“No, you don’t,” said Shacky. “No more ruined chances and healthy wild beasts for mine. I won’t go, and that’s all. If you’ve got a good, harmless spot with one caribou track to amuse me, and you’ll let me sit and work a crank, I’ll do that fast enough. But as for throwing away any more meat, I plain won’t.”
“Oh, cut it out, Shacky,” I adjured him. “It was only a cow caribou anyway, and you’ll be steady as an old soldier next time”—but he wouldn’t listen to me.
Then I labored with him, and finally after much agony we came to an agreement. There was a place, Lac Monsieur, a little pond to the east, which we had every reason to believe would be fine hunting. It was good country, and might beat out Josef’s place, only we didn’t know for sure. So I terrorized Shacky into a consent to draw lots, the winner to have the choice. We drew, and I won the choice. Josef stood there waiting, his eyes snapping and gleaming and watching every movement—he could understand enough English to follow, though he couldn’t speak any. He saw that I had the long stick and he flashed a glance of unconcealed rapture at me.
“At what hour is it light, Josef?” I asked him.
“One can see enough to go en canot—in the boat—at three hours and a half”—he answered happily. “I will wake M’sieur Bob at that hour, is it?”
I really hated to disappoint the chap, he was so tickled to death and so certain I’d get my moose. So I spoke very gently. “I’m sorry, Josef, but we’re not going en canot, you and I. M’sieur Shackleton and Zoëtique will go to the river, and we’ll go to Lac Monsieur, and rake out a moose before they do.”
“Oh, come,” burst in Shacky. “This is a crime. I simply can’t”—but I interrupted.
“Shut up, dear one,” I said politely. “You talk like a teapot in early June. It’s my choice, and I choose Lac Monsieur.”
Josef bent over with a quick swoop, and picked up the two sticks and held out the long one. “Pardon, M’sieur Bob. It is this one that M’sieur drew?”
“Yes,” I said. It came hard to rub it into the fellow and I was just a little sick myself, I’ll own, to have to throw away that moose on Shacky’s fireworks. “Yes,” I said.