As he spoke the flotilla rounded a point on the river, and came in sight of MacSweenie’s canoe making for the land after having picked up the geese.
An impartial observer would not have found it easy to determine which party expressed more surprise.
“Fire-spouters!” shouted the new arrivals.
“Eskimos!” exclaimed Mowat.
“Savitches—whatever!” said MacSweenie. “Wow! but this iss goot luck! Gif way, my boy, an’ we will meet them more than half-way.”
Suddenly the trader ceased to paddle, and raised a hand to shade his eyes from the sun.
“Tonal’, man!” he growled with a Gaelic expletive which it is impossible to spell, “iss that a birch-bark canoe that I am seein’?”
“It is that,” answered the interpreter, “an’ I do believe that—that—”
“Man! Tonal’,” interrupted the trader, as he dipped his paddle violently into the water. “It’s wishin’ I am that I may never see the Grampians again in this world if yon iss not Nazinred himself wi’ his daater in the bow! It iss my belief there will be rechoicing in the Dogrib camp this night—though wi’ such a band o’ Eskimos there will be no small risk o’ fechtin’ also!”
By this time the canoe and flotilla were so near that Nazinred recognised the trader, and threw up a hand in salutation, whereupon MacSweenie and Mowat, taking off their caps, treated the party to a rousing British cheer, which was so congenial to the lively Eskimos that they burst into a sympathetic howl, mingled with laughter and some fair attempts to imitate the cheer, while they splashed up the water with their paddles, and otherwise conducted themselves jovially.