bles break in a wild tangle as the fish darted
and doubled below, with the otter after him. But it always ended the
same way. Keeonekh would slide out upon the ice shelf, and hump his
back, and begin to eat almost before the last bubble had tinkled behind
him.

Curiously enough, the rule of the salmon fishermen prevailed here in
the wilderness: no two rods shall whip the same pool at the same time.
I would see an otter lying ready on the ice, evidently waiting for the
chase to end. Then, as another otter slid out beside him with his fish,
in he would go like a flash and take his turn. For a while the pool was
a lively place; the bubbles had no rest. Then the plunges grew fewer and
fewer, and the otters all disappeared into the ice caverns.

What became of them I could not make out; and I was too chilled to watch
longer. Above and below the pool the stream was frozen for a distance;
then there was more open water and more fishing. Whether they followed
along the bank under cover of the ice to other pools, or simply slept
where they were till hungry again, I never found out. Certainly they had
taken up their abode in an ideal spot, and would not leave it willingly.
The open pools gave excellent fishing, and the upper ice shelf protected
them perfectly from all enemies.

Once, a week later, I left the caribou and came back to the spot to
watch awhile; but the place was deserted. The black water gurgled and
dimpled across the pool, and slipped away silently under the lower edge
of ice undisturbed by strings of silver bubbles. The ice caverns were
all dark and silent. The mink had stolen the fish heads, and there was
no trace anywhere to show that it was Keeonekh's banquet hall.

The swimming power of an otter, which was so evident there in the winter
pool, is one of the most remarkable things in nature. All other animals
and birds, and even the best modeled of modern boats, leave more or less
wake behind them when moving through the water. But Keeonekh leaves no
more trail than a fish. This is partly because he keeps his body well
submerged when swimming, partly because of the strong, deep, even stroke
that drives him forward. Sometimes I have wondered if the outer hairs of
his coat--the waterproof covering that keeps his fur dry, no matter how
long he swims--are not better oiled than in other animals, which might
account for the lack of ripple. I have seen him go down suddenly and
leave absolutely no break in the surfac