78 RIVERS IN SUMMER

months, and there’s only a pound or two of flour
left. Not many moose here, either. It must be get-
ting on in June now, isn’t it? Only today I was try-
ing to reckon it up. You see, I was ill in the break-
up, and didn’t mark my calendar, and I lost count.
Oh, there are so many things I want to know! I’ll
remember them all after you ve gone, I suppose. I
haven’t had any news since those Liard fellows came
down-river last fall. But you mustn’t let me tire
you. When did you eat? You must be hungry, and
here a silly old man can do nothing but talk!”

He rose hurriedly, trying to forestall his eager
tongue. Together we collected enough food for a
meal, and set our plates and cups out beside the dirty
ones on the table. There was bannock and meat and
coffee. The old man helped himself to sugar.

“You shouldn’t give it away like this; fifty cents
a pound here, when you can get it. And a dollar
for condensed milk. Flour?—Twenty-five cents a
pound. And two dollars for butter. Chichaco grub,
but a white man can’t live on meat all the time.
Expensive country, this. Now, where I grew
To ee

The mosquitoes whined and sang, and the rain
beat against the window, and the old man’s voice
went on and on. He talked of his boyhood, of his
first coming north, of God and doubt and the cruel-