've always wished mother would have more flowers--and not keep them so long when she has them...." Another Marjorie in the confusion of her mind was doing her sincerest, narrow best to appreciate and feel grateful for and return the devotion of Mr. Magnet. This Marjorie accepted and even elaborated his views, laid stress on his voluntary subjection, harped upon his goodness, brought her to kiss him. "I don't deserve all this love," this side of Marjorie told Magnet. "But I mean to learn to love you----" "My dear one!" cried Magnet, and pressed her hand.... A third Marjorie among the many was an altogether acuter and less agreeable person. She was a sprite of pure criticism, and in spite of the utmost efforts to suppress her, she declared night and day in the inner confidences of Marjorie's soul that she did not believe in Mr. Magnet's old devotion at all. She was anti-Magnet, a persistent insurgent. She was dreadfully unsettling. It was surely this Marjorie that wouldn't let the fact of his baldness alone, and who discovered and insisted upon a curious unbeautiful flatness in his voice whenever he was doing his best to speak from the heart. And as for this devotion, what did it amount to? A persistent unimaginative besetting of Marjorie, a growing air of ownership, an expansive, indulgent, smiling disposition to thwart and control. And he was always touching her! Whenever he came near her she would wince at the freedoms a large, kind hand might take with her elbow or wrist, at a possible sudden, clumsy pat at some erring strand of hair. Then there was an appraising satisfaction in his eye. On the third day of their engagement he began, quite abruptly, to call her "Magsy." "We'll end this scandal of a Girl Pope," he said. "Magsy Magnet, you'll be--M.M. No women M.P.'s for _us_, Magsy...." She became acutely critical of his intellectual quality. She listened with a new alertness to the conversations at the dinner-table, the bouts of wit with her father. She carried off utterances and witticism for maturer reflection. She was amazed to find how little they could withstand the tests and acids of her mind. So many things, such wide and interesting fields, he did not so much think about as cover with a large enveloping shallowness.... He came strolling around the vicarage into the garden one morning about eleven, though she had not expected him until lunch-time; and she was sitting with her feet tucked up on the aged but still practicable garden-seat reading Shaw's "Common Sense of Municipal Trading." He came and leant over the back of the seat, and she looked up, said "Good morning. Isn't it perfectly lovely?" and indicated by a book still open that her interest in it remained alive. "What's the book, Magsy?" he asked, took it out of her slightly resisting hand, closed it and read the title. "Um," he said; "Isn't this a bit stiff for little women's brains?" All the rebel Marjories were up in arms at that. "Dreadful word, 'Municipal.' I _don't_ like it." He shook his head with a grimace of humorous distaste. "I suppose women have as good brains as men," said Marjorie, "if it comes to that." "Better," said Magnet. "That's why they shouldn't trouble about horrid things like Municipal and Trading.... On a day like this!" "Don't you think this sort of thing is interesting?" "Oh!" he said, and flourished the book. "Come! And besides--_Shaw!_" "He makes a very good case." "But he's such a--mountebank." "Does that matter? He isn't a mountebank there." "He's not sincere. I doubt if you had a serious book on Municipal Trading, Magsy, whether you'd make head or tail of it. It's a stiff subject. Shaw just gets his chance for a smart thing or so.... I'd rather you read a good novel." He really had the air of taking her reading in hand. "You think I ought not to read an intelligent book." "I think we ought to leave those things to the people who understand." "But we ought to understand." He smiled wisely. "There's a lot of things _you_ have to understand," he said, "nearer home than this." Marjorie was ablaze now. "What a silly thing to say!" she cried, with an undergraduate's freedom. "Really, you are talking nonsense! I read that book because it interests me. If I didn't, I should read something else. Do you mean to suggest that I'm reading like a child, who holds a book upside down?" She was so plainly angry that he was taken aback. "I don't mean to suggest--" he began, and turned to greet the welcome presence, the interrogative eye of Mrs. Pope. "Here we are!" he said, "having a quarrel!" "Marjorie!" said Mrs. Pope. "Oh, it's serious!" said Mr. Magnet, and added with a gleam: "It's about Municipal Trading!" Mrs. Pope knew the wicked little flicker in Marjorie's eye better than Mr. Magnet. She had known it from the nursery, and yet she had never quite mastered its meaning. She had never yet realized it was Marjorie, she had always regarded it as something Marjorie, some other Marjorie, ought to keep under control. So now she adopted a pacificatory tone. "Oh! lovers' quarrels," she said, floating over the occasion. "Lovers' quarrels. You mustn't ask _me_ to interfere!" Marjorie, already a little ashamed of her heat, thought for an instant she ought to stand that, and then decided abruptly with a return to choler that she would not do so. She stood up, and held out her hand for her book. "Mr. Magnet," she said to her mother with remarkable force and freedom as she took it, "has been talking unutterable nonsense. I don't call that a lovers' quarrel--anyhow." Then, confronted with a double astonishment, and having no more to say, she picked up her skirt quite unnecessarily, and walked with a heavenward chin indoors. "I'm afraid," explained Mr. Magnet, "I was a little too free with one of Magsy's favourite authors." "Which is the favourite author now?" asked Mrs. Pope, after a reflective pause, with a mother's indulgent smile. "Shaw." He raised amused eyebrows. "It's just the age, I suppose." "She's frightfully loyal while it lasts," said Mrs. Pope. "No one dare say a word against them." "I think it's adorable of her," said Mr. Magnet--with an answering loyalty and gusto. § 2 The aviation accident occurred while Mrs. Pope, her two eldest daughters, and Mr. Magnet were playing golf-croquet upon the vicarage lawn. It was a serene, hot afternoon, a little too hot to take a game seriously, and the four little figures moved slowly over the green and grouped and dispersed as the game required. Mr. Magnet was very fond of golf-croquet, he displayed a whimsical humour and much invention at this game, it was not too exacting physically; and he could make his ball jump into the air in the absurdest manner. Occasionally he won a laugh from Marjorie or Daffy. No one else was in sight; the pseudo-twins and Theodore and Toupee were in the barn, and Mr. Pope was six miles away at Wamping, lying prone, nibbling grass blades and watching a county cricket match, as every good Englishman, who knows what is expected of him, loves to do.... Click went ball and mallet, and then after a long interval, click. It seemed incredible that anything could possibly happen before tea. But this is no longer the world it was. Suddenly this tranquil scene was slashed and rent by the sound and vision of a monoplane tearing across the heavens. A purring and popping arrested Mr. Magnet in mid jest, and the monster came sliding up the sky over the trees beside the church to the east, already near enough to look big, a great stiff shape, big buff sails stayed with glittering wire, and with two odd little wheels beneath its body. It drove up the sky, rising with a sort of upward heaving, until the croquet players could see the driver and a passenger perched behind him quite clearly. It passed a little to the right of the church tower and only a few yards above the level of the flagstaff, there wasn't fifty feet of clearance altogether, and as it did so Marjorie could see both driver and passenger making hasty movements. It became immense and over-shadowing, and every one stood rigid as it swept across the sun above the vicarage chimneys. Then it seemed to drop twenty feet or so abruptly, and then both the men cried out as it drove straight for the line of poplars between the shrubbery and the meadow. "Oh, oh, OH!" cried Mrs. Pope and Daffy. Evidently the aviator was trying to turn sharply; the huge thing banked, but not enough, and came about and slipped away until its wing was slashing into the tree tops with a thrilling swish of leaves and the snapping of branches and stays. "Run!" cried Magnet, and danced about the lawn, and the three ladies rushed sideways as the whole affair slouched down on them. It came on its edge, hesitated whether to turn over as a whole, then crumpled, and amidst a volley of smashing and snapping came to rest amidst ploughed-up turf, a clamorous stench of petrol, and a cloud of dust and blue smoke within twenty yards of them. The two men had jumped to clear the engine, had fallen headlong, and were now both covered by the fabric of the shattered wing. It was all too spectacular for word or speech until the thing lay still. Even then the croquet players stood passive for awhile waiting for something to happen. It took some seconds to reconcile their minds to this sudden loss of initiative in a monster that had been so recently and threateningly full of go. It seemed quite a long time before it came into Marjorie's head that she ought perhaps to act in some way. She saw a tall young man wriggling on all fours from underneath the wreckage of fabric. He stared at her rather blankly. She went forward with a vague idea of helping him. He stood up, swayed doubtfully on his legs, turned, and became energetic, struggling mysteriously with the edge of the left wing. He gasped and turned fierce blue eyes over his shoulder. "Help me to hold the confounded thing up!" he cried, with a touch of irritation in his voice at her attitude. Marjorie at once seized the edge of the plane and pushed. The second man, in a peculiar button-shaped head-dress, was lying crumpled up underneath, his ear and cheek were bright with blood, and there was a streak of blood on the ground near his head. "That's right. Can you hold it if I use only one hand?" Marjorie gasped "Yes," with a terrific weight as it seemed suddenly on her wrists. "Right O," and the tall young man had thrust himself backwards under the plane until it rested on his back, and collared the prostrate man. "Keep it up!" he said fiercely when Marjorie threatened to give way. He seemed to assume that she was there to obey orders, and with much grunting and effort he had dragged his companion clear of the wreckage. The man's face was a mass of blood, and he was sickeningly inert to his companion's lugging. "Let it go," said the tall young man, and Marjorie thanked heaven as the broken wing flapped down again. She came helpfully to his side, and became aware of Daffy and her mother a few paces off. Magnet--it astonished her--was retreating hastily. But he had to go away because the sight of blood upset him--so much that it was always wiser for him to go away. "Is he hurt?" cried Mrs. Pope. "We both are," said the tall young man, and then as though these other people didn't matter and he and Marjorie were old friends, he said: "Can we turn him over?" "I think so." Marjorie grasped the damaged man's shoulder and got him over skilfully. "Will you get some water?" said the tall young man to Daffy and Mrs. Pope, in a way that sent Daffy off at once for a pail. "He wants water," she said to the parlourmaid who was hurrying out of the house. The tall young man had gone down on his knees by his companion, releasing his neck, and making a hasty first examination of his condition. "The pneumatic cap must have saved his head," he said, throwing the thing aside. "Lucky he had it. He can't be badly hurt. Just rubbed his face along the ground. Silly thing to have come as we did." He felt the heart, and tried the flexibility of an arm. "_That's_ all right," he said. He became judicial and absorbed over the problems of his friend's side. "Um," he remarked. He knelt back and regarded Marjorie for the first time. "Thundering smash," he said. His face relaxed into an agreeable smile. "He only bought it last week." "Is he hurt?" "Rib, I think--or two ribs perhaps. Stunned rather. All _this_--just his nose." He regarded Marjorie and Marjorie him for a brief space. He became aware of Mrs. Pope on his right hand. Then at a clank behind, he turned round to see Daphne advancing with a pail of water. The two servants were now on the spot, and the odd-job man, and the old lady who did out the church, and Magnet hovered doubtfully in the distance. Suddenly with shouts and barks of sympathetic glee the pseudo-twins, Theodore and Toupee shot out of the house. New thoughts were stirring in the young aviator. He rose, wincing a little as he did so. "I'm afraid I'm a little rude," he said. "I do hope your friend isn't hurt," said Mrs. Pope, feeling the duty of a hostess. "He's not hurt _much_--so far as I can see. Haven't we made rather a mess of your lawn?" "Oh, not at all!" said Mrs. Pope. "We have. If that is your gardener over there, it would be nice if he kept back the people who seem to be hesitating beyond those trees. There will be more presently. I'm afraid I must throw myself on your hands." He broke into a chuckle for a moment. "I have, you know. Is it possible to get a doctor? My friend's not hurt so very much, but still he wants expert handling. He's Sir Rupert Solomonson, from"--he jerked his head back--"over beyond Tunbridge Wells. My name's Trafford." "I'm Mrs. Pope and these are my daughters." Trafford bowed. "We just took the thing out for a lark," he said. Marjorie had been regarding the prostrate man. His mouth was a little open, and he showed beautiful teeth. Apart from the dry blood upon him he was not an ill-looking man. He was manifestly a Jew, a square-rigged Jew (you have remarked of course that there are square-rigged Jews, whose noses are within bounds, and fore-and-aft Jews, whose noses aren't), with not so much a bullet-head as a round-shot, cropped like the head of a Capuchin monkey. Suddenly she was down and had his head on her knee, with a quick movement that caught Trafford's eye. "He's better," she said. "His eyelids flickered. Daffy, bring the water." She had felt a queer little repugnance at first with this helpless man, but now that professional nurse who lurks in the composition of so many women, was uppermost. "Give me your handkerchief," she said to Trafford, and with Daffy kneeling beside her and also interested, and Mrs. Pope a belated but more experienced and authoritative third, Sir Rupert was soon getting the best of attention. "Wathall ..." said Sir Rupert suddenly, and tried again: "Wathall." A third effort gave "Wathall about, eh?" "If we could get him into the shade," said Marjorie. "Woosh," cried Sir Rupert. "Weeeooo!" "That's all right," said Trafford. "It's only a rib or two." "Eeeeeyoooo!" said Sir Rupert. "Exactly. We're going to carry you out of the glare." "Don't touch me," said Sir Rupert. "Gooo." It took some little persuasion before Sir Rupert would consent to be moved, and even then he was for a time--oh! crusty. But presently Trafford and the two girls had got him into the shade of a large bush close to where in a circle of rugs and cushions the tea things lay prepared. There they camped. The helpful odd-job man was ordered to stave off intruders from the village; water, towels, pillows were forthcoming. Mr. Magnet reappeared as tentative assistance, and Solomonson became articulate and brave and said he'd nothing but a stitch in his side. In his present position he wasn't at all uncomfortable. Only he didn't want any one near him. He enforced that by an appealing smile. The twins, invited to fetch the doctor, declined, proffering Theodore. They had conceived juvenile passions for the tall young man, and did not want to leave him. He certainly had a very nice face. So Theodore after walking twice round the wreckage, tore himself away and departed on Rom's bicycle. Enquiry centred on Solomonson for a time. His face, hair and neck were wet but no longer bloody, and he professed perfect comfort so long as he wasn't moved, and no one came too near him. He was very clear about that though perfectly polite, and scrutinized their faces to see if they were equally clear. Satisfied upon this point he closed his eyes and spoke no more. He looked then like a Capuchin monkey lost in pride. There came a pause. Every one was conscious of having risen to an emergency and behaved well under unusual circumstances. The young man's eye rested on the adjacent tea-things, lacking nothing but the coronation of the teapot. "Why not," he remarked, "have tea?" "If you think your friend----" began Mrs. Pope. "Oh! _he's_ all right. Aren't you, Solomonson? There's nothing more now until the doctor." "Only want to be left alone," said Solomonson, and closed his heavy eyelids again. Mrs. Pope told the maids, with an air of dismissal, to get tea. "We can keep an eye on him," said Trafford. Marjorie surveyed her first patient with a pretty unconscious mixture of maternal gravity and girlish interest, and the twins to avoid too openly gloating upon the good looks of Trafford, chose places and secured cushions round the tea-things, calculating to the best of their ability how they might secure the closest proximity to him. Mr. Magnet and Toupee had gone to stare at the monoplane; they were presently joined by the odd-job man in an interrogative mood. "Pretty complete smash, sir!" said the odd-job man, and then perceiving heads over the hedge by the churchyard, turned back to his duty of sentinel. Daffy thought of the need of more cups and plates and went in to get them, and Mrs. Pope remarked that she did hope Sir Rupert was not badly hurt.... "Extraordinary all this is," remarked Mr. Trafford. "Now, here we were after lunch, twenty miles away--smoking cigars and with no more idea of having tea with you than--I was going to say--flying. But that's out of date now. Then we just thought we'd try the thing.... Like a dream." He addressed himself to Marjorie: "I never feel that life is quite real until about three days after things have happened. Never. Two hours ago I had not the slightest intention of ever flying again." "But haven't you flown before?" asked Mrs. Pope. "Not much. I did a little at Sheppey, but it's so hard for a poor man to get his hands on a machine. And here was Solomonson, with this thing in his hangar, eating its head off. Let's take it out," I said, "and go once round the park. And here we are.... I thought it wasn't wise for him to come...." Sir Rupert, without opening his eyes, was understood to assent. "Do you know," said Trafford, "The sight of your tea makes me feel frightfully hungry." "I don't think the engine's damaged?" he said cheerfully, "do you?" as Magnet joined them. "The ailerons are in splinters, and the left wing's not much better. But that's about all except the wheels. One falls so much lighter than you might suppose--from the smash.... Lucky it didn't turn over. Then, you know, the engine comes on the top of you, and you're done." § 3 The doctor arrived after tea, with a bag and a stethoscope in a small coffin-like box, and the Popes and Mr. Magnet withdrew while Sir Rupert was carefully sounded, tested, scrutinized, questioned, watched and examined in every way known to medical science. The outcome of the conference was presently communicated to the Popes by Mr. Trafford and the doctor. Sir Rupert was not very seriously injured, but he was suffering from concussion and shock, two of his ribs were broken and his wrist sprained, unless perhaps one of the small bones was displaced. He ought to be bandaged up and put to bed.... "Couldn't we--" said Mrs. Pope, but the doctor assured her his own house was quite the best place. There Sir Rupert could stay for some days. At present the cross-country journey over the Downs or by the South Eastern Railway would be needlessly trying and painful. He would with the Popes' permission lie quietly where he was for an hour or so, and then the doctor would come with a couple of men and a carrying bed he had, and take him off to his own house. There he would be, as Mr. Trafford said, "as right as ninepence," and Mr. Trafford could put up either at the Red Lion with Mr. Magnet or in the little cottage next door to the doctor. (Mr. Trafford elected for the latter as closer to his friend.) As for the smashed aeroplane, telegrams would be sent at once to Sir Rupert's engineers at Chesilbury, and they would have all that cleared away by mid-day to-morrow.... The doctor departed; Sir Rupert, after stimulants, closed his eyes, and Mr. Trafford seated himself at the tea-things for some more cake, as though introduction by aeroplane was the most regular thing in the world. He had very pleasant and easy manners, an entire absence of self-consciousness, and a quick talkative disposition that made him very rapidly at home with everybody. He described all the sensations of flight, his early lessons and experiments, and in the utmost detail the events of the afternoon that had led to this disastrous adventure. He made his suggestion of "trying the thing" seem the most natural impulse in the world. The bulk of the conversation fell on him; Mr. Magnet, save for the intervention of one or two jests, was quietly observant; the rest were well disposed to listen. And as Mr. Trafford talked his eye rested ever and again on Marjorie with the faintest touch of scrutiny and perplexity, and she, too, found a curious little persuasion growing up in her mind that somewhere, somehow, she and he had met and had talked rather earnestly. But how and where eluded her altogether.... They had sat for an hour--the men from the doctor's seemed never coming--when Mr. Pope returned unexpectedly from his cricket match, which had ended a little prematurely in a rot on an over-dry wicket. He was full of particulars of the day's play, and how Wiper had got a most amazing catch and held it, though he fell; how Jenks had deliberately bowled at a man's head, he believed, and little Gibbs thrown a man out from slip. He was burning to tell all this in the utmost detail to Magnet and his family, so that they might at least share the retrospect of his pleasure. He had thought out rather a good pun on Wiper, and he was naturally a little thwarted to find all this good, rich talk crowded out by a more engrossing topic. At the sight of a stranger grouped in a popular manner beside the tea-things, he displayed a slight acerbity, which was if anything increased by the discovery of a prostrate person with large brown eyes and an expression of Oriental patience and disdain, in the shade of a bush near by. At first he seemed scarcely to grasp Mrs. Pope's explanations, and regarded Sir Rupert with an expression that bordered on malevolence. Then, when his attention was directed to the smashed machine upon the lawn, he broke out into a loud indignant: "Good God! What next?" He walked towards the wreckage, disregarding Mr. Trafford beside him. "A man can't go away from his house for an hour!" he complained. "I can assure you we did all we could to prevent it," said Trafford. "Ought never to have had it to prevent," said Mr. Pope. "Is your friend hurt?" "A rib--and shock," said Trafford. "Well--he deserves it," said Mr. Pope. "Rather than launch myself into the air in one of those infernal things, I'd be stood against a wall and shot." "Tastes differ, of course," said Trafford, with unruffled urbanity. "You'll have all this cleared away," said Mr. Pope. "Mechanics--oh! a complete break-down party--are speeding to us in fast motors," said Trafford. "Thanks to the kindness of your domestic in taking a telegram for me." "Hope they won't kill any one," said Mr. Pope, and just for a moment the conversation hung fire. "And your friend?" he asked. "He goes in the next ten minutes--well, whenever the litter comes from the doctor's. Poor old Solomonson!" "Solomonson?" "Sir Rupert." "Oh!" said Mr. Pope. "Is that the Pigmentation Solomonson?" "I believe he does do some beastly company of that sort," said Trafford. "Isn't it amazing we didn't smash our engine?" Sir Rupert Solomonson was indeed a familiar name to Mr. Pope. He had organized the exploitation of a number of pigment and bye-product patents, and the ordinary and deferred shares of his syndicate has risen to so high a price as to fill Mr. Pope with the utmost confidence in their future; indeed he had bought considerably, withdrawing capital to do so from an Argentine railway whose stock had awakened his distaste and a sort of moral aversion by slumping heavily after a bad wheat and linseed harvest. This discovery did much to mitigate his first asperity, his next remark to Trafford was almost neutral, and he was even asking Sir Rupert whether he could do anything to make him comfortable, when the doctor returned with a litter, borne by four hastily compiled bearers. § 4 Some brightness seemed to vanish when the buoyant Mr. Trafford, still undauntedly cheerful, limped off after his more injured friend, and disappeared through the gate. Marjorie found herself in a world whose remaining manhood declined to see anything but extreme annoyance in this gay, exciting rupture of the afternoon. "Good God!" said Mr. Pope. "What next? What next?" "Registration, I hope," said Mr. Magnet,--"and relegation to the desert of Sahara." "One good thing about it," said Mr. Pope--"it all wastes petrol. And when the petrol supply gives out--they're done." "Certainly we might all have been killed!" said Mrs. Pope, feeling she had to bear her witness against their visitors, and added: "If we hadn't moved out of the way, that is." There was a simultaneous movement towards the shattered apparatus, about which a small contingent of villagers, who had availed themselves of the withdrawal of the sentinel, had now assembled. "Look at it!" said Mr. Pope, with bitter hostility. "Look at it!" Everyone had anticipated his command. "They'll never come to anything," said Mr. Pope, after a pause of silent hatred. "But they _have_ to come to something," said Marjorie. "They've come to smash!" said Mr. Magnet, with the true humorist's air. "But consider the impudence of this invasion, the wild--objectionableness of it!" "They're nasty things," said Mr. Magnet. "Nasty things!" A curious spirit of opposition stirred in Marjorie. It seemed to her that men who play golf-croquet and watch cricket matches have no business to contemn men who risk their lives in the air. She sought for some controversial opening. "Isn't the engine rather wonderful?" she remarked. Mr. Magnet regarded the engine with his head a little on one side. "It's the usual sort," he said. "There weren't engines like that twenty years ago." "There weren't people like _you_ twenty years ago," said Mr. Magnet, smiling wisely and kindly, and turned his back on the thing. Mr. Pope followed suit. He was filled with the bitter thought that he would never now be able to tell the history of the remarkable match he had witnessed. It was all spoilt for him--spoilt for ever. Everything was disturbed and put out. "They've left us our tennis lawn," he said, with a not unnatural resentment passing to invitation. "What do you say, Magnet? Now you've begun the game you must keep it up?" "If Marjorie, or Mrs. Pope, or Daffy...?" said Magnet. Mrs. Pope declared the house required her. And so with the gravest apprehensions, and an insincere compliment to their father's energy, Daffy and Marjorie made up a foursome for that healthy and invigorating game. But that evening Mr. Pope got his serve well into the bay of the sagging net almost at once, and with Marjorie in the background taking anything he left her, he won quite easily, and everything became pleasant again. Magnet gloated upon Marjorie and served her like a missionary giving Bibles to heathen children, he seemed always looking at her instead of the ball, and except for a slight disposition on the part of Daffy to slash, nothing could have been more delightful. And at supper Mr. Pope, rather crushing his wife's attempt to recapitulate the more characteristic sayings and doings of Sir Rupert and his friend, did after all succeed in giving every one a very good idea indeed of the more remarkable incidents of the cricket match at Wamping, and made the pun he had been accustomed to use upon the name of Wiper in a new and improved form. A general talk about cricket and the Immense Good of cricket followed. Mr. Pope said he would make cricket-playing compulsory for every English boy. Everyone it seemed to Marjorie was forgetting that dark shape athwart the lawn, and all the immense implication of its presence, with a deliberate and irrational skill, and she noted that the usual move towards the garden at the end of the evening was not made. § 5 In the night time Marjorie had a dream that she was flying about in the world on a monoplane with Mr. Trafford as a passenger. Then Mr. Trafford disappeared, and she was flying about alone with a curious uneasy feeling that in a minute or so she would be unable any longer to manage the machine. Then her father and Mr. Magnet appeared very far below, walking about and disapproving of her. Mr. Magnet was shaking his head very, very sagely, and saying: "Rather a stiff job for little Marjorie," and her father was saying she would be steadier when she married. And then, she wasn't clear how, the engine refused to work until her bills were paid, and she began to fall, and fall, and fall towards Mr. Magnet. She tried frantically to pay her bills. She was falling down the fronts of skyscrapers and precipices--and Mr. Magnet was waiting for her below with a quiet kindly smile that grew wider and wider and wider.... She woke up palpitating. § 6 Next morning a curious restlessness came upon Marjorie. Conceivably it was due to the absence of Magnet, who had gone to London to deliver his long promised address on The Characteristics of English Humour to the _Literati_ Club. Conceivably she missed his attentions. But it crystallized out in the early afternoon into the oddest form, a powerful craving to go to the little town of Pensting, five miles off, on the other side of Buryhamstreet, to buy silk shoelaces. She decided to go in the donkey cart. She communicated her intention to her mother, but she did not communicate an equally definite intention to be reminded suddenly of Sir Rupert Solomonson as she was passing the surgery, and make an inquiry on the spur of the moment--it wouldn't surely be anything but a kindly and justifiable impulse to do that. She might see Mr. Trafford perhaps, but there was no particular harm in that. It is also to be remarked that finding Theodore a little disposed to encumber her vehicle with his presence she expressed her delight at being released from the need of going, and abandoned the whole expedition to him--knowing as she did perfectly well that if Theodore hated anything more than navigating the donkey cart alone, it was going unprotected into a shop to buy articles of feminine apparel--until he chucked the whole project and went fishing--if one can call it fishing when there are no fish and the fisherman knows it--in the decadent ornamental water. And it is also to be remarked that as Marjorie approached the surgery she was seized with an absurd and powerful shyness, so that not only did she not call at the surgery, she did not even look at the surgery, she gazed almost rigidly straight ahead, telling herself, however, that she merely deferred that kindly impulse until she had bought her laces. And so it happened that about half a mile beyond the end of Buryhamstreet she came round a corner upon Trafford, and by a singular fatality he also was driving a donkey, or, rather, was tracing a fan-like pattern on the road with a donkey's hoofs. It was a very similar donkey to Marjorie's, but the vehicle was a governess cart, and much smarter than Marjorie's turn-out. His ingenuous face displayed great animation at the sight of her, and as she drew alongside he hailed her with an almost unnatural ease of manner. "Hullo!" he cried. "I'm taking the air. You seem to be able to drive donkeys forward. How do you do it? I can't. Never done anything so dangerous in my life before. I've just been missed by two motor cars, and hung for a terrible minute with my left wheel on the very verge of an unfathomable ditch. I could hear the little ducklings far, far below, and bits of mould dropping. I tried to count before the splash. Aren't you--_white?_" "But why are you doing it?" "One must do something. I'm bandaged up and can't walk. It hurt my leg more than I knew--your doctor says. Solomonson won't talk of anything but how he feels, and _I_ don't care a rap how he feels. So I got this thing and came out with it." Marjorie made her inquiries. There came a little pause. "Some day no one will believe that men were ever so foolish as to trust themselves to draught animals," he remarked. "Hullo! Look out! The horror of it!" A large oil van--a huge drum on wheels--motor-driven, had come round the corner, and after a preliminary and quite insufficient hoot, bore down upon them, and missing Trafford as it seemed by a miracle, swept past. Both drivers did wonderful things with whips and reins, and found themselves alone in the road again, with their wheels locked and an indefinite future. "I leave the situation to you," said Trafford. "Or shall we just sit and talk until the next motor car kills us?" "We ought to make an effort," said Marjorie, cheerfully, and descended to lead the two beasts. Assisted by an elderly hedger, who had been taking a disregarded interest in them for some time, she separated the wheels and got the two donkeys abreast. The old hedger's opinion of their safety on the king's highway was expressed by his action rather than his words; he directed the beasts towards a shady lane that opened at right angles to the road. He stood by their bridles while Marjorie resumed her seat. "It seems to me clearly a case for compromise," said Trafford. "You want to go that way, I want to go that way. Let us both go _this_ way. It is by such arrangements that civilization becomes possible." He dismissed the hedger generously and resumed his reins. "Shall we race?" he asked. "With your leg?" she inquired. "No; with the donkeys. I say, this _is_ rather a lark. At first I thought it was both dangerous and dull. But things have changed. I am in beastly high spirits. I feel there will be a cry before night; but still, I am----I wanted the companionship of an unbroken person. It's so jolly to meet you again." "Again?" "After the year before last." "After the year before last?" "You didn't know," said Trafford, "I had met you before? How aggressive I must have seemed! Well, _I_ wasn't quite clear. I spent the greater part of last night--my ankle being foolish in the small hours--in trying to remember how and where." "I don't remember," said Marjorie. "I remembered you very distinctly, and some things I thought about you, but not where it had happened. Then in the night I got it. It _is_ a puzzle, isn't it? You see, I was wearing a black gown, and I had been out of the sunlight for some months--and my eye, I remember it acutely, was bandaged. I'm usually bandaged somewhere. 'I was a King in Babylon And you were a Christian slave' --I mean a candidate." Marjorie remembered suddenly. "You're Professor Trafford." "Not in this atmosphere. But I am at the Romeike College. And as soon as I recalled examining you I remembered it--minutely. You were intelligent, though unsound--about cryo-hydrates it was. Ah, you remember me now. As most young women are correct by rote and unintelligent in such questions, and as it doesn't matter a rap about anything of that sort, whether you are correct or not, as long as the mental gesture is right----" He paused for a moment, as though tired of his sentence. "I remembered you." He proceeded in his easy and detached manner, that seemed to make every topic possible, to tell her his first impressions of her, and show how very distinctly indeed he remembered her. "You set me philosophizing. I'd never examined a girls' school before, and I was suddenly struck by the spectacle of the fifty of you. What's going to become of them all?" "I thought," he went on, "how bright you were, and how keen and eager you were--_you_, I mean, in particular--and just how certain it was your brightness and eagerness would be swallowed up by some silly ordinariness or other--stuffy marriage or stuffy domestic duties. The old, old story--done over again with a sort of threadbare badness. (Nothing to say against it if it's done well.) I got quite sentimental and pathetic about life's breach of faith with women. Odd, isn't it, how one's mind runs on. But that's what I thought. It's all come back to me." Marjorie's bright, clear eye came round to him. "I don't see very much wrong with the lot of women," she reflected. "Things are different nowadays. Anyhow----" She paused. "You don't want to be a man?" "_No!_" She was emphatic. "Some of us cut more sharply at life than you think," he said, plumbing her unspoken sense. She had never met a man before who understood just how a girl can feel the slow obtuseness of his sex. It was almost as if he had found her out at something. "Oh," she said, "perhaps you do," and looked at him with an increased interest. "I'm half-feminine, I believe," he said. "For instance, I've got just a woman's joy in textures and little significant shapes. I know how you feel about that. I can spend hours, even now, in crystal gazing--I don't mean to see some silly revelation of some silly person's proceedings somewhere, but just for the things themselves. I wonder if you have ever been in the Natural History Museum at South Kensington, and looked at Ruskin's crystal collection? I saw it when I was a boy, and it became--I can't help the word--an obsession. The inclusions like moss and like trees, and all sorts of fantastic things, and the cleavages and enclosures with little bubbles, and the lights and shimmer--What were we talking about? Oh, about the keen way your feminine perceptions cut into things. And yet somehow I was throwing contempt on the feminine intelligence. I don't do justice to the order of my thoughts. Never mind. We've lost the thread. But I wish you knew my mother." He went on while Marjorie was still considering the proper response to this. "You see, I'm her only son and she brought me up, and we know each other--oh! very well. She helps with my work. She understands nearly all of it. She makes suggestions. And to this day I don't know if she's the most original or the most parasitic of creatures. And that's the way with all women and girls, it seems to me. You're as critical as light, and as undiscriminating.... I say, do I strike you as talking nonsense?" "Not a bit," said Marjorie. "But you do go rather fast." "I know," he admitted. "But somehow you excite me. I've been with Solomonson a week, and he's dull at all times. It was that made me take out that monoplane of his. But it did him no good." He paused. "They told me after the exam.," said Marjorie, "you knew more about crystallography--than anyone." "Does that strike you as a dull subject?" "No," said Marjorie, in a tone that invited justifications. "It isn't. I think--naturally, that the world one goes into when one studies molecular physics is quite the most beautiful of Wonderlands.... I can assure you I work sometimes like a man who is exploring a magic palace.... Do you know anything of molecular physics?" "You examined me," said Marjorie. "The sense one has of exquisite and wonderful rhythms--just beyond sound and sight! And there's a taunting suggestion of its being all there, displayed and confessed, if only one were quick enough to see it. Why, for instance, when you change the composition of a felspar almost imperceptibly, do the angles change? What's the correspondence between the altered angle and the substituted atom? Why does this bit of clear stuff swing the ray of light so much out of its path, and that swing it more? Then what happens when crystals gutter down, and go into solution. The endless launching of innumerable little craft. Think what a clear solution must be if only one had ultra-microscopic eyes and could see into it, see the extraordinary patternings, the swimming circling constellations. And then the path of a ray of polarized light beating through it! It takes me like music. Do you know anything of the effects of polarized light, the sight of a slice of olivine-gabbro for instance between crossed Nicols?" "I've seen some rock sections," said Marjorie. "I forget the names of the rocks." "The colours?" "Oh yes, the colours." "Is there anything else so rich and beautiful in all the world? And every different mineral and every variety of that mineral has a different palette of colours, a different scheme of harmonies--and is telling you something." "If only you understood." "Exactly. All the ordinary stuff of life--you know--the carts and motor cars and dusty roads and--cinder sifting, seems so blank to me--with that persuasion of swing and subtlety beneath it all. As if the whole world was fire and crystal and aquiver--with some sort of cotton wrappers thrown over it...." "Dust sheets," said Marjorie. "I know." "Or like a diamond painted over!" "With that sort of grey paint, very full of body--that lasts." "Yes." He smiled at her. "I can't help apologetics. Most people think a professor of science is just----" "A professor of science." "Yes. Something all pedantries and phrases. I want to clear my character. As though it is foolish to follow a vortex ring into a vacuum, and wise to whack at a dirty golf ball on a suburban railway bank. Oh, their golf! Under high heaven!... You don't play golf, do you, by any chance?" "Only the woman's part," said Marjorie. "And they despise us," he said. "Solomonson can hardly hide how he despises us. Nothing is more wonderful than the way these people go on despising us who do research, who have this fever of curiosity, who won't be content with--what did you call those wrappers?" "Dust sheets." "Yes, dust sheets. What a life! Swaddling bands, dust sheets and a shroud! You know, research and discovery aren't nearly so difficult as people think--if only you have the courage to say a thing or try a thing now and then that it isn't usual to say or try. And after all----" he went off at a tangent, "these confounded ordinary people aren't justified in their contempt. We keep on throwing them things over our shoulders, electric bells, telephones, Marconigrams. Look at the beautiful electric trains that come towering down the London streets at nightfall, ships of light in full sail! Twenty years ago they were as impossible as immortality. We conquer the seas for these--golfers, puts arms in their hands that will certainly blow them all to bits if ever the idiots go to war with them, come sailing out of the air on them----" He caught Marjorie's eye and stopped. "_Falling_ out of the air on them," corrected Marjorie very softly. "That was only an accident," said Mr. Trafford.... So they began a conversation in the lane where the trees met overhead that went on and went on like a devious path in a shady wood, and touched upon all manner of things.... § 7 In the end quite a number of people were aggrieved by this dialogue, in the lane that led nowhither.... Sir Rupert Solomonson was the first to complain. Trafford had been away "three mortal hours." No one had come near him, not a soul, and there hadn't been even a passing car to cheer his ear. Sir Rupert admitted he had to be quiet. "But not so _damned_ quiet." "I'd have been glad," said Sir Rupert, "if a hen had laid an egg and clucked a bit. You might have thought there had been a Resurrection or somethin', and cleared off everybody. Lord! it was deadly. I'd have sung out myself if it hadn't been for these infernal ribs...." Mrs. Pope came upon the affair quite by accident. "Well, Marjorie," she said as she poured tea for the family, "did you get your laces?" "Never got there, Mummy," said Marjorie, and paused fatally. "Didn't get there!" said Mrs. Pope. "That's worse than Theodore! Wouldn't the donkey go, poor dear?" There was nothing to colour about, and yet Marjorie felt the warm flow in neck and cheek and brow. She threw extraordinary quantities of candour into her manner. "I had a romantic adventure," she said rather quietly. "I was going to tell you." (Sensation.) "You see it was like this," said Marjorie. "I ran against Mr. Trafford...." She drank tea, and pulled herself together for a lively description of the wheel-locking and the subsequent conversation, a bright ridiculous account which made the affair happen by implication on the high road and not in a byeway, and was adorned with every facetious ornament that seemed likely to get a laugh from the children. But she talked rather fast, and she felt she forced the fun a little. However, it amused the children all right, and Theodore created a diversion by choking with his tea. From first to last Marjorie was extremely careful to avoid the affectionate scrutiny of her mother's eye. And had this lasted the _whole_ afternoon? asked Mrs. Pope. "Oh, they'd talked for half-an-hour," said Marjorie, or more, and had driven back very slowly together. "He did all the talking. You saw what he was yesterday. And the donkeys seemed too happy together to tear them away." "But what was it all about?" asked Daffy curious. "He asked after you, Daffy, most affectionately," said Marjorie, and added, "several times." (Though Trafford had as a matter of fact displayed a quite remarkable disregard of all her family.) "And," she went on, getting a plausible idea at last, "he explained all about aeroplanes. And all that sort of thing. Has Daddy gone to Wamping for some more cricket?..." (But none of this was lost on Mrs. Pope.) § 8 Mr. Magnet's return next day was heralded by nearly two-thirds of a column in the _Times_. The Lecture on the Characteristics of Humour had evidently been quite a serious affair, and a very imposing list of humorists and of prominent people associated with their industry had accepted the hospitality of the _Literati_. Marjorie ran her eyes over the Chairman's flattering introduction, then with a queer faint flavour of hostility she reached her destined husband's utterance. She seemed to hear the flat full tones of his voice as she read, and automatically the desiccated sentences of the reporter filled out again into those rich quietly deliberate unfoldings of sound that were already too familiar to her ear. Mr. Magnet had begun with modest disavowals. "There was a story, he said,"--so the report began--"whose hallowed antiquity ought to protect it from further exploitation, but he was tempted to repeat it because it offered certain analogies to the present situation. There were three characters in the story, a bluebottle and two Scotsmen. (Laughter.) The bluebottle buzzed on the pane, otherwise a profound silence reigned. This was broken by one of the Scotsmen trying to locate the bluebottle with zoölogical exactitude. Said this Scotsman: 'Sandy, I am thinking if yon fly is a birdie or a beastie.' The other replied: 'Man, don't spoil good whiskey with religious conversation.' (Laughter.) He was tempted, Mr. Magnet resumed, to ask himself and them why it was that they should spoil the aftereffects of a most excellent and admirably served dinner by an academic discussion on British humour. At first he was pained by the thought that they proposed to temper their hospitality with a demand for a speech. A closer inspection showed that he was to introduce a debate and that others were to speak, and that was a new element in their hospitality. Further, he was permitted to choose the subject so that he could bring their speeches within the range of his comprehension. (Laughter.) His was an easy task. He could make it easier; the best thing to do would be to say nothing at all. (Laughter.)" For a space the reporter seemed to have omitted largely--perhaps he was changing places with his relief--and the next sentence showed Mr. Magnet engaged as it were in revising a _hortus siccus_ of jokes. "There was the humour of facts and situations," he was saying, "or that humour of expression for which there was no human responsibility, as in the case of Irish humour; he spoke of the humour of the soil which found its noblest utterance in the bull. Humour depended largely on contrast. There was a humour of form and expression which had many local varieties. American humour had been characterized by exaggeration, the suppression of some link in the chain of argument or narrative, and a wealth of simile and metaphor which had been justly defined as the poetry of a pioneer race."... Marjorie's attention slipped its anchor, and caught lower down upon: "In England there was a near kinship between laughter and tears; their mental relations were as close as their physical. Abroad this did not appear to be the case. It was different in France. But perhaps on the whole it would be better to leave the humour of France and what some people still unhappily chose to regard as matters open to controversy--he referred to choice of subject--out of their discussion altogether. ('Hear, hear,' and cheers.)"... Attention wandered again. Then she remarked:--it reminded her in some mysterious way of a dropped hairpin--"It was noticeable that the pun to a great extent had become démodé...." At this point the flight of Marjorie's eyes down the column was arrested by her father's hand gently but firmly taking possession of the _Times_. She yielded it without reluctance, turned to the breakfast table, and never resumed her study of the social relaxations of humorists.... Indeed she forgot it. Her mind was in a state of extreme perplexity. She didn't know what to make of herself or anything or anybody. Her mind was full of Trafford and all that he had said and done and all that he might have said and done, and it was entirely characteristic that she could not think of Magnet in any way at all except as a bar-like shadow that lay across all her memories and all the bright possibilities of this engaging person. She thought particularly of the mobile animation of his face, the keen flash of enthusiasm in his thoughts and expressions.... It was perhaps more characteristic of her time than of her that she did not think she was dealing so much with a moral problem as an embarrassment, and that she hadn't as yet felt the first stirrings of self-reproach for the series of disingenuous proceedings that had rendered the yesterday's encounter possible. But she was restless, wildly restless as a bird whose nest is taken. She could abide nowhere. She fretted through the morning, avoided Daffy in a marked manner, and inflicted a stinging and only partially merited rebuke upon Theodore for slouching, humping and--of all trite grievances!--not washing behind his ears. As if any chap washed behind his ears! She thought tennis with the pseudo-twins might assuage her, but she broke off after losing two sets; and then she went into the garden to get fresh flowers, and picked a large bunch and left them on the piano until her mother reminded her of them. She tried a little Shaw. She struggled with an insane wish to walk through the wood behind the village and have an accidental meeting with someone who couldn't possibly appear but whom it would be quite adorable to meet. Anyhow she conquered that. She had a curious and rather morbid indisposition to go after lunch to the station and meet Mr. Magnet as her mother wished her to do, in order to bring him straight to the vicarage to early tea, but here again reason prevailed and she went. Mr. Magnet arrived by the 2.27, and to Marjorie's eye his alighting presence had an effect of being not so much covered with laurels as distended by them. His face seemed whiter and larger than ever. He waved a great handful of newspapers. "Hullo, Magsy!" he said. "They've given me a thumping Press. I'm nearer swelled head than I've ever been, so mind how you touch me!" "We'll take it down at croquet," said Marjorie. "They've cleared that thing away?" "And made up the lawn like a billiard table," she said. "That makes for skill," he said waggishly. "I shall save my head after all." For a moment he seemed to loom towards kissing her, but she averted this danger by a business-like concern for his bag. He entrusted this to a porter, and reverted to the triumph of overnight so soon as they were clear of the station. He was overflowing with kindliness towards his fellow humorists, who had appeared in force and very generously at the banquet, and had said the most charming things--some of which were in one report and some in another, and some the reporters had missed altogether--some of the kindliest. "It's a pleasant feeling to think that a lot of good fellows think you are a good fellow," said Mr. Magnet. He became solicitous for her. How had she got on while he was away? She asked him how one was likely to get on at Buryhamstreet; monoplanes didn't fall every day, and as she said that it occurred to her she was behaving meanly. But he was going on to his next topic before she could qualify. "I've got something in my pocket," he remarked, and playfully: "Guess." She did, but she wouldn't. She had a curious sinking of the heart. "I want you to see it before anyone else," he said. "Then if you don't like it, it can go back. It's a sapphire." He was feeling nervously in his pockets and then the little box was in her hand. She hesitated to open it. It made everything so dreadfully concrete. And this time the sense of meanness was altogether acuter. He'd bought this in London; he'd brought it down, hoping for her approval. Yes, it was--horrid. But what was she to do? "It's--awfully pretty," she said with the glittering symbol in her hand, and indeed he had gone to one of those artistic women who are reviving and improving upon the rich old Roman designs. "It's so beautifully made." "I'm so glad you like it. You really _do_ like it?" "I don't deserve it." "Oh! But you _do_ like it?" "Enormously." "Ah! I spent an hour in choosing it." She could see him. She felt as though she had picked his pocket. "Only I don't deserve it, Mr. Magnet. Indeed I don't. I feel I am taking it on false pretences." "Nonsense, Magsy. Nonsense! Slip it on your finger, girl." "But I don't," she insisted. He took the box from her, pocketed it and seized her hand. She drew it away from him. "No!" she said. "I feel like a cheat. You know, I don't--I'm sure I don't love----" "I'll love enough for two," he said, and got her hand again. "No!" he said at her gesture, "you'll wear it. Why shouldn't you?" And so Marjorie came back along the vicarage avenue with his ring upon her hand. And Mr. Pope was evidently very glad to see him.... The family was still seated at tea upon rugs and wraps, and still discussing humorists at play, when Professor Trafford appeared, leaning on a large stick and limping, but resolute, by the church gate. "Pish!" said Mr. Pope. Marjorie tried not to reveal a certain dismay, there was dumb, rich approval in Daphne's eyes, and the pleasure of Theodore and the pseudo-twins was only too scandalously evident. "Hoo-Ray!" said Theodore, with ill-concealed relief. Mrs. Pope was the incarnate invocation of tact as Trafford drew near. "I hope," he said, with obvious insincerity, "I don't invade you. But Solomonson is frightfully concerned and anxious about your lawn, and whether his men cleared it up properly and put things right." His eye went about the party and rested on Marjorie. "How are you?" he said, in a friendly voice. "Well, we seem to have got our croquet lawn back," said Mr. Pope. "And our nerves are recovering. How is Sir Rupert?" "A little fractious," said Trafford, with the ghost of a smile. "You'll take some tea?" said Mrs. Pope in the pause that followed. "Thank you," said Trafford and sat down instantly. "I saw your jolly address in the _Standard_," he said to Magnet. "I haven't read anything so amusing for some time." "Rom dear," said Mrs. Pope, "will you take the pot in and get some fresh tea?" Mr. Trafford addressed himself to the flattery of Magnet with considerable skill. He had detected a lurking hostility in the eyes of the two gentlemen that counselled him to propitiate them if he meant to maintain his footing in the vicarage, and now he talked to them almost exclusively and ignored the ladies modestly but politely in the way that seems natural and proper in a British middle-class house of the better sort. But as he talked chiefly of the improvement of motor machinery that had recently been shown at the Engineering Exhibition, he did not make that headway with Marjorie's father that he had perhaps anticipated. Mr. Pope fumed quietly for a time, and then suddenly spoke out. "I'm no lover of machines," he said abruptly, slashing across Mr. Trafford's description. "All our troubles began with villainous saltpetre. I'm an old-fashioned man with a nose--and a neck, and I don't want the one offended or the other broken. No, don't ask me to be interested in your valves and cylinders. What do you say, Magnet? It starts machinery in my head to hear about them...." On such occasions as this when Mr. Pope spoke out, his horror of an anti-climax or any sort of contradiction was apt to bring the utterance to a culmination not always to be distinguished from a flight. And now he rose to his feet as he delivered himself. "Who's for a game of tennis?" he said, "in this last uncontaminated patch of air? I and Marjorie will give you a match, Daffy--if Magnet isn't too tired to join you." Daffy looked at Marjorie for an instant. "We'll want you, Theodore, to look after the balls in the potatoes," said Mr. Pope lest that ingenuous mind should be corrupted behind his back.... Mrs. Pope found herself left to entertain a slightly disgruntled Trafford. Rom and Syd hovered on the off chance of notice, at the corner of the croquet lawn nearest the tea things. Mrs. Pope had already determined to make certain little matters clearer than they appeared to be to this agreeable but superfluous person, and she was greatly assisted by his opening upon the subject of her daughters. "Jolly tennis looks," he said. "Don't they?" said Mrs. Pope. "I think it is such a graceful game for a girl." Mr. Trafford glanced at Mrs. Pope's face, but her expression was impenetrable. "They both like it and play it so well," she said. "Their father is so skillful and interested in games. Marjorie tells me you were her examiner a year or so ago." "Yes. She struck my memory--her work stood out." "Of course she is clever," said Mrs. Pope. "Or we shouldn't have sent her to Oxbridge. There she's doing quite well--quite well. Everyone says so. I don't know, of course, if Mr. Magnet will let her finish there." "Mr. Magnet?" "She's just engaged to him. Of course she's frightfully excited about it, and naturally he wants her to come away and marry. There's very little excuse for a long engagement. No." Her voice died in a musical little note, and she seemed to be scrutinizing the tennis with an absorbed interest. "They've got new balls," she said, as if to herself. Trafford had rolled over, and she fancied she detected a change in his voice when it came. "Isn't it rather a waste not to finish a university career?" he said. "Oh, it wouldn't be wasted. Of course a girl like that will be hand and glove with her husband. She'll be able to help him with the scientific side of his jokes and all that. I sometimes wish it had been Daffy who had gone to college though. I sometimes think we've sacrificed Daffy a little. She's not the bright quickness of Marjorie, but there's something quietly solid about her mind--something _stable_. Perhaps I didn't want her to go away from me.... Mr. Magnet is doing wonders at the net. He's just begun to play--to please Marjorie. Don't you think he's a dreadfully amusing man, Mr. Trafford? He says such _quiet_ things." § 9 The effect of this _éclaircissement_ upon Mr. Trafford was not what it should have been. Properly he ought to have realized at once that Marjorie was for ever beyond his aspirations, and if he found it too difficult to regard her with equanimity, then he ought to have shunned her presence. But instead, after his first shock of incredulous astonishment, his spirit rose in a rebellion against arranged facts that was as un-English as it was ungentlemanly. He went back to Solomonson with a mood of thoughtful depression giving place to a growing passion of indignation. He presented it to himself in a generalized and altruistic form. "What the deuce is the good of all this talk of Eugenics," he asked himself aloud, "if they are going to hand over that shining girl to that beastly little area sneak?" He called Mr. Magnet a "beastly little area sneak!" Nothing could show more clearly just how much he had contrived to fall in love with Marjorie during his brief sojourn in Buryhamstreet and the acuteness of his disappointment, and nothing could be more eloquent of his forcible and undisciplined temperament. And out of ten thousand possible abusive epithets with which his mind was no doubt stored, this one, I think, had come into his head because of the alert watchfulness with which Mr. Magnet followed a conversation, as he waited his chance for some neat but brilliant flash of comment.... Trafford, like Marjorie, was another of those undisciplined young people our age has produced in such significant quantity. He was just six-and-twenty, but the facts that he was big of build, had as an only child associated much with grown-up people, and was already a conspicuous success in the world of micro-chemical research, had given him the self-reliance and assurance of a much older man. He had still to come his croppers and learn most of the important lessons in life, and, so far, he wasn't aware of it. He was naturally clean-minded, very busy and interested in his work, and on remarkably friendly and confidential terms with his mother who kept house for him, and though he had had several small love disturbances, this was the first occasion that anything of the kind had ploughed deep into his feelings and desires. Trafford's father had died early in life. He had been a brilliant pathologist, one of that splendid group of scientific investigators in the middle Victorian period which shines ever more brightly as our criticism dims their associated splendours, and he had died before he was thirty through a momentary slip of the scalpel. His wife--she had been his wife for five years--found his child and his memory and the quality of the life he had made about her too satisfying for the risks of a second marriage, and she had brought up her son with a passionate belief in the high mission of research and the supreme duty of seeking out and expressing truth finely. And here he was, calling Mr. Magnet a "beastly little area sneak." The situation perplexed him. Marjorie perplexed him. It was, had he known it, the beginning for him of a lifetime of problems and perplexities. He was absolutely certain she didn't love Magnet. Why, then, had she agreed to marry him? Such pressures and temptations as he could see about her seemed light to him in comparison with such an undertaking. Were they greater than he supposed? His method of coming to the issue of that problem was entirely original. He presented himself next afternoon with the air of an invited guest, drove Mr. Pope who was suffering from liver, to expostulatory sulking in the study, and expressed a passionate craving for golf-croquet, in spite of Mrs. Pope's extreme solicitude for his still bandaged ankle. He was partnered with Daffy, and for a long time he sought speech with Marjorie in vain. At last he was isolated in a corner of the lawn, and with the thinnest pretence of inadvertence, in spite of Daffy's despairing cry of "She plays next!" he laid up within two yards of her. He walked across to her as she addressed herself to her ball, and speaking in an incredulous tone and with the air of a comment on the game, he said: "I say, are you engaged to that chap Magnet?" Marjorie was amazed, but remarkably not offended. Something in his tone set her trembling. She forgot to play, and stood with her mallet hanging in her hand. "Punish him!" came the voice of Magnet from afar. "Yes," she said faintly. His remark came low and clear. It had a note of angry protest. "_Why?_" Marjorie, by the way of answer, hit her ball so that it jumped and missed his, ricochetted across the lawn and out of the ground on the further side. "I'm sorry if I've annoyed you," said Trafford, as Marjorie went after her ball, and Daffy thanked heaven aloud for the respite. They came together no more for a time, and Trafford, observant with every sense, found no clue to the riddle of her grave, intent bearing. She played very badly, and with unusual care and deliberation. He felt he had made a mess of things altogether, and suddenly found his leg was too painful to go on. "Partner," he asked, "will you play out my ball for me? I can't go on. I shall have to go." Marjorie surveyed him, while Daffy and Magnet expressed solicitude. He turned to go, mallet in hand, and found Marjorie following him. "Is that the heavier mallet?" she asked, and stood before him looking into his eyes and weighing a mallet in either hand. "Mr. Trafford, you're one of the worst examiners I've ever met," she said. He looked puzzled. "I don't know _why_," said Marjorie, "I wonder as much as you. But I am"; and seeing the light dawning in his eyes, she turned about, and went back to the debacle of her game. § 10 After that Mr. Trafford had one clear desire in his being which ruled all his other desires. He wanted a long, frank, unembarrassed and uninterrupted conversation with Marjorie. He had a very strong impression that Marjorie wanted exactly the same thing. For a week he besieged the situation in vain. After the fourth day Solomonson was only kept in Buryhamstreet by sheer will-power, exerted with a brutality that threatened to end that friendship abruptly. He went home on the sixth day in his largest car, but Trafford stayed on beyond the limits of decency to perform some incomprehensible service that he spoke of as "clearing up." "I want," he said, "to clear up." "But what _is_ there to clear up, my dear boy?" "Solomonson, you're a pampered plutocrat," said Trafford, as though everything was explained. "I don't see any sense in it at all," said Solomonson, and regarded his friend aslant with thick, black eyebrows raised. "I'm going to stay," said Trafford. And Solomonson said one of those unhappy and entirely disregarded things that ought never to be said. "There's some girl in this," said Solomonson. "Your bedroom's always waiting for you at Riplings," he said, when at last he was going off.... Trafford's conviction that Marjorie also wanted, with an almost equal eagerness, the same opportunity for speech and explanations that he desired, sustained him in a series of unjustifiable intrusions upon the seclusion of the Popes. But although the manner of Mr. and Mrs. Pope did change considerably for the better after his next visit, it was extraordinary how impossible it seemed for him and Marjorie to achieve their common end of an encounter. Always something intervened. In the first place, Mrs. Pope's disposition to optimism had got the better of her earlier discretions, and a casual glance at Daphne's face when their visitor reappeared started quite a new thread of interpretations in her mind. She had taken the opportunity of hinting at this when Mr. Pope asked over his shirt-stud that night, "What the devil that--that chauffeur chap meant by always calling in the afternoon." "Now that Will Magnet monopolizes Marjorie," she said, after a little pause and a rustle or so, "I don't see why Daffy shouldn't have a little company of her own age." Mr. Pope turned round and stared at her. "I didn't think of that," he said. "But, anyhow, I don't like the fellow." "He seems to be rather clever," said Mrs. Pope, "though he certainly talks too much. And after all it was Sir Rupert's aeroplane. _He_ was only driving it to oblige." "He'll think twice before he drives another," said Mr. Pope, wrenching off his collar.... Once Mrs. Pope had turned her imagination in this more and more agreeable direction, she was rather disposed, I am afraid, to let it bolt with her. And it was a deflection that certainly fell in very harmoniously with certain secret speculations of Daphne's. Trafford, too, being quite unused to any sort of social furtiveness, did perhaps, in order to divert attention from his preoccupation with Marjorie, attend more markedly to Daphne than he would otherwise have done. And so presently he found Daphne almost continuously on his hands. So far as she was concerned, he might have told her the entire history of his life, and every secret he had in the world, without let or hindrance. Mrs. Pope, too, showed a growing appreciation of his company, became sympathetic and confidential in a way that invited confidence, and threw a lot of light on her family history and Daffy's character. She had found Daffy a wonderful study, she said. Mr. Pope, too, seemed partly reconciled to him. The idea that, after all, both motor cars and monoplane were Sir Rupert's, and not Trafford's, had produced a reaction in the latter gentleman's favour. Moreover, it had occurred to him that Trafford's accident had perhaps disposed him towards a more thoughtful view of mechanical traction, and that this tendency would be greatly helped by a little genial chaff. So that he ceased to go indoors when Trafford was there, and hung about, meditating and delivering sly digs at this new victim of his ripe, old-fashioned humour. Nor did it help Trafford in his quest for Marjorie and a free, outspoken delivery that the pseudo-twins considered him a person of very considerable charm, and that Theodore, though indisposed to "suck up" to him publicly--I write here in Theodorese--did so desire intimate and solitary communion with him, more particularly in view of the chances of an adventitious aeroplane ride that seemed to hang about him--as to stalk him persistently--hovering on the verge of groups, playing a waiting game with a tennis ball and an old racquet, strolling artlessly towards the gate of the avenue when the time seemed ripening for his appearance or departure. On the other hand, Marjorie was greatly entangled by Magnet. Magnet was naturally an attentive lover; he was full of small encumbering services, and it made him none the less assiduous to perceive that Marjorie seemed to find no sort of pleasure in all the little things he did. He seemed to think that if picking the very best rose he could find for her did not cause a very perceptible brightening in her, then it was all the more necessary quietly to force her racquet from her hand and carry it for her, or help her ineffectually to cross a foot-wide ditch, or offer to read her in a rich, abundant, well modulated voice, some choice passage from "The Forest Lovers" of Mr. Maurice Hewlett. And behind these devotions there was a streak of jealousy. He knew as if by instinct that it was not wise to leave these two handsome young people together; he had a queer little disagreeable sensation whenever they spoke to one another or looked at one another. Whenever Trafford and Marjorie found themselves in a group, there was Magnet in the midst of them. He knew the value of his Marjorie, and did not mean to lose her.... Being jointly baffled in this way was oddly stimulating to Marjorie's and Trafford's mutual predisposition. If you really want to throw people together, the thing to do--thank God for Ireland!--is to keep them apart. By the fourth day of this emotional incubation, Marjorie was thinking of Trafford to the exclusion of all her reading; and Trafford was lying awake at nights--oh, for half an hour and more--thinking of bold, decisive ways of getting at Marjorie, and bold, decisive things to say to her when he did. (But why she should be engaged to Magnet continued, nevertheless, to puzzle him extremely. It was a puzzle to which no complete solution was ever to be forthcoming....) § 11 At last that opportunity came. Marjorie had come with her mother into the village, and while Mrs. Pope made some purchases at the general shop she walked on to speak to Mrs. Blythe the washerwoman. Trafford suddenly emerged from the Red Lion with a soda syphon under each arm. She came forward smiling. "I say," he said forthwith, "I want to talk with you--badly." "And I," she said unhesitatingly, "with you." "How can we?" "There's always people about. It's absurd." "We'll have to meet." "Yes." "I have to go away to-morrow. I ought to have gone two days ago. Where _can_ we meet?" She had it all prepared. "Listen," she said. "There is a path runs from our shrubbery through a little wood to a stile on the main road." He nodded. "Either I will be there at three or about half-past five or--there's one more chance. While father and Mr. Magnet are smoking at nine.... I might get away." "Couldn't I write?" "No. Impossible." "I've no end of things to say...." Mrs. Pope appeared outside her shop, and Trafford gesticulated a greeting with the syphons. "All right," he said to Marjorie. "I'm shopping," he cried as Mrs. Pope approached. § 12 All through the day Marjorie desired to go to Trafford and could not do so. It was some minutes past nine when at last with a swift rustle of skirts that sounded louder than all the world to her, she crossed the dimly lit hall between dining-room and drawing-room and came into the dreamland of moonlight upon the lawn. She had told her mother she was going upstairs; at any moment she might be missed, but she would have fled now to Trafford if an army pursued her. Her heart seemed beating in her throat, and every fibre of her being was aquiver. She flitted past the dining-room window like a ghost, she did not dare to glance aside at the smokers within, and round the lawn to the shrubbery, and so under a blackness of trees to the gate where he stood waiting. And there he was, dim and mysterious and wonderful, holding the gate open for her, and she was breathless, and speechless, and near sobbing. She stood before him for a moment, her face moonlit and laced with the shadows of little twigs, and then his arms came out to her. "My darling," he said, "Oh, my darling!" They had no doubt of one another or of anything in the world. They clung together; their lips came together fresh and untainted as those first lovers' in the garden. "I will die for you," he said, "I will give all the world for you...." They had thought all through the day of a hundred statements and explanations they would make when this moment came, and never a word of it all was uttered. All their anticipations of a highly strung eventful conversation vanished, phrases of the most striking sort went like phantom leaves before a gale. He held her and she clung to him between laughing and sobbing, and both were swiftly and conclusively assured their lives must never separate again. § 13 Marjorie never knew whether it was a moment or an age before her father came upon them. He had decided to take a turn in the garden when Magnet could no longer restrain himself from joining the ladies, and he chanced to be stick in hand because that was his habit after twilight. So it was he found them. She heard his voice falling through love and moonlight like something that comes out of an immense distance. "Good God!" he cried, "what next!" But he still hadn't realized the worst. "Daffy," he said, "what in the name of goodness----?" Marjorie put her hands before her face too late. "Good Lord!" he cried with a rising inflection, "it's Madge!" Trafford found the situation difficult. "I should explain----" But Mr. Pope was giving himself up to a towering rage. "You damned scoundrel!" he said. "What the devil are you doing?" He seized Marjorie by the arm and drew her towards him. "My poor misguided girl!" he said, and suddenly she was tensely alive, a little cry of horror in her throat, for her father, at a loss for words and full of heroic rage, had suddenly swung his stick with passionate force, and struck at Trafford's face. She heard the thud, saw Trafford wince and stiffen. For a perfectly horrible moment it seemed to her these men, their faces queerly distorted by the shadows of the branches in the slanting moonlight, might fight. Then she heard Trafford's voice, sounding cool and hard, and she knew that he would do nothing of the kind. In that instant if there had remained anything to win in Marjorie it was altogether won. "I asked your daughter to meet me here," he said. "Be off with you, sir!" cried Mr. Pope. "Don't tempt me further, sir," and swung his stick again. But now the force had gone out of him. Trafford stood with a hand out ready for him, and watched his face. "I asked your daughter to meet me here, and she came. I am prepared to give you any explanation----" "If you come near this place again----" For some moments Marjorie's heart had been held still, now it was beating violently. She felt this scene must end. "Mr. Trafford," she said, "will you go. Go now. Nothing shall keep us apart!" Mr. Pope turned on her. "Silence, girl!" he said. "I shall come to you to-morrow," said Trafford. "Yes," said Marjorie, "to-morrow." "Marjorie!" said Mr. Pope, "_will_ you go indoors." "I have done nothing----" "Be off, sir." "I have done nothing----" "Will you be off, sir? And you, Marjorie--will you go indoors?" He came round upon her, and after one still moment of regard for Trafford--and she looked very beautiful in the moonlight with her hair a little disordered and her face alight--she turned to precede her father through the shrubbery. Mr. Pope hesitated whether he should remain with Trafford. A perfectly motionless man is very disconcerting. "Be off, sir," he said over his shoulder, lowered through a threatening second, and followed her. But Trafford remained stiffly with a tingling temple down which a little thread of blood was running, until their retreating footsteps had died down into that confused stirring of little sounds which makes the stillness of an English wood at night. Then he roused himself with a profound sigh, and put a hand to his cut and bruised cheek. "_Well!