Hubbard would ask. "Yes, b'y," I
would reply, and so we would begin. If we happened to arouse George,
which was not usual, Hubbard would insist on his describing over and
over again the various Indian dishes he had prepared.

Weak as we were upon leaving Lake Hope (October 8), we did an heroic
day's work. We portaged the entire six miles through the mountain
pass, camping at night on the westernmost of the lakes that constitute
the headwaters of the Beaver River, once more on the other side of the
ranges. We did this on a breakfast of pea soup and the rest of our
berries, and a luncheon of four little trout that Hubbard caught in the
stream that flows through the pass. I shot a spruce grouse in the
pass, and this bird we divided between us for supper. It was a
terrible day. The struggle through the brush and up the steep inclines
with the packs and the canoe so exhausted me that several times I
seemed to be on the verge of a collapse, and I found it hard to conceal
my condition. Once Hubbard said to me:

"Speak stronger, b'y. Put more force in your voice. It's so faint
George'll surely notice it, and it may scare him."

That was always the way with Hubbard. Despite his own pitiable
condition, he was always trying to help us on and give us new courage.
As a matter of fact, his own voice was getting so weak and low that we
frequently had to ask him to repeat.

And the day ended in a bitter disappointment. On our uptrail we had
had a good catch of trout at the place where the stream flowing out of
the pass fell into the lake near our camp, and it was the hope of
another good catch there that kept us struggling on to reach the end of
the pass before night. But Hubbard whipped the pool at the foot of the
fall in vain. Not a single fish rose. The day had been bright and
sunshiny, but the temperature was low and the fish had gone to deeper
waters.

It was a dismal camp. The single grouse we had for supper served only
to increase our craving for food. And there we were, with less than
two pounds of pea meal on hand and the fish deserting us, more than one
hundred and fifty miles from the post at Northwest River. By the fire
Hubbard again talked of home.

"I dreamed last night," he said, "that you and I, Wallace, were very
weak and very hungry, and we came all at once upon the old farm in
Michigan, and mother was there, and she made us a good supper of hot
tea biscuits with maple syrup and honey to eat o