THE SELKIRK SETTLERS 93

“Well, all right, ” Jean returned doubtfully.

And we were off again—together for a change.

Jean wobbled bravely along, unmindful of the quivering frame she now rode. Somehow, I could not help wobbling, too. Sympathy, I suppose.

Eastwards we go. East, in the general direction of Vernon River—the route which the Cavalry and Infantry took in their famous march to arrest the slippery Fletcher. The tramp of the horses’ hoofs and the tramp of the foot soldiers resound quite clearly in our ears; but we let the procession march on ahead for we are anxious to examine the summer cottages which line the shores of Keppoch. There is a veritable colony here; but campers are not too fond of having Visitors poking around, so we ramble on

Faster and faster we go. Even Palsy Walsy shows more signs of life.

“Wait a minute! Stop! Stop!" shouts a voice from a field.

Our brakes bring the machines to a gradual stop. An urchin’s mischievous face peers at us over a log fence.

“Well, what is it?”

“How far would you be if you hadn’t stopped?” inquires a delighted lad, and immediately runs away.

In heavy silence we resume our journey.

Soon we stand in surprise at the top of Tea Hill. There are many stories to account for this name, but the one about tea being spilled here is the most mythical and the most common. Below us stretches a vast panorama of sparkling water along an indented coast line, green sloping fields, and our winding road.

Our bikes speed on . . . and we hope that there are no cars, sand, or loose gravel at the foot of the hill.