George had arisen that morning with a lame back, and when we
reached the island he could scarcely move. The place was so barren
of timber we could not find a stick long enough to act as a centre
pole for our tent, and it was useless to try to pitch it. However,
the moss, being thick and soft, made a comfortable bed, and after
we had put a mustard plaster on George's back to relieve his
lumbago, we rolled him in two of our blankets under the lee of a
bush and let him sleep. Then, as evening came on, Hubbard and I
started for a stroll along the shore. The sun was still high in
the heavens, and the temperature mildly cool.

A walk of a mile or so brought us to the cabin of one Joe Lloyd, a
livyere. Lloyd proved to be an intelligent old Englishman who had
gone to Labrador as a sailor lad on a fishing schooner to serve a
three-years' apprenticeship. He did not go home with his ship, and
year after year postponed his return, until at last he married an
Eskimo and bound himself fast to the cold rocks of Labrador, where
he will spend the remainder of his life, eking out a miserable
existence, a lonely exile from his native England.

After he had greeted us, Lloyd asked: "Is all the world at peace,
sir?" He had heard of the Boer war, and was pleased when we told
him that it had ended in a victory for the British arms. His
hunger for news touched us deeply, and we told him all that we
could recall of recent affairs of public interest. I have said
that his hunger for news touched us. As a matter of fact, few
things have impressed me as being more pathetic than that old man's
life up there on that isolated and desolate island, where he spends
most of his time wistfully longing to hear something of the great