"Oh, I'd risk the wetting. I've been through worse rapids than that without so much as being sprinkled." He proceeded to support his assertion by relating some of his adventures.
When Jack Fleming came to the end of his tether, the others had their say, for they had not been without experiences of a similar nature. Meanwhile, the fourth member of the group had been listening with interested attention, as if their stories were so novel that he did not wish to lose a word of them. He was merely a chance acquaintance, who had fallen into conversation with his fellow-travellers through the freemasonry of the pipe. They knew his name; Ronald Cameron, but they knew nothing more about him.
It was more for the sake of saying something courteous than with any idea of drawing the stranger out that Fleming turned to him and said, "Perhaps you know something about running rapids too?"
The stranger's bronzed face broke out into a smile, which meant unmistakably, "As well ask Grant if he knew something about fighting battles;" but there was not the faintest trace of boastfulness in his tone as he replied, "I have run a few rapids in my time."
"Well, it's your turn now; tell us your experience," said Fleming, and without much urging Cameron began.
"I must explain that I am in the employ of the Hudson Bay Company, and have spent many years in the North-west districts. My duties have required frequent long trips by York boat and bark canoe, in the course of which I have had my full share of tussles with rapids of all kinds. I could tell you half-a-dozen rather exciting little episodes, but I'll give you only one just now, namely, my passage of the Long Cañon of the Liard in a canvas boat."
"In a canvas boat?" broke out Fleming, half incredulously.
"Yes, in a canvas boat," repeated Cameron. "Not a particularly seaworthy craft, I must confess. But it was a notion of my own in order to get over the difficulty in which I was placed. I had been over in British Columbia, and was on my way back to Athabasca. The season was growing late, and I had only two men with me—an Indian and a half-breed. The Indian was a splendid canoe-man, but the half-breed was not of much account. The first part of the journey could be made by boat easily enough, but for us three men to drag a heavy boat over Grizzly Portage, which is about six miles long, and has a portage-path that climbs a thousand feet up the mountain side, was quite out of the question.
"So before I started I had a boat made out of tent canvas, which would be no trouble to carry. The wooden boat was to be left at the head of Grizzly Portage to take care of itself.
"Well, we got on smoothly until we passed the portage, and the Long Cañon opened out before us. As I looked at its wild rush of water, and realized that this was only the beginning, and far from the worst of it, I confess I felt tempted to turn back. But my pride soon banished that thought, and I set about getting my frail craft ready for the trip. Dennazee, the Indian, did not show the slightest concern; but Machard, the half-breed, was evidently much frightened.