UP THE LAKE

THERE was one prospector at Porter’s Landing. He escorted us round the silent village, and we climbed to the top of the hill to look southward along Dease Lake. A stiff breeze was driving white waves to- ward us between the sloping shore-lines. The noise of their breaking came uphill with the wind through the rustling screen of trees. The sky and the lake were very blue.

It was mid-afternoon, and we decided to wait for the wind to drop before setting off up the lake. We sat in the prospector’s cabin, eating bread and cheese with him. The sun streamed in upon us, and doors of deserted cabins banged in the wind. The noise of the motor still dcummed in our ears, and our eyes were tired by long hours of river-work, so that we were glad to sit and listen to the prospector’ s the- ories about astrology, placer-mining and the habits of bears. We also heard some of the recent gossip from Telegraph, and learned of the arrival of placer men at Laketon.

At about eight o’clock we went down to the wharf. The lake was calm, and the sky was turning

99