He was a fairly big
man, taller, wider-bodied than the other two. His hair was a
reddish-brown, his eyes as blue as the arched dome from which the hot
sun shed its glare.
He had on a straight-brimmed straw hat which in the various shifts of
the long water route and many camps had suffered disaster, so that a
part of the brim drooped forlornly over his left ear. This headgear had
preserved upon his brow the pallid fairness of his skin. From the
eyebrows down his face was in the last stages of sunburn, reddened,
minute shreds of skin flaking away much as a snake's skin sheds in
August. Otherwise he was dressed, like a countless multitude of other
men who walk the streets of every city in North America, in a
conventional sack suit, and shoes that still bore traces of blacking.
The paddlers were stripped to thin cotton shirts and worn overalls. The
only concession their passenger had made to the heat was the removal of
his laundered collar. Apparently his dignity did not permit him to lay
aside his coat and vest. As they cleared the point a faint breeze
wavered off the open water. He lifted his hat and let it play about his
moist hair.
"This is Lake Athabasca?" he asked.
"Oui, M'sieu Thompson," Mike Breyette answered from the bow, without
turning his head.
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