he king seal. The weapon
struck home. The gigantic creature shuddered, and, with a cry like
a hurt child, it plunged down into the sea. With the rapidity and
strength of a giant fish it scudded inland with the rising tide,
while Capilano paid out the rope its entire length, and, as it
stretched taut, felt the canoe leap forward, propelled by the mighty
strength of the creature which lashed the waters into whirlpools, as
though it was possessed with the power and properties of a whale.

Up the stretch of False Creek the man and monster drove their
course, where a century hence great city bridges were to over-arch
the waters. They strove and struggled each for the mastery; neither
of them weakened, neither of them faltered--the one dragging, the
other driving. In the end it was to be a matching of brute and
human wits, not forces. As they neared the point where now Main
Street bridge flings its shadow across the waters, the brute
leaped high into the air, then plunged headlong into the depths.
The impact ripped the rope from Capilano's hands. It rattled
across the gunwale. He stood staring at the spot where it had
disappeared--the brute had been victorious. At low tide the Indian
made search. No trace of his game, of his precious elk-bone spear,
of his cedar-fibre rope, could be found. With the loss of the
latter he firmly believed his luck as a hunter would be gone. So he
patrolled the mouth of False Creek for many moons. His graceful,
high-bowed canoe rarely touched other waters, but the seal king had
disappeared. Often he thought long strands of drifting sea grasses
were his lost cedar-fibre rope. With other spears, with other
cedar-fibres, with paddle-blade and cunning traps he dislodged the
weeds from their moorings, but they slipped their slimy lengths
through his eager hands: his best spear with its attendant coil
was gone.

The following year he was sealing again off the coast of Point Grey,
and one night, after sunset, he observed the red reflection from the
west, which seemed to transfer itself to the eastern skies. Far
into the night dashes of flaming scarlet pulsed far beyond the head
of False Creek. The color rose and fell like a beckoning hand, and,
Indian-like, he immediately attached some portentous meaning to
the unusual sight. That it was some omen he never doubted, so he
paddled inland, beached his canoe, and took the trail towards the
little group of lakes that crowd themselves int