Sam Bolton and Dick finally got under way. After an hour they arrived
opposite the mouth of a tributary stream. This Sam announced as the
Mattawishguia. Immediately they turned to it.

The Mattawishguia would be variously described; in California as a
river, in New England as a brook, in Superior country as a trout stream.
It is an hundred feet wide, full of rapids, almost all fast water, and,
except in a few still pools, from a foot to two feet deep. The bottom is
of round stones.

Travel by canoe in such a stream is a farce. The water is too fast to
pole against successfully more than half the time; the banks are too
overgrown for tracking with the tow-line. About the only system is to
get there in the best way possible. Usually this meant that Dick waded
at the bow and Sam at the stern, leaning strongly against the current.
Bowlders of all sorts harassed the free passage, stones rolled under the
feet, holes of striking unexpectedness lay in wait, and the water was
icy cold. Once in a while they were able to paddle a few hundred feet.
Then both usually sat astride the ends of the canoe, their legs hanging
in the water in order that the drippings might not fall inside. As this
was the early summer, they occasionally kicked against trees to drive
enough of the numbness from their legs so that they could feel the
bottom.

It was hard work and cold work and wearing, for it demanded its exact
toll for each mile, and was as insistent for the effort at weary night
as at fresh morning.

Dick, in the vigour of his young strength, seemed to like it. The
leisure of travel with the Indians had barely stretched his muscles.