TIBERIUS SMITH
now making for the Block River grounds to rendezvous for the winter.
"‘So, early next morning, laden only with a luncheon and our fair repute, we tramped north to the Fried Fish River and strapped on our skates. The river wound in and out, and you could see only a few hundred feet of it in a straight line, except where the sturdy wood gave way and allowed the eye to pick it up across country in more curves.
"And say, talk about skating! Tib was a greased rubber ball. He didn't seem to need any ice, and he gave the impression of flying. As we careened around bend after bend I felt sorry for having cast reflections on his prowess, especially as it incited him to smash all records and then try to lower his own. In fact, I had to apologize, just to get him to slow up and give me a breather. When we debouched into Spoon Lake I was nearly fagged and began looking for the post. But the old chap was disappointed at the brevity of the jaunt, and said he wished we could skate 'way across to the Great Slave.
"We found the lake quite small and surrounded by a monotonous level sweep of gray land, except on the left, where a solitary bluff, some thirty feet high, rose forlorn. It was on this lone elevation that we found the long log-house that Dawley grew tired of. The door was simply fastened with a
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