seeing that was what he wished.

As the years went by it happened that hard tunes with a scarcity of
food struck "Frying-Pan Tickle," the hospitable name of the cove where
Sally was reared. Fish were scarce, capelin never struck in, fur
could not be got. This particular season every kind of fur had been
scarce. A forest fire had driven the deer into the country out of
reach. The young bachelor seals, called "bedlamers," that precede the
breeding herd on their annual southern whelping excursion, and
normally afford us a much-needed proteid supply, had evidently skipped
their visit to the bay; while continuous onshore winds made it
impossible in small boats to intercept the mighty rafts, or flocks, of
ducks which pass south every fall. As a rule the ducks "take a spell"
feeding off the shoals and islands as they go on their way, but the
northeaster had robbed our larders of this other supply of meat, which
we are in the habit of freezing up for spring use.

In spite of the ice jam, packed by the unfriendly winds, the men had
ventured to set their big seal nets as usual, not expecting the long
persistence of "weather" that now seriously endangered their recovery.

The time to move to the winter houses up the bay had already passed,
and so the men at last thought best to go on and get them ready and
then come out once more to haul and stow the nets and carry the women
back with them. The long-delayed break came suddenly at last, with a
blue sky and a bright, calm morning, but alas! no wind to move the
packed-in slob ice. So there was no help for it but to get away early
on shanks' pony, if they decided to go on; and that would mean they
would not "reach down" before dark. There were only three of them, but
they were all family men: Hezekiah Black, called "Ky"; Joseph Stedman,
known as "Patsy," and old Uncle John Sanborne. They got under way
bright and early, but the weather clouded up soon after they left, and
a puff or two of wind should have warned them all under ordinary
circumstances to abandon the attempt, or at least to branch off and
take shelter in the "Featherbed Tilt" before trying to cross the White
Hills.

As it was, Uncle John decided to adopt that plan, leaving the younger
men, whom nothing would dissuade from pushing ahead. After all, they
knew every turn of the trail, every rock and landmark on the hillside;
and one need not wonder if the modern spirit of "hustle" finds an echo
even in these far-off wi