He did his best, and I think he knew I would come up here after him." Seaforth said nothing further, but bent over his paddle, until an hour later they landed on a point and set up the tent.

Neither was communicative over the supper, and Seaforth went early to sleep.

The last thing he saw was Alton sitting, a black motionless figure, apparently staring into the darkness from the door of the tent, with his face towards the north.
It was raining when he awakened next morning.

The tent was saturated, the fire ill to light, and that day was spent in unremitting toil.

The stream ran strong against them, and Seaforth's wet hands grew blistered from the grasp of the paddle and his knees raw from the rasp of the craft's bottom as he swung with the weary blade.