ACROSS NEWFOUNDLAND 195 



mostly concentrated at the cod-drying stations, such as St. 

 Jacques, Harbour Breton, and Gaultois, all pretty little vil- 

 lages nestling under wooded hills. At Pushthrough we found 

 lodging in a small grocer's shop, where McGaw and I had 

 to sleep in one very small and damp bed, out of which we 

 were in continuous danger of falling. 



September 4 broke fine and clear, and with a rattling breeze 

 astern we fairly raced up Bale d'Espoir (Bay Despair) for fifty 

 miles in a small schooner which we had hired. As we ad- 

 vanced the scenery became more and more beautiful until we 

 reached the exit of the Conn River and the telegraph station, 

 where we were obliged to anchor in the middle of the bay 

 on account of the shallowness of the water. The owner of 

 the schooner having refused to proceed further, we were 

 forced to load up our canoes in the middle of the bay and 

 get aboard them in a good breeze, quite a ticklish business, 

 and one for which none of us had much relish. However, 

 this was safely accomplished, and we made for the shore at 

 top speed. Once there all danger was past, and we paddled 

 along happily to the head of the bay — a great sand-flat 

 covered with goosegrass, and the home of thousands of 

 Canada geese in spring. Just as we were about to enter 

 the river a boat was seen chasing in our wake, so I stopped 

 my canoe and was greeted by two men, one of whom — 

 evidently a Micmac Indian — introduced himself as Joe 

 Jeddore. Joe said that he could take me to see Mr. 

 Leslie, the telegraph operator at Conn River, whom I was 

 anxious to thank for certain inquiries he had undertaken 

 on my behalf; so giving my canoe to Frank Wells, and 

 telling him to make camp on the river, I entered the boat 

 and was rowed for two miles to the telegraph station, where 

 I met Mr. Leslie. 



