CHAPTER IV
THE WILDERNESS PRIMEVAL
THE passage of the channel leading into Richmond Gulf was accomplished without adventure, and within the gulf the power boat took a northeasterly direction, passing several small islands. Many wild ducks, gulls and other water fowl and birds flew about the islands, hovered over the water or rested upon the waves.
Presently Kuglutuk turned the boat into the mouth of a river, and ascending the stream for a little distance, against a strong current, made a landing near the foot of a rushing, tumultuous rapid.
“Tom,” declared Remington, when they were ashore, “I’m as hungry as seven bears. Fry some bacon and make some coffee, won’t you, before you pitch the tents?”
“Aye, aye, sir. We’ll put on a fire an’ have un ready in a jiffy. Dan, b’y, bring up the things from the boat.”
“Come fellows, we’ll get our rods up while Tom’s getting dinner,” suggested Remington. “I’m aching to try my luck.”
“Which of these rods shall I use?” asked Paul. “I never used a rod in my life, and I guess you’ll have to show me.”
“Try this one,” selecting a good weight steel fly rod. “That’s got strength, and if you strike a big one you’re not so likely to break it as that lighter one. You’ll be able to handle the lighter one after some practice.”
In the meantime Tom cut a pole about eight feet in length, sharpened the butt, which he jabbed firmly into the earth, inclined it at an angle over a fire which Kuglutuk had kindled with moss and dead sticks, and in such a position that the upper end of the stick came directly over the blaze. On this he hung a kettle of water. Then he sliced bacon. In ten minutes the water had boiled, coffee was made, the kettle removed from the stick, placed close to the fire on the ground, and the bacon sizzling in the pan.
“Oh, cracky!” said Paul, sniffing the air, “that’s the best thing I ever smelled.”
“Doesn’t it smell bully!” exclaimed Remington. “I thought I’d have time to make a cast or two before Tom was ready for us, but he’s been too quick for me.”
“Now,” said Remington, when they were through eating, “we’ll see if there are any hungry fish in that pool.”
Paul looked on while the older sportsmen made one or two casts. Then he attempted it, at first very clumsily, but gradually improving. He was not very enthusiastic, however.
“I don’t see any fun in this,” he said finally.
“Keep at it, and you’ll learn,” encouraged Remington.
At that moment “whiz-z-z” and Ainsworth’s reel fairly hummed, with forty yards of line run out before he could check it—a flash of spray—a great silver bar in the air! The leap was full two feet! Splash! It doubled, demanded more line, fought as only a salmon can fight, the supple steel rod bent and curved, but the angler, his face tense with excitement, held his advantage.
“Good! Bully!” shouted Remington with each play. “Look out! That’s the way! Easy! That’s it!”
Again and again the fish fought for the head of the rapid, but at length, conquered, it was drawn in, and with Remington’s assistance landed—a fine big salmon.
“That was great!” exclaimed Paul. “Guess there is some fun in it after all.”
“Fun! Just strike one, and you’ll say it’s the best ever!” Ainsworth was justly proud.
A few minutes later, “Whiz-z-z” again, and “Whiz-z-z!” Two silver flashes! Two fountains of spray! Two mighty splashes! Paul and Remington had each hooked a salmon at nearly the same instant! And then there was fun! Ainsworth could hardly contain himself as he watched the play, shouting directions and cautions to one and the other. There was danger of getting their lines tangled when both fish darted up stream at once, or made dives for the bank at the same time, in efforts to free themselves. Finally Paul’s fish rushed in upon him, gained slack line, shook loose the hook and was free.
Paul could have cried with disappointment and vexation.
“Just my luck!” he exclaimed, as he saw Remington land a fine salmon.
“Oh, no, don’t get discouraged. You did mighty well for the first time,” encouraged Remington.
“I notice you landed yours, all right,” said Paul pettishly.
“But I may lose the next one. The uncertainty of whether you’ll land them or not after you’ve hooked them is half the fun.”
“I can’t see that–”
“Whiz-z-z”—away went his line again before he could finish. For half an hour, directed by Remington, he played the fish, and was at length rewarded with as fine a salmon as Ainsworth’s—considerably larger than Remington’s.
