No sooner were we in the range of the fort than M. Radisson uttered the shrill call of a native, bade our Indian stand up, and himself enacted the pantomime of a savage, waving his arms, whistling, and hallooing. With cries of welcome, the fort people ran to the shore and left their guns unmanned. Reading from a syllable book, they shouted out Indian words. It was safe to approach. Before they could arm we could escape. But we were two men, one lad, and a neutral Indian against an armed garrison in a land where killing was no murder.
M. de Radisson stood up and called in the Indian tongue. They did not understand.
"New to it," commented Radisson, "not the Hudson's Bay Company!"
All the while he was imperceptibly approaching nearer. He shouted in French. They shook their heads.
"English highwaymen, blundered in here by chance," said he.
Tearing off the Indian head-band of disguise, he demanded in mighty peremptory tones who they were.
"English," they called back doubtfully.
"What have you come for?" insisted Radisson, with a great swelling of his chest.
"The beaver trade," came a faint voice.
Where had I heard it before? Did it rise from the ground in the woods, or from a far memory of children throwing a bully into the sea?