It was no longer pleasant to sleep out in the hay.  For the sake of warmth alone they were obliged to hire their night’s lodging at cheap hotels.  Spring was full in the land they had left:  it was just beginning here.  The mountains, visible from the village of Saltsville where they left the railroad, were still swept with snow.

Ben felt that he would have liked to take a day off at this point and venture with his companion into the high, wooded hills that fronted the town, but he agreed with Ezram that they could not spare the time.  They swiftly made preparations for their journey down-river.  A canoe was bought for a reasonable sum—­they were told they had a good chance of selling it again when they left the river near Snowy Gulch—­and at the general store they bought an axe, rudimentary fishing tackle, tobacco, blankets, and all manner of simpler provisions, such as flour, rice, bacon, coffee, canned milk, and sugar.  And for a ridiculously small sum which he mysteriously produced from the pocket of his faded jeans Ezram bought a second-hand rifle—­an ancient gun of large caliber but of enduring quality—­and a box of shells to match.

“Old Hiram left me a gun, but we’ll each need one,” Ezram explained.  “And they tell me there’s a chance to pick up game, like as not, goin’ down the river.”

They would have need of good canoe-craft before the journey’s end, the villagers told them.  Ezram had not boasted of any such ability, and at first Ben regarded the plan with considerable misgivings.  And it was with the most profound amazement that, when they pushed off, he saw Ezram deliberately seat himself in the bow, leaving the more important place to his young companion.

“Good heavens, I’ll capsize you in a minute,” Ben said.  “How do you dare risk it——­”

“Push off and stop botherin’ me,” Ezram answered.  “There’s a paddle—­go ahead and shoot ’er.”

The waters caught the canoe, speeding it downstream; and in apprehension of immediate disaster Ben seized the paddle.  Swiftly he thrust it into the streaming water at his side.

He was not further aware of Ezram’s searching gaze.  He did not know of the old man’s delight at the entire incident—­first the anxious, hurried stroke of the paddle, then the movement of Ben’s long fingers as he caught a new hold, finally the white flame of exultation that came into his face.  For himself, Ben instantly knew that this was his own sphere.  He suddenly found himself an absolute master of his craft:  at the touch of the paddle controlling it as a master mechanic controls a delicate machine.

The white waters were no more to be feared.  He found that he knew, as if by instinct, every trick of the riverman’s trade,—­the slow stroke, the fast stroke, the best stroke for a long day’s sail, the little half-turn in his hands that put the blade on edge in the water and gave him the finest control.  It was all so familiar, so unspeakably dear to him.  Clear, bright memories hovered close to him, almost within his grasp.