“What fun! Oh, but it’s great!” he exclaimed as, all a-tremble with excitement, he examined his catch.
“They’re here all right, and they’re taking flies. We’ve got all the fish Tom can take care of today, and we’ve had a week’s fun in two hours. What do you fellows say to climbing that barren hill?” suggested Remington. “I’m anxious to see what the country is like behind those cliffs.”
Paul was loath to go. The sport had set his blood a-tingling with excitement and he would much have preferred to remain behind and fish, but Ainsworth agreed with Remington, and his sense of courtesy to his host bade him join them.
“We’ll stretch our lines to dry before we go, Paul. Never put your line up wet or it will rot, and some day you’ll lose a fine fish,” advised Remington, who had noticed Paul lean his rod against a tree.
Their lines stretched, they wandered up the defile down which the river plunged in its mad impatience to reach the sea. Here they were in a dark forest of stunted spruce, but very quickly, as they began the ascent of the hill, trees gave way to straggling brush, and brush at length to bare rocks.
“There’s a view for you,” said Remington when the summit was reached.
“Magnificent!” exclaimed Ainsworth.
“Pretty rough country.”
“But grand! Stupendously grand!”
To the west, a shimmering vista, lay Hudson Bay; to the east, to the north, to the south, stretched a tumbled, boundless mass of rocky ridges, interspersed with starved forests of spruce. Here and there a lake sparkled in the distance. Below them the river, a twisting, winding thread of silver, coursed down to the sea.
The sensations that had come to Paul in Hudson Strait when he first beheld the distant wilderness and the sailless sea, thrilled him again—first fear and shrinking, then an inward, inexplicable sense of power and freedom.
“And no one lives there,” he said, more to himself than to his companions.
“No one but Indians,” said Remington. “Eskimos on the coast. They all live as close to nature as man can live, and they fight that wilderness pretty constantly for existence. It’s a land of the survival of the fittest.”
Later, on other occasions during their stay in Richmond Gulf, Paul visited the barren hill. He would steal away alone, and for an hour at a time sit upon its rocky summit, and revel in the rugged beauties of the landscape. Here he felt a something well up within him, a desire to do something—an indescribable longing he could not define.
The lure and the power of the wilderness were exerting their influence. This was the world just as God had made it, untouched by the hand of man. Rugged mountains, patches of green forests, sparkling lakes, the distant sea, the blue sky, and silence. There were no brick walls to limit the vision, no tall chimneys belching out smudges of black smoke to defile the atmosphere, no rushing crowd to distract. Nowhere does one get so close to God as in the wilderness. The wilderness is the temple of pure thoughts, of high ambitions. Here man’s soul expands as nowhere else on earth.
When the three returned to camp they found the tents set up and everything snug and in order. A fragrant and cozy seat of spruce boughs had been arranged by Dan and Kuglutuk before a roaring log fire, and, by no means the least attractive of the preparations, a delicious supper of salmon awaited them, which they attacked with a will, for the exercise had given them an unusual appetite.
“I never ate such fish before,” Paul declared, between mouthfuls.
When supper was finished the two men lighted cigars, and chatted, while Paul reclined upon the boughs and gazed into the blaze. Presently Tom and Dan joined them, and Dan, producing his harmonica, began to play a soft, low air, while Tom cut some tobacco from a plug, rolled it between the palms of his hands, stuffed it into a pipe, lighted it with a brand from the fire and handing the plug to Kuglutuk who followed his example, contentedly settled back to smoke and enjoy the warmth, for the evening was chilly.
“Them was fine salmon you gets this evenin’,” Tom remarked.
“Yes,” said Remington, “fine ones, and I hope we’ll have more tomorrow.”
“Dandies!” broke in Paul, “and dandy fun landing them!”
“Yes, ’tis rare sport landin’ un. And does you like troutin’?”
“Yes, to be sure. We expected to get trout here,” answered Remington.
“Th’ husky’s tellin’ me they’s plenty to be had a bit up the streams, sir, and big uns—wonderful big uns, by his tell, sir.”
“We’ll have to try them tomorrow.”
“Where did you learn to speak Eskimo, Tom?” asked Ainsworth.
