“Thank you,” replied Bob, somewhat confused, to the evident delight of his companions. “Those were the names. Well, they hadn’t been out on the ocean sailing very long before they were separated by the storms, but after a rough passage they finally came together in the straits of Belle Isle.”
“At the inlet of Blanc Sablon,” suggested Tom.
A laugh greeted his words; but though Tom’s face flushed, he soon perceived that he was not the cause of the merriment, and though he could not understand Bob’s momentary confusion, he, too, joined in the good-natured laughter.
“On the last day of July they sailed to the westward and started up the St. Lawrence. It was the first day of September when Cartier found the mouth of the Saguenay, and the fourteenth when he came to a little river about thirty miles from Quebec, which he named the Sainte Croix. The next day an Indian came to see him—”
“Hold on, Bob, isn’t that enough?” inquired Bert, in apparent despair.
“The Indian was an Algonquin chief with a funny name—”
“Donnacona,” suggested Tom, mildly.
Again a loud laugh greeted his word, and the abashed Tom subsided.
“That’s right; that’s what it was,” said Bob, quickly. “Thank you, Tom. Well, Cartier had the two Indians with him whom he had taken to France, and so he could hold a powwow with this Algonquin, but I haven’t time to tell you what they talked about.”