“Ah! but there is, and in one letter he told me that a man he knew was once a year going, but he went in a waggon instead of a ship.”
“Get out! He’s gammoning us,” cried Esau. “You can’t drive a waggon over the sea.”
“Who said you could, Clevershakes?” said Dingle—then turning to me, “He went over to Canady by ship, and then all acrost the prayerees in a waggon—lots o’ waggons all together, because o’ the Injins.”
“Fire-injins?” said Esau, eagerly. “No. Dunno though,” said Dingle, grinning; “they did fire at ’em a deal.”
“Red Injins!” cried Esau. “Oh, I say, I think I’d rather go that way, because there’d be some fighting.”
“What, ain’t you had fightin’ enough, boy? Want to get at it again? What yer thinking about, Mr Gordon?”
I started, for my thoughts were far away. “I was thinking about your brother,” I said, hastily.
“Ah! but such a life wouldn’t do for you, my lad. There’s no clean hands out there—leastwise I dessay they’re clean sometimes. What I mean is, it’s always hard, rough work, and no setting on a stuffed seat and writing on bloo paper. Why, what do you think my brother had for chairs in his house?”
“Boxes,” I said.
“No, boxes made tables. Stumps of wood—logs cut off a fir tree—no castors on them, my lad.”