esolutely. In the forest
it is truer than elsewhere that haste makes waste, and, as materials
are rare and valuable, patience is the trapper's stock in trade.

McTavish sat down on the bank, and carved busily until the bone
between his hands took the appearance of a fish-hook, barb and all.
Then he unlaced his moccasins, and tied the strings together, adding
to this line the moose-gut he had found in the shanty. A flat stone
with a small hole in it rewarded fifteen minutes' prowling along
the banks, and this he used as a sinker, tying a knot beneath the
hole. A rod was easily procured, and for bait he took a piece of
the red flannel that lined his leggings.

Next, he built a fire on top of the bank, and lastly chopped through
three inches of ice, a quarter of the way across the stream, where
he dropped his line. He did not have to wait long. Fish, like
everything else in the northern winter, find food-stuffs rare and
costly, and scarcely ten minutes had passed before a three-pound
trout lay flopping on the ice beside him.

Considerately waiting until it was dead, the Hudson Bay man cleaned
it, and thrust it on forked sticks to cook over the fire while he
went on fishing.

Before the first savory whiffs reached him four more trout had
eagerly taken the bait. Presently, he left work at the hole, and
returned to the fire, where he enjoyed the most life-giving meal
he had ever eaten, excepting the first after Peter Rainy's rescue
of him. The thought projected Rainy into his mind, and for the
hundredth time he asked himself what had become of the old Indian.

The only possible explanation to offer itself was that Maria and
Tom had first disposed of their sleeping warder, and had then
crawled up on Rainy, who was sleeping like a log, bound him, and
taken him away on the sledge, leaving McTavish either to die as he
lay, or within a few days after awakening.

Well, Donald admitted, the chances were against him, and the outlook
was indeed dark. But, even in these desperate straits, there was
a buoyancy in his spirits that he had seldom enjoyed. Life seemed
good while he was yet alive to fight for it; he had youth, strength,
hope, and the spur of deeds to be done, all of which roweled his
faith whenever it faltered. Even this morning, he felt unaccountably
like flinging his arms into the air, and shouting to the desolation:

"Come on, old wilderness, we'll fight it out, and, by heaven, I'll
break you, too!" ... What was