rod Hubbard's father had made for him.

"I wonder where father and mother are now," said Hubbard, as he took a
last look at the cleaning rod. For a few moments he clung to it
lovingly; then handed it to me with the words, "Put it with your rifle
and fishing rod, b'y." And as I removed the cartridge from the
magazine, and held the rifle up for a last look before wrapping it in
the tarpaulin, he said: "It almost makes me cry to see you leave the
fishing rod. If it is at all possible, we must see that the things are
recovered. If they are, I want you to promise me that when you die
you'll will the rod to me. It has got us more grub than anything else
in the outfit, and it's carried us over some bad times. I'd like to
have it, and I'd keep and cherish it always."

I promised him that he certainly should have it. Well, the rod was
recovered. And now when I look at the old weather-beaten piece of wood
as it reposes comfortably in my den at home, I recall this incident,
and my imagination carries me back to those last fishing days when
Hubbard used it; and I can see again his gaunt form arrayed in rags as
he anxiously whipped the waters on our terrible struggle homeward. It
is the only thing I have with which he was closely associated during
those awful days, and it is my most precious possession.

As we were chewing on a piece of hide and drinking the water from the
reboiled bones at breakfast, Hubbard told us he had had a realistic
dream of rejoining his wife. The boy was again piteously homesick, and
when we shouldered with difficulty our lightened packs and began the
weary struggle on, my heart was heavy with a great dread. Dark clouds
hung low in the sky, but the day was mild. Once or twice while
skirting Lake Elson we halted to pick the few scattering mossberries
that were to be found, once we halted to make tea to stimulate us, and
at our old camp on Mountaineer Lake we again boiled the bones and used
the water to wash down another piece of the caribou hide.

In the afternoon George took the lead, I followed, and Hubbard brought
up the rear. Suddenly George stopped, dropped his pack, and drew
Hubbard's pistol, which he carried because he was heading the
procession. Hubbard and I also halted and dropped our packs. Into the
brush George disappeared, and we heard, at short intervals, the pistol
crack three times. Then George reappeared with three spruce-grouse.
How our hearts bounded! How we took George