Fred and I were hardly a mile from the ship when a heavy thunderstorm
broke upon us, and we were soon drenching wet--the baptism of our
expedition. This rain was followed by a dense fog and early darkness.
On and on we rowed, and I was berating myself for permitting the men
to go on so far ahead of us with the canoes, for they did not know the
way and the fog had completely shut out the lights of the Post
buildings, which otherwise would have been visible across the bay for
a considerable distance.

Suddenly through the fog and darkness, from shoreward, came a "Hello!
Hello!" We answered, and heading our boat toward the sound of
continued "Hellos," found the men, with the canoes unloaded and hauled
ashore, preparing to make a night camp. I joined them and, launching
and reloading the canoes again, with Richards and Easton in one canoe
and Pete and I in the other, we followed Fred and Stanton, who
preceded us in the rowboat, keeping our canoes religiously within
earshot of Fred's thumping oarlocks. Finally the fog lifted, and not
far away we caught a glimmer of lights at the French Post. All was
dark at the Hudson Bay Post across the river when at last our canoes
touched the sandy beach and we sprang ashore.

What a flood of remembrances came to me as I stepped again upon the
old familiar ground! How vividly I remembered that June day when
Hubbard and I had first set foot on this very ground and Mackenzie had
greeted us so cordially! And also that other day in November when,
ragged and starved, I came here to tell of Hubbard, lying dead in the
dark forest beyond! The same dogs that I had known then came running
to meet us now, the faithful fellows with which I began that sad
funeral journey homeward over the ice. I called some of them by name
"Kumalik," "Bo'sun," "Captain," "Tinker"--and they pushed their great