212 
and the best of brawn. The ‘‘mushers,”’ as 
ourNorthern hardies are distinguished from 
tenderfeet, winked and laughed at their 
lack of comprehension, at their inexperience 
and their fabulous hopes. We learned much 
from both stamps of men. Maps, charts, 
log-books and diaries—everybody had one 
of more stowed away in pocket or kit— 
were gone over in hearty conference, ex- 
plained and elaborated upon. Guns and 
outfits were extolled by their respective 
owners and the other fellows’ usually run 
down, a predominant characteristic of 
human nature in all travelers or habitants of 
a new country. 
So, what with a glance at the scenery 
and the informing companionship of the 
garrulous crowd aboard, the hours and 
knots were put astern, and near midnight 
of the second day the steamer felt her way 
cautiously through the reefs that reach 
out from the several small islands guard- 
ing Beaver Harbor, and anchored in the 
roadstead, a mile and a-half or more 
from the Indian village of Fort Rupert. 
The call of the boat being unexpected, no 
canoes were in waiting to disembark us. 
For near an hour the shacks ashore were 
dark and silent as the Indians slept, not- 
withstanding the entreating whistle and the 
glaring brightness of the searchlight of the 
AN OLD HUDSON’S BAY POST 
RECREATION 
boat. The dogs barked lustily, as only 
Indian curs can, and thus indirectly were 
their drowsy masters roused. Finally, our 
anxiety was relieved by the cry, “Boat 
alongside.”’ It was Hunt in a small canoe, 
too small for lightering us ashore. He had 
been paddling about amongst the outer 
islands, armed with a rifle and pit-lamp, 
in quest of deer, the moonless night being 
especially suited to that style of hunting. 
Another brief wait and, aided by the 
ebbing tide and a stiff ‘‘ash breeze,” he 
brought the sloop “Josephine” alongside. 
We tumbled ourselves and things on board 
hastily and pulled to an anchorage about 
a half mile off shore. The steamer veered 
around, with a farewell jangling of its 
bells, and soon its lights were lost tu view 
as it continued its northward course. 
For a few moments we stood in awed con- 
templation of our surroundings. Above were 
the starlit heavens, sparkling with peculiar 
Northern brilliancy; about us everywhere 
was the silent, impenetrable gloom of water 
and night. Like Hardy’s ‘‘Farmer Oak,” 
we were “far from the madding crowd,” 
and the stealthy chill of realization drove us 
to our blankets and bunks, to dream of 
our cruise of the wonderful fjords of the 
North Pacific, which was to begin with the 
morrow. 

IN THE NORTH AS IT IS TO-DAY 
