“You tink you funny, Bryan,” retorted Moses, while an oily smile beamed on his fat, good-humoured countenance; “but you not; you most dreadful stupid.”
“Thrue for ye, Moses; I was oncommon stupid to let you sit so long beside the kittle,” replied the Irishman, as he made a futile effort to scrape another spoonful from the bottom of it. “Och! but ye’ve licked it as clane as one of yer own dogs could ha’ done it.”
“Mind your eye!” growled Gaspard, at the same time giving La Roche a violent push, as that volatile worthy, in one of his eccentric movements, nearly upset his can of water.
“Oh! pardon, monsieur,” exclaimed La Roche, in pretended sorrow, at the same time making a grotesque bow that caused a general peal of laughter.
“Why, one might as well travel with a sick bear as with you, Gaspard,” said François half angrily.
“Hold your jaw,” replied Gaspard.
“Not at your bidding,” retorted François, half rising from his reclining posture, while his colour heightened. Gaspard had also started up, and it seemed as if the little camp were in danger of becoming a scene of strife, when Dick Prince, who was habitually silent and unobtrusive, preferring generally to listen rather than to speak, laid his hand on Gaspard’s broad shoulder and pulled him somewhat forcibly to the ground.
“Shame on you, comrades!” he said, in a low, grave voice, that instantly produced a dead silence; “shame on you, to quarrel on our first night in the bush! We’ve few enough friends in these parts, I think, that we should make enemies o’ each other.”
“That’s well said,” cried Massan, in a very decided tone. “It won’t do to fall out when there’s so few of us.” And the stout voyageur thrust his foot against the logs on the fire, causing a rich cloud of sparks to ascend, as if to throw additional light on his remark.
“Pardon me, mes comrades,” cried François; “I did not intend to quarrel;” and he extended his hand to Gaspard, who took it in silence, and dropping back again to his recumbent posture, resumed his pipe.