He wandered off to the fire without further word, where, rolling himself in his blanket and scorning the place in the tent offered him by Duff, he made himself comfortable for the night.
At the break of day Duff was awakened by the smell of something frying.
Over the fire bent McCuaig, busy preparing a breakfast of tea, bacon and bannocks, together with thick slices of fat pork.
Breakfast was eaten in haste.

The day's work was before them, and there was no time for talk.

In a very few minutes they stood ready for their trip across the portage.
With them stood McCuaig.

His blanket roll containing his grub, with frying-pan and tea-pail attached, lay at his feet; his rifle beside it.
For a moment or two he stood looking back up the stream by which, last night, he had come.

Then he began tying his paddles to the canoe thwarts in preparation for packing it across the portage.
As he was tying on the second paddle, Duff's eye fell on him.
"What's up, McCuaig ?" he said.