“I did,” answered McLeod, with a nod.
“Vraiment, de Injuns am right in deir opinion of you,” cried Gibault, relighting his pipe, which, in the astonished state of his mind, he had allowed to go out.
McLeod smiled, if we may so speak, gravely, in acknowledgment of the compliment.
“Ha!” cried Gibault, turning to Bertram as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, “Monsieur Bertram et Monsieur Mak Load, you be broders. Oui, Monsieur Mak Load, dis mine comrade—him be von painteur.”
“Indeed!” said McLeod, turning to the artist with more interest than he had yet shown towards the strangers.
“I have, indeed, the honour to follow the noble profession of painting,” said Bertram, “but I cannot boast of having soared so high as—as—”
“As to attempt the frescoes on the ceiling of a reception hall in the backwoods,” interrupted McLeod, laughing. “No, I believe you, sir; but, although I cannot presume to call you brother professionally, still I trust that I may do so as an amateur. I am delighted to see you here. It is not often we are refreshed with the sight of the face of a civilised man in these wild regions.”
“Upon my word, sir, you are plain-spoken,” said March Marston with a look of affected indignation; “what do you call us?”
“Pardon me, young sir,” replied McLeod, “I call you trappers, which means neither civilised nor savage; neither fish, nor flesh, nor fowl—”
“That’s a foul calumny,” cried Bounce, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and refilling it from the canister; “it’s wot may be called a—a—”