The rods were taken out, a gang of flies put on and trolled behind--but we have all seen a man fight a five-pound bass for twenty minutes. The waters fairly swarmed with them, and we could always get enough for the “pot” in a half-hour's fishing at any time during the trip. The Abwees were canoeing, not hunting or fishing; though, in truth, they did not need to hunt spruce-partridge or fish for bass in any sporting sense; they simply went out after them, and never stayed over half an hour. On a point we stopped for lunch: the Scotchman always struck the beach a-cooking. He had a “kit,” which was a big camp-pail, and inside of it were more dishes than are to be found in some hotels. He broiled the bacon, instead of frying it, and thus we were saved the terrors of indigestion. He had many luxuries in his commissary, among them dried apples, with which he filled a camp-pail one day and put them on to boil. They subsequently got to be about a foot deep all over the camp, while Furguson stood around and regarded the black-magic of the thing with overpowering emotions and Homeric tongue. Furguson was a good genius, big and gentle, and a woodsman root and branch. The Abwees had intended their days in the wilderness to be happy singing flights of time, but with grease and paste in one's stomach what may not befall the mind when it is bent on nature's doings? [Illustration: 44 DOWN THE RIVER ON A GOLDEN MORNING] And thus it was that the gloomy Indian Jimmie Friday, despite his tuberculosis begotten of insufficient nourishment, was happy in these strange days--even to the extent of looking with wondrous eyes on the nooks which we loved--nooks which previously for him had only sheltered possible “dead-falls” or not, as the discerning eye of the trapper decided the prospects for pelf. Going ashore on a sandy beach, Jimmie wandered down its length, his hunter mind seeking out the footprints of his prey. He stooped down, and then beckoned me to come, which I did. Pointing at the sand, he said, “You know him?” “Wolves,” I answered. “Yes--first time I see 'em up here--they be follerin' the deers--bad--bad. No can trap 'em--verrie smart.” A half-dozen wolves had chased a deer into the water; but wolves do not take to the water, so they had stopped and drank, and then gone rollicking-together up the beach. There were cubs, and one great track as big as a mastiff might make. “See that--moose track--he go by yesterday;” and Jimmie pointed to enormous footprints in the muck of a marshy place. “Verrie big moose--we make call at next camp--think it is early for call.”