"Look at that!" he shouted, as his biceps crept up to his shoulder like a cat.
At that moment, he slipped off the log and disappeared in the deep water, starched shirt, watch, cloth trousers and all; and the hills roared in concert with the logmen and canoemen as he floundered out and crept, dripping, to the shore.
We had another queer experience with an antagonist who "took it out of us," at least for a day—the sun. We make a point of wearing as little covering as possible—no hats, no sleeves, no shoes while in the boat. Healthy men are never sun-struck. Alcohol-stroke or toil-stroke or stomach-stroke is the real name of sun-stroke. If the bare head feels warm in a boat, moisten it and it becomes deliciously cool.
But sun-burn is another thing, and it must be looked to until the skin toughens. It must not be cooled with water, for every drop becomes a burning lens, to score a deeper mark. On our fourth day out we were badly sun-burnt. Guiteras on that day had swam from 10 a. m. to 5 p. m., making about fifteen miles. The sun had taken hold of our shoulders, arms and face, and next day we were both feverish and cross-grained. Every movement was painful. We stopped at a village and bought half a pound of bi-carbonate of soda (common baking soda). That night we made a
