Each noon when they stopped to boil their tea and cook their dinner, and each night when they made camp, he had chopped down a tree.

To-night it had been an 8-inch jack pine, tough with pitch.

The exertion had sent his blood pounding through him furiously.

He was still breathing deeply as he sat near the fire, tossing bits of meat out to Baree.

They were sixty miles from Thoreau's cabin, straight north, and for the twentieth time Father Roland was telling him how well he had done.
"And to-morrow," he added, "we'll reach Tavish's." It had grown upon David that to see Tavish had become his one great mission in the North.