Twilight was settling into gloom, and the first faint stars were
struggling to show themselves above the distant line of dark fir and
spruce trees that marked the edge of the forest bordering Eskimo Bay.
Dark cloud patches scudding across the sky, now and again obscured the
face of the rising moon. A brisk northwest breeze was blowing, and
though it was mid-July the air had grown chill with the setting of the
sun.
Ungava Bob, alone in his boat, arose, buttoned his jacket, trimmed
sail, and by force of habit stood with his left hand resting upon the
tiller while he scanned the moonlit waters of the bay before resuming
his seat.
He was a tall, square-shouldered, well-developed lad of seventeen,
straight and lithe as an Indian, with keen, gray-blue eyes, which
seemed ever alert and observant. Exposure to sun and wind had tanned
his naturally fair skin a rich bronze, and his thick, dark-brown hair,
with a tendency to curl up at the ends, where it fell below his cap,
gave his round, full face an appearance of boyish innocence.
He was now homeward bound to Wolf Bight from the Hudson's Bay
Company's post on the north shore, where he had purchased a supply of
steel traps and other equipment preparatory to his next winter's
campaign upon the trapping trails of the far interior wilderness; for
Bob Gray, though but seventeen years of age, was already an
experienced hunter and trapper.
Suddenly, as he looked over the troubled sea, a small black object
rising upon the crest of a wave far to leeward caught his eye. The
small black object was Shad's canoe, and one with less keen vision
might have passed it unnoticed, or seeing it have supposed it belated
debris cast into the bay by the rivers, for the spring floods had
hardly yet fully subsided. But Bob's training as a hunter taught him
to take nothing for granted, and, watching intently for its
reappearance from the trough of the sea, he presently discerned in the
moonlight the faint glint of a paddle.
"A canoe!" he exclaimed, as he sat down. "An' what, now, be an Injun
doin' out there this time o' night? An' Injuns never crosses where
this un be. I'll see, now, who it is, an' what he's up to, whatever,"
and, suiting the action to the resolve, he shifted his course to bear
down upon the stranger.
The hunter instinctively attributes importance to every sign, sound,
or action that is not in harmony with the usual routine of his world,
and by actual investigation he must needs satisfy himself of its
meaning. This is not idle curiosity, but an instinct born of necessity
and life-long training, and it was this instinct that prompted Ungava
Bob's action in turning from his direct course homeward.
"'Tis no Injun," he presently said, as with a nearer approach he
observed the stroke. "'Tis too long an' slow a paddle-stroke."
This puzzled him, for he knew well every white settler of the Bay
within a hundred miles of his home, and he knew, too, that only some
extraordinary mission could have called one of them abroad so late in
the evening, and particularly upon the course this canoe was taking at
a season of the year when all were employed upon their fishing
grounds.
Gradually he drew down upon the canoe, until at length he could make
out its lines, and observed that it was not a birch bark, the only
sort of canoe in use in the Bay by either Indians or white natives.
The canoeist, too, was a stranger in the region. Of this he had no
doubt, though he could not see his features.
He was well within hailing distance, though it was evident the
stranger in the canoe had not yet discovered his approach, when a
black cloud passed over the face of the moon, plunging the sea into
darkness, and when the moon again lighted the waters canoe and
canoeist had vanished as by magic.
Like a flash, realising what had happened, Bob seized a coil of rope,
made one end fast to the stern of his boat, grasped the coil in his
right hand, and, tense and expectant, scanned the sea for the
reappearance of the unfortunate stranger.
Presently he discovered the submerged canoe directly ahead, and an
instant later saw Shad rise to the surface, strike out for it, and
catch and cling to the gunwale.
Bob poised himself for the effort, and as he scudded past, measuring
the distance to a nicety, deftly cast the line directly across the
canoe and within the reach of Shad's hand, shouting as he did so:
"Make un fast!"
