So saying, I plunged at once into the story, and got on much more easily than I had expected; ideas and words flowing into my mind copiously, insomuch that I found it difficult to stop, and on more than one occasion was awakened by a snore from one of the audience, to the fact that I had sent some of them to sleep.
In the midst of this pleasant, and I hope not unprofitable, work, an event occurred which had well-nigh stopped my commentaries on the Pilgrim’s Progress, and put an end to my career altogether.
I had gone out one morning with my gun to procure a few fresh ptarmigan, accompanied by Big Otter. Our trusty Indian was beginning by that time to understand the English language, but he would not condescend to speak it. This, however, was of slight importance, as I had learned to jabber fluently in the native tongue.
We speedily half-filled the large game-bag which the Indian carried.
“I think we’ll go into the thicker woods now,” said I, “and try for some tree grouse by way of variety.”
Big Otter gave a mild grunt of assent. He was not naturally given to much talking, and, being amiable, was always ready to conform to any plan without discussion, unless expressly asked. Indeed, even when expressly asked, it was not always possible to get a satisfactory answer out of him.
“Do you think we should go up the Dark Valley, or over the Rocky Knoll,” said I, referring to two well-known spots a considerable distance from the fort.
“The pale-face chief knows best.”
“Yes, but the pale-face asks what the red-face thinks,” said I, somewhat amused by the answer.
“He thinks that there are grouse in the Dark Valley, and also in the lands towards the setting sun over the Rocky Knoll.”