"Ha, ha, ha," exploded Joncaire. "Ho, ho, ho! Mort de ma vie! Tonerr-rr-re de Dieu! 'Tis an odd world! The boot is on the other leg, Monsieur l'Arlesien!
"Present my compliments to Monsieur Burnet, Peter Corlaer. You may tell him I am not so discouraged as I once was. No, no, many things have happened.
"Au revoir—and avoid the Keepers. Avoid the keepers by all means. I am told they keep a strict watch upon the Doom Trail these days."
His paddlers dipped their blades, and his bellows of laughter were wafted back to us as his canoe followed the fur argosy down the lake toward the French posts on the St. Lawrence—posts whose magazines were already beginning to swell with the life-blood of English trade which was pouring over the Doom Trail.
XXI
A SCOUT OF THREE
"We must scout the Doom Trail," I said as we carried the canoe through the water-gate and deposited it within the stockade. "I will write the governor at once of affairs at Jagara and La Vierge du Bois. But this last business makes it necessary he should have sure intelligence of what passes to Canada."
"Ja," agreed Corlaer slowly. "Budt I hafe another scheme we might try first—tonight."
"What?"
He surveyed the scores of dwindling canoes, their silvery birchen sides agleam in the sunlight, their dripping paddle-blades shining as the paddlers drove them along.