Chapter Sixty Nine.
Smoke and Thirst.
“Ah, Monsieur Roob!” cried the Canadian, as we hurried up, “vat make zees diable d’une fumée—smoke? Are ze woods on fire—you tink—eh?”
“Wuds!” exclaimed Rube, with a contemptuous glance at the speaker. “Wagh! Thur’s no wuds hyur. Thur’s a paraira afire. Don’t yer smell the stink o’ the grass?”
“Pe gar, oui! vraiment—c’est la prairie? You sure, Monsieur Roob?”
“Sure!” vociferated the trapper in a tone of indignation—“Sure!—ye durned parley-voo-eat-a-frog-spit-a-brickbat-soup-suckin’ Frenchman, d’yur think I don’t know the smell o’ a burnin’ paraira? Wagh!”
“Ah, Monsieur Roob, me pardonnez. Vat I mean ask—is ze chapparal brule—on fire—ces arbres?”
“The chapparil ain’t afire,” answered Rube, somewhat mollified by the apology: “so don’t be skeeart, Frenchy yur safe enuf.”