Without looking for the result, he sprang forward, lowered sail,
shipped the oars, pulled the boat about, and Shad, who had caught the
rope, had scarcely time to thrust it under a thwart and secure it
before Bob, drawing alongside, caught him by the collar of his shirt
and hauled him aboard the boat. Seizing the oars again, and pulling
safely free from danger of collision with the canoe, Bob hoisted sail,
brought the boat before the wind, and resuming his seat astern had his
first good look at his thus suddenly acquired passenger.
Shad, amidships, was engaged in drawing off his outer flannel shirt,
from which he coolly proceeded to wring, as thoroughly as possible,
the excess water, before donning it again.
Not a word had passed between them, and neither spoke until Shad had
readjusted his shirt, when, by way of opening conversation, Bob
remarked:
"You'm wet, sir."
"Naturally," admitted Shad. "I've been in the Bay, and the bay water
is surprisingly wet."
"Aye," agreed Bob, "'tis that."
"And surprisingly cold."
"Aye, 'tis wonderful cold."
"And I'm profoundly grateful to you for pulling me out of it."
"'Twere fine I comes up before your canoe founders, or I'm thinkin'
you'd be handy t' drownded by now."
"A sombre thought, but I guess you're right. A fellow couldn't swim
far or stick it out long in there," said Shad, waving his arm toward
the dark waters. "I'm sure I owe my life to you. It was lucky for me
you saw me."
"'Tweren't luck, sir; 'twere Providence. 'Twere th' Lord's way o'
takin' care o' you."
"Well, it was a pretty good way, anyhow. But where did you drop from?
I didn't see you till you threw me that line a few minutes ago."
"I were passin' t' wind'ard, sir, when I sights you, an' not knowin'
who 'twere, I sails close in till I makes you out as a stranger, an'
then you goes down an' I picks you up."
"That sounds very simple, but it was a good stunt, just the same, to
get me the line and come around in this chop the way you did, and then
haul me aboard before I knew what you were about--you kept your head
beautifully, and knew what to do--and you only a kid, too!" added
Shad, in surprise, as the moonlight fell full on Bob's face.
"A--kid?" asked Bob, not quite certain what "kid" might be.
"Yes--just a youngster--a boy."
"I'm seventeen," Bob asserted, in a tone which resented the imputation
of extreme youth. "You don't look much older'n that yourself."
"But I am--much older--I'm eighteen," said Shad, grinning. "My
name's Trowbridge--Shad Trowbridge, from Boston. What is your name?
Let's get acquainted," and Shad extended his hand.
"I'm Bob Gray, o' Wolf Bight," said Bob, taking Shad's hand.
"Not Ungava Bob?" exclaimed Shad.
"Aye, they calls me Ungava Bob here-abouts sometimes."
"Why, I was on my way to Wolf Bight to see you!"
"T' see me, sir?"
"Yes, I came up from Fort Pelican to Porcupine Cove with two trappers
named Blake and Matheson, and they told me about you. They said I
might induce you to take a trip with me."
"A trip with you, sir?"
"Yes. I want to take a little canoe and fishing trip into the country,
and Blake and Matheson suggested that you might have two or three
weeks to spare and could go along with me. I'll pay you well for your
services. What do you think of it?"
"I'm--not just knowin'," Bob hesitated. "I leaves for my trappin'
grounds th' first o' August t' be gone th' winter, an'--I'm thinkin' I
wants t' stay home till I goes--an' my folks'll be wantin' me home."
"Well, let's not decide now. We'll talk it over to-morrow."
"You'm cold," said Bob, after a moment's silence, reaching into a
locker under his seat and bringing out a moleskin adicky. "Put un on.
She's fine and warm."
"Thank you. I'm thoroughly chilled," Shad admitted, gratefully
accepting the adicky and drawing it on over his wet clothing.
"Pull th' hood up," suggested Bob. "'Twill help warm you."
"There, that's better; I'll soon be quite comfortable."
"We don't seem to be making much headway," Shad remarked, observing
the shore after a brief lapse in conversation.
