screaming. It was our first night out in the open in Labrador, and
all was new and entrancing; and as slumber gradually enwrapped us,
it seemed to us that we had fallen upon pleasant times.

At one o'clock (Friday morning) we awoke. By the light of the
brilliant moon we made coffee, called George and Steve and ate our
breakfast of cold salmon and hardtack. George's lumbago was very
bad, and he was unable to do any work. The rest of us portaged the
outfit two hundred yards to the boat, which, owing to Steve's
miscalculations as to the tide, we found high and dry on the rocks.
Working in the shallow water, with a cloud of mosquitoes around our
heads, it took us until 4.30 o'clock to launch her, by which time
daylight long since had returned.

Once more afloat, we found that the wind had entirely died away,
and Steve's sculling pushed the boat along but slowly. Grampuses
raised their big backs everywhere, and seals, upon which they prey,
were numerous. The water was alive with schools of caplin. At
eleven o'clock we made Pompey Island, a mossy island of Laurentian
rock about thirty-five miles from Indian Harbour. Here we stopped
for luncheon, and after much looking around, succeeded in finding
enough sticks to build a little fire. I made flapjacks, and
Hubbard melted sugar for syrup.

While we were eating, I discovered in the far distance the smoke of
a steamer. We supposed it to be the Julia Sheridan. Rushing our
things into the boat, we put off as quickly as possible to
intercept her. We fired three or four shots from our rifle, but
got only a salute in recognition. Then Hubbard and I scramble into
the canoe, which we had in tow, and began to paddle with might and