THE COMMODORE AND CREW. 324 

We touch a match to our pile of combustibles in the fry 
pan, adjust the screen between us and the light, then push out 
by the island and up the stream. In the meantime the sounds 
had ceased, but are now heard again, as we just move slowly 
along. Whack—whack! whack!—whack! so near and 
so loud, we likened it to the reports of a pistol. As we 
moved on, the stream was well lighted ahead, yet the sounds 
continued, and soon we saw just before us a huge beaver. 
He was slapping his broad, heavy, paddle-shaped tail, to 
right and left, upon the smooth water, swimming slowly 
ahead, rolling from side to side, like a sailor (as he is at 
times) and, seemingly, as brim full of hilarity. The Com- 
modore’s thumb is pressed hard on the hammer of his rifle, 
and he hates to loose this fine shot, but as he settles down 
again upon his knees, a low ‘‘boo!” is heard just above; 
the beaver goes under, leaving widening circles that reach 
and pass us, rising and falling beside the canoe, as we noise- 
lessly scull slowly toward the sound we know to be from a 
caribou. We are resting upon our knees in the birch canoe, 
the Commodore peeping through the opening in the blanket, 
with our light burning up most too brightly, we fear, when 
quickly from the Commodore we hear the low, low ‘“ Hist!” 
and lower whispers, ‘‘ Left, left; steady!” and the canoe is 
heading square across the stream, and pointing for the little 
cove, when—crack! speaks his rifle. A splashing jump in 
the water, and all is again quiet. 
The crew, thinking the deed is done, leans a little way out 
to look beyond the rubber blanket, and just as he makes out 
the dark form, a high head and antlers, eyes all a blaze of 
light — crack! again says the rifle. A sprawling plunge in 
the cove, heavy splashings, a sputtering snort, and soon all is 
once more as still as ever. 
