“Look out, Jenkins!” exclaimed Little Bill, “else your duck won’t be satisfactory—it’s burnin’ now.”
“O, never mind,” remarked Fergus, lighting his pipe. “It iss havin’ it well done he would be fond of.”
“Ay, but not over-done,” cried the seaman, snatching the duck in question from before the blaze and turning its other side—for they used no spits in the Nor’-West in those days, but cooked one side at a time—nay, even carved off and ate part of the cooked side while the other side was roasting.
Next day they came out on the ocean-like expanse of the great lake, and steered along its western shores until they reached the fishery, where numbers of rudely-constructed wigwams and a few tents sheltered the fishing community.
They had just returned from a successful visit to the nets when the visitors arrived, and all was animation and rejoicing at the successful take. Jacques Bourassin was the first man they met on landing, and he was enthusiastic about the prospects before them. Slowfoot was the first woman, and she was quite satisfied—in that amiable state of mental and physical felicity in which it is so easy to believe that “all is for the best.” Her husband soon after appeared. He, of course, was also greatly pleased. He had joined the fishers because he believed that plenty of food, tea, and tobacco would be going amongst them. He was not mistaken.
“You will come to my tent,” he said, in the wealth of his hospitality; “we have plenty of good fish, a very little meat, some tobacco, and oceans of tea!”
The six visitors accepted the invitation, and were soon made acquainted with all the gossip of the community.
“Does it always smoke?” whispered Little Bill to his brother.
The “it” referred to was Baby La Certe, which had, as usual, possessed itself of its father’s pipe when the mother was not watching.
“I’m not sure, Little Bill, but I think that it does its best.”