The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
to it so kindly that I begged for a few bottles to 
help down the very poor fare of the steamer. 
Johnny Peters, for an Indian, was quite sorry 
to part with me, and I gave him, in addition to 
his pay, which he had thoroughly earned, a lot 
of camp gear. He still cast loving eyes on my 
glasses, but those I did not feel inclined to 
part with. 
On the way back to St. John’s we stopped to 
pick up two passengers who were going to 
Canada. They were engaged, and were to be 
married on arrival. A too-persuasive friend of 
the husband-elect had supplied a sort of stirrup 
cup in the form of a tumblerful of raw rum, 
40 over proof—an amount to make even an 
Indian toper drunk. The result was melancholy 
to a degree. For he had not been on board an 
hour before he behaved like a raving lunatic, and 
eventually became so violent that the captain 
had to send three men aft to strap the “ tee- 
totaller * to the grating of the wheel-house. The 
poor girl sat up with her prospective bridegroom 
throughout the night, holding his hands. 
At St. John’s I remained a day or so awaiting 
the Allan liner that was to take me on to Halifax, 
N.S., and found much to interest in the stores 
wherein were stacked the tons of dry cod for 
which St. John’s is famous. A great portion of 
this fish goes to Portugal, and other Roman 
Catholic countries, the ships bringing back as 
30 
