shore, lest the combination of a sudden squall and a heavy-loaded canoe
should bring disaster. When Mike Breyette's "two-tree" hour was run Mr.
Thompson stepped from the canoe to the sloping, sun-blistered beach
before Fort Pachugan, and if he did not openly offer thanks to his Maker
that he stood once more upon solid ground he at least experienced
profound relief.

For many days he had occupied that midship position with ill-concealed
misgivings. The largest bodies of water he had been on intimate terms
with heretofore had been contained within the dimensions of a bathtub.
He could not swim. No matter that his faith in an all-wise Providence
was strong he could not forbear inward tremors at the certain knowledge
that only a scant quarter-inch of frail wood and canvas stood between
him and a watery grave. He regarded a canoe with distrust. Nor could he
understand the careless confidence with which his guides embarked in so
captious a craft upon the swirling bosom of that wide, swift stream they
had followed from Athabasca Landing down to the lake of the same name.
To Thompson--if he had been capable of analyzing his sensations and
transmuting them into words--the river seemed inexplicably sinister, a
turbid monster writhing over polished boulders, fuming here and there
over rapids, snarling a constant menace under the canoe's prow.

It did not comfort him to know that he was in the hands of two capable
rivermen, tried and proven in bad water, proud of their skill with the
paddle. Could he have done so the reverend young man would gladly have
walked after the first day in their company. But since that was out of
the question, he took his seat in the canoe each morning and faced each
stretch of troubled water with an inward prayer.

The last stretch and this last day had tried his soul to its utmost.