“Soon.”
“Have you got the tea unpacked?”
“Yes.”
“Send me your pipe.”
This latter speech was more in the tone of a request than a command, and the implied messenger from the opposite side of the fire was the baby—Baby La Certe. We never knew its name, if it had one, and we have reason to believe that it was a female baby. At the time, baby was quite able to walk—at least to waddle or toddle.
A brief order from the maternal lips sent Baby La Certe toddling round the fire towards its father, pipe in hand; but, short though the road was, it had time to pause and consider. Evidently the idea of justice was strongly developed in that child. Fair wage for fair work had clearly got hold of it, for it put the pipe which was still alight, in its mouth and began to draw!
At this the father smiled benignly, but Slowfoot made a demonstration which induced a rather prompt completion of the walk without a reasonable wage. It sucked vigorously all the time, however, being evidently well aware that François was not to be feared.
At that moment the curtain of the tent lifted, and little Bill Sinclair limped in. He was a favourite with La Certe, who made room for him, and at once offered him the pipe, but Billie declined.
“No, thank you, La Certe. I have not learned to smoke yet.”
“Ha! you did not begin young enough,” said the half-breed, glancing proudly at his own offspring.