_" he said. CHAPTER THE FOURTH CRISIS § 1 Crisis prevailed in Buryhamstreet that night. On half a dozen sleepless pillows souls communed with the darkness, and two at least of those pillows were wet with tears. Not one of those wakeful heads was perfectly clear about the origins and bearings of the trouble; not even Mr. Pope felt absolutely sure of himself. It had come as things come to people nowadays, because they will not think things out, much less talk things out, and are therefore in a hopeless tangle of values that tightens sooner or later to a knot.... What an uncharted perplexity, for example, was the mind of that excellent woman Mrs. Pope! Poor lady! she hadn't a stable thing in her head. It is remarkable that some queer streak in her composition sympathized with Marjorie's passion for Trafford. But she thought it such a pity! She fought that sympathy down as if it were a wicked thing. And she fought too against other ideas that rose out of the deeps and did not so much come into her mind as cluster at the threshold, the idea that Marjorie was in effect grown up, a dozen queer criticisms of Magnet, and a dozen subtle doubts whether after all Marjorie was going to be happy with him as she assured herself the girl would be. (So far as any one knew Trafford might be an excellent match!) And behind these would-be invaders of her guarded mind prowled even worse ones, doubts, horrible disloyal doubts, about the wisdom and kindness of Mr. Pope. Quite early in life Mrs. Pope had realized that it is necessary to be very careful with one's thoughts. They lead to trouble. She had clipped the wings of her own mind therefore so successfully that all her conclusions had become evasions, all her decisions compromises. Her profoundest working conviction was a belief that nothing in the world was of value but "tact," and that the art of living was to "tide things over." But here it seemed almost beyond her strength to achieve any sort of tiding over.... (Why _couldn't_ Mr. Pope lie quiet?) Whatever she said or did had to be fitted to the exigencies of Mr. Pope. Availing himself of the privileges of matrimony, her husband so soon as Mr. Magnet had gone and they were upstairs together, had explained the situation with vivid simplicity, and had gone on at considerable length and with great vivacity to enlarge upon his daughter's behaviour. He ascribed this moral disaster,--he presented it as a moral disaster of absolutely calamitous dimensions--entirely to Mrs. Pope's faults and negligences. Warming with his theme he had employed a number of homely expressions rarely heard by decent women except in these sacred intimacies, to express the deep indignation of a strong man moved to unbridled speech by the wickedness of those near and dear to him. Still warming, he raised his voice and at last shouted out his more forcible meanings, until she feared the servants and children might hear, waved a clenched fist at imaginary Traffords and scoundrels generally, and giving way completely to his outraged virtue, smote and kicked blameless articles of furniture in a manner deeply impressive to the feminine intelligence. Finally he sat down in the little arm-chair between her and the cupboard where she was accustomed to hang up her clothes, stuck out his legs very stiffly across the room, and despaired of his family in an obtrusive and impregnable silence for an enormous time. All of which awakened a deep sense of guilt and unworthiness in Mrs. Pope's mind, and prevented her going to bed, but did not help her in the slightest degree to grasp the difficulties of the situation.... She would have lain awake anyhow, but she was greatly helped in this by Mr. Pope's restlessness. He was now turning over from left to right or from right to left at intervals of from four to seven minutes, and such remarks as "Damned scoundrel! Get out of this!" or "_My_ daughter and degrade yourself in this way!" or "Never let me see your face again!" "Plight your troth to one man, and fling yourself shamelessly--I repeat it, Marjorie, shamelessly--into the arms of another!" kept Mrs. Pope closely in touch with the general trend of his thoughts. She tried to get together her plans and perceptions rather as though she swept up dead leaves on a gusty day. She knew that the management of the whole situation rested finally on her, and that whatever she did or did not do, or whatever arose to thwart her arrangements, its entire tale of responsibility would ultimately fall upon her shoulders. She wondered what was to be done with Marjorie, with Mr. Magnet? Need he know? Could that situation be saved? Everything at present was raw in her mind. Except for her husband's informal communications she did not even know what had appeared, what Daffy had seen, what Magnet thought of Marjorie's failure to bid him good-night. For example, had Mr. Magnet noticed Mr. Pope's profound disturbance? She had to be ready to put a face on things before morning, and it seemed impossible she could do so. In times of crisis, as every woman knows, it is always necessary to misrepresent everything to everybody, but how she was to dovetail her misrepresentations, get the best effect from them, extract a working system of rights and wrongs from them, she could not imagine.... (Oh! she did so wish Mr. Pope would lie quiet.) But he had no doubts of what became _him_. He had to maintain a splendid and irrational rage--at any cost--to anybody. § 2 A few yards away, a wakeful Marjorie confronted a joyless universe. She had a baffling realization that her life was in a hopeless mess, that she really had behaved disgracefully, and that she couldn't for a moment understand how it had happened. She had intended to make quite sure of Trafford--and then put things straight. Only her father had spoilt everything. She regarded her father that night with a want of natural affection terrible to record. Why had he come just when he had, just as he had? Why had he been so violent, so impossible? Of course, she had no business to be there.... She examined her character with a new unprecedented detachment. Wasn't she, after all, rather a mean human being? It had never occurred to her before to ask such a question. Now she asked it with only too clear a sense of the answer. She tried to trace how these multiplying threads of meanness had first come into the fabric of a life she had supposed herself to be weaving in extremely bright, honourable, and adventurous colours. She ought, of course, never to have accepted Magnet.... She faced the disagreeable word; was she a liar? At any rate, she told lies. And she'd behaved with extraordinary meanness to Daphne. She realized that now. She had known, as precisely as if she had been told, how Daphne felt about Trafford, and she'd never given her an inkling of her own relations. She hadn't for a moment thought of Daphne. No wonder Daffy was sombre and bitter. Whatever she knew, she knew enough. She had heard Trafford's name in urgent whispers on the landing. "I suppose you couldn't leave him alone," Daffy had said, after a long hostile silence. That was all. Just a sentence without prelude or answer flung across the bedroom, revealing a perfect understanding--deeps of angry disillusionment. Marjorie had stared and gasped, and made no answer. Would she ever see him again? After this horror of rowdy intervention? She didn't deserve to; she didn't deserve anything.... Oh, the tangle of it all! The tangle of it all! And those bills at Oxbridge! She was just dragging Trafford down into her own miserable morass of a life. Her thoughts would take a new turn. "I love him," she whispered soundlessly. "I would die for him. I would like to lie under his feet--and him not know it." Her mind hung on that for a long time. "Not know it until afterwards," she corrected. She liked to be exact, even in despair.... And then in her memory he was struck again, and stood stiff and still. She wanted to kneel to him, imagined herself kneeling.... And so on, quite inconclusively, round and round through the interminable night hours. § 3 The young man in the village was, if possible, more perplexed, round-eyed and generally inconclusive than anyone else in this series of nocturnal disturbances. He spent long intervals sitting on his window-sill regarding a world that was scented with nightstock, and seemed to be woven of moonshine and gossamer. Being an inexpert and infrequent soliloquist, his only audible comment on his difficulties was the repetition in varying intonations of his fervent, unalterable conviction that he was damned. But behind this simple verbal mask was a great fury of mental activity. He had something of Marjorie's amazement at the position of affairs. He had never properly realized that it was possible for any one to regard Marjorie as a daughter, to order her about and resent the research for her society as criminal. It was a new light in his world. Some day he was to learn the meaning of fatherhood, but in these night watches he regarded it as a hideous survival of mediæval darknesses. "Of course," he said, entirely ignoring the actual quality of their conversation, "she had to explain about the Magnet affair. Can't one--converse?" He reflected through great intervals. "I _will_ see her! Why on earth shouldn't I see her?" "I suppose they can't lock her up!" For a time he contemplated a writ of Habeas Corpus. He saw reason to regret the gaps in his legal knowledge. "Can any one get a writ of Habeas Corpus for any one--it doesn't matter whom"--more especially if you are a young man of six-and-twenty, anxious to exchange a few richly charged words with a girl of twenty who is engaged to someone else? The night had no answer. It was nearly dawn when he came to the entirely inadvisable conclusion--I use his own word's--to go and have it out with the old ruffian. He would sit down and ask him what he meant by it all--and reason with him. If he started flourishing that stick again, it would have to be taken away. And having composed a peroration upon the institution of the family of a character which he fondly supposed to be extraordinarily tolerant, reasonable and convincing, but which was indeed calculated to madden Mr. Pope to frenzy, Mr. Trafford went very peacefully to sleep. § 4 Came dawn, with a noise of birds and afterwards a little sleep, and then day, and heavy eyes opened again, and the sound of frying and the smell of coffee recalled our actors to the stage. Mrs. Pope was past her worst despair; always the morning brings courage and a clearer grasp of things, and she could face the world with plans shaped subconsciously during those last healing moments of slumber. Breakfast was difficult, but not impossible. Mr. Pope loomed like a thundercloud, but Marjorie pleaded a headache very wisely, and was taken a sympathetic cup of tea. The pseudo-twins scented trouble, but Theodore was heedless and over-full of an entertaining noise made by a moorhen as it dived in the ornamental water that morning. You could make it practically _sotto voce_, and it amused Syd. He seemed to think the _Times_ opaque to such small sounds, and learnt better only to be dismissed underfed and ignominiously from the table to meditate upon the imperfections of his soul in the schoolroom. There for a time he was silent, and then presently became audible again, playing with a ball and, presumably, Marjorie's tennis racquet. Directly she could disentangle herself from breakfast Mrs. Pope, with all her plans acute, went up to the girls' room. She found her daughter dressing in a leisurely and meditative manner. She shut the door almost confidentially. "Marjorie," she said, "I want you to tell me all about this." "I thought I heard father telling you," said Marjorie. "He was too indignant," said Mrs. Pope, "to explain clearly. You see, Marjorie"--she paused before her effort--"he knows things--about this Professor Trafford." "What things?" asked Marjorie, turning sharply. "I don't know, my dear--and I can't imagine." She looked out of the window, aware of Marjorie's entirely distrustful scrutiny. "I don't believe it," said Marjorie. "Don't believe what, dear?" "Whatever he says." "I wish I didn't," said Mrs. Pope, and turned. "Oh, Madge," she cried, "you cannot imagine how all this distresses me! I cannot--I cannot conceive how you came to be in such a position! Surely honour----! Think of Mr. Magnet, how good and patient he has been! You don't know that man. You don't know all he is, and all that it means to a girl. He is good and honourable and--pure. He is kindness itself. It seemed to me that you were to be so happy--rich, honoured." She was overcome by a rush of emotion; she turned to the bed and sat down. "_There!_" she said desolately. "It's all ruined, shattered, gone." Marjorie tried not to feel that her mother was right. "If father hadn't interfered," she said weakly. "Oh, don't, my dear, speak so coldly of your father! You don't know what he has to put up with. You don't know his troubles and anxieties--all this wretched business." She paused, and her face became portentous. "Marjorie, do you know if these railways go on as they are going he may have to _eat into his capital_ this year. Just think of that, and the worry he has! And this last shame and anxiety!" Her voice broke again. Marjorie listened with an expression that was almost sullen. "But what is it," she asked, "that father knows about Mr. Trafford?" "I don't know, dear. I don't know. But it's something that matters--that makes it all different." "Well, may I speak to Mr. Trafford before he leaves Buryhamstreet?" "My dear! Never see him, dear--never think of him again! Your father would not dream----Some day, Marjorie, you will rejoice--you will want to thank your father on your bended knees that he saved you from the clutches of this man...." "I won't believe anything about Mr. Trafford," she said slowly, "until I know----" She left the sentence incomplete. She made her declaration abruptly. "I love Mr. Trafford," she said, with a catch in her voice, "and I don't love Mr. Magnet." Mrs. Pope received this like one who is suddenly stabbed. She sat still as if overwhelmed, one hand pressed to her side and her eyes closed. Then she said, as if she gasped involuntarily-- "It's too dreadful! Marjorie," she said, "I want to ask you to do something. After all, a mother has _some_ claim. Will you wait just a little. Will you promise me to do nothing--nothing, I mean, to commit you--until your father has been able to make inquiries. Don't _see_ him for a little while. Very soon you'll be one-and-twenty, and then perhaps things may be different. If he cares for you, and you for him, a little separation won't matter.... Until your father has inquired...." "Mother," said Marjorie, "I can't----" Mrs. Pope drew in the air sharply between her teeth, as if in agony. "But, mother----Mother, I _must_ let Mr. Trafford know that I'm not to see him. I _can't_ suddenly cease.... If I could see him once----" "Don't!" said Mrs. Pope, in a hollow voice. Marjorie began weeping. "He'd not understand," she said. "If I might just speak to him!" "Not alone, Marjorie." Marjorie stood still. "Well--before you." Mrs. Pope conceded the point. "And then, Marjorie----" she said. "I'd keep my word, mother," said Marjorie, and began to sob in a manner she felt to be absurdly childish--"until--until I am one-and-twenty. I'd promise that." Mrs. Pope did a brief calculation. "Marjorie," she said, "it's only your happiness I think of." "I know," said Marjorie, and added in a low voice, "and father." "My dear, you don't understand your father.... I believe--I do firmly believe--if anything happened to any of you girls--anything bad--he would kill himself.... And I know he means that you aren't to go about so much as you used to do, unless we have the most definite promises. Of course, your father's ideas aren't always my ideas, Marjorie; but it's your duty--You know how hasty he is and--quick. Just as you know how good and generous and kind he is"--she caught Marjorie's eye, and added a little lamely--"at bottom." ... She thought. "I think I could get him to let you say just one word with Mr. Trafford. It would be very difficult, but----" She paused for a few seconds, and seemed to be thinking deeply. "Marjorie," she said, "Mr. Magnet must never know anything of this." "But, mother----!" "Nothing!" "I can't go on with my engagement!" Mrs. Pope shook her head inscrutably. "But how _can_ I, mother?" "You need not tell him _why_, Marjorie." "But----" "Just think how it would humiliate and distress him! You _can't_, Marjorie. You must find some excuse--oh, any excuse! But not the truth--not the truth, Marjorie. It would be too dreadful." Marjorie thought. "Look here, mother, I _may_ see Mr. Trafford again? I _may_ really speak to him?" "Haven't I promised?" "Then, I'll do as you say," said Marjorie. § 5 Mrs. Pope found her husband seated at the desk in the ultra-Protestant study, meditating gloomily. "I've been talking to her," she said, "She's in a state of terrible distress." "She ought to be," said Mr. Pope. "Philip, you don't understand Marjorie." "I don't." "You think she was kissing that man." "Well, she was." "You can think _that_ of her!" Mr. Pope turned his chair to her. "But I _saw!_" Mrs. Pope shook her head. "She wasn't; she was struggling to get away from him. She told me so herself. I've been into it with her. You don't understand, Philip. A man like that has a sort of fascination for a girl. He dazzles her. It's the way with girls. But you're quite mistaken.... Quite. It's a sort of hypnotism. She'll grow out of it. Of course, she _loves_ Mr. Magnet. She does indeed. I've not a doubt of it. But----" "You're _sure_ she wasn't kissing him?" "Positive." "Then why didn't you say so?" "A girl's so complex. You didn't give her a chance. She's fearfully ashamed of herself--fearfully! but it's just because she _is_ ashamed that she won't admit it." "I'll make her admit it." "You ought to have had all boys," said Mrs. Pope. "Oh! she'll admit it some day--readily enough. But I believe a girl of her spirit would rather _die_ than begin explaining. You can't expect it of her. Really you can't." He grunted and shook his head slowly from side to side. She sat down in the arm-chair beside the desk. "I want to know just exactly what we are to do about the girl, Philip. I can't bear to think of her--up there." "How?" he asked. "Up there?" "Yes," she answered with that skilful inconsecutiveness of hers, and let a brief silence touch his imagination. "Do you think that man means to come here again?" she asked. "Chuck him out if he does," said Mr. Pope, grimly. She pressed her lips together firmly. She seemed to be weighing things painfully. "I wouldn't," she said at last. "What do you mean?" asked Mr. Pope. "I do not want you to make an open quarrel with Mr. Trafford." "_Not_ quarrel!" "Not an open one," said Mrs. Pope. "Of course I know how nice it would be if you _could_ use a horsewhip, dear. There's such a lot of things--if we only just slash. But--it won't help. Get him to go away. She's consented never to see him again--practically. She's ready to tell him so herself. Part them against their will--oh! and the thing may go on for no end of time. But treat it as it ought to be treated--She'll be very tragic for a week or so, and then she'll forget him like a dream. He _is_ a dream--a girl's dream.... If only we leave it alone, she'll leave it alone." § 6 Things were getting straight, Mrs. Pope felt. She had now merely to add a few touches to the tranquillization of Daphne, and the misdirection of the twin's curiosity. These touches accomplished, it seemed that everything was done. After a brief reflection, she dismissed the idea of putting things to Theodore. She ran over the possibilities of the servants eavesdropping, and found them negligible. Yes, everything was done--everything. And yet.... The queer string in her nature between religiosity and superstition began to vibrate. She hesitated. Then she slipped upstairs, fastened the door, fell on her knees beside the bed and put the whole thing as acceptably as possible to Heaven in a silent, simple, but lucidly explanatory prayer.... She came out of her chamber brighter and braver than she had been for eighteen long hours. She could now, she felt, await the developments that threatened with the serenity of one who is prepared at every point. She went almost happily to the kitchen, only about forty-five minutes behind her usual time, to order the day's meals and see with her own eyes that economies prevailed. And it seemed to her, on the whole, consoling, and at any rate a distraction, when the cook informed her that after all she _had_ meant to give notice on the day of aunt Plessington's visit. § 7 The unsuspecting Magnet, fatigued but happy--for three hours of solid humorous writing (omitting every unpleasant suggestion and mingling in the most acceptable and saleable proportions smiles and tears) had added its quota to the intellectual heritage of England, made a simple light lunch cooked in homely village-inn fashion, lit a well merited cigar, and turned his steps towards the vicarage. He was preceded at some distance along the avenuesque drive by the back of Mr. Trafford, which he made no attempt to overtake. Mr. Trafford was admitted and disappeared, and a minute afterwards Magnet reached the door. Mrs. Pope appeared radiant--about the weather. A rather tiresome man had just called upon Mr. Pope about business matters, she said, and he might be detained five or ten minutes. Marjorie and Daffy were upstairs--resting. They had been disturbed by bats in the night. "Isn't it charmingly rural?" said Mrs. Pope. "_Bats!_" She talked about bats and the fear she had of their getting in her hair, and as she talked she led the way brightly but firmly as far as possible out of earshot of the windows of the ultra Protestant study in which Mr. Pope was now (she did so hope temperately) interviewing Mr. Trafford. § 8 Directly Mr. Trafford had reached the front door it had opened for him, and closed behind him at once. He had found himself with Mrs. Pope. "You wish to see my husband?" she had said, and had led him to the study forthwith. She had returned at once to intercept Mr. Magnet.... Trafford found Mr. Pope seated sternly at the centre of the writing desk, regarding him with a threatening brow. "Well, sir," said Mr. Pope breaking the silence, "you have come to offer some explanation----" While awaiting this encounter Mr. Pope had not been insensitive to the tactical and scenic possibilities of the occasion. In fact, he had spent the latter half of the morning in intermittent preparations, arranging desks, books, hassocks in advantageous positions, and not even neglecting such small details as the stamp tray, the articles of interest from Jerusalem, and the rock-crystal cenotaph, which he had exhibited in such a manner as was most calculated to damp, chill and subjugate an antagonist in the exposed area towards the window. He had also arranged the chairs in a highly favourable pattern. Mr. Trafford was greatly taken aback by Mr. Pope's juridical manner and by this form of address, and he was further put out by Mr. Pope saying with a regal gesture to the best illuminated and most isolated chair: "Be seated, sir." Mr. Trafford's exordium vanished from his mind, he was at a loss for words until spurred to speech by Mr. Pope's almost truculent: "Well?" "I am in love sir, with your daughter." "I am not aware of it," said Mr. Pope, and lifted and dropped the paper-weight. "My daughter, sir, is engaged to marry Mr. Magnet. If you had approached me in a proper fashion before presuming to attempt--to attempt----" His voice thickened with indignation,--"Liberties with her, you would have been duly informed of her position--and everyone would have been saved"--he lifted the paper-weight. "Everything that has happened." (Bump.) Mr. Trafford had to adjust himself to the unexpected elements in this encounter. "Oh!" he said. "Yes," said Mr. Pope, and there was a distinct interval. "Is your daughter in love with Mr. Magnet?" asked Mr. Trafford in an almost colloquial tone. Mr. Pope smiled gravely. "I presume so, sir." "She never gave me that impression, anyhow," said the young man. "It was neither her duty to give nor yours to receive that impression," said Mr. Pope. Again Mr. Trafford was at a loss. "Have you come here, sir, merely to bandy words?" asked Mr. Pope, drumming with ten fingers on the table. Mr. Trafford thrust his hands into his pockets and assumed a fictitious pose of ease. He had never found any one in his life before quite so provocative of colloquialism as Mr. Pope. "Look here, sir, this is all very well," he began, "but why can't I fall in love with your daughter? I'm a Doctor of Science and all that sort of thing. I've a perfectly decent outlook. My father was rather a swell in his science. I'm an entirely decent and respectable person." "I beg to differ," said Mr. Pope. "But I am." "Again," said Mr. Pope, with great patience, and a slight forward bowing of the head, "I beg to differ." "Well--differ. But all the same----" He paused and began again, and for a time they argued to no purpose. They generalized about the position of an engaged girl and the rights and privileges of a father. Then Mr. Pope, "to cut all this short," told him frankly he wasn't wanted, his daughter did not want him, nobody wanted him; he was an invader, he had to be got rid of--"if possible by peaceful means." Trafford disputed these propositions, and asked to see Marjorie. Mr. Pope had been leading up to this, and at once closed with that request. "She is as anxious as any one to end this intolerable siege," he said. He went to the door and called for Marjorie, who appeared with conspicuous promptitude. She was in a dress of green linen that made her seem very cool as well as very dignified to Trafford; she was tense with restrained excitement, and either--for these things shade into each other--entirely without a disposition to act her part or acting with consummate ability. Trafford rose at the sight of her, and remained standing. Mr. Pope closed the door and walked back to the desk. "Mr. Trafford has to be told," he said, "that you don't want him in Buryhamstreet." He arrested Marjorie's forward movement towards Trafford by a gesture of the hand, seated himself, and resumed his drumming on the table. "Well?" he said. "I don't think you ought to stay in Buryhamstreet, Mr. Trafford," said Marjorie. "You don't want me to?" "It will only cause trouble--and scenes." "You want me to go?" "Away from here." "You really mean that?" Marjorie did not answer for a little time; she seemed to be weighing the exact force of all she was going to say. "Mr. Trafford," she answered, "everything I've ever said to you--everything--I've _meant_, more than I've ever meant anything. Everything!" A little flush of colour came into Trafford's cheeks. He regarded Marjorie with a brightening eye. "Oh well," he said, "I don't understand. But I'm entirely in your hands, of course." Marjorie's pose and expression altered. For an instant she was a miracle of instinctive expression, she shone at him, she conveyed herself to him, she assured him. Her eyes met his, she stood warmly flushed and quite unconquered--visibly, magnificently _his_. She poured into him just that riotous pride and admiration that gives a man altogether to a woman.... Then it seemed as if a light passed, and she was just an everyday Marjorie standing there. "I'll do anything you want me to," said Trafford. "Then I want you to go." "Ah!" said Mr. Pope. "Yes," said Trafford, with his eyes on her self-possession. "I've promised not to write or send to you, or--think more than I can help of you, until I'm twenty-one--nearly two months from now." "And then?" "I don't know. How can I?" "You hear, sir?" from Mr. Pope, in the pause of mutual scrutiny that followed. "One question," said Mr. Trafford. "You've surely asked enough, sir," said Mr. Pope. "Are you still engaged to Magnet?" "Sir!" "Please, father;" said Marjorie, with unusual daring and in her mother's voice. "Mr. Trafford, after what I've told you--you must leave that to me." "She _is_ engaged to Mr. Magnet," said Mr. Pope. "Tell him outright, Marjorie. Make it clear." "I think I understand," said Trafford, with his eyes on Marjorie. "I've not seen Mr. Magnet since last night," said Marjorie. "And so--naturally--I'm still engaged to him." "Precisely!" said Mr. Pope, and turned with a face of harsh interrogation to his importunate caller. Mr. Trafford seemed disposed for further questions. "I don't think we need detain you, Madge," said Mr. Pope, over his shoulder. The two young people stood facing one another for a moment, and I am afraid that they were both extremely happy and satisfied with each other. It was all right, they were quite sure--all right. Their lips were almost smiling. Then Marjorie made an entirely dignified exit. She closed the door very softly, and Mr. Pope turned to his visitor again with a bleak politeness. "I hope that satisfies you," he said. "There is nothing more to be said at present, I admit," said Mr. Trafford. "Nothing," said Mr. Pope. Both gentlemen bowed. Mr. Pope rose ceremoniously, and Mr. Trafford walked doorward. He had a sense of latent absurdities in these tremendous attitudes. They passed through the hall--processionally. But just at the end some lower strain in Mr. Trafford's nature touched the fine dignity of the occasion with an inappropriate remark. "Good-bye, sir," said Mr. Pope, holding the housedoor wide. "Good-bye, sir," said Mr. Trafford, and then added with a note of untimely intimacy in his voice, with an inexcusable levity upon his lips: "You know--there's nobody--no man in the world--I'd sooner have for a father-in-law than you." Mr. Pope, caught unprepared on the spur of the moment, bowed in a cold and distant manner, and then almost immediately closed the door to save himself from violence.... From first to last neither gentleman had made the slightest allusion to a considerable bruise upon Mr. Trafford's left cheek, and a large abrasion above his ear. § 9 That afternoon Marjorie began her difficult task of getting disengaged from Mr. Magnet. It was difficult because she was pledged not to tell him of the one thing that made this line of action not only explicable, but necessary. Magnet, perplexed, and disconcerted, and secretly sustained by her mother's glancing sidelights on the feminine character and the instability of "girlish whims," remained at Buryhamstreet until the family returned to Hartstone Square. The engagement was ended--formally--but in such a manner that Magnet was left a rather pathetic and invincibly assiduous besieger. He lavished little presents upon both sisters, he devised little treats for the entire family, he enriched Theodore beyond the dreams of avarice, and he discussed his love and admiration for Marjorie, and the perplexities and delicacies of the situation not only with Mrs. Pope, but with Daphne. At first he had thought very little of Daphne, but now he was beginning to experience the subtle pleasures of a confidential friendship. She understood, he felt; it was quite wonderful how she understood. He found Daffy much richer in response than Marjorie, and far less disconcerting in reply.... Mr. Pope, for all Marjorie's submission to his wishes, developed a Grand Dudgeon of exceptionally fine proportions when he heard of the breach of the engagement. He ceased to speak to his daughter or admit himself aware of her existence, and the Grand Dudgeon's blighting shadow threw a chill over the life of every one in the house. He made it clear that the Grand Dudgeon would only be lifted by Marjorie's re-engagement to Magnet, and that whatever blight or inconvenience fell on the others was due entirely to Marjorie's wicked obstinacy. Using Mrs. Pope as an intermediary, he also conveyed to Marjorie his decision to be no longer burthened with the charges of her education at Oxbridge, and he made it seem extremely doubtful whether he should remember her approaching twenty-first birthday. Marjorie received the news of her severance from Oxbridge, Mrs. Pope thought, with a certain hardness. "I thought he would do that," said Marjorie. "He's always wanted to do that," and said no more. CHAPTER THE FIFTH A TELEPHONE CALL § 1 Trafford went back to Solomonson for a day or so, and then to London, to resume the experimental work of the research he had in hand. But he was so much in love with Marjorie that for some days it was a very dazed mind that fumbled with the apparatus--arranged it and rearranged it, and fell into daydreams that gave the utmost concern to Durgan the bottle-washer. "He's not going straight at things," said Durgan the bottle-washer to his wife. "He usually goes so straight at things it's a pleasure to watch it. He told me he was going down into Kent to think everything out." Mr. Durgan paused impressively, and spoke with a sigh of perplexity. "He hasn't...." But later Durgan was able to report that Trafford had pulled himself together. The work was moving. "I was worried for a bit," said Mr. Durgan. "But I _think_ it's all right again. I _believe_ it's all right again." § 2 Trafford was one of those rare scientific men who really ought to be engaged in scientific research. He could never leave an accepted formula alone. His mind was like some insatiable corrosive, that ate into all the hidden inequalities and plastered weaknesses of accepted theories, and bit its way through every plausibility of appearance. He was extraordinarily fertile in exasperating alternative hypotheses. His invention of destructive test experiments was as happy as the respectful irony with which he brought them into contact with the generalizations they doomed. He was already, at six-and-twenty, hated, abused, obstructed, and respected. He was still outside the Royal Society, of course, and the editors of the scientific periodicals admired his papers greatly, and delayed publication; but it was fairly certain that that pressure of foreign criticism and competition which prevents English scientific men of good family and social position from maintaining any such national standards as we are able to do in art, literature, and politics, would finally carry him in. And since he had a small professorship worth three hundred a year, which gave him the command of a sufficient research laboratory and the services of Mr. Durgan, a private income of nearly three hundred more, a devoted mother to keep house for him, and an invincible faith in Truth, he had every prospect of winning in his particular struggle to inflict more Truth, new lucidities, and fresh powers upon this fractious and unreasonable universe. In the world of science now, even more than in the world of literature and political thought, the thing that is alive struggles, half-suffocated, amidst a copious production of things born dead. The endowment of research, the organization of scientific progress, the creation of salaried posts, and the assignment of honours, has attracted to this field just that type of man which is least gifted to penetrate and discover, and least able to admit its own defect or the quality of a superior. Such men are producing great, bulky masses of imitative research, futile inquiries, and monstrous entanglements of technicality about their subjects; and it is to their instinctive antagonism to the idea of a "gift" in such things that we owe the preposterous conception of a training for research, the manufacture of mental blinkers that is to say, to avoid what is the very soul of brilliant inquiry--applicable discursiveness. The trained investigator is quite the absurdest figure in the farce of contemporary intellectual life; he is like a bath-chair perpetually starting to cross the Himalayas by virtue of a licence to do so. For such enterprises one must have wings. Organization and genius are antipathetic. The vivid and creative mind, by virtue of its qualities, is a spasmodic and adventurous mind; it resents blinkers, and the mere implication that it can be driven in harness to the unexpected. It demands freedom. It resents regular attendance from ten to four and punctualities in general and all those paralyzing minor tests of conduct that are vitally important to the imagination of the authoritative dull. Consequently, it is being eliminated from its legitimate field, and it is only here and there among the younger men that such a figure as Trafford gives any promise of a renewal of that enthusiasm, that intellectual enterprise, which were distinctive of the great age of scientific advance. Trafford was the only son of his parents. His father had been a young surgeon, more attracted by knowledge than practice, who had been killed by a scratch of the scalpel in an investigation upon ulcerative processes, at the age of twenty-nine. Trafford at that time was three years old, so that he had not the least memory of his father; but his mother, by a thousand almost unpremeditated touches, had built up a figure for him and a tradition that was shaping his life. She had loved her husband passionately, and when he died her love burnt up like a flame released, and made a god of the good she had known with him. She was then a very beautiful and active-minded woman of thirty, and she did her best to reconstruct her life; but she could find nothing so living in the world as the clear courage, the essential simplicity, and tender memories of the man she had lost. And she was the more devoted to him that he had had little weaknesses of temper and bearing, and that an outrageous campaign had been waged against him that did not cease with his death. He had, in some medical periodical, published drawings of a dead dog clamped to display a deformity, and these had been seized upon by a group of anti-vivisection fanatics as the representation of a vivisection. A libel action had been pending when he died; but there is no protection of the dead from libel. That monstrous lie met her on pamphlet cover, on hoardings, in sensational appeals; it seemed immortal, and she would have suffered the pains of a dozen suttees if she could have done so, to show the world how the power and tenderness of this alleged tormentor of helpless beasts had gripped one woman's heart. It counted enormously in her decision to remain a widow and concentrate her life upon her son. She watched his growth with a care and passionate subtlety that even at six-and-twenty he was still far from suspecting. She dreaded his becoming a mother's pet, she sent him away to school and fretted through long terms alone, that he might be made into a man. She interested herself in literary work and social affairs lest she should press upon him unduly. She listened for the crude expression of growing thought in him with an intensity that was almost anguish. She was too intelligent to dream of forming his mind, he browsed on every doctrine to find his own, but she did desire most passionately, she prayed, she prayed in the darkness of sleepless nights, that the views, the breadths, the spacious emotions which had ennobled her husband in her eyes should rise again in him. There were years of doubt and waiting. He was a good boy and a bad boy, now brilliant, now touching, now disappointing, now gloriously reassuring, and now heart-rending as only the children of our blood can be. He had errors and bad moments, lapses into sheer naughtiness, phases of indolence, attacks of contagious vulgarity. But more and more surely she saw him for his father's son; she traced the same great curiosities, the same keen dauntless questioning; whatever incidents might disturb and perplex her, his intellectual growth went on strong and clear and increasing like some sacred flame that is carried in procession, halting perhaps and swaying a little but keeping on, over the heads of a tumultuous crowd. He went from his school to the Royal College of Science, thence to successes at Cambridge, and thence to Berlin. He travelled a little in Asia Minor and Persia, had a journey to America, and then came back to her and London, sunburnt, moustached, manly, and a little strange. When he had been a boy she had thought his very soul pellucid; it had clouded opaquely against her scrutiny as he passed into adolescence. Then through the period of visits and departures, travel together, separations, he grew into something detached and admirable, a man curiously reminiscent of his father, unexpectedly different. She ceased to feel what he was feeling in his mind, had to watch him, infer, guess, speculate about him. She desired for him and dreaded for him with an undying tenderness, but she no longer had any assurance that she could interfere to help him. He had his father's trick of falling into thought. Her brown eyes would watch him across the flowers and delicate glass and silver of her dinner table when he dined at home with her. Sometimes he seemed to forget she existed, sometimes he delighted in her, talked to amuse her, petted her; sometimes, and then it was she was happiest, he talked of plays and books with her, discussed general questions, spoke even of that broadly conceived scheme of work which engaged so much of his imagination. She knew that it was distinguished and powerful work. Old friends of her husband spoke of it to her, praised its inspired directness, its beautiful simplicity. Since the days of Wollaston, they said, no one had been so witty an experimenter, no one had got more out of mere scraps of apparatus or contrived more ingenious simplifications. When he had accepted the minor Professorship which gave him a footing in the world of responsible scientific men, she had taken a house in a quiet street in Chelsea which necessitated a daily walk to his laboratory. It was a little old Georgian house with worn and graceful rooms, a dignified front door and a fine gateway of Sussex ironwork much painted and eaten away. She arranged it with great care; she had kept most of her furniture, and his study had his father's bureau, and the selfsame agate paper-weight that had pressed the unfinished paper he left when he died. She was a woman of persistent friendships, and there came to her, old connections of those early times trailing fresher and younger people in their wake, sons, daughters, nephews, disciples; her son brought home all sorts of interesting men, and it was remarkable to her that amidst the talk and discussion at her table, she discovered aspects of her son and often quite intimate aspects she would never have seen with him alone. She would not let herself believe that this Indian summer of her life could last for ever. He was no passionless devotee of research, for all his silence and restraints. She had seen him kindle with anger at obstacles and absurdities, and quicken in the presence of beauty. She knew how readily and richly he responded to beauty. Things happened to have run smoothly with him so far, that was all. "Of course," she said, "he must fall in love. It cannot be long before he falls in love." Once or twice that had seemed to happen, and then it had come to nothing.... She knew that sooner or later this completion of his possibilities must come, that the present steadfastness of purpose was a phase in which forces gathered, that love must sweep into his life as a deep and passionate disturbance. She wondered where it would take him, whether it would leave him enriched or devastated. She saw at times how young he was; she had, as I suppose most older people have about their juniors, the profoundest doubt whether he was wise enough yet to be trusted with a thing so good as himself. He had flashes of high-spirited indiscretion, and at times a wildfire of humour flared in his talk. So far that had done no worse for him than make an enemy or so in scientific circles. But she had no idea of the limits of his excitability. She would watch him and fear for him--she knew the wreckage love can make--and also she desired that he should lose nothing that life and his nature could give him. § 3 In the two months of separation that ensued before Marjorie was one-and-twenty, Trafford's mind went through some remarkable phases. At first the excitement of his passion for Marjorie obscured everything else, then with his return to London and his laboratory the immense inertia of habit and slowly developed purposes, the complex yet convergent system of ideas and problems to which so much of his life had been given, began to reassert itself. His love was vivid and intense, a light in his imagination, a fever in his blood; but it was a new thing; it had not crept into the flesh and bones of his being, it was away there in Surrey; the streets of London, his home, the white-walled chamber with its skylight and high windows and charts of constants, in which his apparatus was arranged, had no suggestion of her. She was outside--an adventure--a perplexing incommensurable with all these things. He had left Buryhamstreet with Marjorie riotously in possession of his mind. He could think of nothing but Marjorie in the train, and how she had shone at him in the study, and how her voice had sounded when she spoke, and how she stood and moved, and the shape and sensation of her hands, and how it had felt to hold her for those brief moments in the wood and press lips and body to his, and how her face had gleamed in the laced shadows of the moonlight, soft and wonderful. In fact, he thought of Marjorie. He thought she was splendid, courageous, wise by instinct. He had no doubt of her or that she was to be his--when the weeks of waiting had passed by. She was his, and he was Marjorie's; that had been settled from the beginning of the world. It didn't occur to him that anything had happened to alter his life or any of his arrangements in any way, except that they were altogether altered--as the world is altered without displacement when the sun pours up in the east. He was glorified--and everything was glorified. He wondered how they would meet again, and dreamt a thousand impossible and stirring dreams, but he dreamt them as dreams. At first, to Durgan's infinite distress, he thought of her all day, and then, as the old familiar interests grappled him again, he thought of her in the morning and the evening and as he walked between his home and the laboratory and at all sorts of incidental times--and even when the close-locked riddles of his research held the foreground and focus of his thoughts, he still seemed to be thinking of her as a radiant background to ions and molecules and atoms and interwoven systems of eddies and quivering oscillations deep down in the very heart of matter. And always he thought of her as something of the summer. The rich decays of autumn came, the Chelsea roads were littered with variegated leaves that were presently wet and dirty and slippery, the twilight crept down into the day towards five o'clock and four, but in his memory of her the leaves were green, the evenings were long, the warm quiet of rural Surrey in high August filled the air. So that it was with a kind of amazement he found her in London and in November close at hand. He was called to the college telephone one day from a conversation with a proposed research student. It was a middle-aged woman bachelor anxious for the D.Sc., who wished to occupy the further bench in the laboratory; but she had no mental fire, and his mind was busy with excuses and discouragements. He had no thought of Marjorie when she answered, and for an instant he did not recognize her voice. "Yes, I'm Mr. Trafford."... "Who is it?" he reiterated with a note of irascibility. "_Who?_" The little voice laughed. "Why! I'm Marjorie!" it said. Then she was back in his life like a lantern suddenly become visible in a wood at midnight. It was like meeting her as a china figure, neat and perfect and two inches high. It was her voice, very clear and very bright, and quite characteristic, as though he was hearing it through the wrong end of a telescope. It was her voice, clear as a bell; confident without a shadow. "It's _me!_ Marjorie! I'm twenty-one to-day!" It was like a little arrow of exquisite light shot into the very heart of his life. He laughed back. "Are you for meeting me then, Marjorie?" § 4 They met in Kensington Gardens with an air of being clandestine and defiant. It was one of those days of amber sunlight, soft air, and tender beauty with which London relieves the tragic glooms of the year's decline. There were still a residue of warm-tinted leaves in puffs and clusters upon the tree branches, a boat or two ruffled the blue Serpentine, and the waterfowl gave colour and animation to the selvage of the water. The sedges were still a greenish yellow. The two met shyly. They were both a little unfamiliar to each other. Trafford was black-coated, silk-hatted, umbrella-d, a decorous young professor in the place of the cheerful aeronaut who had fallen so gaily out of the sky. Marjorie had a new tailor-made dress of russet-green, and a little cloth toque ruled and disciplined the hair he had known as a ruddy confusion.... They had dreamt, I think, of extended arms and a wild rush to embrace one another. Instead, they shook hands. "And so," said Trafford, "we meet again!" "I don't see why we shouldn't meet!" said Marjorie. There was a slight pause. "Let's have two of those jolly little green chairs," said Trafford.... They walked across the grass towards the chairs he had indicated, and both were full of the momentous things they were finding it impossible to say. "There ought to be squirrels here, as there are in New York," he said at last. They sat down. There was a moment's silence, and then Trafford's spirit rose in rebellion and he plunged at this--this stranger beside him. "Look here," he said, "do you still love me, Marjorie?" She looked up into his face with eyes in which surprise and scrutiny passed into something altogether beautiful. "I love you--altogether," she said in a steady, low voice. And suddenly she was no longer a stranger, but the girl who had flitted to his arms breathless, unhesitating, through the dusk. His blood quickened. He made an awkward gesture as though he arrested an impulse to touch her. "My sweetheart," he said. "My dear one!" Marjorie's face flashed responses. "It's you," he said. "Me," she answered. "Do you remember?" "Everything!" "My dear!" "I want to tell you things," said Marjorie. "What are we to do?".... He tried afterwards to retrace that conversation. He was chiefly ashamed of his scientific preoccupations during that London interval. He had thought of a thousand things; Marjorie had thought of nothing else but love and him. Her happy assurance, her absolute confidence that his desires would march with hers, reproached and confuted every adverse thought in him as though it was a treachery to love. He had that sense which I suppose comes at times to every man, of entire unworthiness for the straight, unhesitating decision, the clear simplicity of a woman's passion. He had dreamt vaguely, unsubstantially, the while he had arranged his pressures and temperatures and infinitesimal ingredients, and worked with goniometer and trial models and the new calculating machine he had contrived for his research. But she had thought clearly, definitely, fully--of nothing but coming to him. She had thought out everything that bore upon that; reasons for preciptance, reasons for delay, she had weighed the rewards of conformity against the glamour of romance. It became more and more clear to him as they talked, that she was determined to elope with him, to go to Italy, and there have an extraordinarily picturesque and beautiful time. Her definiteness shamed his poverty of anticipation. Her enthusiasm carried him with her. Of course it was so that things must be done.... When at last they parted under the multiplying lamps of the November twilight, he turned his face eastward. He was afraid of his mother's eyes--he scarcely knew why. He walked along Kensington Gore, and the clustering confused lights of street and house, white and golden and orange and pale lilac, the moving lamps and shining glitter of the traffic, the luminous interiors of omnibuses, the reflection of carriage and hoarding, the fading daylight overhead, the phantom trees to the left, the deepening shadows and blacknesses among the houses on his right, the bobbing heads of wayfarers, were just for him the stir and hue and texture of fairyland. All the world was fairyland. He went to his club and dined there, and divided the evening between geography, as it is condensed in Baedeker and Murray on North Italy, Italian Switzerland and the Italian Riviera, and a study of the marriage laws as they are expounded in "Whitaker's Almanac," the "Encyclopædia Britannica," and other convenient works of reference. He replaced the books as he used them, and went at last from the library into the smoking-room, but seeing a man who might talk to him there, he went out at once into the streets, and fetched a wide compass by Baker Street, Oxford Street, and Hyde Park, home. He was a little astonished at himself and everything. But it was going to be--splendid. (What poor things words can be!) § 5 He found his mother still up. She had been re-reading "The Old Wives' Tale," and she sat before a ruddy fire in the shadow beyond the lit circle of a green-shaded electric light thinking, with the book put aside. In the dimness above was his father's portrait. "Time you were in bed, mother," he said reprovingly, and kissed her eyebrow and stood above her. "What's the book?" he asked, and picked it up and put it down, forgotten. Their eyes met. She perceived he had something to say; she did not know what. "Where have you been?" she asked. He told her, and they lapsed into silence. She asked another question and he answered her, and the indifferent conversation ended again. The silence lengthened. Then he plunged: "I wonder, mother, if it would put you out very much if I brought home a wife to you?" So it had come to this--and she had not seen it coming. She looked into the glowing recesses of the fire before her and controlled her voice by an effort. "I'd be glad for you to do it, dear--if you loved her," she said very quietly. He stared down at her for a moment; then he knelt down beside her and took her hand and kissed it. "_My dear_," she whispered softly, stroking his head, and her tears came streaming. For a time they said no more. Presently he put coal on the fire, and then sitting on the hearthrug at her feet and looking away from her into the flames--in an attitude that took her back to his boyhood--he began to tell her brokenly and awkwardly of Marjorie. "It's so hard, mother, to explain these things," he began. "One doesn't half understand the things that are happening to one. I want to make you in love with her, dear, just as I am. And I don't see how I can." "Perhaps I shall understand, my dear. Perhaps I shall understand better than you think." "She's such a beautiful thing--with something about her----. You know those steel blades you can bend back to the hilt--and they're steel! And she's tender. It's as if someone had taken tears, mother, and made a spirit out of them----" She caressed and stroked his hand. "My dear," she said, "I know." "And a sort of dancing daring in her eyes." "Yes," she said. "But tell me where she comes from, and how you met her--and all the circumstantial things that a sensible old woman can understand." He kissed her hand and sat down beside her, with his shoulder against the arm of her chair, his fingers interlaced about his knee. She could not keep her touch from his hair, and she tried to force back the thought in her mind that all these talks must end, that very soon indeed they would end. And she was glad, full of pride and joy too that her son was a lover after her heart, a clean and simple lover as his father had been before him. He loved this unknown Marjorie, finely, sweetly, bravely, even as she herself could have desired to have been loved. She told herself she did not care very greatly even if this Marjorie should prove unworthy. So long as her son was not unworthy. He pieced his story together. He gave her a picture of the Popes, Marjorie in her family like a jewel in an ugly setting, so it seemed to him, and the queer dull rage of her father and all that they meant to do. She tried to grasp his perplexities and advise, but chiefly she was filled with the thought that he was in love. If he wanted a girl he should have her, and if he had to take her by force, well, wasn't it his right? She set small store upon the Popes that night--or any circumstances. And since she herself had married on the slightest of security, she was concerned very little that this great adventure was to be attempted on an income of a few hundreds a year. It was outside her philosophy that a wife should be anything but glad to tramp the roads if need be with the man who loved her. He sketched out valiant plans, was for taking Marjorie away in the teeth of all opposition and bringing her back to London. It would have to be done decently, of course, but it would have, he thought, to be done. Mrs. Trafford found the prospect perfect; never before had he sounded and looked so like that dim figure which hung still and sympathetic above them. Ever and again she glanced up at her husband's quiet face.... On one point she was very clear with him. "You'll live with us, mother?" he said abruptly. "Not with you. As near as you like. But one house, one woman.... I'll have a little flat of my own--for you both to come to me." "Oh, nonsense, mother! You'll have to be with us. Living alone, indeed!" "My dear, I'd _prefer_ a flat of my own. You don't understand--everything. It will be better for all of us like that." There came a little pause between them, and then her hand was on his head again. "Oh, my dear," she said, "I want you to be happy. And life can be difficult. I won't give a chance--for things to go wrong. You're hers, dear, and you've got to be hers--be each other's altogether. I've watched so many people. And that's the best, the very best you can have. There's just the lovers--the real enduring lovers; and the uncompleted people who've failed to find it."... § 6 Trafford's second meeting with Marjorie, which, by the by, happened on the afternoon of the following day, brought them near to conclusive decisions. The stiffness of their first encounter in London had altogether vanished. She was at her prettiest and in the highest spirits--and she didn't care for anything else in the world. A gauzy silk scarf which she had bought and not paid for that day floated atmospherically about her straight trim body; her hair had caught the infection of insurrection and was waving rebelliously about her ears. As he drew near her his grave discretion passed from him as clouds pass from a hillside. She smiled radiantly. He held out both his hands for both of hers, and never did a maiden come so near and yet not get a public and shameless kissing. One could as soon describe music as tell their conversation. It was a matter of tones and feelings. But the idea of flight together, of the bright awakening in unfamiliar sunshine with none to come between them, had gripped them both. A certain sober gravity of discussion only masked that deeper inebriety. It would be easy for them to get away; he had no lectures until February; he could, he said, make arrangements, leave his research. She dreaded disputation. She was for a simple disappearance, notes on pincushions and defiantly apologetic letters from Boulogne, but his mother's atmosphere had been a gentler one than her home's, with a more powerful disposition to dignity. He still couldn't understand that the cantankerous egotism of Pope was indeed the essential man; it seemed to him a crust of bad manners that reason ought to pierce. The difference in their atmospheres came out in their talk--in his desire for a handsome and dignified wedding--though the very heavens protested--and her resolve to cut clear of every one, to achieve a sort of gaol delivery of her life, make a new beginning altogether, with the minimum of friction and the maximum of surprise. Unused to fighting, he was magnificently prepared to fight; she, with her intimate knowledge of chronic domestic conflict, was for the evasion of all the bickerings, scoldings, and misrepresentations his challenge would occasion. He thought in his innocence a case could be stated and discussed; but no family discussion she had ever heard had even touched the realities of the issue that occasioned it. "I don't like this underhand preparation," he said. "Nor I," she echoed. "But what can one do?" "Well, oughtn't I to go to your father and give him a chance? Why shouldn't I? It's--the dignified way." "It won't be dignified for father," said Marjorie, "anyhow." "But what right has he to object?" "He isn't going to discuss his rights with you. He _will_ object." "But _why?_" "Oh! because he's started that way. He hit you. I haven't forgotten it. Well, if he goes back on that now----He'd rather die than go back on it. You see, he's ashamed in his heart. It would be like confessing himself wrong not to keep it up that you're the sort of man one hits. He just hates you because he hit you. I haven't been his daughter for twenty-one years for nothing." "I'm thinking of us," said Trafford. "I don't see we oughtn't to go to him just because he's likely to be--unreasonable." "My dear, do as you please. He'll forbid and shout, and hit tables until things break. Suppose he locks me up!" "Oh, Habeas Corpus, and my strong right arm! He's much more likely to turn you out-of-doors." "Not if he thinks the other will annoy you more. I'll have to bear a storm." "Not for long." "He'll bully mother till she cries over me. But do as you please. She'll come and she'll beg me----Do as you please. Perhaps I'm a coward. I'd far rather I could slip away." Trafford thought for a moment. "I'd far rather you could," he answered, in a voice that spoke of inflexible determinations. They turned to the things they meant to do. "_Italy!_" she whispered, "_Italy!_" Her face was alight with her burning expectation of beauty, of love, of the new heaven and the new earth that lay before them. The intensity of that desire blazing through her seemed to shame his dull discretions. He had to cling to his resolution, lest it should vanish in that contagious intoxication. "You understand I shall come to your father," he said, as they drew near the gate where it seemed discreet for them to part. "It will make it harder to get away," she said, with no apparent despondency. "It won't stop us. Oh! do as you please." She seemed to dismiss the question, and stood hand-in-hand with him in a state of glowing gravity. She wouldn't see him again for four-and-twenty hours. Then a thought came into her head--a point of great practical moment. "Oh!" she said, "of course, you won't tell father you've seen me." She met his eye. "Really you mustn't," she said. "You see--he'll make a row with mother for not having watched me better. I don't know what he isn't likely to do. It isn't myself----This is a confidential communication--all this. No one in this world knows I am meeting you. If you _must_ go to him, go to him." "For myself?" She nodded, with her open eyes on his--eyes that looked now very blue and very grave, and her lips a little apart. She surprised him a little, but even this sudden weakness seemed adorable. "All right," he said. "You don't think that I'm shirking----?" she asked, a little too eagerly. "You know your father best," he answered. "I'll tell you all he says and all the terror of him here to-morrow afternoon." § 7 In the stillness of the night Trafford found himself thinking over Marjorie; it was a new form of mental exercise, which was destined to play a large part in his existence for many subsequent years. There had come a shadow on his confidence in her. She was a glorious person; she had a kind of fire behind her and in her--shining through her, like the lights in a fire-opal, but----He wished she had not made him promise to conceal their meeting and their close co-operation from her father. Why did she do that? It would spoil his case with her father, and it could forward things for them in no conceivable way. And from that, in some manner too subtle to trace, he found his mind wandering to another problem, which was destined to reappear with a slowly dwindling importance very often in this procedure of thinking over Marjorie in the small hours. It was the riddle--it never came to him in the daytime, but only in those intercalary and detachedly critical periods of thought--why exactly had she engaged herself to Magnet? Why had she? He couldn't imagine himself, in Marjorie's position, doing anything of the sort. Marjorie had ways of her own; she was different.... Well, anyhow, she was splendid and loving and full of courage.... He had got no further than this when at last he fell asleep. § 8 Trafford's little attempt to regularise his position was as creditable to him as it was inevitably futile. He sought out 29, Hartstone Square in the morning on his way to his laboratory, and he found it one of a great row of stucco houses each with a portico and a dining-room window on the ground floor, and each with a railed area from which troglodytic servants peeped. Collectively the terrace might claim a certain ugly dignity of restraint, there was none of your Queen Anne nonsense of art or beauty about it, and the narrow height, the subterranean kitchens of each constituent house, told of a steep relentless staircase and the days before the pampering of the lower classes began. The houses formed a square, as if the British square so famous at Waterloo for its dogged resistance to all the forces of the universe had immortalized itself in buildings, and they stared upon a severely railed garden of hardy shrubs and gravel to which the tenants had the inestimable privilege of access. They did not use it much, that was their affair, but at any rate they had keys and a nice sense of rights assured, and at least it kept other people out. Trafford turned out of a busy high road full of the mixed exhilarating traffic of our time, and came along a quiet street into this place, and it seemed to him he had come into a corner of defence and retreat, into an atmosphere of obstinate and unteachable resistances. But this illusion of conservativism in its last ditch was dispelled altogether in Mr. Pope's portico. Youth flashed out of these solemnities like a dart shot from a cave. Trafford was raising his hand to the solid brass knocker when abruptly it was snatched from his fingers, the door was flung open and a small boy with a number of dirty books in a strap flew out and hit him with projectile violence. "Blow!" said the young gentleman recoiling, and Trafford recovering said: "Hullo, Theodore!" "Lord!" said Theodore breathless, "It's you! _What_ a lark! Your name's never mentioned--no how. What _did_ you do?... Wish I could stop and see it! I'm ten minutes late. _Ave atque vale_. So long!" He vanished with incredible velocity. And Mr. Trafford was alone in possession of the open doorway except for Toupee, who after a violent outbreak of hostility altered his mind and cringed to his feet in abject and affectionate propitiation. A pseudo-twin appeared, said "Hello!" and vanished, and then he had an instant's vision of Mr. Pope, newspaper in hand, appearing from the dining-room. His expression of surprise changed to malevolence, and he darted back into the room from which he had emerged. Trafford decided to take the advice of a small brass plate on his left hand, and "ring also." A housemaid came out of the bowels of the earth very promptly and ushered him up two flights of stairs into what was manifestly Mr. Pope's study. It was a narrow, rather dark room lit by two crimson-curtained windows, and with a gas fire before which Mr. Pope's walking boots were warming for the day. The apartment revealed to Trafford's cursory inspection many of the stigmata of an Englishman of active intelligence and literary tastes. There in the bookcase were the collected works of Scott, a good large illustrated Shakespeare in numerous volumes, and a complete set of bound _Punches_ from the beginning. A pile of back numbers of the _Times_ stood on a cane stool in a corner, and in a little bookcase handy for the occupier of the desk were Whitaker, Wisden and an old peerage. The desk bore traces of recent epistolary activity, and was littered with the printed matter of Aunt Plessington's movements. Two or three recent issues of _The Financial Review of Reviews_ were also visible. About the room hung steel engravings apparently of defunct judges or at any rate of exceedingly grim individuals, and over the mantel were trophies of athletic prowess, a bat witnessing that Mr. Pope had once captained the second eleven at Harrogby. Mr. Pope entered with a stern expression and a sentence prepared. "Well, sir," he said with a note of ironical affability, "to what may I ascribe this--intrusion?" Mr. Trafford was about to reply when Mr. Pope interrupted. "Will you be seated," he said, and turned his desk chair about for himself, and occupying it, crossed his legs and pressed the finger tips of his two hands together. "Well, sir?" he said. Trafford remained standing astraddle over the boots before the gas fire. "Look here, sir," he said; "I am in love with your daughter. She's one and twenty, and I want to see her--and in fact----" He found it hard to express himself. He could think only of a phrase that sounded ridiculous. "I want--in fact--to pay my addresses to her." "Well, sir, I don't want you to do so. That is too mild. I object strongly--very strongly. My daughter has been engaged to a very distinguished and able man, and I hope very shortly to hear that that engagement----Practically it is still going on. I don't want you to intrude upon my daughter further." "But look here, sir. There's a certain justice--I mean a certain reasonableness----" Mr. Pope held out an arresting hand. "I don't wish it. Let that be enough." "Of course it isn't enough. I'm in love with her--and she with me. I'm an entirely reputable and decent person----" "May I be allowed to judge what is or is not suitable companionship for my daughter--and what may or may not be the present state of her affections?" "Well, that's rather the point we are discussing. After all, Marjorie isn't a baby. I want to do all this--this affair, openly and properly if I can, but, you know, I mean to marry Marjorie--anyhow." "There are two people to consult in that matter." "I'll take the risk of that." "Permit me to differ." A feeling of helplessness came over Trafford. The curious irritation Mr. Pope always roused in him began to get the better of him. His face flushed hotly. "Oh really! really! this is--this is nonsense!" he cried. "I never heard anything so childish and pointless as your objection----" "Be careful, sir!" cried Mr. Pope, "be careful!" "I'm going to marry Marjorie." "If she marries you, sir, she shall never darken my doors again!" "If you had a thing against me!" "_Haven't_ I!" "What have you?" There was a quite perceptible pause before Pope fired his shot. "Does any decent man want the name of Trafford associated with his daughter. Trafford! Look at the hoardings, sir!" A sudden blaze of anger lit Trafford. "My God!" he cried and clenched his fists and seemed for a moment ready to fall upon the man before him. Then he controlled himself by a violent effort. "You believe in that libel on my dead father?" he said, with white lips. "Has it ever been answered?" "A hundred times. And anyhow!--Confound it! I don't believe--_you_ believe it. You've raked it up--as an excuse! You want an excuse for your infernal domestic tyranny! That's the truth of it. You can't bear a creature in your household to have a will or preference of her own. I tell you, sir, you are intolerable--intolerable!" He was shouting, and Pope was standing now and shouting too. "Leave my house, sir. Get out of my house, sir. You come here to insult me, sir!" A sudden horror of himself and Pope seized the younger man. He stiffened and became silent. Never in his life before had he been in a bawling quarrel. He was amazed and ashamed. "Leave my house!" cried Pope with an imperious gesture towards the door. Trafford made an absurd effort to save the situation. "I am sorry, sir, I lost my temper. I had no business to abuse you----" "You've said enough." "I apologise for that. I've done what I could to manage things decently." "Will you go, sir?" threatened Mr. Pope. "I'm sorry I came," said Trafford. Mr. Pope took his stand with folded arms and an expression of weary patience. "I did what I could," said Trafford at the door. The staircase and passage were deserted. The whole house seemed to have caught from Mr. Pope that same quality of seeing him out.... "Confound it!" said Trafford in the street. "How on earth did all this happen?"... He turned eastward, and then realized that work would be impossible that day. He changed his direction for Kensington Gardens, and in the flower-bordered walk near the Albert Memorial he sat down on a chair, and lugged at his moustache and wondered. He was extraordinarily perplexed, as well as ashamed and enraged by this uproar. How had it begun? Of course, he had been stupidly abusive, but the insult to his father had been unendurable. Did a man of Pope's sort quite honestly believe that stuff? If he didn't, he deserved kicking. If he did, of course he was entitled to have it cleared up. But then he wouldn't listen! Was there any case for the man at all? Had he, Trafford, really put the thing so that Pope would listen? He couldn't remember. What was it he had said in reply to Pope? What was it exactly that Pope had said? It was already vague; it was a confused memory of headlong words and answers; what wasn't vague, what rang in his ears still, was the hoarse discord of two shouting voices. Could Marjorie have heard? § 9 So Marjorie carried her point. She wasn't to be married tamely after the common fashion which trails home and all one's beginnings into the new life. She was to be eloped with, romantically and splendidly, into a glorious new world. She walked on shining clouds, and if she felt some remorse, it was a very tender and satisfactory remorse, and with a clear conviction below it that in the end she would be forgiven. They made all their arrangements elaborately and carefully. Trafford got a license to marry her; she was to have a new outfit from top to toe to go away with on that eventful day. It accumulated in the shop, and they marked the clothes _M.T._ She was watched, she imagined, but as her father did not know she had seen Trafford, nothing had been said to her, and no attempt was made to prohibit her going out and coming in. Trafford entered into the conspiracy with a keen interest, a certain amusement, and a queer little feeling of distaste. He hated to hide any act of his from any human being. The very soul of scientific work, you see, is publication. But Marjorie seemed to justify all things, and when his soul turned against furtiveness, he reminded it that the alternative was bawling. One eventful afternoon he went to the college, and Marjorie slipped round by his arrangement to have tea with Mrs. Trafford.... He returned about seven in a state of nervous apprehension; came upstairs two steps at a time, and stopped breathless on the landing. He gulped as he came in, and his eyes were painfully eager. "She's been?" he asked. But Marjorie had won Mrs. Trafford. "She's been," she answered. "Yes, she's all right, my dear." "Oh, mother!" he said. "She's a beautiful creature, dear--and such a child! Oh! such a child! And God bless you, dear, God bless you.... "I think all young people are children. I want to take you both in my arms and save you.... I'm talking nonsense, dear." He kissed her, and she clung to him as if he were something too precious to release. § 10 The elopement was a little complicated by a surprise manoeuvre of Mrs. Pope's. She was more alive to the quality of the situation, poor lady! than her daughter suspected; she was watching, dreading, perhaps even furtively sympathizing and trying to arrange--oh! trying dreadfully to arrange. She had an instinctive understanding of the deep blue quiet in Marjorie's eyes, and the girl's unusual tenderness with Daffy and the children. She peeped under the blind as Marjorie went out, noted the care in her dress, watched her face as she returned, never plumbed her with a question for fear of the answer. She did not dare to breathe a hint of her suspicions to her husband, but she felt things were adrift in swift, smooth water, and all her soul cried out for delay. So presently there came a letter from Cousin Susan Pendexter at Plymouth. The weather was beautiful, Marjorie must come at once, pack up and come and snatch the last best glow of the dying autumn away there in the west. Marjorie's jerry-built excuses, her manifest chagrin and reluctance, confirmed her mother's worst suspicions. She submitted and went, and Mrs. Pope and Syd saw her off. I do not like to tell how a week later Marjorie explained herself and her dressing-bag and a few small articles back to London from Plymouth. Suffice it that she lied desperately and elaborately. Her mother had never achieved such miracles of mis-statement, and she added a vigour that was all her own. It is easier to sympathize with her than exonerate her. She was in a state of intense impatience, and--what is strange--extraordinarily afraid that something would separate her from her lover if she did not secure him. She was in a fever of determination. She could not eat or sleep or attend to anything whatever; she was occupied altogether with the thought of assuring herself to Trafford. He towered in her waking vision over town and land and sea. He didn't hear the lies she told; he only knew she was magnificently coming back to him. He met her at Paddington, a white-faced, tired, splendidly resolute girl, and they went to the waiting registrar's forthwith. She bore herself with the intentness and dignity of one who is taking the cardinal step in life. They kissed as though it was a symbol, and were keenly business-like about cabs and luggage and trains. At last they were alone in the train together. They stared at one another. "We've done it, Mrs. Trafford!" said Trafford. She snapped like an over-taut string, crumpled, clung to him, and without a word was weeping passionately in his arms. It surprised him that she could weep as she did, and still more to see her as she walked by his side along the Folkestone pier, altogether recovered, erect, a little flushed and excited like a child. She seemed to miss nothing. "Oh, smell the sea!" she said, "Look at the lights! Listen to the swish of the water below." She watched the luggage spinning on the wire rope of the giant crane, and he watched her face and thought how beautiful she was. He wondered why her eyes could sometimes be so blue and sometimes dark as night. The boat cleared the pier and turned about and headed for France. They walked the upper deck together and stood side by side, she very close to him. "I've never crossed the sea before," she said. "Old England," she whispered. "It's like leaving a nest. A little row of lights and that's all the world I've ever known, shrunken to that already." Presently they went forward and peered into the night. "Look!" she said. "_Italy!_ There's sunshine and all sorts of beautiful things ahead. Warm sunshine, wonderful old ruins, green lizards...." She paused and whispered almost noiselessly: "_love_----" They pressed against each other. "And yet isn't it strange? All you can see is darkness, and clouds--and big waves that hiss as they come near...." § 11 Italy gave all her best to welcome them. It was a late year, a golden autumn, with skies of such blue as Marjorie had never seen before. They stayed at first in a pretty little Italian hotel with a garden on the lake, and later they walked over Salvator to Morcote and by boat to Ponte Tresa, and thence they had the most wonderful and beautiful tramp in the world to Luino, over the hills by Castelrotto. To the left of them all day was a broad valley with low-lying villages swimming in a luminous mist, to the right were purple mountains. They passed through paved streets with houses the colour of flesh and ivory, with balconies hung with corn and gourds, with tall church campaniles rising high, and great archways giving upon the blue lowlands; they tramped along avenues of sweet chestnut and between stretches of exuberant vineyard, in which men and women were gathering grapes--purple grapes, a hatful for a soldo, that rasped the tongue. Everything was strange and wonderful to Marjorie's eyes; now it would be a wayside shrine and now a yoke of soft-going, dewlapped oxen, now a chapel hung about with _ex votos_, and now some unfamiliar cultivation--or a gipsy-eyed child--or a scorpion that scuttled in the dust. The very names of the villages were like jewels to her, Varasca, Croglio, Ronca, Sesia, Monteggio. They walked, or sat by the wayside and talked, or rested at the friendly table of some kindly albergo. A woman as beautiful as Ceres, with a white neck all open, made them an omelette, and then fetched her baby from its cradle to nurse it while she talked to them as they made their meal. And afterwards she filled their pockets with roasted chestnuts, and sent them with melodious good wishes upon their way. And always high over all against the translucent blue hung the white shape of Monte Rosa, that warmed in colour as the evening came. Marjorie's head was swimming with happiness and beauty, and with every fresh delight she recurred again to the crowning marvel of this clean-limbed man beside her, who smiled and carried all her luggage in a huge rucksack that did not seem to exist for him, and watched her and caressed her--and was hers, _hers!