392 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Hauling Up to Bile The Kettle. 
field—a young chap says something to me about 
tres et demi. Jehu number one shouts ires: 
we engage him. 
Our voiture was an amusing vehicle; room for 
two in the rear seat, facing forward; room for 
one in the front scat, facing backward; left hand 
half of the front seat twisted square around to 
face ahead, and here the driver rode. The car¬ 
riage top leaked freely down our necks. The 
horse may not have seen better days, but was 
certainly not enjoying very good ones at the 
moment. 
Proud of having secured us, our driver de¬ 
cided to show a turn of speed. Away he went 
past the jolting, springless wagon. The road 
was easily rough enough to shake some duffle 
overboard. We begged our man to follow in¬ 
stead of leading. This he took at first for rush 
orders, but a vigorous demonstration brought 
home our meaning. The idea was fortunate. 
Many things fell and had to be retrieved. 
We wanted white lead. The men said there 
was a magasin not far along. The “store” stood 
at one corner of a cross-roads. Opposite it was 
a roadside shrine. The stock of goods hardly 
filled one end of a small room—tobacco, some 
boxes of crackers, a bit of cheap candy, and 
mighty little else. The girl in charge had no 
plomb blanc; she seemed uncertain as to its 
nature. J- remembered that Indians pitch 
their canoes instead of painting them. Smiling 
sweetly, he asked for gomme. I think the word 
was invented on the spot. But that intelligent 
girl understood. Smiling back, she produced 
from under the rough counter—a whole blessed 
box of chewing gum! J- retreated in disor¬ 
der and indignation, remarking: 
“Why, of course I knew she had that. Her 
jaws were going every minute we were there.” 
The road became softer and more overgrown. 
On the grades we helped out by walking. Just 
before one o’clock we came to Lac Claire. Here 
was a large house. The road turned to a mere 
cart path, but kept on. Now we had drawn 
from our driver the interesting fact that he 
could take us to the Shipshaw, saving one port¬ 
age. We proposed that he do so. He declined 
—too far— Mille et demi. J- made the 
startling assertion that was only un demi mille 
par la map de la Government du Canada and 
hauled out the map to prove it. Silence. I 
judged that money would make the mare go. 
We made a great show of unloading; also 
stated flatly that there would be no diner this 
side of the Shipshaw. More silence, exceeding 
glum. Then Jo, the wagoner, suddenly burst 
into a spasm of French. It must have been on 
our side, for we moved ahead. 
With all due respect to the Government of 
Canada and its map, the distance to that river 
is more than half a mile. We finally jolted our 
way to the bank. At this point “the trails run 
out and stop.” He who goes further goes by 
water. 
Here and now we made a sad, sad discovery. 
The duffle-bag containing all our cornmeal, 
oatmeal, salt, and sugar, had either stayed be¬ 
hind in Chicoutimi or been lost on the way. 
J- raced back to Lac Claire in a vain hunt. 
We gloomily downed an unseasoned meal. Jo 
furnished the only hilarity, getting the idea that 
Always The Last Outpost of Civilization. 
because his horse had vanished it was on the 
way home. Away he ran up the road while 
we howled him back. After showing fine sprint¬ 
ing ability he heeded our cries and returned to 
find his steed placidly resting in a thicket not 
fifty feet off. 
One of us was due to go back. Now when it 
comes to doing business in French I always try 
to follow the golden rule of childhood and be 
seen but not heard. So I proposed that W-, 
our prize linguist, be the envoy. He very prop¬ 
erly repelled the suggestion—would not accept 
the honor unless it was forced upon him by lot. 
We matched pennies, and W- was the un¬ 
lucky man. We paid our drivers and made a 
new bargain with Jo for the extra trip. The 
other man lost his temper because we did not 
give him the job, and refused to let W- ride 
in his carriage. Another explosion from Jo 
produced satisfactory results, however. 
Left alone, J— and I started to put camp in 
shape. He started for the necessary poles to 
pitch a tent, and like the well-known King of 
France, came back quite as fast as he went. 
One of his first axe blows, instead of beijng spent 
on a tree, was devoted almost entirely to his 
left foot, exposing the internal workings thereof 
to a cold world. A hazy period full of gore 
and excitement followed. At the end of it our 
tent was up and J- safe inside, his foot up¬ 
holstered with a most beautiful bandage. The 
black flies had done a noble job on both of us, 
because I neglected to light a smudge. We were 
thoroughly down in the mouth. Nor was a sup¬ 
per of unsalted rice, sweetened with corn syrup, 
very cheering. 
July 28—Breakfast was no improvement. I 
chose ham, because it was salty, and forgot to 
soak it. Still, the foot was better and might 
be good for traveling soon. 
W- came back at noon with a tale of woe 
He had not found the lost bag, but that was his 
smallest sorrow. It seemed that the carriage 
driver went only as far as Lac Claire. From 
that point W- was at the mercy of Jo’s 
wagon and Jo was in a tooth-loosening hurry. 
Then the ferry charged W-just ten times the 
usual fare and noisy guests at the hotel kept 
him awake all night. He wasted no sympathy 
upon us. 
After lunch we piled into the canoe and drop¬ 
ped down-stream to the first portage of the route 
which was to take us northwesterly to Tchita- 
gama. On the way we passed a house which 
swarmed with Indians—the last inhabited dwell¬ 
ing we saw for two weeks. On a rise of ground 
behind it stood a great black cross, braced with 
wire stays. In front was a structure which 
looked like a wood-pile; inside this lived the 
cow. All along the water’s edge lay birch bark 
canoes. During the paddle back to camp we 
took a fair-sized pike on the troll. 
July 29—Next day we were slow in packing 
and did not reach the portage until mid-morning. 
We were hardly up to carrying all our stuff in a 
single installment. J- limped through once, 
loaded like a pack mule, and waited while W- 
and I made two trips each. The trail had not 
Too Tired to Talk. 