"No," said Bob, "th' canoe bein' awash 'tis a heavy drag towin' she,
but we'll soon be in th' lee, an' out o' danger o' th' sea smashin'
she ag'in' th' boat, an' then I'll haul she alongside an' bring your
outfit aboard."
They were slowly approaching the south shore and presently, as Bob had
predicted, ran under the lee of a long point of land, where in calmer
water the canoe was manoeuvred alongside, and Shad's outfit, so
fortunately and securely lashed fast by Ed Matheson, was found intact,
save the paddle which Shad had been using.
The things were quickly transferred to the boat, and, this
accomplished, Bob bailed the canoe free of water, dropped it astern,
now a light and easy tow, and catching the breeze again in the open,
turned at length into Wolf Bight, where he made a landing on a sandy
beach.
"That's where I lives," said Bob, indicating a little log cabin,
sharply silhouetted against the moonlit sky, on a gentle rise above
them.
When the canoe, quite unharmed, was lifted from the water and all made
snug, Shad silently followed up the path and into the door of the
darkened cabin, where Bob lighted a candle, displaying a large square
room, the uncarpeted floor scoured to immaculate whiteness, as were
also the home-made wooden chairs, a chest of drawers, and uncovered
table.
There were two windows on the south side and one on the north side,
all gracefully draped with snowy muslin. A clock ticked cheerfully on
a rude mantel behind a large box stove. To the left of the door, a
rough stairway led to the attic, and the rear of the room was
curtained off into two compartments, the spotlessly clean curtains of
a pale blue and white checked print, giving a refreshing touch of
colour to the room which, simply as it was furnished, possessed an
atmosphere of restfulness and homely comfort that impressed the
visitor at once as cosy and wholesome.
"My folks be all abed," explained Bob, as he placed the candle on the
table, "but we'll put a fire on an' boil th' kettle. A drop o' hot
tea'll warm you up after your cold souse."
"I would appreciate it," said Shad, his teeth chattering.
"Be that you, Bob?" asked a voice from behind the curtain.
"Aye, Father," answered Bob, "an' I has a gentleman with me, come t'
visit us."
"Now that be fine. I'll be gettin' right up," said the voice.
"Put a fire on, lad, an' set th' kettle over," suggested a woman's
voice, "an' I'll be gettin' a bite t' eat."
"Please don't leave your bed," pleaded Shad. "It will make me feel
that I am causing a lot of trouble. Bob and I will do very nicely."
"'Tis no trouble, sir--'tis no trouble at all," the man's voice
assured.
"Oh, no, sir; 'tis no trouble," echoed the woman's voice. "'Tis too
rare a pleasure t' have a visitor."
Both spoke in accents of such honest welcome and hospitality that Shad
made no further objection.
The fire was quickly lighted, and Shad, as the stove began to send out
its genial warmth, had but just removed his borrowed adicky when the
curtain parted and Mr. and Mrs. Gray appeared.
"Mr. Trowbridge, this be Father and Mother," said Bob; adding as a
second thought, "Mr. Trowbridge lives in Boston."
"'Tis fine t' see a stranger, sir," welcomed Richard Gray, as he shook
Shad's hand warmly, "an' from Boston, too! I have hearn th' fishermen
o' th' coast tell o' Boston more'n once, but I never were thinkin'
we'd have some one from Boston come t' our house! An' you comes all
th' way from Boston, now?"
"Yes," admitted Shad, "but I feel sure I'm causing you and Mrs. Gray
no end of inconvenience, coming at this time of night."
"Oh, no, sir! 'Tis no inconvenience in th' least. We're proud t' have
you," assured Mrs. Gray, taking his hand. "Why, you'm wet, sir!" she
exclaimed, noticing Shad's clinging garments, and her motherly
instinct at once asserted itself. "You must have a change. Bob, lad,
hold th' candle, now, whilst I get some dry clothes."
