Philip Weyman's buoyancy of heart was in face of the fact that he
had but recently looked upon Radisson's unpleasant death, and that
he was still in a country where the water flowed north. He laughed
and he sang. His heart bubbled over with cheer. He talked to
himself frankly and without embarrass-ment, asked himself
questions, answered them, discussed the beauties of nature and the
possibilities of storm as if there were three or four of him
instead of one. At the top end of the world a man becomes a
multiple being - if he is white. Two years along the rim of the
Arctic had taught Philip the science by which a man may become
acquainted with himself, and in moments like the present, when both
his mental and physical spirits overflowed, he even went so far as
to attempt poor Radisson's "La Belle Marie" in the French-man's
heavy basso, something between a dog's sullen growl and the low
rumble of distant thunder. It made him cough. And then he laughed
again, scanning the narrowing sweep of the lake ahead of him.
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