_ At Baveno there were letters. They sat at a little table outside a café and read them, suddenly mindful of England again. Incipient forgiveness showed through Mrs. Pope's reproaches, and there was also a simple, tender love-letter (there is no other word for it) from old Mrs. Trafford to her son. From Baveno they set off up Monte Mottarone--whence one may see the Alps from Visto to Ortler Spitz--trusting to find the inn still open, and if it was closed to get down to Orta somehow before night. Or at the worst sleep upon the mountain side. (Monte Mottarone! Just for a moment taste the sweet Italian name upon your lips.) These were the days before the funicular from Stresa, when one trudged up a rude path through the chestnuts and walnuts. As they ascended the long windings through the woods, they met an old poet and his wife, coming down from sunset and sunrise. There was a word or two about the inn, and they went upon their way. The old man turned ever and again to look at them. "Adorable young people," he said. "Adorable happy young people.... "Did you notice, dear, how she held that dainty little chin of hers?... "Pride is such a good thing, my dear, clear, straight pride like theirs--and they were both so proud!... "Isn't it good, dear, to think that once you and I may have looked like that to some passer-by. I wish I could bless them--sweet, swift young things! I wish, dear, it was possible for old men to bless young people without seeming to set up for saints...." BOOK THE SECOND MARJORIE MARRIED CHAPTER THE FIRST SETTLING DOWN § 1 It was in a boat among reeds upon the lake of Orta that Trafford first became familiarized with the idea that Marjorie was capable of debt. "Oh, I ought to have told you," she began, apropos of nothing. Her explanation was airy; she had let the thing slip out of her mind for a time. But there were various debts to Oxbridge tradespeople. How much? Well, rather a lot. Of course, the tradespeople were rather enticing when first one went up----How much, anyhow? "Oh, about fifty pounds," said Marjorie, after her manner. "Not _more_. I've not kept all the bills; and some haven't come in. You know how slow they are." "These things _will_ happen," said Trafford, though, as a matter of fact, nothing of the sort had happened in his case. "However, you'll be able to pay as soon as you get home, and get them all off your mind." "I think fifty pounds will clear me," said Marjorie, clinging to her long-established total, "if you'll let me have that." "Oh, we don't do things like that," said Trafford. "I'm arranging that my current account will be a sort of joint account, and your signature will be as good as mine--for the purpose of drawing, at least. You'll have your own cheque-book----" "I don't understand, quite," said Marjorie. "You'll have your own cheque-book and write cheques as you want them. That seems the simplest way to me." "Of course," said Marjorie. "But isn't this--rather unusual? Father always used to allowance mother." "It's the only decent way according to my ideas," said Trafford. "A man shouldn't marry when he can't trust." "Of course not," said Marjorie. Something between fear and compunction wrung her. "Do you think you'd better?" she asked, very earnestly. "Better?" "Do this." "Why not?" "It's--it's so generous." He didn't answer. He took up an oar and began to push out from among the reeds with something of the shy awkwardness of a boy who becomes apprehensive of thanks. He stole a glance at her presently and caught her expression--there was something very solemn and intent in her eyes--and he thought what a grave, fine thing his Marjorie could be. But, indeed, her state of mind was quite exceptionally confused. She was disconcerted--and horribly afraid of herself. "Do you mean that I can spend what I like?" asked Marjorie. "Just as I may," he said. "I wonder," said Marjorie again, "if I'd better." She was tingling with delight at this freedom, and she knew she was not fit for its responsibility. She just came short of a passionate refusal of his proposal. He was still so new to her, and things were so wonderful, or I think she would have made that refusal. "You've got to," said Trafford, and ended the matter. So Marjorie was silent--making good resolutions. § 2 Perhaps some day it may be possible to tell in English again, in the language of Shakspeare and Herrick, of the passion, the tenderness, the beauty, and the delightful familiarizations of a happy honeymoon; suffice it now, in this delicate period, to record only how our two young lovers found one day that neither had a name for the other. He said she could be nothing better than Marjorie to him; and she, after a number of unsuccessful experiments, settled down to the old school-boy nickname made out of his initials, R. A. G. "Dick," she said, "is too bird-like and boy-like. Andrew I can't abide. Goodwin gives one no chances for current use. Rag you must be. Mag and Rag--poor innocents! Old rag!" "Mag," he said, "has its drawbacks! The street-boy in London says, 'Shut your mag.' No, I think I shall stick to Marjorie...." All honeymoons must end at last, so back they came to London, still very bright and happy. And then, Marjorie, whose eyes had changed from flashing stones to darkly shining pools of blue, but whose soul had still perhaps to finds its depths, set herself to the business of decorating and furnishing the little house Mrs. Trafford had found for them within ten minutes of her own. Meanwhile they lived in lodgings. There can be no denying that Marjorie began her furnishing with severely virtuous intentions. She was very particular to ask Trafford several times what he thought she might spend upon the enterprise. He had already a bedroom and a study equipped, and he threw out three hundred pounds as his conception of an acceptable figure. "Very well," said Marjorie, with a note of great precision, "now I shall know," and straightway that sum took a place in her imagination that was at once definitive and protective, just as her estimate of fifty pounds for her Oxbridge debts had always been. She assured herself she was going to do things, and she assured herself she was doing things, on three hundred pounds. At times the astonishment of two or three school friends, who joined her in her shopping, stirred her to a momentary surprise at the way she was managing to keep things within that limit, and following a financial method that had, after all, in spite of some momentary and already nearly forgotten distresses, worked very well at Oxbridge, she refrained from any additions until all the accounts had come to hand. It was an immense excitement shopping to make a home. There was in her composition a strain of constructive artistry with such concrete things, a strain that had hitherto famished. She was making a beautiful, secure little home for Trafford, for herself, for possibilities--remote perhaps, but already touching her imagination with the anticipation of warm, new, wonderful delights. There should be simplicity indeed in this home, but no bareness, no harshness, never an ugliness nor a discord. She had always loved colour in the skies, in the landscapes, in the texture of stuffs and garments; now out of the chaotic skein of countless shops she could choose and pick and mingle her threads in a glow of feminine self-expression. On three hundred pounds, that is to say--as a maximum. The house she had to deal with was, like Mrs. Trafford's, old and rather small; it was partly to its lack of bedroom accommodation, but much more to the invasion of the street by the back premises of Messrs. Siddons & Thrale, the great Chelsea outfitters, that the lowness of the rent was due, a lowness which brought it within the means of Trafford. Marjorie knew very clearly that her father would say her husband had taken her to live in a noisy slum, and that made her all the keener to ensure that every good point in the interior told to its utmost, and that whatever was to be accessible to her family should glow with a refined but warm prosperity. The room downstairs was shapely, and by ripping off the papered canvas of the previous occupier, some very dilapidated but admirably proportioned panelling was brought to light. The dining-room and study door on the ground floor, by a happy accident, were of mahogany, with really very beautiful brass furnishings; and the dining-room window upon the minute but by no means offensive paved garden behind, was curved and had a little shallow balcony of ironwork, half covered by a devitalized but leafy grapevine. Moreover, the previous occupier had equipped the place with electric light and a bathroom of almost American splendour on the landing, glass-shelved, white-tiled, and white painted, so that it was a delight to go into. Marjorie's mind leapt very rapidly to the possibilities of this little establishment. The panelling must be done and done well, anyhow; that would be no more than a wise economy, seeing it might at any time help them to re-let; it would be painted white, of course, and thus set the key for a clean brightness of colour throughout. The furniture would stand out against the softly shining white, and its line and proportions must be therefore the primary qualities to consider as she bought it. The study was much narrower than the dining-room, and so the passage, which the agent called the hall, was much broader and more commodious behind the happily wide staircase than in front, and she was able to banish out of the sight of the chance visitor all that litter of hat-stand and umbrella-stand, letters, boxes arriving and parcels to post, which had always offended her eye at home. At home there had been often the most unsightly things visible, one of Theo's awful caps, or his school books, and not infrequently her father's well-worn and all too fatally comfortable house slippers. A good effect at first is half the victory of a well done house, and Marjorie accomplished another of her real economies here by carpeting hall and staircase with a fine-toned, rich-feeling and rather high-priced blue carpet, held down by very thick brass stair-rods. She hung up four well-chosen steel engravings, put a single Chippendale chair in the hall, and a dark old Dutch clock that had turned out to be only five pounds when she had expected the shopman to say eleven or twelve, on the half-landing. That was all. Round the corner by the study door was a mahogany slab, and the litter all went upon a capacious but very simple dark-stained hat-stand and table that were out of the picture entirely until you reached the stairs. Her dining-room was difficult for some time. She had equipped that with a dark oak Welsh dresser made very bright with a dessert service that was, in view of its extremely decorative quality, remarkably cheap, and with some very pretty silver-topped glass bottles and flasks. This dresser and a number of simple but shapely facsimiles of old chairs, stood out against a nearly primrose paper, very faintly patterned, and a dark blue carpet with a margin of dead black-stained wood. Over the mantel was a German colour-print of waves full of sunlight breaking under cliffs, and between this and the window were dark bookshelves and a few bright-coloured books. On the wall, black-framed, were four very good Japanese prints, rich in greenish-blues and blueish-greys that answered the floor, and the window curtains took up some of the colours of the German print. But something was needed towards the window, she felt, to balance the warmly shining plates upon the dresser. The deep rose-red of the cherries that adorned them was too isolated, usurped too dominating a value. And while this was weighing upon her mind she saw in a window in Regent Street a number of Bokhara hangings very nobly displayed. They were splendid pieces of needlework, particularly glorious in their crimsons and reds, and suddenly it came to her that it was just one of these, one that had great ruby flowers upon it with dead-blue interlacings, that was needed to weld her gay-coloured scheme together. She hesitated, went half-way to Piccadilly Circus, turned back and asked the prices. The prices were towering prices, ten, fifteen, eighteen guineas, and when at last the shopman produced one with all the charm of colour she sought at eight, it seemed like ten guineas snatched back as they dropped from her hands. And still hesitating, she had three that pleased her most sent home, "on approval," before she decided finally to purchase one of them. But the trial was conclusive. And then, struck with a sudden idea, she carried off a long narrow one she had had no idea of buying before into the little study behind. Suppose, she thought, instead of hanging two curtains as anybody else would do in that window, she ran this glory of rich colour across from one side on a great rod of brass. She was giving the study the very best of her attention. After she had lapsed in some other part of the house from the standards of rigid economy she had set up, she would as it were restore the balance by adding something to the gracefully dignified arrangement of this den he was to use. And the brass rod of the Bokhara hanging that was to do instead of curtains released her mind somehow to the purchase of certain old candlesticks she had hitherto resisted. They were to stand, bored to carry candle electric lights, on either corner of the low bookcase that faced the window. They were very heavy, very shapely candlesticks, and they cost thirty-five shillings. They looked remarkably well when they were put up, except that a sort of hollowness appeared between them and clamoured for a delightful old brass-footed workbox she had seen in a shop in Baker Street. Enquiry confirmed her quick impression that this was a genuine piece (of quite exceptional genuineness) and that the price--they asked five pounds ten and came down to five guineas--was in accordance with this. It was a little difficult (in spite of the silent hunger between the candlesticks) to reconcile this particular article with her dominating idea of an austerely restrained expenditure, until she hit upon the device of calling it a _hors d'oeuvre_, and regarding it not as furniture but as a present from herself to Trafford that happened to fall in very agreeably with the process of house furnishing. She decided she would some day economise its cost out of her dress allowance. The bookcase on which it stood was a happy discovery in Kensington, just five feet high, and with beautiful oval glass fronts, and its capacity was supplemented and any excess in its price at least morally compensated by a very tall, narrow, distinguished-looking set of open shelves that had been made for some special corner in another house, and which anyhow were really and truly dirt cheap. The desk combined grace and good proportions to an admirable extent, the fender of pierced brass looked as if it had always lived in immediate contact with the shapely old white marble fireplace, and the two arm-chairs were marvels of dignified comfort. By the fireplace were a banner-shaped needlework firescreen, a white sheepskin hearthrug, a little patch and powder table adapted to carry books, and a green-shaded lamp, grouped in a common inaudible demand for a reader in slippers. Trafford, when at last the apartment was ready for his inspection, surveyed these arrangements with a kind of dazzled admiration. "By Jove!" he said. "How little people know of the homes of the Poor!" Marjorie was so delighted with his approval that she determined to show Mrs. Trafford next day how prettily at least her son was going to live. The good lady came and admired everything, and particularly the Bokhara hangings. She did not seem to appraise, but something set Marjorie talking rather nervously of a bargain-hunter's good fortune. Mrs. Trafford glanced at the candlesticks and the low bookcase, and returned to the glowing piece of needlework that formed the symmetrical window curtain in the study. She took it in her hand, and whispered, "beautiful!" "But aren't these rather good?" asked Mrs. Trafford. Marjorie answered, after a little pause. "They're not too good for _him_," she said. § 3 And now these young people had to resume life in London in earnest. The orchestral accompaniment of the world at large began to mingle with their hitherto unsustained duet. It had been inaudible in Italy. In Chelsea it had sounded, faintly perhaps but distinctly, from their very first inspection of the little house. A drawing-room speaks of callers, a dining-room of lunch-parties and dinners. It had swayed Marjorie from the front door inward. During their honeymoon they had been gloriously unconscious of comment. Now Marjorie began to show herself keenly sensitive to the advent of a score of personalities, and very anxious to show just how completely successful in every sense her romantic disobedience had been. She knew she had been approved of, admired, condemned, sneered at, thoroughly discussed. She felt it her first duty to Trafford, to all who had approved of her flight, to every one, herself included, to make this marriage obviously, indisputably, a success, a success not only by her own standards but by the standards of anyonesoever who chose to sit in judgment on her. There was Trafford. She felt she had to extort the admission from every one that he was the handsomest, finest, ablest, most promising and most delightful man a prominent humorist was ever jilted for. She wanted them to understand clearly just all that Trafford was--and that involved, she speedily found in practice, making them believe a very great deal that as yet Trafford wasn't. She found it practically impossible not to anticipate his election to the Royal Society and the probability of a more important professorship. She felt that anyhow he was an F.R.S. in the sight of God.... It was almost equally difficult not to indicate a larger income than facts justified. It was entirely in Marjorie's vein in those early days that she would want to win on every score and by every standard of reckoning. If Marjorie had been a general she would have counted no victory complete if the struggle was not sustained and desperate, and if it left the enemy with a single gun or flag, or herself with so much as a man killed or wounded. The people she wanted to impress varied very widely. She wanted to impress the Carmel girls, and the Carmel girls, she knew, with their racial trick of acute appraisement, were only to be won by the very highest quality all round. They had, she knew, two standards of quality, cost and distinction. As far as possible, she would give them distinction. But whenever she hesitated over something on the verge of cheapness the thought of those impending judgments tipped the balance. The Carmel girls were just two influential representatives of a host. She wanted to impress quite a number of other school and college friends. There were various shy, plastic-spirited, emotional creatures, of course, for the most part with no confidence in their own appearance, who would be impressed quite adequately enough by Trafford's good looks and witty manner and easy temper. They might perhaps fall in love with him and become slavish to her after the way of their kind, and anyhow they would be provided for, but there were plenty of others of a harder texture whose tests would be more difficult to satisfy. There were girls who were the daughters of prominent men, who must be made to understand that Trafford was prominent, girls who were well connected, who must be made to realize the subtle excellence of Trafford's blood. As she thought of Constance Graham, for example, or Ottiline Winchelsea, she felt the strongest disposition to thicken the by no means well authenticated strands that linked Trafford with the Traffords of Trafford-over-Lea. She went about the house dreaming a little apprehensively of these coming calls, and the pitiless light of criticism they would bring to bear, not indeed upon her happiness--that was assured--but upon her success. The social side of the position would have to be strained to the utmost, Marjorie felt, with Aunt Plessington. The thought of Aunt Plessington made her peculiarly apprehensive. Aunt Plessington had to the fullest extent that contempt for merely artistic or scientific people which sits so gracefully upon the administrative English. You see people of that sort do not get on in the sense that a young lawyer or barrister gets on. They do not make steps; they boast and quarrel and are jealous perhaps, but that steady patient shove upward seems beyond their intelligence. The energies God manifestly gave them for shoving, they dissipate in the creation of weak beautiful things and unremunerative theories, or in the establishment of views sometimes diametrically opposed to the ideas of influential people. And they are "queer"--socially. They just moon about doing this so-called "work" of theirs, and even when the judgment of eccentric people forces a kind of reputation upon them--Heaven knows why?--they make no public or social use of it. It seemed to Aunt Plessington that the artist and the scientific man were dealt with very neatly and justly in the Parable of the Buried Talent. Moreover their private lives were often scandalous, they married for love instead of interest, often quite disadvantageously, and their relationships had all the instability that is natural upon such a foundation. And, after all, what good were they? She had never met an artist or a prominent imaginative writer or scientific man that she had not been able to subdue in a minute or so by flat contradiction, and if necessary slightly raising her voice. They had little or no influence even upon their own public appointments.... The thought of the invasion of her agreeable little back street establishment by this Britannic system of judgments filled Marjorie's heart with secret terrors. She felt she had to grapple with and overcome Aunt Plessington, or be for ever fallen--at least, so far as that amiable lady's report went, and she knew it went pretty far. She wandered about the house trying to imagine herself Aunt Plessington. Immediately she felt the gravest doubts whether the whole thing wasn't too graceful and pretty. A rich and rather massive ugliness, of course, would have been the thing to fetch Aunt Plessington. Happily, it was Aunt Plessington's habit to veil her eyes with her voice. She might not see very much. The subjugation of Aunt Plessington was difficult, but not altogether hopeless, Marjorie felt, provided her rejection of Magnet had not been taken as an act of personal ingratitude. There was a case on her side. She was discovering, for example, that Trafford had a really very considerable range of acquaintance among quite distinguished people; big figures like Evesham and MacHaldo, for example, were intelligently interested in the trend of his work. She felt this gave her a basis for Plessingtonian justifications. She could produce those people--as one shows one's loot. She could imply, "Oh, Love and all that nonsense! Certainly not! _This_ is what I did it for." With skill and care and good luck, and a word here and there in edgeways, she believed she might be able to represent the whole adventure as the well-calculated opening of a campaign on soundly Plessingtonian lines. Her marriage to Trafford, she tried to persuade herself, might be presented as something almost as brilliant and startling as her aunt's swoop upon her undistinguished uncle. She might pretend that all along she had seen her way to things, to coveted dinner-tables and the familiarity of coveted guests, to bringing people together and contriving arrangements, to influence and prominence, to culminations and intrigues impossible in the comparatively specialized world of a successful humorist and playwright, and so at last to those high freedoms of authoritative and if necessary offensive utterance in a strangulated contralto, and from a position of secure eminence, which is the goal of all virtuously ambitious Englishwomen of the governing classes--that is to say, of all virtuously ambitious Englishwomen.... § 4 And while such turbid solicitudes as these were flowing in again from the London world to which she had returned, and fouling the bright, romantic clearness of Marjorie's life, Trafford, in his ampler, less detailed way was also troubled about their coming re-entry into society. He, too, had his old associations. For example, he was by no means confident of the favourable judgments of his mother upon Marjorie's circle of school and college friends, whom he gathered from Marjorie's talk were destined to play a large part in this new phase of his life. She had given him very ample particulars of some of them; and he found them interesting rather than richly attractive personalities. It is to be noted that while he thought always of Marjorie as a beautiful, grown-up woman, and his mate and equal, he was still disposed to regard her intimate friends as schoolgirls of an advanced and aggressive type.... Then that large circle of distinguished acquaintances which Marjorie saw so easily and amply utilized for the subjugation of Aunt Plessington didn't present itself quite in that service to Trafford's private thoughts. He hadn't that certitude of command over them, nor that confidence in their unhesitating approval of all he said and did. Just as Marjorie wished him to shine in the heavens over all her people, so, in regard to his associates, he was extraordinarily anxious that they should realize, and realize from the outset without qualification or hesitation, how beautiful, brave and delightful she was. And you know he had already begun to be aware of an evasive feeling in his mind that at times she did not altogether do herself justice--he scarcely knew as yet how or why.... She was very young.... One or two individuals stood out in his imagination, representatives and symbols of the rest. Particularly there was that old giant, Sir Roderick Dover, who had been, until recently, the Professor of Physics in the great Oxford laboratories. Dover and Trafford had one of those warm friendships which spring up at times between a rich-minded man whose greatness is assured and a young man of brilliant promise. It was all the more affectionate because Dover had been a friend of Trafford's father. These two and a group of other careless-minded, able, distinguished, and uninfluential men at the Winton Club affected the end of the smoking-room near the conservatory in the hours after lunch, and shared the joys of good talk and fine jesting about the big fireplace there. Under Dover's broad influence they talked more ideas and less gossip than is usual with English club men. Twaddle about appointments, about reputations, topics from the morning's papers, London architecture, and the commerce in "good stories" took refuge at the other end in the window bays or by the further fireplace. Trafford only began to realize on his return to London how large a share this intermittent perennial conversation had contributed to the atmosphere of his existence. Amidst the romantic circumstances of his flight with Marjorie he had forgotten the part these men played in his life and thoughts. Now he was enormously exercised in the search for a reconciliation between these, he felt, incommensurable factors. He was afraid of what might be Sir Roderick's unspoken judgment on Marjorie and the house she had made--though what was there to be afraid of? He was still more afraid--and this was even more remarkable--of the clear little judgments--hard as loose, small diamonds in a bed--that he thought Marjorie might pronounce on Sir Roderick. He had never disguised from himself that Sir Roderick was fat--nobody who came within a hundred yards of him could be under any illusion about that--and that he drank a good deal, ate with a cosmic spaciousness, loved a cigar, and talked and laughed with a freedom that sometimes drove delicate-minded new members into the corners remotest from the historical fireplace. Trafford knew himself quite definitely that there was a joy in Dover's laugh and voice, a beauty in his face (that was somehow mixed up with his healthy corpulence), and a breadth, a charity, a leonine courage in his mind (that was somehow mixed up with his careless freedom of speech) that made him an altogether satisfactory person. But supposing Marjorie didn't see any of that! Still, he was on the verge of bringing Sir Roderick home when a talk at the club one day postponed that introduction of the two extremes of Trafford's existence for quite a considerable time. Those were the days of the first enthusiasms of the militant suffrage movement, and the occasional smashing of a Downing Street window or an assault upon a minister kept the question of woman's distinctive intelligence and character persistently before the public. Godley Buzard, the feminist novelist, had been the guest of some member to lunch, and the occasion was too provocative for any one about Dover's fireplace to avoid the topic. Buzard's presence, perhaps, drove Dover into an extreme position on the other side; he forgot Trafford's new-wedded condition, and handled this great argument, an argument which has scarcely progressed since its beginning in the days of Plato and Aristophanes, with the freedoms of an ancient Greek and the explicitness of a modern scientific man. He opened almost apropos of nothing. "Women," he said, "are inferior--and you can't get away from it." "You can deny it," said Buzard. "In the face of the facts," said Sir Roderick. "To begin with, they're several inches shorter, several pounds lighter; they've less physical strength in footpounds." "More endurance," said Buzard. "Less sensitiveness merely. All those are demonstrable things--amenable to figures and apparatus. Then they stand nervous tensions worse, the breaking-point comes sooner. They have weaker inhibitions, and inhibition is the test of a creature's position in the mental scale." He maintained that in the face of Buzard's animated protest. Buzard glanced at their moral qualities. "More moral!" cried Dover, "more self-restraint! Not a bit of it! Their desires and passions are weaker even than their controls; that's all. Weaken restraints and they show their quality. A drunken woman is far worse than a drunken man. And as for their biological significance----" "They are the species," said Buzard, "and we are the accidents." "They are the stolon and we are the individualized branches. They are the stem and we are the fruits. Surely it's better to exist than just transmit existence. And that's a woman's business, though we've fooled and petted most of 'em into forgetting it...." He proceeded to an attack on the intellectual quality of women. He scoffed at the woman artist, at feminine research, at what he called the joke of feminine philosophy. Buzard broke in with some sentences of reply. He alleged the lack of feminine opportunity, inferior education. "You don't or won't understand me," said Dover. "It isn't a matter of education or opportunity, or simply that they're of inferior capacity; it lies deeper than that. They don't _want_ to do these things. They're different." "Precisely," ejaculated Buzard, as if he claimed a score. "They don't care for these things. They don't care for art or philosophy, or literature or anything except the things that touch them directly. That's their peculiar difference. Hunger they understand, and comfort, and personal vanity and desire, furs and chocolate and husbands, and the extreme importance conferred upon them by having babies at infrequent intervals. But philosophy or beauty for its own sake, or dreams! Lord! no! The Mahometans know they haven't souls, and they say it. We know, and keep it up that they have. Haven't all we scientific men had 'em in our laboratories working; don't we know the papers they turn out? Every sane man of five and forty knows something of the disillusionment of the feminine dream, but we who've had the beautiful creatures under us, weighing rather badly, handling rather weakly, invariably missing every fine detail and all the implications of our researches, never flashing, never leaping, never being even thoroughly bad,--we're specialists in the subject. At the present time there are far more educated young women than educated young men available for research work--and who wants them? Oh, the young professors who've still got ideals perhaps. And in they come, and if they're dull, they just voluminously do nothing, and if they're bright, they either marry your demonstrator or get him into a mess. And the work----? It's nothing to them. No woman ever painted for the love of painting, or sang for the sounds she made, or philosophized for the sake of wisdom as men do----" Buzard intervened with instances. Dover would have none of them. He displayed astonishing and distinctive knowledge. "Madame Curie," clamoured Buzard, "Madame Curie." "There was Curie," said Dover. "No woman alone has done such things. I don't say women aren't clever," he insisted. "They're too clever. Give them a man's track or a man's intention marked and defined, they'll ape him to the life----" Buzard renewed his protests, talking at the same time as Dover, and was understood to say that women had to care for something greater than art or philosophy. They were custodians of life, the future of the race---- "And that's my crowning disappointment," cried Dover. "If there was one thing in which you might think women would show a sense of some divine purpose in life, it is in the matter of children--and they show about as much care in that matter, oh!--as rabbits. Yes, rabbits! I stick to it. Look at the things a nice girl will marry; look at the men's children she'll consent to bring into the world. Cheerfully! Proudly! For the sake of the home and the clothes. Nasty little beasts they'll breed without turning a hair. All about us we see girls and women marrying ugly men, dull and stupid men, ill-tempered dyspeptic wrecks, sickly young fools, human rats--_rats!_" "No, no!" cried Trafford to Dover. Buzard's voice clamoured that all would be different when women had the vote. "If ever we get a decent care for Eugenics, it will come from men," said a white-faced little man on the sofa beside Trafford, in the confidential tone of one who tells a secret. "Doing it cheerfully!" insisted Dover. Trafford in mid-protest was suddenly stricken into silence by a memory. It was as if the past had thrown a stone at the back of his head and hit it smartly. He nipped his sentence in the bud. He left the case for women to Buzard.... He revived that memory again on his way home. It had been in his mind overlaid by a multitude of newer, fresher things, but now he took it out and looked at it. It was queer, it was really very queer, to think that once upon a time, not so very long ago, Marjorie had been prepared to marry Magnet. Of course she had hated it, but still----.... There is much to be discovered about life, even by a brilliant and rising young Professor of Physics.... Presently Dover, fingering the little glass of yellow chartreuse he had hitherto forgotten in the heat of controversy, took a more personal turn. "Don't we know," he said, and made the limpid amber vanish in his pause. "Don't we know we've got to manage and control 'em--just as we've got to keep 'em and stand the racket of their misbehaviour? Don't our instincts tell us? Doesn't something tell us all that if we let a woman loose with our honour and trust, some other man will get hold of her? We've tried it long enough now, this theory that a woman's a partner and an equal; we've tried it long enough to see some of the results, and does it work? Does it? A woman's a prize, a possession, a responsibility, something to take care of and be careful about.... You chaps, if you'll forgive me, you advanced chaps, seem to want to have the women take care of you. You seem always to want to force decisions on them, make them answerable for things that you ought to decide and answer for.... If one could, if one could! If!... But they're not helps--that's a dream--they're distractions, gratifications, anxieties, dangers, undertakings...." Buzard got in his one effective blow at this point. "That's why you've never married, Sir Roderick?" he threw out. The big man was checked for a moment. Trafford wondered what memory lit that instant's pause. "I've had my science," said Dover. § 5 Mrs. Pope was of course among the first to visit the new home so soon as it was open to inspection. She arrived, looking very bright and neat in a new bonnet and some new black furs that suited her, bearing up bravely but obviously in a state of dispersed and miscellaneous emotion.... In many ways Marjorie's marriage had been a great relief to her mother. Particularly it had been a financial relief. Marjorie had been the most expensive child of her family, and her cessation had led to increments both of Mrs. Pope's and Daphne's all too restricted allowances. Mrs. Pope had been able therefore to relapse from the orthodox Anglicanism into which poverty had driven her, and indulge for an hour weekly in the consolations of Higher Thought. These exercises in emancipated religiosity occurred at the house of Mr. Silas Root, and were greatly valued by a large circle of clients. Essentially they were orgies of vacuity, and they cost six guineas for seven hours. They did her no end of good. All through the precious weekly hour she sat with him in a silent twilight, very, very still and feeling--oh! "higher" than anything, and when she came out she wore an inane smile on her face and was prepared not to worry, to lie with facility, and to take the easiest way in every eventuality in an entirely satisfactory and exalted manner. Moreover he was "treating" her investments. Acting upon his advice, and doing the whole thing quietly with the idea of preparing a pleasant surprise for her husband, she had sold out of certain Home Railway debentures and invested in a company for working the auriferous waste which is so abundant in the drainage of Philadelphia, a company whose shareholders were chiefly higher thought disciples and whose profits therefore would inevitably be greatly enhanced by their concerted mental action. It was to the prospective profits in this that she owed the new black furs she was wearing. The furs and the bonnet and the previous day's treatment she had had, all helped to brace her up on Marjorie's doorstep for a complex and difficult situation, and to carry her through the first tensions of her call. She was so much to pieces as it was that she could not help feeling how much more to pieces she might have been--but for the grace of Silas Root. She knew she ought to have very strong feelings about Trafford, though it was not really clear to her what feelings she ought to have. On the whole she was inclined to believe she was experiencing moral disapproval mixed up with a pathetic and rather hopeless appeal for the welfare of the tender life that had entrusted itself so recklessly to these brutal and discreditable hands, though indeed if she had really dared to look inside her mind her chief discovery would have been a keenly jealous appreciation of Trafford's good looks and generous temper, and a feeling of injustice as between her own lot and Marjorie's. However, going on her assumed basis she managed to be very pale, concise and tight-lipped at any mention of her son-in-law, and to put a fervour of helpless devotion into her embraces of her daughter. She surveyed the house with a pained constrained expression, as though she tried in vain to conceal from herself that it was all slightly improper, and even such objects as the Bokhara hangings failed to extort more than an insincere, "Oh, very nice, dear--_very_ nice." In the bedroom, she spoke about Mr. Pope. "He was dreadfully upset," she said. "His first thought was to come after you both with a pistol. If--if _he_ hadn't married you----" "But dear Mummy, of _course_ we meant to marry! We married right away." "Yes, dear, of course. But if he hadn't----" She paused, and Marjorie, with a momentary flush of indignation in her cheeks, did not urge her to conclude her explanation. "He's _wounded_," said Mrs. Pope. "Some day perhaps he'll come round--you were always his favourite daughter." "I know," said Marjorie concisely, with a faint flavour of cynicism in her voice. "I'm afraid dear, at present--he will do nothing for you." "I don't think Rag would like him to," said Marjorie with an unreal serenity; "_ever_." "For a time I'm afraid he'll refuse to see you. He just wants to forget----. Everything." "Poor old Dad! I wish he wouldn't put himself out like this. Still, I won't bother him, Mummy, if you mean that." Then suddenly into Mrs. Pope's unsystematic, unstable mind, started perhaps by the ring in her daughter's voice, there came a wave of affectionate feeling. That she had somehow to be hostile and unsympathetic to Marjorie, that she had to pretend that Trafford was wicked and disgusting, and not be happy in the jolly hope and happiness of this bright little house, cut her with a keen swift pain. She didn't know clearly why she was taking this coldly hostile attitude, or why she went on doing so, but the sense of that necessity hurt her none the less. She put out her hands upon her daughter's shoulders and whimpered: "Oh my dear! I do wish things weren't so difficult--so very difficult." The whimper changed by some inner force of its own to honest sobs and tears. Marjorie passed through a flash of amazement to a sudden understanding of her mother's case. "Poor dear Mummy," she said. "Oh! poor dear Mummy. It's a shame of us!" She put her arms about her mother and held her for awhile. "It _is_ a shame," said her mother in a muffled voice, trying to keep hold of this elusive thing that had somehow both wounded her and won her daughter back. But her poor grasp slipped again. "I knew you'd come to see it," she said, dabbing with her handkerchief at her eyes. "I knew you would." And then with the habitual loyalty of years resuming its sway: "He's always been so good to you."... But Mrs. Pope had something more definite to say to Marjorie, and came to it at last with a tactful offhandedness. Marjorie communicated it to Trafford about an hour later on his return from the laboratory. "I say," she said, "old Daffy's engaged to Magnet!" She paused, and added with just the faintest trace of resentment in her voice: "She can have him, as far as I'm concerned." "He didn't wait long," said Trafford tactlessly. "No," said Marjorie; "he didn't wait long.... Of course she got him on the rebound."... § 6 Mrs. Pope was only a day or so ahead of a cloud of callers. The Carmel girls followed close upon her, tall figures of black fur, with costly-looking muffs and a rich glitter at neck and wrist. Marjorie displayed her house, talking fluently about other things, and watching for effects. The Carmel girls ran their swift dark eyes over her appointments, glanced quickly from side to side of her rooms, saw only too certainly that the house was narrow and small----. But did they see that it was clever? They saw at any rate that she meant it to be clever, and with true Oriental politeness said as much urgently and extravagantly. Then there were the Rambord girls and their mother, an unobservant lot who chattered about the ice at Prince's; then Constance Graham came with a thoroughbred but very dirty aunt, and then Ottiline Winchelsea with an American minor poet, who wanted a view of mountains from the windows at the back, and said the bathroom ought to be done in pink. Then Lady Solomonson came; an extremely expensive-looking fair lady with an affectation of cynicism, a keen intelligence, acutely apt conversation, and a queer effect of thinking of something else all the time she was talking. She missed nothing.... Hardly anybody failed to appreciate the charm and decision of Marjorie's use of those Bokhara embroideries. They would have been cheap at double the price. § 7 And then our two young people went out to their first dinner-parties together. They began with Trafford's rich friend Solomonson, who had played so large and so passive a part in their first meeting. He had behaved with a sort of magnanimous triumph over the marriage. He made it almost his personal affair, as though he had brought it about. "I knew there was a girl in it," he insisted, "and you told me there wasn't. O-a-ah! And you kept me in that smell of disinfectant and things--what a chap that doctor was for spilling stuff!--for six blessed days!..." Marjorie achieved a dress at once simple and good with great facility by not asking the price until it was all over. (There is no half-success with dinner-dresses, either the thing is a success and inestimable, or not worth having at any price at all.) It was blue with a thread of gold, and she had a necklace of blueish moonstones, gold-set, and her hair ceased to be copper and became golden, and her eyes unfathomable blue. She was radiant with health and happiness, no one else there had her clear freshness, and her manner was as restrained and dignified and ready as a proud young wife's can be. Everyone seemed to like her and respect her and be interested in her, and Trafford kissed her flushed cheek in the hansom as they came home again and crowned her happiness. It had been quite a large party, and really much more splendid and brilliant than anything she had ever seen before. There had been one old gentleman with a coloured button and another with a ribbon; there had been a countess with historical pearls, and half-a-dozen other people one might fairly call distinguished. The house was tremendous in its way, spacious, rich, glowing with lights, abounding in vistas and fine remote backgrounds. In the midst of it all she had a sudden thrill at the memory that less than a year ago she had been ignominiously dismissed from the dinner-table by her father for a hiccup.... A few days after Aunt Plessington suddenly asked the Traffords to one of her less important but still interesting gatherings; not one of those that swayed the world perhaps, but one which Marjorie was given to understand achieved important subordinate wagging. Aunt Plessington had not called, she explained in her note, because of the urgent demands the Movement made upon her time; it was her wonderful hard-breathing way never to call on anyone, and it added tremendously to her reputation; none the less it appeared--though here the scrawl became illegible--she meant to shove and steer her dear niece upward at a tremendous pace. They were even asked to come a little early so that she might make Trafford's acquaintance. The dress was duly admired, and then Aunt Plessington--assuming the hearthrug and forgetting the little matter of their career--explained quite Napoleonic and wonderful things she was going to do with her Movement, fresh principles, fresh applications, a big committee of all the "names"--they were easy to get if you didn't bother them to do things--a new and more attractive title, "Payment in Kind" was to give way to "Reality of Reward," and she herself was going to have her hair bleached bright white (which would set off her eyes and colour and the general geniality of appearance due to her projecting teeth), and so greatly increase her "platform efficiency." Hubert, she said, was toiling away hard at the detail of these new endeavours. He would be down in a few minutes' time. Marjorie, she said, ought to speak at their meetings. It would help both the Traffords to get on if Marjorie cut a dash at the outset, and there was no such dash to be cut as speaking at Aunt Plessington's meetings. It was catching on; all next season it was sure to be the thing. So many promising girls allowed themselves to be submerged altogether in marriage for a time, and when they emerged everyone had forgotten the promise of their début. She had an air of rescuing Marjorie from an impending fate by disabusing Trafford from injurious prepossessions.... Presently the guests began to drop in, a vegetarian health specialist, a rising young woman factory inspector, a phrenologist who was being induced to put great talents to better uses under Aunt Plessington's influence, his dumb, obscure, but inevitable wife, a colonial bishop, a baroness with a taste rather than a capacity for intellectual society, a wealthy jam and pickle manufacturer and his wife, who had subscribed largely to the funds of the Movement and wanted to meet the lady of title, and the editor of the Movement's organ, _Upward and On_, a young gentleman of abundant hair and cadaverous silences, whom Aunt Plessington patted on the shoulder and spoke of as "one of our discoveries." And then Uncle Hubert came down, looking ruffled and overworked, with his ready-made dress-tie--he was one of those men who can never master the art of tying a bow--very much askew. The conversation turned chiefly on the Movement; if it strayed Aunt Plessington reached out her voice after it and brought it back in a masterful manner. Through soup and fish Marjorie occupied herself with the inflexible rigour of the young editor, who had brought her down. When she could give her attention to the general conversation she discovered her husband a little flushed and tackling her aunt with an expression of quiet determination. The phrenologist and the vegetarian health specialist were regarding him with amazement, the jam and pickle manufacturer's wife was evidently deeply shocked. He was refusing to believe in the value of the Movement, and Aunt Plessington was manifestly losing her temper. "I don't see, Mrs. Plessington," he was saying, "that all this amounts to more than a kind of Glorious District Visiting. That is how I see it. You want to attack people in their homes--before they cry out to you. You want to compel them by this Payment in Kind of yours to do what you want them to do instead of trying to make them want to do it. Now, I think your business is to make them want to do it. You may perhaps increase the amount of milk in babies, and the amount of whitewash in cottages and slums by your methods--I don't dispute the promise of your statistics--but you're going to do it at a cost of human self-respect that's out of all proportion----" Uncle Hubert's voice, with that thick utterance that always suggested a mouthful of plums, came booming down the table. "All these arguments," he said, "have been answered long ago." "No doubt," said Trafford with a faint asperity. "But tell me the answers." "It's ridiculous," said Aunt Plessington, "to talk of the self-respect of the kind of people--oh! the very dregs!" "It's just because the plant is delicate that you've got to handle it carefully," said Trafford. "Here's Miss Gant," said Aunt Plessington, "_she_ knows the strata we are discussing. She'll tell you they have positively _no_ self-respect--none at all." "_My_ people," said Miss Gant, as if in conclusive testimony, "actually conspire with their employers to defeat me." "I don't see the absence of self-respect in that," said Trafford. "But all their interests----" "I'm thinking of their pride."... The discussion lasted to the end of dinner and made no headway. As soon as the ladies were in the drawing-room, Aunt Plessington, a little flushed from the conflict, turned on Marjorie and said, "I _like_ your husband. He's wrong-headed, but he's young, and he's certainly spirited. He _ought_ to get on if he wants to. Does he do nothing but his researches?" "He lectures in the spring term," said Marjorie. "Ah!" said Aunt Plessington with a triumphant note, "you must alter all that. You must interest him in wider things. You must bring him out of his shell, and let him see what it is to deal with Affairs. Then he wouldn't talk such nonsense about our Work." Marjory was at a momentary loss for a reply, and in the instant's respite Aunt Plessington turned to the jam and pickle lady and asked in a bright, encouraging note: "Well! And how's the Village Club getting on?"... She had another lunge at Trafford as he took his leave. "You must come again soon," she said. "I _love_ a good wrangle, and Hubert and I never want to talk about our Movement to any one but unbelievers. You don't know the beginnings of it yet. Only I warn you they have a way of getting converted. I warn you."... On this occasion there was no kissing in the cab. Trafford was exasperated. "Of all the intolerable women!" he said, and was silent for a time. "The astounding part of it is," he burst out, "that this sort of thing, this Movement and all the rest of it, does really give the quality of English public affairs. It's like a sample--dredged. The--the _cheapness_ of it! Raised voices, rash assertions, sham investigations, meetings and committees and meetings, that's the stuff of it, and politicians really have to attend to it, and silly, ineffective, irritating bills really get drafted and messed about with and passed on the strength of it. Public affairs are still in the Dark Ages. Nobody now would think of getting together a scratch committee of rich old women and miscellaneous conspicuous people to design an electric tram, and jabbering and jabbering and jabbering, and if any one objects"--a note of personal bitterness came into his voice--"jabbering faster; but nobody thinks it ridiculous to attempt the organization of poor people's affairs in that sort of way. This project of the supersession of Wages by Payment in Kind--oh! it's childish. If it wasn't it would be outrageous and indecent. Your uncle and aunt haven't thought for a moment of any single one of the necessary consequences of these things they say their confounded Movement aims at, effects upon the race, upon public spirit, upon people's habits and motives. They've just a queer craving to feel powerful and influential, which they think they can best satisfy by upsetting the lives of no end of harmless poor people--the only people they dare upset--and that's about as far as they go.... Your aunt's detestable, Marjorie." Marjorie had never seen him so deeply affected by anything but herself. It seemed to her he was needlessly disturbed by a trivial matter. He sulked for a space, and then broke out again. "That confounded woman talks of my physical science," he said, "as if research were an amiable weakness, like collecting postage stamps. And it's changed human conditions more in the last ten years than all the parliamentary wire-pullers and legislators and administrative experts have done in two centuries. And for all that, there's more clerks in Whitehall than professors of physics in the whole of England."... "I suppose it's the way that sort of thing gets done," said Marjorie, after an interval. "That sort of thing doesn't get done," snapped Trafford. "All these people burble about with their movements and jobs, and lectures and stuff--and _things happen_. Like some one getting squashed to death in a crowd. Nobody did it, but anybody in the muddle can claim to have done it--if only they've got the cheek of your Aunt Plessington." He seemed to have finished. "_Done!_" he suddenly broke out again. "Why! people like your Aunt Plessington don't even know where the handle is. If they ventured to look for it, they'd give the whole show away! Done, indeed!" "Here we are!" said Marjorie, a little relieved to find the hansom turning out of King's Road into their own side street.... And then Marjorie wore the blue dress with great success at the Carmels'. The girls came and looked at it and admired it--it was no mere politeness. They admitted there was style about it, a quality--there was no explaining. "You're _wonderful_, Madge!" cried the younger Carmel girl. The Carmel boy, seizing the opportunity of a momentary seclusion in a corner, ended a short but rather portentous silence with "I say, you _do_ look ripping," in a voice that implied the keenest regret for the slacknesses of a summer that was now infinitely remote to Marjorie. It was ridiculous that the Carmel boy should have such emotions--he was six years younger than Trafford and only a year older than Marjorie, and yet she was pleased by his manifest wound.... There was only one little thing at the back of her mind that alloyed her sense of happy and complete living that night, and that was the ghost of an addition sum. At home, in her pretty bureau, a little gathering pile of bills, as yet unpaid, and an empty cheque-book with appealing counterfoils, awaited her attention. Marjorie had still to master the fact that all the fine braveries and interests and delights of life that offer themselves so amply to the favoured children of civilization, trail and, since the fall of man at any rate, have trailed after them something--something, the justification of morality, the despair of all easy, happy souls, the unavoidable drop of bitterness in the cup of pleasure--the Reckoning. CHAPTER THE SECOND THE CHILD OF THE AGES § 1 When the intellectual history of this time comes to be written, nothing I think will stand out more strikingly than the empty gulf in quality between the superb and richly fruitful scientific investigations that are going on and the general thought of other educated sections of the community. I do not mean that the scientific men are as a whole a class of supermen, dealing with and thinking about everything in a way altogether better than the common run of humanity, but that in their own field, they think and work with an intensity, an integrity, a breadth, boldness, patience, thoroughness and faithfulness that (excepting only a few artists) puts their work out of all comparison with any other human activity. Often the field in which the work is done is very narrow, and almost universally the underlying philosophy is felt rather than apprehended. A scientific man may be large and deep-minded, deliberate and personally detached in his work, and hasty, commonplace and superficial in every other relation of life. Nevertheless it is true that in these particular directions the human mind has achieved a new and higher quality of attitude and gesture, a veracity, self-detachment and self-abnegating vigour of criticism that tend to spread out and must ultimately spread out to every other human affair. In these uncontroversial issues at least mankind has learnt the rich rewards that ensue from patience and infinite pains. The peculiar circumstances of Trafford's birth and upbringing had accentuated his natural disposition toward this new thoroughness of intellectual treatment which has always distinguished the great artist, and which to-day is also the essential quality of the scientific method. He had lived apart from any urgency to produce and compete in the common business of the world; his natural curiosities, fed and encouraged by his natural gifts, had grown into a steady passion for clarity and knowledge. But with him there was no specialization. He brought out from his laboratory into the everyday affairs of the world the same sceptical restraint of judgment which is the touchstone of scientific truth. This made him a tepid and indeed rather a scornful spectator of political and social life. Party formulae, international rivalries, social customs, and very much of the ordinary law of our state impressed him as a kind of fungoid growth out of a fundamental intellectual muddle. It all maintained itself hazardously, changing and adapting itself unintelligently to unseen conditions. He saw no ultimate truth in this seething welter of human efforts, no tragedy as yet in its defeats, no value in its victories. It had to go on, he believed, until the spreading certitudes of the scientific method pierced its unsubstantial thickets, burst its delusive films, drained away its folly. Aunt Plessington's talk of order and progress and the influence of her Movement impressed his mind very much as the cackle of some larger kind of hen--which cackles because it must. Only Aunt Plessington being human simply imagined the egg. She laid--on the plane of the ideal. When the great nonsensical issues between liberal and conservative, between socialist and individualist, between "Anglo-Saxon" and "Teuton," between the "white race" and the "yellow race" arose in Trafford's company, he would if he felt cheerful take one side or the other as chance or his amusement with his interlocutors determined, and jest and gibe at the opponent's inconsistencies, and if on the other hand he chanced to be irritable he would lose his temper at this "chewing of mesembryanthemum" and sulk into silence. "Chewing mesembryanthemum" was one of Trafford's favourite images,--no doubt the reader knows that abundant fleshy Mediterranean weed and the weakly unpleasant wateriness of its substance. He went back to his laboratory and his proper work after such discussions with a feeling of escape, as if he shut a door upon a dirty and undisciplined market-place crowded with mental defectives. Yet even before he met and married Marjorie, there was a queer little undertow of thought in his mind which insisted that this business could not end with door-slamming, that he didn't altogether leave the social confusion outside his panels when he stood alone before his apparatus, and that sooner or later that babble of voices would force his defences and overcome his disdain. His particular work upon the intimate constitution of matter had broadened very rapidly in his hands. The drift of his work had been to identify all colloids as liquid solutions of variable degrees of viscosity, and to treat crystalline bodies as the only solids. He had dealt with oscillating processes in colloid bodies with especial reference to living matter. He had passed from a study of the melting and toughening of glass to the molecular structure of a number of elastic bodies, and so, by a characteristic leap into botanical physiology, to the states of resinous and gummy substances at the moment of secretion. He worked at first upon a false start, and then resumed to discover a growing illumination. He found himself in the presence of phenomena that seemed to him to lie near the still undiscovered threshold to the secret processes of living protoplasm. He was, as it were, breaking into biology by way of molecular physics. He spent many long nights of deep excitement, calculating and arranging the development of these seductive intimations. It was this work which his marriage had interrupted, and to which he was now returning. He was surprised to find how difficult it was to take it up again. He had been only two months away from it, and yet already it had not a little of the feeling of a relic taken from a drawer. Something had faded. It was at first as if a film had come over his eyes, so that he could no longer see these things clearly and subtly and closely. His senses, his emotions, had been living in a stirring and vivid illumination. Now in this cool quietude bright clouds of coloured memory-stuff swam distractingly before his eyes. Phantom kisses on his lips, the memory of touches and the echoing vibrations of an adorable voice, the thought of a gay delightful fireside and the fresh recollection of a companion intensely felt beside him, effaced the delicate profundities of this dim place. Durgan hovered about him, helpful and a mute reproach. Trafford had to force his attention daily for the better part of two weeks before he had fully recovered the fine enchanting interest of that suspended work. § 2 At last one day he had the happiness of possession again. He had exactly the sensation one gets when some hitherto intractable piece of a machine one is putting together, clicks neatly and beyond all hoping, into its place. He found himself working in the old style, with the hours slipping by disregarded. He sent out Durgan to get him tobacco and tea and smoked-salmon sandwiches, and he stayed in the laboratory all night. He went home about half-past five, and found a white-faced, red-eyed Marjorie still dressed, wrapped in a travelling-rug, and crumpled and asleep in his study arm-chair beside the grey ashes of an extinct fire. In the instant before she awoke he could see what a fragile and pitiful being a healthy and happy young wife can appear. Her pose revealed an unsuspected slender weakness of body, her face something infantile and wistful he had still to reckon with. She awoke with a start and stared at him for a moment, and at the room about her. "Oh, where have you been?" she asked almost querulously. "Where _have_ you been?" "But my dear!" he said, as one might speak to a child, "why aren't you in bed? It's just dawn." "Oh," she said, "I waited and I waited. It seemed you _must_ come. I read a book. And then I fell asleep." And then with a sob of feeble self-pity, "And here I am!" She rubbed the back of her hand into one eye and shivered. "I'm cold," she said, "and I want some tea." "Let's make some," said Trafford. "It's been horrible waiting," said Marjorie without moving; "horrible! Where have you been?" "I've been working. I got excited by my work. I've been at the laboratory. I've had the best spell of work I've ever had since our marriage." "But I have been up all night!" she cried with her face and voice softening to tears. "How _could_ you? How _could_ you?" He was surprised by her weeping. He was still more surprised by the self-abandonment that allowed her to continue. "I've been working," he repeated, and then looked about with a man's helplessness for the tea apparatus. One must have hot water and a teapot and a kettle; he would find those in the kitchen. He strolled thoughtfully out of the room, thinking out the further details of tea-making all mixed up with amazement at Marjorie, while she sat wiping her eyes with a crumpled pocket-handkerchief. Presently she followed him down with the rug about her like a shawl, and stood watching him as he lit a fire of wood and paper among the ashes in the kitchen fireplace. "It's been dreadful," she said, not offering to help. "You see," he said, on his knees, "I'd really got hold of my work at last." "But you should have sent----" "I was thinking of my work. I clean forgot." "Forgot?" "Absolutely." "Forgot--_me!_" "Of course," said Trafford, with a slightly puzzled air, "you don't see it as I do." The kettle engaged him for a time. Then he threw out a suggestion. "We'll have to have a telephone." "I couldn't imagine where you were. I thought of all sorts of things. I almost came round--but I was so horribly afraid I mightn't find you." He renewed his suggestion of a telephone. "So that if I really want you----" said Marjorie. "Or if I just want to feel you're there." "Yes," said Trafford slowly, jabbing a piece of firewood into the glow; but it was chiefly present in his mind that much of that elaborate experimenting of his wasn't at all a thing to be cut athwart by the exasperating gusts of a telephone bell clamouring for attention. Hitherto the laboratory telephone had been in the habit of disconnecting itself early in the afternoon. And yet after all it was this instrument, the same twisted wire and little quivering tympanum, that had brought back Marjorie into his life. § 3 And now Trafford fell into a great perplexity of mind. His banker had called his attention to the fact that his account was overdrawn to the extent of three hundred and thirteen pounds, and he had been under that vague sort of impression one always has about one's current account that he was a hundred and fifty or so to the good. His first impression was that those hitherto infallible beings, those unseen gnomes of the pass-book whose lucid figures, neat tickings, and unrelenting additions constituted banks to his imagination, must have made a mistake; his second that some one had tampered with a cheque. His third thought pointed to Marjorie and the easy circumstances of his home. For a fortnight now she had been obviously ailing, oddly irritable; he did not understand the change in her, but it sufficed to prevent his taking the thing to her at once and going into it with her as he would have done earlier. Instead he had sent for his pass-book, and in the presence of its neat columns realized for the first time the meaning of Marjorie's "three hundred pounds." Including half-a-dozen cheques to Oxbridge tradesmen for her old debts, she had spent, he discovered, nearly seven hundred and fifty. He sat before the little bundle of crumpled strips of pink and white, perforated, purple stamped and effaced, in a state of extreme astonishment. It was no small factor in his amazement to note how very carelessly some of those cheques of Marjorie's had been written. Several she had not even crossed. The effect of it all was that she'd just spent his money--freely--with an utter disregard of the consequences. Up to that moment it had never occurred to Trafford that anybody one really cared for, could be anything but punctilious about money. Now here, with an arithmetical exactitude of demonstration, he perceived that Marjorie wasn't. It was so tremendous a discovery for him, so disconcerting and startling, that he didn't for two days say a word to her about it. He couldn't think of a word to say. He felt that even to put these facts before her amounted to an accusation of disloyalty and selfishness that he hadn't the courage to make. His work stopped altogether. He struggled hourly with that accusation. Did she realize----? There seemed no escape from his dilemma; either she didn't care or she didn't understand! His thoughts went back to the lake of Orta, when he had put all his money at her disposal. She had been surprised, and now he perceived she had also been a little frightened. The chief excuse he could find for her was that she was inexperienced--absolutely inexperienced. Even now, of course, she was drawing fresh cheques.... He would have to pull himself together, and go into the whole thing--for all its infinite disagreeableness--with her.... But it was Marjorie who broached the subject. He had found work at the laboratory unsatisfactory, and after lunching at his club he had come home and gone to his study in order to think out the discussion he contemplated with her. She came in to him as he sat at his desk. "Busy?" she said. "Not very," he answered, and she came up to him, kissed his head, and stood beside him with her hand on his shoulder. "Pass-book?" she asked. He nodded. "I've been overrunning." "No end." The matter was opened. What would she say? She bent to his ear and whispered. "I'm going to overrun some more." His voice was resentful. "You _can't_," he said compactly without looking at her. "You've spent--enough." "There's--things." "What things?" Her answer took some time in coming. "We'll have to give a wedding present to Daffy.... I shall want--some more furniture." Well, he had to go into it now. "I don't think you can have it," he said, and then as she remained silent, "Marjorie, do you know how much money I've got?" "Six thousand." "I _had_. But we've spent nearly a thousand pounds. Yes--one thousand pounds--over and above income. We meant to spend four hundred. And now, we've got--hardly anything over five." "Five thousand," said Marjorie. "Five thousand." "And there's your salary." "Yes, but at this pace----" "Dear," said Marjorie, and her hands came about his neck, "dear--there's something----" She broke off. An unfamiliar quality in her voice struck into him. He turned his head to see her face, rose to his feet staring at her. This remarkable young woman had become soft and wonderful as April hills across which clouds are sweeping. Her face was as if he had never seen it before; her eyes bright with tears. "Oh! don't let's spoil things by thinking of money," she said. "I've got something----" Her voice fell to a whisper. "Don't let's spoil things by thinking of money.... It's too good, dear, to be true. It's too good to be true. It makes everything perfect.... We'll have to furnish that little room. I didn't dare to hope it--somehow. I've been so excited and afraid. But we've got to furnish that little room there--that empty little room upstairs, dear, that we left over.... Oh my _dear!_ my _dear!_" § 4 The world of Trafford and Marjorie was filled and transfigured by the advent of their child. For two days of abundant silences he had been preparing a statement of his case for her, he had been full of the danger to his research and all the waste of his life that her extravagance threatened. He wanted to tell her just all that his science meant to him, explain how his income and life had all been arranged to leave him, mind and time and energy, free for these commanding investigations. His life was to him the service of knowledge--or futility. He had perceived that she did not understand this in him; that for her, life was a blaze of eagerly sought experiences and gratifications. So far he had thought out things and had them ready for her. But now all this impending discussion vanished out of his world. Their love was to be crowned by the miracle of parentage. This fact flooded his outlook and submerged every other consideration. This manifest probability came to him as if it were an unforeseen marvel. It was as if he had never thought of such a thing before, as though a fact entirely novel in the order of the universe had come into existence. Marjorie became again magical and wonderful for him, but in a manner new and strange, she was grave, solemn, significant. He was filled with a passionate solicitude for her welfare, and a passionate desire to serve her. It seemed impossible to him that only a day or so ago he should have been accusing her in his heart of disloyalty, and searching for excuses and mitigations.... All the freshness of his first love for Marjorie returned, his keen sense of the sweet gallantry of her voice and bearing, his admiration for the swift, falconlike swoop of her decisions, for the grace and poise of her body, and the steady frankness of her eyes; but now it was all charged with his sense of this new joint life germinating at the heart of her slender vigour, spreading throughout her being to change it altogether into womanhood for ever. In this new light his passion for research and all the scheme of his life appeared faded and unworthy, as much egotism as if he had been devoted to hunting or golf or any such aimless preoccupation. Fatherhood gripped him and faced him about. It was manifestly a monstrous thing that he should ever have expected Marjorie to become a mere undisturbing accessory to the selfish intellectualism of his career, to shave and limit herself to a mere bachelor income, and play no part of her own in the movement of the world. He knew better now. Research must fall into its proper place, and for his immediate business he must set to work to supplement his manifestly inadequate resources. At first he could form no plan at all for doing that. He determined that research must still have his morning hours until lunch-time, and, he privately resolved, some part of the night. The rest of his day, he thought, he would set aside for a time to money-making. But he was altogether inexperienced in the methods of money-making; it was a new problem, and a new sort of problem to him altogether. He discovered himself helpless and rather silly in the matter. The more obvious possibilities seemed to be that he might lecture upon his science or write. He communicated with a couple of lecture agencies, and was amazed at their scepticism; no doubt he knew his science, on that point they were complimentary in a profuse, unconvincing manner, but could he interest like X--and here they named a notorious quack--could he _draw_? He offered Science Notes to a weekly periodical; the editor answered that for the purposes of his publication he preferred, as between professors and journalists, journalists. "You real scientific men," he said, "are no doubt a thousand times more accurate and novel and all that, but as no one seems able to understand you----" He went to his old fellow-student, Gwenn, who was editing _The Scientific Review_, and through him he secured some semi-popular lectures, which involved, he found, travelling about twenty-nine miles weekly at the rate of four-and-sixpence a mile--counting nothing for the lectures. Afterwards Gwenn arranged for some regular notes on physics and micro-chemistry. Trafford made out a weekly time-table, on whose white of dignity, leisure, and the honourable pursuit of knowledge, a diaper of red marked the claims of domestic necessity. § 5 It was astonishing how completely this coming child dominated the whole atmosphere and all the circumstances of the Traffords. It became their central fact, to which everything else turned and pointed. Its effect on Marjorie's circle of school and college friends was prodigious. She was the first of their company to cross the mysterious boundaries of a woman's life. She became to them a heroine mingled with something of the priestess. They called upon her more abundantly and sat with her, noted the change in her eyes and voice and bearing, talking with a kind of awe and a faint diffidence of the promised new life. Many of them had been deeply tinged by the women's suffrage movement, the feminist note was strong among them, and when one afternoon Ottiline Winchelsea brought round Agatha Alimony, the novelist, and Agatha said in that deep-ringing voice of hers: "I hope it will be a girl, so that presently she may fight the battle of her sex," there was the profoundest emotion. But when Marjorie conveyed that to Trafford he was lacking in response. "I want a boy," he said, and, being pressed for a reason, explained: "Oh, one likes to have a boy. I want him with just your quick eyes and ears, my dear, and just my own safe and certain hands." Mrs. Pope received the news with that depth and aimless complexity of emotion which had now become her habitual method with Marjorie. She kissed and clasped her daughter, and thought confusedly over her shoulder, and said: "Of course, dear----. Oh, I _do_ so hope it won't annoy your father." Daffy was "nice," but vague, and sufficiently feminist to wish it a daughter, and the pseudo-twins said "_Hoo_-ray!" and changed the subject at the earliest possible opportunity. But Theodore was deeply moved at the prospect of becoming an uncle, and went apart and mused deeply and darkly thereon for some time. It was difficult to tell just what Trafford's mother thought, she was complex and subtle, and evidently did not show Marjorie all that was in her mind; but at any rate it was clear the prospect of a grandchild pleased and interested her. And about Aunt Plessington's views there was no manner of doubt at all. She thought, and remarked judicially, as one might criticize a game of billiards, that on the whole it was just a little bit too soon. § 6 Marjorie kept well throughout March and April, and then suddenly she grew unutterably weary and uncomfortable in London. The end of April came hot and close and dry--it might have been July for the heat--the scrap of garden wilted, and the streets were irritating with fine dust and blown scraps of paper and drifting straws. She could think of nothing but the shade of trees, and cornfields under sunlight and the shadows of passing clouds. So Trafford took out an old bicycle and wandered over the home counties for three days, and at last hit upon a little country cottage near Great Missenden, a cottage a couple of girl artists had furnished and now wanted to let. It had a long, untidy vegetable garden and a small orchard and drying-ground, with an old, superannuated humbug of a pear-tree near the centre surrounded by a green seat, and high hedges with the promise of honeysuckle and dog-roses, and gaps that opened into hospitable beechwoods--woods not so thick but that there were glades of bluebells, bracken and, to be exact, in places embattled stinging-nettles. He took it and engaged a minute, active, interested, philoprogenitive servant girl for it, and took Marjorie thither in a taxi-cab. She went out, wrapped in a shawl, and sat under the pear-tree and cried quietly with weakness and sentiment and the tenderness of afternoon sunshine, and forthwith began to pick up wonderfully, and was presently writing to Trafford to buy her a dog to go for walks with, while he was away in London. Trafford was still struggling along with his research in spite of a constant gravitation to the cottage and Marjorie's side, but he was also doing his best to grapple with the difficulties of his financial situation. His science notes, which were very uncongenial and difficult to do, and his lecturing, still left his income far behind his expenditure, and the problem of minimising the inevitable fresh inroads on his capital was insistent and distracting. He discovered that he could manage his notes more easily and write a more popular article if he dictated to a typist instead of writing out the stuff in his own manuscript. Dictating made his sentences more copious and open, and the effect of the young lady's by no means acquiescent back was to make him far more explicit than he tended to be pen in hand. With a pen and alone he felt the boredom of the job unendurably, and, to be through with it, became more and more terse, allusive, and compactly technical, after the style of his original papers. One or two articles by him were accepted and published by the monthly magazines, but as he took what the editors sent him, he did not find this led to any excessive opulence.... But his heart was very much with Marjorie through all this time. Hitherto he had taken her health and vigour and companionship for granted, and it changed his attitudes profoundly to find her now an ailing thing, making an invincible appeal for restraint and consideration and help. She changed marvellously, she gained a new dignity, and her complexion took upon itself a fresh, soft beauty. He would spend three or four days out of a week at the cottage, and long hours of that would be at her side, paper and notes of some forthcoming lecture at hand neglected, talking to her consolingly and dreamingly. His thoughts were full of ideas about education; he was obsessed, as are most intelligent young parents of the modern type, by the enormous possibilities of human improvement that might be achieved--if only one could begin with a baby from the outset, on the best lines, with the best methods, training and preparing it--presumably for a cleaned and chastened world. Indeed he made all the usual discoveries of intelligent modern young parents very rapidly, fully and completely, and overlooked most of those practical difficulties that finally reduce them to human dimensions again in quite the normal fashion. "I sit and muse sometimes when I ought to be computing," he said. "Old Durgan watches me and grunts. But think, if we take reasonable care, watch its phases, stand ready with a kindergarten toy directly it stretches out its hand--think what we can make of it!"... "We will make it the most wonderful child in the world," said Marjorie. "Indeed! what else can it be?" "Your eyes," said Trafford, "and my hands." "A girl." "A boy." He kissed her white and passive wrist. § 7 The child was born a little before expectation at the cottage throughout a long summer's night and day in early September. Its coming into the world was a long and painful struggle; the general practitioner who had seemed two days before a competent and worthy person enough, revealed himself as hesitating, old-fashioned, and ill-equipped. He had a lingering theological objection to the use of chloroform, and the nurse from London sulked under his directions and came and discussed his methods scornfully with Trafford. From sundown until daylight Trafford chafed in the little sitting-room and tried to sleep, and hovered listening at the foot of the narrow staircase to the room above. He lived through interminable hours of moaning and suspense.... The dawn and sunrise came with a quality of beautiful horror. For years afterwards that memory stood out among other memories as something peculiarly strange and dreadful. Day followed an interminable night and broke slowly. Things crept out of darkness, awoke as it were out of mysteries and reclothed themselves in unsubstantial shadows and faint-hued forms. All through that slow infiltration of the world with light and then with colour, the universe it seemed was moaning and endeavouring, and a weak and terrible struggle went on and kept on in that forbidden room whose windows opened upon the lightening world, dying to a sobbing silence, rising again to agonizing cries, fluctuating, a perpetual obstinate failure to achieve a tormenting end. He went out, and behold the sky was a wonder of pink flushed level clouds and golden hope, and nearly every star except the morning star had gone, the supine moon was pale and half-dissolved in blue, and the grass which had been grey and wet, was green again, and the bushes and trees were green. He returned and hovered in the passage, washed his face, listened outside the door for age-long moments, and then went out again to listen under the window.... He went to his room and shaved, sat for a long time thinking, and then suddenly knelt by his bed and prayed. He had never prayed before in all his life.... He returned to the garden, and there neglected and wet with dew was the camp chair Marjorie had sat on the evening before, the shawl she had been wearing, the novel she had been reading. He brought these things in as if they were precious treasures.... Light was pouring into the world again now. He noticed with an extreme particularity the detailed dewy delicacy of grass and twig, the silver edges to the leaves of briar and nettle, the soft clearness of the moss on bank and wall. He noted the woods with the first warmth of autumn tinting their green, the clear, calm sky, with just a wisp or so of purple cloud waning to a luminous pink on the brightening east, the exquisite freshness of the air. And still through the open window, incessant, unbearable, came this sound of Marjorie moaning, now dying away, now reviving, now weakening again.... Was she dying? Were they murdering her? It was incredible this torture could go on. Somehow it must end. Chiefly he wanted to go in and kill the doctor. But it would do no good to kill the doctor! At last the nurse came out, looking a little scared, to ask him to cycle three miles away and borrow some special sort of needle that the fool of a doctor had forgotten. He went, outwardly meek, and returning was met by the little interested servant, very alert and excited and rather superior--for here was something no man can do--with the news that he had a beautiful little daughter, and that all was well with Marjorie. He said "Thank God, thank God!" several times, and then went out into the kitchen and began to eat some flabby toast and drink some lukewarm tea he found there. He was horribly fatigued. "Is she all right?" he asked over his shoulder, hearing the doctor's footsteps on the stairs.... They were very pontifical and official with him. Presently they brought out a strange, wizened little animal, wailing very stoutly, with a face like a very, very old woman, and reddish skin and hair--it had quite a lot of wet blackish hair of an incredible delicacy of texture. It kicked with a stumpy monkey's legs and inturned feet. He held it: his heart went out to it. He pitied it beyond measure, it was so weak and ugly. He was astonished and distressed by the fact of its extreme endearing ugliness. He had expected something strikingly pretty. It clenched a fist, and he perceived it had all its complement of fingers and ridiculous, pretentious little finger nails. Inside that fist it squeezed his heart.... He did not want to give it back to them. He wanted to protect it. He felt they could not understand it or forgive, as he could forgive, its unjustifiable feebleness.... Later, for just a little while, he was permitted to see Marjorie--Marjorie so spent, so unspeakably weary, and yet so reassuringly vital and living, so full of gentle pride and gentler courage amidst the litter of surgical precaution, that the tears came streaming down his face and he sobbed shamelessly as he kissed her. "Little daughter," she whispered and smiled--just as she had always smiled--that sweet, dear smile of hers!