After this the sailor fairly surpassed himself in wit and good humor, and Roy was in constant bursts of laughter at his stories and metaphors. Curious to know the cause of this unusual mirth, Sahanderry hastily finished his work in the kitchen, and stood in the doorway listening to the conversation. The Indian’s presence seemed to irritate Broom, who frequently threw him a contemptuous glance and seemed impatient to order him away.
“Come, Sahanderry,” said the trader, at length; “you’re a hunter; give us a yarn.”
The moment the Indian’s name was mentioned Broom’s face assumed a sneer and his eyes flashed spitefully, for even in the short time he had been at the Fort he and the Indian had for some reason become bitter enemies. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and appeared about to make some scornful remark, but changed his mind and sat twisting his moustache instead. Sahanderry’s face was immediately suffused with smiles. He wiped his mouth and cleared his throat. Then the smiles vanished and his countenance took a solemn, mournful expression.
“I’ll tell you about a na-ra-yah (wolverine),” he said, moistening his lips with a thick tongue.
“Fire away, then!” cried Roy.
The Indian stood and preened himself a moment, then started off in a stentorian voice, moving his arms in unison. He told how a wolverine had been caught in a trap that he had set for a fox, and how in its struggles to get free it had broken the chain and gone off with the trap attached to its foot. Gesticulating wildly, the man got more and more excited as he progressed with his story. A graphic description of a na-ra-yah in rigor mortis was given. The Indian’s uncouth antics and profound gravity in the portrayal created great amusement.
“Upon my word, Sahanderry,” said Broom, when the Indian had finished, “you are a most delightful liar.”
Sahanderry’s eyes flashed at this doubtful comment. He appeared about to spring at his tormentor, who was still twisting the ends of his moustache. There was a moment of silence. The sailor sat looking at the Indian with exasperating calmness. The Indian breathed heavily, glaring at the sailor.
“What right has Broom to call me a liar?” he demanded, turning to Roy.
“Broom! you black scoundrel, Broom!” cried the man of the sea, “I’ll have you remember that I’ve a handle to my name.”