A sound whacking between the shoulders relieved the priest. Basil's hurt was promptly staunched with balsam gum.
"Mon Dieu, dat be ver' close t'ing," he commented, shrugging his shoulders.
"Aye," agreed the chief trader, regretfully eyeing the torn canoe bow. "We might guard our lives a little better. There is someone in Fort La Roche who needs them."
"Oui," returned Dreaulond, with deep significance, "an' eef I know anyt'ing, mebbe she be get dem aussi."
"Maybe," assented the chief trader, unmoved.
The priest uttered a thankful sigh. "We are in the hands of God," he declared. "White-water or Nor'westers, it is all the same!"
Bruce made a fatalistic gesture.
"I believe you, Father; I believe you," he returned. "Nevertheless we must always aid ourselves. Let us portage to the other end of the rapid and try to mend our canoe."
But first he fished their sunken outfit from the clear water of the channel. Brochet went down and found the paddles where they had been cast upon the sand below Little Hayes Rapid. Dreaulond pushed over a dead birch, heaping its dried husk and powdery center for a quick fire.
Then they stripped off their soaked garments and spread them upon the rocks under the perpendicular sun of high noon. There the steaming clothes dried more quickly than would have been possible before the flames. It was time to eat. The hot meal of fried fish newly caught, bannocks baked from the already wetted flour, and tea proved welcome. A pipe or two formed the dessert.