Part 21 (1/2)

And he sat back whiffing his pipe and gazing in s.p.a.ce. By this, La Chesnaye had distributed so generous a treat that half the sailors were roaring out hilarious mirth. G.o.defroy astride a bench played big drum on the wrong-end-up of the cook's dish-pan. Allemand attempted to fiddle a poker across the tongs. Voyageurs tried to shoot the big canoe over a waterfall; for when Jean tilted one end of the long bench, they landed as cleanly on the floor as if their craft had plunged. But the copper-faced Le Borgne remained taciturn and tongue-tied.

”Be curse to that wall-eyed knave,” muttered Radisson. ”He's too deep a man to let go! We must capture him or win him!”

”Perhaps when he becomes more friendly we may track him back to the inlanders,” I suggested.

M. de Radisson closed one eye and looked at me attentively.

”La Chesnaye,” he called, ”treat that fellow like a king!”

And the rafters rang so loud with the merriment that we none of us noticed the door flung open, nor saw two figures stamping off the snow till they had thrown a third man bound at M. de Radisson's feet. The messengers sent to spy out the marsh had returned with a half-frozen prisoner.

”We found him where the ice is soft. He was half dead,” explained one scout.

Silence fell. Through the half-dark the Indian glided towards the door. The unconscious prisoner lay face down.

”Turn him over,” ordered Radisson.

As our men rolled him roughly over, the captive uttered a heavy groan.

His arms fell away from his face revealing little Jack Battle, the castaway, in a haven as strange as of old.

”Search him before he wakes,” commanded Radisson roughly.

”Let me,” I asked.

In the pouches of the caribou coat was only pemmican; but my hand crushed against a softness in the inner waistcoat. I pulled it out--a little, old glove, the colour Hortense had dangled the day that Ben Gillam fell into the sea.

”Pis.h.!.+” says Radisson. ”Anything else?”

There crumpled out a yellow paper. M. Radisson s.n.a.t.c.hed it up.

”Pis.h.!.+” says he, ”nothing--put it back!”

It was a page of my copy-book, when I used to take lessons with Rebecca. Replacing paper and glove, I closed up the sailor lad's coat.

”Search his cap and moccasins!”

I was mighty thankful, as you may guess, that other hands than mine found the tell-tale missive--a badly writ letter addressed to ”Captain Zechariah Gillium.”

Tearing it open, M. Radisson read with stormy lights agleam in his eyes.

”Sir, this sailor lad is an old comrade,” I pleaded.

”Then'a G.o.d's name take care of him,” he flashed out.

But long before I had Jack Battle thawed back to consciousness in my own quarters, Jean came running with orders for me to report to M.

Radisson.

”I'll take care of the sailor for you,” proffered Jean.

And I hastened to the main hall.