ill should be
powerless without a sufficiency of such pitiable things. It's
humiliating."

Then, with a grimace of disgust, he stretched out his hand for the
blackened pannikin.

"Green tea is a beverage that never appealed to me, and I feel abject
this morning. Now, if I had a little Bourbon whisky I could laugh at
despondency and weariness. That golden liquid releases the mind from
the thraldom of the worn-out body."

"It depends on one's knees," said Weston, with a trace of dryness.
"Yours have a habit of giving out unexpectedly, and I shouldn't like
to carry you up this valley. Anyway, breakfast's ready, and we have to
find that lake to-day or give up the search."

They set about breakfast, and again it happened that Grenfell got
rather more than his share. Then Weston, who carried also the heavy
rifle, strapped the double burden on his shoulders, and they started
on their march, walking wearily. The valley that they followed, like
most of the others, was choked with heavy timber, and they pressed on
slowly through the dim shadow of great balsams, hemlocks, and Douglas
firs, among which there sprang up thickets of tall green fern that
were just then dripping with the dew. The stiff fronds brushed the
moisture through the rags they wore and wet them to the skin; but they
were used to that. It was the fallen trees that troubled them most.
These lay in stupendous ruin, with their giant branches stretching far
on either side, and, where tangled thickets rendered a detour
inadmissible, it now and then cost them half an hour's labor with the
ax to hew a passage through. Then there were soft places choked with
willows where little creeks wandered among the swamp-grass in which
they sank to the knees; but they pushed on resolutely, with the
perspiration dripping from them, until well on in the afternoon.

Once or twice Weston wondered why he had held on so long. It was some
time since they had found Verneille lying high upon the desolate
range, and this was still the only thing which seemed to bear out his
comrade's story. The latter had only a few very hazy recollections to
guide him, and during the last week he had not come upon anything in
the shape, of a mountain spur or frothing creek that appeared to fit
in with them. There was, however, a vein of tenacity in Weston, and he
was quietly bent on going on to the end--that is, until there were no
more provisions left than would carry them back to the cache, marching