There were in the hut, when the three visitors entered, old Dobelle, his wife, a daughter of eighteen, another of four, and two sons of twenty and twenty-two respectively.
“It looks like dirty weather,” said Jenkins on entering; “will you let us come to an anchor here for a bit?”
“Give us shelter?” explained Archie, who doubted old Dobelle’s ability to understand nautical language.
“You are welcome,” said the half-breed, making way politely, and pointing to places on the floor where the visitors were expected to squat. For there was no furniture in that mansion; the fire was kindled in the middle of its one room; the family sat around it on deer and buffalo skins, and the smoke alike of pipe and fire found egress at the crevices in the roof.
With kind hospitality Madame Dobelle poured some black tea into cups of birch-bark, and, on plates of the same material, spread before them the remains of a feast of roasted fish.
While eating this, various questions were put as to the success of the fishery.
“Yes—we have been very successful,” said old Dobelle. “No bad weather to speak of, and plenty of fish. Our good fortune is great.”
“But it won’t last long,” said the eldest son, who seemed to be the only growler in the family.
“N’importe—we will enjoy it while it lasts,” said the younger son.
“Yes, truly we will,” remarked Madame Dobelle. Whereupon the daughter of eighteen smiled, and the daughter of four giggled.