good, and for a little way we made rapid progress.

In this marshy stretch by the creek's bank we saw a beaver house, and
George stepped out of the canoe to examine it.

"They're livin' here," he remarked. "If we're not too far away when we
camp to-night, I'm comin' down with a rifle and watch for 'em. They
come out to play in the water in the evenin' and it's not hard to get
'em."

"What's the use of killing them?" I asked. "What could you do with a
beaver if you got him?"

"I'd cook it, and we'd have a good snack of beaver meat," said George.
"They're the finest kind of eatin', and I'd go a good way for a piece
of beaver tail; it's nice and greasy, and better than anything you ever
ate."

As we paddled on, George continued to extol the virtues of beaver meat,
expatiating on many a "good snack" of it that he had consumed.
However, he did not return to the beaver house, for more important
things that evening claimed our attention.

It was on this day that we reached a point where our branch creek
itself separated into two branches. Upon scouting them, we discovered
that each of these branches had for its origin a lake, the two bodies
of water from which they flowed being close together some three miles
to the westward. Apparently they were small lakes, but we hoped to
find that they belonged to a chain that would carry us into the
country, and their discovery encouraged us to push on.

This hope was strengthened by Indian wigwam poles that we found in the
vicinity. The poles, it is true, were old, indicating that the Indians
had not been there for several years; but as it had been a long time
since they had ceased to visit regularly Northwest River Post, we
thought we had reason to believe that the poles marked what had been a
permanent trail rather than the course of a hunting expedition.
Hubbard was particularly observant of these old Indian signs. He was
anxious to find them, and delighted when he did find them. "Here are
the signs," he would say, "we are on the right trail." But we were not
on the right trail. The right trail--the Nascaupee route--was miles to
the northward. We eventually did stumble upon a trail to Michikamau,
but it was another one--a very old one--and we found it only to lose it
again.

While we were following up Goose Creek the condition of our
commissariat troubled us not a little. The scarcity of game had forced
us to draw heavily upon our stores. Only a little of our la