Gillam muttered something of a treaty of truce for the winter.
M. Radisson shook his head.
"I have scarce the support to do as I will," he protests.
Young Gillam swore such coolness was scurvy treatment for an old friend.
"Old friend," laughed Radisson afterward. "Did the cub's hangdog of a father not offer a thousand pounds for my head on the end of a pikestaff?"
But with Ben he played the game out.
"The season is too far advanced for you to escape," says he with soft emphasis.
"'Tis why I want a treaty," answers the sailor.
"Come, then," laughs the Frenchman, "now—as to terms——"
"Name them," says Gillam.