“Oh, that was it!” cried Harry, “that was it! thirty pipes, to be sure. What an ass I am!”
“And pray what is that?” said Mactavish, pointing sarcastically to an entry in the previous account—“5 yards of superfine Annette? Really, Mr Somerville, I wish you would pay more attention to your work and less to the conversation.”
“Oh dear!” cried Harry, becoming almost hysterical under the combined effects of chagrin at making so many mistakes, and suppressed merriment at the idea of selling Annettes by the yard. “Oh, dear me—”
Harry could say no more, but stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth and turned away.
“Well, sir,” said the offended Peter, “when you have laughed to your entire satisfaction, we will go on with our work, if you please.”
“All right,” cried Harry, suppressing his feelings with a strong effort; “what next?”
Just then a tall, raw-boned man entered the store, and rudely thrusting Baptiste aside, asked if he could get his supplies now.
“No,” said Mactavish, sharply; “you’ll take your turn like the rest.”
The new-comer was a native of Orkney, a country from which, and the neighbouring islands, the Fur Company almost exclusively recruits its staff of labourers. These men are steady, useful servants, although inclined to be slow and lazy at first; but they soon get used to the country, and rapidly improve under the example of the active Canadians and half-breeds with whom they associate. Some of them are the best servants the Company possess. Hugh Mathison, however, was a very bad specimen of the race, being rough and coarse in his manners, and very lazy withal. Upon receiving the trader’s answer, Hugh turned sulkily on his heel and strode towards the door. Now, it happened that Baptiste’s bundle lay just behind him, and on turning to leave the place, he tripped over it and stumbled, whereat the voyageurs burst into an ironical laugh (for Hugh was not a favourite).
“Confound your trash!” he cried, giving the little bundle a kick that scattered everything over the floor.