found well wrapped in the blankets, as if sleeping. Yes, it was
quite evident that after making that last entry in his diary on the day
we left him, he had lain down, and there all alone amid the solitudes
of desolate Labrador, there in the wild that had called to him with a
voice to which he must needs harken, had gone to sleep, and sleeping
had not awakened.

XXI. FROM OUT THE WILD

Donald and Allen returned at once to the log house on Grand Lake,
leaving with the boys and me their tent and tent-stove. Donald also
gave me a pair of high sealskin boots with large, soft moccasin
bottoms. It was their expectation that we should remain in camp until
they got back with other things to aid my journey out; but, although I
was still very ill, and the heated tent was comfortable, I found
waiting irksome, and at daylight the next morning (Sunday, November
1st) the boys and I pulled up stakes. To protect my hands during the
journey I made a pair of mittens from a piece of blanket duffel that
had been brought back from the tent where Hubbard was.

A pretty good path had been trodden in the snow by the trips of my
rescuers up and down the valley, and following along it, with Duncan
and Gilbert on their snowshoes ahead of me packing it down still
further, I did not sink very deeply; nevertheless, such was the
condition of my feet that every step I took was painful. As the boys
carried all that was to be carried, I managed, however, to walk about
ten miles during the day. We camped at a place where the four trappers
on their journey in had cached a fat porcupine. For supper I ate a bit
of the meat and drank some of the broth, and found it very nourishing.

On the following day we met Donald and Allen as they were returning to
aid us. Allen brought with him a pair of trousers to cover my
half-naked legs. At sunset we reached the rowboat, which had been left
near the mouth of the Susan, and as we approached Donald's log-house
something more than an hour later a rifle was fired as a signal that we
were coming. When we landed, George was there on the starlit shore to
welcome us. I hardly knew him. His hair had been cut, he had shaved
off his ragged beard, and he was dressed in clean clothing that Donald
had lent him. He, of course, had heard of Hubbard's death from Donald
and Allen, and when he clasped my hand in a firm grip to help me from
the boat, he said:

"Well, Wallace, Hubbard's gone."

"Yes," I said, "Hu