ion to be a very good Christian. He
had a marked disinclination to hard or continued toil, although he would
impress an on looker with a sense of unremitting exertion. This he
achieved by divesting himself of his shirt and using his paddle, as Alp
used his sword, "with right arm bare." A fifth Indian was added to the
canoe soon after crossing the portage.

A couple of Indian lodges stood on the shore along which we were
coasting. We put in towards these lodges to ask information, and found
them to belong to Samuel Henderson, full Swampy Indian. Samuel, who spoke
excellent English, at once volunteered to come with me as a guide to the
Winnipeg River; but I declined to engage him until I had a report of his
capability for the duty from the Hudson Bay officer in charge of Fort
Alexander, a fort now only a few miles distant. Samuel at once launched
his canoe, said "Good-bye" to his wife and nine children, and started
after us for the fort, where, on the advice of the officer, I finally
engaged him.

CHAPTER TEN.

The Winnipeg River--The Ojibbeway's House--Rushing a Rapid--A Camp--No
Tidings of the Coming Man--Hope in Danger--Rat Portage--A far-fetched
Islington--"Like Pemmican".

WE entered the mouth of the Winnipeg River at midday and paddled up to
Fort Alexander, which stands about a mile from the river's entrance. Here
I made my final preparations for the ascent of the Winnipeg, getting a
fresh canoe better adapted for forcing the rapids, and at five o'clock in
the evening started on my journey Up the river. Eight miles above the
fort the roar of a great fall of water sounded through the twilight. In
surge and spray and foaming torrent the enormous volume of the Winnipeg
was making its last grand leap on its way to mingle its waters with the
lake. On the flat surface of an enormous rock which stood well out into
the boiling water we made our fire and our camp.

The pine-trees which gave the fall its name stood round us, dark and
solemn, waving their long arms to and fro in the gusty winds that swept
the valley. It was a wild picture. The pine-trees standing in inky
blackness the rushing water, white with foam-above, the rifted
thunder-clouds. Soon the lightning began to flash and the voice of the
thunder to sound above the roar of the cataract. My Indians made me a
rough shelter with cross-poles and a sail-cloth, and, huddling themselves
together under the upturned canoe, we slept regardless of the storm.