The Swede's tone of voice was not convincing, and his manner lacked
something that was usually there. I noted the change instantly while he
talked, though without being able to label it precisely.

"If they had enough imagination," I laughed loudly--I remember trying to
make as much noise as I could--"they might well people a place like this
with the old gods of antiquity. The Romans must have haunted all this
region more or less with their shrines and sacred groves and elemental
deities."

The subject dropped and we returned to our stew-pot, for my friend was not
given to imaginative conversation as a rule. Moreover, just then I remember
feeling distinctly glad that he was not imaginative; his stolid, practical
nature suddenly seemed to me welcome and comforting. It was an admirable
temperament, I felt; he could steer down rapids like a red Indian, shoot
dangerous bridges and whirlpools better than any white man I ever saw in a
canoe. He was a grand fellow for an adventurous trip, a tower of strength
when untoward things happened. I looked at his strong face and light curly
hair as he staggered along under his pile of driftwood (twice the size of
mine!), and I experienced a feeling of relief. Yes, I was distinctly glad
just then that the Swede was--what he was, and that he never made remarks
that suggested more than they said.

"The river's still rising, though," he added, as if following out some
thoughts of his own, and dropping his load with a gasp. "This island will
be under water in two days if it goes on."

"I wish the wind would go down," I said. "I don't care a fig for the
river."