carry. First lake far, maybe eleven, twelve mile. Little ponds not
much good for canoe. Trail old. Not used long time. All time go up
hill."

"Where's Richards?" I inquired, noticing his absence.

"Left us about four miles back to take a short cut to the river and
follow it down to camp," said Easton. "He thought you might want to
know how it looked above, and perhaps keep on that way instead of
tackling the portage, for the trail's going to be mighty hard. It
looks as though the river would be better."

We waited until near dark for Richards, but he did not come. Then we
ate our supper without him.

The rain grew into a downpour and darkness came, but no Richards, and
at length I became alarmed for his safety. I pushed back the tent
flaps and peered out into the pitchy darkness and pouring rain.

"He'll never get in to-night," I remarked. "No," said some one, "and
he'll have a hard time of it out there in the rain." There was nothing
to do but wait. Pete rummaged in his bag and produced a candle (we
had a dozen in our outfit), sharpened one end of a stick, split the
other end for two or three inches down, forced open the split end and
set the candle in it and stuck the sharpened end in the ground, all
the while working in the dark. Then he lit the candle.

I do not know how long we had been sitting by the candle light and
putting forth all sorts of conjectures about Richards and his
uncomfortable position in the bush without cover and the probable