“Where’d I learn un, sir? I never learned un. I allus knew un. I were born, sir, on the Labrador. My mother were a woman of Zoar, sir, an’ a half-breed. They talks mostly husky thereabouts. The first words she ever says to me, sir, was husky, an’ when I were a wee lad she talks all her baby talk to me in husky.”
“But your father was a white man?”
“Oh, aye, sir, he were from Conception Bay. He were down on the Labrador fishin’, an’ he meets my mother, an’ likes she, an’ th’ missionary marries un. Then he stays at Zoar an’ traps in winter, an’ there I were born, sir.”
“Are your parents still living, then?”
“Oh, no, sir. They both dies when I were a bit of a lad, sir—seven year old or thereabouts. ’Twere in winter, an’ my father is out to his traps. My mother expects him home in th’ evenin’, an’ when it gets dark an’ he never comes she’s much worried, for he’s always before comin’ when he’s promisin’, sir. He were a wonderful true man t’ keep his word, sir, even t’ wallopin’ me when I does things he’s denied me to do, an’ is deservin’ th’ wallopin’.
“Well, as th’ evenin’ gets on an’ he’s not comin’, my mother cries a bit an’ says somethin’s been befallin’ he, sir, out in the bush, an’ when she rouses me from sleep before the break of day th’ next mornin’, she’s in a wonderful bad state worryin’. She tells me she’s goin’ t’ look for he, an’ I’m t’ watch th’ baby.
“She goes, sir, an’ she don’t come back that day or that night or th’ next day. Snow comes fallin’ thick an’ th’ weather grows dreadful nasty. Th’ baby cries most o’ th’ time, an’ I carries un some. I knows th’ baby’s hungry, but I has no way t’ feed un. After awhile it stops cryin’ when I lays un on th’ bed.
“That were a wonderful cold night, sir. When mornin’ comes th’ baby’s still quiet, an’ I says to myself, ‘I’ll let un sleep.’
“Th’ bread’s all gone, an’ I only has a bit of salt fish t’ eat, an’ th’ fire I puts on in th’ stove burns slow. But th’ snow’s stopped in th’ night.
“Th’ baby don’t cry no more, but I does, for I don’t know why my father an’ mother don’t come, an’ I’m cryin’ when I hears dogs outside. I wipes away th’ tears quick, for I’m wantin’ no one t’ catch me cryin’.
“Then in comes th’ Moravian missionary from Nain, a wonderful kind man. He asks where my mother is. I tells he how my mother goes away to look for my father an’ never comes back, an’ th’ hard time I has. That th’ baby were hungry, but she’s sleepin’ now.
“He goes an’ looks at un, an’ then very quiet he covers un over with th’ blanket, an’ puttin’ his hand on my head an’ lookin’ in my eyes, he says: ‘Is you brave, lad? We all has troubles, lad, an’ you must be brave to meet yours.’
“Then he calls old Muklutuk, his driver, to bring in some grub. They puts on a good fire, an’ gives me a plenty t’ eat, an’ goes away sayin’ they’ll be back by night.
“When they comes back the missionary holds me up to him, and he says, very kind: ‘Lad, I’m goin’ to take you to a new home, for your father and mother has been called away to heaven by th’ Lord. He’ll be needin’ ’em there, an’ they can’t come back t’ you, but th’ Lord wants me t’ take you with me.’
“I were wonderful lonesome when he says that, at not seein’ mother an’ father again, but I holds back th’ tears, for mother has often been tellin’ me that some day th’ Lord might be callin’ she or father away t’ live in heaven, an’ not t’ cry or feel bad about un, for ’t would be right, as everything th’ Lord done were right.
“Well, th’ missionary takes me on his komatik t’ th’ station where he lives, an’ th’ women there cries over me an’ makes a wonderful lot o’ me, an’ every one there is wonderful kind.”
“What had happened to your father and mother?” asked Ainsworth, after a pause.
