e we knew--Hubbard never knew. A
perceptible current, a questioning word, the turn of a paddle would
have set us right. No current was noticed, no word was spoken, and
the paddle sent us straight toward those blue hills yonder, where
Suffering and Starvation and Death were hidden and waiting for us.
How little we expected to meet these grim strangers then. That
July day came back to me as if it had been but the day before. I
believe I never missed Hubbard so much as at that moment. I never
felt his loss so keenly as then. An almost irresistible impulse
seized me to go on into our old trail and hurry to the camp where
we had left him that stormy October day and find if he were not
after all still there and waiting for me to come back to him.
Reluctantly I thrust the impulse aside. Armed with the experience
gained upon the former expedition, and information gleaned from the
Indians, I turned into the northern trail, through the valley of
the Nascaupee, and began a journey that carried me eight hundred