The Abwees had hired two French-Indian voyagers of sinister mien, and a
Scotch-Canadian boy bred to the bush. They were out on the grass,
engaged in taking burlaps off three highly polished canoes, while the
clerk from the store ran out and asked questions about "how much bacon,"
and, "will fifty pounds of pork be enough, sir?"
The round yellow cigar was getting stubby, while Jimmie's modest eyes
sought out the points of interest in the new-comers, when he was
suddenly and sharply addressed:
"Can you cook?"
Jimmie couldn't do anything in a hurry, except chop a log in two, paddle
very fast, and shoot quickly, so he said, as was his wont:
"I think--I dun'no'--"
"Well, how much?" came the query.
"Two daul--ars--" said Jimmie.
The transaction was complete. The yellow butt went over the fence, and
Jimmie shed his coat. He was directed to lend a hand by the bustling
sportsmen, and requested to run and find things of which he had never
before in his life heard the name.
After two days' travel the Abwees were put ashore--boxes, bags, rolls of
blankets, canoes, Indians, and plunder of many sorts--on a pebbly beach,
and the steamer backed off and steamed away. They had reached the
"beyond" at last, and the odoriferous little bedrooms, the bustle of the
preparation, the cares of their lives, were behind. Then there was a
girding up of the loins, a getting out of tump-lines and canvas packs,
and the long portage was begun.
Pages:
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123