“I were comin’ t’ that. He’d been meetin’ with an accident, his gun goin’ off an’ shootin’ his foot off. She finds him in th’ snow, an’ tries t’ carry him home, but ’t were too much for she, an’ when it comes on t’ snow again she sticks to him, an’ they both freezes t’ death. Leastwise that’s what th’ missionary thinks, for he finds un froze stone dead. Mother has her arms around father, holdin’ he close to her bosom, as though tryin’ to keep he warm.
“So you sees, sir, how I come t’ speak th’ Eskimo lingo. My mother were a half-breed of th’ Labrador.”
“The baby?” asked Paul, much moved by the story. “What became of that?”
“The baby were dead for a long while ere th’ missionary comes.”
Tom rose and threw some fresh wood on the fire, cut some fresh tobacco from his plug, refilled his pipe, and sat down again.
“But you live in Newfoundland now, Tom?” Remington asked.
“Oh, aye, sir. My father’s brother comes down t’ the Labrador fishing the next summer, and takes me home with he. I’d like wonderful well for you t’ meet my woman, and my little lad and lass, sir. There’s no likelier lad and lass on the coast, sir. They’re wonderful likely, sir.”
Dan resumed his soft music on the harmonica. Twilight gave way to darkness. Beyond the campfire’s circle of light the forest lay black. Below them the rapid roared. In the North the aurora flashed up its gorgeous glory.
“Well,” said Remington at length, rising, “I reckon it’s time to turn in for we want to be out early and make the most of our time.”
His warm sleeping bag seemed very cozy to Paul when he crawled into it, this first night he had ever spent in camp, the perfume of his spruce bough bed very sweet, and quickly he fell into deep and restful slumber, to be suddenly awakened by the sharp report of a rifle.
CHAPTER V
WRECKED
IT was broad daylight. Remington and Ainsworth were gone. Bang! Bang! Bang! The shots came in quick succession, and not far above the camp. Paul was frightened for a moment, then highly excited. He disentangled himself from his sleeping bag, sprang to the front of the tent and shouted to Tom, who was unconcernedly cooking breakfast:
“What is it? What’s up?”
“Bears.”
He drew on his clothes as quickly as possible, grabbed his rifle and ran in the direction of the shooting. A little way up the ravine he came upon Remington, Ainsworth, Dan and Kuglutuk, surveying the carcasses of two polar bears.
“Hello, Paul, you’re a little late for the fun,” greeted Remington.
“Got two,” said Ainsworth.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“No time for that. Dan was poking around up here and saw them coming, and we had to hustle as it was.”
“It would only have taken a minute to call me.”
“Yes, but that would have been a minute too long, if they had happened to get a sniff of camp, and only for the north breeze they would have anyway, and been off before Dan saw them.”
“Did they put up any fight?”
“Didn’t have a chance. We got them quick. Close shot and no trick at all. Nothing like your shot.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t up earlier. What were they doing on land? I thought they kept to the ice.”
“No, we’re liable to see them anywhere on these shores. Guess they were going down to catch a salmon breakfast in our pool at the foot of the rapid.”
They saw no more bears while encamped on Richmond Gulf, though they caught plenty of salmon and trout, and now and again took excursions back into the hills and along the streams where ptarmigans were found, or took advantage of excellent duck and goose shooting on near-by lakes. Mallards and black ducks were plentiful, great flocks of wavies flew overhead and the Canada gray goose was fairly numerous.
The sport was so good, in fact, that the week which they had originally planned to remain ashore lengthened into two, and it was a fortnight after their arrival when reluctantly they broke camp one morning and returned to the North Star, carrying with them enough salmon and trout to supply both cabin and forecastle for several days.
“Glad to see you! Glad to see you!” greeted Captain Bluntt as they drew alongside the ship. “Good sport? Have a good time?”
“Bully!” answered Remington. “Never better. Salmon and trout hungry for flies, and we got two bears in the bargain.”
“Good! Good, sir! And how did you find it, youngster?”
“Fine and dandy,” answered Paul. “Best time I ever had in my life.”
“Good! Good! Glad you’re aboard, Mr. Remington—glad you’re aboard. Barometer falling rapidly—outlook for bad weather—northeast blow, I’m thinkin’. Bad anchorage here. We’ll make for open sea. Get right away. Growing a bit nervous about it, sir—just a bit nervous.”
