Part 9 (1/2)

”A Jesuit priest is what I said.”

”He won't eat his dinner here.”

”That is exactly what he will do.”

”Not by--” Whether it was the monstrous proposition that had unstrung Mac, he was obliged to steady himself against the table with a shaking hand. But he set those square features of his like iron, and, says he, ”No Jesuit sits down to the same table with me.”

”That means, then, that you'll eat alone.”

”Not if I know it.”

The Colonel slid in place the heavy wooden bar that had never before been requisitioned to secure the door, and he came and stood in the middle of the cabin, where he could let out all his inches. Just clearing the swing-shelf, he pulled his great figure up to its full height, and standing there like a second Goliath, he said quite softly in that lingo of his childhood that always came back to his tongue's tip in times of excitement: ”Just as shuah as yo' bohn that priest will eat his dinner to-day in my cabin, sah; and if yo' going t' make any trouble, just say so now, and we'll get it ovah, and the place cleaned up again befoh our visitors arrive.”

”Mind what you're about, Mac,” growled Potts. ”You know he could lick the stuffin' out o' you.”

The ex-schoolmaster produced some sort of indignant sound in his throat and turned, as if he meant to go out. The Colonel came a little nearer.

Mac flung up his head and squared for battle.

Potts, in a cold sweat, dropped a lot of tinware with a rattle, while the Colonel said, ”No, no. We'll settle this after the people go, Mac.”

Then in a whisper: ”Look here: I've been trying to s.h.i.+eld you for ten days. Don't give yourself away now--before the first white neighbour that comes to see us. You call yourself a Christian. Just see if you can't behave like one, for an hour or two, to a fellow-creature that's cold and hungry. Come, _you're_ the man we've always counted on! Do the honours, and take it out of me after our guests are gone.”

Mac seemed in a haze. He sat down heavily on some beanbags in the corner; and when the newcomers were brought in and introduced, he ”did the honours” by glowering at them with red eyes, never breaking his surly silence.

”Well!” says Father Wills, looking about, ”I must say you're very comfortable here. If more people made homes like this, there'd be fewer failures.” They gave him the best place by the fire, and Potts dished up dinner. There were only two stools made yet. The Boy rolled his section of sawed spruce over near the priest, and prepared to dine at his side.

”No, no,” said Father Wills firmly. ”You shall sit as far away from this splendid blaze as you can get, or you will have trouble with that cheek.” So the Boy had to yield his place to O'Flynn, and join Mac over on the bean-bags.

”Why didn't you get a parki when you were at St. Michael's?” said the priest as this change was being effected.

”We had just as much--more than we could carry. Besides, I thought we could buy furs up river; anyway, I'm warm enough.”

”No you are not,” returned the priest smiling. ”You must get a parki with a hood.”

”I've got an Arctic cap; it rolls down over my ears and goes all round my neck--just leaves a little place in front for my eyes.”

”Yes; wear that if you go on the trail; but the good of the parki hood is, that it is trimmed all round with long wolf-hair. You see”--he picked his parki up off the floor and showed it to the company--”those long hairs standing out all round the face break the force of the wind.

It is wonderful how the Esquimaux hood lessens the chance of frost-bite.”

While the only object in the room that he didn't seem to see was Mac, he was most taken up with the fireplace.

The Colonel laid great stress on the enormous services of the delightful, accomplished master-mason over there on the beanbags, who sat looking more than ever like a monkey-wrench incarnate.

But whether that Jesuit was as wily as the Calvinist thought, he had quite wit enough to overlook the great chimney-builder's wrathful silence.

He was not the least ”professional,” talked about the country and how to live here, saying incidentally that he had spent twelve years at the mission of the Holy Cross. The Yukon wasn't a bad place to live in, he told them, if men only took the trouble to learn how to live here.

While teaching the Indians, there was a great deal to learn from them as well.

”You must all come and see our schools,” he wound up.