“There is a canoe—” said La Certe, with some hesitation.
“There iss many a canoe!” returned McKay with a peculiar grin.
“True, but there is one on the shore now, close to the flat rock which—”
“My own canoe!” interrupted the other, “what will ye be wantin’ wi’ that?”
La Certe did not wish to appear greedy, but the season was late, and his own canoe was not in a very fit condition to carry a family round the shores of a lake so large as Lake Winnipeg. Would the white father lend his canoe to him? It could not be wanted much longer that Fall, and the one he would leave behind him was an excellent canoe for ordinary fishing and hunting purposes. He would be quite willing to hire the canoe or to pay the full price for it if any accident should happen to it.
“No,” said McKay, firmly. “No, La Certe; your hiring means borrowing, and your payin’ means owin’ a debt for the remainder o’ your natural life. I will see you at the bottom o’ Lake Winnipeg before I will be lending you my canoe.”
La Certe smiled sadly, and gazed at the cap with which his hands played, as if appealing to it for sympathy.
With an aspect of the profoundest resignation he made his bow and left the Presence.
But La Certe was not in the least put out by this failure. He went to his tent, and recounted the interview to his squaw, who, when he entered, was in the act of giving her child, a creature of about four years of age, one or two draws of her pipe, to let it taste how nice it was.
Smoking in calm placidity, the amiable pair discussed the subject. The conclusion they came to was, as usual, harmonious.