The Kabluna picked a place where the shore eased off gradually, and waded right out above his waist.
“I’m coming with you,” yelled Kak.
“No, don’t! Stay where you are. It’s too deep for you here.”
In a few minutes Omialik was up to his neck.
“Be careful—do be careful!” the boy pleaded, expecting to see his companion go head under, and knowing it impossible to help.
Kak was in a panic watching the other moving slowly around out there; but after a while he grew more confident and began to search for himself, walking slowly up and down, to and fro, hoping to strike the shallow lead.
The sun had gone behind clouds. Soon it commenced to rain. The joke was on them! Wading in ice-water with a cold shower beating on your head and trickling down your neck is not nearly so much fun as wading when the thermometer on shore registers about a hundred degrees. Kak wished now he had gone with the hunters, for they returned at the first drop of rain, and were lying around, nice and warm and comfy inside the tents, swapping yarns and having a good, cheery time. Of course he could not desert Omialik—that was a base thought—and the white man did not seem to have the least idea of going back on his cold, miserable job.
The Kabluna waded and waded waist-deep, and Kak waded and waded waist-deep; speaking no word of complaint, for that would have meant being instantly sent home.
Once Omialik said: “The man who named this Dismal Lake was certainly inspired.”
Kak laughed. “I didn’t think so yesterday when I found your camp and had my first taste of cloudberries.”