They fell back to the old stroke, rolling out their full-throated measure.

  “Toutes les plumes s’en vont au vent,
  En roulant ma boule,
  Trois dames s’en vont les ramassant,
  Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant.”

The canoe was now in the smooth rush of the first stretch of swifter water.  The men bent to their work with stiffened elbows.  Achille Picard flashed his white teeth back at the passengers.

“Ah, mademoiselle, eet is wan long way,” he panted.  “C’est une longue traverse!”

The term was evidently descriptive, but the two smiled significantly at each other.

“So you do take la Longue Traverse, after all!” marvelled Virginia.

Ned Trent clasped her hand.

“We take it together,” he replied.

Into the distance faded the Post.  The canoe rounded a bend.  It was gone.  Ahead of them lay their long journey.

THE END