“Oh, we’re all right, aren’t we, Kalman?” said French.

The boy turned and gave him a quick look of perfect satisfaction.  “First rate!  You bet!”

“The dew is going to be heavy, though,” said the stranger, “and it will be cold before the night is over.  I have not much to offer you, only shelter, but I’d like awfully to have you come.  A visitor is a rare thing here.”

“Well,” said French, “since you put it that way we’ll go, and I am sure it is very decent of you.”

“Not at all.  The favour will be to me.  My name is Brown.”

“And mine is French, Jack French throughout this country, as perhaps you have heard.”

“I have been here only a few days, and have heard very little,” said Brown.

“And this,” continued French, “is Kalman Kalmar, a friend of mine from Winnipeg, and more remotely from Russia, but now a good Canadian.”

Brown gave each a strong cordial grasp of his hand.

“You can’t think,” he said, “how glad I am to see you.”

“Is there a trail?” asked French.

“Yes, a trail of a sort.  Follow the winding of the river and you will come to my camp at the next bend.  You can’t miss it.  I’ll go up in the canoe and come down to meet you.”

“Don’t trouble,” said French; “we know our way about this country.”

Following a faint trail for a quarter of a mile through the bluffs, they came upon an open space on the river bank similar to the one they had left, in the midst of which stood Brown’s tent.  That tent was a wonder to behold, not only to Kalman, but also to French, who had a large experience in tents of various kinds.  Ten by twelve, and with a four-foot wall, every inch was in use.  The ground which made the floor was covered with fresh, sweet-smelling swamp hay; in one corner was a bed, neat as a soldier’s; in the opposite corner a series of cupboards made out of packing cases, filled, one with books, one with drugs and surgical instruments, another with provisions.  Hanging from the ridge-pole was a double shelf, and attached to the back upright were a series of pigeon-hole receptacles.  It was a wonder of convenience and comfort, and albeit it was so packed with various impedimenta, such was the orderly neatness of it that there seemed to be abundance of room.

At the edge of the clearing Brown met them.

“Here you are,” he cried.  “Come along and make yourselves at home.”

His every movement was full of brisk energy, and his voice carried with it a note of cheery frankness that bespoke the simplicity and kindliness of the good and honest heart.

In a few moments Brown had a fire blazing in front of the tent, for the night air was chill, and a heavy dew was falling.

“Here you are,” he cried, throwing down a couple of rugs before the fire.  “Make yourselves comfortable.  I believe in comfort myself.”

“Well,” said French, glancing into the tent, throwing himself down before the fire, “you apparently do, and you have attained an unqualified success in exemplifying your belief.  You certainly do yourself well.”