“All right, Captain,” said Remington. “We’re ready to go.”
Anchor was weighed, and slowly the North Star felt her way out of the uncertain waters toward the wide bosom of Hudson Bay.
“Now,” asked Captain Bluntt, when they had gained “elbow room,” as he expressed it, “what’s your pleasure, sir?”
“Well,” said Remington, “we want to have a little walrus hunting, we’d like to pick up another bear or two, and I’m mighty anxious to get a crack at caribou before we leave the country. Kuglutuk says, though, that all the caribou on this side are far inland on the highlands, and out of reach. I’ve been thinking that we might cross to the other side somewhat south of Chesterfield Inlet, and perhaps find caribou there, then cruise back along the islands looking for bear, and stop up toward Mosquito Bay a few days for our walrus hunt before we strike for home. Kuglutuk says the Eskimos up there will help us.”
“Good plan! Good plan, sir! But we must try to be through the straits by middle of September. Taking chances, sir—taking chances with ice if we’re any later, sir.”
“All right, Captain. That’ll give us over three weeks. We won’t spend much time with walrus, but we’d like to get two or three heads for trophies.”
The blow that was predicted came. It began with driving rain and sleet, which swept the sea in blinding sheets, and a rising northeast wind pounded Hudson Bay into a fury of wild white-crested waves that tossed and buffeted the North Star. But Captain Bluntt was an able master. He kept well offshore, faced the storm, and lay to, using only enough power to permit him to hold his position, and making no attempt to proceed upon the voyage.
Thus a week was consumed, and September was near at hand, when at length the clouds wearied of their task, and the sun again shone out of a clear sky through a glorious, transparent atmosphere.
But the northeast gale had reaped a harvest of ice from the Arctic waters, sweeping it down into Hudson Bay, where the packs broke into fragments, and vagrant pans were distributed far and wide, steadily working their way southward. This was not bay ice such as had been encountered off the eastern coast of Labrador, but the adamantine product of the Arctic. There was little difficulty, however, in avoiding the larger and widely distributed pans, and the smaller fragments bobbing here and there in the swell were quite harmless to the strongly built little steamship.
“Looks bad for the straits, sir, bad,” remarked Captain Bluntt, descending from the barrel in the foremast. “I’m thinkin’ th’ straits has plenty of ice now, plenty, sir. Bad place to meet ice, sir! Bad place! But if the weather holds calm for a week most of it’ll work out.”
“Are we likely to have trouble getting through the straits, Captain?”
“No! No! We’ll get through all right, sir, we’ll get through, with no more nor’easters or northers. A bit of a westerly breeze would clean the straits, sir, sweep the ice right out. Yes, sir, sweep it out!”
They turned northward, cruised close in along the Ottawa Islands, where Remington shot another bear, and then turned westward, where at length anchorage was made at 60° north latitude opposite Egg River and nearly a mile from its mouth.
“Not safe to run too close in,” explained Captain Bluntt. “Never like to anchor too close inshore when I’ve no cover, sir. Not safe, not safe. Always afraid of the rocks, sir, if a squall should strike me.”
“This is near enough,” said Remington. “It’s a short pull to the river mouth.”
“Now what’s the plan, sir? Going ashore to hunt caribou, you say? Well, you may find them in there around the lakes, sir. Must be lakes back there. Yes, sir, and caribou.”
“That’s the way we figure it. This is Sunday. Tomorrow morning as soon as we can see, Ainsworth and I will start, and take Kuglutuk with us, and I’d like to have Tom if you can spare him, Captain.”
“Spare him? Yes! Yes! To be sure I can spare him.”
“We’re not going to take Paul, for we’ll have some hard tramping to do, and I’m afraid he wouldn’t be able to keep the pace.”
“No, no, don’t take him. Too soft; couldn’t stand it. ’Twould kill him in a day. Yes, sir, in a day.”
“We’ll take one light shelter tent, a blanket each, a couple of axes, and besides our rifles only four days’ provisions. We can carry them easily, and we’ll be back to the place where the boat leaves us on Thursday afternoon, no later than two o’clock. So a boat may come over for us then, and will surely find us waiting.”