"Please don't trouble yourself. I'm very comfortable by the fire;
indeed, I am," Shad protested.
But Bob nevertheless held the candle while his mother selected a suit
of warm underwear, a pair of woollen socks, a flannel outer shirt, and
a pair of freshly washed white moleskin trousers from the chest of
drawers.
"These be Bob's clothes, but they'll be a handy fit for you, I'm
thinkin', for Bob an' you be as like in size as two duck's eggs," she
commented, looking the two over for comparison. "Now, Bob, light a
candle an' show Mr. Trowbridge above stairs. When you're changed, sir,
bring your wet things down, an' we'll hang un by th' stove t' dry."
"You're very kind, Mrs. Gray," said Shad gratefully, turning to follow
Bob.
In the attic were three bunks spread with downy Hudson's Bay Company
blankets, two stools, and a small table. It contained no other
furniture, but was beautifully clean. There was an open window at
either end, one looking toward the water, the other toward the spruce
forest, and the atmosphere, bearing the perfume of balsam and fir, was
fresh and wholesome.
"I sleeps here," informed Bob, placing the candle on the table and
indicating one of the bunks, "an' you may have either o' th' other
beds you wants. Now whilst you changes, sir, I'll bring up th' things
from th' boat. Here's a pair o' deerskin moccasins. Put un on," he
added, selecting a new pair from several hanging on a peg.
Shad made his toilet leisurely, and as he turned to descend the stairs
with his wet garments on his arm he met the appetising odour of frying
fish, which reminded him that he had eaten nothing since mid-day and
was ravenously hungry.
In the room below he found the table spread with a white cloth. A
plate of bread and a jar of jam were upon it, and at the stove Mrs.
Gray was transferring from frying-pan to platter some deliciously
browned brook trout. Bob, with his father's assistance, had brought up
Shad's belongings from the boat, and Richard was critically examining
Shad's repeating rifle.
"Let me have un," said he, putting down the gun, and reaching for the
wet garments on Shad's arm proceeded at once to spread them upon a
line behind the stove.
"Set in an' have a bite, now. You must be wonderful hungry after your
cruise," invited Mrs. Gray.
"'Tis only trout an' a bit o' bread an' jam an' a drop o' tea,"
Richard apologised, as he joined Shad and Bob at the table, "but we
has t' do wi' plain eatin' in this country, an' be content with what
th' Lord sends us."
"Trout are a real luxury to me," assured Shad. "We are seldom able to
get them at home, and a trout supper is a feast to be remembered."
"Well, now! Trout a luxury!" exclaimed Richard. "About all we gets t'
eat in th' summer is trout an' salmon, an' we're glad enough when th'
birds flies in th' fall."
"What birds do you get?" asked Shad.
"Duck and geese, and there's plenty of partridge in the winter,"
explained Richard.
"An' I were thinkin', now, you might not care for un," said Mrs. Gray.
"I'm wonderful glad you likes un."
Richard asked the blessing, and then invited Shad to "fall to," and
frequently urged him to take more trout and not to be "afraid of un,"
a quite unnecessary warning in view of Shad's long fast and naturally
vigorous appetite.
"Mr. Trowbridge wants me t' go on a fortnight's trip up th' country
with he," remarked Bob, as they ate.
"A trip up th' country?" inquired Richard.
"Yes," said Shad, "a fishing and canoeing trip."
"But Bob's t' be wonderful busy makin' ready for th' trappin',"
Richard objected.
"So he tells me," said Shad, "but perhaps if we talk it over to-morrow
you can make some suggestion."
"Aye," agreed Richard, with evident relief, "we'll talk un over
to-morrow."
When the meal was finished, Richard devoutly offered thanks, after the
manner of the God-fearing folk of the country.
The mantel clock struck two as they arose from the table. Dawn was
breaking, for at this season of the year the Labrador nights are
short, and Shad, at the end of his long and eventful day, was quite
content to follow Bob above stairs to his attic bunk.