240 HUNTING CAMPS. 



ourselves staring at the slots of the little band of caribou 

 which a minute before had been almost at our mercy. 



One of them, as far as we could judge, was a stag ; 

 whether his horns would have satisfied either of us it 

 was impossible to say. Very likely not, yet we walked 

 back to camp without any stirring of forgiveness in 

 our minds towards the over-energetic cook and his 

 companion. 



It may be said that failure is the salt of sport, but salt 

 alone makes a poor meal, and luck at this period really 

 seemed to have deserted us. Search as we might, we 

 saw no more caribou until, coming reluctantly to the 

 conclusion that these most elusive animals had moved 

 on elsewhere, I began to turn my eyes towards England, 

 where it was absolutely necessary that I should arrive 

 by a certain date. Owing to carelessness I had been 

 under the impression that the steamer by which I 

 meant to travel started on a Saturday, which would 

 leave me just enough time to make my way out from 

 Lac Bruise by forced marches. The particular piece of 

 country through which we had to pass was unknown 

 to any of us, so that when I suddenly, through the 

 medium of an old newspaper, discovered that my steamer 

 left on the Friday afternoon, we lost no time in breaking 

 camp, and by two o'clock set out to strike the nearest 

 trail to civilisation. The first part of our way led us 

 along a portage through a belt of green wood, the very 

 portage upon which the Frenchmen were working when 

 their return to camp proved so disastrous to our hopes. 



About four o'clock, when it was rapidly growing 

 dusk, Ed, who was leading along the side of the 

 knoll, suddenly threw down his pack and pointed across 

 the valley. " A caribou stag, and a good head on him. 