“All right, sir, all right. But suppose you gets your deer the first day? What then, sir?”
“Why then we’ll come down to the shore and shoot. If you hear us shooting, why, send for us.”
“Very good, sir, very good. All very good.”
“I suppose Paul will set up a kick against our leaving him, but it’s out of the question to take him. Can’t you let Dan and him have a small boat to go ashore every day and hunt ptarmigans, or fish in the river? Dan is perfectly reliable, isn’t he?”
“Yes, yes, sir. Dan reliable? True and sure, sir. Good as a man. Good head, sir. Good head. Only a lad, sir, but good as a man. Be a skipper himself, sir, some day. Yes, yes; Dan can take the youngster over.”
Paul, who had been standing aft, examining the coast through binoculars, came forward at this juncture to join Remington and Captain Bluntt.
“Pretty rough looking country over there,” said he. “What have you planned to do? Are we going to hunt caribou?”
“Yes, Ainsworth and I have planned to go ashore tomorrow and hike back into the hills for three or four days, to see if we can’t run on some caribou. I’m afraid, though, you are not hardened up enough for it yet. We’ve got to travel fast and there’ll be no sleeping bags. You’ll stay here and Dan will take you ashore to hunt and fish, and you can amuse yourself that way until we get back on Thursday.”
“Oh, now, that’s pretty tough! I’m sure I can walk as fast as you can.”
“And carry a back load of stuff?”
“Of course I never tried that, and I don’t see why I should. There are men enough to do the work.”
“The more men there are the less ground can be covered, and this is a hunting trip where we’ve got to do fast work, and every one must do a man’s work. No, Paul, it’s too hard for you. You and Dan can have a good time here till we come back.”
“There won’t be anything to do here but hang around the old ship. I think you might let me go with you fellows.”
“As I said, you won’t have to hang around the ship. You and Dan go ashore. Take one of the tents if you’d like, and camp over there. Dan knows how to handle things. He’ll give you a good time.”
“Well, I suppose if you don’t want me I can’t go, but I think it’s a pretty rough deal just the same,” and he went off sulking.
Paul had not yet learned that he could not have or do anything his fancy craved. But he held his host in high esteem. He was thoroughly grateful for the opportunity to take part in the expedition, and at the end of half an hour, when he had had time to consider his actions, he became quite ashamed of his childishness and his lack of courtesy to his host, and, naturally of a frank and open disposition, he approached Remington, put out his hand and said:
“Mr. Remington, I want to apologize for the way I acted and what I said awhile ago. I’m sorry for it. You’ve given me the greatest time of my life and I appreciate it.”
“That’s all right, Paul,” and Remington shook his hand warmly. “It’s given me a lot of pleasure to have you along. I knew you’d look at this thing right. I’d like to take you with us, but you can see it would be too hard work for you. You haven’t been at the game long enough yet.”
“I guess that’s right.”
Remington and Ainsworth did not appear at breakfast in the morning, and when Paul took his seat he asked:
“Where are the others, Captain?”
“Gone. Gone these two hours. Away up country by this time. For my part I can’t see the fun in it. No, by the imps of the sea! Cruising over rocks and mountains just for deer. Just for deer! Fun, though, maybe, for them that likes it. Yes, maybe ’tis. Give me th’ sea, an’ a good deck under my feet. Good enough for me! Yes, good enough for me, or any sensible man.”
“Mr. Remington said Dan could go ashore with me and camp.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Dan knows. I told him. Ready any time. Told him to get ready. Hope you’ll have a good time.”
“We’ll have a good time all right.”
“Comin’ back tonight? Going to camp? Oh, yes, you said you would camp.”
“Yes, we’ll camp. No need of coming back till Thursday. The other fellows won’t be back till then.”
“Very well, very well; stay till Thursday. Two o’clock. Remember be aboard at two sharp. Got to get away, get through the straits. No being late, now! Remember Sydney! Felt like wringing your neck that day. I did, by the imps of the sea. Heave you overboard or wring your neck if you’re late!”
Paul glanced up at Captain Bluntt and discovered a good-humored twinkle in the Captain’s eye, though there was no doubt that he was quite in earnest as to the admonition to return on time.
