“What do you want? What’s your game?” he shouted to the redskins in their own dialect.
“Look; look!” cried the skipper. “Do they conclude to stave her in?—What is it they say, Boss?”
Sure enough, every Indian was stooping low, spear in hand and point downwards, earnestly studying the water, and as much of the boat’s underside as they could distinguish. A conversation was proceeding meanwhile between Barnes and the Indian nearest him; and all of a sudden the journalist fell back into the arms of the skipper, choking and convulsed with laughter.
“Say!” remonstrated the skipper mildly. “Don’t keep it all to yerself, Squire; if they don’t mean mischief, what the plague do they mean?”
“Sturgeons!” gasped the Canadian. “Oh, my aunt! Somebody’s been plumbing them up that the ‘fire-canoes’ are towed along by great sturgeons. Look at the noble savages.”
With breathless anticipation, every Indian was gravely watching the water round the bows, ready in an instant to plunge his spear into the first sturgeon that came handy.
“Wal,” said the skipper, “even then their intentions wasn’t more’n middlin’ benevolent, I allow. How did they calc’late we’d make any way when a neefarious gang had cleared out our propelling gear for us—s’posing we was towed that way? You’d better argufy with ’em, and bring that p’int home to ’em, Mr. Barnes.”
After another conversation the journalist turned to the master.