By and by she rejoined him outside. “She’ll come,” she said briefly.
“What magic did you use?”
“No magic. Just woman talk.”
CHAPTER VII ON THE RIVER
Next morning they saw the dug-out pulled up on the shore below their camp.
“The difference between a red man and a white man,” said Stonor grimly, “is that a red man doesn’t mind being caught in a lie after the occasion for it has passed, but a white man will spend half the rest of his life trying to justify himself.”
He regarded the craft dubiously. It was an antique affair, grey as an old badger, warped and seamed by the sun and rotten in the bottom. But it had a thin skin of sound wood on the outside, and on the whole it seemed better suited to their purpose than the bark-canoes used by the Kakisas.
As they carried their goods down and made ready to start the Indians gathered around and watched with glum faces. None offered to help. It must have been a trying situation for Mary Moosa. When Stonor was out of hearing they did not spare her. She bore it with her customary stoicism. Ahchoogah, less honest than the rank and file, sought to commend himself to the policeman by a pretence of friendliness. Stonor, beyond telling him that he would hold him responsible for the safety of the horses during his absence, ignored him.
Having stowed their outfit, they gingerly got in. Their boat, though over twenty feet long, was only about fifteen inches beam, and of the log out of which she had been fashioned she still retained the tendency to roll over. Mary took the bow paddle, and Stonor the stern; Clare sat amidships facing the policeman.
“If we can only keep on top until we get around the first bend we’ll save our dignity, anyhow,” said Stonor.