Pierre was a grizzled veteran, and his was the charge of the journey. Ambrose was his assistant. Victor understood these men, and made no delay in displaying his hospitality when the work of unloading was completed. A ten-gallon keg of Hudson’s Bay Rum was part of the consignment, and this was tapped at once by the wily trader.
The four men were gathered in the back room of the store when Victor turned on the tap and the thick brown stream gurgled forth from the cask. He poured out a tot for each of the train drivers. Then he stood uncertainly and looked over at Jean. The latter had seated himself over against the stove and appeared to take little interest in what was going on. Victor stood with one foot tapping the floor impatiently. He had been quick to notice that Jean’s great eyes had stolen in the direction of the little oaken keg. At last he threw the tin beaker aside as if in disgust. He played his part consummately.
“’Tain’t no go, boys. I’m not drinkin’. Thet’s what. Look at him,” he cried, pointing at Jean. “We’ve had words, I guess. Him an’ me, an’ he’s that riled as he don’t notion suppin’ good thick rum wi’ us. Wal, I guess it’ll keep, what you boys can’t do in. Ther’s the pannikin, ther’s the keg. Jest help yourselves, lads, when you fancy. I ain’t tastin’ with bad blood runnin’ in this shack.”
“What, no drink?” cried old Pierre, his face beaming with oily geniality. “Dis no lak ole time, Victor. What’s de fuss? Mebbe I tink right. Squaw, Vic, squaw.”
The old boy chuckled heartily at his pleasantry. He was a French-Canadian half-breed and spoke with a strong foreign accent. Ambrose joined in the laugh.
“Ho, Jean, man,” cried the latter. “No bad blood, I’m guessin’. Ther’s good thick rum, lad, an’ I mind you’re a’mighty partial most gener’ly.”
Victor had started the ball rolling, and he knew that neither Pierre nor Ambrose were likely to let it rest until they had had all the rum they wanted. Everything had been made snug for the night so they only had their own pleasure to consider. As Ambrose’s challenge fell upon his ears Jean looked up. His eyes were very bright and they rested longingly upon the keg on their way to the driver’s face. He shook his head, but there was not much decision in the movement.
Pierre seeing the action stepped up to him and shook a warning finger in his face.
“Hey, you, Jean-le-gros, pig-head. We come lak Hell, four hundred mile to see you. We bring you drink, everyting. You not say ‘How.’ We not welcome. Bah, I spit! In my Quebec we lak our frien’s to come. We treat. All is theirs. Bah, I spit again.”
Jean looked slightly abashed. Then Ambrose chimed in.