a second
time when she beheld the big Canadian returning. He was hurrying a bit,
apparently to be rid of the mosquitoes that swarmed about him; and she
marked that, in addition to whipping himself with a handful of
blueberry bushes, he wore Runnion's coat to protect his shoulders.

"Woof! Dose skeeter bug is hongry," he cried. "Let's we pass on de
river queeck."

"You didn't touch him again?"

"No, no. I'm t'rough wit' 'im."

She was only too eager to be away from the spot, and an instant later
they were afloat in the Peterborough.

"Dis nice batteau," Poleon remarked, critically. "I mak' it go fas',"
and began to row swiftly, seeking the breeze of the open river in which
to shake off the horde of stinging pests that had risen with the sun.
"I come 'way queeck wit'out t'inkin' 'bout gun or skeeter net or
not'in'. Runnion she's len' me dis coat, so mebbe I don' look so worse
lak' I do jus' now, eh?"

"How did you leave him? Is he badly injured?"

"No, I bus' it up on de face an' de rib, but she's feelin' good now.
Yes. I'm leave 'im nice place for stop an' wait on de
steamboat--plaintee spruce bough for set on."

She began to shudder again, and, sensitive to her every motion, he
asked, solicitously, if she were sick, but she shook her head.

"I--I--was thinking what--supposing you hadn't come? Oh, Poleon! you
don't know what you saved me from." She leaned forward and laid a tiny,
grateful hand on the huge brown paw that rested on his oar. "I wonder
if I can ever forget?"

She noted that they were running with the current, and inquired:

"Where are we going?"

"Wal, I can't pull dis boat 'gainst dat current, so I guess we pass on
till I fin' my shirt, den bimebye we pick it up some steamboat an' go
home."

Five miles below his quick eye detected his half-submerged "bark"
lodged beneath some overhanging firs which, from the water's action,
had fallen forward into the stream, and by rare good-fortune it was
still upright, although awash. He towed it to the next sand-bar, where
he wrung out and donned his shirt, then tipped the water from the
smaller craft, and, making it fast astern of the Peterborough, set out
again. Towards noon they came in sight of a little stern-wheeled craft
that puffed and pattered manfully against the sweeping current, hiding
behind the points and bars and following the slackest water.

"It's the Mission, boat!" cried Necia. "It's the Mission boat! Father
Barnum will be aboard."