Broom was watching Roy with considerable curiosity, for the occasion suggested to him the possibility of a celebration. But the Englishman’s manner was disappointing. In common with most of his countrymen, he thought it a weakness to give unlimited sway to his finer emotions, and generally covered them with an appearance of coldness and reserve. He did so in this instance, and Broom’s hopes fell to zero. But the expected happened, for when Roy and Hopkins started for the house, the former suggested that George should “take a drink.”
The suggestion was received by George with unconcealed satisfaction, and Broom, who was following them closely, smiled in silent approbation of a proposal which was so entirely in accord with his own mind.
“It’s going to be a dirty day,” remarked Roy, glancing at the threatening clouds which hovered on the horizon.
“Yes, it’s going to blow from the north-west,” prophesied the dog-driver. “We’ve just got here in time.”
“Yes, you’re lucky. It will drift like the very dickens with all this loose snow about,” supplemented the trader, who now paused to look around; then, “But come,” he added, “let’s get indoors.”
With steps few and rapid the men soon reached the house. As they entered the door Sahanderry was observed standing with a steaming kettle in his hand. He spoke hurriedly to Hopkins, who hesitated a moment, then detained the trader with a respectful touch on the arm, and requested permission to postpone the whiskey-drinking till he had partaken of a few cups of tea.
“Tea!” ejaculated the surprised trader.
Broom was vastly amazed; that any man in the possession of his senses should prefer this homely beverage to the more exhilarating spirit was entirely beyond his comprehension.
“Yes,” observed George in respectful tones of apology, “I haven’t drunk tea for eight days.”
Roy’s face cleared. “Of course,” he said, “you’ve been without wood to boil the kettle. Where did you get the last cup of tea?”