“One evening we came to an island with rapids below it.  We had to portage around these rapids, so we decided to camp for the night.  It was cold, and rapidly growing colder, but Powers insisted in making a trip to that island, the beauty of its rocks fascinating his artistic soul.  We emptied the boat and he pulled across the swift current.  Ten minutes later we heard him yell.  His boat had drifted from where he thought he had moored it, and had been dashed to pieces in the rapids below.  The guide declared that there was no way to reach him without a boat, and that he would have to go back twenty miles to a lumber camp for one.  We explained this to Powers, and told him to light a fire and make the best of it until morning.  The current was so swift that no swimmer could breast it.  It was already down to zero.”

[Illustration:  “Had ignited the matches”]

“Powers searched his pockets,” continued Robinson, “and made the startling announcement that he did not have a match.  Without a fire he surely would freeze before the guide could return.  He was dancing up and down on a rock and swinging his arms to keep warm.”

“He certainly was in a bad fix,” interrupted Harding.  “Was there no way to get at him?”

“Absolutely none,” continued Robinson.  “The sun was sinking—­when I had an idea.  In the bottom of my golf bag were four badly hacked and split balls.  I called to Powers to keep his nerve.  The balls were rubber-cored, and I widened the crack in one of them and gouged out a space in the rubber.  In this I put the heads of three matches, teed the ball on the beach, called to Powers what I had done and told him to keep his eye on the ball.  I hit it clean and fair, but a trail of smoke told that the concussion had ignited the matches.  The ball fell in the underbrush a few yards from Powers, and he almost cried when he took out the charred match heads.”

“How far was it?” asked Harding.

“I paced it later and found it to be about one hundred and forty yards,” said Robinson.

“You paced it?” exclaimed Harding.  “You’re a bit mixed on this story, Robinson, aren’t you?”

“Not at all,” laughed that gentleman.  “You wait and I’ll explain.  Then I fixed another ball and wrapped the match heads in surgeon’s cotton.  I popped that ball in the air.  The next one was pulled, struck a rock and bounded into the water.  One remained, and it was a critical moment.  I was numbed with the cold, it was almost dark, and I had to make a shot for a man’s life, but I made it.  It went far and true and struck in the branches of a fir tree over Power’s head.  He did not see it, but he heard it.  Then began a search for a lost ball.  It was pitch dark half an hour later when Powers shouted that he had found it, and soon after we yelled like madmen when a tiny yellow flame curled up from the island.  Powers asked me to drive a ham sandwich across, but I did not attempt it.  The guide started back after another boat, and Powers and I spent the long hours over our respective bonfires in an effort to keep from freezing.”