--and closed her eyes and said no more.... Afterwards as he walked up and down the garden he remembered their former dispute and thought how characteristic of Marjorie it was to have a daughter in spite of all his wishes. § 8 For weeks and weeks this astonishing and unprecedented being filled the Traffords' earth and sky. Very speedily its minute quaintness passed, and it became a vigorous delightful baby that was, as the nurse explained repeatedly and very explicitly, not only quite exceptional and distinguished, but exactly everything that a baby should be. Its weight became of supreme importance; there was a splendid week when it put on nine ounces, and an indifferent one when it added only one. And then came a terrible crisis. It was ill; some sort of infection had reached it, an infantile cholera. Its temperature mounted to a hundred and three and a half. It became a flushed misery, wailing with a pathetic feeble voice. Then it ceased to wail. Marjorie became white-lipped and heavy-eyed from want of sleep, and it seemed to Trafford that perhaps his child might die. It seemed to him that the spirit of the universe must be a monstrous calivan since children had to die. He went for a long walk through the October beechwoods, under a windy sky, and in a drift of falling leaves, wondering with a renewed freshness at the haunting futilities of life.... Life was not futile--anything but that, but futility seemed to be stalking it, waiting for it.... When he returned the child was already better, and in a few days it was well again--but very light and thin. When they were sure of its safety, Marjorie and he confessed the extremity of their fears to one another. They had not dared to speak before, and even now they spoke in undertones of the shadow that had hovered and passed over the dearest thing in their lives. CHAPTER THE THIRD THE NEW PHASE § 1 In the course of the next six months the child of the ages became an almost ordinary healthy baby, and Trafford began to think consecutively about his scientific work again--in the intervals of effort of a more immediately practical sort. The recall of molecular physics and particularly of the internal condition of colloids to something like their old importance in his life was greatly accelerated by the fact that a young Oxford don named Behrens was showing extraordinary energy in what had been for a time Trafford's distinctive and undisputed field. Behrens was one of those vividly clever energetic people who are the despair of originative men. He had begun as Trafford's pupil and sedulous ape; he had gone on to work that imitated Trafford's in everything except its continual freshness, and now he was ransacking every scrap of suggestion to be found in Trafford's work, and developing it with an intensity of uninspired intelligence that most marvellously simulated originality. He was already being noted as an authority; sometimes in an article his name would be quoted and Trafford's omitted in relation to Trafford's ideas, and in every way his emergence and the manner of his emergence threatened and stimulated his model and master. A great effort had to be made. Trafford revived the drooping spirits of Durgan by a renewed punctuality in the laboratory. He began to stay away from home at night and work late again, now, however, under no imperative inspiration, but simply because it was only by such an invasion of the evening and night that it would be possible to make headway against Behren's unremitting industry. And this new demand upon Trafford's already strained mental and nervous equipment began very speedily to have its effect upon his domestic life. It is only in romantic fiction that a man can work strenuously to the limit of his power and come home to be sweet, sunny and entertaining. Trafford's preoccupation involved a certain negligence of Marjorie, a certain indisposition to be amused or interested by trifling things, a certain irritability.... § 2 And now, indeed, the Traffords were coming to the most difficult and fatal phase in marriage. They had had that taste of defiant adventure which is the crown of a spirited love affair, they had known the sweetness of a maiden passion for a maid, and they had felt all those rich and solemn emotions, those splendid fears and terrible hopes that weave themselves about the great partnership in parentage. And now, so far as sex was concerned, there might be much joy and delight still, but no more wonder, no fresh discoveries of incredible new worlds and unsuspected stars. Love, which had been a new garden, an unknown land, a sunlit sea to launch upon, was now a rich treasure-house of memories. And memories, although they afford a perpetually increasing enrichment to emotion, are not sufficient in themselves for the daily needs of life. For this, indeed, is the truth of passionate love, that it works outs its purpose and comes to an end. A day arrives in every marriage when the lovers must face each other, disillusioned, stripped of the last shred of excitement--undisguisedly themselves. And our two were married; they had bound themselves together under a penalty of scandalous disgrace, to take the life-long consequences of their passionate association. It was upon Trafford that this exhaustion of the sustaining magic of love pressed most severely, because it was he who had made the greatest adaptations to the exigencies of their union. He had crippled, he perceived more and more clearly, the research work upon which his whole being had once been set, and his hours were full of tiresome and trivial duties and his mind engaged and worried by growing financial anxieties. He had made these abandonments in a phase of exalted passion for the one woman in the world and her unprecedented child, and now he saw, in spite of all his desire not to see, that she was just a weak human being among human beings, and neither she nor little Margharita so very marvellous. But while Marjorie shrank to the dimensions of reality, research remained still a luminous and commanding dream. In love one fails or one wins home, but the lure of research is for ever beyond the hills, every victory is a new desire. Science has inexhaustibly fresh worlds to conquer.... He was beginning now to realize the dilemma of his life, the reality of the opposition between Marjorie and child and home on the one hand and on the other this big wider thing, this remoter, severer demand upon his being. He had long perceived these were distinct and different things, but now it appeared more and more inevitable that they should be antagonistic and mutually disregardful things. Each claimed him altogether, it seemed, and suffered compromise impatiently. And this is where the particular stress of his situation came in. Hitherto he had believed that nothing of any importance was secret or inexplicable between himself and Marjorie. His ideal of his relationship had assumed a complete sympathy of feeling, an almost instinctive identity of outlook. And now it was manifest they were living in a state of inadequate understanding, that she knew only in the most general and opaque forms, the things that interested him so profoundly, and had but the most superficial interest in his impassioned curiosities. And missing as she did the strength of his intellectual purpose she missed too, she had no inkling of, the way in which her careless expansiveness pressed upon him. She was unaware that she was destroying an essential thing in his life. He could not tell how far this antagonism was due to inalterable discords of character, how far it might not be an ineradicable sex difference, a necessary aspect of marriage. The talk of old Sir Roderick Dover at the Winton Club germinated in his mind, a branching and permeating suggestion. And then would come a phase of keen sympathy with Marjorie; she would say brilliant and penetrating things, display a swift cleverness that drove all these intimations of incurable divergence clean out of his head again. Then he would find explanations in the differences between his and Marjorie's training and early associations. He perceived his own upbringing had had a steadfastness and consistency that had been altogether lacking in hers. He had had the rare advantage of perfect honesty in the teaching and tradition of his home. There had never been any shams or sentimentalities for him to find out and abandon. From boyhood his mother's hand had pointed steadily to the search for truth as the supreme ennobling fact in life. She had never preached this to him, never delivered discourses upon his father's virtues, but all her conversation and life was saturated with this idea. Compared with this atmosphere of high and sustained direction, the intellectual and moral quality of the Popes, he saw, was the quality of an agitated rag bag. They had thought nothing out, joined nothing together, they seemed to believe everything and nothing, they were neither religious nor irreligious, neither moral nor adventurous. In the place of a religion, and tainting their entire atmosphere, they had the decaying remains of a dead Anglicanism; it was clear they did not believe in its creed, and as clear that they did not want to get rid of it; it afforded them no guidance, but only vague pretensions, and the dismal exercises of Silas Root flourished in its shadows, a fungus, a post-mortem activity of the soul. None of them had any idea of what they were for or what their lives as a whole might mean; they had no standards, but only instincts and an instinctive fear of instincts; Pope wanted to be tremendously respected and complimented by everybody and get six per cent. for his money; Mrs. Pope wanted things to go smoothly; the young people had a general indisposition to do anything that might "look bad," and otherwise "have a good time." But neither Marjorie nor any of them had any test for a good time, and so they fluctuated in their conceptions of what they wanted from day to day. Now it was Plessingtonian standards, now Carmel standards, now the standards of Agatha Alimony; now it was a stimulating novel, now a gleam of æsthetic imaginativeness come, Heaven knows whence, that dominated her mood. He was beginning to understand all this at last, and to see the need of coherence in Marjorie's mood. He realized the unfairness of keeping his thoughts to himself, the need of putting his case before her, and making her realize their fatal and widening divergence. He wanted to infect her with his scientific passion, to give her his sense of the gravity of their practical difficulties. He would sit amidst his neglected work in his laboratory framing explanatory phrases. He would prepare the most lucid and complete statements, and go about with these in his mind for days waiting for an opportunity of saying what he felt so urgently had to be said. But the things that seemed so luminous and effective in the laboratory had a curious way of fading and shrinking beside the bright colours of Marjorie's Bokhara hangings, in the presence of little Margharita pink and warm and entertaining in her bath, or amidst the fluttering rustle of the afternoon tea-parties that were now becoming frequent in his house. And when he was alone with her he discovered they didn't talk now any more--except in terms of a constrained and formal affection. What had happened to them? What was the matter between himself and Marjorie that he couldn't even intimate his sense of their divergence? He would have liked to discuss the whole thing with his mother, but somehow that seemed disloyal to Marjorie.... One day they quarrelled. He came in about six in the afternoon, jaded from the delivery of a suburban lecture, and the consequent tedium of suburban travel, and discovered Marjorie examining the effect of a new picture which had replaced the German print of sunlit waves over the dining-room mantelpiece. It was a painting in the post-impressionist manner, and it had arrived after the close of the exhibition in Weldon Street, at which Marjorie had bought it. She had bought it in obedience to a sudden impulse, and its imminence had long weighed upon her conscience. She had gone to the show with Sydney Flor and old Mrs. Flor, Sydney's mother, and a kind of excitement had come upon them at the idea of possessing this particular picture. Mrs. Flor had already bought three Herbins, and her daughter wanted to dissuade her from more. "But they're so delightful," said Mrs. Flor. "You're overrunning your allowance," said Sydney. Disputing the point, they made inquiries for the price, and learnt that this bright epigram in colour was going begging--was even offered at a reduction from the catalogue price. A reduced price always had a strong appeal nowadays to Marjorie's mind. "If you don't get it," she said abruptly, "I shall." The transition from that attitude to ownership was amazingly rapid. Then nothing remained but to wait for the picture. She had dreaded a mistake, a blundering discord, but now with the thing hung she could see her quick eye had not betrayed her. It was a mass of reds, browns, purples, and vivid greens and greys; an effect of roof and brick house facing upon a Dutch canal, and it lit up the room and was echoed and reflected by all the rest of her courageous colour scheme, like a coal-fire amidst mahogany and metal. It justified itself to her completely, and she faced her husband with a certain confidence. "Hullo!" he cried. "A new picture," she said. "What do you think of it?" "What is it?" "A town or something--never mind. Look at the colour. It heartens everything." Trafford looked at the painting with a reluctant admiration. "It's brilliant--and impudent. He's an artist--whoever he is. He hits the thing. But--I say--how did you get it?" "I bought it." "Bought it! Good Lord! How much?" "Oh! ten guineas," said Marjorie, with an affectation of ease; "it will be worth thirty in ten years' time." Trafford's reply was to repeat: "Ten guineas!" Their eyes met, and there was singularly little tenderness in their eyes. "It was priced at thirteen," said Marjorie, ending a pause, and with a sinking heart. Trafford had left her side. He walked to the window and sat down in a chair. "I think this is too much," he said, and his voice had disagreeable notes in it she had never heard before. "I have just been earning two guineas at Croydon, of all places, administering comminuted science to fools--and here I find--this exploit! Ten guineas' worth of picture. To say we can't afford it is just to waste a mild expression. It's--mad extravagance. It's waste of money--it's--oh!--monstrous disloyalty. Disloyalty!" He stared resentful at the cheerful, unhesitating daubs of the picture for a moment. Its affected carelessness goaded him to fresh words. He spoke in a tone of absolute hostility. "I think this winds me up to something," he said. "You'll have to give up your cheque-book, Marjorie." "Give up my cheque-book!" He looked up at her and nodded. There was a warm flush in her cheeks, her lips panted apart, and tears of disappointment and vexation were shining beautifully in her eyes. She mingled the quality of an indignant woman with the distress and unreasonable resentment of a child. "Because I've bought this picture?" "Can we go on like this?" he asked, and felt how miserably he had bungled in opening this question that had been in his mind so long. "But it's _beautiful!_" she said. He disregarded that. He felt now that he had to go on with these long-premeditated expostulations. He was tired and dusty from his third-class carriage, his spirit was tired and dusty, and he said what he had to say without either breadth or power, an undignified statement of personal grievances, a mere complaint of the burthen of work that falls upon a man. That she missed the high aim in him, and all sense of the greatness they were losing had vanished from his thoughts. He had too heavy a share of the common burthen, and she pressed upon him unthinkingly; that was all he could say. He girded at her with a bitter and loveless truth; it was none the less cruel that in her heart she knew these things he said were true. But he went beyond justice--as every quarrelling human being does; he called the things she had bought and the harmonies she had created, "this litter and rubbish for which I am wasting my life." That stabbed into her pride acutely and deeply. She knew anyhow that it wasn't so simple and crude as that. It was not mere witlessness she contributed to their trouble. She tried to indicate her sense of that. But she had no power of ordered reasoning, she made futile interruptions, she was inexpressive of anything but emotion, she felt gagged against his flow of indignant, hostile words. They blistered her. Suddenly she went to her little desk in the corner, unlocked it with trembling hands, snatched her cheque-book out of a heap of still unsettled bills, and having locked that anti-climax safe away again, turned upon him. "Here it is," she said, and stood poised for a moment. Then she flung down the little narrow grey cover--nearly empty, it was, of cheques, on the floor before him. "Take it," she cried, "take it. I never asked you to give it me." A memory of Orta and its reeds and sunshine and love rose like a luminous mist between them.... She ran weeping from the room. He leapt to his feet as the door closed. "Marjorie!" he cried. But she did not hear him.... § 3 The disillusionment about marriage which had discovered Trafford a thwarted, overworked, and worried man, had revealed Marjorie with time on her hands, superabundant imaginative energy, and no clear intimation of any occupation. With them, as with thousands of young couples in London to-day, the breadwinner was overworked, and the spending partner's duty was chiefly the negative one of not spending. You cannot consume your energies merely in not spending money. Do what she could, Marjorie could not contrive to make house and child fill the waking hours. She was far too active and irritable a being to be beneficial company all day for genial, bubble-blowing little Margharita; she could play with that young lady and lead her into ecstasies of excitement and delight, and she could see with an almost instinctive certainty when anything was going wrong; but for the rest that little life reposed far more beneficially upon the passive acquiescence of May, her pink and wholesome nurse. And the household generally was in the hands of a trustworthy cook-general, who maintained a tolerable routine. Marjorie did not dare to have an idea about food or domestic arrangements; if she touched that routine so much as with her little finger it sent up the bills. She could knock off butcher and greengrocer and do every scrap of household work that she could touch, in a couple of hours a day. She tried to find some work to fill her leisure; she suggested to Trafford that she might help him by writing up his Science Notes from rough pencil memoranda, but when it became clear that the first step to her doing this would be the purchase of a Remington typewriter and a special low table to carry it, he became bluntly discouraging. She thought of literary work, and sat down one day to write a short story and earn guineas, and was surprised to find that she knew nothing of any sort of human being about whom she could invent a story. She tried a cheap subscription at Mudie's and novels, and they filled her with a thirst for events; she tried needlework, and found her best efforts aesthetically feeble and despicable, and that her mind prowled above the silks and colours like a hungry wolf. The early afternoons were the worst time, from two to four, before calling began. The devil was given great power over Marjorie's early afternoon. She could even envy her former home life then, and reflect that there, at any rate, one had a chance of a game or a quarrel with Daffy or Syd or Rom or Theodore. She would pull herself together and go out for a walk, and whichever way she went there were shops and shops and shops, a glittering array of tempting opportunities for spending money. Sometimes she would give way to spending exactly as a struggling drunkard decides to tipple. She would fix on some object, some object trivial and a little rare and not too costly, as being needed--when she knew perfectly well it wasn't needed--and choose the most remotest shops and display the exactest insistence upon her requirements. Sometimes she would get home from these raids without buying at all. After four the worst of the day was over; one could call on people or people might telephone and follow up with a call; and there was a chance of Trafford coming home.... One day at the Carmels' she found herself engaged in a vigorous flirtation with young Carmel. She hadn't noticed it coming on, but there she was in a windowseat talking quite closely to him. He said he was writing a play, a wonderful passionate play about St. Francis, and only she could inspire and advise him. Wasn't there some afternoon in the week when she sat and sewed, so that he might come and sit by her and read to her and talk to her? He made his request with a certain confidence, but it filled her with a righteous panic; she pulled him up with an abruptness that was almost inartistic. On her way home she was acutely ashamed of herself; this was the first time she had let any man but Trafford think he might be interesting to her, but once or twice on former occasions she had been on the verge of such provocative intimations. This sort of thing anyhow mustn't happen. But if she didn't dress with any distinction--because of the cost--and didn't flirt and trail men in her wake, what was she to do at the afternoon gatherings which were now her chief form of social contact? What was going to bring people to her house? She knew that she was more than ordinarily beautiful and that she could talk well, but that does not count for much if you are rather dowdy, and quite uneventfully virtuous. It became the refrain of all her thoughts that she must find something to do. There remained "Movements." She might take up a movement. She was a rather exceptionally good public speaker. Only her elopement and marriage had prevented her being president of her college Debating Society. If she devoted herself to some movement she would be free to devise an ostentatiously simple dress for herself and stick to it, and she would be able to give her little house a significance of her own, and present herself publicly against what is perhaps quite the best of all backgrounds for a good-looking, clear-voiced, self-possessed woman, a platform. Yes; she had to go in for a Movement. She reviewed the chief contemporary Movements much as she might have turned over dress fabrics in a draper's shop, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of each.... London, of course, is always full of Movements. Essentially they are absorbents of superfluous feminine energy. They have a common flavour of progress and revolutionary purpose, and common features in abundant meetings, officials, and organization generally. Few are expensive, and still fewer produce any tangible results in the world. They direct themselves at the most various ends; the Poor, that favourite butt, either as a whole or in such typical sections as the indigent invalid or the indigent aged, the young, public health, the woman's cause, the prevention of animal food, anti-vivisection, the gratuitous advertisement of Shakespear (that neglected poet), novel but genteel modifications of medical or religious practice, dress reform, the politer aspects of socialism, the encouragement of æronautics, universal military service, garden suburbs, domestic arts, proportional representation, duodecimal arithmetic, and the liberation of the drama. They range in size and importance from campaigns on a Plessingtonian scale to sober little intellectual Beckingham things that arrange to meet half-yearly, and die quietly before the second assembly. If Heaven by some miracle suddenly gave every Movement in London all it professed to want, our world would be standing on its head and everything would be extremely unfamiliar and disconcerting. But, as Mr. Roosevelt once remarked, the justifying thing about life is the effort and not the goal, and few Movements involve any real and impassioned struggle to get to the ostensible object. They exist as an occupation; they exercise the intellectual and moral activities without undue disturbance of the normal routines of life. In the days when everybody was bicycling an ingenious mechanism called Hacker's Home Bicycle used to be advertised. Hacker's Home Bicycle was a stand bearing small rubber wheels upon which one placed one's bicycle (properly equipped with a cyclometer) in such a way that it could be mounted and ridden without any sensible forward movement whatever. In bad weather, or when the state of the roads made cycling abroad disagreeable Hacker's Home Bicycle could be placed in front of an open window and ridden furiously for any length of time. Whenever the rider tired, he could descend--comfortably at home again--and examine the cyclometer to see how far he had been. In exactly the same way the ordinary London Movement gives scope for the restless and progressive impulse in human nature without the risk of personal entanglements or any inconvenient disturbance of the milieu. Marjorie considered the Movements about her. She surveyed the accessible aspects of socialism, but that old treasure-house of constructive suggestion had an effect like a rich château which had been stormed and looted by a mob. For a time the proposition that "we are all Socialists nowadays" had prevailed. The blackened and discredited frame remained, the contents were scattered; Aunt Plessington had a few pieces, the Tory Democrats had taken freely, the Liberals were in possession of a hastily compiled collection. There wasn't, she perceived, and there never had been a Socialist Movement; the socialist idea which had now become part of the general consciousness, had always been too big for polite domestication. She weighed Aunt Plessington, too, in the balance, and found her not so much wanting indeed as excessive. She felt that a Movement with Aunt Plessington in it couldn't possibly offer even elbow-room for anybody else. Philanthropy generally she shunned. The movements that aim at getting poor people into rooms and shouting at them in an improving, authoritative way, aroused an instinctive dislike in her. Her sense of humour, again, would not let her patronize Shakespear or the stage, or raise the artistic level of the country by means of green-dyed deal, and the influence of Trafford on her mind debarred her from attempting the physical and moral regeneration of humanity by means of beans and nut butter. It was indeed rather by the elimination of competing movements than by any positive preference that she found herself declining at last towards Agatha Alimony's section of the suffrage movement.... It was one of the less militant sections, but it held more meetings and passed more resolutions than any two others. One day Trafford, returning from an afternoon of forced and disappointing work in his laboratory,--his mind had been steadfastly sluggish and inelastic,--discovered Marjorie's dining room crowded with hats and all the rustle and colour which plays so large a part in constituting contemporary feminine personality. Buzard, the feminist writer, and a young man just down from Cambridge who had written a decadent poem, were the only men present. The chairs were arranged meeting-fashion, but a little irregularly to suggest informality; the post-impressionist picture was a rosy benediction on the gathering, and at a table in the window sat Mrs. Pope in the chair, looking quietly tactful in an unusually becoming bonnet, supported by her daughter and Agatha Alimony. Marjorie was in a simple gown of blueish-grey, hatless amidst a froth of foolish bows and feathers, and she looked not only beautiful and dignified but deliberately and conscientiously patient until she perceived the new arrival. Then he noted she was a little concerned for him, and made some futile sign he did not comprehend. The meeting was debating the behaviour of women at the approaching census, and a small, earnest, pale-faced lady with glasses was standing against the fireplace with a crumpled envelope covered with pencil notes in her hand, and making a speech. Trafford wanted his tea badly, but he had not the wit to realize that his study had been converted into a refreshment room for the occasion; he hesitated, and seated himself near the doorway, and so he was caught; he couldn't, he felt, get away and seem to slight a woman who was giving herself the pains of addressing him. The small lady in glasses was giving a fancy picture of the mind of Mr. Asquith and its attitude to the suffrage movement, and telling with a sort of inspired intimacy just how Mr. Asquith had hoped to "bully women down," and just how their various attempts to bring home to him the eminent reasonableness of their sex by breaking his windows, interrupting his meetings, booing at him in the streets and threatening his life, had time after time baffled this arrogant hope. There had been many signs lately that Mr. Asquith's heart was failing him. Now here was a new thing to fill him with despair. When Mr. Asquith learnt that women refused to be counted in the census, then at least she was convinced he must give in. When he gave in it would not be long--she had her information upon good authority--before they got the Vote. So what they had to do was not to be counted in the census. That was their paramount duty at the present time. The women of England had to say quietly but firmly to the census man when he came round: "No, we don't count in an election, and we won't count now. Thank you." No one could force a woman to fill in a census paper she didn't want to, and for her own part, said the little woman with the glasses, she'd starve first. (Applause.) For her own part she was a householder with a census paper of her own, and across that she was going to write quite plainly and simply what she thought of Mr. Asquith. Some of those present wouldn't have census papers to fill up; they would be sent to the man, the so-called Head of the House. But the W.S.P.U. had foreseen that. Each householder had to write down the particulars of the people who slept in his house on Sunday night, or who arrived home before mid-day on Monday; the reply of the women of England must be not to sleep in a house that night where census papers were properly filled, and not to go home until the following afternoon. All through that night the women of England must be abroad. She herself was prepared, and her house would be ready. There would be coffee and refreshments enough for an unlimited number of refugees, there would be twenty or thirty sofas and mattresses and piles of blankets for those who chose to sleep safe from all counting. In every quarter of London there would be houses of refuge like hers. And so they would make Mr. Asquith's census fail, as it deserved to fail, as every census would fail until women managed these affairs in a sensible way. For she supposed they were all agreed that only women could manage these things in a sensible way. That was _her_ contribution to this great and important question. (Applause, amidst which the small lady with the glasses resumed her seat.) Trafford glanced doorward, but before he could move another speaker was in possession of the room. This was a very young, tall, fair, round-shouldered girl who held herself with an unnatural rigidity, fixed her eyes on the floor just in front of the chairwoman, and spoke with knitted brows and an effect of extreme strain. She remarked that some people did not approve of this proposed boycott of the census. She hung silent for a moment, as if ransacking her mind for something mislaid, and then proceeded to remark that she proposed to occupy a few moments in answering that objection--if it could be called an objection. They said that spoiling the census was an illegitimate extension of the woman movement. Well, she objected--she objected fiercely--to every word of that phrase. Nothing was an illegitimate extension of the woman movement. Nothing could be. (Applause.) That was the very principle they had been fighting for all along. So that, examined in this way, this so-called objection resolved itself into a mere question begging phrase. Nothing more. And her reply therefore to those who made it was that they were begging the question, and however well that might do for men, it would certainly not do, they would find, for women. (Applause.) For the freshly awakened consciousness of women. (Further applause.) This was a war in which quarter was neither asked nor given; if it were not so things might be different. She remained silent after that for the space of twenty seconds perhaps, and then remarked that that seemed to be all she had to say, and sat down amidst loud encouragement. Then with a certain dismay Trafford saw his wife upon her feet. He was afraid of the effect upon himself of what she was going to say, but he need have had no reason for his fear. Marjorie was a seasoned debater, self-possessed, with a voice very well controlled and a complete mastery of that elaborate appearance of reasonableness which is so essential to good public speaking. She could speak far better than she could talk. And she startled the meeting in her opening sentence by declaring that she meant to stay at home on the census night, and supply her husband with every scrap of information he hadn't got already that might be needed to make the return an entirely perfect return. (Marked absence of applause.) She proceeded to avow her passionate interest in the feminist movement of which this agitation for the vote was merely the symbol. (A voice: "No!") No one could be more aware of the falsity of woman's position at the present time than she was--she seemed to be speaking right across the room to Trafford--they were neither pets nor partners, but something between the two; now indulged like spoilt children, now blamed like defaulting partners; constantly provoked to use the arts of their sex, constantly mischievous because of that provocation. She caught her breath and stopped for a moment, as if she had suddenly remembered the meeting intervening between herself and Trafford. No, she said, there was no more ardent feminist and suffragist than herself in the room. She wanted the vote and everything it implied with all her heart. With all her heart. But every way to get a thing wasn't the right way, and she felt with every fibre of her being that this petulant hostility to the census was a wrong way and an inconsistent way, and likely to be an unsuccessful way--one that would lose them the sympathy and help of just that class of men they should look to for support, the cultivated and scientific men. (A voice: "_Do_ we want them?") What was the commonest charge made by the man in the street against women?--that they were unreasonable and unmanageable, that it was their way to get things by crying and making an irrelevant fuss. And here they were, as a body, doing that very thing! Let them think what the census and all that modern organization of vital statistics of which it was the central feature stood for. It stood for order, for the replacement of guesses and emotional generalization by a clear knowledge of facts, for the replacement of instinctive and violent methods, by which women had everything to lose (a voice: "No!") by reason and knowledge and self-restraint, by which women had everything to gain. To her the advancement of science, the progress of civilization, and the emancipation of womanhood were nearly synonymous terms. At any rate, they were different phases of one thing. They were different aspects of one wider purpose. When they struck at the census, she felt, they struck at themselves. She glanced at Trafford as if she would convince him that this was the real voice of the suffrage movement, and sat down amidst a brief, polite applause, that warmed to rapture as Agatha Alimony, the deep-voiced, stirring Agatha, rose to reply. Miss Alimony, who was wearing an enormous hat with three nodding ostrich feathers, a purple bow, a gold buckle and numerous minor ornaments of various origin and substance, said they had all of them listened with the greatest appreciation and sympathy to the speech of their hostess. Their hostess was a newcomer to the movement, she knew she might say this without offence, and was passing through a phase, an early phase, through which many of them had passed. This was the phase of trying to take a reasonable view of an unreasonable situation. (Applause.) Their hostess had spoken of science, and no doubt science was a great thing; but there was something greater than science, and that was the ideal. It was woman's place to idealize. Sooner or later their hostess would discover, as they had all discovered, that it was not to science but the ideal that women must look for freedom. Consider, she said, the scientific men of to-day. Consider, for example, Sir James Crichton-Browne, the physiologist. Was he on their side? On the contrary, he said the most unpleasant things about them on every occasion. He went out of his way to say them. Or consider Sir Almroth Wright, did he speak well of women? Or Sir Ray Lankester, the biologist, who was the chief ornament of the Anti-Suffrage Society. Or Sir Roderick Dover, the physicist, who--forgetting Madame Curie, a far more celebrated physicist than himself, she ventured to say (Applause.) had recently gone outside his province altogether to abuse feminine research. There were your scientific men. Mrs. Trafford had said their anti-census campaign would annoy scientific men; well, under the circumstances, she wanted to annoy scientific men. (Applause.) She wanted to annoy everybody. Until women got the vote (loud applause) the more annoying they were the better. When the whole world was impressed by the idea that voteless women were an intolerable nuisance, then there would cease to be voteless women. (Enthusiasm.) Mr. Asquith had said-- And so on for quite a long time.... Buzard rose out of waves of subsiding emotion. Buzard was a slender, long-necked, stalk-shaped man with gilt glasses, uneasy movements and a hypersensitive manner. He didn't so much speak as thrill with thought vibrations; he spoke like an entranced but still quite gentlemanly sibyl. After Agatha's deep trumpet calls, he sounded like a solo on the piccolo. He picked out all his more important words with a little stress as though he gave them capitals. He said their hostess's remarks had set him thinking. He thought it was possible to stew the Scientific Argument in its own Juice. There was something he might call the Factuarial Estimate of Values. Well, it was a High Factuarial Value on their side, in his opinion at any rate, when Anthropologists came and told him that the Primitive Human Society was a Matriarchate. ("But it wasn't!" said Trafford to himself.) It had a High Factuarial Value when they assured him that Every One of the Great Primitive Inventions was made by a Woman, and that it was to Women they owed Fire and the early Epics and Sagas. ("Good Lord!" said Trafford.) It had a High Factuarial Value when they not only asserted but proved that for Thousands of Years, and perhaps for Hundreds of Thousands of Years, Women had been in possession of Articulate Speech before men rose to that Level of Intelligence.... It occurred suddenly to Trafford that he could go now; that it would be better to go; that indeed he _must_ go; it was no doubt necessary that his mind should have to work in the same world as Buzard's mental processes, but at any rate those two sets of unsympathetic functions need not go on in the same room. Something might give way. He got up, and with those elaborate efforts to be silent that lead to the violent upsetting of chairs, got himself out of the room and into the passage, and was at once rescued by the sympathetic cook-general, in her most generalized form, and given fresh tea in his study--which impressed him as being catastrophically disarranged.... § 4 When Marjorie was at last alone with him she found him in a state of extreme mental stimulation. "Your speech," he said, "was all right. I didn't know you could speak like that, Marjorie. But it soared like the dove above the waters. Waters! I never heard such a flood of rubbish.... You know, it's a mistake to _mass_ women. It brings out something silly.... It affected Buzard as badly as any one. The extraordinary thing is they have a case, if only they'd be quiet. Why did you get them together?" "It's our local branch." "Yes, but _why?_" "Well, if they talk about things--Discussions like this clear up their minds." "Discussion! It wasn't discussion." "Oh! it was a beginning." "Chatter of that sort isn't the beginning of discussion, it's the end. It's the death-rattle. Nobody was meeting the thoughts of any one. I admit Buzard, who's a man, talked the worst rubbish of all. That Primitive Matriarchate of his! So it isn't sex. I've noticed before that the men in this movement of yours are worse than the women. It isn't sex. It's something else. It's a foolishness. It's a sort of irresponsible looseness." He turned on her gravely. "You ought not to get all these people here. It's contagious. Before you know it you'll find your own mind liquefy and become enthusiastic and slop about. You'll begin to talk monomania about Mr. Asquith." "But it's a great movement, Rag, even if incidentally they say and do silly things!" "My dear! aren't I feminist? Don't I want women fine and sane and responsible? Don't I want them to have education, to handle things, to vote like men and bear themselves with the gravity of men? And these meetings--all hat and flutter! These displays of weak, untrained, hysterical vehemence! These gatherings of open-mouthed impressionable young girls to be trained in incoherence! You can't go on with it!" Marjorie regarded him quietly for a moment. "I must go on with something," she said. "Well, not this." "Then _what?_" "Something sane." "Tell me what." "It must come out of yourself." Marjorie thought sullenly for a moment. "Nothing comes out of myself," she said. "I don't think you realize a bit what my life has become," she went on; "how much I'm like some one who's been put in a pleasant, high-class prison." "This house! It's your own!" "It doesn't give me an hour's mental occupation in the day. It's all very well to say I might do more in it. I can't--without absurdity. Or expenditure. I can't send the girl away and start scrubbing. I can't make jam or do ornamental needlework. The shops do it better and cheaper, and I haven't been trained to it. I've been trained _not_ to do it. I've been brought up on games and school-books, and fed on mixed ideas. I can't sit down and pacify myself with a needle as women used to do. Besides, I not only detest doing needlework but I hate it--the sort of thing a woman of my kind does anyhow--when it's done. I'm no artist. I'm not sufficiently interested in outside things to spend my time in serious systematic reading, and after four or five novels--oh, these meetings are better than that! You see, you've got a life--too much of it--_I_ haven't got enough. I wish almost I could sleep away half the day. Oh! I want something _real_, Rag; something more than I've got." A sudden inspiration came to her. "Will you let me come to your laboratory and work with you?" She stopped abruptly. She caught up her own chance question and pointed it at him, a vitally important challenge. "Will you let me come to your laboratory and work?" she repeated. Trafford thought. "No," he said. "Why not?" "Because I'm in love with you. I can't think of my work when you're about.... And you're too much behind. Oh my dear! don't you see how you're behind?" He paused. "I've been soaking in this stuff of mine for ten long years." "Yes," assented Marjorie flatly. He watched her downcast face, and then it lifted to him with a helpless appeal in her eyes, and lift in her voice. "But look here, Rag!" she cried--"what on earth am I to _DO?_" § 5 At least there came out of these discussions one thing, a phrase, a purpose, which was to rule the lives of the Traffords for some years. It expressed their realization that instinct and impulse had so far played them false, that life for all its rich gifts of mutual happiness wasn't adjusted between them. "We've got," they said, "to talk all this out between us. We've got to work this out." They didn't mean to leave things at a misfit, and that was certainly their present relation. They were already at the problem of their joint lives, like a tailor with his pins and chalk. Marjorie hadn't rejected a humorist and all his works in order to decline at last to the humorous view of life, that rather stupid, rather pathetic, grin-and-bear-it attitude compounded in incalculable proportions of goodwill, evasion, indolence, slovenliness, and (nevertheless) spite (masquerading indeed as jesting comment), which supplies the fabric of everyday life for untold thousands of educated middle-class people. She hated the misfit. She didn't for a moment propose to pretend that the ungainly twisted sleeve, the puckered back, was extremely jolly and funny. She had married with a passionate anticipation of things fitting and fine, and it was her nature, in great matters as in small, to get what she wanted strenuously before she counted the cost. About both their minds there was something sharp and unrelenting, and if Marjorie had been disposed to take refuge from facts in swathings of aesthetic romanticism, whatever covering she contrived would have been torn to rags very speedily by that fierce and steely veracity which swung down out of the laboratory into her home. One may want to talk things out long before one hits upon the phrases that will open up the matter. There were two chief facts in the case between them and so far they had looked only one in the face, the fact that Marjorie was unemployed to a troublesome and distressing extent, and that there was nothing in her nature or training to supply, and something in their circumstances and relations to prevent any adequate use of her energies. With the second fact neither of them cared to come to close quarters as yet, and neither as yet saw very distinctly how it was linked to the first, and that was the steady excess of her expenditure over their restricted means. She was secretly surprised at her own weakness. Week by week and month by month, they were spending all his income and eating into that little accumulation of capital that had once seemed so sufficient against the world.... And here it has to be told that although Trafford knew that Marjorie had been spending too much money, he still had no idea of just how much money she had spent. She was doing her utmost to come to an understanding with him, and at the same time--I don't explain it, I don't excuse it--she was keeping back her bills from him, keeping back urgent second and third and fourth demands, that she had no cheque-book now to stave off even by the most partial satisfaction. It kept her awake at nights, that catastrophic explanation, that all unsuspected by Trafford hung over their attempts at mutual elucidation; it kept her awake but she could not bring it to the speaking point, and she clung, in spite of her own intelligence, to a persuasion that _after_ they had got something really settled and defined then it would be time enough to broach the particulars of this second divergence.... Talking one's relations over isn't particularly easy between husband and wife at any time; we are none of us so sure of one another as to risk loose phrases or make experiments in expression in matters so vital; there is inevitably an excessive caution on the one hand and an abnormal sensitiveness to hints and implications on the other. Marjorie's bills were only an extreme instance of these unavoidable suppressions that always occur. Moreover, when two people are continuously together, it is amazingly hard to know when and where to begin; where intercourse is unbroken it is as a matter of routine being constantly interrupted. You cannot broach these broad personalities while you are getting up in the morning, or over the breakfast-table while you make the coffee, or when you meet again after a multitude of small events at tea, or in the evening when one is rather tired and trivial after the work of the day. Then Miss Margharita Trafford permitted no sustained analysis of life in her presence. She synthesized things fallaciously, but for the time convincingly; she insisted that life wasn't a thing you discussed, but pink and soft and jolly, which you crowed at and laughed at and addressed as "Goo." Even without Margharita there were occasions when the Traffords were a forgetfulness to one another. After an ear has been pinched or a hand has been run through a man's hair, or a pretty bare shoulder kissed, all sorts of broader interests lapse into a temporary oblivion. They found discussion much more possible when they walked together. A walk seemed to take them out of the everyday sequence, isolate them from their household, abstract them a little from one another. They set out one extravagant spring Sunday to Great Missenden, and once in spring also they discovered the Waterlow Park. On each occasion they seemed to get through an enormous amount of talking. But the Great Missenden walk was all mixed up with a sweet keen wind, and beechwoods just shot with spring green and bursting hedges and the extreme earliness of honeysuckle, which Trafford noted for the first time, and a clamorous rejoicing of birds. And in the Waterlow Park there was a great discussion of why the yellow crocus comes before white and purple, and the closest examination of the manner in which daffodils and narcissi thrust their green noses out of the garden beds. Also they found the ugly, ill-served, aggressively propagandist non-alcoholic refreshment-room in that gracious old house a scandal and disappointment, and Trafford scolded at the stupidity of officialdom that can control so fine a thing so ill. Though they talked on these walks they were still curiously evasive. Indeed, they were afraid of each other. They kept falling away from their private thoughts and intentions. They generalized, they discussed Marriage and George Gissing and Bernard Shaw and the suffrage movement and the agitation for the reform of the divorce laws. They pursued imaginary cases into distant thickets of contingency remotely far from the personal issues between them.... § 6 One day came an incident that Marjorie found wonderfully illuminating. Trafford had a fit of rage. Stung by an unexpected irritation, he forgot himself, as people say, and swore, and was almost physically violent, and the curious thing was that so he lit up things for her as no premeditated attempt of his had ever done. A copy of the _Scientific Bulletin_ fired the explosion. He sat down at the breakfast-table with the heaviness of a rather overworked and worried man, tasted his coffee, tore open a letter and crumpled it with his hand, turned to the _Bulletin_, regarded its list of contents with a start, opened it, read for a minute, and expressed himself with an extraordinary heat of manner in these amazing and unprecedented words: "Oh! Damnation and damnation!" Then he shied the paper into the corner of the room and pushed his plate from him. "Damn the whole scheme of things!" he said, and met the blank amazement of Marjorie's eye. "Behrens!" he said with an air of explanation. "Behrens?" she echoed with a note of inquiry. "He's doing my stuff!" He sat darkling for a time and then hit the table with his fist so hard that the breakfast things seemed to jump together--to Marjorie's infinite amazement. "I can't _stand_ it!" he said. She waited some moments. "I don't understand," she began. "What has he done?" "Oh!" was Trafford's answer. He got up, recovered the crumpled paper and stood reading. "Fool and thief," he said. Marjorie was amazed beyond measure. She felt as though she had been effaced from Trafford's life. "Ugh!" he cried and slapped back the _Bulletin_ into the corner with quite needless violence. He became aware of Marjorie again. "He's doing my work," he said. And then as if he completed the explanation: "And I've got to be in Croydon by half-past ten to lecture to a pack of spinsters and duffers, because they're too stupid to get the stuff from books. It's all in books,--every bit of it." He paused and went on in tones of unendurable wrong. "It isn't as though he was doing it right. He isn't. He can't. He's a fool. He's a clever, greedy, dishonest fool with a twist. Oh! the pile, the big Pile of silly muddled technicalities he's invented already! The solemn mess he's making of it! And there he is, I can't get ahead of him, I can't get at him. I've got no time. I've got no room or leisure to swing my mind in! Oh, curse these engagements, curse all these silly fretting entanglements of lecture and article! I never get the time, I can't get the time, I can't get my mind clear! I'm worried! I'm badgered! And meanwhile Behrens----!" "Is he discovering what you want to discover?" "Behrens! _No!_ He's going through the breaches I made. He's guessing out what I meant to do. And he's getting it set out all wrong,--misleading terminology,--distinctions made in the wrong place. Oh, the fool he is!" "But afterwards----" "Afterwards I may spend my life--removing the obstacles he's made. He'll be established and I shan't. You don't know anything of these things. You don't understand." She didn't. Her next question showed as much. "Will it affect your F.R.S.?" she asked. "Oh! _that's_ safe enough, and it doesn't matter anyhow. The F.R.S.! Confound the silly little F.R.S.! As if that mattered. It's seeing all my great openings--misused. It's seeing all I might be doing. This brings it all home to me. Don't you understand, Marjorie? Will you never understand? I'm getting away from all _that!_ I'm being hustled away by all this work, this silly everyday work to get money. Don't you see that unless I can have time for thought and research, life is just darkness to me? I've made myself master of that stuff. I had at any rate. No one can do what I can do there. And when I find myself--oh, shut out, shut out! I come near raving. As I think of it I want to rave again." He paused. Then with a swift transition: "I suppose I'd better eat some breakfast. Is that egg boiled?" She gave him an egg, brought his coffee, put things before him, seated herself at the table. For a little while he ate in silence. Then he cursed Behrens. "Look here!" she said. "Bad as I am, you've got to reason with me, Rag. I didn't know all this. I didn't understand ... I don't know what to do." "What _is_ there to do?" "I've got to do something. I'm beginning to see things. It's just as though everything had become clear suddenly." She was weeping. "Oh, my dear! I want to help you. I have so wanted to help you. Always. And it's come to this!" "But it's not _your_ fault. I didn't mean that. It's--it's in the nature of things." "It's my fault." "It's not your fault." "It is." "Confound it, Marjorie. When I swear at Behrens I'm not swearing at you." "It's my fault. All this is my fault. I'm eating you up. What's the good of your pretending, Rag. You know it is. Oh! When I married you I meant to make you happy, I had no thought but to make you happy, to give myself to you, my body, my brains, everything, to make life beautiful for you----" "Well, _haven't_ you?" He thrust out a hand she did not take. "I've broken your back," she said. An unwonted resolution came into her face. Her lips whitened. "Don't you know, Rag," she said, forcing herself to speak----"Don't you guess? You don't know half! In that bureau there----In there! It's stuffed with bills. Unpaid bills." She was weeping, with no attempt to wipe the streaming tears away; terror made the expression of her wet face almost fierce. "Bills," she repeated. "More than a hundred pounds still. Yes! Now. _Now!_" He drew back, stared at her and with no trace of personal animus, like one who hears of a common disaster, remarked with a quiet emphasis: "Oh, _damn!_" "I know," she said, "Damn!" and met his eyes. There was a long silence between them. She produced a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "That's what I amount to," she said. "It's your silly upbringing," he said after a long pause. "And my silly self." She stood up, unlocked and opened her littered desk, turned and held out the key to him. "Why?" he asked. "Take it. You gave me a cheque-book of my own and a corner of my own, and they--they are just ambushes--against you." He shook his head. "Take it," said Marjorie with quiet insistence. He obeyed. She stood with her eyes on the crumpled heap of bills. They were not even tidily arranged. That seemed to her now an extreme aggravation of her offence. "I ought to be sent to the chemist's," she remarked, "as one sends a worthless cat." Trafford weighed this proposition soberly for some moments. "You're a bother, Marjorie," he said with his eyes on the desk; "no end of a bother. I'd better have those bills." He looked at her, stood up, put his hands on her shoulders, drew her to him and kissed her forehead. He did it without passion, without tenderness, with something like resignation in his manner. She clung to him tightly, as though by clinging she could warm and soften him. "Rag," she whispered; "all my heart is yours.... I want to help you.... And this is what I have done." "I know," he said--almost grimly. He repeated his kiss. Then he seemed to explode again. "Gods!" he cried, "look at the clock. I shall miss that Croydon lecture!" He pushed her from him. "Where are my boots?..." § 7 Marjorie spent the forenoon and the earlier part of the afternoon repeating and reviewing this conversation. Her mind was full of the long disregarded problem of her husband's state of mind. She thought with a sympathetic astonishment of his swearing, of his startling blow upon the table. She hadn't so far known he could swear. But this was the real thing, the relief of vehement and destructive words. His voice, saying "damnation and damnation," echoed and re-echoed in her ears. Somehow she understood that as she had never understood any sober statement of his case. Such women as Marjorie, I think, have an altogether keener understanding of people who have lost control of themselves than they have of reasoned cases. Perhaps that is because they themselves always reserve something when they state a reasoned case. She went on to the apprehension of a change in him that hitherto she had not permitted herself to see--a change in his attitude to her. There had been a time when she had seemed able without an effort to nestle inside his heart. Now she felt distinctly for the first time that that hadn't happened. She had instead a sense of her embrace sliding over a rather deliberately contracted exterior.... Of course he had been in a hurry.... She tried to follow him on his journey to Croydon. Now he'd have just passed out of London Bridge. What was he thinking and feeling about her in the train? Now he would be going into the place, wherever it was, where he gave his lecture. Did he think of Behrens and curse her under his breath as he entered that tiresome room?... It seemed part of the prevailing inconvenience of life that Daffy should see fit to pay an afternoon call. Marjorie heard the sobs and uproar of an arrested motor, and glanced discreetly from the window to discover the dark green car with its green-clad chauffeur which now adorned her sister's life, and which might under different circumstances, have adorned her own. Wilkins--his name was Wilkins, his hair was sandy and his expression discreet, and he afforded material for much quiet humorous observation--descended smartly and opened the door. Daffy appeared in black velvet, with a huge black fur muff, and an air of being unaware that there were such things as windows in the world. It was just four, and the cook-general, who ought to have been now in her housemaid's phase, was still upstairs divesting herself of her more culinary characteristics. Marjorie opened the door. "Hullo, old Daffy!" she said. "Hullo, old Madge!" and there was an exchange of sisterly kisses and a mutual inspection. "Nothing wrong?" asked Daffy, surveying her. "_Wrong?_" "You look pale and--tired about the eyes," said Daffy, leading the way into the drawing-room. "Thought you might be a bit off it, that's all. No offence, Madge." "I'm all right," said Marjorie, getting her back to the light. "Want a holiday, perhaps. How's every one?" "All right. _We're_ off to Lake Garda next week. This new play has taken it out of Will tremendously. He wants a rest and fresh surroundings. It's to be the biggest piece of work he's done--so far, and it's straining him. And people worry him here; receptions, first nights, dinners, speeches. He's so neat, you know, in his speeches.... But it wastes him. He wants to get away. How's Rag?" "Busy." "Lecturing?" "And his Research of course." "Oh! of course. How's the Babe?" "Just in. Come up and see the little beast, Daffy! It is getting so pretty, and it talks----" Margharita dominated intercourse for a time. She was one of those tactful infants who exactly resemble their fathers and exactly resemble their mothers, and have a charm and individuality quite distinctly their own, and she was now beginning to converse with startling enterprise and intelligence. "Big, big, bog," she said at the sight of Daffy. "Remembers you," said Marjorie. "Bog! Go ta-ta!" said Margharita. "There!" said Marjorie, and May, the nurse in the background, smiled unlimited appreciation. "Bably," said Margharita. "That's herself!" said Marjorie, falling on her knees. "She talks like this all day. Oh de sweetums, den!" _Was_ it? Daffy made amiable gestures and canary-like noises with her lips, and Margharita responded jovially. "You darling!" cried Marjorie, "you delight of life," kneeling by the cot and giving the crowing, healthy little mite a passionate hug. "It's really the nicest of babies," Daffy conceded, and reflected.... "I don't know what I should do with a kiddy," said Daffy, as the infant worship came to an end; "I'm really glad we haven't one--yet. He'd love it, I know. But it would be a burthen in some ways. They _are_ a tie. As he says, the next few years means so much for him. Of course, here his reputation is immense, and he's known in Germany, and there are translations into Russian; but he's still got to conquer America, and he isn't really well known yet in France. They read him, of course, and buy him in America, but they're--_restive_. Oh! I do so wish they'd give him the Nobel prize, Madge, and have done with it! It would settle everything. Still, as he says, we mustn't think of that--yet, anyhow. He isn't venerable enough. It's doubtful, he thinks, that they would give the Nobel prize to any humorist now that Mark Twain is dead. Mark Twain was different, you see, because of the German Emperor and all that white hair and everything." At this point Margharita discovered that the conversation had drifted away from herself, and it was only when they got downstairs again that Daffy could resume the thread of Magnet's career, which had evidently become the predominant interest in her life. She brought out all the worst elements of Marjorie's nature and their sisterly relationship. There were moments when it became nakedly apparent that she was magnifying Magnet to belittle Trafford. Marjorie did her best to counter-brag. She played her chief card in the F. R. S. "They always ask Will to the Royal Society Dinner," threw out Daffy; "but of course he can't always go. He's asked to so many things." Five years earlier Marjorie would have kicked her shins for that. Instead she asked pointedly, offensively, if Magnet was any balder. "He's not really bald," said Daffy unruffled, and went on to discuss the advisability of a second motor car--purely for town use. "I tell him I don't want it," said Daffy, "but he's frightfully keen upon getting one." § 8 When Daffy had at last gone Marjorie went back into Trafford's study and stood on the hearthrug regarding its appointments, with something of the air of one who awakens from a dream. She had developed a new, appalling thought. Was Daffy really a better wife than herself? It was dawning upon Marjorie that she hadn't been doing the right thing by her husband, and she was as surprised as if it had been suddenly brought home to her that she was neglecting Margharita. This was her husband's study--and it showed just a little dusty in the afternoon sunshine, and everything about it denied the pretensions of serene sustained work that she had always made to herself. Here were the crumpled galley proofs of his science notes; here were unanswered letters. There, she dare not touch them, were computations, under a glass paper-weight. What did they amount to now? On the table under the window were back numbers of the _Scientific Bulletin_ in a rather untidy pile, and on the footstool by the arm-chair she had been accustomed to sit at his feet when he stayed at home to work, and look into the fire, and watch him furtively, and sometimes give way to an overmastering tenderness and make love to him. The thought of Magnet, pampered, fenced around, revered in his industrious tiresome repetitions, variations, dramatizations and so forth of the half-dozen dry little old jokes which the British public accepted as his characteristic offering and rewarded him for so highly, contrasted vividly with her new realization of Trafford's thankless work and worried face. And she loved him, she loved him--_so_. She told herself in the presence of all these facts, and without a shadow of doubt in her mind that all she wanted in the world was to make him happy. It occurred to her as a rather drastic means to this end that she might commit suicide. She had already gone some way in the composition of a touching letter of farewell to him, containing a luminous analysis of her own defects, before her common-sense swept away this imaginative exercise. Meanwhile, as if it had been working at her problem all the time that this exciting farewell epistle had occupied the foreground of her thoughts, her natural lucidity emerged with the manifest conclusion that she had to alter her way of living. She had been extraordinarily regardless of him, she only began to see that, and now she had to take up the problem of his necessities. Her self-examination now that it had begun was thorough. She had always told herself before that she had made a most wonderful and beautiful little home for him. But had she made it for him? Had he as a matter of fact ever wanted it, except that he was glad to have it through her? No doubt it had given him delight and happiness, it had been a marvellous little casket of love for them, but how far did that outweigh the burthen and limitation it had imposed upon him? She had always assumed he was beyond measure grateful to her for his home, in spite of all her bills, but was he? It was like sticking a knife into herself to ask that, but she was now in a phase heroic enough for the task--was he? She had always seen herself as the giver of bounties; greatest bounty of all was Margharita. She had faced pains and terrors and the shadow of death to give him Margharita. Now with Daffy's illuminating conversation in her mind, she could turn the light upon a haunting doubt that had been lurking in the darkness for a long time. Had he really so greatly wanted Margharita? Had she ever troubled to get to the bottom of that before? Hadn't she as a matter of fact wanted Margharita ten thousand times more than he had done? Hadn't she in effect imposed Margharita upon him, as she had imposed her distinctive and delightful home upon him, regardlessly, because these things were the natural and legitimate developments of herself? These things were not his ends. Had she hitherto ever really cared what his ends might be? A phrase she had heard abundantly enough in current feminist discussion recurred to her mind, "the economic dependence of women," and now for the first time it was charged with meaning. She had imposed these things upon him not because she loved him, but because these things that were the expansions and consequences of her love for him were only obtainable through him. A woman gives herself to a man out of love, and remains clinging parasitically to him out of necessity. Was there no way of evading that necessity? For a time she entertained dreams of marvellous social reconstructions. Suppose the community kept all its women, suppose all property in homes and furnishings and children vested in them! That was Marjorie's version of that idea of the Endowment of Womanhood which has been creeping into contemporary thought during the last two decades. Then every woman would be a Princess to the man she loved.... He became more definitely personal. Suppose she herself was rich, then she could play the Princess to Trafford; she could have him free, unencumbered, happy and her lover! Then, indeed, her gifts would be gifts, and all her instincts and motives would but crown his unhampered life! She could not go on from that idea, she lapsed into a golden reverie, from which she was roused by the clock striking five. In half an hour perhaps Trafford would be home again. She could at least be so much of a princess as to make his home sweet for his home-coming. There should be tea in here, where callers did not trouble. She glanced at an empty copper vase. It ached. There was no light in the room. There would be just time to dash out into High Street and buy some flowers for it before he came.... § 9 Spring and a renewed and deepened love for her husband were in Marjorie's blood. Her mind worked rapidly during the next few days, and presently she found herself clearly decided upon her course of action. She had to pull herself together and help him, and if that meant a Spartan and strenuous way of living, then manifestly she must be Spartan and strenuous. She must put an end once for all to her recurrent domestic deficits, and since this could only be done by getting rid of May, she must get rid of May and mind the child herself. (Every day, thank Heaven! Margharita became more intelligent, more manageable, and more interesting.) Then she must also make a far more systematic and thorough study of domestic economy than she had hitherto done, and run the shopping and housekeeping on severer lines; she bought fruit carelessly, they had far too many joints; she never seemed able to restrain herself when it came to flowers. And in the evenings, which would necessarily be very frequently lonely evenings if Trafford's researches were to go on, she would typewrite, and either acquire great speed at that or learn shorthand, and so save Trafford's present expenditure on a typist. That unfortunately would mean buying a typewriter. She found one afternoon in a twopenny book-box, with which she was trying to allay her craving for purchases, a tattered little pamphlet entitled: "Proposals for the Establishment of an Order of Samurai," which fell in very exactly with her mood. The title "dated"; it carried her mind back to her middle girlhood and the defeats of Kuropatki and the futile earnest phase in English thought which followed the Boer War. The order was to be a sort of self-appointed nobility serving the world. It shone with the light of a generous dawn, but cast, I fear, the shadow of the prig. Its end was the Agenda Club.... She read and ceased to read--and dreamt. The project unfolded the picture of a new method of conduct to her, austere, yet picturesque and richly noble. These Samurai, it was intimated, were to lead lives of hard discipline and high effort, under self-imposed rule and restraint. They were to stand a little apart from the excitements and temptations of everyday life, to eat sparingly, drink water, resort greatly to self-criticism and self-examination, and harden their spirits by severe and dangerous exercises. They were to dress simply, work hard, and be the conscious and deliberate salt of the world. They were to walk among mountains. Incidentally, great power was to be given them. Such systematic effort and self-control as this, seemed to Marjorie to give just all she wasn't and needed to be, to save her life and Trafford's from a common disaster.... It particularly appealed to her that they were to walk among mountains.... But it is hard to make a change in the colour of one's life amidst the routine one has already established about oneself, in the house that is grooved by one's weaknesses, amidst hangings and ornaments living and breathing with the life of an antagonistic and yet insidiously congenial ideal. A great desire came upon Marjorie to go away with Trafford for a time, out of their everyday life into strange and cool and spacious surroundings. She wanted to leave London and its shops, and the home and the movements and the callers and rivalries, and even dimpled little Margharita's insistent claims, and get free and think. It was the first invasion of their lives by this conception, a conception that was ever afterwards to leave them altogether, of retreat and reconstruction. She knelt upon the white sheepskin hearthrug at Trafford's feet one night, and told him of her desire. He, too, was tired of his work and his vexations, and ripe for this suggestion of an altered life. The Easter holiday was approaching, and nearly twenty unencumbered days. Mrs. Trafford, they knew, would come into the house, meanwhile, and care for Margharita. They would go away somewhere together and walk, no luggage but a couple of knapsacks, no hotel but some homely village inn. They would be in the air all day, until they were saturated with sweet air and spirit of clean restraints. They would plan out their new rule, concentrate their aims. "And I could think," said Trafford, "of this new work I can't begin here. I might make some notes." Presently came the question of where the great walk should be. Manifestly, it must be among mountains, manifestly, and Marjorie's eye saw those mountains with snow upon their summits and cold glaciers on their flanks. Could they get to Switzerland? If they travelled second class throughout, and took the cheaper way, as Samurai should?... § 10 That holiday seemed to Marjorie as if they had found a lost and forgotten piece of honeymoon. She had that same sense of fresh beginnings that had made their first walk in Italian Switzerland so unforgettable. She was filled with the happiness of recovering Trafford when he had seemed to be slipping from her. All day they talked of their outlook, and how they might economise away the need of his extra work, and so release him for his search again. For the first time he talked of his work to her, and gave her some intimation of its scope and quality. He became enthusiastic with the sudden invention of experimental devices, so that it seemed to her almost worth while if instead of going on they bolted back, he to his laboratory and she to her nursery, and so at once inaugurated the new régime. But they went on, to finish the holiday out. And the delight of being together again with unfettered hours of association! They rediscovered each other, the same--and a little changed. If their emotions were less bright and intense, their interest was far wider and deeper. The season was too early for high passes, and the weather was changeable. They started from Fribourg and walked to Thun and then back to Bulle, and so to Bultigen, Saanen, Montbovon and the Lake of Geneva. They had rain several days, the sweet, soft, windless mountain rain that seemed so tolerable to those who are accustomed to the hard and driven downpours of England, and in places they found mud and receding snow; the inns were at their homeliest, and none the worse for that, and there were days of spring sunshine when a multitude of minute and delightful flowers came out as it seemed to meet them--it was impossible to suppose so great a concourse universal--and spread in a scented carpet before their straying feet. The fruit trees in the valleys were powdered with blossom, and the new grass seemed rather green-tinted sunlight than merely green. And they walked with a sort of stout leisureliness, knapsacks well-hung and cloaks about them, with their faces fresh and bright under the bracing weather, and their lungs deep charged with mountain air, talking of the new austerer life that was now beginning. With great snow-capped mountains in the background, streaming precipices overhead, and a sward of flowers to go upon, that strenuous prospect was altogether delightful. They went as it pleased them, making detours into valleys, coming back upon their steps. The interludes of hot, bright April sunshine made them indolent, and they would loiter and halt where some rock or wall invited, and sit basking like happy, animals, talking very little, for long hours together. Trafford seemed to have forgotten all the strain and disappointment of the past two years, to be amazed but in no wise incredulous at this enormous change in her and in their outlook; it filled her with a passion of pride and high resolve to think that so she could recover and uplift him. He was now very deeply in love with her again. He talked indeed of his research, but so that it might interest her, and when he thought alone, he thought, not of it, but of her, making again the old discoveries, his intense delight in the quality of her voice, his joy in a certain indescribable gallantry in her bearing. He pitied all men whose wives could not carry themselves, and whose voices failed and broke under the things they had to say. And then again there was the way she moved her arms, the way her hands took hold of things, the alert lucidity of her eyes, and then that faint, soft shadow of a smile upon her lips when she walked thinking or observant, all unaware that he was watching her. It rained in the morning of their eleventh day and then gave way to warmth and sunshine, so that they arrived at Les Avants in the afternoon a little muddy and rather hot. At one of the tables under the trees outside the Grand Hotel was a small group of people dressed in the remarkable and imposing costume which still in those days distinguished the motorist. They turned from their tea to a more or less frank inspection of the Traffords, and suddenly broke out into cries of recognition and welcome. Solomonson--for the most part brown leather--emerged with extended hands, and behind him, nestling in the midst of immense and costly furs, appeared the kindly salience and brightness of his Lady's face. "Good luck!" cried Solomonson. "Good luck! Come and have tea with us! But this is a happy encounter!" "We're dirty--but so healthy!" cried Marjorie, saluting Lady Solomonson. "You look, oh!--splendidly well," that Lady responded. "We've been walking." "With just that knapsack!" "It's been glorious." "But the courage!" said Lady Solomonson, and did not add, "the tragic hardship!" though her tone conveyed it. She had all the unquestioning belief of her race in the sanity of comfort. She had ingrained in her the most definite ideas of man's position and woman's, and that any one, man or woman, should walk in mud except under dire necessity, was outside the range of her philosophy. She thought Marjorie's thick boots and short skirts quite the most appalling feminine costume she had ever seen. She saw only a ruined complexion and damaged womanhood in Marjorie's rain-washed, sun-bit cheek. Her benevolent heart rebelled at the spectacle. It was dreadful, she thought, that nice young people like the Traffords should have come to this. The rest of the party were now informally introduced. They were all very splendid and disconcertingly free from mud. One was Christabel Morrison, the actress, a graceful figure in a green baize coat and brown fur, who looked ever so much more charming than her innumerable postcards and illustrated-paper portraits would have led one to expect; her neighbour was Solomonson's cousin Lee, the organizer of the Theatre Syndicate, a brown-eyed, attenuated, quick-minded little man with an accent that struck Trafford as being on the whole rather Dutch, and the third lady was Lady Solomonson's sister, Mrs. Lee. It appeared they were all staying at Lee's villa above Vevey, part of an amusing assembly of people who were either vividly rich or even more vividly clever, an accumulation which the Traffords in the course of the next twenty minutes were three times invited, with an increasing appreciation and earnestness, to join. From the first our two young people were not indisposed to do so. For eleven days they had maintained their duologue at the very highest level; seven days remained to them before they must go back to begin the hard new life in England, and there was something very attractive--they did not for a moment seek to discover the elements of that attractiveness--in this proposal of five or six days of luxurious indolence above the lake, a sort of farewell to the worldly side of worldly things, before they set forth upon the high and narrow path they had resolved to tread. "But we've got no clothes," cried Marjorie, "no clothes at all! We've these hobnail boots and a pair each of heelless slippers." "My dear!" cried Lady Solomonson in real distress, and as much aside as circumstances permitted, "my dear! My sister can manage all that!" Her voice fell to earnest undertones. "We can really manage all that. The house is packed with things. We'll come to dinner in fancy dress. And Scott, my maid, is so clever." "But really!" said Marjorie. "My dear!" said Lady Solomonson. "Everything." And she changed places with Lee in order to be perfectly confidential and explicit. "Rachel!" she cried, and summoned her sister for confirmatory assurances.... "But my husband!" Marjorie became audible. "We've long Persian robes," said Mrs. Lee, with a glance of undisguised appraisement. "He'll be splendid. He'll look like a Soldan...." The rest of the company forced a hectic conversation in order not to seem to listen, and presently Lady Solomonson and her sister were triumphant. They packed Marjorie into the motor car, and Trafford and Solomonson returned to Vevey by train and thence up to the villa by a hired automobile. § 11 They didn't go outside the magic confines of the Lees' villa for three days, and when they did they were still surrounded by their host's service and possessions; they made an excursion to Chillon in his motor-cars, and went in his motor-boat to lunch with the Maynards in their lake-side villa close to Geneva. During all that time they seemed lifted off the common earth into a world of fine fabrics, agreeable sounds, noiseless unlimited service, and ample untroubled living. It had an effect of enchantment, and the long healthy arduous journey thither seemed a tale of incredible effort amidst these sunny excesses. The weather had the whim to be serenely fine, sunshine like summer and the bluest of skies shone above the white wall and the ilex thickets and cypresses that bounded them in from the great world of crowded homes and sous and small necessities. And through the texture of it all for Trafford ran a thread of curious new suggestion. An intermittent discussion of economics and socialism was going on between himself and Solomonson and an agreeable little stammering man in brown named Minter, who walked up in the afternoon from Vevey,--he professed to be writing a novel--during the earlier half of the day. Minter displayed the keenest appreciation of everything in his entertainment, and blinked cheerfully and expressed opinions of the extremest socialistic and anarchistic flavour to an accompaniment of grateful self-indulgence. "Your port-wine is wonderful, Lee," he would say, sipping it. "A terrible retribution will fall upon you some day for all this." The villa had been designed by Lee to please his wife, and if it was neither very beautiful nor very dignified, it was at any rate very pretty and amusing. It might have been built by a Parisian dressmaker--in the châteauesque style. It was of greyish-white stone, with a roof of tiles. It had little balconies and acutely roofed turrets, and almost burlesque buttresses, pierced by doors and gates; and sun-trap loggias, as pleasantly casual as the bows and embroideries of a woman's dress; and its central hall, with an impluvium that had nothing to do with rain-water, and its dining-room, to which one ascended from this hall between pillars up five broad steps, were entirely irrelevant to all its exterior features. Unobtrusive men-servants in grey with scarlet facings hovered serviceably. From the little terrace, all set with orange-trees in tubs, one could see, through the branches and stems of evergreens and over a foreground of budding, starting vineyard, the clustering roofs of Vevey below, an agglomeration veiled ever so thinly in the morning by a cobweb of wood smoke, against the blue background of lake with its winged sailing-boats, and sombre Alpine distances. Minter made it all significant by a wave of the hand. "All this," he said, and of the crowded work-a-day life below, "all that." "All this," with its rich litter of stuffs and ornaments, its fine profusion, its delicacies of flower and food and furniture, its frequent inconsecutive pleasures, its noiseless, ready service, was remarkably novel and yet remarkably familiar to Trafford. For a time he could not understand this undertone of familiarity, and then a sunlit group of hangings in one of the small rooms that looked out upon the lake took his mind back to his own dining-room, and the little inadequate, but decidedly good, Bokhara embroidery that dominated it like a flag, that lit it, and now lit his understanding, like a confessed desire. Of course, Mrs. Lee--happy woman!