life is like a dream, and your friends like dream-folk. What a
strange sensation it is! Have you felt that way, George?"

George took the pipe from his mouth, blew out a cloud of tobacco
smoke to join the smoke of the fire, and spat meditatively over his
shoulder.

"Don't know as I have," he grunted. "I know there's mighty good
huntin' down the bay; and I've been thinkin' of Rupert's House [the
Hudson's Bay Company Post on James Bay where he was born], and what
the fellus I know there are doin' these days. I can't say they
seem like dream-folks to me; they're real enough, all right."

Hubbard and I laughed. Solitude was an old story to our friend,
the English-Indian, and our "feelings" must have seemed to him
highly artificial, if not affected.

Our progress on Tuesday and Wednesday (July 28 and 29) was the old
story of hard tracking in the river and difficult portaging. The
weather was cloudy and a chill wind blew. On Tuesday we advanced
our camp a little more than three miles, and on Wednesday a little
more than four. This continued slow work gave Hubbard serious
concern, and the condition of our larder and wardrobe was not
reassuring. Our bacon and sugar were going fast. Fish had become
an absolute necessity, and our catches had been alarmingly small.
There was also a lamentable lack of game. Far below we had heard
the chatter of the last red squirrel, and seen the last bear signs
and the last tree barked by porcupines. There were caribou trails
a-plenty, but seldom a fresh track. A solitary rabbit had crossed
our trail since we entered the valley, and there were no more