202 SPORT IN NEWFOUNDLAND 



When the portage was over Steve and John 

 went across the pond for the meat, and Joe and 

 I pushed on in the big canoe about a mile across 

 the pond to another rapid, fortunately only 

 about thirty yards long, where we again had to 

 portage. The day had turned bitterly cold and 

 heavy rain clouds were coming up. I had got 

 very warm walking and fishing along the brook, 

 and though I put on a thick jersey the wind 

 seemed to cut like a knife and I got a bad cold 

 which gave me some trouble for days after. 

 Poor old Joe had spent most of the day up to his 

 waist in water getting the empty canoes down 

 the creek and was looking very miserable. 

 The men wore nothing but their cotton shirts 

 and coats, cotton trousers and moccasins — 

 they were never dry, but never seemed to catch 

 cold. 



It was just the occasion for a tot of rum. 

 Whether it went to Joe's head or not I cannot 

 say — he certainly became extra cheerful, and 

 when the other men returned and all the men 

 were carrying the loads across the rapid, Joe 

 tumbled twice right into the water and got a 

 thorough ducking. I only made a gesture of 

 taking a tot, when I thought these simple folk 

 would never stop laughing. It was a joke 

 which lasted them the rest of the trip, and in 

 Indian circles no doubt I have the reputation 