--was doing just everything that Marjorie would have loved to do. Marjorie had never confessed as much, perhaps she had never understood as much, but now in the presence of Mrs. Lee's æsthetic exuberances, Trafford at least understood. He surveyed the little room, whose harmonies he had at first simply taken for granted, noted the lustre-ware that answered to the gleaming Persian tiles, the inspiration of a metallic thread in the hangings, and the exquisite choice of the deadened paint upon the woodwork, and realized for the first time how little aimless extravagance can be, and all the timid, obstinately insurgent artistry that troubled his wife. He stepped through the open window into a little loggia, and stared unseeingly over glittering, dark-green leaves to the mysteries of distance in the great masses above St. Gingolph, and it seemed for the first time that perhaps in his thoughts he had done his wife a wrong. He had judged her fickle, impulsive, erratic, perhaps merely because her mind followed a different process from his, because while he went upon the lines of constructive truth, her guide was a more immediate and instinctive sense of beauty. He was very much alive to her now, and deeply in love with her. He had reached Les Avants with all his sense of their discordance clean washed and walked out of his mind, by rain and sun and a flow of high resolutions, and the brotherly swing of their strides together. They had come to the Lee's villa, mud-splashed, air-sweet comrades, all unaware of the subtle differences of atmosphere they had to encounter. They had no suspicion that it was only about half of each other that had fraternized. Now here they were in a company that was not only altogether alien to their former mood, but extremely interesting and exciting and closely akin to the latent factors in Marjorie's composition. Their hostess and her sister had the keen, quick æsthetic sensibilities of their race, with all that freedom of reading and enfranchisement of mind which is the lot of the Western women. Lee had an immense indulgent affection for his wife, he regarded her arrangements and exploits with an admiration that was almost American. And Mrs. Lee's imagination had run loose in pursuit of beautiful and remarkable people and splendours rather than harmonies of line and colour. Lee, like Solomonson, had that inexplicable alchemy of mind which distils gold from the commerce of the world ("All this," said Minter to Trafford, "is an exhalation from all that"); he accumulated wealth as one grows a beard, and found his interest in his uxorious satisfactions, and so Mrs. Lee, with her bright watchful eyes, quick impulsive movements and instinctive command had the utmost freedom to realize her ideals. In the world at large Lee and Solomonson seemed both a little short and a little stout, and a little too black and bright for their entirely conventional clothing, but for the dinner and evening of the villa they were now, out of consideration for Trafford, at their ease, and far more dignified in Oriental robes. Trafford was accommodated with a long, black, delicately embroidered garment that reached to his feet, and suited something upstanding and fine in his bearing; Minter, who had stayed on from an afternoon call, was gorgeous in Chinese embroidery. The rest of the men clung boldly or bashfully to evening dress.... On the evening of his arrival Trafford, bathed and robed, found the rest of the men assembling about an open wood fire in the smaller hall at the foot of the main staircase. Lee was still upstairs, and Solomonson, with a new grace of gesture begotten by his costume, made the necessary introductions; a little man with fine-cut features and a Galway accent was Rex the playwright; a tall, grey-haired, clean-shaven man was Bright from the New York Central Museum; and a bearded giant with a roof of red hair and a remote eye was Radlett Barns, the great portrait-painter, who consents to paint your portrait for posterity as the King confers a knighthood. These were presently joined by Lee and Pacey, the blond-haired musician, and Mottersham, whose patents and inventions control electric lighting and heating all over the world, and then, with the men duly gathered and expectant, the women came down the wide staircase. The staircase had been planned and lit for these effects, and Mrs. Lee meant to make the most of her new discovery. Her voice could be heard in the unseen corridor above arranging the descent: "You go first, dear. Will you go with Christabel?" The conversation about the fire checked and ceased with the sound of voices above and the faint rustle of skirts. Then came Christabel Morrison, her slender grace beautifully contrasted with the fuller beauties of that great lady of the stage, Marion Rufus. Lady Solomonson descended confidently in a group of three, with Lady Mottersham and sharp-tongued little Mrs. Rex, all very rich and splendid. After a brief interval their hostess preceded Marjorie, and was so much of an artist that she had dressed herself merely as a foil to this new creation. She wore black and scarlet, that made the white face and bright eyes under her sombre hair seem the face of an inspiring spirit. A step behind her and to the right of her came Marjorie, tall and wonderful, as if she were the queen of earth and sunshine, swathed barbarically in gold and ruddy brown, and with her abundant hair bound back by a fillet of bloodstones and gold. Radlett Barns exclaimed at the sight of her. She was full of the manifest consciousness of dignity as she descended, quite conscious and quite unembarrassed; two borrowed golden circlets glittered on her shining arm, and a thin chain of gold and garnets broke the contrast of the warm, sun-touched neck above, with the unsullied skin below. She sought and met her husband's astonishment with the faintest, remotest of smiles. It seemed to him that never before had he appreciated her beauty. His daily companion had become this splendour in the sky. She came close by him with hand extended to greet Sir Philip Mottersham. He was sensible of the glow of her, as it were of a scented aura about her. He had a first full intimation of the cult and worship of woman and the magnificence of women, old as the Mediterranean and its goddesses, and altogether novel to his mind.... Christabel Morrison found him a pleasant but not very entertaining or exciting neighbor at the dinner-table, and was relieved when the time came for her to turn an ear to the artistic compliments of Radlett Barns. But Trafford was too interested and amused by the general effect of the dinner to devote himself to the rather heavy business of really exhilarating Christabel. He didn't give his mind to her. He found the transformation of Sir Rupert into a turbanned Oriental who might have come out of a picture by Carpaccio, gently stimulating and altogether delightful. His attention returned again and again to that genial swarthiness. Mrs. Lee on his left lived in her eyes, and didn't so much talk to him as rattle her mind at him almost absent-mindedly, as one might dangle keys at a baby while one talked to its mother. Yet it was evident she liked the look of him. Her glance went from his face to his robe, and up and down the table, at the bright dresses, the shining arms, the glass and light and silver. She asked him to tell her just where he had tramped and just what he had seen, and he had scarcely begun answering her question before her thoughts flew off to three trophies of china and silver, struggling groups of china boys bearing up great silver shells of fruit and flowers that stood down the centre of the table. "What do you think of my chubby boys?" she asked. "They're German work. They came from a show at Düsseldorf last week. Ben saw I liked them, and sent back for them secretly, and here they, are! I thought they might be too colourless. But are they?" "No," said Trafford, "they're just cool. Under that glow of fruit. Is this salt-cellar English cut glass?" "Old Dutch," said Mrs. Lee. "Isn't it jolly?" She embarked with a roving eye upon the story of her Dutch glass, which was abundant and admirable, and broke off abruptly to say, "Your wife is wonderful." "Her hair goes back," she said, "like music. You know what I mean--a sort of easy rhythm. You don't mind my praising your wife?" Trafford said he didn't. "And there's a sort of dignity about her. All my life, Mr. Trafford, I've wanted to be tall. It stopped my growth." She glanced off at a tangent. "Tell me, Mr. Trafford," she asked, "was your wife beautiful like this when you married her? I mean--of course she was a beautiful girl and adorable and all that; but wasn't she just a slender thing?" She paused, but if she had a habit of asking disconcerting questions she did not at any rate insist upon answers, and she went on to confess that she believed she would be a happier woman poor than rich--"not that Ben isn't all he should be"--but that then she would have been a fashionable dressmaker. "People want help," she said, "so much more help than they get. They go about with themselves--what was it Mr. Radlett Barns said the other night--oh!--like people leading horses they daren't ride. I think he says such good things at times, don't you? So wonderful to be clever in two ways like that. Just look _now_ at your wife--now I mean, that they've drawn that peacock-coloured curtain behind her. My brother-in-law has been telling me you keep the most wonderful and precious secrets locked up in your breast, that you know how to make gold and diamonds and all sorts of things. If I did,--I should make them." She pounced suddenly upon Rex at her left with questions about the Keltic Renascence, was it still going on--or what? and Trafford was at liberty for a time to enjoy the bright effects about him, the shadowed profile and black hair of Christabel to the right of him, and the coruscating refractions and reflections of Lady Solomonson across the white and silver and ivory and blossom of the table. Then Mrs. Lee dragged him into a sudden conflict with Rex, by saying abruptly-- "Of course, Mr. Trafford wouldn't believe that." He looked perhaps a little lost. "I was telling Mrs. Lee," said Rex, "that I don't believe there's any economy of human toil in machinery whatever. I mean that the machine itself really embodies all the toil it seems to save, toil that went to the making of it and preparing it and getting coal for it...." § 12 Next morning they found their hostess at breakfast in the dining-room and now the sun was streaming through a high triple window that had been curtained overnight, and they looked out through clean, bright plate-glass upon mountains half-dissolved in a luminous mist, and a mist-veiled lake below. Great stone jars upon the terrace bore a blaze of urged and early blossom, and beyond were cypresses. Their hostess presided at one of two round tables, at a side table various breakfast dishes kept warm over spirit lamps, and two men servants dispensed tea and coffee. In the bay of the window was a fruit table, with piled fruit-plates and finger-bowls. Mrs. Lee waved a welcoming hand, and drew Marjorie to a seat beside her. Rex was consuming trout and Christabel peaches, and Solomonson, all his overnight Orientalism abandoned, was in outspoken tweeds and quite under the impression that he was interested in golf. Trafford got frizzled bacon for Marjorie and himself, and dropped into a desultory conversation, chiefly sustained by Christabel, about the peculiarly exalting effect of beautiful scenery on Christabel's mind. Mrs. Lee was as usual distraught, and kept glancing towards the steps that led up from the hall. Lady Solomonson appeared with a rustle in a wrapper of pink Chinese silk. "I came down after all," she said. "I lay in bed weighing rolls and coffee and relaxed muscles against your English breakfast downstairs. And suddenly I remembered your little sausages!" She sat down with a distribution of handkerchief, bag, letters, a gold fountain pen and suchlike equipments, and Trafford got her some of the coveted delicacies. Mrs. Lee suddenly cried out, "_Here_ they come! _Here_ they come!" and simultaneously the hall resonated with children's voices and the yapping of a Skye terrier. Then a gay little procession appeared ascending the steps. First came a small but princely little boy of three, with a ruddy face and curly black hair, behind him was a slender, rather awkward girl of perhaps eleven, and a sturdier daughter of Israel of nine. A nurse in artistic purple followed, listening inattentively to some private whisperings of a knickerbockered young man of five, and then came another purple-robed nurse against contingencies, and then a nurse of a different, white-clad, and more elaborately costumed sort, carrying a sumptuous baby of eight or nine months. "Ah! the _darlings!_" cried Christabel, springing up quite beautifully, and Lady Solomonson echoed the cry. The procession broke against the tables and split about the breakfast party. The small boy in petticoats made a confident rush for Marjorie, Christabel set herself to fascinate his elder brother, the young woman of eleven scrutinized Trafford with speculative interest and edged towards him coyly, and Mrs. Lee interviewed her youngest born. The amiable inanities suitable to the occasion had scarcely begun before a violent clapping of hands announced the appearance of Lee. It was Lee's custom, Mrs. Lee told Marjorie over her massively robed baby, to get up very early and work on rolls and coffee; he never breakfasted nor joined them until the children came. All of them rushed to him for their morning kiss, and it seemed to Trafford that Lee at least was an altogether happy creature as he accepted the demonstrative salutations of this struggling, elbowing armful of offspring, and emerged at last like a man from a dive, flushed and ruffled and smiling, to wish his adult guests good morning. "Come upstairs with us, daddy," cried the children, tugging at him. "Come upstairs!" Mrs. Lee ran her eye about her table and rose. "It's the children's hour," she said to Marjorie. "You don't I hope, mind children?" "But," said Trafford incredulous, and with a friendly arm about his admirer, "is this tall young woman yours?" The child shot him a glance of passionate appreciation for this scrap of flattery. "We began young," said Mrs. Lee, with eyes of uncritical pride for the ungainly one, and smiled at her husband. "Upstairs," cried the boy of five and the girl of nine. "Upstairs." "May we come?" asked Marjorie. "May we all come?" asked Christabel, determined to be in the movement. Rex strolled towards the cigars, with disentanglement obviously in his mind. "Do you really care?" asked Mrs. Lee. "You know, I'm so proud of their nursery. Would you care----? Always I go up at this time." "I've my little nursery, too," said Marjorie. "Of course!" cried Mrs. Lee, "I forgot. Of course;" and overwhelmed Marjorie with inquiries as she followed her husband. Every one joined the nurseryward procession except Rex, who left himself behind with an air of inadvertency, and escaped to the terrace and a cigar.... It was a wonderful nursery, a suite of three bedrooms, a green and white, well-lit schoolroom and a vast playroom, and hovering about the passage Trafford remarked a third purple nurse and a very efficient and serious-looking Swiss governess. The schoolroom and the nursery displayed a triumph of judicious shopping and arrangement, the best of German and French and English things had been blended into a harmony at once hygienic and pedagogic and humanly charming. For once Marjorie had to admire the spending of another woman, and admit to herself that even she could not have done better with the money. There were clever little desks for the elder children to work at, adjustable desks scientifically lit so that they benefited hands and shoulders and eyes; there were artistically coloured and artistically arranged pictures, and a little library held all the best of Lang and Lucas, rare good things like "Uncle Lubin," Maurice Baring's story of "Forget-me-not," "Johnny Crow's Garden," "The Bad Child's Book of Beasts," animal books and bird books, costume books and story books, colour books and rhyme books, abundant, yet every one intelligently chosen, no costly meretricious printed rubbish such as silly Gentile mothers buy. Then in the great nursery, with its cork carpet on which any toy would stand or run, was an abundance of admirable possessions and shelving for everything, and great fat cloth elephants to ride, and go-carts, and hooks for a swing. Marjorie's quick eye saw, and she admired effusively and envied secretly, and Mrs. Lee appreciated her appreciation. A skirmishing romp of the middle children and Lee went on about the two of them, and Trafford was led off by his admirer into a cubby-house in one corner (with real glass windows made to open) and the muslin curtains were drawn while he was shown a secret under vows. Lady Solomonson discovered some soldiers, and was presently on her knees in a corner with the five-year old boy. "These are like my Teddy's," she was saying. "My Billy has some of these." Trafford emerged from the cubby-house, which was perhaps a little cramped for him, and surveyed the room, with his admirer lugging at his arm unheeded, and whispering: "Come back with me." Of course this was the clue to Lee and Solomonson. How extremely happy Lee appeared to be! Enormous vistas of dark philoprogenitive parents and healthy little Jews and Jewesses seemed to open out to Trafford, hygienically reared, exquisitely trained and educated. And he and Marjorie had just one little daughter--with a much poorer educational outlook. She had no cloth elephant to ride, no elaborate cubby-house to get into, only a half-dozen picture books or so, and later she wouldn't when she needed it get that linguistic Swiss. He wasn't above the normal human vanity of esteeming his own race and type the best, and certain vulgar aspects of what nowadays one calls Eugenics crossed his mind. § 13 During those few crowded days of unfamiliar living Trafford accumulated a vast confused mass of thoughts and impressions. He realized acutely the enormous gulf between his attitudes towards women and those of his host and Solomonson--and indeed of all the other men. It had never occurred to him before that there was any other relationship possible between a modern woman and a modern man but a frank comradeship and perfect knowledge, helpfulness, and honesty. That had been the continual implication of his mother's life, and of all that he had respected in the thought and writing of his time. But not one of these men in their place--with the possible exception of Minter, who remained brilliant but ambiguous--believed anything of the sort. It necessarily involved in practice a share of hardship for women, and it seemed fundamental to them that women should have no hardship. He sought for a word, and hung between chivalry and orientalism. He inclined towards chivalry. Their women were lifted a little off the cold ground of responsibility. Charm was their obligation. "A beautiful woman should be beautifully dressed," said Radlett Barns in the course of the discussion of a contemporary portrait painter. Lee nodded to endorse an obvious truth. "But she ought to dress herself," said Barns. "It ought to be herself to the points of the old lace--chosen and assimilated. It's just through not being that, that so many rich women are--detestable. Heaps of acquisition. Caddis-women...." Trafford ceased to listen, he helped himself to a cigar and pinched its end and lit it, while his mind went off to gnaw at: "A beautiful woman should be beautifully dressed," as a dog retires with a bone. He couldn't escape from its shining truth, and withal it was devastating to all the purposes of his life. He rejected the word orientalism; what he was dealing with here was chivalry. "All this," was indeed, under the thinnest of disguises, the castle and the pavilion, and Lee and Solomonson were valiant knights, who entered the lists not indeed with spear and shield but with prospectus and ingenious enterprise, who drew cheques instead of swords for their ladies' honour, who held "all that" in fee and subjection that these exquisite and wonderful beings should flower in rich perfection. All these women lived in a magic security and abundance, far above the mire and adventure of the world; their knights went upon quests for them and returned with villas and pictures and diamonds and historical pearls. And not one of them all was so beautiful a being as his Marjorie, whom he made his squaw, whom he expected to aid and follow him, and suffer uncomplainingly the rough services of the common life. Not one was half so beautiful as Marjorie, nor half so sweet and wonderful.... If such thoughts came in Lee's villa, they returned with redoubled force when Trafford found himself packed painfully with Marjorie in the night train to Paris. His head ached with the rattle and suffocation of the train, and he knew hers must ache more. The windows of the compartment and the door were all closed, the litigious little commercial traveller in shiny grey had insisted upon that, there was no corner seat either for Marjorie or himself, the dim big package over her head swayed threateningly. The green shade over the light kept opening with the vibration of the train, the pallid old gentleman with the beard had twisted himself into a ghastly resemblance to a broken-necked corpse, and pressed his knees hard and stiffly against Trafford, and the small, sniffing, bow-legged little boy beside the rusty widow woman in the corner smelt mysteriously and penetratingly of Roquefort cheese. For the seventeenth time the little commercial traveller jumped up with an unbecoming expletive, and pulled the shade over the light, and the silent young man in the fourth corner stirred and readjusted his legs. For a time until the crack of light overhead had widened again every one became a dark head-dangling outline.... He watched the dim shape before him and noted the weary droop of her pose. He wished he had brought water. He was intolerably thirsty, and his thirst gave him the measure of hers. This jolting foetid compartment was a horrible place for her, an intolerably horrible place. And she was standing it, for all her manifest suffering, with infinite gallantry and patience. What a gallant soul indeed she was! Whatever else she did she never failed to rise to a challenge. Her very extravagance that had tried their lives so sorely was perhaps just one aspect of that same quality. It is so easy to be saving if one is timid; so hard if one is unaccustomed to fear. How beautiful she had shone at times in the lights and glitter of that house behind there, and now she was back in her weather-stained tweeds again, like a shining sword thrust back into a rusty old sheath. Was it fair that she should come back into the sheath because of this passion of his for a vast inexhaustible research? He had never asked himself before if it was fair to assume she would follow his purpose and his fortunes. He had taken that for granted. And she too had taken that for granted, which was so generously splendid of her. All her disloyalties had been unintentional, indeed almost instinctive, breaches of her subordination to this aim which was his alone. These breaches he realized had been the reality of her nature fighting against her profoundest resolutions. He wondered what Lee must think of this sort of married life. How ugly and selfish it must seem from that point of view. He perceived for the first time the fundamental incongruity of Marjorie's position, she was made to shine, elaborately prepared and trained to shine, desiring keenly to shine, and then imprisoned and hidden in the faded obscurity of a small, poor home. How conspicuously, how extremely he must be wanting in just that sort of chivalry in which Lee excelled! Those business men lived for their women to an extent he had hitherto scarcely dreamt of doing.... His want of chivalry was beyond dispute. And was there not also an extraordinary egotism in this concentration upon his own purposes, a self-esteem, a vanity? Had her life no rights? Suppose now he were to give her--two years, three years perhaps of his life--altogether. Or even four. Was it too much to grudge her four? Solomonson had been at his old theme with him, a theme the little man had never relinquished since their friendship first began years ago, possibilities of a business alliance and the application of a mind of exceptional freshness and penetration to industrial development. Why shouldn't that be tried? Why not "make money" for a brief strenuous time, and then come back, when Marjorie's pride and comfort were secure?... (Poor dear, how weary she looked!) He wondered how much more remained of this appalling night. It would have made so little difference if they had taken the day train and travelled first-class. Wasn't she indeed entitled to travel first-class? Pictures of the immense spaciousness, the softness, cleanliness and dignity of first-class compartments appeared in his mind.... He would have looked at his watch, but to get at it would mean disturbing the silent young man on his left. Outside in the corridor there broke out a noisy dispute about a missing coupon, a dispute in that wonderful language that is known to the facetious as _entente cordiale_, between an Englishman and the conductor of the train.... § 14 In Paris there was a dispute with an extortionate cabman, and the crossing from Dieppe to Newhaven was rough and bitterly cold. They were both ill. They reached home very dirty and weary, and among the pile of letters and papers on Trafford's desk was a big bundle of Science Note proofs, and two letters from Croydon and Pinner to alter the hours of his lectures for various plausible and irritating reasons. The little passage looked very small and rather bare as the door shut behind them, and the worn places that had begun to be conspicuous during the last six months, and which they had forgotten during the Swiss holiday, reasserted themselves. The dining-room, after spacious rooms flooded with sunshine, betrayed how dark it was, and how small. Those Bokhara embroideries that had once shone so splendid, now, after Mrs. Lee's rich and unlimited harmonies, seemed skimpy and insufficient, mere loin-cloths for the artistic nakedness of the home. They felt, too, they were beginning to find out their post-impressionist picture. They had not remembered it as nearly so crude as it now appeared. The hole a flying coal had burnt in the unevenly faded dark-blue carpet looked larger than it had ever done before, and was indeed the only thing that didn't appear faded and shrunken. § 15 The atmosphere of the Lees' villa had disturbed Marjorie's feelings and ideas even more than it had Trafford's. She came back struggling to recover those high resolves that had seemed so secure when they had walked down to Les Avantes. There was a curiously tormenting memory of that vast, admirable nursery, and the princely procession of children that would not leave her mind. No effort of her reason could reconcile her to the inferiority of Margharita's equipment. She had a detestable craving for a uniform for May. But May was going.... But indeed she was not so sure that May was going. She was no longer buoyantly well, she was full of indefinable apprehensions of weakness and failure. She struggled to control an insurgence of emotions that rose out of the deeps of her being. She had now, she knew, to take on her share of the burden, to become one of the Samurai, to show her love no longer as a demand but as a service. Yet from day to day she procrastinated under the shadow of apprehended things; she forebore to dismiss May, to buy that second-hand typewriter she needed, to take any irrevocable step towards the realization of the new way of living. She tried to think away her fears, but they would not leave her. She felt that Trafford watched her pale face with a furtive solicitude and wondered at her hesitations; she tried in vain to seem cheerful and careless in his presence, with an anxiety, with premonitions that grew daily. There was no need to worry him unduly.... But soon the matter was beyond all doubting. One night she gathered her courage together suddenly and came down into his study in her dressing-gown with her hair about her shoulders. She opened the door and her heart failed her. "Rag," she whispered. "Yes," he said busily from his desk, without looking round. "I want to speak to you," she answered, and came slowly, and stood beside him silently. "Well, old Marjorie?" he said presently, drawing a little intricate pattern in the corner of his blotting paper, and wondering whether this was a matter of five pounds or ten. "I meant so well," she said and caught herself back into silence again. He started at the thought, at a depth and meaning in her voice, turned his chair about to look at her, and discovered she was weeping and choking noiselessly. He stood up close to her, moving very slowly and silently, his eyes full of this new surmise, and now without word or gesture from her he knew his thought was right. "My dear," he whispered. She turned her face from him. "I meant so well," she sobbed. "My dear! I meant so well." Still with an averted face her arms came out to him in a desperate, unreasoning appeal for love. He took her and held her close to him. "Never mind, dear," he said. "Don't mind." Her passion now was unconstrained. "I thought--" he began, and left the thing unsaid. "But your work," she said; "your research?" "I must give up research," he said. "Oh, my dearest!" "I must give up research," he repeated. "I've been seeing it for days. Clearer and clearer. _This_ dear, just settles things. Even--as we were coming home in the train--I was making up my mind. At Vevey I was talking to Solomonson." "My dear," she whispered, clinging to him. "I talked to Solomonson. He had ideas--a proposal." "No," she said. "Yes," he said. "I've left the thing too long." He repeated. "I must give up research--for years. I ought to have done it long before." "I had meant so well," she said. "I meant to work. I meant to deny myself...." "I'm glad," he whispered. "Glad! Why should you weep?" It seemed nothing to him then, that so he should take a long farewell to the rare, sweet air of that wonderland his mind had loved so dearly. All he remembered was that Marjorie was very dear to him, very dear to him, and that all her being was now calling out for him and his strength. "I had thought anyhow of giving up research," he repeated. "This merely decides. It happens to decide. I love you, dear. I put my research at your feet. Gladly. This is the end, and I do not care, my dear, at all. I do not care at all--seeing I have you...." He stood beside her for a moment, and then sat down again, sideways, upon his chair. "It isn't you, my dear, or me," he said, "but life that beats us--that beautiful, irrational mother.... Life does not care for research or knowledge, but only for life. Oh! the world has to go on yet for tens of thousands of years before--before we are free for that. I've got to fight--as other men fight...." He thought in silence for a time, oddly regardless of her. "But if it was not you," he said, staring at the fireplace with knitted brows, "if I did not love you.... Thank God, I love you, dear! Thank God, our children are love children! I want to live--to my finger-tips, but if I didn't love you--oh! love you! then I think now--I'd be glad--I'd be glad, I think, to cheat life of her victory." "Oh, my dear!" she cried, and clung weeping to him, and caught at him and sat herself upon his knees, and put her arms about his head, and kissed him passionately with tear-salt lips, with her hair falling upon his face. "My dear," she whispered.... § 16 So soon as Trafford could spare an afternoon amidst his crowded engagements he went to talk to Solomonson, who was now back in London. "Solomonson," he said, "you were talking about rubber at Vevey." "I remember," said Solomonson with a note of welcome. "I've thought it over." "I _thought_ you would." "I've thought things over. I'm going to give up my professorship--and science generally, and come into business--if that is what you are meaning." Solomonson turned his paper-weight round very carefully before replying. Then he said: "You mustn't give up your professorship yet, Trafford. For the rest--I'm glad." He reflected, and then his bright eyes glanced up at Trafford. "I knew," he said, "you would." "I didn't," said Trafford. "Things have happened since." "Something was bound to happen. You're too good--for what it gave you. I didn't talk to you out there for nothing. I saw things.... Let's go into the other room, and smoke and talk it over." He stood up as he spoke. "I thought you would," he repeated, leading the way. "I knew you would. You see,--one _has_ to. You can't get out of it." "It was all very well before you were married," said Solomonson, stopping short to say it, "but when a man's married he's got to think. He can't go on devoting himself to his art and his science and all that--not if he's married anything worth having. No. Oh, I understand. He's got to look about him, and forget the distant prospect for a bit. I saw you'd come to it. _I_ came to it. Had to. I had ambitions--just as you have. I've always had an inclination to do a bit of research on my own. I _like_ it, you know. Oh! I could have done things. I'm sure I could have done things. I'm not a born money-maker. But----." He became very close and confidential. "It's----_them_. You said good-bye to science for a bit when you flopped me down on that old croquet-lawn, Trafford." He went off to reminiscences. "Lord, how we went over! No more aviation for me, Trafford!" He arranged chairs, and produced cigars. "After all--this of course--it's interesting. Once you get into the movement of it, it takes hold of you. It's a game." "I've thought over all you said," Trafford began, using premeditated phrases. "Bluntly--I want three thousand a year, and I don't make eight hundred. It's come home to me. I'm going to have another child." Solomonson gesticulated a congratulation. "All the same, I hate dropping research. It's stuff I'm made to do. About that, Solomonson, I'm almost superstitious. I could say I had a call.... It's the maddest state of affairs! Now that I'm doing absolutely my best work for mankind, work I firmly believe no one else can do, I just manage to get six hundred--nearly two hundred of my eight hundred is my own. What does the world think I could do better--that would be worth four times as much." "The world doesn't think anything at all about it," said Solomonson. "Suppose it did!" The thought struck Sir Rupert. He knitted his brows and looked hard obliquely at the smoke of his cigar. "Oh, it won't," he said, rejecting a disagreeable idea. "There isn't any world--not in that sense. That's the mistake you make, Trafford." "It's not what your work is worth," he explained. "It's what your advantages can get for you. People are always going about supposing--just what you suppose--that people ought to get paid in proportion to the good they do. It's forgetting what the world is, to do that. Very likely some day civilization will get to that, but it hasn't got to it yet. It isn't going to get to it for hundreds and hundreds of years." His manner became confidential. "Civilization's just a fight, Trafford--just as savagery is a fight, and being a wild beast is a fight,--only you have paddeder gloves on and there's more rules. We aren't out for everybody, we're out for ourselves--and a few friends perhaps--within limits. It's no good hurrying ahead and pretending civilization's something else, when it isn't. That's where all these socialists and people come a howler. Oh, _I_ know the Socialists. I see 'em at my wife's At Homes. They come along with the literary people and the artists' wives and the actors and actresses, and none of them take much account of me because I'm just a business man and rather dark and short, and so I get a chance of looking at them from the side that isn't on show while the other's turned to the women, and they're just as fighting as the rest of us, only they humbug more and they don't seem to me to have a decent respect for any of the common rules. And that's about what it all comes to, Trafford." Sir Rupert paused, and Trafford was about to speak when the former resumed again, his voice very earnest, his eyes shining with purpose. He liked Trafford, and he was doing his utmost to make a convincing confession of the faith that was in him. "It's when it comes to the women," said Sir Rupert, "that one finds it out. That's where _you've_ found it out. You say, I'm going to devote my life to the service of Humanity in general. You'll find Humanity in particular, in the shape of all the fine, beautiful, delightful and desirable women you come across, preferring a narrower turn of devotion. See? That's all. _Caeteris paribus_, of course. That's what I found out, and that's what you've found out, and that's what everybody with any sense in his head finds out, and there you are." "You put it--graphically," said Trafford. "I feel it graphically. I may be all sorts of things, but I do know a fact when I see it. I'm here with a few things I want and a woman or so I have and want to keep, and the kids upstairs, bless 'em! and I'm in league with all the others who want the same sort of things. Against any one or anything that upsets us. We stand by the law and each other, and that's what it all amounts to. That's as far as my patch of Humanity goes. Humanity at large! Humanity be blowed! _Look_ at it! It isn't that I'm hostile to Humanity, mind you, but that I'm not disposed to go under as I should do if I didn't say that. So I say it. And that's about all it is, and there you are." He regarded Trafford over his cigar, drawing fiercely at it for some moments. Then seeing Trafford on the point of speaking, he snatched it from his lips, demanded silence by waving it at his hearer, and went on. "I say all this in order to dispose of any idea that you can keep up the open-minded tell-everybody-every-thing scientific attitude if you come into business. You can't. Put business in two words and what is it? Keeping something from somebody else, and making him pay for it--" "Oh, look here!" protested Trafford. "That's not the whole of business." "There's making him want it, of course, advertisement and all that, but that falls under making him pay for it, really." "But a business man organizes public services, consolidates, economizes." Sir Rupert made his mouth look very wide by sucking in the corners. "Incidentally," he said, and added after a judicious pause: "Sometimes ... I thought we were talking of making money." "Go on," said Trafford. "You set me thinking," said Solomonson. "It's the thing I always like about you. I tell you, Trafford, I don't believe that the majority of people who make money help civilization forward any more than the smoke that comes out of the engine helps the train forward. If you put it to me, I don't. I've got no illusions of that sort. They're about as much help as--fat. They accumulate because things happen to be arranged so." "Things will be arranged better some day." "They aren't arranged better now. Grip that! _Now_, it's a sort of paradox. If you've got big gifts and you choose to help forward the world, if you choose to tell all you know and give away everything you can do in the way of work, you've got to give up the ideas of wealth and security, and that means fine women and children. You've got to be a _deprived_ sort of man. 'All right,' you say, 'That's me!' But how about your wife being a deprived sort of woman? Eh? That's where it gets you! And meanwhile, you know, while _you_ make your sacrifices and do your researches, there'll be little mean sharp active beasts making money all over you like maggots on a cheese. And if everybody who'd got gifts and altruistic ideas gave themselves up to it, then evidently only the mean and greedy lot would breed and have the glory. They'd get everything. Every blessed thing. There wouldn't be an option they didn't hold. And the other chaps would produce the art and the science and the literature, as far as the men who'd got hold of things would let 'em, and perish out of the earth altogether.... There you are! Still, that's how things are made...." "But it isn't worth it. It isn't worth extinguishing oneself in order to make a world for those others, anyhow. Them and their children. Is it? Eh? It's like building a temple for flies to buzz in.... There is such a thing as a personal side to Eugenics, you know." Solomonson reflected over the end of his cigar. "It isn't good enough," he concluded. "You're infernally right," said Trafford. "Very well," said Solomonson, "and now we can get to business." § 17 The immediate business was the systematic exploitation of the fact that Trafford had worked out the problem of synthesizing indiarubber. He had done so with an entire indifference to the commercial possibilities of the case, because he had been irritated by the enormous publicity given to Behrens' assertion that he had achieved this long-sought end. Of course the production of artificial rubbers and rubber-like substances had been one of the activities of the synthetic chemist for many years, from the appearance of Tilden's isoprene rubber onward, and there was already a formidable list of collaterals, dimethybutadiene, and so forth, by which the coveted goal could be approached. Behrens had boldly added to this list as his own a number of variations upon a theme of Trafford's, originally designed to settle certain curiosities about elasticity. Behrens' products were not only more massively rubber-like than anything that had gone before them, but also extremely cheap to produce, and his bold announcement of success had produced a check in rubber sales and widespread depression in the quiveringly sensitive market of plantation shares. Solomonson had consulted Trafford about this matter at Vevey, and had heard with infinite astonishment that Trafford had already roughly prepared and was proposing to complete and publish, unpatented and absolutely unprotected, first a smashing demonstration of the unsoundness of Behrens' claim and then a lucid exposition of just what had to be done and what could be done to make an indiarubber absolutely indistinguishable from the natural product. The business man could not believe his ears. "My dear chap, positively--you mustn't," Solomonson had screamed, and he had opened his fingers and humped his shoulders and for all his public school and university training lapsed undisguisedly into the Oriental. "Don't you _see_ all you are throwing away?" he squealed. "I suppose it's our quality to throw such things away," said Trafford, when at last Solomonson's point of view became clear to him. They had embarked upon a long rambling discussion of that issue of publication, a discussion they were now taking up again. "When men dropped that idea of concealing knowledge, alchemist gave place to chemist," said Trafford, "and all that is worth having in modern life, all that makes it better and safer and more hopeful than the ancient life, began." "My dear fellow," said Solomonson, "I know, I know. But to give away the synthesis of rubber! To just shove it out of the window into the street! _Gare l'eau!_ O! And when you could do with so much too!".... Now they resumed the divergent threads of that Vevey talk. Solomonson had always entertained the warmest friendship and admiration for Trafford, and it was no new thing that he should desire a business co-operation. He had been working for that in the old days at Riplings; he had never altogether let the possibility drop out of sight between them in spite of Trafford's repudiations. He believed himself to be a scientific man turned to business, but indeed his whole passion was for organization and finance. He knew he could do everything but originate, and in Trafford he recognized just that rare combination of an obstinate and penetrating simplicity with constructive power which is the essential blend in the making of great intellectual initiatives. To Trafford belonged the secret of novel and unsuspected solutions; what were fixed barriers and unsurmountable conditions to trained investigators and commonplace minds, would yield to his gift of magic inquiry. He could startle the accepted error into self-betrayal. Other men might play the game of business infinitely better than he--Solomonson knew, indeed, quite well that he himself could play the game infinitely better than Trafford--but it rested with Trafford by right divine of genius to alter the rules. If only he could be induced to alter the rules secretly, unostentatiously, on a business footing, instead of making catastrophic plunges into publicity! And everything that had made Trafford up to the day of his marriage was antagonistic to such strategic reservations. The servant of science has as such no concern with personal consequences; his business is the steady, relentless clarification of knowledge. The human affairs he changes, the wealth he makes or destroys, are no concern of his; once these things weigh with him, become primary, he has lost his honour as a scientific man. "But you _must_ think of consequences," Solomonson had cried during those intermittent talks at Vevey. "Here you are, shying this cheap synthetic rubber of yours into the world--for it's bound to be cheap! any one can see that--like a bomb into a market-place. What's the good of saying you don't care about the market-place, that _your_ business is just to make bombs and drop them out of the window? You smash up things just the same. Why! you'll ruin hundreds and thousands of people, people living on rubber shares, people working in plantations, old, inadaptable workers in rubber works...." Sir Rupert was now still a little incredulous of Trafford's change of purpose, and for a time argued conceded points. Then slowly he came to the conditions and methods of the new relationship. He sketched out a scheme of co-operation and understandings between his firm and Trafford, between them both and his associated group in the city. Behrens was to have rope and produce his slump in plantation shares, then Trafford was to publish his criticism of Behrens, reserving only that catalytic process which was his own originality, the process that was to convert the inert, theoretically correct synthetic rubber, with a mysterious difference in the quality of its phases, into the real right thing. With Behrens exploded, plantation shares would recover, and while their friends in the city manipulated that, Trafford would resign his professorship and engage himself to an ostentatious promotion syndicate for the investigation of synthetic rubber. His discovery would follow immediately the group had cleared itself of plantation shares; indeed he could begin planning the necessary works forthwith; the large scale operations in the process were to be protected as far as possible by patents, but its essential feature, the addition of a specific catalytic agent, could be safely dealt with as a secret process. "I hate secrecy," said Trafford. "Business," interjected Solomonson, and went on with his exposition of the relative advantages of secrecy and patent rights. It was all a matter of just how many people you had to trust. As that number increased, the more and more advisable did it become to put your cards on the table and risk the complex uncertain protection of the patent law. They went into elaborate calculations, clerks were called upon to hunt up facts and prices, and the table was presently littered with waste arithmetic. "I believe we can do the stuff at tenpence a pound," said Solomonson, leaning back in his chair at last, and rattling his fountain pen between his teeth, "so soon, that is, as we deal in quantity. Tenpence! We can lower the price and spread the market, sixpence by sixpence. In the end--there won't be any more plantations. Have to grow tea.... I say, let's have an invalid dinner of chicken and champagne, and go on with this. It's fascinating. You can telephone." They dined together, and Solomonson on champagne rather than chicken. His mind, which had never shown an instant's fatigue, began to glow and sparkle. This enterprise, he declared, was to be only the first of a series of vigorous exploitations. The whole thing warmed him. He would rather make ten thousand by such developments, than a hundred thousand by mere speculation. Trafford had but scratched the surface of his mine of knowledge. "Let's think of other things," said Sir Rupert Solomonson. "Diamonds! No! They've got too many tons stowed away already. A diamond now--it's an absolutely artificial value. At any time a new discovery and one wild proprietor might bust that show. Lord!--diamonds! Metals? Of course you've worked the colloids chiefly. I suppose there's been more done in metals and alloys than anywhere. There's a lot of other substances. Business has hardly begun to touch substances yet, you know, Trafford--flexible glass, for example, and things like that. So far we've always taken substances for granted. On our side, I mean. It's extraordinary how narrow the outlook of business and finance is--still. It never seems to lead to things, never thinks ahead. In this case of rubber, for example----" "When men fight for their own hands and for profit and position in the next ten years or so, I suppose they tend to become narrow." "I suppose they must." Sir Rupert's face glowed with a new idea, and his voice dropped a little lower. "But what a pull they get, Trafford, if perhaps--they don't, eh?" "No," said Trafford with a smile and a sigh, "the other sort gets the pull." "Not _this_ time," said Solomonson; "not with you to spot processes and me to figure out the cost--" he waved his hands to the litter that had been removed to a side table--"and generally see how the business end of things is going...." BOOK THE THIRD MARJORIE AT LONELY HUT CHAPTER THE FIRST SUCCESSES § 1 I find it hard to trace the accumulation of moods and feelings that led Trafford and Marjorie at last to make their extraordinary raid upon Labrador. In a week more things happen in the thoughts of such a man as Trafford, changes, revocations, deflections, than one can chronicle in the longest of novels. I have already in an earlier passage of this story sought to give an image of the confused content of a modern human mind, but that pool was to represent a girl of twenty, and Trafford now was a man of nearly thirty-five, and touching life at a hundred points for one of the undergraduate Marjorie's. Perhaps that made him less confused, but it certainly made him fuller. Let me attempt therefore only the broad outline of his changes of purpose and activity until I come to the crucial mood that made these two lives a little worth telling about, amidst the many thousands of such lives that people are living to-day.... It took him seven years from his conclusive agreement with Solomonson to become a rich and influential man. It took him only seven years, because already by the mere accidents of intellectual interest he was in possession of knowledge of the very greatest economic importance, and because Solomonson was full of that practical loyalty and honesty that distinguishes his race. I think that in any case Trafford's vigor and subtlety of mind would have achieved the prosperity he had found necessary to himself, but it might have been, under less favorable auspices, a much longer and more tortuous struggle. Success and security were never so abundant nor so easily attained by men with capacity and a sense of proportion as they are in the varied and flexible world of to-day. We live in an affluent age with a nearly incredible continuous fresh increment of power pouring in from mechanical invention, and compared with our own, most other periods have been meagre and anxious and hard-up times. Our problems are constantly less the problems of submission and consolation and continually more problems of opportunity.... Trafford found the opening campaign, the operation with the plantation shares and his explosion of Behrens' pretensions extremely uncongenial. It left upon his mind a confused series of memories of interviews and talks in offices for the most part dingy and slovenly, of bales of press-cuttings and blue-pencilled financial publications, of unpleasing encounters with a number of bright-eyed, flushed, excitable and extremely cunning men, of having to be reserved and limited in his talk upon all occasions, and of all the worst aspects of Solomonson. All that part of the new treatment of life that was to make him rich gave him sensations as though he had ceased to wash himself mentally, until he regretted his old life in his laboratory as a traveller in a crowded night train among filthy people might regret the bathroom he had left behind him.... But the development of his manufacture of rubber was an entirely different business, and for a time profoundly interesting. It took him into a new astonishing world, the world of large-scale manufacture and industrial organization. The actual planning of the works was not in itself anything essentially new to him. So far as all that went it was scarcely more than the problem of arranging an experiment upon a huge and permanent scale, and all that quick ingenuity, that freshness and directness of mind that had made his purely scientific work so admirable had ample and agreeable scope. Even the importance of cost and economy at every point in the process involved no system of considerations that was altogether novel to him. The British investigator knows only too well the necessity for husbanded material and inexpensive substitutes. But strange factors came in, a new region of interest was opened with the fact that instead of one experimenter working with the alert responsive assistance of Durgan, a multitude of human beings--even in the first drafts of his project they numbered already two hundred, before the handling and packing could be considered--had to watch, control, assist or perform every stage in a long elaborate synthesis. For the first time in his life Trafford encountered the reality of Labour, as it is known to the modern producer. It will be difficult in the future, when things now subtly or widely separated have been brought together by the receding perspectives of time, for the historian to realize just how completely out of the thoughts of such a young man as Trafford the millions of people who live and die in organized productive industry had been. That vast world of toil and weekly anxiety, ill-trained and stupidly directed effort and mental and moral feebleness, had been as much beyond the living circle of his experience as the hosts of Genghis Khan or the social life of the Forbidden City. Consider the limitations of his world. In all his life hitherto he had never been beyond a certain prescribed area of London's immensities, except by the most casual and uninstructive straying. He knew Chelsea and Kensington and the north bank and (as a boy) Battersea Park, and all the strip between Kensington and Charing Cross, with some scraps of the Strand as far as the Law Courts, a shop or so in Tottenham Court Road and fragments about the British Museum and Holborn and Regent's Park, a range up Edgware Road to Maida Vale, the routes west and south-west through Uxbridge and Putney to the country, and Wimbledon Common and Putney Heath. He had never been on Hampstead Heath nor visited the Botanical Gardens nor gone down the Thames below London Bridge, nor seen Sydenham nor Epping Forest nor the Victoria Park. Take a map and blot all he knew and see how vast is the area left untouched. All industrial London, all wholesale London, great oceans of human beings fall into that excluded area. The homes he knew were comfortable homes, the poor he knew were the parasitic and dependent poor of the West, the shops, good retail shops, the factories for the most part engaged in dressmaking. Of course he had been informed about this vast rest of London. He knew that as a matter of fact it existed, was populous, portentous, puzzling. He had heard of "slums," read "Tales of Mean Streets," and marvelled in a shallow transitory way at such wide wildernesses of life, apparently supported by nothing at all in a state of grey, darkling but prolific discomfort. Like the princess who wondered why the people having no bread did not eat cake, he could never clearly understand why the population remained there, did not migrate to more attractive surroundings. He had discussed the problems of those wildernesses as young men do, rather confidently, very ignorantly, had dismissed them, recurred to them, and forgotten them amidst a press of other interests, but now it all suddenly became real to him with the intensity of a startling and intimate contact. He discovered this limitless, unknown, greater London, this London of the majority, as if he had never thought of it before. He went out to inspect favourable sites in regions whose very names were unfamiliar to him, travelled on dirty little intraurban railway lines to hitherto unimagined railway stations, found parks, churches, workhouses, institutions, public-houses, canals, factories, gas-works, warehouses, foundries and sidings, amidst a multitudinous dinginess of mean houses, shabby back-yards, and ill-kept streets. There seemed to be no limits to this thread-bare side of London, it went on northward, eastward, and over the Thames southward, for mile after mile--endlessly. The factories and so forth clustered in lines and banks upon the means of communication, the homes stretched between, and infinitude of parallelograms of grimy boxes with public-houses at the corners and churches and chapels in odd places, towering over which rose the council schools, big, blunt, truncated-looking masses, the means to an education as blunt and truncated, born of tradition and confused purposes, achieving by accident what they achieve at all. And about this sordid-looking wilderness went a population that seemed at first as sordid. It was in no sense a tragic population. But it saw little of the sun, felt the wind but rarely, and so had a white, dull skin that looked degenerate and ominous to a West-end eye. It was not naked nor barefooted, but it wore cheap clothes that were tawdry when new, and speedily became faded, discoloured, dusty, and draggled. It was slovenly and almost wilfully ugly in its speech and gestures. And the food it ate was rough and coarse if abundant, the eggs it consumed "tasted"--everything "tasted"; its milk, its beer, its bread was degraded by base adulterations, its meat was hacked red stuff that hung in the dusty air until it was sold; east of the city Trafford could find no place where by his standards he could get a tolerable meal tolerably served. The entertainment of this eastern London was jingle, its religion clap-trap, its reading feeble and sensational rubbish without kindliness or breadth. And if this great industrial multitude was neither tortured nor driven nor cruelly treated--as the slaves and common people of other days have been--yet it was universally anxious, perpetually anxious about urgent small necessities and petty dissatisfying things.... That was the general effect of this new region in which he had sought out and found the fortunate site for his manufacture of rubber, and against this background it was that he had now to encounter a crowd of selected individuals, and weld them into a harmonious and successful "process." They came out from their millions to him, dingy, clumsy, and at first it seemed without any individuality. Insensibly they took on character, rounded off by unaccustomed methods into persons as marked and distinctive as any he had known. There was Dowd, for instance, the technical assistant, whom he came to call in his private thoughts Dowd the Disinherited. Dowd had seemed a rather awkward, potentially insubordinate young man of unaccountably extensive and curiously limited attainments. He had begun his career in a crowded home behind and above a baker's shop in Hoxton, he had gone as a boy into the works of a Clerkenwell electric engineer, and there he had developed that craving for knowledge which is so common in poor men of the energetic type. He had gone to classes, read with a sort of fury, feeding his mind on the cheap and adulterated instruction of grant-earning crammers and on stale, meretricious and ill-chosen books; his mental food indeed was the exact parallel of the rough, abundant, cheap and nasty groceries and meat that gave the East-ender his spots and dyspeptic complexion, the cheap text-books were like canned meat and dangerous with intellectual ptomaines, the rascally encyclopædias like weak and whitened bread, and Dowd's mental complexion, too, was leaden and spotted. Yet essentially he wasn't, Trafford found, by any means bad stuff; where his knowledge had had a chance of touching reality it became admirable, and he was full of energy in his work and a sort of honest zeal about the things of the mind. The two men grew from an acute mutual criticism into a mutual respect. At first it seemed to Trafford that when he met Dowd he was only meeting Dowd, but a time came when it seemed to him that in meeting Dowd he was meeting all that vast new England outside the range of ruling-class dreams, that multitudinous greater England, cheaply treated, rather out of health, angry, energetic and now becoming intelligent and critical, that England which organized industrialism has created. There were nights when he thought for hours about Dowd. Other figures grouped themselves round him--Markham, the head clerk, the quintessence of East-end respectability, who saw to the packing; Miss Peckover, an ex-telegraph operator, a woman so entirely reliable and unobservant that the most betraying phase of the secret process could be confidently entrusted to her hands. Behind them were clerks, workmen, motor-van men, work-girls, a crowd of wage-earners, from amidst which some individual would assume temporary importance and interest by doing something wrong, getting into trouble, becoming insubordinate, and having contributed a little vivid story to Trafford's gathering impressions of life, drop back again into undistinguished subordination. Dowd became at last entirely representative. When first Trafford looked Dowd in the eye, he met something of the hostile interest one might encounter in a swordsman ready to begin a duel. There was a watchfulness, an immense reserve. They discussed the work and the terms of their relationship, and all the while Trafford felt there was something almost threateningly not mentioned. Presently he learnt from a Silvertown employer what that concealed aspect was. Dowd was "that sort of man who makes trouble," disposed to strike rather than not upon a grievance, with a taste for open-air meetings, a member, obstinately adherent in spite of friendly remonstrance, of the Social Democratic Party. This in spite of his clear duty to a wife and two small white knobby children. For a time he would not talk to Trafford of anything but business--Trafford was so manifestly the enemy, not to be trusted, the adventurous plutocrat, the exploiter--when at last Dowd did open out he did so defiantly, throwing opinions at Trafford as a mob might hurl bricks at windows. At last they achieved a sort of friendship and understanding, an amiability as it were, in hostility, but never from first to last would he talk to Trafford as one gentleman to another; between them, and crossed only by flimsy, temporary bridges, was his sense of incurable grievances and fundamental injustice. He seemed incapable of forgetting the disadvantages of his birth and upbringing, the inferiority and disorder of the house that sheltered him, the poor food that nourished him, the deadened air he breathed, the limited leisure, the inadequate books. Implicit in his every word and act was the assurance that but for this handicap he could have filled Trafford's place, while Trafford would certainly have failed in his. For all these things Dowd made Trafford responsible; he held him to that inexorably. "_You_ sweat us," he said, speaking between his teeth; "_you_ limit us, _you_ stifle us, and away there in the West-end, _you_ and the women you keep waste the plunder." Trafford attempted palliation. "After all," he said, "it's not me so particularly----" "But it is," said Dowd. "It's the system things go upon." "You're the responsible part of it. _You_ have freedom, _you_ have power and endless opportunity--" Trafford shrugged his shoulders. "It's because your sort wants too much," said Dowd, "that my sort hasn't enough." "Tell me how to organize things better." "Much you'd care. They'll organize themselves. Everything is drifting to class separation, the growing discontent, the growing hardship of the masses.... Then you'll see." "Then what's going to happen?" "Overthrow. And social democracy." "How is that going to work?" Dowd had been cornered by that before. "I don't care if it _doesn't_ work," he snarled, "so long as we smash up this. We're getting too sick to care what comes after." "Dowd," said Trafford abruptly, "_I'm_ not so satisfied with things." Dowd looked at him askance. "You'll get reconciled to it," he said. "It's ugly here--but it's all right there--at the spending end.... Your sort has got to grab, your sort has got to spend--until the thing works out and the social revolution makes an end of you." "And then?" Dowd became busy with his work. Trafford stuck his hands in his pockets and stared out of the dingy factory window. "I don't object so much to your diagnosis," he said, "as to your remedy. It doesn't strike me as a remedy." "It's an end," said Dowd, "anyhow. My God! When I think of all the women and shirkers flaunting and frittering away there in the West, while here men and women toil and worry and starve...." He stopped short like one who feels too full for controlled speech. "Dowd," said Trafford after a fair pause, "What would you do if you were me?" "Do?" said Dowd. "Yes," said Trafford as one who reconsiders it, "what would you do?" "Now that's a curious question, Mr. Trafford," said Dowd, turning to regard him. "Meaning--if I were in your place?" "Yes," said Trafford. "What would you do in my place?" "I should sell out of this place jolly quick," he said. "_Sell!_" said Trafford softly. "Yes--sell. And start a socialist daily right off. An absolutely independent, unbiassed socialist daily." "And what would that do?" "It would stir people up. Every day it would stir people up." "But you see I can't edit. I haven't the money for half a year of a socialist daily.... And meanwhile people want rubber." Dowd shook his head. "You mean that you and your wife want to have the spending of six or eight thousand a year," he said. "I don't make half of that," said Trafford. "Well--half of that," pressed Dowd. "It's all the same to me." Trafford reflected. "The point where I don't agree with you," he said, "is in supposing that my scale of living--over there, is directly connected with the scale of living--about here." "Well, isn't it?" "'Directly,' I said. No. If we just stopped it--over there--there'd be no improvement here. In fact, for a time it would mean dislocations. It might mean permanent, hopeless, catastrophic dislocation. You know that as well as I do. Suppose the West-end became--Tolstoyan; the East would become chaos." "Not much likelihood," sneered Dowd. "That's another question. That we earn together here and that I spend alone over there, it's unjust and bad, but it isn't a thing that admits of any simple remedy. Where we differ, Dowd, is about that remedy. I admit the disease as fully as you do. I, as much as you, want to see the dawn of a great change in the ways of human living. But I don't think the diagnosis is complete and satisfactory; our problem is an intricate muddle of disorders, not one simple disorder, and I don't see what treatment is indicated." "Socialism," said Dowd, "is indicated." "You might as well say that health is indicated," said Trafford with a note of impatience in his voice. "Does any one question that if we could have this socialist state in which every one is devoted and every one is free, in which there is no waste and no want, and beauty and brotherhood prevail universally, we wouldn't? But----. You socialists have no scheme of government, no scheme of economic organization, no intelligible guarantees of personal liberty, no method of progress, no ideas about marriage, no plan--except those little pickpocket plans of the Fabians that you despise as much as I do--for making this order into that other order you've never yet taken the trouble to work out even in principle. Really you know, Dowd, what is the good of pointing at my wife's dresses and waving the red flag at me, and talking of human miseries----" "It seems to wake you up a bit," said Dowd with characteristic irrelevance. § 2 The accusing finger of Dowd followed Trafford into his dreams. Behind it was his grey-toned, intelligent, resentful face, his smouldering eyes, his slightly frayed collar and vivid, ill-chosen tie. At times Trafford could almost hear his flat insistent voice, his measured h-less speech. Dowd was so penetratingly right,--and so ignorant of certain essentials, so wrong in his forecasts and ultimates. It was true beyond disputing that Trafford as compared with Dowd had opportunity, power of a sort, the prospect and possibility of leisure. He admitted the liability that followed on that advantage. It expressed so entirely the spirit of his training that with Trafford the noble maxim of the older socialists; "from each according to his ability, to each according to his need," received an intuitive acquiescence. He had no more doubt than Dowd that Dowd was the victim of a subtle evasive injustice, innocently and helplessly underbred, underfed, cramped and crippled, and that all his own surplus made him in a sense Dowd's debtor. But Dowd's remedies! Trafford made himself familiar with the socialist and labor newspapers, and he was as much impressed by their honest resentments and their enthusiastic hopefulness as he was repelled by their haste and ignorance, their cocksure confidence in untried reforms and impudent teachers, their indiscriminating progressiveness, their impulsive lapses into hatred, misrepresentation and vehement personal abuse. He was in no mood for the humours of human character, and he found the ill-masked feuds and jealousies of the leaders, the sham statecraft of G. B. Magdeberg, M.P., the sham Machiavellism of Dorvil, the sham persistent good-heartedness of Will Pipes, discouraging and irritating. Altogether it seemed to him the conscious popular movement in politics, both in and out of Parliament, was a mere formless and indeterminate aspiration. It was a confused part of the general confusion, symptomatic perhaps, but exercising no controls and no direction. His attention passed from the consideration of this completely revolutionary party to the general field of social reform. With the naïve directness of a scientific man, he got together the published literature of half a dozen flourishing agitations and philanthropies, interviewed prominent and rather embarrassed personages, attended meetings, and when he found the speeches too tiresome to follow watched the audience about him. He even looked up Aunt Plessington's Movement, and filled her with wild hopes and premature boastings about a promising convert. "Marjorie's brought him round at last!" said Aunt Plessington. "I knew I could trust my little Madge!" His impression was not the cynic's impression of these wide shallows of activity. Progress and social reform are not, he saw, mere cloaks of hypocrisy; a wealth of good intention lies behind them in spite of their manifest futility. There is much dishonesty due to the blundering desire for consistency in people of hasty intention, much artless and a little calculated self-seeking, but far more vanity and amiable feebleness of mind in their general attainment of failure. The Plessingtons struck him as being after all very typical of the publicist at large, quite devoted, very industrious, extremely presumptuous and essentially thin-witted. They would cheat like ill-bred children for example, on some petty point of reputation, but they could be trusted to expend, ineffectually indeed, but with the extremest technical integrity, whatever sums of money their adherents could get together.... He emerged from this inquiry into the proposed remedies and palliatives for Dowd's wrongs with a better opinion of people's hearts and a worse one of their heads than he had hitherto entertained. Pursuing this line of thought he passed from the politicians and practical workers to the economists and sociologists. He spent the entire leisure of the second summer after the establishment of the factory upon sociological and economic literature. At the end of that bout of reading he attained a vivid realization of the garrulous badness that rules in this field of work, and the prevailing slovenliness and negligence in regard to it. He chanced one day to look up the article on Socialism in the new Encyclopædia Britannica, and found in its entire failure to state the case for or against modern Socialism, to trace its origins, or to indicate any rational development in the movement, a symptom of the universal laxity of interest in these matters. Indeed, the writer did not appear to have heard of modern Socialism at all; he discussed collective and individualist methods very much as a rather ill-read schoolgirl in a hurry for her college debating society might have done. Compared with the treatment of engineering or biological science in the same compilation, this article became almost symbolical of the prevailing habitual incompetence with which all this system of questions is still handled. The sciences were done scantily and carelessly enough, but they admitted at any rate the possibility of completeness; this did not even pretend to thoroughness. One might think such things had no practical significance. And at the back of it all was Dowd, remarkably more impatient each year, confessing the failure of parliamentary methods, of trades unionism, hinting more and more plainly at the advent of a permanent guerilla war against capital, at the general strike and sabotage. "It's coming to that," said Dowd; "it's coming to that." "_What's the good of it?