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 bou signs that day, so he was beginning to feel at home.

The ptarmigan likewise were plenty. Surely he was coming into his own.

This river did not look like the rivers he had crossed in his flight through the province of Quebec. It was more rugged, more rocky. The water ran more swiftly. It was more turbulent, like the racing blood in the veins of the White Czar. With an exultance that he had not felt since his capture two months before, the white bear plunged into the river and swam it. The water swirled about him and he battled with the current. It made him glad. Here was something to fight. He reached the further bank and shook himself, then raised his great head and sniffed the wind. There was a tang about it that he had not smelled in many a week. It was fairly cold. It made him distend his nostrils and take in great breaths. Did it smell of salt water? Was it the open sea that he smelled? The great bear could not tell. But one thing he did know. He was at home in Labrador at last. The fell clutch of civilization would