the sand. Peter
dropped his soft nose over Roger's shoulders, and ate the bacon rinds
one by one, then crowding still closer, tried to nibble at the cracker
Roger was devouring.

"Hang you, Pete, get round on the other side of the fire!" exclaimed
Roger.

It was the first time he had spoken in several hours and the sound of
his own voice startled him. Peter trotted obediently around and stood
opposite, head drooping as if in thought. Strangely small and gray he
looked; strangely wise as if the same weathering of the centuries that
had worn the mountain peaks into shapes of brooding significance had
worn his little gray head into the semblance of Wise Patience, itself.

When Roger had finished his meal, and packed, he walked slowly up and
down the river bank. But nowhere could he see a better place for
crossing than at the spot where he had built his fire. Here a small
island amid stream made the crossing seem possible. He found a
cottonwood log to which he tied his food pack and canteen as well as his
clothes which he took off and rolled up. He fastened Peter to a clump of
arrow-weed, then waded out into the stream, pushing the log before him.

The water was very cold and the current much swifter than Roger had
anticipated but he was an excellent swimmer and though the current
carried him well down stream, he made a safe landing on the island with
all his goods and chattels. Then he went back for Peter. He could not
bear the thought of going on alone.

The lead rope was long. Roger pulled the reluctant Peter to the water's
edge, plunged in and was swimming violently in the current before the
rope stretched taut and he realized that Peter was braced, stiff-legged
on the bank. Roger swam back and climbed out of the water.

"Come, Peter," he said gently. "I'll swim beside you so you needn't be
afraid."

Peter moved his long ears back and forth.

"Come! Come! Don't make me beat you. Come, Peter."

Peter did not stir. Roger picked up a bit of driftwood and belaboured
Peter's gray sides, but the beating might have been a sand flea hopping
on him for all it appeared to move Peter.

"Darn you, Peter!" shouted Roger. "Have you quit me too? I tell you, you
shall not! Come now, I'm too tired to argue."

He plunged once more into the water, once more swam into the current,
whistling Peter's call as he did so. But to no avail. When he reached
the bank this time he was angry. He roared at Peter and kicked at him
with hi