_" he said, echoing Trafford's words. "It's a sort of relief to the feelings. Why shouldn't we?" § 3 But you must not suppose that at any time these huge grey problems of our social foundations and the riddle of intellectual confusion one reaches through them, and the yet broader riddles of human purpose that open beyond, constitute the whole of Trafford's life during this time. When he came back to Marjorie and his home, a curtain of unreality fell between him and all these things. It was as if he stepped through such boundaries as Alice passed to reach her Wonderland; the other world became a dream again; as if he closed the pages of a vivid book and turned to things about him. Or again it was as if he drew down the blind of a window that gave upon a landscape, grave, darkling, ominous, and faced the warm realities of a brightly illuminated room.... In a year or so he had the works so smoothly organized and Dowd so reconciled, trained and encouraged that his own daily presence was unnecessary, and he would go only three and then only two mornings a week to conduct those secret phases in the preparation of his catalytic that even Dowd could not be trusted to know. He reverted more and more completely to his own proper world. And the first shock of discovering that greater London which "isn't in it" passed away by imperceptible degrees. Things that had been as vivid and startling as new wounds became unstimulating and ineffective with repetition. He got used to the change from Belgravia to East Ham, from East Ham to Belgravia. He fell in with the unusual persuasion in Belgravia, that, given a firm and prompt Home Secretary, East Ham could be trusted to go on--for quite a long time anyhow. One cannot sit down for all one's life in the face of insoluble problems. He had a motor-car now that far outshone Magnet's, and he made the transit from west to east in the minimum of time and with the minimum of friction. It ceased to be more disconcerting that he should have workers whom he could dismiss at a week's notice to want or prostitution than that he should have a servant waiting behind his chair. Things were so. The main current of his life--and the main current of his life flowed through Marjorie and his home--carried him on. Rubber was his, but there were still limitless worlds to conquer. He began to take up, working under circumstances of considerable secrecy at Solomonson's laboratories at Riplings, to which he would now go by motor-car for two or three days at a time, the possibility of a cheap, resilient and very tough substance, rubber glass, that was to be, Solomonson was assured, the road surface of the future. § 4 The confidence of Solomonson had made it impossible for Trafford to alter his style of living almost directly upon the conclusion of their agreement. He went back to Marjorie to broach a financially emancipated phase. They took a furnished house at Shackleford, near Godalming in Surrey, and there they lived for nearly a year--using their Chelsea home only as a town apartment for Trafford when business held him in London. And there it was, in the pretty Surrey country, with the sweet air of pine and heather in Marjorie's blood, that their second child was born. It was a sturdy little boy, whose only danger in life seemed to be the superfluous energy with which he resented its slightest disrespect of his small but important requirements. When it was time for Marjorie to return to London, spring had come round again, and Trafford's conceptions of life were adapting themselves to the new scale upon which they were now to do things. While he was busy creating his factory in the East End, Marjorie was displaying an equal if a less original constructive energy in Sussex Square, near Lancaster Gate, for there it was the new home was to be established. She set herself to furnish and arrange it so as to produce the maximum of surprise and chagrin in Daphne, and she succeeded admirably. The Magnets now occupied a flat in Whitehall Court, the furniture Magnet had insisted upon buying himself with all the occult cunning of the humorist in these matters, and not even Daphne could blind herself to the superiority both in arrangement and detail of Marjorie's home. That was very satisfactory, and so too was the inevitable exaggeration of Trafford's financial importance. "He can do what he likes in the rubber world," said Marjorie. "In Mincing Lane, where they deal in rubber shares, they used to call him and Sir Rupert the invaders; now they call them the Conquering Heroes.... Of course, it's mere child's play to Godwin, but, as he said, 'We want money.' It won't really interfere with his more important interests...." I do not know why both those sisters were more vulgarly competitive with each other than with any one else; I have merely to record the fact that they were so. The effect upon the rest of Marjorie's family was equally gratifying. Mr. Pope came to the house-warming as though he had never had the slightest objection to Trafford's antecedents, and told him casually after dinner that Marjorie had always been his favourite daughter, and that from the first he had expected great things of her. He told Magnet, who was the third man of the party, that he only hoped Syd and Rom would do as well as their elder sisters. Afterwards, in the drawing-room, he whacked Marjorie suddenly and very startlingly on the shoulder-blade--it was the first bruise he had given her since Buryhamstreet days. "You've made a man of him, Maggots," he said. The quiet smile of the Christian Scientist was becoming now the fixed expression of Mrs. Pope's face, and it scarcely relaxed for a moment as she surveyed her daughter's splendours. She had triumphantly refused to worry over a rather serious speculative disappointment, but her faith in her prophet's spiritual power had been strengthened rather than weakened by the manifest insufficiency of his financial prestidigitations, and she was getting through life quite radiantly now, smiling at (but not, of course, giving way to) beggars, smiling at toothaches and headaches, both her own and other people's, smiling away doubts, smiling away everything that bows the spirit of those who are still in the bonds of the flesh.... Afterwards the children came round, Syd and Rom now with skirts down and hair up, and rather stiff in the fine big rooms, and Theodore in a high collar and very anxious to get Trafford on his side in his ambition to chuck a proposed bank clerkship and go in for professional aviation.... It was pleasant to be respected by her family again, but the mind of Marjorie was soon reaching out to the more novel possibilities of her changed position. She need no longer confine herself to teas and afternoons. She could now, delightful thought! give dinners. Dinners are mere vulgarities for the vulgar, but in the measure of your brains does a dinner become a work of art. There is the happy blending of a modern and distinguished simplicity with a choice of items essentially good and delightful and just a little bit not what was expected. There is the still more interesting and difficult blending and arrangement of the diners. From the first Marjorie resolved on a round table, and the achievement of that rare and wonderful thing, general conversation. She had a clear centre, with a circle of silver bowls filled with short cut flowers and low shaded, old silver candlesticks adapted to the electric light. The first dinner was a nervous experience for her, but happily Trafford seemed unconscious of the importance of the occasion and talked very easily and well; at last she attained her old ambition to see Sir Roderick Dover in her house, and there was Remington, the editor of the _Blue Weekly_ and his silent gracious wife; Edward Crampton, the historian, full of surprising new facts about Kosciusko; the Solomonsons and Mrs. Millingham, and Mary Gasthorne the novelist. It was a good talking lot. Remington sparred agreeably with the old Toryism of Dover, flank attacks upon them both were delivered by Mrs. Millingham and Trafford, Crampton instanced Hungarian parallels, and was happily averted by Mary Gasthorne with travel experiences in the Carpathians; the diamonds of Lady Solomonson and Mrs. Remington flashed and winked across the shining table, as their wearers listened with unmistakable intelligence, and when the ladies had gone upstairs Sir Rupert Solomonson told all the men exactly what he thought of the policy of the _Blue Weekly_, a balanced, common-sense judgment. Upstairs Lady Solomonson betrayed a passion of admiration for Mrs. Remington, and Mrs. Millingham mumbled depreciation of the same lady's intelligence in Mary Gasthorne's unwilling ear. "She's _passive_," said Mrs. Millingham. "She bores him...." For a time Marjorie found dinner-giving delightful--it is like picking and arranging posies of human flowers--and fruits--and perhaps a little dried grass, and it was not long before she learnt that she was esteemed a success as a hostess. She gathered her earlier bunches in the Carmel and Solomonson circle, with a stiffening from among the literary and scientific friends of Trafford and his mother, and one or two casual and undervalued blossoms from Aunt Plessington's active promiscuities. She had soon a gaily flowering garden of her own to pick from. Its strength and finest display lay in its increasing proportion of political intellectuals, men in and about the House who relaxed their minds from the tense detailed alertness needed in political intrigues by conversation that rose at times to the level of the smarter sort of article in the half-crown reviews. The women were more difficult than the men, and Marjorie found herself wishing at times that girl novelists and playwrights were more abundant, or women writers on the average younger. These talked generally well, and one or two capable women of her own type talked and listened with an effect of talking; so many other women either chattered disturbingly, or else did not listen, with an effect of not talking at all, and so made gaps about the table. Many of these latter had to be asked because they belonged to the class of inevitable wives, _sine-qua-nons_, and through them she learnt the value of that priceless variety of kindly unselfish men who can create the illusion of attentive conversation in the most uncomfortable and suspicious natures without producing backwater and eddy in the general flow of talk. Indisputably Marjorie's dinners were successful. Of course, the abundance and æsthetic achievements of Mrs. Lee still seemed to her immeasurably out of reach, but it was already possible to show Aunt Plessington how the thing ought really to be done, Aunt Plessington with her narrow, lank, austerely served table, with a sort of quarter-deck at her own end and a subjugated forecastle round Hubert. And accordingly the Plessingtons were invited and shown, and to a party, too, that restrained Aunt Plessington from her usual conversational prominence.... These opening years of Trafford's commercial phase were full of an engaging activity for Marjorie as for him, and for her far more completely than for him were the profounder solicitudes of life lost sight of in the bright succession of immediate events. Marjorie did not let her social development interfere with her duty to society in the larger sense. Two years after the vigorous and resentful Godwin came a second son, and a year and a half later a third. "That's enough," said Marjorie, "now we've got to rear them." The nursery at Sussex Square had always been a show part of the house, but it became her crowning achievement. She had never forgotten the Lee display at Vevey, the shining splendours of modern maternity, the books, the apparatus, the space and light and air. The whole second floor was altered to accommodate these four triumphant beings, who absorbed the services of two nurses, a Swiss nursery governess and two housemaids--not to mention those several hundred obscure individuals who were yielding a sustaining profit in the East End. At any rate, they were very handsome and promising children, and little Margharita could talk three languages with a childish fluency, and invent and write a short fable in either French or German--with only as much misspelling as any child of eight may be permitted.... Then there sprang up a competition between Marjorie and the able, pretty wife of Halford Wallace, most promising of under-secretaries. They gave dinners against each other, they discovered young artists against each other, they went to first-nights and dressed against each other. Marjorie was ruddy and tall, Mrs. Halford Wallace dark and animated; Halford Wallace admired Marjorie, Trafford was insensible to Mrs. Halford Wallace. They played for points so vague that it was impossible for any one to say which was winning, but none the less they played like artists, for all they were worth.... Trafford's rapid prosperity and his implicit promise of still wider activities and successes brought him innumerable acquaintances and many friends. He joined two or three distinguished clubs, he derived an uncertain interest from a series of week-end visits to ample, good-mannered households, and for a time he found a distraction in little flashes of travel to countries that caught at his imagination, Morocco, Montenegro, Southern Russia. I do not know whether Marjorie might not have been altogether happy during this early Sussex Square period, if it had not been for an unconquerable uncertainty about Trafford. But ever and again she became vaguely apprehensive of some perplexing unreality in her position. She had never had any such profundity of discontent as he experienced. It was nothing clear, nothing that actually penetrated, distressing her. It was at most an uneasiness. For him the whole fabric of life was, as it were, torn and pieced by a provocative sense of depths unplumbed that robbed it of all its satisfactions. For her these glimpses were as yet rare, mere moments of doubt that passed again and left her active and assured. § 5 It was only after they had been married six or seven years that Trafford began to realize how widely his attitudes to Marjorie varied. He emerged slowly from a naïve unconsciousness of his fluctuations,--a naïve unconsciousness of inconsistency that for most men and women remains throughout life. His ruling idea that she and he were friends, equals, confederates, knowing everything about each other, co-operating in everything, was very fixed and firm. But indeed that had become the remotest rendering of their relationship. Their lives were lives of intimate disengagement. They came nearest to fellowship in relation to their children; there they shared an immense common pride. Beyond that was a less confident appreciation of their common house and their joint effect. And then they liked and loved each other tremendously. They could play upon each other and please each other in a hundred different ways, and they did so, quite consciously, observing each other with the completest externality. She was still in many ways for him the bright girl he had admired in the examination, still the mysterious dignified transfiguration of that delightful creature on the tragically tender verge of motherhood; these memories were of more power with him than the present realities of her full-grown strength and capacity. He petted and played with the girl still; he was still tender and solicitous for that early woman. He admired and co-operated also with the capable, narrowly ambitious, beautiful lady into which Marjorie had developed, but those remoter experiences it was that gave the deeper emotions to their relationship. The conflict of aims that had at last brought Trafford from scientific investigation into business, had left behind it a little scar of hostility. He felt his sacrifice. He felt that he had given something for her that she had had no right to exact, that he had gone beyond the free mutualities of honest love and paid a price for her; he had deflected the whole course of his life for her and he was entitled to repayments. Unconsciously he had become a slightly jealous husband. He resented inattentions and absences. He felt she ought to be with him and orient all her proceedings towards him. He did not like other people to show too marked an appreciation of her. She had a healthy love of admiration, and in addition her social ambitions made it almost inevitable that at times she should use her great personal charm to secure and retain adherents. He was ashamed to betray the resentments thus occasioned, and his silence widened the separation more than any protest could have done.... For his own part he gave her no cause for a reciprocal jealousy. Other women did not excite his imagination very greatly, and he had none of the ready disposition to lapse to other comforters which is so frequent a characteristic of the husband out of touch with his life's companion. He was perhaps an exceptional man in his steadfast loyalty to his wife. He had come to her as new to love as she had been. He had never in his life taken that one decisive illicit step which changes all the aspects of sexual life for a man even more than for a woman. Love for him was a thing solemn, simple, and unspoilt. He perceived that it was not so for most other men, but that did little to modify his own private attitude. In his curious scrutiny of the people about him, he did not fail to note the drift of adventures and infidelities that glimmers along beneath the even surface of our social life. One or two of his intimate friends, Solomonson was one of them, passed through "affairs." Once or twice those dim proceedings splashed upward to the surface in an open scandal. There came Remington's startling elopement with Isabel Rivers, the writer, which took two brilliant and inspiring contemporaries suddenly and distressingly out of Trafford's world. Trafford felt none of that rage and forced and jealous contempt for the delinquents in these matters which is common in the ill-regulated, virtuous mind. Indeed, he was far more sympathetic with than hostile to the offenders. He had brains and imagination to appreciate the grim pathos of a process that begins as a hopeful quest, full of the suggestion of noble possibilities, full of the craving for missed intensities of fellowship and realization, that loiters involuntarily towards beauties and delights, and ends at last too often after gratification of an appetite, in artificially hideous exposures, and the pelting misrepresentations of the timidly well-behaved vile. But the general effect of pitiful evasions, of unavoidable meannesses, of draggled heroics and tortuously insincere explanations confirmed him in his aversion from this labyrinthine trouble of extraneous love.... But if Trafford was a faithful husband, he ceased to be a happy and confident one. There grew up in him a vast hinterland of thoughts and feelings, an accumulation of unspoken and largely of unformulated things in which his wife had no share. And it was in that hinterland that his essential self had its abiding place.... It came as a discovery; it remained for ever after a profoundly disturbing perplexity that he had talked to Marjorie most carelessly, easily and seriously, during their courtship and their honeymoon. He remembered their early intercourse now as an immense happy freedom in love. Then afterwards a curtain had fallen. That almost delirious sense of escaping from oneself, of having at last found some one from whom there need be no concealment, some one before whom one could stand naked-souled and assured of love as one stands before one's God, faded so that he scarce observed its passing, but only discovered at last that it had gone. He misunderstood and met misunderstanding. He found he could hurt her by the things he said, and be exquisitely hurt by her failure to apprehend the spirit of some ill-expressed intention. And it was so vitally important not to hurt, not to be hurt. At first he only perceived that he reserved himself; then there came the intimation of the question, was she also perhaps in such another hinterland as his, keeping herself from him? He had perceived the cessation of that first bright outbreak of self-revelation, this relapse into the secrecies of individuality, quite early in their married life. I have already told of his first efforts to bridge their widening separation by walks and talks in the country, and by the long pilgrimage among the Alps that had ended so unexpectedly at Vevey. In the retrospect the years seemed punctuated with phases when "we must talk" dominated their intercourse, and each time the impulse of that recognized need passed away by insensible degrees again--with nothing said. § 6 Marjorie cherished an obstinate hope that Trafford would take up political questions and go into Parliament. It seemed to her that there was something about him altogether graver and wider than most of the active politicians she knew. She liked to think of those gravities assuming a practical form, of Trafford very rapidly and easily coming forward into a position of cardinal significance. It gave her general expenditure a quality of concentration without involving any uncongenial limitation to suppose it aimed at the preparation of a statesman's circle whenever Trafford chose to adopt that assumption. Little men in great positions came to her house and talked with opaque self-confidence at her table; she measured them against her husband while she played the admiring female disciple to their half-confidential talk. She felt that he could take up these questions and measures that they reduced to trite twaddle, open the wide relevancies behind them, and make them magically significant, sweep away the encrusting pettiness, the personalities and arbitrary prejudices. But why didn't he begin to do it? She threw out hints he seemed blind towards, she exercised miracles of patience while he ignored her baits. She came near intrigue in her endeavor to entangle him in political affairs. For a time it seemed to her that she was succeeding--I have already told of his phase of inquiry and interest in socio-political work--and then he relapsed into a scornful restlessness, and her hopes weakened again. But he could not concentrate his mind, he could not think where to begin. Day followed day, each with its attacks upon his intention, its petty just claims, its attractive novelties of aspect. The telephone bell rang, the letters flopped into the hall, Malcom the butler seemed always at hand with some distracting oblong on his salver. Dowd was developing ideas for a reconstructed organization of the factory, Solomonson growing enthusiastic about rubber-glass, his house seemed full of women, Marjorie had an engagement for him to keep or the children were coming in to say good-night. To his irritated brain the whole scheme of his life presented itself at last as a tissue of interruptions which prevented his looking clearly at reality. More and more definitely he realized he wanted to get away and think. His former life of research became invested with an effect of immense dignity and of a steadfast singleness of purpose.... But Trafford was following his own lights, upon his own lines. He was returning to that faith in the supreme importance of thought and knowledge, upon which he had turned his back when he left pure research behind him. To that familiar end he came by an unfamiliar route, after his long, unsatisfying examination of social reform movements and social and political theories. Immaturity, haste and presumption vitiated all that region, and it seemed to him less and less disputable that the only escape for mankind from a continuing extravagant futility lay through the attainment of a quite unprecedented starkness and thoroughness of thinking about all these questions. This conception of a needed Renascence obsessed him more and more, and the persuasion, deeply felt if indistinctly apprehended, that somewhere in such an effort there was a part for him to play.... Life is too great for us or too petty. It gives us no tolerable middle way between baseness and greatness. We must die daily on the levels of ignoble compromise or perish tragically among the precipices. On the one hand is a life--unsatisfying and secure, a plane of dulled gratifications, mean advantages, petty triumphs, adaptations, acquiescences and submissions, and on the other a steep and terrible climb, set with sharp stones and bramble thickets and the possibilities of grotesque dislocations, and the snares of such temptation as comes only to those whose minds have been quickened by high desire, and the challenge of insoluble problems and the intimations of issues so complex and great, demanding such a nobility of purpose, such a steadfastness, alertness and openness of mind, that they fill the heart of man with despair.... There were moods when Trafford would, as people say, pull himself together, and struggle with his gnawing discontent. He would compare his lot with that of other men, reproach himself for a monstrous greed and ingratitude. He remonstrated with himself as one might remonstrate with a pampered child refusing to be entertained by a whole handsome nursery full of toys. Other men did their work in the world methodically and decently, did their duty by their friends and belongings, were manifestly patient through dullness, steadfastly cheerful, ready to meet vexations with a humorous smile, and grateful for orderly pleasures. Was he abnormal? Or was he in some unsuspected way unhealthy? Trafford neglected no possible explanations. Did he want this great Renascence of the human mind because he was suffering from some subtle form of indigestion? He invoked, independently of each other, the aid of two distinguished specialists. They both told him in exactly the same voice and with exactly the same air of guineas well earned: "What you want, Mr. Trafford, is a change." Trafford brought his mind to bear upon the instances of contentment about him. He developed an opinion that all men and many women were potentially at least as restless as himself. A huge proportion of the usage and education in modern life struck upon him now as being a training in contentment. Or rather in keeping quiet and not upsetting things. The serious and responsible life of an ordinary prosperous man fulfilling the requirements of our social organization fatigues and neither completely satisfies nor completely occupies. Still less does the responsible part of the life of a woman of the prosperous classes engage all her energies or hold her imagination. And there has grown up a great informal organization of employments, games, ceremonies, social routines, travel, to consume these surplus powers and excessive cravings, which might otherwise change or shatter the whole order of human living. He began to understand the forced preoccupation with cricket and golf, the shooting, visiting, and so forth, to which the young people of the economically free classes in the community are trained. He discovered a theory for hobbies and specialized interests. He began to see why people go to Scotland to get away from London, and come to London to get away from Scotland, why they crowd to and fro along the Riviera, swarm over Switzerland, shoot, yacht, hunt, and maintain an immense apparatus of racing and motoring. Because so they are able to remain reasonably contented with the world as it is. He perceived, too, that a man who has missed or broken through the training to this kind of life, does not again very readily subdue himself to the security of these systematized distractions. His own upbringing had been antipathetic to any such adaptations; his years of research had given him the habit of naked intimacy with truth, filled him with a craving for reality and the destructive acids of a relentless critical method. He began to understand something of the psychology of vice, to comprehend how small a part mere sensuality, how large a part the spirit of adventure and the craving for illegality, may play, in the career of those who are called evil livers. Mere animal impulses and curiosities it had always seemed possible to him to control, but now he was beginning to apprehend the power of that passion for escape, at any cost, in any way, from the petty, weakly stimulating, competitive motives of low-grade and law-abiding prosperity.... For a time Trafford made an earnest effort to adjust himself to the position in which he found himself, and make a working compromise with his disturbing forces. He tried to pick up the scientific preoccupation of his earlier years. He made extensive schemes, to Solomonson's great concern, whereby he might to a large extent disentangle himself from business. He began to hunt out forgotten note-books and yellowing sheets of memoranda. He found the resumption of research much more difficult than he had ever supposed possible. He went so far as to plan a laboratory, and to make some inquiries as to site and the cost of building, to the great satisfaction not only of Marjorie but of his mother. Old Mrs. Trafford had never expressed her concern at his abandonment of molecular physics for money-making, but now in her appreciation of his return to pure investigation she betrayed her sense of his departure. But in his heart he felt that this methodical establishment of virtue by limitation would not suffice for him. He said no word of this scepticism as it grew in his mind. Marjorie was still under the impression that he was returning to research, and that she was free to contrive the steady preparation for that happier day when he should assume his political inheritance. And then presently a queer little dispute sprang up between them. Suddenly, for the first time since he took to business, Trafford found himself limiting her again. She was disposed, partly through the natural growth of her circle and her setting and partly through a movement on the part of Mrs. Halford Wallace, to move from Sussex Square into a larger, more picturesquely built house in a more central position. She particularly desired a good staircase. He met her intimations of this development with a curious and unusual irritation. The idea of moving bothered him. He felt that exaggerated annoyance which is so often a concomitant of overwrought nerves. They had a dispute that was almost a quarrel, and though Marjorie dropped the matter for a time, he could feel she was still at work upon it. CHAPTER THE SECOND TRAFFORD DECIDES TO GO § 1 A haunting desire to go away into solitude grew upon Trafford very steadily. He wanted intensely to think, and London and Marjorie would not let him think. He wanted therefore to go away out of London and Marjorie's world. He wanted, he felt, to go away alone and face God, and clear things up in his mind. By imperceptible degrees this desire anticipated its realization. His activities were affected more and more by intimations of a determined crisis. One eventful day it seemed to him that his mind passed quite suddenly from desire to resolve. He found himself with a project, already broadly definite. Hitherto he hadn't been at all clear where he could go. From the first almost he had felt that this change he needed, the change by which he was to get out of the thickets of work and perplexity and distraction that held him captive, must be a physical as well as a mental removal; he must go somewhere, still and isolated, where sustained detached thinking was possible.... His preference, if he had one, inclined him to some solitude among the Himalaya Mountains. That came perhaps from Kim and the precedent of the Hindoo's religious retreat from the world. But this retreat he contemplated was a retreat that aimed at a return, a clarified and strengthened resumption of the world. And then suddenly, as if he had always intended it, Labrador flashed through his thoughts, like a familiar name that had been for a time quite unaccountably forgotten. The word "Labrador" drifted to him one day from an adjacent table as he sat alone at lunch in the Liberal Union Club. Some bore was reciting the substance of a lecture to a fellow-member. "Seems to be a remarkable country," said the speaker. "Mineral wealth hardly glanced at, you know. Furs and a few score Indians. And at our doors. Practically--at our doors." Trafford ceased to listen. His mind was taking up this idea of Labrador. He wondered why he had not thought of Labrador before. He had two or three streams of thought flowing in his mind, as a man who muses alone is apt to do. Marjorie's desire to move had reappeared; a particular group of houses between Berkeley Square and Park Lane had taken hold of her fancy, she had urged the acquisition of one upon him that morning, and this kept coming up into consciousness like a wrong thread in a tapestry. Moreover, he was watching his fellow-members with a critical rather than a friendly eye. A half-speculative, half-hostile contemplation of his habitual associates was one of the queer aspects of this period of unsettlement. They exasperated him by their massive contentment with the surface of things. They came in one after another patting their ties, or pulling at the lapels of their coats, and looked about them for vacant places with a conscious ease of manner that irritated his nerves. No doubt they were all more or less successful and distinguished men, matter for conversation and food for anecdotes, but why did they trouble to give themselves the air of it? They halted or sat down by friends, enunciated vapid remarks in sonorous voices, and opened conversations in trite phrases, about London architecture, about the political situation or the morning's newspaper, conversations that ought, he felt, to have been thrown away unopened, so stale and needless they seemed to him. They were judges, lawyers of all sorts, bankers, company promoters, railway managers, stockbrokers, pressmen, politicians, men of leisure. He wondered if indeed they were as opaque as they seemed, wondered with the helpless wonder of a man of exceptional mental gifts whether any of them at any stage had had such thoughts as his, had wanted as acutely as he did now to get right out of the world. Did old Booch over there, for example, guzzling oysters, cry at times upon the unknown God in the vast silences of the night? But Booch, of course, was a member or something of the House of Laymen, and very sound on the thirty-nine articles--a man who ate oysters like that could swallow anything--and in the vast silences of the night he was probably heavily and noisily asleep.... Blenkins, the gentlemanly colleague of Denton in the control of the _Old Country Gazette_, appeared on his way to the pay-desk, gesticulating amiably _en-route_ to any possible friend. Trafford returned his salutation, and pulled himself together immediately after in fear that he had scowled, for he hated to be churlish to any human being. Blenkins, too, it might be, had sorrow and remorse and periods of passionate self-distrust and self-examination; maybe Blenkins could weep salt tears, as Blenkins no doubt under suitable sword-play would reveal heart and viscera as quivering and oozy as any man's. But to Trafford's jaundiced eyes just then, it seemed that if you slashed Blenkins across he would probably cut like a cheese.... Now, in Labrador----.... So soon as Blenkins had cleared, Trafford followed him to the pay-desk, and went on upstairs to the smoking-room, thinking of Labrador. Long ago he had read the story of Wallace and Hubbard in that wilderness. There was much to be said for a winter in Labrador. It was cold, it was clear, infinitely lonely, with a keen edge of danger and hardship and never a letter or a paper. One could provision a hut and sit wrapped in fur, watching the Northern Lights.... "I'm off to Labrador," said Trafford, and entered the smoking-room. It was, after all, perfectly easy to go to Labrador. One had just to go.... As he pinched the end of his cigar, he became aware of Blenkins, with a gleam of golden glasses and a flapping white cuff, beckoning across the room to him. With that probable scowl on his conscience Trafford was moved to respond with an unreal warmth, and strolled across to Blenkins and a group of three or four other people, including that vigorous young politician, Weston Massinghay, and Hart, K.C., about the further fireplace. "We were talking of you," said Blenkins. "Come and sit down with us. Why don't you come into Parliament?" "I've just arranged to go for some months to Labrador." "Industrial development?" asked Blenkins, all alive. "No. Holiday." No Blenkins believes that sort of thing, but of course, if Trafford chose to keep his own counsel---- "Well, come into Parliament as soon as you get back." Trafford had had that old conversation before. He pretended insensibility when Blenkins gestured to a vacant chair. "No," he said, still standing, "we settled all that. And now I'm up to my neck in--detail about Labrador. I shall be starting--before the month is out." Blenkins and Hart simulated interest. "It's immoral," said Blenkins, "for a man of your standing to keep out of politics." "It's more than immoral," said Hart; "it's American." "Solomonson comes in to represent the firm," smiled Trafford, signalled the waiter for coffee, and presently disentangled himself from their company. For Blenkins Trafford concealed an exquisite dislike and contempt; and Blenkins had a considerable admiration for Trafford, based on extensive misunderstandings. Blenkins admired Trafford because he was good-looking and well-dressed, with a beautiful and successful wife, because he had become reasonably rich very quickly and easily, was young and a Fellow of the Royal Society with a reputation that echoed in Berlin, and very perceptibly did not return Blenkins' admiration. All these things filled Blenkins with a desire for Trafford's intimacy, and to become the associate of the very promising political career that it seemed to him, in spite of Trafford's repudiations, was the natural next step in a deliberately and honourably planned life. He mistook Trafford's silences and detachment for the marks of a strong, silent man, who was scheming the immense, vulgar, distinguished-looking achievements that appeal to the Blenkins mind. Blenkins was a sentimentally loyal party Liberal, and as he said at times to Hart and Weston Massinghay: "If those other fellows get hold of him----!" Blenkins was the fine flower of Oxford Liberalism and the Tennysonian days. He wanted to be like King Arthur and Sir Galahad, with the merest touch of Launcelot, and to be perfectly upright and splendid and very, very successful. He was a fair, tenoring sort of person with an Arthurian moustache and a disposition to long frock coats. It had been said of him that he didn't dress like a gentleman, but that he dressed more like a gentleman than a gentleman ought to dress. It might have been added that he didn't behave like a gentleman, but that he behaved more like a gentleman than a gentleman ought to behave. He didn't think, but he talked and he wrote more thoughtfully in his leaders, and in the little dialogues he wrote in imitation of Sir Arthur Helps, than any other person who didn't think could possibly do. He was an orthodox Churchman, but very, very broad; he held all the doctrines, a distinguished sort of thing to do in an age of doubt, but there was a quality about them as he held them--as though they had been run over by something rather heavy. It was a flattened and slightly obliterated breadth--nothing was assertive, but nothing, under examination, proved to be altogether gone. His profuse thoughtfulness was not confined to his journalistic and literary work, it overflowed into Talks. He was a man for Great Talks, interminable rambling floods of boyish observation, emotional appreciation, and silly, sapient comment. He loved to discuss "Who are the Best Talkers now Alive?" He had written an essay, _Talk in the Past_. He boasted of week-ends when the Talk had gone on from the moment of meeting in the train to the moment of parting at Euston, or Paddington, or Waterloo; and one or two hostesses with embittered memories could verify his boasting. He did his best to make the club a Talking Club, and loved to summon men to a growing circle of chairs.... Trafford had been involved in Talks on one or two occasions, and now, as he sat alone in the corridor and smoked and drank his coffee, he could imagine the Talk he had escaped, the Talk that was going on in the smoking room--the platitudes, the sagacities, the digressions, the sudden revelation of deep, irrational convictions. He reflected upon the various Talks at which he had assisted. His chief impression of them all was of an intolerable fluidity. Never once had he known a Talk thicken to adequate discussion; never had a new idea or a new view come to him in a Talk. He wondered why Blenkins and his like talked at all. Essentially they lived for pose, not for expression; they did not greatly desire to discover, make, or be; they wanted to seem and succeed. Talking perhaps was part of their pose of great intellectual activity, and Blenkins was fortunate to have an easy, unforced running of mind.... Over his cigar Trafford became profoundly philosophical about Talk. And after the manner of those who become profoundly philosophical he spread out the word beyond its original and proper intentions to all sorts of kindred and parallel things. Blenkins and his miscellany of friends in their circle of chairs were, after all, only a crude rendering of very much of intellectual activity of mankind. Men talked so often as dogs bark. Those Talkers never came to grips, fell away from topic to topic, pretended depth and evaded the devastating horrors of sincerity. Listening was a politeness amongst them that was presently rewarded with utterance. Tremendously like dogs they were, in a dog-fancying neighborhood on a summer week-day afternoon. Fluidity, excessive abundance, inconsecutiveness; these were the things that made Talk hateful to Trafford. Wasn't most literature in the same class? Wasn't nearly all present philosophical and sociological discussion in the world merely a Blenkins circle on a colossal scale, with every one looming forward to get in a deeply thoughtful word edgeways at the first opportunity? Imagine any one in distress about his soul or about mankind, going to a professor of economics or sociology or philosophy! He thought of the endless, big, expensive, fruitless books, the windy expansions of industrious pedantry that mocked the spirit of inquiry. The fields of physical and biological science alone had been partially rescued from the floods of human inconsecutiveness. There at least a man must, on the whole, join on to the work of other men, stand a searching criticism, justify himself. Philosophically this was an age of relaxed schoolmen. He thought of Doctor Codger at Cambridge, bubbling away with his iridescent Hegelianism like a salted snail; of Doctor Quiller at Oxford, ignoring Bergson and fulminating a preposterous insular Pragmatism. Each contradicted the other fundamentally upon matters of universal concern; neither ever joined issue with the other. Why in the name of humanity didn't some one take hold of those two excellent gentlemen, and bang their busy heads together hard and frequently until they either compromised or cracked? § 2 He forgot these rambling speculations as he came out into the spring sunshine of Pall Mall, and halting for a moment on the topmost step, regarded the tidy pavements, the rare dignified shops, the waiting taxicabs, the pleasant, prosperous passers-by. His mind lapsed back to the thought that he meant to leave all this and go to Labrador. His mind went a step further, and reflected that he would not only go to Labrador, but--it was highly probable--come back again. And then? Why, after all, should he go to Labrador at all? Why shouldn't he make a supreme effort here? Something entirely irrational within him told him with conclusive emphasis that he had to go to Labrador.... He remembered there was this confounded business of the proposed house in Mayfair to consider.... § 3 It occurred to him that he would go a little out of his way, and look at the new great laboratories at the Romeike College, of which his old bottle-washer Durgan was, he knew, extravagantly proud. Romeike's widow was dead now and her will executed, and her substance half turned already to bricks and stone and glazed tiles and all those excesses of space and appliance which the rich and authoritative imagine must needs give us Science, however ill-selected and underpaid and slighted the users of those opportunities may be. The architects had had great fun with the bequest; a quarter of the site was devoted to a huge square surrounded by dignified, if functionless, colonnades, and adorned with those stone seats of honour which are always so chill and unsatisfactory as resting places in our island climate. The Laboratories, except that they were a little shaded by the colonnades, were everything a laboratory should be; the benches were miracles of convenience, there wasn't anything the industrious investigator might want, steam, high pressures, electric power, that he couldn't get by pressing a button or turning a switch, unless perhaps it was inspiring ideas. And the new library at the end, with its greys and greens, its logarithmic computators at every table, was a miracle of mental convenience. Durgan showed his old professor the marvels. "If he _chooses_ to do something here," said Durgan not too hopefully, "a man can...." "What's become of the little old room where we two used to work?" asked Trafford. "They'll turn 'em all out presently," said Durgan, "when this part is ready, but just at present it's very much as you left it. There's been precious little research done there since you went away--not what _I_ call research. Females chiefly--and boys. Playing at it. Making themselves into D.Sc.'s by a baby research instead of a man's examination. It's like broaching a thirty-two gallon cask full of Pap to think of it. Lord, sir, the swill! Research! Counting and weighing things! Professor Lake's all right, I suppose, but his work was mostly mathematical; he didn't do much of it here. No, the old days ended, sir, when you...." He arrested himself, and obviously changed his words. "Got busy with other things." Trafford surveyed the place; it seemed to him to have shrunken a little in the course of the three years that had intervened since he resigned his position. On the wall at the back there still hung, fly-blown and a little crumpled, an old table of constants he had made for his elasticity researches. Lake had kept it there, for Lake was a man of generous appreciations, and rather proud to follow in the footsteps of an investigator of Trafford's subtlety and vigor. The old sink in the corner where Trafford had once swilled his watch glasses and filled his beakers had been replaced by one of a more modern construction, and the combustion cupboard was unfamiliar, until Durgan pointed out that it had been enlarged. The ground-glass window at the east end showed still the marks of an explosion that had banished a clumsy student from this sanctuary at the very beginning of Trafford's career. "By Jove!" he said after a silence, "but I did some good work here." "You did, sir," said Durgan. "I wonder--I may take it up again presently." "I doubt it, sir," said Durgan. "Oh! But suppose I come back?" "I don't think you would find yourself coming back, sir," said Durgan after judicious consideration. He adduced no shadow of a reason for his doubt, but some mysterious quality in his words carried conviction to Trafford's mind. He knew that he would never do anything worth doing in molecular physics again. He knew it now conclusively for the first time. § 4 He found himself presently in Bond Street. The bright May day had brought out great quantities of people, so that he had to come down from altitudes of abstraction to pick his way among them. He was struck by the prevailing interest and contentment in the faces he passed. There was no sense of insecurity betrayed, no sense of the deeps and mysteries upon which our being floats like a film. They looked solid, they looked satisfied; surely never before in the history of the world has there been so great a multitude of secure-feeling, satisfied-looking, uninquiring people as there is to-day. All the tragic great things of life seem stupendously remote from them; pain is rare, death is out of sight, religion has shrunken to an inconsiderable, comfortable, reassuring appendage of the daily life. And with the bright small things of immediacy they are so active and alert. Never before has the world seen such multitudes, and a day must come when it will cease to see them for evermore. As he shouldered his way through the throng before the Oxford Street shop windows he appreciated a queer effect, almost as it were of insanity, about all this rich and abundant and ultimately aimless life, this tremendous spawning and proliferation of uneventful humanity. These individual lives signified no doubt enormously to the individuals, but did all the shining, reflecting, changing existence that went by like bubbles in a stream, signify collectively anything more than the leaping, glittering confusion of shoaling mackerel on a sunlit afternoon? The pretty girl looking into the window schemed picturesque achievements with lace and ribbon, the beggar at the curb was alert for any sympathetic eye, the chauffeur on the waiting taxi-cab watched the twopences ticking on with a quiet satisfaction; each followed a keenly sought immediate end, but altogether? Where were they going altogether? Until he knew that, where was the sanity of statecraft, the excuse of any impersonal effort, the significance of anything beyond a life of appetites and self-seeking instincts? He found that perplexing suspicion of priggishness affecting him again. Why couldn't he take the gift of life as it seemed these people took it? Why was he continually lapsing into these sombre, dimly religious questionings and doubts? Why after all should he concern himself with these riddles of some collective and ultimate meaning in things? Was he for all his ability and security so afraid of the accidents of life that on that account he clung to this conception of a larger impersonal issue which the world in general seemed to have abandoned so cheerfully? At any rate he did cling to it--and his sense of it made the abounding active life of this stirring, bristling thoroughfare an almost unendurable perplexity.... By the Marble Arch a little crowd had gathered at the pavement edge. He remarked other little knots towards Paddington, and then still others, and inquiring, found the King was presently to pass. They promised themselves the gratification of seeing the King go by. They would see a carriage, they would see horses and coachmen, perhaps even they might catch sight of a raised hat and a bowing figure. And this would be a gratification to them, it would irradiate the day with a sense of experiences, exceptional and precious. For that some of them had already been standing about for two or three hours. He thought of these waiting people for a time, and then he fell into a speculation about the King. He wondered if the King ever lay awake at three o'clock in the morning and faced the riddle of the eternities or whether he did really take himself seriously and contentedly as being in himself the vital function of the State, performed his ceremonies, went hither and thither through a wilderness of gaping watchers, slept well on it. Was the man satisfied? Was he satisfied with his empire as it was and himself as he was, or did some vision, some high, ironical intimation of the latent and lost possibilities of his empire and of the world of Things Conceivable that lies beyond the poor tawdry splendours of our present loyalties, ever dawn upon him? Trafford's imagination conjured up a sleepless King Emperor agonizing for humanity.... He turned to his right out of Lancaster Gate into Sussex Square, and came to a stop at the pavement edge. From across the road he surveyed the wide white front and portals of the house that wasn't big enough for Marjorie. § 5 He let himself in with his latchkey. Malcolm, his man, hovered at the foot of the staircase, and came forward for his hat and gloves and stick. "Mrs. Trafford in?" asked Trafford. "She said she would be in by four, sir." Trafford glanced at his watch and went slowly upstairs. On the landing there had been a rearrangement of the furniture, and he paused to survey it. The alterations had been made to accommodate a big cloisonné jar, that now glowed a wonder of white and tinted whites and luminous blues upon a dark, deep-shining stand. He noted now the curtain of the window had been changed from something--surely it had been a reddish curtain!--to a sharp clear blue with a black border, that reflected upon and sustained and encouraged the jar tremendously. And the wall behind--? Yes. Its deep brown was darkened to an absolute black behind the jar, and shaded up between the lacquer cabinets on either hand by insensible degrees to the general hue. It was wonderful, perfectly harmonious, and so subtly planned that it seemed it all might have grown, as flowers grow.... He entered the drawing-room and surveyed its long and handsome spaces. Post-impressionism was over and gone; three long pictures by young Rogerson and one of Redwood's gallant bronzes faced the tall windows between the white marble fireplaces at either end. There were two lean jars from India, a young boy's head from Florence, and in a great bowl in the remotest corner a radiant mass of azaleas.... His mood of wondering at familiar things was still upon him. It came to him as a thing absurd and incongruous that this should be his home. It was all wonderfully arranged into one dignified harmony, but he felt now that at a touch of social earthquake, with a mere momentary lapse towards disorder, it would degenerate altogether into litter, lie heaped together confessed the loot it was. He came to a stop opposite one of the Rogersons, a stiffly self-conscious shop girl in her Sunday clothes, a not unsuccessful emulation of Nicholson's wonderful Mrs. Stafford of Paradise Row. Regarded as so much brown and grey and amber-gold, it was coherent in Marjorie's design, but regarded as a work of art, as a piece of expression, how madly irrelevant was its humour and implications to that room and the purposes of that room! Rogerson wasn't perhaps trying to say much, but at any rate he was trying to say something, and Redwood too was asserting freedom and adventure, and the thought of that Florentine of the bust, and the patient, careful Indian potter, and every maker of all the little casual articles about him, produced an effect of muffled, stifled assertions. Against this subdued and disciplined background of muted, inarticulate cries,--cries for beauty, for delight, for freedom, Marjorie and her world moved and rustled and chattered and competed--wearing the skins of beasts, the love-plumage of birds, the woven cocoon cases of little silkworms.... "Preposterous," he whispered. He went to the window and stared out; turned about and regarded the gracious variety of that long, well-lit room again, then strolled thoughtfully upstairs. He reached the door of his study, and a sound of voices from the schoolroom--it had recently been promoted from the rank of day nursery to this level--caught his mood. He changed his mind, crossed the landing, and was welcomed with shouts. The rogues had been dressing up. Margharita, that child of the dreadful dawn, was now a sturdy and domineering girl of eight, and she was attired in a gilt paper mitre and her governess's white muslin blouse so tied at the wrists as to suggest long sleeves, a broad crimson band doing duty as a stole. She was Becket prepared for martyrdom at the foot of the altar. Godwin, his eldest son, was a hot-tempered, pretty-featured pleasantly self-conscious boy of nearly seven and very happy now in a white dragoon's helmet and rude but effective brown paper breastplate and greaves, as the party of assassin knights. A small acolyte in what was in all human probably one of the governess's more intimate linen garments assisted Becket, while the general congregation of Canterbury was represented by Edward, aged two, and the governess, disguised with a Union Jack tied over her head after the well-known fashion of the middle ages. After the children had welcomed their father and explained the bloody work in hand, they returned to it with solemn earnestness, while Trafford surveyed the tragedy. Godwin slew with admirable gusto, and I doubt if the actual Thomas of Canterbury showed half the stately dignity of Margharita. The scene finished, they went on to the penance of Henry the Second; and there was a tremendous readjustment of costumes, with much consultation and secrecy. Trafford's eyes went from his offspring to the long, white-painted room, with its gay frieze of ships and gulls and its rug-variegated cork carpet of plain brick red. Everywhere it showed his wife's quick cleverness, the clean serviceable decorativeness of it all, the pretty patterned window curtains, the writing desks, the little library of books, the flowers and bulbs in glasses, the counting blocks and bricks and jolly toys, the blackboard on which the children learnt to draw in bold wide strokes, the big, well-chosen German colour prints upon the walls. And the children did credit to their casket; they were not only full of vitality but full of ideas, even Edward was already a person of conversation. They were good stuff anyhow.... It was fine in a sense, Trafford thought, to have given up his own motives and curiosities to afford this airy pleasantness of upbringing for them, and then came a qualifying thought. Would they in their turn for the sake of another generation have to give up fine occupations for mean occupations, deep thoughts for shallow? Would the world get them in turn? Would the girls be hustled and flattered into advantageous marriages, that dinners and drawing-rooms might still prevail? Would the boys, after this gracious beginning, presently have to swim submerged in another generation of Blenkinses and their Talk, toil in arduous self-seeking, observe, respect and manipulate shams, succeed or fail, and succeeding, beget amidst hope and beautiful emotions yet another generation doomed to insincerities and accommodations, and so die at last--as he must die?... He heard his wife's clear voice in the hall below, and went down to meet her. She had gone into the drawing-room, and he followed her in and through the folding doors to the hinder part of the room, where she stood ready to open a small bureau. She turned at his approach, and smiled a pleasant, habitual smile.... She was no longer the slim, quick-moving girl who had come out of the world to him when he crawled from beneath the wreckage of Solomonson's plane, no longer the half-barbaric young beauty who had been revealed to him on the staircase of the Vevey villa. She was now a dignified, self-possessed woman, controlling her house and her life with a skilful, subtle appreciation of her every point and possibility. She was wearing now a simple walking dress of brownish fawn colour, and her hat was touched with a steely blue that made her blue eyes seem handsome and hard, and toned her hair to a merely warm brown. She had, as it were, subdued her fine colours into a sheath in order that she might presently draw them again with more effect. "Hullo, old man!" she said, "you home?" He nodded. "The club bored me--and I couldn't work." Her voice had something of a challenge and defiance in it. "I've been looking at a house," she said. "Alice Carmel told me of it. It isn't in Berkeley Square, but it's near it. It's rather good." He met her eye. "That's--premature," he said. "We can't go on living in this one." "I won't go to another." "But why?" "I just won't." "It isn't the money?" "No," said Trafford, with sudden fierce resentment. "I've overtaken you and beaten you there, Marjorie." She stared at the harsh bitterness of his voice. She was about to speak when the door opened, and Malcom ushered in Aunt Plessington and Uncle Hubert. Husband and wife hung for a moment, and then realized their talk was at an end.... Marjorie went forward to greet her aunt, careless now of all that once stupendous Influence might think of her. She had long ceased to feel even the triumph of victory in her big house, her costly, dignified clothes, her assured and growing social importance. For five years Aunt Plessington had not even ventured to advise; had once or twice admired. All that business of Magnet was--even elaborately--forgotten.... Seven years of feverish self-assertion had left their mark upon both the Plessingtons. She was leaner, more gauntly untidy, more aggressively ill-dressed. She no longer dressed carelessly, she defied the world with her clothes, waved her tattered and dingy banners in its face. Uncle Hubert was no fatter, but in some queer way he had ceased to be thin. Like so many people whose peripheries defy the manifest quaint purpose of Providence, he was in a state of thwarted adiposity, and with all the disconnectedness and weak irritability characteristic of his condition. He had developed a number of nervous movements, chin-strokings, cheek-scratchings, and incredulous pawings at his more salient features. "Isn't it a lark?" began Aunt Plessington, with something like a note of apprehension in her highpitched voice, and speaking almost from the doorway, "we're making a call together. I and Hubert! It's an attack in force." Uncle Hubert goggled in the rear and stroked his chin, and tried to get together a sort of facial expression. The Traffords made welcoming noises, and Marjorie advanced to meet her aunt. "We want you to do something for us," said Aunt Plessington, taking two hands with two hands.... In the intervening years the Movement had had ups and downs; it had had a boom, which had ended abruptly in a complete loss of voice for Aunt Plessington--she had tried to run it on a patent non-stimulating food, and then it had entangled itself with a new cult of philanthropic theosophy from which it had been extracted with difficulty and in a damaged condition. It had never completely recovered from that unhappy association. Latterly Aunt Plessington had lost her nerve, and she had taken to making calls upon people with considerable and sometimes embarrassing demand for support, urging them to join committees, take chairs, stake reputations, speak and act as foils for her. If they refused she lost her temper very openly and frankly, and became industriously vindictive. She circulated scandals or created them. Her old assurance had deserted her; the strangulated contralto was losing its magic power, she felt, in this degenerating England it had ruled so long. In the last year or so she had become extremely snappy with Uncle Hubert. She ascribed much of the Movement's futility to the decline of his administrative powers and the increasing awkwardness of his gestures, and she did her utmost to keep him up to the mark. Her only method of keeping him up to the mark was to jerk the bit. She had now come to compel Marjorie to address a meeting that was to inaugurate a new phase in the Movement's history, and she wanted Marjorie because she particularly wanted a daring, liberal, and spiritually amorous bishop, who had once told her with a note of profound conviction that Marjorie was a very beautiful woman. She was so intent upon her purpose that she scarcely noticed Trafford. He slipped from the room unobserved under cover of her playful preliminaries, and went to the untidy little apartment overhead which served in that house as his study. He sat down at the big desk, pushed his methodically arranged papers back, and drummed on the edge with his fingers. "I'm damned if we have that bigger house," said Trafford. § 6 He felt he wanted to confirm and establish this new resolution, to go right away to Labrador for a year. He wanted to tell someone the thing definitely. He would have gone downstairs again to Marjorie, but she was submerged and swimming desperately against the voluble rapids of Aunt Plessington's purpose. It might be an hour before that attack withdrew. Presently there would be other callers. He decided to have tea with his mother and talk to her about this new break in the course of his life. Except that her hair was now grey and her brown eyes by so much contrast brighter, Mrs. Trafford's appearance had altered very little in the ten years of her only son's marriage. Whatever fresh realizations of the inevitably widening separation between parent and child these years had brought her, she had kept to herself. She had watched her daughter-in-law sometimes with sympathy, sometimes with perplexity, always with a jealous resolve to let no shadow of jealousy fall between them. Marjorie had been sweet and friendly to her, but after the first outburst of enthusiastic affection, she had neither offered nor invited confidences. Old Mrs. Trafford had talked of Marjorie to her son guardedly, and had marked and respected a growing indisposition on his part to discuss his wife. For a year or so after his marriage she had ached at times with a sense of nearly intolerable loneliness, and then the new interests she had found for herself had won their way against this depression. The new insurrectionary movement of women that had distinguished those years had attacked her by its emotion and repelled her by its crudity, and she had resolved, quite in the spirit of the man who had shaped her life, to make a systematic study of all the contributory strands that met in this difficult tangle. She tried to write, but she found that the poetic gift, the gift of the creative and illuminating phrase which alone justifies writing, was denied to her, and so she sought to make herself wise, to read and hear, and discuss and think over these things, and perhaps at last inspire and encourage writing in others. Her circle of intimates grew, and she presently remarked with a curious interest that while she had lost the confidences of her own son and his wife, she was becoming the confidant of an increasing number of other people. They came to her, she perceived, because she was receptive and sympathetic and without a claim upon them or any interest to complicate the freedoms of their speech with her. They came to her, because she did not belong to them nor they to her. It is, indeed, the defect of all formal and established relationship, that it embarrasses speech, and taints each phase in intercourse with the flavour of diplomacy. One can be far more easily outspoken to a casual stranger one may never see again than to that inseparable other, who may misinterpret, who may disapprove or misunderstand, and who will certainly in the measure of that discord remember.... It became at last a matter of rejoicing to Mrs. Trafford that the ties of the old instinctive tenderness between herself and her son, the memories of pain and tears and the passionate conflict of childhood, were growing so thin and lax and inconsiderable, that she could even hope some day to talk to him again--almost as she talked to the young men and young women who drifted out of the unknown to her and sat in her little room and sought to express their perplexities and listened to her advice.... It seemed to her that afternoon the wished-for day had come. Trafford found her just returned from a walk in Kensington Gardens and writing a note at her desk under the narrow sunlit window that looked upon the High Street. "Finish your letter, little mother," he said, and took possession of the hearthrug. When she had sealed and addressed her letter, she turned her head and found him looking at his father's portrait. "Done?" he asked, becoming aware of her eyes. She took her letter into the hall and returned to him, closing the door behind her. "I'm going away, little mother," he said with an unconvincing off-handedness. "I'm going to take a holiday." "Alone?" "Yes. I want a change. I'm going off somewhere--untrodden ground as near as one can get it nowadays--Labrador." Their eyes met for a moment. "Is it for long?" "The best part of a year." "I thought you were going on with your research work again." "No." He paused. "I'm going to Labrador." "Why?" she asked. "I'm going to think." She found nothing to say for a moment. "It's good," she remarked, "to think." Then, lest she herself should seem to be thinking too enormously, she rang the bell to order the tea that was already on its way. "It surprises a mother," she said, when the maid had come and gone, "when her son surprises her." "You see," he repeated, as though it explained everything, "I want to think." Then after a pause she asked some questions about Labrador; wasn't it very cold, very desert, very dangerous and bitter, and he answered informingly. How was he going to stay there? He would go up the country with an expedition, build a hut and remain behind. Alone? Yes--thinking. Her eyes rested on his face for a time. "It will be--lonely," she said after a pause. She saw him as a little still speck against immense backgrounds of snowy wilderness. The tea-things came before mother and son were back at essentials again. Then she asked abruptly: "Why are you going away like this?" "I'm tired of all this business and finance," he said after a pause. "I thought you would be," she answered as deliberately. "Yes. I've had enough of things. I want to get clear. And begin again somehow." She felt they both hung away from the essential aspect. Either he or she must approach it. She decided that she would, that it was a less difficult thing for her than for him. "And Marjorie?" she asked. He looked into his mother's eyes very quietly. "You see," he went on deliberately disregarding her question, "I'm beached. I'm aground. I'm spoilt now for the old researches--spoilt altogether. And I don't like this life I'm leading. I detest it. While I was struggling it had a kind of interest. There was an excitement in piling up the first twenty thousand. But _now_--! It's empty, it's aimless, it's incessant...." He paused. She turned to the tea-things, and lit the spirit lamp under the kettle. It seemed a little difficult to do, and her hand trembled. When she turned on him again it was with an effort. "Does Marjorie like the life you are leading?" she asked, and pressed her lips together tightly. He spoke with a bitterness in his voice that astonished her. "Oh, _she_ likes it." "Are you sure?" He nodded. "She won't like it without you." "Oh, that's too much! It's her world. It's what she's done--what she's made. She can have it; she can keep it. I've played my part and got it for her. But now--now I'm free to go. I will go. She's got everything else. I've done my half of the bargain. But my soul's my own. If I want to go away and think, I will. Not even Marjorie shall stand in the way of that." She made no answer to this outburst for a couple of seconds. Then she threw out, "Why shouldn't Marjorie think, too?" He considered that for some moments. "She doesn't," he said, as though the words came from the roots of his being. "But you two----" "We don't talk. It's astonishing--how we don't. We don't. We can't. We try to, and we can't. And she goes her way, and now--I will go mine." "And leave her?" He nodded. "In London?" "With all the things she cares for." "Except yourself." "I'm only a means----" She turned her quiet face to him. "You know," she said, "that isn't true."... "No," she repeated, to his silent contradiction. "I've watched her," she went on. "You're _not_ a means. I'd have spoken long ago if I had thought that. Haven't I watched? Haven't I lain awake through long nights thinking about her and you, thinking over every casual mood, every little sign--longing to help--helpless." ... She struggled with herself, for she was weeping. "_It has come to this_," she said in a whisper, and choked back a flood of tears. Trafford stood motionless, watching her. She became active. She moved round the table. She looked at the kettle, moved the cups needlessly, made tea, and stood waiting for a moment before she poured it out. "It's so hard to talk to you," she said, "and about all this.... I care so much. For her. And for you.... Words don't come, dear.... One says stupid things." She poured out the tea, and left the cups steaming, and came and stood before him. "You see," she said, "you're ill. You aren't just. You've come to an end. You don't know where you are and what you want to do. Neither does she, my dear. She's as aimless as you--and less able to help it. Ever so much less able." "But she doesn't show it. She goes on. She wants things and wants things----" "And you want to go away. It's the same thing. It's exactly the same thing. It's dissatisfaction. Life leaves you empty and craving--leaves you with nothing to do but little immediate things that turn to dust as you do them. It's her trouble, just as it's your trouble." "But she doesn't show it." "Women don't. Not so much. Perhaps even she doesn't know it. Half the women in our world don't know--and for a woman it's so much easier to go on--so many little things."... Trafford tried to grasp the intention of this. "Mother," he said, "I mean to go away." "But think of her!" "I've thought. Now I've got to think of myself." "You can't--without her." "I will. It's what I'm resolved to do." "Go right away?" "Right away." "And think?" He nodded. "Find out--what it all means, my boy?" "Yes. So far as I'm concerned." "And then----?" "Come back, I suppose. I haven't thought." "To her?" He didn't answer. She went and stood beside him, leaning upon the mantel. "Godwin," she said, "she'd only be further behind.... You've got to take her with you." He stood still and silent. "You've got to think things out with her. If you don't----" "I can't." "Then you ought to go away with her----" She stopped. "For good?" he asked. "Yes." They were both silent for a space. Then Mrs. Trafford gave her mind to the tea that was cooling in the cups, and added milk and sugar. She spoke again with the table between them. "I've thought so much of these things," she said with the milk-jug in her hand. "It's not only you two, but others. And all the movement about us.... Marriage isn't what it was. It's become a different thing because women have become human beings. Only----You know, Godwin, all these things are so difficult to express. Woman's come out of being a slave, and yet she isn't an equal.... We've had a sort of sham emancipation, and we haven't yet come to the real one." She put down the milk-jug on the tray with an air of grave deliberation. "If you go away from her and make the most wonderful discoveries about life and yourself, it's no good--unless she makes them too. It's no good at all.... You can't live without her in the end, any more than she can live without you. You may think you can, but I've watched you. You don't want to go away from her, you want to go away from the world that's got hold of her, from the dresses and parties and the competition and all this complicated flatness we have to live in.... It wouldn't worry you a bit, if it hadn't got hold of her. You don't want to get out of it for your own sake. You _are_ out of it. You are as much out of it as any one can be. Only she holds you in it, because she isn't out of it. Your going away will do nothing. She'll still be in it--and still have her hold on you.... You've got to take her away. Or else--if you go away--in the end it will be just like a ship, Godwin, coming back to its moorings." She watched his thoughtful face for some moments, then arrested herself just in time in the act of putting a second portion of sugar into each of the cups. She handed her son his tea, and he took it mechanically. "You're a wise little mother," he said. "I didn't see things in that light.... I wonder if you're right." "I know I am," she said. "I've thought more and more,--it was Marjorie." "It's the world." "Women made the world. All the dress and display and competition." Mrs. Trafford thought. "Sex made the world. Neither men nor women. But the world has got hold of the women tighter than it has the men. They're deeper in." She looked up into his face. "Take her with you," she said, simply. "She won't come," said Trafford, after considering it. Mrs. Trafford reflected. "She'll come--if you make her," she said. "She'll want to bring two housemaids." "I don't think you know Marjorie as well as I do." "But she can't----" "She can. It's you--you'll want to take two housemaids for her. Even you.... Men are not fair to women." Trafford put his untasted tea upon the mantelshelf, and confronted his mother with a question point blank. "Does Marjorie care for me?" he asked. "You're the sun of her world." "But she goes her way." "She's clever, she's full of life, full of activities, eager to make and arrange and order; but there's nothing she is, nothing she makes, that doesn't centre on you." "But if she cared, she'd understand!" "My dear, do _you_ understand?" He stood musing. "I had everything clear," he said. "I saw my way to Labrador...." Her little clock pinged the hour. "Good God!" he said, "I'm to be at dinner somewhere at seven. We're going to a first night. With the Bernards, I think. Then I suppose we'll have a supper. Always life is being slashed to tatters by these things. Always. One thinks in snatches of fifty minutes. It's dementia...." § 7 They dined at the Loretto Restaurant with the Bernards and Richard Hampden and Mrs. Godwin Capes, the dark-eyed, quiet-mannered wife of the dramatist, a woman of impulsive speech and long silences, who had subsided from an early romance (Capes had been divorced for her while she was still a mere girl) into a markedly correct and exclusive mother of daughters. Through the dinner Marjorie was watching Trafford and noting the deep preoccupation of his manner. He talked a little to Mrs. Bernard until it was time for Hampden to entertain her, then finding Mrs. Capes was interested in Bernard, he lapsed into thought. Presently Marjorie discovered his eyes scrutinizing herself. She hoped the play would catch his mind, but the play seemed devised to intensify his sense of the tawdry unreality of contemporary life. Bernard filled the intervals with a conventional enthusiasm. Capes didn't appear. "He doesn't seem to care to see his things," his wife explained. "It's so brilliant," said Bernard. "He has to do it," said Mrs. Capes slowly, her sombre eyes estimating the crowded stalls below. "It isn't what he cares to do." The play was in fact an admirable piece of English stagecraft, and it dealt exclusively with that unreal other world of beings the English theatre has for its own purposes developed. Just as Greece through the ages evolved and polished and perfected the idealized life of its Homeric poems, so the British mind has evolved their Stage Land to embody its more honourable dreams, full of heroic virtues, incredible honour, genial worldliness, childish villainies, profound but amiable waiters and domestics, pathetic shepherds and preposterous crimes. Capes, needing an income, had mastered the habits and customs of this imagined world as one learns a language; success endorsed his mastery; he knew exactly how deeply to underline an irony and just when it is fit and proper for a good man to call upon "God!" or cry out "Damn!" In this play he had invented a situation in which a charming and sympathetic lady had killed a gross and drunken husband in self-defence, almost but not quite accidentally, and had then appealed to the prodigious hero for assistance in the resulting complications. At a great cost of mental suffering to himself he had told his First and Only Lie to shield her. Then years after he had returned to England--the first act happened, of course in India--to find her on the eve of marrying, without any of the preliminary confidences common among human beings, an old school friend of his. (In plays all Gentlemen have been at school together, and one has been the other's fag.) The audience had to be interested in the problem of what the prodigious hero was to do in this prodigious situation. Should he maintain a colossal silence, continue his shielding, and let his friend marry the murderess saved by his perjury, or----?... The dreadful quandary! Indeed, the absolute--inconvenience! Marjorie watched Trafford in the corner of the box, as he listened rather contemptuously to the statement of the evening's Problem and then lapsed again into a brooding quiet. She wished she understood his moods better. She felt there was more in this than a mere resentment at her persistence about the new house.... Why didn't he go on with things?... This darkling mood of his had only become manifest to her during the last three or four years of their life. Previously, of course, he had been irritable at times. Were they less happy now than they had been in the little house in Chelsea? It had really been a horrible little house. And yet there had been a brightness then--a nearness.... She found her mind wandering away upon a sort of stock-taking expedition. How much of real happiness had she and Trafford had together? They ought by every standard to be so happy.... She declined the Bernard's invitation to a chafing-dish supper, and began to talk so soon as she and Trafford had settled into the car. "Rag," she said, "something's the matter?" "Well--yes." "The house?" "Yes--the house." Marjorie considered through a little interval. "Old man, why are you so prejudiced against a bigger house?" "Oh, because the one we have bores me, and the next one will bore me more." "But try it." "I don't want to." "Well," she said and lapsed into silence. "And then," he asked, "what are we going to do?" "Going to do--when?" "After the new house----" "I'm going to open out," she said. He made no answer. "I want to open out. I want you to take your place in the world, the place you deserve." "A four-footman place?" "Oh! the house is only a means." He thought upon that. "A means," he asked, "to what? Look here, Marjorie, what do you think you are up to with me and yourself? What do you see me doing--in the years ahead?" She gave him a silent and thoughtful profile for a second or so. "At first I suppose you are going on with your researches." "Well?" "Then----I must tell you what I think of you, Rag. Politics----" "Good Lord!" "You've a sort of power. You could make things noble." "And then? Office?" "Why not? Look at the little men they are." "And then perhaps a still bigger house?" "You're not fair to me." He pulled up the bearskin over his knees. "Marjorie!" he said. "You see----We aren't going to do any of those things at all.... _No!_..." "I can't go on with my researches," he explained. "That's what you don't understand. I'm not able to get back to work. I shall never do any good research again. That's the real trouble, Marjorie, and it makes all the difference. As for politics----I can't touch politics. I despise politics. I think this empire and the monarchy and Lords and Commons and patriotism and social reform and all the rest of it, silly, _silly_ beyond words; temporary, accidental, foolish, a mere stop-gap--like a gipsey's roundabout in a place where one will presently build a house.... You don't help make the house by riding on the roundabout.... There's no clear knowledge--no clear purpose.... Only research matters--and expression perhaps--I suppose expression is a sort of research--until we get that--that sufficient knowledge. And you see, I can't take up my work again. I've lost something...." She waited. "I've got into this stupid struggle for winning money," he went on, "and I feel like a woman must feel who's made a success of prostitution. I've been prostituted. I feel like some one fallen and diseased.... Business and prostitution; they're the same thing. All business is a sort of prostitution, all prostitution is a sort of business. Why should one sell one's brains any more than one sells one's body?... It's so easy to succeed if one has good brains and cares to do it, and doesn't let one's attention or imagination wander--and it's so degrading. Hopelessly degrading.... I'm sick of this life, Marjorie. _I_ don't want to buy things. I'm sick of buying. I'm at an end. I'm clean at an end. It's exactly as though suddenly in walking through a great house one came on a passage that ended abruptly in a door, which opened--on nothing! Nothing!" "This is a mood," she whispered to his pause. "It isn't a mood, it's a fact.... I've got nothing ahead, and I don't know how to get back. My life's no good to me any more. I've spent myself." She looked at him with dismayed eyes. "But," she said, "this _is_ a mood." "No," he said, "no mood, but conviction. I _know_...." He started. The car had stopped at their house, and Malcolm was opening the door of the car. They descended silently, and went upstairs in silence. He came into her room presently and sat down by her fireside. She had gone to her dressing-table and unfastened a necklace; now with this winking and glittering in her hand she came and stood beside him. "Rag," she said, "I don't know what to say. This isn't so much of a surprise.... I _felt_ that somehow life was disappointing you, that I was disappointing you. I've felt it endless times, but more so lately. I haven't perhaps dared to let myself know just how much.... But isn't it what life is? Doesn't every wife disappoint her husband? We're none of us inexhaustible. After all, we've had a good time; isn't it a little ungrateful to forget?..." "Look here, Rag," she said. "I don't know what to do. If I did know, I would do it.... What are we to do?" "Think," he suggested. "We've got to live as well as think." "It's the immense troublesome futility of--everything," he said. "Well--let us cease to be futile. Let us _do_. You say there is no grip for you in research, that you despise politics.... There's no end of trouble and suffering. Cannot we do social work, social reform, change the lives of others less fortunate than ourselves...." "Who are we that we should tamper with the lives of others?" "But one must do something." He thought that over. "No," he said "that's the universal blunder nowadays. One must do the right thing. And we don't know the right thing, Marjorie. That's the very heart of the trouble.... Does this life satisfy _you?_ If it did would you always be so restless?..." "But," she said, "think of the good things in life?" "It's just the good, the exquisite things in life, that make me rebel against this life we are leading. It's because I've seen the streaks of gold that I know the rest for dirt. When I go cheating and scheming to my office, and come back to find you squandering yourself upon a horde of chattering, overdressed women, when I think that that is our substance and everyday and what we are, then it is I remember most the deep and beautiful things.... It is impossible, dear, it is intolerable that life was made beautiful for us--just for these vulgarities." "Isn't there----" She hesitated. "Love--still?" "But----Has it been love? Love is a thing that grows. But we took it--as people take flowers out of a garden, cut them off, put them in water.... How much of our daily life has been love? How much of it mere consequences of the love we've left behind us?... We've just cohabited and 'made love'--you and I--and thought of a thousand other things...." He looked up at her. "Oh, I love a thousand things about you," he said. "But do I love _you_, Marjorie? Have I got you? Haven't I lost you--haven't we both lost something, the very heart of it all? Do you think that we were just cheated by instinct, that there wasn't something in it we felt and thought was there? And where is it now? Where is that brightness and wonder, Marjorie, and the pride and the immense unlimited hope?" She was still for a moment, then knelt very swiftly before him and held out her arms. "Oh Rag!" she said, with a face of tender beauty. He took her finger tips in his, dropped them and stood up above her. "My dear," he cried, "my dear! why do you always want to turn love into--touches?... Stand up again. Stand up there, my dear; don't think I've ceased to love you, but stand up there and let me talk to you as one man to another. If we let this occasion slide to embraces...." He stopped short. She crouched before the fire at his feet. "Go on," she said, "go on." "I feel now that all our lives now, Marjorie----We have come to a crisis. I feel that now----_now_ is the time. Either we shall save ourselves now or we shall never save ourselves. It is as if something had gathered and accumulated and could wait no longer. If we do not seize this opportunity----Then our lives will go on as they have gone on, will become more and more a matter of small excitements and elaborate comforts and distraction...." He stopped this halting speech and then broke out again. "Oh! why _should_ the life of every day conquer us? Why should generation after generation of men have these fine beginnings, these splendid dreams of youth, attempt so much, achieve so much and then, then become--_this!_ Look at this room, this litter of little satisfactions! Look at your pretty books there, a hundred minds you have pecked at, bright things of the spirit that attracted you as jewels attract a jackdaw. Look at the glass and silver, and that silk from China! And we are in the full tide of our years, Marjorie. Now is the very crown and best of our lives. And this is what we do, we sample, we accumulate. For this we loved, for this we hoped. Do you remember when we were young--that life seemed so splendid--it was intolerable we should ever die?... The splendid dream! The intimations of greatness!... The miserable failure!" He raised clenched fists. "I won't stand it, Marjorie. I won't endure it. Somehow, in some way, I will get out of this life--and you with me. I have been brooding upon this and brooding, but now I know...." "But how?" asked Marjorie, with her bare arms about her knees, staring into the fire. "_How?_" "We must get out of its constant interruptions, its incessant vivid, petty appeals...." "We might go away--to Switzerland." "We _went_ to Switzerland. Didn't we agree--it was our second honeymoon. It isn't a honeymoon we need. No, we'll have to go further than that." A sudden light broke upon Marjorie's mind. She realized he had a plan. She lifted a fire-lit face to him and looked at him with steady eyes and asked---- "Where?" "Ever so much further." "Where?" "I don't know." "You do. You've planned something." "I don't know, Marjorie. At least--I haven't made up my mind. Where it is very lonely. Cold and remote. Away from all this----" His mind stopped short, and he ended with a cry: "Oh! God! how I want to get out of all this!" He sat down in her arm-chair, and bowed his face on his hands. Then abruptly he stood up and went out of the room. § 8 When in five minutes' time he came back into her room she was still upon her hearthrug before the fire, with her necklace in her hand, the red reflections of the flames glowing and winking in her jewels and in her eyes. He came and sat again in her chair. "I have been ranting," he said. "I feel I've been--eloquent. You make me feel like an actor-manager, in a play by Capes.... You are the most difficult person for me to talk to in all the world--because you mean so much to me." She moved impulsively and checked herself and crouched away from him. "I mustn't touch your hand," she whispered. "I want to explain." "You've got to explain." "I've got quite a definite plan.... But a sort of terror seized me. It was like--shyness." "I know. I knew you had a plan." "You see.... I mean to go to Labrador." He leant forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands extended, explanatory. He wanted intensely that she should understand and agree and his desire made him clumsy, now slow and awkward, now glibly and unsatisfyingly eloquent. But she comprehended his quality better than he knew. They were to go away to Labrador, this snowy desert of which she had scarcely heard, to camp in the very heart of the wilderness, two hundred miles or more from any human habitation---- "But how long?" she asked abruptly. "The better part of a year." "And we are to talk?" "Yes," he said, "talk and think ourselves together--oh!--the old phrases carry it all--find God...." "It is what I dreamt of, Rag, years ago." "Will you come," he cried, "out of all this?" She leant across the hearthrug, and seized and kissed his hand.... Then, with one of those swift changes of hers, she was in revolt. "But, Rag," she exclaimed, "this is dreaming. We are not free. There are the children! Rag! We cannot leave the children!" "We can," he said. "We must." "But, my dear!--our duty!" "_Is_ it a mother's duty always to keep with her children? They will be looked after, their lives are organized, there is my mother close at hand.... What is the good of having children at all--unless their world is to be better than our world?... What are we doing to save them from the same bathos as this--to which we have come? We give them food and health and pictures and lessons, that's all very well while they are just little children; but we've got no religion to give them, no aim, no sense of a general purpose. What is the good of bread and health--and no worship?... What can we say to them when they ask us why we brought them into the world?--_We_ happened--_you_ happened. What are we to tell them when they demand the purpose of all this training, all these lessons? When they ask what we are preparing them for? Just that _you_, too, may have children! Is that any answer? Marjorie, it's common-sense to try this over--to make this last supreme effort--just as it will be common-sense to separate if we can't get the puzzle solved together." "Separate!" "Separate. Why not? We can afford it. Of course, we shall separate." "But Rag!--separate!" He faced her protest squarely. "Life is not worth living," he said, "unless it has more to hold it together than ours has now. If we cannot escape together, then--_I will go alone_."