I laughed too as I saw the little yellow-faced figure of our Chinese companion of the boat, as he came up with his small bundle swinging from one finger.
“Why how did you get up here?” I said.
“Indian—chinook come along, walkee, walkee,” he said; and he pointed toward the west. “Wantee fire—make blead?” he said laconically; and then without losing a moment, he selected a sheltered spot, collected a quantity of pine-needles and fir-cones, produced a box of matches from somewhere,—I think it was from up his sleeve,—started the fire, nursed it carefully, and as soon as it began to burn freely, ran here and there to collect dry wood, and after building this up round, dragged up bigger pieces, and then added these, making a famous fire in a very short time.
Gunson laughed at the Chinaman’s busy, officious way, and with us to help him, brought our stores ashore, while the Indians prepared their own camping-place some little distance off.
“We may as well make ourselves comfortable for the night,” he said. “We shall work all the better to-morrow.”
“Where floul—make blead?” said the Chinaman, looking up suddenly.
“Don’t want any. Got plenty of bread.”
“Don’tee want any. Plenty blead?” said the Chinaman. “Want pot makum boil tea; want bacon—good fi’ cook bacon.”
I was just unpacking the latter, which had been tucked in the kettle safe receptacle, and our new acquaintance’s fingers were soon busy. He seized the kettle, went to the spring, rinsed it out, and brought it full to the fire. Then, before I could interfere, he had seized upon the bacon, taken out a long ugly knife, whetted it upon his boot, and began to cut off thin slices, which he laid upon a thin square of iron, whose purpose I had not divined when Gunson unpacked it, bore them to the fire, and stood there ready for a clear place where one side was all aglow with embers.
This done, the Chinaman placed one or two branches in more favourable positions for burning, and turned to Gunson again.