FISH PHOTOGRAPHIC EXCURSIONS 167 
a fisherman’s hut near by, to get him to row us over 
the bay, but it was the Sabbath, and the fisherman 
refused to go. I was particularly anxious to see the 
fish, and so trudged three miles to cross the river at 
a ford. When I got to where the salmon had been 
killed the fish were gone, and a boat had recently been 
pulled on the shore ! 
My friend and I now turned inland and trespassed 
on an extensive deer forest until we lost our way. But 
near Tarbert, where I stayed, there was a whaling 
station, and if a south wind was blowing there was no 
fear of one’s bones bleaching on the bleak hill-side, for 
it was always possible to smell one’s way to the shore— 
and this is what we did. 
Arrived at the station, we knocked at the door of 
the manager’s house, and a bearded Norwegian, six 
feet six inches in height, demanded in gruff tones our 
business; but the forbidding appearance and the 
eruff voice were merely a warning to trespassers, and 
masked (as we found later) a most genial host. 
We were informed that the midday meal was at two 
o’clock, and if we cared to wait till then we were wel- 
come. As soon as we got in we were told to take off 
our boots and were laid in bunks while our host slum- 
bered on a sofa. 
Have you ever tried to sleep at a whaling station 
in a wooden hut on an August afternoon, with the 
temperature about 90° Fahrenheit, amidst thousands 
of buzzing flies, and choked by a stench of decomposing 
