Chapter Fifteen.
The Old Trapper Buries his Valuables—The “Snowbird” Goes on her Voyage—Ice—A Whale in Sight—A Fall! A Fall!—In at the Death—The “Trefoil” on Fire.
Old Seth the trapper had a deal to do before he could accompany our heroes on board the Snowbird. “For ye see, gentlemen,” he explained to them, “as soon’s they find out that the Old Bear, as they somewhat irreverently nominate this child, has left his wigwam, I guess the Yacks’ll pretty quickly come skooting around here, to pick up whatever they’re likely to lay their dirty hands on, so I reckon I’ll just bury my valuables.”
A very practical individual was Seth, and when once he made up his mind to do a thing he just did it straight away; so, as soon as they had eaten their last breakfast at his wigwam, assisted by one or two of the yachtsmen, the burial of the valuables commenced. A large hole was dug not far from the door of the hut, and this was carefully lined with hay, and on the hay were piled Seth’s household goods, in the shape of pots and pans, and plates and dishes, and every variety of cooking and kitchen utensil, with the greater portion of the old man’s armoury plus his wardrobe. Not the best portion of the latter, however; no, only some of his skin suits, for shortly before these were deposited in their temporary grave, Seth had retired for a space to the privacy of his garret.
“I reckon,” he said to himself, with a smile, as he began to undress, “that old Seth’ll kinder astonish the weak nerves of these English sailors.” Don’t suppose they’d guess the old trapper was in possession of anything decent to put on. He reckoned upon astonishing our travellers, and he certainly was not far out of his reckoning, for when he again appeared in their midst, arrayed in a long blue coat with brass buttons, shoes with silver buckles, silk stockings, and knee-breeches, white collar up to his eyes, and crowned with a beaver hat of immense longitude, and with a face as serious and long as your own, reader, when you look into the bowl of a silver spoon, Rory, whose risibility was never under the most perfect control, simply rolled on the grass and screamed. Allan was the next to go off, and then Ralph exploded, and finally McBain. Even Oscar joined the chorus in a round of bow-bows, and the only two of the whole party that contained themselves were Seth and his mastiff.
“Guess,” said Seth, quietly recommencing the burial of his valuables, “you’re kinder ’stonished to find Seth can be civilised when he likes.”
Well, as soon as more hay had been placed in the grave, and the earth packed down over all.
“P’r’aps,” said Seth, “you gentlemen think the funeral’s over now.”
“It’s finished now, isn’t it?” asked McBain.
“Nary a bit of it,” said the old man; “I know the Yacks too well to leave the grave like that. They’d spot it at once, and have ’em up before you’d say bullet.”