the lakes fit victims for his rod and fly. He went out
with his guides to catch fish, and after a few days among the big trout
came back disgusted.

"Did you catch any trout?" he was asked by one of his party.

"Catch 'em," he snapped. "How can one catch 'em? The infernal things
are anchored."

Walking and duck shooting was also in the program, and there were other
excitements.

The weather, delightful during the first two days, broke on Sunday, and
there were bad winds, rainstorms and occasional hailstorms, when stones
as big as small pebbles drummed on the tents and bombarded the camp.

So fierce was the wind that the Royal Standard on a high flagstaff was
carried away. A pine tree was also uprooted, and fell with a crash
between the Prince's tent and that of one of his suite. A yard either
way and the tent would have been crushed. Fortunately the Prince was
not in the tent at that moment, but the happening gave the camp its
sense of adventure.

During this rest, too, the Prince suffered a little from his eyes, an
irritation caused by grains of steel that had blown into them while
viewing the works at "Soo." His right hand was also painful from the
heartiness of Toronto, and the knuckles swollen. To set these matters
right, the doctor went up from the train, and by the Indian canoe that
carried the mail and the daily news bulletin, reached the camp.

When he returned on Monday, September 8th, the Prince was looking
undeniably fit. He marched up the railway from the lake in
footer-shorts and golf jacket, with an air of one who had thoroughly
enjoyed "roughing it."

II

While the Prince and his party were camping, the train remained in
Nipigon, a tiny village set in complete isolation on the edge of the
river and in the heart of the woods.

It is a little germ-culture of humanity cut off from the world. The
only way out is, apparently, the railway, though, perhaps, one could
get away by the boats that come up to load pulp wood, or by the petrol
launches that scurry out on to Lake Superior and its waterside towns.
But the roads out of it, there appear to be none. Follow any track,
and it fades away gently into the primitive bush.

It is a nest of loneliness that has carried on after its old office as
a big fur collecting post--you see the original offices of Revillon
Freres and the Hudson Bay Company standing today--has gone. Now it
lives on lumber and the fishing, and one wonders what else.