184 MARTIN RATTLER.

face,’—Barney was not on ceremony with the old
trader,—“ is there no land in thim parts at all ?”

“No, not dis night.”

“Och, then, we'll have to git up a tree and try to
cook somethin’ there, for I’m not goin’ to work on
flour and wather. Hallo! hould on! There’s an
island, or the portrait o’ wan. Port your helm,
Naygur! hard aport! D’ye hear?” |

The old man heard, but, as usual, paid no attention
to the Irishman’s remarks, and the canoe would have
passed straight on, had not Barney used his bow-
paddle so energetically that he managed to steer her,
as he expressed it, by the nose, and ran her against
a mass of floating logs which had caught firmly in
a thicket, and were so covered with grass and broken
twigs as to have very much the appearance of a real
island. Here they landed, so to speak, kindled a
small fire, made some coffee, roasted a few fish, baked
several cakes, and were soon as happy and comfort-
able as hungry and wearied men usually are when
they obtain rest and food.

“This is what I call jolly,” remarked Barney.

“ What's jolly ?” inquired Martin.

“Why, this, to be sure—grub to begin with, and
a smoke and a convanient snooze in prospect.”

The hopes which Barney cherished, however, were