It rained for several days, in consequence of which the underbrush was wet most of the time, and in passing through it we became wet to the skin. Before leaving home I had bought for use on the trip what I believed to be a fine pair of corduroy trousers. They looked well, and the brush did not cling to them, a desirable condition when traveling through thickets often encountered in the woods. It rained the first day that we were out. At night we pitched our tent, prepared the evening meal, and at an early hour retired. On retiring, it is usually the custom for men camping, to remove their outer garments and put them out of the way at one side of the tent. Both were very tired and soon fell asleep. I was awakened by a very disagreeable odor within the tent and walked out into the fresh air. Returning, I lay down and remained thus until early daylight, experiencing only a disturbed sleep during the night. My feeling was that I had chosen an undesirable bedfellow, and, as later developments proved, it would have been reasonable if the Indian chief had arrived at the same conclusion. [Illustration: "We started out with two birch canoes". (Page 148.)] During the next day it again rained. After the rain the sun came out bright and warm, causing a rapid evaporation to take place on our wet garments. It was under these circumstances that the discovery was made that the very disagreeable odor experienced during the preceding night was again present, and was emanating from the wet coloring matter that had been used in the manufacture of the corduroy trousers. The best possible defense--which I felt it was necessary to make--was to call attention to the fact that the strong odor was coming forth from the corduroy cloth. On reaching camp that evening, the new corduroys were hung out on the limb of a tree where they were last seen by our small camping party.