Manson nodded. He did not speak at once. It was palpable that Fisette had been prospecting, and always in the north country the returning prospector brings with him a peculiar fascination. He is the herald of the hitherto unknown. It was also understood that Fisette was working for Clark.
The half breed brought the side of his canoe delicately against the sand and, stepping lightly out, began to unload, greeting Manson with a low-voiced "Good morning." Ax, paddles, dunnage bag, shed tent, these he laid neatly and, last of all, a small sack of samples, the weight of which, however he disguised it, swelled the veins in his temples. He was stooping to swing this on his shoulders when Manson spoke.
"Sit down a minute and have a smoke."
Fisette did not want to sit down. There was that in the sack and in his brain which he greatly desired to evacuate in the proper place and at the earliest possible moment. But a little reflection demonstrated that undue haste would be suspicious. Inwardly disturbed at the sight and manner of Manson, he laid the sack gently down. There came the slightest creak of metallic fragments.
"Had a good trip?" hazarded the big man carelessly.
"Pretty fair."
"Pretty rough country up there?" Manson waved his arm northwest.
Fisette grunted. "About the same over there."
He glanced into the northeast.
"Been rooting about for over a year now, haven't you?"