"Steamer?" the man answered Hollister's inquiry. "Say, if you want to
catch her, you just about got time. Two fellows from here left awhile
ago. If you hurry, maybe you can catch 'em. If you catch 'em before
they get out over the bar, they'll give you a lift to the float. If
you don't, you're stuck for a week. There's only one rowboat down
there."
Hollister had caught them.
He took a last, thoughtful look. Over the vessel's bubbling wake he
could see the whole head of the Inlet deep in winter snows,--a white
world, coldly aloof in its grandeur. It was beautiful, full of the
majesty of serene distances, of great heights. It stood forth clothed
with the dignity of massiveness, of permanence. It was as it had been
for centuries, calm and untroubled, unmoved by floods and slides, by
fires and slow glacial changes. Yes, it was beautiful and Hollister
looked a long time, for he was not sure he would see it again. He had
a canoe and a tent cached in that silent valley, but for these alone
he would not return. Neither the ownership of that timber which he now
esteemed of doubtful value nor the event of its sale would require his
presence there.
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