... § 9 They parted that night resolved to go to Labrador together, with the broad outline of their subsequent journey already drawn. Each lay awake far into the small hours thinking of this purpose and of one another, with a strange sense of renewed association. Each woke to a morning of sunshine heavy-eyed. Each found that overnight decision remote and incredible. It was like something in a book or a play that had moved them very deeply. They came down to breakfast, and helped themselves after the wonted fashion of several years, Marjorie with a skilful eye to the large order of her household; the _Times_ had one or two characteristic letters which interested them both; there was the usual picturesque irruption of the children and a distribution of early strawberries among them. Trafford had two notes in his correspondence which threw a new light upon the reconstruction of the Norton-Batsford company in which he was interested; he formed a definite conclusion upon the situation, and went quite normally to his study and the telephone to act upon that. It was only as the morning wore on that it became real to him that he and Marjorie had decided to leave the world. Then, with the Norton-Batsford business settled, he sat at his desk and mused. His apathy passed. His imagination began to present first one picture and then another of his retreat. He walked along Oxford Street to his Club thinking--"soon we shall be out of all this." By the time he was at lunch in his Club, Labrador had become again the magic refuge it had seemed the day before. After lunch he went to work in the library, finding out books about Labrador, and looking up the details of the journey. But his sense of futility and hopeless oppression had vanished. He walked along the corridor and down the great staircase, and without a trace of the despairful hostility of the previous day, passed Blenkins, talking grey bosh with infinite thoughtfulness. He nodded easily to Blenkins. He was going out of it all, as a man might do who discovers after years of weary incarceration that the walls of his cell are made of thin paper. The time when Blenkins seemed part of a prison-house of routine and invincible stupidity seemed ten ages ago. In Pall Mall Trafford remarked Lady Grampians and the Countess of Claridge, two women of great influence, in a big green car, on the way no doubt to create or sustain or destroy; and it seemed to him that it was limitless ages since these poor old dears with their ridiculous hats and their ridiculous airs, their luncheons and dinners and dirty aggressive old minds, had sent tidal waves of competitive anxiety into his home.... He found himself jostling through the shopping crowd on the sunny side of Regent Street. He felt now that he looked over the swarming, preoccupied heads at distant things. He and Marjorie were going out of it all, going clean out of it all. They were going to escape from society and shopping, and petty engagements and incessant triviality--as a bird flies up out of weeds. § 10 But Marjorie fluctuated more than he did. There were times when the expedition for which he was now preparing rapidly and methodically seemed to her the most adventurously-beautiful thing that had ever come to her, and times when it seemed the maddest and most hopeless of eccentricities. There were times when she had devastating premonitions of filth, hunger, strain and fatigue, damp and cold, when her whole being recoiled from the project, when she could even think of staying secure in London and letting him go alone. She developed complicated anxieties for the children; she found reasons for further inquiries, for delay. "Why not," she suggested, "wait a year?" "No," he said, "I won't. I mean we are to do this, and do it now, and nothing but sheer physical inability to do it will prevent my carrying it out.... And you? Of course you are to come. I can't drag you shrieking all the way to Labrador; short of that I'm going to _make_ you come with me." She sat and looked up at him with dark lights in her upturned eyes, and a little added warmth in her cheek. "You've never forced my will like this before," she said, in a low voice. "Never." He was too intent upon his own resolve to heed her tones. "It hasn't seemed necessary somehow," he said, considering her statement. "Now it does." "This is something final," she said. "It is final." She found an old familiar phrasing running through her head, as she sat crouched together, looking up at his rather gaunt, very intent face, the speech of another woman echoing to her across a vast space of years: "Whither thou goest I will go----" "In Labrador," he began.... CHAPTER THE THIRD THE PILGRIMAGE TO LONELY HUT § 1 Marjorie was surprised to find how easy it was at last to part from her children and go with Trafford. "I am not sorry," she said, "not a bit sorry--but I am fearfully afraid. I shall dream they are ill.... Apart from that, it's strange how you grip me and they don't...." In the train to Liverpool she watched Trafford with the queer feeling which comes to all husbands and wives at times that that other partner is indeed an undiscovered stranger, just beginning to show perplexing traits,--full of inconceivable possibilities. For some reason his tearing her up by the roots in this fashion had fascinated her imagination. She felt a strange new wonder at him that had in it just a pleasant faint flavour of fear. Always before she had felt a curious aversion and contempt for those servile women who are said to seek a master, to want to be mastered, to be eager even for the physical subjugations of brute force. Now she could at least understand, sympathize even with them. Not only Trafford surprised her but herself. She found she was in an unwonted perplexing series of moods. All her feelings struck her now as being incorrect as well as unexpected; not only had life become suddenly full of novelty but she was making novel responses. She felt that she ought to be resentful and tragically sorry for her home and children. She felt this departure ought to have the quality of an immense sacrifice, a desperate and heroic undertaking for Trafford's sake. Instead she could detect little beyond an adventurous exhilaration when presently she walked the deck of the steamer that was to take her to St. John's. She had visited her cabin, seen her luggage stowed away, and now she surveyed the Mersey and its shipping with a renewed freshness of mind. She was reminded of the day, now nearly nine years ago, when she had crossed the sea for the first time--to Italy. Then, too, Trafford had seemed a being of infinitely wonderful possibilities.... What were the children doing?--that ought to have been her preoccupation. She didn't know; she didn't care! Trafford came and stood beside her, pointed out this and that upon the landing stage, no longer heavily sullen, but alert, interested, almost gay.... Neither of them could find any way to the great discussion they had set out upon, in this voyage to St. John's. But there was plenty of time before them. Plenty of time! They were both the prey of that uneasy distraction which seems the inevitable quality of a passenger steamship. They surveyed and criticized their fellow travellers, and prowled up and down through the long swaying days and the cold dark nights. They slept uneasily amidst fog-horn hootings and the startling sounds of waves swirling against the ports. Marjorie had never had a long sea voyage before; for the first time in her life she saw all the world, through a succession of days, as a circle of endless blue waters, with the stars and planets and sun and moon rising sharply from its rim. Until one has had a voyage no one really understands that old Earth is a watery globe.... They ran into thirty hours of storm, which subsided, and then came a slow time among icebergs, and a hooting, dreary passage through fog. The first three icebergs were marvels, the rest bores; a passing collier out of her course and pitching heavily, a lonely black and dirty ship with a manner almost derelict, filled their thoughts for half a day. Their minds were in a state of tedious inactivity, eager for such small interests and only capable of such small interests. There was no hurry to talk, they agreed, no hurry at all, until they were settled away ahead there among the snows. "There we shall have plenty of time for everything...." Came the landfall and then St. John's, and they found themselves side by side watching the town draw near. The thought of landing and transference to another ship refreshed them both.... They were going, Trafford said, in search of God, but it was far more like two children starting out upon a holiday. § 2 There was trouble and procrastination about the half-breed guides that Trafford had arranged should meet them at St. John's, and it was three weeks from their reaching Newfoundland before they got themselves and their guides and equipment and general stores aboard the boat for Port Dupré. Thence he had planned they should go in the Gibson schooner to Manivikovik, the Marconi station at the mouth of the Green River, and thence past the new pulp-mills up river to the wilderness. There were delays and a few trivial, troublesome complications in carrying out this scheme, but at last a day came when Trafford could wave good-bye to the seven people and eleven dogs which constituted the population of Peter Hammond's, that last rude outpost of civilization twenty miles above the pulp-mill, and turn his face in good earnest towards the wilderness. Neither he nor Marjorie looked back at the headland for a last glimpse of the little settlement they were leaving. Each stared ahead over the broad, smooth sweep of water, broken by one transverse bar of foaming shallows, and scanned the low, tree-clad hills beyond that drew together at last in the distant gorge out of which the river came. The morning was warm and full of the promise of a hot noon, so that the veils they wore against the assaults of sand-flies and mosquitoes were already a little inconvenient. It seemed incredible in this morning glow that the wooded slopes along the shore of the lake were the border of a land in which nearly half the inhabitants die of starvation. The deep-laden canoes swept almost noiselessly through the water with a rhythmic alternation of rush and pause as the dripping paddles drove and returned. Altogether there were four long canoes and five Indian breeds in their party, and when they came to pass through shallows both Marjorie and Trafford took a paddle. They came to the throat of the gorge towards noon, and found strong flowing deep water between its high purple cliffs. All hands had to paddle again, and it was only when they came to rest in a pool to eat a mid-day meal and afterwards to land upon a mossy corner for a stretch and a smoke, that Marjorie discovered the peculiar beauty of the rock about them. On the dull purplish-grey surfaces played the most extraordinary mist of luminous iridescence. It fascinated her. Here was a land whose common substance had this gemlike opalescence. But her attention was very soon withdrawn from these glancing splendours. She had had to put aside her veil to eat, and presently she felt the vividly painful stabs of the black-fly and discovered blood upon her face. A bigger fly, the size and something of the appearance of a small wasp, with an evil buzz, also assailed her and Trafford. It was a bad corner for flies; the breeds even were slapping their wrists and swearing under the torment, and every one was glad to embark and push on up the winding gorge. It opened out for a time, and then the wooded shores crept in again, and in another half-hour they saw ahead of them a long rush of foaming waters among tumbled rocks that poured down from a brimming, splashing line of light against the sky. They crossed the river, ran the canoes into an eddy under the shelter of a big stone and began to unload. They had reached their first portage. The rest of the first day was spent in packing and lugging first the cargoes and then the canoes up through thickets and over boulders and across stretches of reindeer moss for the better part of two miles to a camping ground about half-way up the rapids. Marjorie and Trafford tried to help with the carrying, but this evidently shocked and distressed the men too much, so they desisted and set to work cutting wood and gathering moss for the fires and bedding for the camp. When the iron stove was brought up the man who had carried it showed them how to put it up on stakes and start a fire in it, and then Trafford went to the river to get water, and Marjorie made a kind of flour cake in the frying-pan in the manner an American woman from the wilderness had once shown her, and boiled water for tea. The twilight had deepened to night while the men were still stumbling up the trail with the last two canoes. It gave Marjorie a curiously homeless feeling to stand there in the open with the sunset dying away below the black scrubby outlines of the treetops uphill to the northwest, and to realize the nearest roof was already a day's toilsome journey away. The cool night breeze blew upon her bare face and arms--for now the insects had ceased from troubling and she had cast aside gloves and veil and turned up her sleeves to cook--and the air was full of the tumult of the rapids tearing seaward over the rocks below. Struggling through the bushes towards her was an immense, headless quadruped with unsteady legs and hesitating paces, two of the men carrying the last canoe. Two others were now assisting Trafford to put up the little tent that was to shelter her, and the fifth was kneeling beside her very solemnly and respectfully cutting slices of bacon for her to fry. The air was very sweet, and she wished she could sleep not in the tent but under the open sky. It was queer, she thought, how much of the wrappings of civilization had slipped from them already. Every day of the journey from London had released them or deprived them--she hardly knew which--of a multitude of petty comforts and easy accessibilities. The afternoon toil uphill intensified the effect of having clambered up out of things--to this loneliness, this twilight openness, this simplicity. The men ate apart at a fire they made for themselves, and after Trafford and Marjorie had supped on damper, bacon and tea, he smoked. They were both too healthily tired to talk very much. There was no moon but a frosty brilliance of stars, the air which had been hot and sultry at mid-day grew keen and penetrating, and after she had made him tell her the names of constellations she had forgotten, she suddenly perceived the wisdom of the tent, went into it--it was sweet and wonderful with sprigs of the Labrador tea-shrub--undressed, and had hardly rolled herself up into a cocoon of blankets before she was fast asleep. She was awakened by a blaze of sunshine pouring into the tent, a smell of fried bacon and Trafford's voice telling her to get up. "They've gone on with the first loads," he said. "Get up, wrap yourself in a blanket, and come and bathe in the river. It's as cold as ice." She blinked at him. "Aren't you stiff?" she asked. "I was stiffer before I bathed," he said. She took the tin he offered her. (They weren't to see china cups again for a year.) "It's woman's work getting tea," she said as she drank. "You can't be a squaw all at once," said Trafford. § 3 After Marjorie had taken her dip, dried roughly behind a bush, twisted her hair into a pigtail and coiled it under her hat, she amused herself and Trafford as they clambered up through rocks and willows to the tent again by cataloguing her apparatus of bath and toilette at Sussex Square and tracing just when and how she had parted from each item on the way to this place. "But I _say!_" she cried, with a sudden, sharp note of dismay, "we haven't soap! This is our last cake almost. I never thought of soap." "Nor I," said Trafford. He spoke again presently. "We don't turn back for soap," he said. "We don't turn back for anything," said Marjorie. "Still--I didn't count on a soapless winter." "I'll manage something," said Trafford, a little doubtfully. "Trust a chemist...." That day they finished the portage and came out upon a wide lake with sloping shores and a distant view of snow-topped mountains, a lake so shallow that at times their loaded canoes scraped on the glaciated rock below and they had to alter their course. They camped in a lurid sunset; the night was warm and mosquitoes were troublesome, and towards morning came a thunderstorm and wind and rain. The dawn broke upon a tearing race of waves and a wild drift of slanting rain sweeping across the lake before a gale. Marjorie peered out at this as one peers out under the edge of an umbrella. It was manifestly impossible to go on, and they did nothing that day but run up a canvas shelter for the men and shift the tent behind a thicket of trees out of the full force of the wind. The men squatted stoically, and smoked and yarned. Everything got coldly wet, and for the most part the Traffords sat under the tent and stared blankly at this summer day in Labrador. "Now," said Trafford, "we ought to begin talking." "There's nothing much to do else," said Marjorie. "Only one can't begin," said Trafford. He was silent for a time. "We're getting out of things," he said.... The next day began with a fine drizzle through which the sun broke suddenly about ten o'clock. They made a start at once, and got a good dozen miles up the lake before it was necessary to camp again. Both Marjorie and Trafford felt stiff and weary and uncomfortable all day, and secretly a little doubtful now of their own endurance. They camped on an island on turf amidst slippery rocks, and the next day were in a foaming difficult river again, with glittering shallows that obliged every one to get out at times to wade and push. All through the afternoon they were greatly beset by flies. And so they worked their way on through a third days' journey towards the silent inland of Labrador. Day followed day of toilsome and often tedious travel; they fought rapids, they waited while the men stumbled up long portages under vast loads, going and returning, they camped and discussed difficulties and alternatives. The flies sustained an unrelenting persecution, until faces were scarred in spite of veils and smoke fires, until wrists and necks were swollen and the blood in a fever. As they got higher and higher towards the central plateau, the mid-day heat increased and the nights grew colder, until they would find themselves toiling, wet with perspiration, over rocks that sheltered a fringe of ice beneath their shadows. The first fatigues and lassitudes, the shrinking from cold water, the ache of muscular effort, gave place to a tougher and tougher endurance; skin seemed to have lost half its capacity for pain without losing a tithe of its discrimination, muscles attained a steely resilience; they were getting seasoned. "I don't feel philosophical," said Trafford, "but I feel well." "We're getting out of things." "Suppose we are getting out of our problems!..." One day as they paddled across a mile-long pool, they saw three bears prowling in single file high up on the hillside. "Look," said the man, and pointed with his paddle at the big, soft, furry black shapes, magnified and startling in the clear air. All the canoes rippled to a stop, the men, at first still, whispered softly. One passed a gun to Trafford, who hesitated and looked at Marjorie. The air of tranquil assurance about these three huge loafing monsters had a queer effect on Marjorie's mind. They made her feel that they were at home and that she was an intruder. She had never in her life seen any big wild animals except in a menagerie. She had developed a sort of unconscious belief that all big wild animals were in menageries nowadays, and this spectacle of beasts entirely at large startled her. There was never a bar between these creatures, she felt, and her sleeping self. They might, she thought, do any desperate thing to feeble men and women who came their way. "Shall I take a shot?" asked Trafford. "No," said Marjorie, pervaded by the desire for mutual toleration. "Let them be." The big brutes disappeared in a gully, reappeared, came out against the skyline one by one and vanished. "Too long a shot," said Trafford, handing back the gun.... Their journey lasted altogether a month. Never once did they come upon any human being save themselves, though in one place they passed the poles--for the most part overthrown--of an old Indian encampment. But this desolation was by no means lifeless. They saw great quantities of waterbirds, geese, divers, Arctic partridge and the like, they became familiar with the banshee cry of the loon. They lived very largely on geese and partridge. Then for a time about a string of lakes, the country was alive with migrating deer going south, and the men found traces of a wolf. They killed six caribou, and stayed to skin and cut them up and dry the meat to replace the bacon they had consumed, caught, fried and ate great quantities of trout, and became accustomed to the mysterious dance of the northern lights as the sunset afterglow faded. Everywhere, except in the river gorges, the country displayed the low hummocky lines and tarn-like pools of intensely glaciated land; everywhere it was carpeted with reindeer moss growing upon peat and variegated by bushes of flowering, sweet-smelling Labrador tea. In places this was starred with little harebells and diversified by tussocks of heather and rough grass, and over the rocks trailed delicate dwarf shrubs and a very pretty and fragrant pink-flowered plant of which neither she nor Trafford knew the name. There was an astonishing amount of wild fruit, raspberries, cranberries, and a white kind of strawberry that was very delightful. The weather, after its first outbreak, remained brightly serene.... And at last it seemed fit to Trafford to halt and choose his winter quarters. He chose a place on the side of a low, razor-hacked rocky mountain ridge, about fifty feet above the river--which had now dwindled to a thirty-foot stream. His site was near a tributary rivulet that gave convenient water, in a kind of lap that sheltered between two rocky knees, each bearing thickets of willow and balsam. Not a dozen miles away from them now they reckoned was the Height of Land, the low watershed between the waters that go to the Atlantic and those that go to Hudson's Bay. Close beside the site he had chosen a shelf of rock ran out and gave a glimpse up the narrow rocky valley of the Green River's upper waters and a broad prospect of hill and tarn towards the south-east. North and north-east of them the country rose to a line of low crests, with here and there a yellowing patch of last year's snow, and across the valley were slopes covered in places by woods of stunted pine. It had an empty spaciousness of effect; the one continually living thing seemed to be the Green River, hurrying headlong, noisily, perpetually, in an eternal flight from this high desolation. Birds were rare here, and the insects that buzzed and shrilled and tormented among the rocks and willows in the gorge came but sparingly up the slopes to them. "Here presently," said Trafford, "we shall be in peace." "It is very lonely," said Marjorie. "The nearer to God." "Think! Not one of these hills has ever had a name." "Well?" "It might be in some other planet." "Oh!--we'll christen them. That shall be Marjorie Ridge, and that Rag Valley. This space shall be--oh! Bayswater! Before we've done with it, this place and every feature of it will be as familiar as Sussex Square. More so,--for half the houses there would be stranger to us, if we could see inside them, than anything in this wilderness.... As familiar, say--as your drawing-room. That's better." Marjorie made no answer, but her eyes went from the reindeer moss and scrub and thickets of the foreground to the low rocky ridges that bounded the view north and east of them. The scattered boulders, the tangles of wood, the barren upper slopes, the dust-soiled survivals of the winter's snowfall, all contributed to an effect at once carelessly desert and hopelessly untidy. She looked westward, and her memory was full of interminable streaming rapids, wastes of ice-striated rocks, tiresome struggles through woods and wild, wide stretches of tundra and tarn, trackless and treeless, infinitely desolate. It seemed to her that the sea coast was but a step from London and ten thousand miles away from her. § 4 The men had engaged to build the framework of hut and store shed before returning, and to this under Trafford's direction they now set themselves. They were all half-breeds, mingling with Indian with Scottish or French blood, sober and experienced men. Three were named Mackenzie, two brothers and a cousin, and another, Raymond Noyes, was a relation and acquaintance of that George Elson who was with Wallace and Leonidas Hubbard, and afterwards guided Mrs. Hubbard in her crossing of Labrador. The fifth was a boy of eighteen named Lean. They were all familiar with the idea of summer travel in this country; quite a number, a score or so that is to say, of adventurous people, including three or four women, had ventured far in the wake of the Hubbards into these great wildernesses during the decade that followed that first tragic experiment in which Hubbard died. But that any one not of Indian or Esquimaux blood should propose to face out the Labrador winter was a new thing to them. They were really very sceptical at the outset whether these two highly civilized-looking people would ever get up to the Height of Land at all, and it was still with manifest incredulity that they set about the building of the hut and the construction of the sleeping bunks for which they had brought up planking. A stream of speculative talk had flowed along beside Marjorie and Trafford ever since they had entered the Green River; and it didn't so much come to an end as get cut off at last by the necessity of their departure. Noyes would stand, holding a hammer and staring at the narrow little berth he was fixing together. "You'll not sleep in this," he said. "I will," replied Marjorie. "You'll come back with us." "Not me." "There'll be wolves come and howl." "Let 'em." "They'll come right up to the door here. Winter makes 'em hidjus bold." Marjorie shrugged her shoulders. "It's that cold I've known a man have his nose froze while he lay in bed," said Noyes. "Up here?" "Down the coast. But they say it's 'most as cold up here. Many's the man it's starved and froze."... He and his companions told stories,--very circumstantial and pitiful stories, of Indian disasters. They were all tales of weariness and starvation, of the cessation of food, because the fishing gave out, because the caribou did not migrate by the customary route, because the man of a family group broke his wrist, and then of the start of all or some of the party to the coast to get help and provisions, of the straining, starving fugitives caught by blizzards, losing the track, devouring small vermin raw, gnawing their own skin garments until they toiled half-naked in the snow,--becoming cannibals, becoming delirious, lying down to die. Once there was an epidemic of influenza, and three families of seven and twenty people just gave up and starved and died in their lodges, and were found, still partly frozen, a patient, pitiful company, by trappers in the spring.... Such they said, were the common things that happened in a Labrador winter. Did the Traffords wish to run such risks? A sort of propagandist enthusiasm grew up in the men. They felt it incumbent upon them to persuade the Traffords to return. They reasoned with them rather as one does with wilful children. They tried to remind them of the delights and securities of the world they were deserting. Noyes drew fancy pictures of the pleasures of London by way of contrast to the bitter days before them. "You've got everything there, everything. Suppose you feel a bit ill, you go out, and every block there's a drug store got everything--all the new rem'dies--p'raps twenty, thirty sorts of rem'dy. Lit up, nice. And chaps in collars--like gentlemen. Or you feel a bit dully and you go into the streets and there's people. Why! when I was in New York I used to spend hours looking at the people. Hours! And everything lit up, too. Sky signs! Readin' everywhere. You can spend hours and hours in New York----" "London," said Marjorie. "Well, London--just going about and reading the things they stick up. Every blamed sort of thing. Or you say, let's go somewhere. Let's go out and be a bit lively. See? Up you get on a car and there you are! Great big restaurants, blazing with lights, and you can't think of a thing to eat they haven't got. Waiters all round you, dressed tremendous, fair asking you to have more. Or you say, let's go to a theatre. Very likely," said Noyes, letting his imagination soar, "you order up one of these automobillies." "By telephone," helped Trafford. "By telephone," confirmed Noyes. "When I was in New York there was a telephone in each room in the hotel. Each room. I didn't use it ever, except once when they didn't answer--but there it was. I know about telephones all right...." Why had they come here? None of the men were clear about that. Marjorie and Trafford would overhear them discussing this question at their fire night after night; they seemed to talk of nothing else. They indulged in the boldest hypotheses, even in the theory that Trafford knew of deposits of diamonds and gold, and would trust no one but his wife with the secret. They seemed also attracted by the idea that our two young people had "done something." Lean, with memories of some tattered sixpenny novel that had drifted into his hands from England, had even some notion of an elopement, of a pursuing husband or a vindictive wife. He was young and romantic, but it seemed incredible he should suggest that Marjorie was a royal princess. Yet there were moments when his manner betrayed a more than personal respect.... One night after a hard day's portage Mackenzie was inspired by a brilliant idea. "They got no children," he said, in a hoarse, exceptionally audible whisper. "It worries them. Them as is Catholics goes pilgrimages, but these ain't Catholics. See?" "I can't stand that," said Marjorie. "It touches my pride. I've stood a good deal. Mr. Mackenzie!... Mr.... Mackenzie." The voice at the men's fire stopped and a black head turned around. "What is it, Mrs. Trafford?" asked Mackenzie. She held up four fingers. "Four!" she said. "Eh?" "Three sons and a daughter," said Marjorie. Mackenzie did not take it in until his younger brother had repeated her words. "And you've come from them to _this_.... Sir, what _have_ you come for?" "We want to be here," shouted Trafford to their listening pause. Their silence was incredulous. "We wanted to be alone together. There was too much--over there--too much everything." Mackenzie, in silhouette against the fire, shook his head, entirely dissatisfied. He could not understand how there could be too much of anything. It was beyond a trapper's philosophy. "Come back with us sir," said Noyes. "You'll weary of it...." Noyes clung to the idea of dissuasion to the end. "I don't care to leave ye," he said, and made a sort of byword of it that served when there was nothing else to say. He made it almost his last words. He turned back for another handclasp as the others under their light returning packs were filing down the hill. "I don't care to leave ye," he said. "Good luck!" said Trafford. "You'll need it," said Noyes, and looked at Marjorie very gravely and intently before he turned about and marched off after his fellows.... Both Marjorie and Trafford felt a queer emotion, a sense of loss and desertion, a swelling in the throat, as that file of men receded over the rocky slopes, went down into a dip, reappeared presently small and remote cresting another spur, going on towards the little wood that hid the head of the rapids. They halted for a moment on the edge of the wood and looked back, then turned again one by one and melted stride by stride into the trees. Noyes was the last to go. He stood, in an attitude that spoke as plainly as words, "I don't care to leave ye." Something white waved and flickered; he had whipped out the letters they had given him for England, and he was waving them. Then, as if by an effort, he set himself to follow the others, and the two still watchers on the height above saw him no more. CHAPTER THE FOURTH LONELY HUT § 1 Marjorie and Trafford walked slowly back to the hut. "There is much to do before the weather breaks," he said, ending a thoughtful silence. "Then we can sit inside there and talk about the things we need to talk about." He added awkwardly: "Since we started, there has been so much to hold the attention. I remember a mood--an immense despair. I feel it's still somewhere at the back of things, waiting to be dealt with. It's our essential fact. But meanwhile we've been busy, looking at fresh things." He paused. "Now it will be different perhaps...." For nearly four weeks indeed they were occupied very closely, and crept into their bunks at night as tired as wholesome animals who drop to sleep. At any time the weather might break; already there had been two overcast days and a frowning conference of clouds in the north. When at last storms began they knew there would be nothing for it but to keep in the hut until the world froze up. There was much to do to the hut. The absence of anything but stunted and impoverished timber and the limitation of time, had forbidden a log hut, and their home was really only a double framework, rammed tight between inner and outer frame with a mixture of earth and boughs and twigs of willow, pine and balsam. The floor was hammered earth carpeted with balsam twigs and a caribou skin. Outside and within wall and roof were faced with coarse canvas--that was Trafford's idea--and their bunks occupied two sides of the hut. Heating was done by the sheet-iron stove they had brought with them, and the smoke was carried out to the roof by a thin sheet-iron pipe which had come up outside a roll of canvas. They had made the roof with about the pitch of a Swiss châlet, and it was covered with nailed waterproof canvas, held down by a large number of big lumps of stone. Much of the canvassing still remained to do when the men went down, and then the Traffords used every scrap of packing-paper and newspaper that had come up with them and was not needed for lining the bunks in covering any crack or join in the canvas wall. Two decadent luxuries, a rubber bath and two rubber hot-water bottles, hung behind the door. They were almost the only luxuries. Kettles and pans and some provisions stood on a shelf over the stove; there was also a sort of recess cupboard in the opposite corner, reserve clothes were in canvas trunks under the bunks, they kept their immediate supply of wood under the eaves just outside the door, and there was a big can of water between stove and door. When the winter came they would have to bring in ice from the stream. This was their home. The tent that had sheltered Marjorie on the way up was erected close to this hut to serve as a rude scullery and outhouse, and they also made a long, roughly thatched roof with a canvas cover, supported on stakes, to shelter the rest of the stores. The stuff in tins and cases and jars they left on the ground under this; the rest--the flour, candles, bacon, dried caribou beef, and so forth, they hung, as they hoped, out of the reach of any prowling beast. And finally and most important was the wood pile. This they accumulated to the north and east of the hut, and all day long with a sort of ant-like perseverance Trafford added to it from the thickets below. Once or twice, however, tempted by the appearance of birds, he went shooting, and one day he got five geese that they spent a day upon, plucking, cleaning, boiling and putting up in all their store of empty cans, letting the fat float and solidify on the top to preserve this addition to their provision until the advent of the frost rendered all other preservatives unnecessary. They also tried to catch trout down in the river below, but though they saw many fish the catch was less than a dozen. It was a discovery to both of them to find how companionable these occupations were, how much more side by side they could be amateurishly cleaning out a goose and disputing about its cooking, than they had ever contrived to be in Sussex Square. "These things are so infernally interesting," said Trafford, surveying the row of miscellaneous cans upon the stove he had packed with disarticulated goose. "But we didn't come here to picnic. All this is eating us up. I have a memory of some immense tragic purpose----" "That tin's _boiling!_" screamed Marjorie sharply. He resumed his thread after an active interlude. "We'll keep the wolf from the door," he said. "Don't talk of wolves!" said Marjorie. "It is only when men have driven away the wolf from the door--oh! altogether away, that they find despair in the sky? I wonder----" "What?" asked Marjorie in his pause. "I wonder if there is nothing really in life but this, the food hunt and the love hunt. Is life just all hunger and need, and are we left with nothing--nothing at all--when these things are done?... We're infernally uncomfortable here." "Oh, nonsense!" cried Marjorie. "Think of your carpets at home! Think of the great, warm, beautiful house that wasn't big enough!--And yet here, we're happy." "We _are_ happy," said Marjorie, struck by the thought. "Only----" "Yes." "I'm afraid. And I long for the children. And the wind _nips_." "It may be those are good things for us. No! This is just a lark as yet, Marjorie. It's still fresh and full of distractions. The discomforts are amusing. Presently we'll get used to it. Then we'll talk out--what we have to talk out.... I say, wouldn't it keep and improve this goose of ours if we put in a little brandy?" § 2 The weather broke at last. One might say it smashed itself over their heads. There came an afternoon darkness swift and sudden, a wild gale and an icy sleet that gave place in the night to snow, so that Trafford looked out next morning to see a maddening chaos of small white flakes, incredibly swift, against something that was neither darkness nor light. Even with the door but partly ajar a cruelty of cold put its claw within, set everything that was moveable swaying and clattering, and made Marjorie hasten shuddering to heap fresh logs upon the fire. Once or twice Trafford went out to inspect tent and roof and store-shed, several times wrapped to the nose he battled his way for fresh wood, and for the rest of the blizzard they kept to the hut. It was slumberously stuffy, but comfortingly full of flavours of tobacco and food. There were two days of intermission and a day of gusts and icy sleet again, turning with one extraordinary clap of thunder to a wild downpour of dancing lumps of ice, and then a night when it seemed all Labrador, earth and sky together, was in hysterical protest against inconceivable wrongs. And then the break was over; the annual freezing-up was accomplished, winter had established itself, the snowfall moderated and ceased, and an ice-bound world shone white and sunlit under a cloudless sky. § 3 Through all that time they got no further with the great discussion for which they had faced that solitude. They attempted beginnings. "Where had we got to when we left England?" cried Marjorie. "You couldn't work, you couldn't rest--you hated our life." "Yes, I know. I had a violent hatred of the lives we were leading. I thought--we had to get away. To think.... But things don't leave us alone here." He covered his face with his hands. "Why did we come here?" he asked. "You wanted--to get out of things." "Yes. But with you.... Have we, after all, got out of things at all? I said coming up, perhaps we were leaving our own problem behind. In exchange for other problems--old problems men have had before. We've got nearer necessity; that's all. Things press on us just as much. There's nothing more fundamental in wild nature, nothing profounder--only something earlier. One doesn't get out of life by going here or there.... But I wanted to get you away--from all things that had such a hold on you.... "When one lies awake at nights, then one seems to get down into things...." He went to the door, opened it, and stood looking out. Against a wan daylight the snow was falling noiselessly and steadily. "Everything goes on," he said.... "Relentlessly...." § 4 That was as far as they had got when the storms ceased and they came out again into an air inexpressibly fresh and sharp and sweet, and into a world blindingly clean and golden white under the rays of the morning sun. "We will build a fire out here," said Marjorie; "make a great pile. There is no reason at all why we shouldn't live outside all through the day in such weather as this." § 5 One morning Trafford found the footmarks of some catlike creature in the snow near the bushes where he was accustomed to get firewood; they led away very plainly up the hill, and after breakfast he took his knife and rifle and snowshoes and went after the lynx--for that he decided the animal must be. There was no urgent reason why he should want to kill a lynx, unless perhaps that killing it made the store shed a trifle safer; but it was the first trail of any living thing for many days; it promised excitement; some primordial instinct perhaps urged him. The morning was a little overcast, and very cold between the gleams of wintry sunshine. "Good-bye, dear wife!" he said, and then as she remembered afterwards came back a dozen yards to kiss her. "I'll not be long," he said. "The beast's prowling, and if it doesn't get wind of me I ought to find it in an hour." He hesitated for a moment. "I'll not be long," he repeated, and she had an instant's wonder whether he hid from her the same dread of loneliness that she concealed. Or perhaps he only knew her secret. Up among the tumbled rocks he turned, and she was still watching him. "Good-bye!" he cried and waved, and the willow thickets closed about him. She forced herself to the petty duties of the day, made up the fire from the pile he had left for her, set water to boil, put the hut in order, brought out sheets and blankets to air and set herself to wash up. She wished she had been able to go with him. The sky cleared presently, and the low December sun lit all the world about her, but it left her spirit desolate. She did not expect him to return until mid-day, and she sat herself down on a log before the fire to darn a pair of socks as well as she could. For a time this unusual occupation held her attention and then her hands became slow and at last inactive, and she fell into reverie. She thought at first of her children and what they might be doing, in England across there to the east it would be about five hours later, four o'clock in the afternoon, and the children would be coming home through the warm muggy London sunshine with Fraulein Otto to tea. She wondered if they had the proper clothes, if they were well; were they perhaps quarrelling or being naughty or skylarking gaily across the Park. Of course Fraulein Otto was all right, quite to be trusted, absolutely trustworthy, and their grandmother would watch for a flushed face or an irrational petulance or any of the little signs that herald trouble with more than a mother's instinctive alertness. No need to worry about the children, no need whatever.... The world of London opened out behind these thoughts; it was so queer to think that she was in almost the same latitude as the busy bright traffic of the autumn season in Kensington Gore; that away there in ten thousand cleverly furnished drawing-rooms the ringing tea things were being set out for the rustling advent of smart callers and the quick leaping gossip. And there would be all sorts of cakes and little things; for a while her mind ran on cakes and little things, and she thought in particular whether it wasn't time to begin cooking.... Not yet. What was it she had been thinking about? Ah! the Solomonsons and the Capeses and the Bernards and the Carmels and the Lees. Would they talk of her and Trafford? It would be strange to go back to it all. Would they go back to it all? She found herself thinking intently of Trafford. What a fine human being he was! And how touchingly human! The thoughts of his moments of irritation, his baffled silences, filled her with a wild passion of tenderness. She had disappointed him; all that life failed to satisfy him. Dear master of her life! what was it he needed? She too wasn't satisfied with life, but while she had been able to assuage herself with a perpetual series of petty excitements, theatres, new books and new people, meetings, movements, dinners, shows, he had grown to an immense discontent. He had most of the things men sought, wealth, respect, love, children.... So many men might have blunted their heart-ache with--adventures. There were pretty women, clever women, unoccupied women. She felt she wouldn't have minded--_much_--if it made him happy.... It was so wonderful he loved her still.... It wasn't that he lacked occupation; on the whole he overworked. His business interests were big and wide. Ought he to go into politics? Why was it that the researches that had held him once, could hold him now no more? That was the real pity of it. Was she to blame for that? She couldn't state a case against herself, and yet she felt she was to blame. She had taken him away from those things, forced him to make money.... She sat chin on hand staring into the fire, the sock forgotten on her knee. She could not weigh justice between herself and him. If he was unhappy it was her fault. She knew if he was unhappy it was no excuse that she had not known, had been misled, had a right to her own instincts and purposes. She had got to make him happy. But what was she to do, what was there for her to do?... Only he could work out his own salvation, and until he had light, all she could do was to stand by him, help him, cease to irritate him, watch, wait. Anyhow she could at least mend his socks as well as possible, so that the threads would not chafe him.... She flashed to her feet. What was that? It seemed to her she had heard the sound of a shot, and a quick brief wake of echoes. She looked across the icy waste of the river, and then up the tangled slopes of the mountain. Her heart was beating very fast. It must have been up there, and no doubt he had killed his beast. Some shadow of doubt she would not admit crossed that obvious suggestion. This wilderness was making her as nervously responsive as a creature of the wild. Came a second shot; this time there was no doubt of it. Then the desolate silence closed about her again. She stood for a long time staring at the shrubby slopes that rose to the barren rock wilderness of the purple mountain crest. She sighed deeply at last, and set herself to make up the fire and prepare for the mid-day meal. Once far away across the river she heard the howl of a wolf. Time seemed to pass very slowly that day. She found herself going repeatedly to the space between the day tent and the sleeping hut from which she could see the stunted wood that had swallowed him up, and after what seemed a long hour her watch told her it was still only half-past twelve. And the fourth or fifth time that she went to look out she was set atremble again by the sound of a third shot. And then at regular intervals out of that distant brown purple jumble of thickets against the snow came two more shots. "Something has happened," she said, "something has happened," and stood rigid. Then she became active, seized the rifle that was always at hand when she was alone, fired into the sky and stood listening. Prompt come an answering shot. "He wants me," said Marjorie. "Something----Perhaps he has killed something too big to bring!" She was for starting at once, and then remembered this was not the way of the wilderness. She thought and moved very rapidly. Her mind catalogued possible requirements, rifle, hunting knife, the oilskin bag with matches, and some chunks of dry paper, the rucksack--and he would be hungry. She took a saucepan and a huge chunk of cheese and biscuit. Then a brandy flask is sometimes handy--one never knows. Though nothing was wrong, of course. Needles and stout thread, and some cord. Snowshoes. A waterproof cloak could be easily carried. Her light hatchet for wood. She cast about to see if there was anything else. She had almost forgotten cartridges--and a revolver. Nothing more. She kicked a stray brand or so into the fire, put on some more wood, damped the fire with an armful of snow to make it last longer, and set out towards the willows into which he had vanished. There was a rustling and snapping of branches as she pushed her way through the bushes, a little stir that died insensibly into quiet again; and then the camping place became very still.... Scarcely a sound occurred, except for the little shuddering and stirring of the fire, and the reluctant, infrequent drip from the icicles along the sunny edge of the log hut roof. About one o'clock the amber sunshine faded out altogether, a veil of clouds thickened and became greyly ominous, and a little after two the first flakes of a snowstorm fell hissing into the fire. A wind rose and drove the multiplying snowflakes in whirls and eddies before it. The icicles ceased to drip, but one or two broke and fell with a weak tinkling. A deep soughing, a shuddering groaning of trees and shrubs, came ever and again out of the ravine, and the powdery snow blew like puffs of smoke from the branches. By four the fire was out, and the snow was piling high in the darkling twilight against tent and hut.... § 6 Trafford's trail led Marjorie through the thicket of dwarf willows and down to the gully of the rivulet which they had called Marjorie Trickle; it had long since become a trough of snow-covered rotten ice; the trail crossed this and, turning sharply uphill, went on until it was clear of shrubs and trees, and in the windy open of the upper slopes it crossed a ridge and came over the lip of a large desolate valley with slopes of ice and icy snow. Here she spent some time in following his loops back on the homeward trail before she saw what was manifestly the final trail running far away out across the snow, with the spoor of the lynx, a lightly-dotted line, to the right of it. She followed this suggestion of the trail, put on her snowshoes, and shuffled her way across this valley, which opened as she proceeded. She hoped that over the ridge she would find Trafford, and scanned the sky for the faintest discolouration of a fire, but there was none. That seemed odd to her, but the wind was in her face, and perhaps it beat the smoke down. Then as her eyes scanned the hummocky ridge ahead, she saw something, something very intent and still, that brought her heart into her mouth. It was a big, grey wolf, standing with back haunched and head down, watching and winding something beyond there, out of sight. Marjorie had an instinctive fear of wild animals, and it still seemed dreadful to her that they should go at large, uncaged. She suddenly wanted Trafford violently, wanted him by her side. Also she thought of leaving the trail, going back to the bushes. She had to take herself in hand. In the wastes one did not fear wild beasts. One had no fear of them. But why not fire a shot to let him know she was near? The beast flashed round with an animal's instantaneous change of pose, and looked at her. For a couple of seconds, perhaps, woman and brute regarded one another across a quarter of a mile of snowy desolation. Suppose it came towards her! She would fire--and she would fire at it. She made a guess at the range and aimed very carefully. She saw the snow fly two yards ahead of the grisly shape, and then in an instant it had vanished over the crest. She reloaded, and stood for a moment waiting for Trafford's answer. No answer came. "Queer!" she whispered, "queer!"--and suddenly such a horror of anticipation assailed her that she started running and floundering through the snow to escape it. Twice she called his name, and once she just stopped herself from firing a shot. Over the ridge she would find him. Surely she would find him over the ridge. She found herself among rocks, and there was a beaten and trampled place where Trafford must have waited and crouched. Then on and down a slope of tumbled boulders. There came a patch where he had either thrown himself down or fallen. It seemed to her he must have been running.... Suddenly, a hundred feet or so away, she saw a patch of violently disturbed snow--snow stained a dreadful colour, a snow of scarlet crystals! Three strides and Trafford was in sight. She had a swift conviction he was dead. He was lying in a crumpled attitude on a patch of snow between convergent rocks, and the lynx, a mass of blood smeared silvery fur, was in some way mixed up with him. She saw as she came nearer that the snow was disturbed round about them, and discoloured copiously, yellow widely, and in places bright red, with congealed and frozen blood. She felt no fear now, and no emotion; all her mind was engaged with the clear, bleak perception of the fact before her. She did not care to call to him again. His head was hidden by the lynx's body, it was as if he was burrowing underneath the creature; his legs were twisted about each other in a queer, unnatural attitude. Then, as she dropped off a boulder, and came nearer, Trafford moved. A hand came out and gripped the rifle beside him; he suddenly lifted a dreadful face, horribly scarred and torn, and crimson with frozen blood; he pushed the grey beast aside, rose on an elbow, wiped his sleeve across his eyes, stared at her, grunted, and flopped forward. He had fainted. She was now as clear-minded and as self-possessed as a woman in a shop. In another moment she was kneeling by his side. She saw, by the position of his knife and the huge rip in the beast's body, that he had stabbed the lynx to death as it clawed his head; he must have shot and wounded it and then fallen upon it. His knitted cap was torn to ribbons, and hung upon his neck. Also his leg was manifestly injured; how, she could not tell. It was chiefly evident he must freeze if he lay here. It seemed to her that perhaps he had pulled the dead brute over him to protect his torn skin from the extremity of cold. The lynx was already rigid, its clumsy paws asprawl--the torn skin and clot upon Trafford's face was stiff as she put her hands about his head to raise him. She turned him over on his back--how heavy he seemed!--and forced brandy between his teeth. Then, after a moment's hesitation, she poured a little brandy on his wounds. She glanced at his leg, which was surely broken, and back at his face. Then she gave him more brandy and his eyelids flickered. He moved his hand weakly. "The blood," he said, "kept getting in my eyes." She gave him brandy once again, wiped his face and glanced at his leg. Something ought to be done to that she thought. But things must be done in order. She stared up at the darkling sky with its grey promise of snow, and down the slopes of the mountain. Clearly they must stay the night here. They were too high for wood among these rocks, but three or four hundred yards below there were a number of dwarfed fir trees. She had brought an axe, so that a fire was possible. Should she go back to camp and get the tent? Trafford was trying to speak again. "I got----" he said. "Yes?" "Got my leg in that crack. Damn--damned nuisance." Was he able to advise her? She looked at him, and then perceived she must bind up his head and face. She knelt behind him and raised his head on her knee. She had a thick silk neck muffler, and this she supplemented by a band she cut and tore from her inner vest. She bound this, still warm from her body, about him, wrapped her cloak round him. The next thing was a fire. Five yards away, perhaps, a great mass of purple gabbro hung over a patch of nearly snowless moss. A hummock to the westward offered shelter from the weakly bitter wind, the icy draught, that was soughing down the valley. Always in Labrador, if you can, you camp against a rock surface; it shelters you from the wind, reflects your fire, guards your back. "Rag!" she said. "Rotten hole," said Trafford. "What?" she cried sharply. "Got you in a rotten hole," he said. "Eh?" "Listen," she said, and shook his shoulder. "Look! I want to get you up against that rock." "Won't make much difference," said Trafford, and opened his eyes. "Where?" he asked. "There." He remained quite quiet for a second perhaps. "Listen to me," he said. "Go back to camp." "Yes," she said. "Go back to camp. Make a pack of all the strongest food--strenthin'--strengthrin' food--you know?" He seemed troubled to express himself. "Yes," she said. "Down the river. Down--down. Till you meet help." "Leave you?" He nodded his head and winced. "You're always plucky," he said. "Look facts in the face. Kiddies. Thought it over while you were coming." A tear oozed from his eye. "Not be a fool, Madge. Kiss me good-bye. Not be a fool. I'm done. Kids." She stared at him and her spirit was a luminous mist of tears. "You old _coward_," she said in his ear, and kissed the little patch of rough and bloody cheek beneath his eye. Then she knelt up beside him. "_I'm_ boss now, old man," she said. "I want to get you to that place there under the rock. If I drag, can you help?" He answered obstinately: "You'd better go." "I'll make you comfortable first," she answered, "anyhow." He made an enormous effort, and then with her quick help and with his back to her knee, had raised himself on his elbows. "And afterwards?" he asked. "Build a fire." "Wood?" "Down there." "Two bits of wood tied on my leg--splints. Then I can drag myself. See? Like a blessed old walrus." He smiled, and she kissed his bandaged face again. "Else it hurts," he apologized, "more than I can stand." She stood up again, thought, put his rifle and knife to his hand for fear of that lurking wolf, abandoning her own rifle with an effort, and went striding and leaping from rock to rock towards the trees below. She made the chips fly, and was presently towing three venerable pine dwarfs, bumping over rock and crevice, back to Trafford. She flung them down, stood for a moment bright and breathless, then set herself to hack off the splints he needed from the biggest stem. "Now," she said, coming to him. "A fool," he remarked, "would have made the splints down there. You're--_good_, Marjorie." She lugged his leg out straight, put it into the natural and least painful pose, padded it with moss and her torn handkerchief, and bound it up. As she did so a handful of snowflakes came whirling about them. She was now braced up to every possibility. "It never rains," she said grimly, "but it pours," and went on with her bone-setting. He was badly weakened by pain and shock, and once he swore at her sharply. "Sorry," he said. She rolled him over on his chest, and left him to struggle to the shelter of the rock while she went for more wood. The sky alarmed her. The mountains up the valley were already hidden by driven rags of slaty snowstorms. This time she found a longer but easier path for dragging her boughs and trees; she determined she would not start the fire until nightfall, nor waste any time in preparing food until then. There were dead boughs for kindling--more than enough. It was snowing quite fast by the time she got up to him with her second load, and a premature twilight already obscured and exaggerated the rocks and mounds about her. She gave some of her cheese to Trafford, and gnawed some herself on her way down to the wood again. She regretted that she had brought neither candles nor lantern, because then she might have kept on until the cold of night stopped her, and she reproached herself bitterly because she had brought no tea. She could forgive herself the lantern, she had never expected to be out after dark, but the tea was inexcusable. She muttered self-reproaches while she worked like two men among the trees, panting puffs of mist that froze upon her lips and iced the knitted wool that covered her chin. Why don't they teach a girl to handle an axe?... When at last the wolfish cold of the Labrador night had come, it found Trafford and Marjorie seated almost warmly on a bed of pine boughs between the sheltering dark rock behind and a big but well husbanded fire in front, drinking a queer-tasting but not unsavory soup of lynx-flesh, that she had fortified with the remainder of the brandy. Then they tried roast lynx and ate a little, and finished with some scraps of cheese and deep draughts of hot water. Then--oh Tyburnia and Chelsea and all that is becoming!--they smoked Trafford's pipe for alternate minutes, and Marjorie found great comfort in it. The snowstorm poured incessantly out of the darkness to become flakes of burning fire in the light of the flames, flakes that vanished magically, but it only reached them and wetted them in occasional gusts. What did it matter for the moment if the dim snow-heaps rose and rose about them? A glorious fatigue, an immense self-satisfaction possessed Marjorie; she felt that they had both done well. "I am not afraid of to-morrow now," she said at last--a thought matured. "_No!_" Trafford had the pipe and did not speak for a moment. "Nor I," he said at last. "Very likely we'll get through with it." He added after a pause: "I thought I was done for. A man--loses heart. After a loss of blood." "The leg's better?" "Hot as fire." His humour hadn't left him. "It's a treat," he said. "The hottest thing in Labrador." "I've been a good squaw this time, old man?" she asked suddenly. He seemed not to hear her; then his lips twitched and he made a feeble movement for her hand. "I cursed you," he said.... She slept, but on a spring as it were, lest the fire should fall. She replenished it with boughs, tucked in the half-burnt logs, and went to sleep again. Then it seemed to her that some invisible hand was pouring a thin spirit on the flames that made them leap and crackle and spread north and south until they filled the heavens. Her eyes were open and the snowstorm overpast, leaving the sky clear, and all the westward heaven alight with the trailing, crackling, leaping curtains of the Aurora, brighter than she had ever seen them before. Quite clearly visible beyond the smoulder of the fire, a wintry waste of rock and snow, boulder beyond boulder, passed into a dun obscurity. The mountain to the right of them lay long and white and stiff, a shrouded death. All earth was dead and waste and nothing, and the sky alive and coldly marvellous, signalling and astir. She watched the changing, shifting colours, and they made her think of the gathering banners of inhuman hosts, the stir and marshalling of icy giants for ends stupendous and indifferent to all the trivial impertinence of man's existence.... That night the whole world of man seemed small and shallow and insecure to her, beyond comparison. One came, she thought, but just a little way out of its warm and sociable cities hither, and found this homeless wilderness; one pricked the thin appearances of life with microscope or telescope and came to an equal strangeness. All the pride and hope of human life goes to and fro in a little shell of air between this ancient globe of rusty nickel-steel and the void of space; faint specks we are within a film; we quiver between the atom and the infinite, being hardly more substantial than the glow within an oily skin that drifts upon the water. The wonder and the riddle of it! Here she and Trafford were! Phantasmal shapes of unsubstantial fluid thinly skinned against evaporation and wrapped about with woven wool and the skins of beasts, that yet reflected and perceived, suffered and sought to understand; that held a million memories, framed thoughts that plumbed the deeps of space and time,--and another day of snow or icy wind might leave them just scattered bones and torn rags gnawed by a famishing wolf!... She felt a passionate desire to pray.... She glanced at Trafford beside her, and found him awake and staring. His face was very pale and strange in that livid, flickering light. She would have spoken, and then she saw his lips were moving, and something, something she did not understand, held her back from doing so. § 7 The bleak, slow dawn found Marjorie intently busy. She had made up the fire, boiled water and washed and dressed Trafford's wounds, and made another soup of lynx. But Trafford had weakened in the night, the stuff nauseated him, he refused it and tried to smoke and was sick, and then sat back rather despairfully after a second attempt to persuade her to leave him there to die. This failure of his spirit distressed her and a little astonished her, but it only made her more resolute to go through with her work. She had awakened cold, stiff and weary, but her fatigue vanished with movement; she toiled for an hour replenishing her pile of fuel, made up the fire, put his gun ready to his hand, kissed him, abused him lovingly for the trouble he gave her until his poor torn face lit in response, and then parting on a note of cheerful confidence set out to return to the hut. She found the way not altogether easy to make out, wind and snow had left scarcely a trace of their tracks, and her mind was full of the stores she must bring and the possibility of moving him nearer to the hut. She was startled to see by the fresh, deep spoor along the ridge how near the wolf had dared approach them in the darkness.... Ever and again Marjorie had to halt and look back to get her direction right. As it was she came through the willow scrub nearly half a mile above the hut, and had to follow the steep bank of the frozen river down. At one place she nearly slipped upon an icy slope of rock. One possibility she did not dare to think of during that time; a blizzard now would cut her off absolutely from any return to Trafford. Short of that she believed she could get through. Her quick mind was full of all she had to do. At first she had thought chiefly of his immediate necessities, of food and some sort of shelter. She had got a list of things in her head--meat extract, bandages, corrosive sublimate by way of antiseptic, brandy, a tin of beef, some bread and so forth; she went over that several times to be sure of it, and then for a time she puzzled about a tent. She thought she could manage a bale of blankets on her back, and that she could rig a sleeping tent for herself and Trafford with one and some bent sticks. The big tent would be too much to strike and shift. And then her mind went on to a bolder enterprise, which was to get him home. The nearer she could bring him to the log hut, the nearer they would be to supplies. She cast about for some sort of sledge. The snow was too soft and broken for runners, especially among the trees, but if she could get a flat of smooth wood she thought she might be able to drag him. She decided to try the side of her bunk. She could easily get that off. She would have, of course, to run it edgewise through the thickets and across the ravine, but after that she would have almost clear going until she reached the steep place of broken rocks within two hundred yards of him. The idea of a sledge grew upon her, and she planned to nail a rope along the edge and make a kind of harness for herself. She found the camping-place piled high with drifted snow, which had invaded tent and hut, and that some beast, a wolverine she guessed, had been into the hut, devoured every candle-end and the uppers of Trafford's well-greased second boots, and had then gone to the corner of the store shed and clambered up to the stores. She made no account of its depredations there, but set herself to make a sledge and get her supplies together. There was a gleam of sunshine, but she did not like the look of the sky, and she was horribly afraid of what might be happening to Trafford. She carried her stuff through the wood and across the ravine, and returned for her improvised sledge. She was still struggling with that among the trees when it began to snow again. It was hard then not to be frantic in her efforts. As it was, she packed her stuff so loosely on the planking that she had to repack it, and she started without putting on her snowshoes, and floundered fifty yards before she discovered that omission. The snow was now falling fast, darkling the sky and hiding everything but objects close at hand, and she had to use all her wits to determine her direction; she knew she must go down a long slope and then up to the ridge, and it came to her as a happy inspiration that if she bore to the left she might strike some recognizable vestige of her morning's trail. She had read of people walking in circles when they have no light or guidance, and that troubled her until she bethought herself of the little compass on her watch chain. By that she kept her direction. She wished very much she had timed herself across the waste, so that she could tell when she approached the ridge. Soon her back and shoulders were aching violently, and the rope across her chest was tugging like some evil-tempered thing. But she did not dare to rest. The snow was now falling thick and fast, the flakes traced white spirals and made her head spin, so that she was constantly falling away to the south-westward and then correcting herself by the compass. She tried to think how this zig-zagging might affect her course, but the snow whirls confused her mind and a growing anxiety would not let her pause to think. She felt blinded; it seemed to be snowing inside her eyes so that she wanted to rub them. Soon the ground must rise to the ridge, she told herself; it must surely rise. Then the sledge came bumping at her heels and she perceived she was going down hill. She consulted the compass, and she found she was facing south. She turned sharply to the right again. The snowfall became a noiseless, pitiless torture to sight and mind. The sledge behind her struggled to hold her back, and the snow balled under her snowshoes. She wanted to stop and rest, take thought, sit for a moment. She struggled with herself and kept on. She tried walking with shut eyes, and tripped and came near sprawling. "Oh God!" she cried, "oh God!" too stupefied for more articulate prayers. Would the rise of the ground to the ribs of rock never come? A figure, black and erect, stood in front of her suddenly, and beyond appeared a group of black, straight antagonists. She staggered on towards them, gripping her rifle with some muddled idea of defence, and in another moment she was brushing against the branches of a stunted fir, which shed thick lumps of snow upon her feet. What trees were these? Had she ever passed any trees? No! There were no trees on her way to Trafford.... She began whimpering like a tormented child. But even as she wept she turned her sledge about to follow the edge of the wood. She was too much downhill, she thought and she must bear up again. She left the trees behind, made an angle uphill to the right, and was presently among trees again. Again she left them and again came back to them. She screamed with anger at them and twitched her sledge away. She wiped at the snowstorm with her arm as though she would wipe it away. She wanted to stamp on the universe.... And she ached, she ached.... Something caught her eye ahead, something that gleamed; it was exactly like a long, bare rather pinkish bone standing erect on the ground. Just because it was strange and queer she ran forward to it. Then as she came nearer she perceived it was a streak of barked trunk; a branch had been torn off a pine tree and the bark stripped down to the root. And then her foot hit against a freshly hewn stump, and then came another, poking its pinkish wounds above the snow. And there were chips! This filled her with wonder. Some one had been cutting wood! There must be Indians or trappers near, she thought, and then realized the wood-cutter could be none other than herself. She turned to the right and saw the rocks rising steeply close at hand. "Oh Rag!" she cried, and fired her rifle in the air. Ten seconds, twenty seconds, and then so loud and near it amazed her, came his answering shot. It sounded like the hillside bursting. In another moment she had discovered the trail she had made overnight and that morning by dragging firewood. It was now a shallow soft white trench. Instantly her despair and fatigue had gone from her. Should she take a load of wood with her? she asked herself, in addition to the weight behind her, and had a better idea. She would unload and pile her stuff here, and bring him down on the sledge closer to the wood. She looked about and saw two rocks that diverged with a space between. She flashed schemes. She would trample the snow hard and flat, put her sledge on it, pile boughs and make a canopy of blanket overhead and behind. Then a fire in front. She saw her camp admirable. She tossed her provisions down and ran up the broad windings of her pine-tree trail to Trafford, with the unloaded sledge bumping behind her. She ran as lightly as though she had done nothing that day. She found him markedly recovered, weak and quiet, with snow drifting over his feet, his rifle across his knees, and his pipe alight. "Back already," he said, "but----" He hesitated. "No grub?" She knelt over him, gave his rough unshaven cheek a swift kiss, and very rapidly explained her plan. § 8 In three days' time they were back at the hut, and the last two days they wore blue spectacles because of the mid-day glare of the sunlit snow. It amazed Marjorie to discover as she lay awake in the camp on the edge of the ravine close to the hut to which she had lugged Trafford during the second day, that she was deeply happy. It was preposterous that she should be so, but those days of almost despairful stress were irradiated now by a new courage. She was doing this thing, against all Labrador and the snow-driving wind that blew from the polar wilderness, she was winning. It was a great discovery to her that hardship and effort almost to the breaking-point could ensue in so deep a satisfaction. She lay and thought how deep and rich life had become for her, as though in all this effort and struggle some unsuspected veil had been torn away. She perceived again, but now with no sense of desolation, that same infinite fragility of life which she had first perceived when she had watched the Aurora Borealis flickering up the sky. Beneath that realization and carrying it, as a river flood may carry scum, was a sense of herself as something deeper, greater, more enduring than mountain or wilderness or sky, or any of those monstrous forms of nature that had dwarfed her physical self to nothingness. She had a persuasion of self detachment and illumination, and withal of self-discovery. She saw her life of time and space for what it was. Away in London the children, with the coldest of noses and the gayest of spirits, would be scampering about their bedrooms in the mild morning sunlight of a London winter; Elsie, the parlourmaid, would be whisking dexterous about the dining-room, the bacon would be cooking and the coffee-mill at work, the letters of the morning delivery perhaps just pattering into the letter-box, and all the bright little household she had made, with all the furniture she had arranged, all the characteristic decoration she had given it, all the clever convenient arrangements, would be getting itself into action for another day--and _it wasn't herself!_ It was the extremest of her superficiality. She had come out of all that, and even so it seemed she had come out of herself; this weary woman lying awake on the balsam boughs with a brain cleared by underfeeding and this continuous arduous bath of toil in snow-washed, frost cleansed, starry air, this, too, was no more than a momentarily clarified window for her unknown and indefinable reality. What was that reality? what was she herself? She became interested in framing an answer to that, and slipped down from the peace of soul she had attained. Her serenity gave way to a reiteration of this question, reiterations increasing and at last oppressing like the snowflakes of a storm, perpetual whirling repetitions that at last confused her and hid the sky.... She fell asleep.... § 9 With their return to the hut, Marjorie had found herself encountering a new set of urgencies. In their absence that wretched little wolverine had found great plenty and happiness in the tent and store-shed; its traces were manifest nearly everywhere, and it had particularly assailed the candles, after a destructive time among the frozen caribou beef. It had clambered up on the packages of sardines and jumped thence on to a sloping pole that it could claw along into the frame of the roof. She rearranged the packages, but that was no good. She could not leave Trafford in order to track the brute down, and for a night or so she could not think of any way of checking its depredations. It came each night.... Trafford kept her close at home. She had expected that when he was back in his bunk, secure and warm, he would heal rapidly, but instead he suddenly developed all the symptoms of a severe feverish cold, and his scars, which had seemed healing, became flushed and ugly-looking. Moreover, there was something wrong with his leg, an ominous ache that troubled her mind. Every woman, she decided, ought to know how to set a bone. He was unable to sleep by reason of these miseries, though very desirous of doing so. He became distressingly weak and inert, he ceased to care for food, and presently he began ta talk to himself with a complete disregard of her presence. Hourly she regretted her ignorance of medicine that left her with no conceivable remedy for all the aching and gnawing that worried and weakened him, except bathing with antiseptics and a liberal use of quinine. And his face became strange to her, for over his flushed and sunken cheeks, under the raw spaces of the scar a blond beard bristled and grew. Presently, Trafford was a bearded man. Incidentally, however, she killed the wolverine by means of a trap of her own contrivance, a loaded rifle with a bait of what was nearly her last candles, rigged to the trigger. But this loss of the candles brought home to them the steady lengthening of the nights. Scarcely seven hours of day remained now in the black, cold grip of the darkness. And through those seventeen hours of chill aggression they had no light but the red glow of the stove. She had to close the door of the hut and bar every chink and cranny against the icy air, that became at last a murderous, freezing wind. Not only did she line the hut with every scrap of skin and paper she could obtain, but she went out with the spade toiling for three laborious afternoons in piling and beating snow against the outer frame. And now it was that Trafford talked at last, talked with something of the persistence of delirium, and she sat and listened hour by hour, silently, for he gave no heed to her or to anything she might say. He talked, it seemed, to God.... § 10 Darkness about a sullen glow of red, and a voice speaking. The voice of a man, fevered and in pain, wounded and amidst hardship and danger, struggling with the unrelenting riddle of his being. Ever and again when a flame leapt she would see his face, haggard, bearded, changed, and yet infinitely familiar. His voice varied, now high and clear, now mumbling, now vexed and expostulating, now rich with deep feeling, now fagged and slow; his matter varied, too; now he talked like one who is inspired, and now like one lost and confused, stupidly repeating phrases, going back upon a misleading argument, painfully, laboriously beginning over and over again. Marjorie sat before the stove watching it burn and sink, replenishing it, preparing food, and outside the bitter wind moaned and blew the powdery snow before it, and the shortening interludes of pallid, diffused daylight which pass for days in such weather, came and went. Intense cold had come now with leaden snowy days and starless nights. Sometimes his speech filled her mind, seemed to fill all her world; sometimes she ceased to listen, following thoughts of her own. Sometimes she dozed; sometimes she awakened from sleep to find him talking. But slowly she realized a thread in his discourse, a progress and development. Sometimes he talked of his early researches, and then he would trace computations with his hands as if he were using a blackboard, and became distressed to remember what he had written. Sometimes he would be under the claws of the lynx again, and fighting for his eyes. "Ugh!" he said, "keep those hind legs still. Keep your hind legs still! Knife? Knife? Ah! got it. Gu--u--u, you _Beast!_" But the gist of his speech was determined by the purpose of his journey to Labrador. At last he was reviewing his life and hers, and all that their life might signify, even as he determined to do. She began to perceive that whatever else drifted into his mind and talk, this recurred and grew, that he returned to the conclusion he had reached, and not to the beginning of the matter, and went on from that.... "You see," he said, "our lives are nothing--nothing in themselves. I know that; I've never had any doubts of that. We individuals just pick up a mixed lot of things out of the powers that begat us, and lay them down again presently a little altered, that's all--heredities, traditions, the finger nails of my grandfather, a great-aunt's lips, the faith of a sect, the ideas of one's time. We live and then we die, and the threads run, dispersing this way and that. To make other people again. Whatever's immortal isn't that, our looks or our habits, our thoughts or our memories--just the shapes, these are, of one immortal stuff.... One immortal stuff."