He turned out one of the sacks and ran his eye over the contents.
“Two days, at a pinch.”
“And how soon can we make Dawson?”
“Then it looks as though the ’pinch’ will have to be resorted to—and expanded.”
He saw she was smiling as she tucked his bottom blanket carefully under the moss.
“When you put it that way we can make anything,” he said. “If I had a canoe we could push up the river a good deal faster than overland, but I ain’t got one—and that’s the rub.”
“Then we’ll have to depend on luck.”
“No friend o’ mine. Luck don’t cut much ice up here.”
Angela shook her head. She had a slight suspicion that luck had not entirely deserted them. Though the future seemed black and threatening, were there not compensating elements? There were worse things than dying in the wilderness with a “wild man.”