"They surely don't. He's a Hudson Bay man, working his passage. Going back to his friends somewhere about Lake Winnipeg, and decided he'd come south with us and take the cars to Selkirk. I was glad to get him; I'm not smart at driving dogs."
"We found it hard to understand the few Indians we met," said Harding. "The farther north you go, the worse it must be. How will the fellows you left up yonder get on?"
The Sergeant laughed.
"When we want a thing done, we can find a man in the force fit for the job. One of the boys I took up can talk to them in Cree or Assiniboin; and it wouldn't beat us if they spoke Hebrew or Greek. There's a trooper in my detachment who knows both."
Benson did not doubt this. He turned to Private Walthew, whose face, upon which the firelight fell, suggested intelligence and refinement.
"What do you specialize in?"
"Farriery," answered the young man, he might have added that extravagance had cut short his career as veterinary surgeon in the old country.
"Knows a horse all over, outside and in," Sergeant Lane interposed. "I allow that's why they sent him when I asked for a good dog driver, though in a general way our bosses aren't given to joking. Walthew will tell you there's a difference between physicking a horse and harnessing a sled team."
"It's marked," Walthew agreed with a chuckle. "When I first tried to put the traces on I thought they'd eat me. Even now I have some trouble; and I'll venture to remind my superior that he'd be short of some of his fingers if they didn't serve us out good thick mittens."
"That's right," admitted Lane good-humoredly. "I'm sure no good at dogs. If you're going to drive them, you want to speak Karalit or French. Plain English cussin's no blame use."