t gun of large caliber but of
enduring quality--and a box of shells to match.

"Old Hiram left me a gun, but we'll each need one," Ezram explained.
"And they tell me there's a chance to pick up game, like as not, goin'
down the river."

They would have need of good canoe-craft before the journey's end, the
villagers told them. Ezram had not boasted of any such ability, and at
first Ben regarded the plan with considerable misgivings. And it was
with the most profound amazement that, when they pushed off, he saw
Ezram deliberately seat himself in the bow, leaving the more important
place to his young companion.

"Good heavens, I'll capsize you in a minute," Ben said. "How do you dare
risk it----"

"Push off and stop botherin' me," Ezram answered. "There's a paddle--go
ahead and shoot 'er."

The waters caught the canoe, speeding it downstream; and in
apprehension of immediate disaster Ben seized the paddle. Swiftly he
thrust it into the streaming water at his side.

He was not further aware of Ezram's searching gaze. He did not know of
the old man's delight at the entire incident--first the anxious, hurried
stroke of the paddle, then the movement of Ben's long fingers as he
caught a new hold, finally the white flame of exultation that came into
his face. For himself, Ben instantly knew that this was his own sphere.
He suddenly found himself an absolute master of his craft: at the touch
of the paddle controlling it as a master mechanic controls a delicate
machine.

The white waters were no more to be feared. He found that he knew, as if
by instinct, every trick of the riverman's trade,--the slow stroke, the
fast stroke, the best stroke for a long day's sail, the little half-turn
in his hands that put the blade on edge in the water and gave him the
finest control. It was all so familiar, so unspeakably dear to him.
Clear, bright memories hovered close to him, almost within his grasp.

"Do you remember when you shot the Athabaska Rapids?" Ezram had asked.
It was all clear enough. In that life that was forgotten he had
evidently lived much in a canoe, knowing every detail of river life.
Perhaps he had been a master canoeist; at least he felt a strange,
surging sense of self-confidence and power. He understood, now, why the
image of rushing waters had come so often into his dreams. Dim pictures
of river scenes--cataracts white with foam, rapids with thunderous
voices, perilous eddies, and then, just beyond, glassy wat