“Do you see that are white one-story house there?” said he. “That is a place, though not an inn, where the owner, if he is at home, will receive the likes of you very hospitably. He is a capital fellow in his way, but as hot as pepper. His name is Peter McDonald, and he is considerable well to do in the world. He is a Highlander; and when young went out to Canada in the employment of the North-west Fur Company, where he spent many years, and married, broomstick fashion, I suppose, a squaw. Alter her death he removed, with his two half-caste daughters, to St John’s, New Brunswick; but his girls I don’t think were very well received, on account of their colour, and he came down here and settled at Ship Harbour, where some of his countrymen are located. He is as proud as Lucifer, and so are his galls. Whether it is that they have been slighted, and revenge it on all the rest of the world, I don’t know; or whether it is Highland and Indian pride mixed, I ain’t sartified; but they carry their heads high, and show a stiff upper lip, I tell you. I don’t think you will get much talk out of them, for I never could.”
“Well, it don’t follow,” said I, “by no manner of means, Eldad, because they wouldn’t chat to you, that they wouldn’t open their little mugs to me. First and foremost recollect, Mr Nickerson, you are a married man, and it’s no use for a gall to talk it into you; and then, in the next place, you see you know a plaguey sight more about the shape, make, and build of a craft like this than you do about the figure-head, waist, and trim of a gall. You are a seaman, and I am a landsman; you know how to bait your hooks for fish, and I know the sort of tackle women will jump at. See if I don’t set their clappers a going, like those of a saw-mill. Do they speak English?”
“Yes,” said he, “and they talk Gaelic and French also; the first two they learned from their father, and the other in Canada.”
“Are they pretty?”
“The eldest is beautiful,” said he; “and there is something in her manner you can’t help thinking she is a lady. You never saw such a beautiful figure as she is in your life.”
Thinks I to myself, “that’s all you know about it, old boy.” But I didn’t say so, for I was thinking of Sophy at the time.
We then pushed off, and steered for Peter McDonald’s, Indian Peter, as the pilot said the fishermen called him. As we approached the house he came out to meet us. He was a short, strong-built, athletic man, and his step was as springy as a boy’s. He had a jolly, open, manly face, but a quick, restless eye, and the general expression of his countenance indicated at once good nature and irascibility of temper.
“Coot tay, shentlemen,” he said, “she is glad to see you; come, walk into her own house.” He recognised and received Eldad kindly, who mentioned our names and introduced us, and he welcomed us cordially. As soon as we were seated, according to the custom of the north-west traders, he insisted upon our taking something to drink, and calling to his daughter Jessie in Gaelic, he desired her to bring whiskey and brandy. As I knew this was a request that on such an occasion could not be declined without offence, I accepted his offer with thanks, and no little praise of the virtues of whiskey; the principal recommendation of which, I said, “was that there was not a headache in a hogshead of it.”
“She believes so herself,” he said, “it is petter ash all de rum, prandy, shin, and other Yanke pyson in the States; ta Yankies are cheatin smugglin rascals.”
The entrance of Jessie fortunately gave a turn to this complimentary remark; when she set down the tray, I rose and extended my hand to her, and said in Gaelic, “Cair mur tha thu mo gradh (how do you do, my dear), tha mi’n dochas gam biel thu slan (I hope you are quite well).”