“That you work your passage. I never take deadheads with me.”
“Weel, Ah thinks Ah can paddle a little bit,” he said.
So the day came and off we started in our little canoe, down among the lovely islands which dot the west side of the Gulf, and then across. I was steering, an Indian sitting at the bow paddling, and our old friend amidships. He was making a great, effort “to work his passage,” but not being used to that kind of thing, he seemed to work his whole body in the effort of paddling, and soon became very tired.
The day was quiet and warm, and we were making straight for Point Grey, near the north arm of the Fraser River. After he had pulled awhile, my friend looked round, and said:
“Ah say! do you knoa wot Ah thinks? ’At point deean’t seeam to get onny nearer.”
“Yes,” I replied, “it gets nearer every stroke. Pull away! Preachers get used to this kind of life.”
Then he pitched in again and made a great effort, while we were quietly keeping stroke. We had not gone far, however, before he turned again and said:
“Now, Ah can tell ye what it is, ’at point deean’t get onny nearer.”
“Of course it does,” I said; “every stroke brings us nearer. We must push on to get in before it is too dark.” And we pulled on and on until nine o’clock at night.
A little easterly wind was blowing out of the mouth of the river, accompanied by a fine rain. The tide was out, and it was difficult to find the channel, as it was getting dark. We would run into a sand-bank here and a mud-bank there, until finally we got up the channel some distance and could see the high dry shore of the river. After some considerable effort we got up the mud-bank with our camping outfit, and on to a dry knoll, where we started to make a fire. Gathering together some blocks of cedar and other dry wood, we soon had supper going.