Jan. 27, 1912.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
107 
face fell forward under the surface, and he sank. 
In a moment his head bobbed up. The water 
on his face and trickling into his lungs had re¬ 
vived him momentarih". He struck out quickly, 
wildly, and then thought of Jack. Turning, he 
looked back along the trough of a wave. 
Twenty yards behind him a hand and half of 
a forearm were thrust out of the water. At first 
Mulligan thought it was being held there steadily, 
but soon he saw that it was slowly, then more 
quickly, sinking. When only the hand was visi¬ 
ble, a wave cut off his vision for a moment. 
When the wave had passed the hand was 
gone. 
“Jack,'’ cried the swimmer; “Jack,” and he 
looked wildly toward the spot where the hand 
had disappeared. Then he turned and swam on 
toward shore. 
The knowledge that Jack was dead served to 
arouse Mulligan. He realized vaguely that he 
had lost consciousness. The fact that Jack was 
dead brought a third factor—fear—to act as a 
spur on the apparently exhausted body. He 
looked toward shore and saw that he had trav¬ 
ersed half the distance. But he was now well 
within the shelter of the point and no longer 
would be impeded by the big rollers. 
For fifty yards he swam steadily before the 
force of his nervous energy was dulled, and his 
movement became sluggish and painful. He wet 
his face by bending his head in an effort to re¬ 
vive his ebbing faculties. Fear ceased to be a 
spur. He became more drowsy and tired. The 
water was cold, but it felt soft, and he thought 
that he would like to sink. He knew it would 
be painless, quick, welcome. He was about to 
try it when something, somewhere, seemed to 
call “quitter,” and he struggled on. The drow¬ 
siness became more oppressive, more overpower¬ 
ing. Again he sank, and again his head bobbed 
up, his mind only slightly cleared by the water 
on his face. He saw the shore, no more than 
twenty-five yards away, paddled feebly until he 
had recovered his stroke and momentum, and 
was about to relapse into unconsciousness, when 
his imagination brought new nerve force. His 
stroke became stronger and more regular, his 
progress correspondingly greater. 
But the cold, the prolonged exertion and the 
nervous strain had stripped him of so much 
strength that his recovery was short lived. The 
shore, which he saw to be a rock-covered gravel 
beach running back to the brush, which in turn 
gave way to a spruce forest, became dim. His 
eyes closed and his nose occasionally dropped 
beneath the surface. The numbness of his hands 
and feet extended to his elbows and knees. 
Again there was a faint twinkle of a thought 
that he would like to sink through the soft 
water. Before his slow-moving faculties could 
act upon this suggestion, unconsciousness, came. 
But still he swam on. An instinctive, animal- 
like desire to live and the automatic continua¬ 
tion of the slow movement of his arms and legs 
kept him afloat and pushed him nearer shore. 
When Mulligan recovered consciousness he lay 
face down in a heavily moss-carpeted spruce 
thicket. He lifted his head, only to drop it 
instantly, as pains shot through his neck, shou'- 
ders and back. The pain served to clear his 
head, and he remembered. 
Slowly, with teeth clenched. Mulligan began 
moving his right arm. When the pain had les¬ 
sened, he began with the left. He lifted his feet 
by bending his legs at the knees. When he tried 
to roll over on to his side, he was unable to sup¬ 
press a groan. Fifteen minutes later he had so 
far restored circulation and softened his muscles 
that he could reach a sitting position. 
Ihen, for the first time, he became conscious 
of a stinging pain in the skin of his chest, shoul¬ 
ders and knees. He looked down to find that 
the front of his clothes was torn to shreds, and 
that his skin was scratched and raw. Blood had 
clotted and blackened in the abrasions and run 
down his body and arms. 
The cause was a greater mystery than his 
being in the spruce thicket. He saw a freshly 
broken spruce in front of him, and freshly torn 
moss, and further on more torn and bent and 
broken bushes. Getting stiffly to his feet, he 
found a newly broken trail, a trail such as a 
man would make by dragging a deer behind 
him. The trail led out of the spruce, into the 
willow brush and on to the rock-covered gravel 
beach where it was visible in newly overturned 
rocks, some of which bore spots of blood. The 
trail led to the water’s edge. 
Then it dawned upon Mulligan that he had, 
when he struck shore, continued his swimming 
stroke and had crawled, shoved and pulled him-, 
self, when unconscious or delirious, over rocks, 
through brush and into the woods too yards 
from the water. 
He looked out over the tumbling water, but 
there was no sign of the canoe in the big 
stretch down the wind. He knew the lake was 
long, wide in places, cut up by islands and points, 
and its shores broken by long arms that ran 
back, sometimes ten miles. 
At least fifty miles to the west was Ely, the 
nearest human habitation. Between him and the 
town was a country covered with lakes and 
streams, swamps and rocky ridges, dense growth 
of brush and pine. If he were to survive, if 
Jack’s body were to be recovered, he must get 
to Ely. He shivered, both from the cold north 
wind and because of what lay before him. It 
was a journey no one would undertake, especially 
in winter, unless compelled by a necessity such 
as confronted him. There were only two means 
of travel in that country, canoe in summer and 
snowshoes in winter. If a man, with a heavy 
pack and following a section line, were to cross 
a township in a day, he would be making good 
time. Mulligan had no pack, but he had no 
food, no matches, little clothing. Ice cold rivers 
were to be crossed, long-armed lakes circum¬ 
vented, tearing, maddening brush penetrated for 
miles and miles, swamps forded or evaded by 
long detours. He knew he would walk one 
hundred miles before he reached Ely. 
It was 8 o’clock Sunday morning when the 
canoe was upset. Wednesday forenoon Mulligan 
staggered into Winton, three miles east of Ely. 
He called up the forest supervisor at Ely and 
then drove over in a livery rig. At the offices 
of the forester he found rangers and guards and 
an undertaker ready to start by a canoe to Knife 
Lake. 
“Get something to eat and go to bed,” said 
the supervisor, looking at the hollow-eyed, blood- 
spattered, ragged ranger. 
“When are you going to start?” Mulligan 
asked. 
“We will leave in an hour.” 
Mulligan went out. Forty-five minutes later 
he returned. Fie wore new clothing, had washed 
the grime from his face and hands, and two 
quarts of soup distended his belt. 
"Why don’t you go to bed, man?” demanded 
the supervisor. 
“Fm going to Knife Lake,” was all Mulligan 
would say. 
Arguments, entreaties, even the commands of 
his superior officer were unavailing. In that 
long, forced canoe trip of nearly seventy-five 
miles, in which heavy winds, snow squalls, biting 
cold and raging water were met and overcome. 
Mulligan swung as strong a paddle as any other, 
carried as big a pack on the portages. 
When Jack’s body had been found and brought 
back to Ely and sent to his home further south. 
Mulligan hung around headquarters for a day. 
Toward night he bought a new packsack, blank¬ 
ets, outfit of grub and camp utensils. 
“What are you doing. Mull?” demanded the 
supervisor. 
“Guess I'll get out in the morning,” he said, 
and the supervisor did not see his ranger again 
until the last of August, when he penetrated to 
the isolated district which, in that year of disas¬ 
trous forest fires. Mulligan’s solitary but vigilant 
care had kept free from the devastating flames. 
New Publications. 
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Descended from a long line of ancestors most 
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