Old Mr Kennedy gave a short groan of despair, shook his fist at the form of his retreating son, and accompanied his friend to the house.
It must not be supposed that Frank Kennedy was very deeply offended with his son, although he did shower on him a considerable amount of abuse. On the contrary, he loved him very much. But it was the old man’s nature to give way to little bursts of passion on almost every occasion in which his feelings were at all excited. These bursts, however, were like the little puffs that ripple the surface of the sea on a calm summer’s day. They were over in a second, and left his good-humoured, rough, candid countenance in unruffled serenity. Charley knew this well, and loved his father tenderly, so that his conscience frequently smote him for raising his anger so often; and he over and over again promised his sister Kate to do his best to refrain from doing anything that was likely to annoy the old man in future. But, alas! Charley’s resolves, like those of many other boys, were soon forgotten, and his father’s equanimity was upset generally two or three times a day; but after the gust was over, the fur-trader would kiss his son, call him a “rascal,” and send him off to fill and fetch his pipe.
Mr Grant, who was in charge of Fort Garry, led the way to his smoking apartment, where the two were soon seated in front of a roaring log-fire, emulating each other in the manufacture of smoke.
“Well, Kennedy,” said Mr Grant, throwing himself back in his chair, elevating his chin, and emitting a long thin stream of white vapour from his lips, through which he gazed at his friend complacently—“well, Kennedy, to what fortunate chance am I indebted for this visit? It is not often that we have the pleasure of seeing you here.”
Mr Kennedy created two large volumes of smoke, which, by means of a vigorous puff, he sent rolling over towards his friend, and said, “Charley.”
“And what of Charley?” said Mr Grant, with a smile, for he was well aware of the boy’s propensity to fun, and of the father’s desire to curb it.
“The fact is,” replied Kennedy, “that Charley must be broke. He’s the wildest colt I ever had to tame, but I’ll do it—I will—that’s a fact.”
If Charley’s subjugation had depended on the rapidity with which the little white clouds proceeded from his sire’s mouth, there is no doubt that it would have been a “fact” in a very short time, for they rushed from him with the violence of a high wind. Long habit had made the old trader and his pipe not only inseparable companions, but part and parcel of each other—so intimately connected that a change in the one was sure to produce a sympathetic change in the other. In the present instance, the little clouds rapidly increased in size and number as the old gentleman thought on the obstinacy of his “colt.”
“Yes,” he continued, after a moment’s silence, “I’ve made up my mind to tame him, and I want you, Mr Grant, to help me.”
Mr Grant looked as if he would rather not undertake to lend his aid in a work that was evidently difficult; but being a good-natured man, he said, “And how, friend, can I assist in the operation?”