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Updated: May 26, 2025
He did not notice that MacDonald was waiting for him to move. Mike Breyette looked down on him from the top of the bank. "Well, we here, M'sieu Thompson," he said. "What?" Thompson roused himself. "Here? Where is the village?" Breyette waved a hand upstream. "She's 'roun' de nex' bend," said he. "Two-three hundred yard. Dees w'ere de meeshonaire have hees cabanne."
Here he saw nothing save the enfolding forest he had been passing through since dawn. He scarcely troubled to ask himself why they had stopped. Breyette and MacDonald were given to casual haltings. He sat in irritable discomfort brushing aside the hordes of mosquitoes that rose up from the weedy brink and the shore thickets to assail his tender skin.
"This is Lake Athabasca?" he asked. "Oui, M'sieu Thompson," Mike Breyette answered from the bow, without turning his head. "Dees de lak." "How much longer will it take us to reach Port Pachugan?" Thompson made further inquiry. "Bout two-three hour, maybeso," Breyette responded.
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