FISH PHOTOGRAPHIC EXCURSIONS 167 



a fisherman's hut near by, to get him to row us over 

 the bay, but it was the Sabbath, and the fisherman 

 refused to go. I was particularly anxious to see the 

 fish, and so trudged three miles to cross the river at 

 a ford. When I got to where the salmon had been 

 killed the fish were gone, and a boat had recently been 

 pulled on the shore ! 



My friend and I now turned inland and trespassed 

 on an extensive deer forest until we lost our way. But 

 near Tarbert, where I stayed, there was a whaling 

 station, and if a south wind was blowing there was no 

 fear of one's bones bleaching on the bleak hill-side, for 

 it was always possible to smell one's way to the shore — 

 and this is what we did. 



Arrived at the station, we knocked at the door of 

 the manager's house, and a bearded Norwegian, six 

 feet six inches in height, demanded in gruff tones our 

 business ; but the forbidding appearance and the 

 gruff voice were merely a warning to trespassers, and 

 masked (as we found later) a most genial host. 



We were informed that the midday meal was at two 

 o'clock, and if we cared to wait till then we were wel- 

 come. As soon as we got in we were told to take off 

 our boots and were laid in bunks while our host slum- 

 bered on a sofa. 



Have you ever tried to sleep at a whaling station 

 in a wooden hut on an August afternoon, with the 

 temperature about 90° Fahrenheit, amidst thousands 

 of buzzing flies, and choked by a stench of decomposing 



