With Gun & Rod in Canada 



As for Tug, he was miserable and incorrigible. He 

 found fault with his fellow-sportsmen, hackled the 

 guides, hogged the bedding, and generally made himself 

 an everlasting nuisance. 



At my suggestion he tried to get the engine started 

 in the motor-boat; but wet batteries, wet wires, and 

 wet gasolene baffled his best efforts and mine also. 

 Finally, in desperation, I took the spark coil, batteries, 

 and wire all out of the boat, and baked them before a 

 roaring fire in our tin baker. Getting one of the guides 

 to hold an oil-coat to windward of the engine, I re- 

 attached the various appurtenances and got the engine 

 running. 



This was the middle of the afternoon of our fourth 

 stormy day. The wind was still blowing a gale, but 

 during a temporary lull we tore down our tents, packed 

 our dunnage as best we could in the boats, and started 

 for Lowe's Landing. As we ran into the open lake 

 we encountered a heavy wind and sea, and it began to 

 snow. We just made the lee of a low, swampy island 

 covered with firs, when the engine stalled. By strenuous 

 rowing and paddling we made a landing. The engine 

 refused to work, so in spite of Tug's vituperations we 

 decided to spend the night right there. We had to 

 pitch a tent in a rocky, wet spot under the trees, but a 

 roaring fire soon relieved the acute sense of discomfort. 

 Tug's sputterings had reached a squeaky, querulous 

 stage. Joe threatened to tie a rock to his foot and throw 

 him in the lake, and I didn't blame him. It was " some " 

 night ! To cap the climax, Tug accused Jim of picking 

 out the only soft, level spot under the tent for himself. 

 Jim said nothing, but picked up his sheep-skin and 

 blankets, and went outside in the snowstorm to lie in 

 the lee of the fire. As the sparks flew on his wet blanket, 

 we occasionally caught the odour of scorched wool. 



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