re murmur among the hills below.

"Boys," said Hubbard, after we had made a good supper of a mess of
trout I had caught at midday, "this pays for all the hard work."

Undoubtedly Hubbard was in fine fettle that evening, and as we lay
before the fire with that delicious feeling of languor which comes from
conscientious toil, he entertained George and me with quotations from
his favourite author, Kipling, while we puffed comfortably upon our
pipes. One verse he dwelt upon, as it seemed particularly appropriate
to our position. It was:

When first under fire, if you're wishful to duck,
Don't look or take heed of the man that is struck;
Be thankful you're living and trust to your luck,
And march to your front like a soldier."

V. STILL IN THE AWFUL VALLEY

The next day (Wednesday, July 22) was by far the most disheartening of
our journey up the valley of the Susan. We portaged all day through
gullies and swamps and over rough ridges, covering in all about two
miles and a half. All of us were overcome by the hard work in the
burning sun and the poisonous bites of the flies. I was the most
susceptible to the attacks of the flies; for ten days I was fairly sick
from the poison they instilled. The faces, bands, and wrists of all of
us were badly swollen and very sore. My face was so swollen I could
scarcely see.

In the morning when we started forward the temperature was down to
thirty-three degrees, but at noon it had risen to ninety-two. Hubbard
was attacked with diarrhoea, and I with vomiting. We were all too
exhausted to eat when we stopped for luncheon, and lay on the moss for
an hour's rest, with the tent drawn over us to protect us from the
flies.

On a low, barren knoll we cached that day eighty rounds of .45-70
cartridges and 300 rounds of .22's, George marking the spot with a
circle of stakes. That left us 120 rounds of .45-70's and 500 rounds
of .22's. It had become strictly necessary to lighten our packs, and
we had begun to drop odds and ends every day.

In the afternoon Hubbard shot with his pistol a spruce partridge
(grouse); it was the first seen by us on the trip. Together with a
yellowlegs George had shot, it seasoned a pot of pea soup. We camped
that night on a bluff, barren point, and Hubbard named it "Partridge
Point" in bonour of our first bird.

On Thursday (July 23) Hubbard lay in the tent all day sick. All he was
able to eat was some hardtack dipped in tea. At