“‘Take these men below,’ cried the leftenant, ‘an’ send fourteen strong men here. We don’t want weaklings for this company.’
“After that we loaded in moderation, an’ got on better.”
“And the pirates—what did they think o’ the new weapon?” asked Peter Davidson, with an amused expression.
“O! they couldn’t stand it at all,” answered the sailor, looking up from his work, with a solemnity that was quite impressive. “They stood fire only once. After that they sheered off like wild-cats. I say, Mistress La Certe, how long is that lobscouse—or whatever you call it,—goin’ to be in cookin’?” Slowfoot gave vent to a sweet, low giggle, as she lifted the kettle off the hook, and thus gave a practical answer to the question. She placed before him the robbiboo, or pemmican, soup, which the seaman had so grievously misnamed.
During the time that the hunters were appeasing their appetites, it was observed that Antoine Dechamp, the leader of the expedition, was unusually silent and thoughtful, and that he betrayed a slight look of anxiety. It therefore did not surprise Dan Davidson, when the supper was nearly ended, that Dechamp should rise and leave the fire after giving him a look which was a silent but obvious invitation to follow.
Dan obeyed at once, and his leader, conducting him between the various camp-fires, led him outside the circle of carts.
A clear moon lit up the prairie all round, so that they could see its undulating sweep in every direction.
“Anything wrong, Antoine?” asked Dan in a low voice, when they were out of earshot of the camp.
“Nothing wrong, Dan.”
“Surely,” continued the other, while Dechamp paused as if in perplexity, “surely there can be no chance of Red-skins troubling us on a clear night like this. I can distinguish every bush for miles around.”