had a single man that growled about the grub and work, or
wanted to quit, it would have been hell. But we haven't had a growl or
a word about quitting or turning back."

"There's no reason for quitting," said I. "And as for growling,
there's no call for it. We've done the best we could, and that's
enough to make any real man satisfied."

"That's so," said Hubbard. "Take things as they come and make the best
of them--that's good philosophy. I was thinking that here it is the
last of August, and we don't know where we are; and it bothered me some
as I lay there in the tent. But we've done our best and ought to be
satisfied."

In the afternoon I took my rod and went about three miles to the
westward, where I came upon an isolated pond with no apparent outlet.
Everywhere I could see the trout jumping, and by sundown had as long a
string of them as I could conveniently carry. It was an hour after
dark when I reached camp. George had returned, and they were beginning
to fear that I was lost.

George had climbed the mountains, and he reported a fair line of travel
to the northwest, with a "long lake that looked like a river," and,
some distance northwest of that, "big water" and a tolerably good route
for portages. What he told us led Hubbard to decide to continue on
with the canoe and our entire outfit. George brought back with him two
grouse he had shot.

The next morning (Tuesday, September 1) Hubbard was much better, and we
began September with a renewed effort. It was rough and painful
portaging over rocks and knolls. Every forty or fifty rods we came
upon deep ponds with water so clear we could see the pebbles on the
bottom. Between these ponds boulders were piled indiscriminately. In
directing our course to the northwest we avoided the mountains that had
lain just ahead. For two days we pushed on among the boulders, then
over a wide marsh and through a heavy spruce growth, which brought us,
on September 3d, to George's "lake that looked like a river." Let us
call it Mary Lake.

Along Lake Mary we paddled, in the pouring rain that began that day,
some five miles to its western end; and there, near a creek that flowed
into it, we found the remains of an old Indian camp. George looked the
camp over critically and remarked:

"The beggars killed two caribou, and they broke every bone up and
boiled out the last drop of grease."

"What was it--a summer or a winter camp?" asked Hubbard.

"A summer,"