e fire and chatted. The day's rations consisted of three fish
for each man at each of the three meals. By way of a little variety we
roasted some of the fish on sticks. We were all very weak, but George
explained that away.

"The Indians," he said, "always go to pieces after they've been hard up
for a while and finally get grub. Then they feed up and get strong
again. It's the grub comin' all of a sudden that makes you weak. Your
mind feelin' easier, you feel you can't do anything."

Hubbard and I agreed that George was right. Our minds certainly had
relaxed; homeward bound with enough fish on hand to last us for several
days, we had no doubts as to the future. We decided, however, that
whatever the weather conditions in the morning might be, we should
break camp and push on with the greatest possible speed, as it was the
part of wisdom to make our supply of fish carry us down the back trail
as far as possible. So we went to our blankets more than eager for the
morning's start, and more confident we should get out safely than at
any time since we began the retreat.

XIII. HUBBARD'S GRIT

Two things soon became plain after our struggle back to the post was
resumed. One was that winter was fast closing in upon us; the other
was that Hubbard's condition was such as might well cause the gravest
concern. The morning that we broke camp on Lake Mary (Tuesday,
September 29th), was ushered in by a gale from the west and driving
snow. The mercury had dropped to 24, and all of us were a-shiver when
we issued from the tent. While George and I were preparing the outfit
for travel Hubbard caught twelve trout in the pool. On the lake we
encountered as heavy a sea as our little canoe could weather, and we
had to struggle hard for an hour to reach the farther shore. Upon
landing, Hubbard was again attacked with diarrhoea. George and I
carried the packs up the high bank to a sheltered spot in the woods,
but when I returned to Hubbard he insisted on helping me to carry the
canoe. Up the steep ascent we laboured, and then, as we put the canoe
down, Hubbard said:

"I'm dead tired and weak, boys; I think I'll have to take a little
rest."

After building him a roaring log fire, George and I carried the canoe a
mile and a half ahead through the driving snow, which was of the wet
kind that clings to every bush and tree, robing the woods in a pure and
spotless white that inevitably suggests fairyland. But I was not