70 RIVERS IN SUMMER

before bringing her over the portage, and believe
me she’s a fast one.”

“Well, you'll probably be there and back before
we start. Haven't got half our load for Liard yet.
They're pretty slow at Telegraph, and the road’s
plumb full of holes.”

Voices in the Hudson’s Bay store, which during
the winter had echoed to one voice alone, when the
sole inhabitant talked to himself; voices floating
over the rippling water where, only a week before,
there had been a white expanse of ice stretching
trackless to the north; talk of trucks and supplies
from Telegraph, and rumours of new arrivals in the
Cassiar; sleigh-dogs lying idle near their kennels
already uncomfortably warm in the heat of the sun;
Indians across the end of the lake setting their
nets for fish; and, when night had fallen, candle-
light flickering upon the dark logs of cabin walls
and on the faces of men who talked no longer of
dogs and winter trails, but of boats and “‘kickers”’
and currents and the water-route to Liard.