... The voice died away as if he was baffled. Then it resumed. "But we ought to _partake_ of immortality; that's my point. We ought to partake of immortality. "I mean we're like the little elements in a magnet; ought not to lie higgledy-piggledy, ought to point the same way, bepolarized----Something microcosmic, you know, ought to be found in a man. "Analogies run away with one. Suppose the bar isn't magnetized yet! Suppose purpose has to come; suppose the immortal stuff isn't yet, isn't being but struggling to be. Struggling to be.... Gods! that morning! When the child was born! And afterwards she was there--with a smile on her lips, and a little flushed and proud--as if nothing had happened so very much out of the way. Nothing so wonderful. And we had another life besides our own!..." Afterwards he came back to that. "That was a good image," he said, "something trying to exist, which isn't substance, doesn't belong to space or time, something stifled and enclosed, struggling to get through. Just confused birth cries, eyes that hardly see, deaf ears, poor little thrusting hands. A thing altogether blind at first, a twitching and thrusting of protoplasm under the waters, and then the plants creeping up the beaches, the insects and reptiles on the margins of the rivers, beasts with a flicker of light in their eyes answering the sun. And at last, out of the long interplay of desire and fear, an ape, an ape that stared and wondered, and scratched queer pictures on a bone...." He lapsed into silent thought for a time, and Marjorie glanced at his dim face in the shadows. "I say nothing of ultimates," he said at last. He repeated that twice before his thoughts would flow again. "This is as much as I see, in time as I know it and space as I know it--_something struggling to exist_. It's true to the end of my limits. What can I say beyond that? It struggles to exist, becomes conscious, becomes now conscious of itself. That is where I come in, as a part of it. Above the beast in me is that--the desire to know better, to know--beautifully, and to transmit my knowledge. That's all there is in life for me beyond food and shelter and tidying up. This Being--opening its eyes, listening, trying to comprehend. Every good thing in man is that;--looking and making pictures, listening and making songs, making philosophies and sciences, trying new powers, bridge and engine, spark and gun. At the bottom of my soul, _that_. We began with bone-scratching. We're still--near it. I am just a part of this beginning--mixed with other things. Every book, every art, every religion is that, the attempt to understand and express--mixed with other things. Nothing else matters, nothing whatever. I tell you----Nothing whatever! "I've always believed that. All my life I've believed that. "Only I've forgotten." "Every man with any brains believes that at the bottom of his heart. Only he gets busy and forgets. He goes shooting lynxes and breaks his leg. Odd, instinctive, brutal thing to do--to go tracking down a lynx to kill it! I grant you that, Marjorie. I grant you that." "Grant me what?" she cried, startled beyond measure to hear herself addressed. "Grant you that it is rather absurd to go hunting a lynx. And what big paws it has--disproportionately big! I wonder if that's an adaptation to snow. Tremendous paws they are.... But the real thing, I was saying, the real thing is to get knowledge, and express it. All things lead up to that. Civilization, social order, just for that. Except for that, all the life of man, all his affairs, his laws and police, his morals and manners--nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Lynx hunts! Just ways of getting themselves mauled and clawed perhaps--into a state of understanding. Who knows?..." His voice became low and clear. "Understanding spreading like a dawn.... "Logic and language, clumsy implements, but rising to our needs, rising to our needs, thought clarified, enriched, reaching out to every man alive--some day--presently--touching every man alive, harmonizing acts and plans, drawing men into gigantic co-operations, tremendous co-operations.... "Until man shall stand upon this earth as upon a footstool and reach out his hand among the stars.... "And then I went into the rubber market, and spent seven years of my life driving shares up and down and into a net!... Queer game indeed! Stupid ass Behrens was--at bottom.... "There's a flaw in it somewhere...." He came back to that several times before he seemed able to go on from it. "There _is_ a collective mind," he said, "a growing general consciousness--growing clearer. Something put me away from that, but I know it. My work, my thinking, was a part of it. That's why I was so mad about Behrens." "Behrens?" "Of course. He'd got a twist, a wrong twist. It makes me angry now. It will take years, it will eat up some brilliant man to clean up after Behrens----" "Yes, but the point is"--his voice became acute--"why did I go making money and let Behrens in? Why generally and in all sorts of things does Behrens come in?..." He was silent for a long time, and then he began to answer himself. "Of course," he said, "I said it--or somebody said it--about this collective mind being mixed with other things. It's something arising out of life--not the common stuff of life. An exhalation.... It's like the little tongues of fire that came at Pentecost.... Queer how one comes drifting back to these images. Perhaps I shall die a Christian yet.... The other Christians won't like me if I do. What was I saying?... It's what I reach up to, what I desire shall pervade me, not what I am. Just as far as I give myself purely to knowledge, to making feeling and thought clear in my mind and words, to the understanding and expression of the realities and relations of life, just so far do I achieve Salvation.... Salvation!... "I wonder, is Salvation the same for every one? Perhaps for one man Salvation is research and thought, and for another expression in art, and for another nursing lepers. Provided he does it in the spirit. He has to do it in the spirit...." There came a silence as though some difficulty baffled him, and he was feeling back to get his argument again. "This flame that arises out of life, that redeems life from purposeless triviality, _isn't_ life. Let me get hold of that. That's a point. That's a very important point." Something had come to him. "I've never talked of this to Marjorie. I've lived with her nine years and more, and never talked of religion. Not once. That's so queer of us. Any other couple in any other time would have talked religion no end.... People ought to." Then he stuck out an argumentative hand. "You see, Marjorie _is_ life," he said. "She took me." He spoke slowly, as though he traced things carefully. "Before I met her I suppose I wasn't half alive. No! Yet I don't remember I felt particularly incomplete. Women were interesting, of course; they excited me at times, that girl at Yonkers!--H'm. I stuck to my work. It was fine work, I forget half of it now, the half-concealed intimations I mean--queer how one forgets!--but I know I felt my way to wide, deep things. It was like exploring caves--monstrous, limitless caves. Such caves!... Very still--underground. Wonderful and beautiful.... They're lying there now for other men to seek. Other men will find them.... Then _she_ came, as though she was taking possession. The beauty of her, oh! the life and bright eagerness, and the incompatibility! That's the riddle! I've loved her always. When she came to my arms it seemed to me the crown of life. Caves indeed! Old caves! Nothing else seemed to matter. But something did. All sorts of things did. I found that out soon enough. And when that first child was born. That for a time was supreme.... Yes--she's the quintessence of life, the dear greed of her, the appetite, the clever appetite for things. She grabs. She's so damned clever! The light in her eyes! Her quick sure hands!... Only my work was crowded out of my life and ended, and she didn't seem to feel it, she didn't seem to mind it. There was a sort of disregard. Disregard. As though all that didn't really matter...." "_My dear!_" whispered Marjorie unheeded. She wanted to tell him it mattered now, mattered supremely, but she knew he had no ears for her. His voice flattened. "It's perplexing," he said. "The two different things." Then suddenly he cried out harshly: "I ought never to have married her--never, never! I had my task. I gave myself to her. Oh! the high immensities, the great and terrible things open to the mind of man! And we breed children and live in littered houses and play with our food and chatter, chatter, chatter. Oh, the chatter of my life! The folly! The women with their clothes. I can hear them rustle now, whiff the scent of it! The scandals--as though the things they did with themselves and each other mattered a rap; the little sham impromptu clever things, the trying to keep young--and underneath it all that continual cheating, cheating, cheating, damning struggle for money!... "Marjorie, Marjorie, Marjorie! Why is she so good and no better! Why wasn't she worth it altogether?... "No! I don't want to go on with it any more--ever. I want to go back. "I want my life over again, and to go back. "I want research, and the spirit of research that has died in me, and that still, silent room of mine again, that room, as quiet as a cell, and the toil that led to light. Oh! the coming of that light, the uprush of discovery, the solemn joy as the generalization rises like a sun upon the facts--floods them with a common meaning. That is what I want. That is what I have always wanted.... "Give me my time oh God! again; I am sick of this life I have chosen. I am sick of it! This--busy death! Give me my time again.... Why did you make me, and then waste me like this? Why are we made for folly upon folly? Folly! and brains made to scale high heaven, smeared into the dust! Into the dust, into the dust. Dust!..." He passed into weak, wandering repetitions of disconnected sentences, that died into whispers and silence, and Marjorie watched him and listened to him, and waited with a noiseless dexterity upon his every need. § 11 One day, she did not know what day, for she had lost count of the days, Marjorie set the kettle to boil and opened the door of the hut to look out, and the snow was ablaze with diamonds, and the air was sweet and still. It occurred to her that it would be well to take Trafford out into that brief brightness. She looked at him and found his eyes upon the sunlight quiet and rather wondering eyes. "Would you like to get out into that?" she asked abruptly. "Yes," he said, and seemed disposed to get up. "You've got a broken leg," she cried, to arrest his movement, and he looked at her and answered: "Of course--I forgot." She was all atremble that he should recognize her and speak to her. She pulled her rude old sledge alongside his bunk, and kissed him, and showed him how to shift and drop himself upon the plank. She took him in her arms and lowered him. He helped weakly but understandingly, and she wrapped him up warmly on the planks and lugged him out and built up a big fire at his feet, wondering, but as yet too fearful to rejoice, at the change that had come to him. He said no more, but his eyes watched her move about with a kind of tired curiosity. He smiled for a time at the sun, and shut his eyes, and still faintly smiling, lay still. She had a curious fear that if she tried to talk to him this new lucidity would vanish again. She went about the business of the morning, glancing at him ever and again, until suddenly the calm of his upturned face smote her, and she ran to him and crouched down to him between hope and a terrible fear, and found that he was sleeping, and breathing very lightly, sleeping with the deep unconsciousness of a child.... When he awakened the sun was red in the west. His eyes met hers, and he seemed a little puzzled. "I've been sleeping, Madge?" he said. She nodded. "And dreaming? I've a vague sort of memory of preaching and preaching in a kind of black, empty place, where there wasn't anything.... A fury of exposition ... a kind of argument.... I say!--Is there such a thing in the world as a new-laid egg--and some bread-and-butter?" He seemed to reflect. "Of course," he said, "I broke my leg. Gollys! I thought that beast was going to claw my eyes out. Lucky, Madge, it didn't get my eyes. It was just a chance it didn't." He stared at her. "I say," he said, "you've had a pretty rough time! How long has this been going on?" He amazed her by rising himself on his elbow and sitting up. "Your leg!" she cried. He put his hand down and felt it. "Pretty stiff," he said. "You get me some food--there _were_ some eggs, Madge, frozen new-laid, anyhow--and then we'll take these splints off and feel about a bit. Eh! why not? How did you get me out of that scrape, Madge? I thought I'd got to be froze as safe as eggs. (Those eggs ought to be all right, you know. If you put them on in a saucepan and wait until they boil.) I've a sort of muddled impression.... By Jove, Madge, you've had a time! I say you _have_ had a time!" His eyes, full of a warmth of kindliness she had not seen for long weeks, scrutinized her face. "I say!" he repeated, very softly. All her strength went from her at his tenderness. "Oh, my dear," she wailed, kneeling at his side, "my dear, dear!" and still regardful of his leg, she yet contrived to get herself weeping into his coveted arms. He regarded her, he held her, he patted her back! The infinite luxury to her! He'd come back. He'd come back to her. "How long has it been?" he asked. "Poor dear! Poor dear! How long can it have been?" § 12 From that hour Trafford mended. He remained clear-minded, helpful, sustaining. His face healed daily. Marjorie had had to cut away great fragments of gangrenous frozen flesh, and he was clearly destined to have a huge scar over forehead and cheek, but in that pure, clear air, once the healing had begun it progressed swiftly. His leg had set, a little shorter than its fellow and with a lump in the middle of the shin, but it promised to be a good serviceable leg none the less. They examined it by the light of the stove with their heads together, and discussed when it would be wise to try it. How do doctors tell when a man may stand on his broken leg? She had a vague impression you must wait six weeks, but she could not remember why she fixed upon that time. "It seems a decent interval," said Trafford. "We'll try it." She had contrived a crutch for him against that momentous experiment, and he sat up in his bunk, pillowed up by a sack and her rugs, and whittled it smooth, and padded the fork with the skin of that slaughtered wolverine, poor victim of hunger!--while she knelt by the stove feeding it with logs, and gave him an account of their position. "We're somewhere in the middle of December," she said, "somewhere between the twelfth and the fourteenth,--yes! I'm as out as that!--and I've handled the stores pretty freely. So did that little beast until I got him." She nodded at the skin in his hand. "I don't see myself shooting much now, and so far I've not been able to break the ice to fish. It's too much for me. Even if it isn't too late to fish. This book we've got describes barks and mosses, and that will help, but if we stick here until the birds and things come, we're going to be precious short. We may have to last right into July. I've plans--but it may come to that. We ought to ration all the regular stuff, and trust to luck for a feast. The rations!--I don't know what they'll come to." "Right O," said Trafford admiring her capable gravity. "Let's ration." "Marjorie," he asked abruptly, "are you sorry we came?" Her answer came unhesitatingly. "_No!_" "Nor I." He paused. "I've found you out," he said. "Dear dirty living thing!... You _are_ dirty, you know." "I've found myself," she answered, thinking. "I feel as if I've never loved you until this hut. I suppose I have in my way----" "Lugano," he suggested. "Don't let's forget good things, Marjorie. Oh! And endless times!" "Oh, of course! As for _that_----! But now--now you're in my bones. We were just two shallow, pretty, young things--loving. It was sweet, dear--sweet as youth--but not this. Unkempt and weary--then one understands love. I suppose I _am_ dirty. Think of it! I've lugged you through the snow till my shoulders chafed and bled. I cried with pain, and kept on lugging----Oh, my dear! my dear!" He kissed her hair. "I've held you in my arms to keep you from freezing. (I'd have frozen myself first.) We've got to starve together perhaps before the end.... Dear, if I could make you, you should eat me.... I'm--I'm beginning to understand. I've had a light. I've begun to understand. I've begun to see what life has been for you, and how I've wasted--wasted." "_We've_ wasted!" "No," she said, "it was I." She sat back on the floor and regarded him. "You don't remember things you said--when you were delirious?" "No," he answered. "What did I say?" "Nothing?" "Nothing clearly. What did I say?" "It doesn't matter. No, indeed. Only you made me understand. You'd never have told me. You've always been a little weak with me there. But it's plain to me why we didn't keep our happiness, why we were estranged. If we go back alive, we go back--all that settled for good and all." "What?" "That discord. My dear, I've been a fool, selfish, ill-trained and greedy. We've both been floundering about, but I've been the mischief of it. Yes, I've been the trouble. Oh, it's had to be so. What are we women--half savages, half pets, unemployed things of greed and desire--and suddenly we want all the rights and respect of souls! I've had your life in my hands from the moment we met together. If I had known.... It isn't that we can make you or guide you--I'm not pretending to be an inspiration--but--but we can release you. We needn't press upon you; we can save you from the instincts and passions that try to waste you altogether on us.... Yes, I'm beginning to understand. Oh, my child, my husband, my man! You talked of your wasted life!... I've been thinking--since first we left the Mersey. I've begun to see what it is to be a woman. For the first time in my life. We're the responsible sex. And we've forgotten it. We think we've done a wonder if we've borne men into the world and smiled a little, but indeed we've got to bear them all our lives.... A woman has to be steadier than a man and more self-sacrificing than a man, because when she plunges she does more harm than a man.... And what does she achieve if she does plunge? Nothing--nothing worth counting. Dresses and carpets and hangings and pretty arrangements, excitements and satisfactions and competition and more excitements. We can't _do_ things. We don't bring things off! And you, you Monster! you Dream! you want to stick your hand out of all that is and make something that isn't, begin to be! That's the man----" "Dear old Madge!" he said, "there's all sorts of women and all sorts of men." "Well, our sort of women, then, and our sort of men." "I doubt even that." "I don't. I've found my place. I've been making my master my servant. We women--we've been looting all the good things in the world, and helping nothing. You've carried me on your back until you are loathing life. I've been making you fetch and carry for me, love me, dress me, keep me and my children, minister to my vanities and greeds.... No; let me go on. I'm so penitent, my dear, so penitent I want to kneel down here and marry you all over again, heal up your broken life and begin again."... She paused. "One doesn't begin again," she said. "But I want to take a new turn. Dear, you're still only a young man; we've thirty or forty years before us--forty years perhaps or more.... What shall we do with our years? We've loved, we've got children. What remains? Here we can plan it out, work it out, day after day. What shall we do with our lives and life? Tell me, make me your partner; it's you who know, what are we doing with life?" § 13 What are we doing with life? That question overtakes a reluctant and fugitive humanity. The Traffords were but two of a great scattered host of people, who, obeying all the urgencies of need and desire, struggling, loving, begetting, enjoying, do nevertheless find themselves at last unsatisfied. They have lived the round of experience, achieved all that living creatures have sought since the beginning of the world--security and gratification and offspring--and they find themselves still strong, unsatiated, with power in their hands and years before them, empty of purpose. What are they to do? The world presents such a spectacle of evasion as it has never seen before. Never was there such a boiling over and waste of vital energy. The Sphinx of our opportunity calls for the uttermost powers of heart and brain to read its riddle--the new, astonishing riddle of excessive power. A few give themselves to those honourable adventures that extend the range of man, they explore untravelled countries, climb remote mountains, conduct researches, risk life and limb in the fantastic experiments of flight, and a monstrous outpouring of labour and material goes on in the strenuous preparation for needless and improbable wars. The rest divert themselves with the dwarfish satisfactions of recognized vice, the meagre routine of pleasure, or still more timidly with sport and games--those new unscheduled perversions of the soul. We are afraid of our new selves. The dawn of human opportunity appals us. Few of us dare look upon this strange light of freedom and limitless resources that breaks upon our world. "Think," said Trafford, "while we sit here in this dark hut--think of the surplus life that wastes itself in the world for sheer lack of direction. Away there in England--I suppose that is westward"--he pointed--"there are thousands of men going out to-day to shoot. Think of the beautifully made guns, the perfected ammunition, the excellent clothes, the army of beaters, the carefully preserved woodland, the admirable science of it--all for that idiot massacre of half-tame birds! Just because man once had need to be a hunter! Think of the others again--golfing. Think of the big, elaborate houses from which they come, the furnishings, the service. And the women--dressing! Perpetually dressing. _You_, Marjorie--you've done nothing but dress since we married. No, let me abuse you, dear! It's insane, you know! You dress your minds a little to talk amusingly, you spread your minds out to backgrounds, to households, picturesque and delightful gardens, nurseries. Those nurseries! Think of our tremendously cherished and educated children! And when they grow up, what have we got for them? A feast of futility...." § 14 On the evening of the day when Trafford first tried to stand upon his leg, they talked far into the night. It had been a great and eventful day for them, full of laughter and exultation. He had been at first ridiculously afraid; he had clung to her almost childishly, and she had held him about the body with his weight on her strong right arm and his right arm in her left hand, concealing her own dread of a collapse under a mask of taunting courage. The crutch had proved admirable. "It's my silly knees!" Trafford kept on saying. "The leg's all right, but I get put out by my silly knees." They made the day a feast, a dinner of two whole day's rations and a special soup instead of supper. "The birds will come," they explained to each other, "ducks and geese, long before May. May, you know, is the latest." Marjorie confessed the habit of sharing his pipe was growing on her. "What shall we do in Tyburnia!" she said, and left it to the imagination. "If ever we get back there," he said. "I don't much fancy kicking a skirt before my shins again--and I'll be a black, coarse woman down to my neck at dinner for years to come!..." Then, as he lay back in his bunk and she crammed the stove with fresh boughs and twigs of balsam that filled the little space about them with warmth and with a faint, sweet smell of burning and with flitting red reflections, he took up a talk about religion they had begun some days before. "You see," he said, "I've always believed in Salvation. I suppose a man's shy of saying so--even to his wife. But I've always believed more or less distinctly that there was something up to which a life worked--always. It's been rather vague, I'll admit. I don't think I've ever believed in individual salvation. You see, I feel these are deep things, and the deeper one gets the less individual one becomes. That's why one thinks of those things in darkness and loneliness--and finds them hard to tell. One has an individual voice, or an individual birthmark, or an individualized old hat, but the soul--the soul's different.... It isn't me talking to you when it comes to that.... This question of what we are doing with life isn't a question to begin with for you and me as ourselves, but for you and me as mankind. Am I spinning it too fine, Madge?" "No," she said, intent; "go on." "You see, when we talk rations here, Marjorie, it's ourselves, but when we talk religion--it's mankind. You've either got to be Everyman in religion or leave it alone. That's my idea. It's no more presumptuous to think for the race than it is for a beggar to pray--though that means going right up to God and talking to Him. Salvation's a collective thing and a mystical thing--or there isn't any. Fancy the Almighty and me sitting up and keeping Eternity together! God and R. A. G. Trafford, F.R.S.--that's silly. Fancy a man in number seven boots, and a tailor-made suit in the nineteen-fourteen fashion, sitting before God! That's caricature. But God and Man! That's sense, Marjorie."... He stopped and stared at her. Marjorie sat red-lit, regarding him. "Queer things you say!" she said. "So much of this I've never thought out. I wonder why I've never done so.... Too busy with many things, I suppose. But go on and tell me more of these secrets you've kept from me!" "Well, we've got to talk of these things as mankind--or just leave them alone, and shoot pheasants."... "If I could shoot a pheasant now!" whispered Marjorie, involuntarily. "And where do we stand? What do we need--I mean the whole race of us--kings and beggars together? You know, Marjorie, it's this,--it's Understanding. That's what mankind has got to, the realization that it doesn't understand, that it can't express, that it's purblind. We haven't got eyes for those greater things, but we've got the promise--the intimation of eyes. We've come out of an unsuspecting darkness, brute animal darkness, not into sight, that's been the mistake, but into a feeling of illumination, into a feeling of light shining through our opacity.... "I feel that man has now before all things to know. That's his supreme duty, to feel, realize, see, understand, express himself to the utmost limits of his power." He sat up, speaking very earnestly to her, and in that flickering light she realized for the first time how thin he had become, how bright and hollow his eyes, his hair was long over his eyes, and a rough beard flowed down to his chest. "All the religions," he said, "all the philosophies, have pretended to achieve too much. We've no language yet for religious truth or metaphysical truth; we've no basis yet broad enough and strong enough on which to build. Religion and philosophy have been impudent and quackish--quackish! They've been like the doctors, who have always pretended they could cure since the beginning of things, cure everything, and to this day even they haven't got more than the beginnings of knowledge on which to base a cure. They've lacked humility, they've lacked the honour to say they didn't know; the priests took things of wood and stone, the philosophers took little odd arrangements of poor battered words, metaphors, analogies, abstractions, and said: "That's it! Think of their silly old Absolute,--ab-solutus, an untied parcel. I heard Haldane at the Aristotelian once, go on for an hour--no! it was longer than an hour--as glib and slick as a well-oiled sausage-machine, about the different sorts of Absolute, and not a soul of us laughed out at him! The vanity of such profundities! They've no faith, faith in patience, faith to wait for the coming of God. And since we don't know God, since we don't know His will with us, isn't it plain that all our lives should be a search for Him and it? Can anything else matter,--after we are free from necessity? That is the work now that is before all mankind, to attempt understanding--by the perpetual finding of thought and the means of expression, by perpetual extension and refinement of science, by the research that every artist makes for beauty and significance in his art, by the perpetual testing and destruction and rebirth under criticism of all these things, and by a perpetual extension of this intensifying wisdom to more minds and more minds and more, till all men share in it, and share in the making of it.... There you have my creed, Marjorie; there you have the very marrow of me."... He became silent. "Will you go back to your work?" she said, abruptly. "Go back to your laboratory?" He stared at her for a moment without speaking. "Never," he said at last. "But," she said, and the word dropped from her like a stone that falls down a well.... "My dear," he said, at last, "I've thought of that. But since I left that dear, dusty little laboratory, and all those exquisite subtle things--I've lived. I've left that man seven long years behind me. Some other man must go on--I think some younger man--with the riddles I found to work on then. I've grown--into something different. It isn't how atoms swing with one another, or why they build themselves up so and not so, that matters any more to me. I've got you and all the world in which we live, and a new set of riddles filling my mind, how thought swings about thought, how one man attracts his fellows, how the waves of motive and conviction sweep through a crowd and all the little drifting crystallizations of spirit with spirit and all the repulsions and eddies and difficulties, that one can catch in that turbulent confusion. I want to do a new sort of work now altogether.... Life has swamped me once, but I don't think it will get me under again;--I want to study men." He paused and she waited, with a face aglow. "I want to go back to watch and think--and I suppose write. I believe I shall write criticism. But everything that matters is criticism!... I want to get into contact with the men who are thinking. I don't mean to meet them necessarily, but to get into the souls of their books. Every writer who has anything to say, every artist who matters, is the stronger for every man or woman who responds to him. That's the great work--the Reality. I want to become a part of this stuttering attempt to express, I want at least to resonate, even if I do not help.... And you with me, Marjorie--you with me! Everything I write I want you to see and think about. I want you to read as I read.... Now after so long, now that, now that we've begun to talk, you know, talk again----" Something stopped his voice. Something choked them both into silence. He held out a lean hand, and she shuffled on her knees to take it.... "Don't please make me," she stumbled through her thoughts, "one of those little parasitic, parroting wives--don't pretend too much about me--because you want me with you----. Don't forget a woman isn't a man." "Old Madge," he said, "you and I have got to march together. Didn't I love you from the first, from that time when I was a boy examiner and you were a candidate girl--because your mind was clear?" "And we will go back," she whispered, "with a work----" "With a purpose," he said. She disengaged herself from his arm, and sat close to him upon the floor. "I think I can see what you will do," she said. She mused. "For the first time I begin to see things as they may be for us. I begin to see a life ahead. For the very first time." Queer ideas came drifting into her head. Suddenly she cried out sharply in that high note he loved. "Good heavens!" she said. "The absurdity! The infinite absurdity!" "But what?" "I might have married Will Magnet----. That's all." She sprang to her feet. There came a sound of wind outside, a shifting of snow on the roof, and the door creaked. "Half-past eleven," she exclaimed looking at the watch that hung in the light of the stove door. "I don't want to sleep yet; do you? I'm going to brew some tea--make a convivial drink. And then we will go on talking. It's so good talking to you. So good!... I've an idea! Don't you think on this special day, it might run to a biscuit?" Her face was keenly anxious. He nodded. "One biscuit each," she said, trying to rob her voice of any note of criminality. "Just one, you know, won't matter." She hovered for some moments close to the stove before she went into the arctic corner that contained the tin of tea. "If we can really live like that!" she said. "When we are home again." "Why not?" he answered. She made no answer, but went across for the tea.... He turned his head at the sound of the biscuit tin and watched her put out the precious discs. "I shall have another pipe," he proclaimed, with an agreeable note of excess. "Thank heaven for unstinted tobacco...." And now Marjorie's mind was teaming with thoughts of this new conception of a life lived for understanding. As she went about the preparation of the tea, her vividly concrete imagination was active with the realization of the life they would lead on their return. She could not see it otherwise than framed in a tall, fine room, a study, a study in sombre tones, with high, narrow, tall, dignified bookshelves and rich deep green curtains veiling its windows. There should be a fireplace of white marble, very plain and well proportioned, with furnishings of old brass, and a big desk towards the window beautifully lit by electric light, with abundant space for papers to lie. And she wanted some touch of the wilderness about it; a skin perhaps.... The tea was still infusing when she had determined upon an enormous paper-weight of that iridescent Labradorite that had been so astonishing a feature of the Green River Valley. She would have it polished on one side only--the other should be rough to show the felspar in its natural state.... It wasn't that she didn't feel and understand quite fully the intention and significance of all he had said, but that in these symbols of texture and equipment her mind quite naturally clothed itself. And while this room was coming into anticipatory being in her mind, she was making the tea very deftly and listening to Trafford's every word. § 15 That talk marked an epoch to Marjorie. From that day forth her imagination began to shape a new, ordered and purposeful life for Trafford and herself in London, a life not altogether divorced from their former life, but with a faith sustaining it and aims controlling it. She had always known of the breadth and power of his mind, but now as he talked of what he might do, what interests might converge and give results through him, it seemed she really knew him for the first time. In his former researches, so technical and withdrawn, she had seen little of his mind in action: now he was dealing in his own fashion with things she could clearly understand. There were times when his talk affected her like that joy of light one has in emerging into sunshine from a long and tedious cave. He swept things together, flashed unsuspected correlations upon her intelligence, smashed and scattered absurd yet venerated conventions of thought, made undreamt-of courses of action visible in a flare of luminous necessity. And she could follow him and help him. Just as she had hampered him and crippled him, so now she could release him--she fondled that word. She found a preposterous image in her mind that she hid like a disgraceful secret, that she tried to forget, and yet its stupendous, its dreamlike absurdity had something in it that shaped her delight as nothing else could do; she was, she told herself--hawking with an archangel!... These were her moods of exaltation. And she was sure she had never loved her man before, that this was indeed her beginning. It was as if she had just found him.... Perhaps, she thought, true lovers keep on finding each other all through their lives. And he too had discovered her. All the host of Marjories he had known, the shining, delightful, seductive, wilful, perplexing aspects that had so filled her life, gave place altogether for a time to this steady-eyed woman, lean and warm-wrapped with the valiant heart and the frost-roughened skin. What a fine, strong, ruddy thing she was! How glad he was for this wild adventure in the wilderness, if only because it had made him lie among the rocks and think of her and wait for her and despair of her life and God, and at last see her coming back to him, flushed with effort and calling his name to him out of that whirlwind of snow.... And there was at least one old memory mixed up with all these new and overmastering impressions, the memory of her clear unhesitating voice as it had stabbed into his life again long years ago, minute and bright in the telephone: "_It's me, you know. It's Marjorie!_" Perhaps after all she had not wasted a moment of his life, perhaps every issue between them had been necessary, and it was good altogether to be turned from the study of crystals to the study of men and women.... And now both their minds were Londonward, where all the tides and driftage and currents of human thought still meet and swirl together. They were full of what they would do when they got back. Marjorie sketched that study to him--in general terms and without the paper-weight--and began to shape the world she would have about it. She meant to be his squaw and body-servant first of all, and then--a mother. Children, she said, are none the worse for being kept a little out of focus. And he was rapidly planning out his approach to the new questions to which he was now to devote his life. "One wants something to hold the work together," he said, and projected a book. "One cannot struggle at large for plain statement and copious and free and courageous statement, one needs a positive attack." He designed a book, which he might write if only for the definition it would give him and with no ultimate publication, which was to be called: "The Limits of Language as a Means of Expression." ... It was to be a pragmatist essay, a sustained attempt to undermine the confidence of all that scholasticism and logic chopping which still lingers like the _sequelæ_ of a disease in our University philosophy. "Those duffers sit in their studies and make a sort of tea of dry old words--and think they're distilling the spirit of wisdom," he said. He proliferated titles for a time, and settled at last on "From Realism to Reality." He wanted to get at that at once; it fretted him to have to hang in the air, day by day, for want of books to quote and opponents to lance and confute. And he wanted to see pictures, too and plays, read novels he had heard of and never read, in order to verify or correct the ideas that were seething in his mind about the qualities of artistic expression. His thought had come out to a conviction that the line to wider human understandings lies through a huge criticism and cleaning up of the existing methods of formulation, as a preliminary to the wider and freer discussion of those religious and social issues our generation still shrinks from. "It's grotesque," he said, "and utterly true that the sanity and happiness of all the world lies in its habits of generalization." There was not even paper for him to make notes or provisional drafts of the new work. He hobbled about the camp fretting at these deprivations. "Marjorie," he said, "we've done our job. Why should we wait here on this frosty shelf outside the world? My leg's getting sounder--if it wasn't for that feeling of ice in it. Why shouldn't we make another sledge from the other bunk and start down--" "To Hammond?" "Why not?" "But the way?" "The valley would guide us. We could do four hours a day before we had to camp. I'm not sure we couldn't try the river. We could drag and carry all our food...." She looked down the wide stretches of the valley. There was the hill they had christened Marjorie Ridge. At least it was familiar. Every night before nightfall if they started there would be a fresh camping place to seek among the snow-drifts, a great heap of wood to cut to last the night. Suppose his leg gave out--when they were already some days away, so that he could no longer go on or she drag him back to the stores. Plainly there would be nothing for it then but to lie down and die together.... And a sort of weariness had come to her as a consequence of two months of half-starved days, not perhaps a failure so much as a reluctance of spirit. "Of course," she said, with a new aspect drifting before her mind, "then--we _could_ eat. We _could_ feed up before we started. We could feast almost!" § 16 "While you were asleep the other night," Trafford began one day as they sat spinning out their mid-day meal, "I was thinking how badly I had expressed myself when I talked to you the other day, and what a queer, thin affair I made of the plans I wanted to carry out. As a matter of fact, they're neither queer nor thin, but they are unreal in comparison with the common things of everyday life, hunger, anger, all the immediate desires. They must be. They only begin when those others are at peace. It's hard to set out these things; they're complicated and subtle, and one cannot simplify without falsehood. I don't want to simplify. The world has gone out of its way time after time through simplifications and short cuts. Save us from epigrams! And when one thinks over what one has said, at a little distance,--one wants to go back to it, and say it all again. I seem to be not so much thinking things out as reviving and developing things I've had growing in my mind ever since we met. It's as though an immense reservoir of thought had filled up in my mind at last and was beginning to trickle over and break down the embankment between us. This conflict that has been going on between our life together and my--my intellectual life; it's only just growing clear in my own mind. Yet it's just as if one turned up a light on something that had always been there.... "It's a most extraordinary thing to think out, Marjorie, that antagonism. Our love has kept us so close together and always our purposes have been--like that." He spread divergent hands. "I've speculated again and again whether there isn't something incurably antagonistic between women (that's _you_ generalized, Marjorie) and men (that's me) directly we pass beyond the conditions of the individualistic struggle. I believe every couple of lovers who've ever married have felt that strain. Yet it's not a difference in kind between us but degree. The big conflict between us has a parallel in a little internal conflict that goes on; there's something of man in every woman and a touch of the feminine in every man. But you're nearer as woman to the immediate personal life of sense and reality than I am as man. It's been so ever since the men went hunting and fighting and the women kept hut, tended the children and gathered roots in the little cultivation close at hand. It's been so perhaps since the female carried and suckled her child and distinguished one male from another. It may be it will always be so. Men were released from that close, continuous touch with physical necessities long before women were. It's only now that women begin to be released. For ages now men have been wandering from field and home and city, over the hills and far away, in search of adventures and fresh ideas and the wells of mystery beyond the edge of the world, but it's only now that the woman comes with them too. Our difference isn't a difference in kind, old Marjorie; it's the difference between the old adventurer and the new feet upon the trail." "We've got to come," said Marjorie. "Oh! you've got to come. No good to be pioneers if the race does not follow. The women are the backbone of the race; the men are just the individuals. Into this Labrador and into all the wild and desolate places of thought and desire, if men come you women have to come too--and bring the race with you. Some day." "A long day, mate of my heart." "Who knows how long or how far? Aren't you at any rate here, dear woman of mine.... (_Surely you are here_)." He went off at a tangent. "There's all those words that seem to mean something and then don't seem to mean anything, that keep shifting to and fro from the deepest significance to the shallowest of claptrap, Socialism, Christianity.... You know,--they aren't anything really, as yet; they are something trying to be.... Haven't I said that before, Marjorie?" She looked round at him. "You said something like that when you were delirious," she answered, after a little pause. "It's one of the ideas that you're struggling with. You go on, old man, and _talk_. We've months--for repetitions." "Well, I mean that all these things are seeking after a sort of co-operation that's greater than our power even of imaginative realization; that's what I mean. The kingdom of Heaven, the communion of saints, the fellowship of men; these are things like high peaks far out of the common life of every day, shining things that madden certain sorts of men to climb. Certain sorts of us! I'm a religious man, I'm a socialistic man. These calls are more to me than my daily bread. I've got something in me more generalizing than most men. I'm more so than many other men and most other women, I'm more socialistic than you...." "You know, Marjorie, I've always felt you're a finer individual than me, I've never had a doubt of it. You're more beautiful by far than I, woman for my man. You've a keener appetite for things, a firmer grip on the substance of life. I love to see you do things, love to see you move, love to watch your hands; you've cleverer hands than mine by far.... And yet--I'm a deeper and bigger thing than you. I reach up to something you don't reach up to.... You're in life--and I'm a little out of it, I'm like one of those fish that began to be amphibian, I go out into something where you don't follow--where you hardly begin to follow. "That's the real perplexity between thousands of men and women.... "It seems to me that the primitive socialism of Christianity and all the stuff of modern socialism that matters is really aiming--almost unconsciously, I admit at times--at one simple end, at the release of the human spirit from the individualistic struggle---- "You used 'release' the other day, Marjorie? Of course, I remember. It's queer how I go on talking after you have understood." "It was just a flash," said Marjorie. "We have intimations. Neither of us really understands. We're like people climbing a mountain in a mist, that thins out for a moment and shows valleys and cities, and then closes in again, before we can recognize them or make out where we are." Trafford thought. "When I talk to you, I've always felt I mustn't be too vague. And the very essence of all this is a vague thing, something we shall never come nearer to it in all our lives than to see it as a shadow and a glittering that escapes again into a mist.... And yet it's everything that matters, everything, the only thing that matters truly and for ever through the whole range of life. And we have to serve it with the keenest thought, the utmost patience, inordinate veracity.... "The practical trouble between your sort and my sort, Marjorie, is the trouble between faith and realization. You demand the outcome. Oh! and I hate to turn aside and realize. I've had to do it for seven years. Damnable years! Men of my sort want to understand. We want to understand, and you ask us to make. We want to understand atoms, ions, molecules, refractions. You ask us to make rubber and diamonds. I suppose it's right that incidentally we should make rubber and diamonds. Finally, I warn you, we will make rubber unnecessary and diamonds valueless. And again we want to understand how people react upon one another to produce social consequences, and you ask us to put it at once into a draft bill for the reform of something or other. I suppose life lies between us somewhere, we're the two poles of truth seeking and truth getting; with me alone it would be nothing but a luminous dream, with you nothing but a scramble in which sooner or later all the lamps would be upset.... But it's ever too much of a scramble yet, and ever too little of a dream. All our world over there is full of the confusion and wreckage of premature realizations. There's no real faith in thought and knowledge yet. Old necessity has driven men so hard that they still rush with a wild urgency--though she goads no more. Greed and haste, and if, indeed, we seem to have a moment's breathing space, then the Gawdsaker tramples us under." "My dear!" cried Marjorie, with a sharp note of amusement. "What _is_ a Gawdsaker?" "Oh," said Trafford, "haven't you heard that before? He's the person who gets excited by any deliberate discussion and gets up wringing his hands and screaming, 'For Gawd's sake, let's _do_ something _now!_' I think they used it first for Pethick Lawrence, that man who did so much to run the old militant suffragettes and burke the proper discussion of woman's future. You know. You used to have 'em in Chelsea--with their hats. Oh! 'Gawdsaking' is the curse of all progress, the hectic consumption that kills a thousand good beginnings. You see it in small things and in great. You see it in my life; Gawdsaking turned my life-work to cash and promotions, Gawdsaking----Look at the way the aviators took to flying for prizes and gate-money, the way pure research is swamped by endowments for technical applications! Then that poor ghost-giant of an idea the socialists have;--it's been treated like one of those unborn lambs they kill for the fine skin of it, made into results before ever it was alive. Was there anything more pitiful? The first great dream and then the last phase! when your Aunt Plessington and the district visitors took and used it as a synonym for Payment in Kind.... It's natural, I suppose, for people to be eager for results, personal and immediate results--the last lesson of life is patience. Naturally they want reality, naturally! They want the individual life, something to handle and feel and use and live by, something of their very own before they die, and they want it now. But the thing that matters for the race, Marjorie, is a very different thing; it is to get the emerging thought process clear and to keep it clear--and to let those other hungers go. We've got to go back to England on the side of that delay, that arrest of interruption, that detached, observant, synthesizing process of the mind, that solvent of difficulties and obsolescent institutions, which is the reality of collective human life. We've got to go back on the side of pure science--literature untrammeled by the preconceptions of the social schemers--art free from the urgency of immediate utility--and a new, a regal, a god-like sincerity in philosophy. And, above all, we've got to stop this Jackdaw buying of yours, my dear, which is the essence of all that is wrong with the world, this snatching at everything, which loses everything worth having in life, this greedy confused realization of our accumulated resources! You're going to be a non-shopping woman now. You're to come out of Bond Street, you and your kind, like Israel leaving the Egyptian flesh-pots. You're going to be my wife and my mate.... Less of this service of things. Investments in comfort, in security, in experience, yes; but not just spending any more...." He broke off abruptly with: "I want to go back and begin." "Yes," said Marjorie, "we will go back," and saw minutely and distantly, and yet as clearly and brightly as if she looked into a concave mirror, that tall and dignified study, a very high room indeed, with a man writing before a fine, long-curtained window and a great lump of rich-glowing Labradorite upon his desk before him holding together an accumulation of written sheets.... She knew exactly the shop in Oxford Street where the stuff for the curtains might be best obtained. § 17 One night Marjorie had been sitting musing before the stove for a long time, and suddenly she said: "I wonder if we shall fail. I wonder if we shall get into a mess again when we are back in London.... As big a mess and as utter a discontent as sent us here...." Trafford was scraping out his pipe, and did not answer for some moments. Then he remarked: "What nonsense!" "But we shall," she said. "Everybody fails. To some extent, we are bound to fail. Because indeed nothing is clear; nothing is a clear issue.... You know--I'm just the old Marjorie really in spite of all these resolutions--the spendthrift, the restless, the eager. I'm a born snatcher and shopper. We're just the same people really." "No," he said, after thought. "You're all Labrador older." "I always _have_ failed," she considered, "when it came to any special temptations, Rag. I can't _stand_ not having a thing!" He made no answer. "And you're still the same old Rag, you know," she went on. "Who weakens into kindness if I cry. Who likes me well-dressed. Who couldn't endure to see me poor." "Not a bit of it. No! I'm a very different Rag with a very different Marjorie. Yes indeed! Things--are graver. Why!--I'm lame for life--and I've a scar. The very _look_ of things is changed...." He stared at her face and said: "You've hidden the looking-glass and you think I haven't noted it----" "It keeps on healing," she interrupted. "And if it comes to that--where's my complexion?" She laughed. "These are just the superficial aspects of the case." "Nothing ever heals completely," he said, answering her first sentence, "and nothing ever goes back to the exact place it held before. We _are_ different, you sun-bitten, frost-bitten wife of mine."... "Character is character," said Marjorie, coming back to her point. "Don't exaggerate conversion, dear. It's not a bit of good pretending we shan't fall away, both of us. Each in our own manner. We shall. We shall, old man. London is still a tempting and confusing place, and you can't alter people fundamentally, not even by half-freezing and half-starving them. You only alter people fundamentally by killing them and replacing them. I shall be extravagant again and forget again, try as I may, and you will work again and fall away again and forgive me again. You know----It's just as though we were each of us not one person, but a lot of persons, who sometimes meet and shout all together, and then disperse and forget and plot against each other...." "Oh, things will happen again," said Trafford, in her pause. "But they will happen again with a difference--after this. With a difference. That's the good of it all.... We've found something here--that makes everything different.... We've found each other, too, dear wife." She thought intently. "I am afraid," she whispered. "But what is there to be afraid of?" "_Myself_." She spoke after a little pause that seemed to hesitate. "At times I wish--oh, passionately!--that I could pray." "Why don't you?" "I don't believe enough--in that. I wish I did." Trafford thought. "People are always so exacting about prayer," he said. "Exacting." "You want to pray--and you can't make terms for a thing you want. I used to think I could. I wanted God to come and demonstrate a bit.... It's no good, Madge.... If God chooses to be silent--you must pray to the silence. If he chooses to live in darkness, you must pray to the night...." "Yes," said Marjorie, "I suppose one must." She thought. "I suppose in the end one does," she said.... § 18 Mixed up with this entirely characteristic theology of theirs and their elaborate planning-out of a new life in London were other strands of thought. Queer memories of London and old times together would flash with a peculiar brightness across their contemplation of the infinities and the needs of mankind. Out of nowhere, quite disconnectedly, would come the human, finite: "Do you remember----?" Two things particularly pressed into their minds. One was the thought of their children, and I do not care to tell how often in the day now they calculated the time in England, and tried to guess to a half mile or so where those young people might be and what they might be doing. "The shops are bright for Christmas now," said Marjorie. "This year Dick was to have had his first fireworks. I wonder if he did. I wonder if he burnt his dear little funny stumps of fingers. I hope not." "Oh, just a little," said Trafford. "I remember how a squib made my glove smoulder and singed me, and how my mother kissed me for taking it like a man. It was the best part of the adventure." "Dick shall burn his fingers when his mother's home to kiss him. But spare his fingers now, Dadda...." The other topic was food. It was only after they had been doing it for a week or so that they remarked how steadily they gravitated to reminiscences, suggestions, descriptions and long discussions of eatables--sound, solid eatables. They told over the particulars of dinners they had imagined altogether forgotten; neither hosts nor conversations seemed to matter now in the slightest degree, but every item in the menu had its place. They nearly quarrelled one day about _hors-d'oeuvre_. Trafford wanted to dwell on them when Marjorie was eager for the soup. "It's niggling with food," said Marjorie. "Oh, but there's no reason," said Trafford, "why you shouldn't take a lot of _hors-d'oeuvre_. Three or four sardines, and potato salad and a big piece of smoked salmon, and some of that Norwegian herring, and so on, and keep the olives by you to pick at. It's a beginning." "It's--it's immoral," said Marjorie, "that's what I feel. If one needs a whet to eat, one shouldn't eat. The proper beginning of a dinner is soup--good, hot, _rich_ soup. Thick soup--with things in it, vegetables and meat and things. Bits of oxtail." "Not peas." "No, not peas. Pea-soup is tiresome. I never knew anything one tired of so soon. I wish we hadn't relied on it so much." "Thick soup's all very well," said Trafford, "but how about that clear stuff they give you in the little pavement restaurants in Paris. You know--_Croûte-au-pot_, with lovely great crusts and big leeks and lettuce leaves and so on! Tremendous aroma of onions, and beautiful little beads of fat! And being a clear soup, you see what there is. That's--interesting. Twenty-five centimes, Marjorie. Lord! I'd give a guinea a plate for it. I'd give five pounds for one of those jolly white-metal tureens full--you know, _full_, with little drops all over the outside of it, and the ladle sticking out under the lid." "Have you ever tasted turtle soup?" "Rather. They give it you in the City. The fat's--ripping. But they're rather precious with it, you know. For my own part, I don't think soup should be _doled_ out. I always liked the soup we used to get at the Harts'; but then they never give you enough, you know--not nearly enough." "About a tablespoonful," said Marjorie. "It's mocking an appetite." "Still there's things to follow," said Trafford.... They discussed the proper order of a dinner very carefully. They decided that sorbets and ices were not only unwholesome, but nasty. "In London," said Trafford, "one's taste gets--vitiated."... They weighed the merits of French cookery, modern international cookery, and produced alternatives. Trafford became very eloquent about old English food. "Dinners," said Trafford, "should be feasting, not the mere satisfaction of a necessity. There should be--_amplitude_. I remember a recipe for a pie; I think it was in one of those books that man Lucas used to compile. If I remember rightly, it began with: 'Take a swine and hew it into gobbets.' Gobbets! That's something like a beginning. It was a big pie with tiers and tiers of things, and it kept it up all the way in that key.... And then what could be better than prime British-fed roast beef, reddish, just a shade on the side of underdone, and not too finely cut. Mutton can't touch it." "Beef is the best," she said. "Then our English cold meat again. What can equal it? Such stuff as they give in a good country inn, a huge joint of beef--you cut from it yourself, you know as much as you like--with mustard, pickles, celery, a tankard of stout, let us say. Pressed beef, such as they'll give you at the Reform, too, that's good eating for a man. With chutney, and then old cheese to follow. And boiled beef, with little carrots and turnips and a dumpling or so. Eh?" "Of course," said Marjorie, "one must do justice to a well-chosen turkey, a _fat_ turkey." "Or a good goose, for the matter of that--with honest, well-thought-out stuffing. I like the little sausages round the dish of a turkey, too; like cherubs they are, round the feet of a Madonna.... There's much to be said for sausage, Marjorie. It concentrates." Sausage led to Germany. "I'm not one of those patriots," he was saying presently, "who run down other countries by way of glorifying their own. While I was in Germany I tasted many good things. There's their Leberwurst; it's never bad, and, at its best, it's splendid. It's only a fool would reproach Germany with sausage. Devonshire black-pudding, of course, is the master of any Blutwurst, but there's all those others on the German side, Frankfurter, big reddish sausage stuff again with great crystalline lumps of white fat. And how well they cook their rich hashes, and the thick gravies they make. Curious, how much better the cooking of Teutonic peoples is than the cooking of the South Europeans! It's as if one needed a colder climate to brace a cook to his business. The Frenchman and the Italian trifle and stimulate. It's as if they'd never met a hungry man. No German would have thought of _soufflé_. Ugh! it's vicious eating. There's much that's fine, though, in Austria and Hungary. I wish I had travelled in Hungary. Do you remember how once or twice we've lunched at that Viennese place in Regent Street, and how they've given us stuffed Paprika, eh?" "That was a good place. I remember there was stewed beef once with a lot of barley--such _good_ barley!" "Every country has its glories. One talks of the cookery of northern countries and then suddenly one thinks of curry, with lots of rice." "And lots of chicken!" "And lots of hot curry powder, _very_ hot. And look at America! Here's a people who haven't any of them been out of Europe for centuries, and yet they have as different a table as you could well imagine. There's a kind of fish, planked shad, that they cook on resinous wood--roast it, I suppose. It's substantial, like nothing else in the world. And how good, too, with turkey are sweet potatoes. Then they have such a multitude of cereal things; stuff like their buckwheat cakes, all swimming in golden syrup. And Indian corn, again!" "Of course, corn is being anglicized. I've often given you corn--latterly, before we came away." "That sort of separated grain--out of tins. Like chicken's food! It's not the real thing. You should eat corn on the cob--American fashion! It's fine. I had it when I was in the States. You know, you take it up in your hands by both ends--you've seen the cobs?--and gnaw." The craving air of Labrador at a temperature of -20° Fahrenheit, and methodically stinted rations, make great changes in the outward qualities of the mind. "_I'd_ like to do that," said Marjorie. Her face flushed a little at a guilty thought, her eyes sparkled. She leant forward and spoke in a confidential undertone. "_I'd--I'd like to eat a mutton chop like that_," said Marjorie. § 20 One morning Marjorie broached something she had had on her mind for several days. "Old man," she said, "I can't stand it any longer. I'm going to thaw my scissors and cut your hair.... And then you'll have to trim that beard of yours." "You'll have to dig out that looking-glass." "I know," said Marjorie. She looked at him. "You'll never be a pretty man again," she said. "But there's a sort of wild splendour.... And I love every inch and scrap of you...." Their eyes met. "We're a thousand deeps now below the look of things," said Trafford. "We'd love each other minced." She broke into that smiling laugh of hers. "Oh! it won't come to _that_," she said. "Trust my housekeeping!" CHAPTER THE FIFTH THE TRAIL TO THE SEA § 1 One astonishing afternoon in January a man came out of the wilderness to Lonely Hut. He was a French-Indian half-breed, a trapper up and down the Green River and across the Height of Land to Sea Lake. He arrived in a sort of shy silence, and squatted amiably on a log to thaw. "Much snow," he said, "and little fur." After he had sat at their fire for an hour and eaten and drunk, his purpose in coming thawed out. He explained he had just come on to them to see how they were. He was, he said, a planter furring; he had a line of traps, about a hundred and twenty miles in length. The nearest trap in his path before he turned northward over the divide was a good forty miles down the river. He had come on from there. Just to have a look. His name, he said, was Louis Napoleon Partington. He had carried a big pack, a rifle and a dead marten,--they lay beside him--and out of his shapeless mass of caribou skins and woolen clothing and wrappings, peeped a genial, oily, brown face, very dirty, with a strand of blue-black hair across one eye, irregular teeth in its friendly smile, and little, squeezed-up eyes. Conversation developed. There had been doubts of his linguistic range at first, but he had an understanding expression, and his English seemed guttural rather than really bad. He was told the tremendous story of Trafford's leg; was shown it, and felt it; he interpolated thick and whistling noises to show how completely he followed their explanations, and then suddenly he began a speech that made all his earlier taciturnity seem but the dam of a great reservoir of mixed and partly incomprehensible English. He complimented Marjorie so effusively and relentlessly and shamelessly as to produce a pause when he had done. "Yes," he said, and nodded to button up the whole. He sucked his pipe, well satisfied with his eloquence. Trafford spoke in his silence. "We are coming down," he said. ("I thought, perhaps----" whispered Louis Napoleon.) "Yes," said Trafford, "we are coming down with you. Why not? We can get a sledge over the snow now? It's hard? I mean a flat sledge--like _this_. See? Like this." He got up and dragged Marjorie's old arrangement into view. "We shall bring all the stuff we can down with us, grub, blankets--not the tent, it's too bulky; we'll leave a lot of the heavy gear." "You'd have to leave the tent," said Louis Napoleon. "I _said_ leave the tent." "And you'd have to leave ... some of those tins." "Nearly all of them." "And the ammunition, there;--except just a little." "Just enough for the journey down." "Perhaps a gun?" "No, not a gun. Though, after all,--well, we'd return one of the guns. Give it you to bring back here." "Bring back here?" "If you liked." For some moments Louis Napoleon was intently silent. When he spoke his voice was guttural with emotion. "After," he said thoughtfully and paused, and then resolved to have it over forthwith, "all you leave will be mine? Eh?" Trafford said that was the idea. Louis Napoleon's eye brightened, but his face preserved its Indian calm. "I will take you right to Hammond's," he said, "Where they have dogs. And then I can come back here...." § 2 They had talked out nearly every particular of their return before they slept that night; they yarned away three hours over the first generous meal that any one of them had eaten for many weeks. Louis Napoleon stayed in the hut as a matter of course, and reposed with snores and choking upon Marjorie's sledge and within a yard of her. It struck her as she lay awake and listened that the housemaids in Sussex Square would have thought things a little congested for a lady's bedroom, and then she reflected that after all it wasn't much worse than a crowded carriage in an all-night train from Switzerland. She tried to count how many people there had been in that compartment, and failed. How stuffy that had been--the smell of cheese and all! And with that, after a dream that she was whaling and had harpooned a particularly short-winded whale she fell very peacefully into oblivion. Next day was spent in the careful preparation of the two sledges. They intended to take a full provision for six weeks, although they reckoned that with good weather they ought to be down at Hammond's in four. The day after was Sunday, and Louis Napoleon would not look at the sledges or packing. Instead he held a kind of religious service which consisted partly in making Trafford read aloud out of a very oily old New Testament he produced, a selected passage from the book of Corinthians, and partly in moaning rather than singing several hymns. He was rather disappointed that they did not join in with him. In the afternoon he heated some water, went into the tent with it and it would appear partially washed his face. In the evening, after they had supped, he discussed religion, being curious by this time about their beliefs and procedure. He spread his mental and spiritual equipment before them very artlessly. Their isolation and their immense concentration on each other had made them sensitive to personal quality, and they listened to the broken English and the queer tangential starts into new topics of this dirty mongrel creature with the keenest appreciation of its quality. It was inconsistent, miscellaneous, simple, honest, and human. It was as touching as the medley in the pocket of a dead schoolboy. He was superstitious and sceptical and sensual and spiritual, and very, very earnest. The things he believed, even if they were just beliefs about the weather or drying venison or filling pipes, he believed with emotion. He flushed as he told them. For all his intellectual muddle they felt he knew how to live honestly and die if need be very finely. He was more than a little distressed at their apparent ignorance of the truths of revealed religion as it is taught in the Moravian schools upon the coast, and indeed it was manifest that he had had far more careful and infinitely more sincere religious teaching than either Trafford or Marjorie. For a time the missionary spirit inspired him, and then he quite forgot his solicitude for their conversion in a number of increasingly tall anecdotes about hunters and fishermen, illustrating at first the extreme dangers of any departure from a rigid Sabbatarianism, but presently becoming just stories illustrating the uncertainty of life. Thence he branched off to the general topic of life upon the coast and the relative advantages of "planter" and fisherman. And then with a kindling eye he spoke of women, and how that some day he would marry. His voice softened, and he addressed himself more particularly to Marjorie. He didn't so much introduce the topic of the lady as allow the destined young woman suddenly to pervade his discourse. She was, it seemed, a servant, an Esquimaux girl at the Moravian Mission station at Manivikovik. He had been plighted to her for nine years. He described a gramophone he had purchased down at Port Dupré and brought back to her three hundred miles up the coast--it seemed to Marjorie an odd gift for an Esquimaux maiden--and he gave his views upon its mechanism. He said God was with the man who invented the gramophone "truly." They would have found one a very great relief to the tediums of their sojourn at Lonely Hut. The gramophone he had given his betrothed possessed records of the Rev. Capel Gumm's preaching and of Madame Melba's singing, a revival hymn called "Sowing the Seed," and a comic song--they could not make out his pronunciation of the title--that made you die with laughter. "It goes gobble, gobble, gobble," he said, with a solemn appreciative reflection of those distant joys. "It's good to be jolly at times," he said with his bright eyes scanning Marjorie's face a little doubtfully, as if such ideas were better left for week-day expression. § 3 Their return was a very different journey from the toilsome ascent of the summer. An immense abundance of snow masked the world, snow that made them regret acutely they had not equipped themselves with ski. With ski and a good circulation, a man may go about Labrador in winter, six times more easily than by the canoes and slow trudging of summer travel. As it was they were glad of their Canadian snow shoes. One needs only shelters after the Alpine Club hut fashion, and all that vast solitary country would be open in the wintertime. Its shortest day is no shorter than the shortest day in Cumberland or Dublin. This is no place to tell of the beauty and wonder of snow and ice, the soft contours of gentle slopes, the rippling of fine snow under a steady wind, the long shadow ridges of shining powder on the lee of trees and stones and rocks, the delicate wind streaks over broad surfaces like the marks of a chisel in marble, the crests and cornices, the vivid brightness of edges in the sun, the glowing yellowish light on sunlit surfaces, the long blue shadows, the flush of sunset and sunrise and the pallid unearthly desolation of snow beneath the moon. Nor need the broken snow in woods and amidst tumbled stony slopes be described, nor the vast soft overhanging crests on every outstanding rock beside the icebound river, nor the huge stalactites and stalagmites of green-blue ice below the cliffs, nor trees burdened and broken by frost and snow, nor snow upon ice, nor the blue pools at mid-day upon the surface of the ice-stream. Across the smooth wind-swept ice of the open tarns they would find a growth of ice flowers, six-rayed and complicated, more abundant and more beautiful than the Alpine summer flowers. But the wind was very bitter, and the sun had scarcely passed its zenith before the thought of fuel and shelter came back into their minds. As they approached Partington's tilt, at the point where his trapping ground turned out of the Green River gorge, he became greatly obsessed by the thought of his traps. He began to talk of all that he might find in them, all he hoped to find, and the "dallars" that might ensue. They slept the third night, Marjorie within and the two men under the lee of the little cabin, and Partington was up and away before dawn to a trap towards the ridge. He had infected Marjorie and Trafford with a sympathetic keenness, but when they saw his killing of a marten that was still alive in its trap, they suddenly conceived a distaste for trapping. They insisted they must witness no more. They would wait while he went to a trap.... "Think what he's doing!" said Trafford, as they sat together under the lee of a rock waiting for him. "We imagined this was a free, simple-souled man leading an unsophisticated life on the very edge of humanity, and really he is as much a dependant of your woman's world, Marjorie, as any sweated seamstress in a Marylebone slum. Lord! how far those pretty wasteful hands of women reach! All these poor broken and starving beasts he finds and slaughters are, from the point of view of our world, just furs. Furs! Poor little snarling unfortunates! Their pelts will be dressed and prepared because women who have never dreamt of this bleak wilderness desire them. They will get at last into Regent Street shops, and Bond Street shops, and shops in Fifth Avenue and in Paris and Berlin, they will make delightful deep muffs, with scent and little bags and powder puffs and all sorts of things tucked away inside, and long wraps for tall women, and jolly little frames of soft fur for pretty faces, and dainty coats and rugs for expensive little babies in Kensington Gardens."... "I wonder," reflected Marjorie, "if I could buy one perhaps. As a memento." He looked at her with eyes of quiet amusement. "Oh!" she cried, "I didn't mean to! The old Eve!" "The old Adam is with her," said Trafford. "He's wanting to give it her.... We don't cease to be human, Madge, you know, because we've got an idea now of just where we are. I wonder, which would you like? I dare say we could arrange it." "No," said Marjorie, and thought. "It would be jolly," she said. "All the same, you know--and just to show you--I'm not going to let you buy me that fur." "I'd like to," said Trafford. "No," said Marjorie, with a decision that was almost fierce. "I mean it. I've got more to do than you in the way of reforming. It's just because always I've let my life be made up of such little things that I mustn't. Indeed I mustn't. Don't make things hard for me." He looked at her for a moment. "Very well," he said. "But I'd have liked to."... "You're right," he added, five seconds later. "Oh! I'm right." § 4 One day Louis Napoleon sent them on along the trail while he went up the mountain to a trap among the trees. He rejoined them--not as his custom was, shouting inaudible conversation for the last hundred yards or so, but in silence. They wondered at that, and at the one clumsy gesture that flourished something darkly grey at them. What had happened to the man? Whatever he had caught he was hugging it as one hugs a cat, and stroking it. "Ugh!" he said deeply, drawing near. "Oh!" A solemn joy irradiated his face, and almost religious ecstasy found expression. He had got a silver fox, a beautifully marked silver fox, the best luck of Labrador! One goes for years without one, in hope, and when it comes, it pays the trapper's debts, it clears his life--for years! They tried poor inadequate congratulation.... As they sat about the fire that night a silence came upon Louis Napoleon. It was manifest that his mind was preoccupied. He got up, walked about, inspected the miracle of fur that had happened to him, returned, regarded them. "'M'm," he said, and stroked his chin with his forefinger. A certain diffidence and yet a certain dignity of assurance mingled in his manner. It wasn't so much a doubt of his own correctness as of some possible ignorance of the finer shades on their part that might embarrass him. He coughed a curt preface, and intimated he had a request to make. Behind the Indian calm of his face glowed tremendous feeling, like the light of a foundry furnace shining through chinks in the door. He spoke in a small flat voice, exercising great self-control. His wish, he said, in view of all that had happened, was a little thing.... This was nearly a perfect day for him, and one thing only remained.... "Well," he said, and hung. "Well," said Trafford. He plunged. Just simply this. Would they give him the brandy bottle and let him get drunk? Mr. Grenfell was a good man, a very good man, but he had made brandy dear--dear beyond the reach of common men altogether--along the coast.... He explained, dear bundle of clothes and dirt! that he was always perfectly respectable when he was drunk. § 5 It seemed strange to Trafford that now that Marjorie was going home, a wild impatience to see her children should possess her. So long as it had been probable that they would stay out their year in Labrador, that separation had seemed mainly a sentimental trouble; now at times it was like an animal craving. She would talk of them for hours at a stretch, and when she was not talking he could see her eyes fixed ahead, and knew that she was anticipating a meeting. And for the first time it seemed the idea of possible misadventure troubled her.... They reached Hammond's in one and twenty days from Lonely Hut, three days they had been forced to camp because of a blizzard, and three because Louis Napoleon was rigidly Sabbatarian. They parted from him reluctantly, and the next day Hammond's produced its dogs, twelve stout but extremely hungry dogs, and sent the Traffords on to the Green River pulp-mills, where there were good beds and a copious supply of hot water. Thence they went to Manivikovik, and thence the new Marconi station sent their inquiries home, inquiries that were answered next day with matter-of-fact brevity: "Everyone well, love from all." When the operator hurried with that to Marjorie she received it off-handedly, glanced at it carelessly, asked him to smoke, remarked that wireless telegraphy was a wonderful thing, and then, in the midst of some unfinished commonplace about the temperature, broke down and wept wildly and uncontrollably.... § 6 Then came the long, wonderful ride southward day after day along the coast to Port Dupré, a ride from headland to headland across the frozen bays behind long teams of straining, furry dogs, that leapt and yelped as they ran. Sometimes over the land the brutes shirked and loitered and called for the whip; they were a quarrelsome crew to keep waiting; but across the sea-ice they went like the wind, and downhill the komatic chased their waving tails. The sledges swayed and leapt depressions, and shot athwart icy stretches. The Traffords, spectacled and wrapped to their noses, had all the sensations then of hunting an unknown quarry behind a pack of wolves. The snow blazed under the sun, out to sea beyond the ice the water glittered, and it wasn't so much air they breathed as a sort of joyous hunger. One day their teams insisted upon racing. Marjorie's team was the heavier, her driver more skillful, and her sledge the lighter, and she led in that wild chase from start to finish, but ever and again Trafford made wild spurts that brought him almost level. Once, as he came alongside, she heard him laughing joyously. "Marjorie," he shouted, "d'you remember? Old donkey cart?" Her team yawed away, and as he swept near again, behind his pack of whimpering, straining, furious dogs, she heard him shouting, "You know, that old cart! Under the overhanging trees! So thick and green they met overhead! You know! When you and I had our first talk together! In the lane. It wasn't so fast as this, eh?"... § 7 At Port Dupré they stayed ten days--days that Marjorie could only make tolerable by knitting absurd garments for the children (her knitting was atrocious), and then one afternoon they heard the gun of the _Grenfell_, the new winter steamer from St. John's, signalling as it came in through the fog, very slowly, from that great wasteful world of men and women beyond the seaward grey. THE END * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation and hyphenation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. Words with variable spelling have been retained. The following spelling and typographical emendations have been made: p. 22: broken text "were they living and moving realities" was completed to "were they living and moving realities when those others were at home again?" p. 34: protruberant replaced with protuberant ("large protuberant") p. 38: pay replaced with play ("what the play was") p. 40: Majorie replaced with Marjorie ("Marjorie loved singing") p. 40: feut replaced with felt ("that he felt") p. 60: téte-à-tête replaced with tête-à-tête ("silent tête-à-tête") p. 70: foundamental replaced with fundamental ("three fundamental things") p. 76: fina replaced with final ("working for her final") p. 88: challenege replaced with challenge ("challenge inattentive auditors") p. 92: presumbly replaced with presumably ("presumably Billy's") p. 115: ino replaced with into ("into the air") p. 141: himse_f replaced with himself ("ask himself") p. 147: contradication replaced with contradiction ("any sort of contradiction") p. 167: calcalculated replaced with calculated ("indeed calculated") p. 223: hestitated replaced with hesitated ("She hesitated") p. 230: intriques replaced with intrigues ("culminations and intrigues") p. 242: America replaced with American ("American minor poet") p. 265: acquiscent replaced with acquiescent ("by no means acquiescent") p. 313: It's replaced with Its ("Its end was the Agenda Club") p. 316: regime replaced with régime ("the new régime") p. 341: number of section 15 replaced with 16 p. 342: gestulated replaced with gesticulated ("Solomonson gesticulated") p. 342: The paragraphs starting with: "It was all" and "You said good-bye" were merged p. 346: The paragraphs starting with: "They aren't arranged" and "They'd get everything" were merged p. 349: devine replaced with divine ("by right divine of genius") p. 368: presumptious replaced with presumptuous ("extremely presumptuous") p. 376: mispelling replaced with misspelling ("as much misspelling as") p. 376: The replaced with They ("They gave dinners") p. 378: The replaced with They ("They could play") p. 395: Docter replaced with Doctor ("Doctor Codger") p. 396: authoritive replaced with authoritative ("authoritative imagine") p. 399: shuldered replaced with shouldered ("As he shouldered") p. 403: wet replaced with went ("Trafford's eyes went from") p. 405: subthe replaced with subtle ("skilful, subtle appreciation") p. 426: fine replaced with find ("find God") p. 427: chidren replaced with children ("of having children at all") p. 441: serere replaced with serene ("brightly serene") p. 442: tundura replaced with tundra ("wide stretches of tundra") p. 457: rucksac replaced with rucksack ("chunks of dry paper, the rucksack") p. 481: realties replaced with realities ("expression of the realities") p. 485: the duplicate phrase "He stared at her" was removed p. 493: think replaced with thing ("salvation is a collective thing") p. 504: realty replaced with reality ("of sense and reality") p. 509: greal replaced with great ("a great lump") p. 512: caluclated replaced with calculated ("now they calculated") p. 515: travellel replaced with travelled ("I had travelled") p. 518: gutteral replaced with guttural ("seemed guttural") p. 520: gutteral replaced with guttural ("his voice was guttural") p. 524: slaughers replaced with slaughters ("he finds and slaughters")