“Why, yes. Mighty smart, too! But say, you were jest joshing, weren't you?”
“No, Sir,” replied the Inspector. “The Police never break a promise to white man or Indian.”
Then Mr. Cadwaller cut loose for a few moments. He did not object to waiting any length of time to oblige a friend, but that he should delay his journey to answer the charges of an Indian, variously and picturesquely described, was to him an unthinkable proposition.
“Sergeant Crisp, you will see to this,” said the Inspector quietly as he rode away.
Then Mr. Cadwaller began to laugh and continued laughing for several minutes.
“By the holy poker, Sligh!” at last he exclaimed. “It's a joke. It's a regular John Bull joke.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Sligh, while he cut a comfortable chew from his black plug. “Good joke, too, but not on John. I guess that's how five hundred police hold down—no, take care of—twenty thousand redskins.”
And the latest recruit to Her Majesty's North West Mounted Police straightened up till he could feel the collar of his tunic catch him on the back of the neck and was conscious of a little thrill running up his spine as he remembered that he was a member of that same force.