“Nevaire min’. Len’ me you’ hunting knife. Eet ees bettaire dan mine. Bien! Now ole Joe, he get rope vitement.”
The old trapper stuck Tom’s knife in his belt and clambered up to the steep plateau where grew the cedar trees. He ascended one after the other, peeling off long strips of bark from each. At length he had a big pile of long, pliant, tough strips collected on the ground. He brought these down to where Tom stood watching him with puzzled interest, although he had an idea of the object of Joe’s labors.
“Voila! Behold, mon ami! Now we soon have rope.”
“You mean to make one out of these?”
“Oui! Many a time have I make rope lak dat.”
“A strong rope?”
“A rope dat would hold a wild buffalo. Oui!”
“It was fortunate that those cedars were there, then.”
“Mon garçon,” solemnly spoke old Joe, “le bon Dieu put dem dere to remain till dere appointed time came.”
The old trapper set Tom to work plaiting the ropes in strands of three lengths of bark. These were knotted together till they made a strong, pliable rope of the required length.