Ungava | Page 2

or walk?"
The young man was silent for a few seconds; then, without replying to
his companion's question, he said,--"By-the-bye, is it not to-night that
you mean to make another attempt to induce the men to volunteer for
the expedition!"

"It is," replied Stanley, with a alight frown. "And what if they still
persist in refusing to go?"
"I'll try once more to shame them out of their cowardice. But if they
won't agree, I'll compel them to go by means of more powerful
arguments than words."
"'Tis not cowardice; you do the men injustice," said Frank, shaking his
head.
"Well, well, I believe I do, lad; you're right," replied Stanley, while a
smile smoothed out the firm lines that had gathered round his lips for a
few seconds. "No doubt they care as little for the anticipated dangers of
the expedition as any men living, and they hesitate to go simply
because they know that the life before them will be a lonely one at such
an out-o'-the-way place as Ungava. But we can't help that, Frank; the
interests of the Company must be attended to, and so go they must,
willing or not willing. But I'm annoyed at this unexpected difficulty, for
there's a mighty difference between men who volunteer to go and men
who go merely because they must and can't help it."
The young man slowly rubbed the stock of his rifle with the sleeve of
his coat, and looked as if he understood and sympathised with his
friend's chagrin.
"If Prince were only here just now," said he, looking up, "there would
be no difficulty in the matter. These fellows only want a bold, hearty
comrade to step forward and show them the way, and they will follow
to the North Pole if need be. They look upon our willingness to go as a
mere matter of course, though I don't see why we should be expected to
like banishment more than themselves. But if Prince were--"
"Well, well, Prince is not here, so we must do the best we can without
him," said Stanley.
As he spoke, the trumpet note of a goose was heard in the distance.
"There he goes!--down with you!" exclaimed Frank, darting suddenly

behind the stump of the tree, while his companion crouched beside him,
and both began to shout at the top of their voices in imitation of the
goose. The bird was foolish enough to accept the invitation
immediately, although, had it been other than a goose, it would have
easily recognised the sound as a wretched counterfeit of the goose
language. It flew directly towards them, as geese always do in spring
when thus enticed, but passed at such a distance that the elder
sportsman was induced to lower his piece.
"Ah! he's too far off. You'd better give him a shot with the rifle, Frank;
but you're sure to miss."
"To hit, you mean," cried his companion, flushing with momentary
indignation at this disparaging remark. At the same moment he took a
rapid aim and fired. For a few yards the goose continued its forward
flight as if unhurt; then it wavered once or twice, and fell heavily to the
ground.
"Bravo, boy!" cried Stanley. "There, don't look nettled; I only jested
with you, knowing your weakness on the score of rifle-shooting. Now,
pick up your bird, and throw it into the canoe, for I must away."
Frank finished reloading his piece as his friend spoke, and went to pick
up the goose; while the other walked down to the edge of the rivulet,
and disengaged a light birch-bark canoe from the long grass and sedges
that almost hid it from view.
"Make haste, Frank!" he shouted; "there's the ice coming up with the
flood-tide, and bearing down on the creek here."
At a short distance from the spot where the sportsmen stood, the
streamlet already alluded to mingled its waters with a broad river,
which, a few miles farther down, flows into James's Bay. As every one
knows, this bay lies to the south of Hudson's Bay, in North America.
Here the river is about two miles wide; and the shores on either side
being low, it has all the appearance of an extensive lake. In spring, after
the disruption of the ice, its waters are loaded with large floes and
fields of ice; and later in the season, after it has become quite free from

this wintry encumbrance, numerous detached masses come up with
every flood-tide. It was the approach of one of these floes that called
forth Stanley's remark.
The young man replied to it by springing towards the canoe, in which
his companion was already seated. Throwing the dead bird into it, he
stooped, and gave the light bark a powerful shove into the stream,