THREE WEEKS LATER 



'HREE weeks have passed, and many a 

 salmon has been entered in the score- 

 book at Red Camp. Mr. Heckscher 

 has killed his bear; Mrs. Davis, a 

 forty-four-pound salmon : and now the little party, 

 standing at the landing, is about to start forth on 

 its last day's sport together, for Napoleon, having 

 decided to remain, is to join me on the morrow in 

 the club fishing. As the sky is bright and the 

 breeze fair, we are all up early for our morning's 

 sport. It is my turn to fish in front of the camp. 

 Pushing from the landing, the canoe is soon rest- 

 ing at the head of one of the best pools on the river 

 for late fishing. 



" Hello ! there 's one already," exclaims James. 

 " Look what a whirl ! Be careful, Mr. Davis ; 

 the water is clear. About thirty feet will reach 

 him." 



Casting toward the shore until the thirty feet 

 are out, I send the No. 3 double Black Dose 

 straight to the spot. A splash, and he is on. 



141 



