On the 26th June I quitted the shores of Lake Superior and made my way back to Moose Lake.  Without any exception, the road thither was the very worst I had ever travelled over—­four horses essayed to drag a stage-waggon over, or rather, I should say, through, a track of mud and ruts impossible to picture.  The stage fare amounted to $6, or 4s. for 34 miles.  An extra dollar reserved the box-seat and gave me the double advantage of knowing what was coming in the rut line and taking another lesson in the idiom of the American stage-driver.  This idiom consists of the smallest possible amount of dictionary words, a few Scriptural names rather irreverently used, a very large intermixture of “git-ups” and ejaculatory “his,” and a general tendency to blasphemy all round.  We reached Tom’s shanty at dusk.  As before, it was crowded to excess, and the memory of the express man’s warning was still sufficiently strong to make me prefer the forest to “bunking in” with the motley assemblage; a couple of Eastern Americans shared with me the little camp.  We made a fire, laid some boards on the ground, spread a blanket upon them, pulled the “mosquito bars” over our heads, and lay down to attempt to sleep.  It was a vain effort; mosquitoes came out in myriads, little atoms of gnats penetrated through the netting of the “bars,” and rendered rest or sleep impossible.  At last, when the gnats seemed disposed to retire, two Germans came along, and, seeing our fire, commenced stumbling about our boards.  To be roused at two o’clock a.m., when one is just sinking into obliviousness after four hours of useless struggle with unseen enemies, is provoking enough, but to be roused under such circumstances by Germans is simply unbearable.

At last daylight came.  A bathe in the creek, despite the clouds of mosquitoes, freshened one up a little and made Tom’s terrible table see less repulsive.  Then came a long hot day in the dusty cars, until at length St. Paul was reached.

I remained at St. Paul some twelve days, detained there from day to day awaiting the arrival of letters from Canada relative to the future supply of the Expedition.  This delay was at the time most irksome, as I too frequently pictured the troops pushing on towards Fort Garry while I was detained inactive in Minnesota; but one morning the American papers came out with news that the expeditionary forces had met with much delay in their first move from Thunder Bay; the road over which it was necessary for them to transport their boats, munitions, and supplies for a distance of forty-four miles from Superior to Lake Shebandowan was utterly impracticable, portions of it, indeed, had still to be made, bridges to be built, swamps to be corduroyed, and thus at the very outset of the Expedition a long delay became necessary.  Of course, the American press held high jubilee over this check, which was represented as only the beginning of the end of a series of disasters.  The British Expedition