It was raining when he awakened next morning.  The tent was saturated, the fire ill to light, and that day was spent in unremitting toil.  The stream ran strong against them, and Seaforth’s wet hands grew blistered from the grasp of the paddle and his knees raw from the rasp of the craft’s bottom as he swung with the weary blade.  Hour by hour the rain beat on them, and the pines that crawled out of it went very slowly by, while it was almost a relief to stand upright now and then, and with strenuous effort drive the frail shell up against the swirl of the slower rapids with long fir poles.  At times they were swept down sideways before the poles could find hold again, and fought, gasping and panting, for minutes to regain what they had lost in as many seconds.

Now and then it was also needful to drag the canoe out, flounder amidst boulders or through tangled forest with her contents, and then, hewing a path here and there with the axe, painfully drag her round; but portage after portage was left behind, and they were still fighting their way yard by yard upstream while the rain came down.  Seaforth also knew that it often rains for several weeks in that country when the Chinook wind that melts the snow sets in.

Darkness was closing down when at last they drew the canoe out upon a shelving bank and dragged themselves ashore.  Seaforth was too chilled and wet to sleep, and his eyes had scarcely closed when Alton shook him, and he rose up, shivering, and stiff in every joint, to commence the task again.  It was fortunately easier that day, for the river spread out into a narrow winding lake, and there was less current against them.  Still the rain did not abate, and the afternoon was not quite spent when Alton pointed to a little cove.

“We haven’t made much to-day, but unless you’re anxious to go on that would make a good camping-place,” he said deprecatingly.  “Now there was a time when I wouldn’t have thought of stopping yet, but I guess too much good living has taken a little of the stiffening out of me.”

Seaforth slowly unclenched one hand from the red-smeared paddle-haft, and glanced at it.  “If you feel diffident, don’t worry about me,” he said.  “Eight hours’ hard labour while you’re wet through is, in my opinion, quite enough for anybody.”

Alton ran the canoe in, and Seaforth staggered a little when he walked ashore.  The water was draining from him, and it was several minutes before he could straighten himself.  There were pools amidst the boulders, and when they had splashed through these to the edge of the forest, fallen needles and withered fern were spongy, while the dark branches shook down water on them as they swung to the chilly blast.  Seaforth groaned now and then as he struggled with the tent, while Alton tramped into the forest with the axe, but he came back presently with an armful of resinous chips, and his comrade’s spirits rose a trifle when a crackling fire flung its red flicker through the creeping shadows.  It hissed as the gusts lashed it with the rain, but the blackened and dinted kettle boiled, and while they ate and drank the smoke-flavoured tea, a little warmth crept with the pungent vapour into the tent.