“All right, Captain; we’ll be on time,” Paul laughed.
“That’s right. That’s right. Always be on time. When you says you’ll do a thing, do it.”
But Paul had not yet learned his lesson.
Dan stowed sufficient provisions in a light punt to meet the needs of a few days’ camping excursion, a light axe, a small sheet-iron tent stove—for Dan was uncertain of finding sufficient wood for an open camp-fire to keep them comfortable during the cold evenings evenings—a small tent, a tarpaulin, cooking utensils and two sleeping bags. Each carried his rifle—Dan’s a light 44-40 carbine—and Paul did not forget his favorite steel fly rod.
“Two o’clock Thursday. No later! No later than two, now!” Captain Bluntt admonished as they drew away from the ship.
The mile to the mouth of Egg River was a short pull for Dan, and he found that with a little maneuvering he was able to work the boat a considerable distance up the river itself, to the first clump of straggling spruce trees.
Here it was decided to make camp, and while Dan pitched the tent and put things in order Paul wandered up the stream and soon had a fine trout on his hook.
Fishing was good, many delightful tramps were taken over the rolling hills, and only too quickly Thursday rolled around.
“What’s the hour?” inquired Dan as they finished their dinner.
Paul looked at his watch.
“Half past twelve.”
“We’ll have to be gettin’ back t’ th’ ship.”
“All right. Pack things up. While you’re doing it, guess I’ll have one more try at the fish.”
“Now don’t be goin’ too far,” cautioned Dan, who had learned Paul’s failing. “Th’ skipper’s wonderful keen on bein’ on time.”
“Oh, I won’t go far.”
Half an hour later, when Dan had the camp things stowed neatly in the boat, and all was ready for departure, he called:
“Hello-o, Paul!”
No answer.
He followed up the river bank, calling again and again, but had gone nearly a mile before he received an answering “Hello!”
Paul had a big trout hooked, and was playing him.
“Great sport. Didn’t get a strike till I hit this pool just now and this is the second, already.”
“’T is time t’ be off,” said Dan, “and late.”
“Oh, there’s no such rush as that. I want to take some trout back with me.”
“Th’ skipper’s wonderful keen on bein’ on time.”
“Oh, he didn’t mean just two o’clock, but around that time. Besides, they weren’t going after the other fellows till two.”
“’T was two o’clock.”
Dan was patient for fifteen minutes longer, while Paul fished.
“We can’t tarry, Paul. We must be goin’.”
“Now don’t nag.”
“’T is no naggin’. Th’ skipper’ll be wonderful angry.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’ll mind if we’re not there exactly at two.”
It was half past two when Dan finally said:
“An’ now we’re goin’,” with a tone of finality that angered Paul.
“Oh, are we?” Paul was unhooking a trout.
“Th’ sky looks nasty to me, an’ th’ wind’s breezin’ up, an’ there’s a fog settlin’ below.”
“I don’t see any fog, and the sky looks all right to me.”
“Comin’?”
“No.”
“But you is.”
“You ain’t my master. I guess I’ll do as I please.”
“You is comin’.”
Dan had stepped close to Paul, who was preparing to make another cast.
“When I get ready.”
“You is comin’ now,” and Dan took Paul forcibly by the arm.
“Let go of me!”
“You is comin’,” and he tightened his grip.
“Take that!” Paul slapped Dan square in the face with open palm.
Then a whirlwind seemed to strike Paul, and before he knew what had taken place he found himself on the ground, and Dan on top of him.
“Is you comin’?”
“Yes! Let me up!” Paul was half crying with anger.
“You’ll be sorry for this!” he exclaimed when he was free, but he followed Dan sulkily down to the boat.
Dan was right. A fog was settling below. Even then it was pushing its way up the river, and before they reached the open sea it had swallowed up the river bank, which had become quite invisible beyond the river’s mouth. The boys could scarcely see two boat’s lengths ahead. The murky cloud enveloped sea, land, everything. Ice pans seemed much more numerous than when they went ashore. Now and again a pan would loom up in the fog, ominously near, rising and sinking with the swell. It was uncanny, and Paul became frightened. Dan pulled steadily at the oars for some time. At length he paused.