"There," cried Miss Violet. "Oh, won't I give my Uncle beans—I'll teach him!"
"You must not neglect your filial duties, Miss Burrows; you must bring him up in the way he should go; it's your duty."
"Tell me some more."
"I will. Who let him leave the mountain before his arm was properly set? When he got back to camp he just managed to report to the Orderly Sergeant, then rolled off his horse in a dead swoon. You ought to have kept him here for a month."
Miss Burrows turned upon the Tenderfoot in withering scorn. "Your fault entirely!"
After that the Tenderfoot sulked.
"Tell me some more," said the lady.
"Well, two years ago, when we had our first scrapping match with the half-breeds, we got an awful thrashing. You've heard of Duck Lake Fight?"
"Sit up and listen." Miss Violet brought the Tenderfoot to attention with a very small pebble, which missed. "Oh, this is awfully jolly,—do go on!"
"There were ninety-four of us, police and civilians, caught in a trap by three hundred and sixty rebels. They were all round us under cover in a sort of horseshoe position, with a detachment stealing quietly through the bush to cut off our rear. We police unharnessed, drew up the sleighs in line by way of shelter, with one seven-pounder on the right, all in a mortal funk. Joe McKay, our half-breed interpreter, rode forward with Crozier to meet an Indian who came out with a white rag to talk. We thought they would argue all day, but suddenly the Indian made a grab at McKay's rifle; and Joe drew his revolver and riddled him. Then Crozier gave the order to fire, but Joe Howe, in charge of the gun, yelled out, 'You're right in our way, sir!'