Part 25 (1/2)
It would have done you good, reader (supposing you to be possessed of sympathetic feelings), to have witnessed those three nor'-westers enjoying their supper in the snowy camp. The fire had been replenished with logs, till it roared and crackled again, as if it were endued with a vicious spirit, and wished to set the very snow in flames. The walls shone like alabaster studded with diamonds, while the green boughs overhead and the stems around were of a deep red colour in the light of the fierce blaze. The tea-kettle hissed, fumed, and boiled over into the fire. A ma.s.s of pemmican simmered in the lid in front of it. Three pannikins of tea reposed on the green branches, their refres.h.i.+ng contents sending up little clouds of steam, while the ptarmigan, now split up, skewered, and roasted, were being heartily devoured by our three hungry friends.
The pleasures that fall to the lot of man are transient. Doubtless they are numerous and oft recurring; still they are transient, and so--supper came to an end.
”Now for a pipe,” said the accountant, disposing his limbs at full length on a green blanket. ”O thou precious weed, what should we do without thee!”
”Smoke _tea_, to be sure,” answered Harry.
”Ah! true, it _is_ possible to exist on a pipe of tea-leaves for a time, but _only_ for a time. I tried it myself once, in desperation, when I ran short of tobacco on a journey, and found it execrable, but better than nothing.”
”Pity we can't join you in that.” remarked Harry.
”True; but perhaps since you cannot pipe, it might prove an agreeable diversification to dance.”
”Thank you, I'd rather not,” said Harry; ”and as for Hamilton, I'm convinced that _his_ mind is made up on the subject.--How go the heels now?”
”Thank you, pretty well,” he replied, reclining his head on the pine branches, and extending his smitten members towards the fire. ”I think they will be quite well in the morning.”
”It is a curious thing,” remarked the accountant, in a soliloquising tone, ”that _soft_ fellows _never_ smoke!”
”I beg your pardon,” said Harry, ”I've often seen hot loaves smoke, and they're soft enough fellows, in all conscience!”
”Ah!” sighed the accountant, ”that reminds me of poor Peterkin, who was _so_ soft that he went by the name of 'b.u.t.ter.' Did you ever hear of what he did the summer before last with an Indian's head?”
”No, never; what was it!”
”I'll tell you the story,” replied the accountant, drawing a few vigorous whiffs of smoke, to prevent his pipe going out while he spoke.
As the story in question, however, depicts a new phase of society in the woods, it deserves a chapter to itself.
CHAPTER XX.
The accountant's story.
”Spring had pa.s.sed away, and York Fort was filled with all the bustle and activity of summer. Brigades came pouring in upon us with furs from the interior, and as every boat brought a C. T. or a clerk, our mess-table began to overflow.
”You've not seen the summer mess-room filled yet, Hamilton. That's a treat in store for you.”
”It was pretty full last autumn, I think,” suggested Hamilton, ”at the time I arrived from England.”
”Full! why, man, it was getting to feel quite lonely at that time. I've seen more than fifty sit down to table there, and it was worth going fifty miles to hear the row they kicked up--telling stories without end (and sometimes without foundation) about their wild doings in the interior, where every man-jack of them having spent at least eight months almost in perfect solitude, they hadn't had a chance of letting their tongues go till they came down here. But to proceed. When the s.h.i.+p came out in the fall, she brought a batch of new clerks, and among them was this miserable chap Peterkin, whom we soon nicknamed _b.u.t.ter_.
He was the softest fellow I ever knew (far worse than you, Hamilton), and he hadn't been here a week before the wild blades from the interior, who were bursting with fun and mischief, began to play off all kinds of practical jokes upon him. The very first day he sat down at the mess-table, our worthy governor (who, you are aware, detests practical jokes) played him a trick, quite unintentionally, which raised a laugh against him for many a day. You know that old Mr. Rogan is rather absent at times; well, the first day that Peterkin came to mess (it was breakfast), the old governor asked him, in a patronizing sort of way, to sit at his right hand. Accordingly down he sat, and having never, I fancy, been away from his mother's ap.r.o.n-string before, he seemed to feel very uncomfortable, especially as he was regarded as a sort of novelty. The first thing he did was to capsize his plate into his lap, which set the youngsters at the lower end of the table into suppressed fits of laughter. However, he was eating the leg of a dry grouse at the time, so it didn't make much of a mess.
”'Try some fish, Peterkin,' said Mr. Rogan kindly, seeing that the youth was ill at ease. 'That old grouse is tough enough to break your knife.'
”'A very rough pa.s.sage,' replied the youngster, whose mind was quite confused by hearing the captain of the s.h.i.+p, who sat next to him, giving to his next neighbour a graphic account of the voyage in a very loud key--'I mean, if you please, no, thank you,' he stammered, endeavouring to correct himself.
”'Ah! a cup of tea perhaps.--Here, Anderson' (turning to the butler), 'a cup of tea to Mr. Peterkin.'