“You’ve told the truth that time, master,” he repeated, without moving from his place. “The Saskatchewan is, to my mind, the best place in the whole country; and havin’ seen a considerable deal o’ places in my time, I can speak from experience.”
“Indeed, friend,” said Harry, “I’m glad to hear you say so. Come, sit down beside us, and let’s hear something about it.”
Thus invited, the hunter seated himself on a stone and laid his gun on the hollow of his left arm.
“First of all, friend,” continued Harry, “do you belong to the fort here?”
“No,” replied the man; “I’m stayin’ here just now, but I don’t belong to the place.”
“Where do you come from, then, and what’s your name?”
“Why, I’ve comed d’rect from the Saskatchewan with a packet o’ letters. I’m payin’ a visit to the missionary village yonder”—the hunter pointed as he spoke across the lake—“and when the ice breaks up I shall get a canoe and return again.”
“And your name?”
“Why, I’ve got four or five names. Somehow or other, people have given me a nickname wherever I ha’ chanced to go. But my true name, and the one I hail by just now, is Jacques Caradoc.”
“Jacques Caradoc!” exclaimed Harry, starting with surprise. “You knew a Charley Kennedy in the Saskatchewan, did you?”