“Quel maître!” he said.
“Xavier,” said Nick, gently taking the tiller out of his hand, “I will teach you how to steer a keel boat.”
“Mon Dieu,” said Xavier, “and who is to pay Michié Gratiot for his fur? The river, she is full of things.”
“Yes, I know, Xavier, but you will teach me to steer.”
“Volontiers, Michié, as we go now. But there come a time when I, even I, who am twenty year on her, do not know whether it is right or left. Ze rock—he vair' hard. Ze snag, he grip you like dat,” and Xavier twined his strong arms around Nick until he was helpless. “Ze bar—he hol' you by ze leg. An' who is to tell you how far he run under ze yellow water, Michié? I, who speak to you, know. But I know not how I know. Ze water, sometime she tell, sometime she say not'ing.”
“À bas, Xavier!” said Nick, pushing him away, “I will teach you the river.”
Xavier laughed, and sat down on the edge of the cabin. Nick took easily to accomplishments, and he handled the clumsy tiller with a certainty and distinction that made the boatmen swear in two languages and a patois. A great water-logged giant of the Northern forests loomed ahead of us. Xavier sprang to his feet, but Nick had swung his boat swiftly, smoothly, into the deeper water on the outer side.
“Saint Jacques, Michié,” cried Xavier, “you mek him better zan I thought.”
Fascinated by a new accomplishment, Nick held to the tiller, while Xavier with a trained eye scanned the troubled, yellow-glistening surface of the river ahead. The wind died, the sun beat down with a moist and venomous sting, and northeastward above the edge of the bluff a bank of cloud like sulphur smoke was lifted. Gradually Xavier ceased his jesting and became quiet.