I walked on listening.
"One plays as your friend, the other as your foe! Show neither friend
nor foe your hand! Let the game tell! 'Twas the reined-in horse won
King Charles's stakes at Newmarket last year! Hold yourself in, I say!"
"In," I repeated, wondering at this homily.
"And hold yourself up," he continued. "That coxcomb of a marquis
always trailing his dignity in the dust of mid-road to worry with a
common dog like La Chesnaye--pish! Hold your self-respect in the chest
of your jacket, man! 'Tis the slouching nag that loses the race! Hold
yourself up!"
His words seemed hard sense plain spoken.
"And let your feet travel on," he added.
"In and up and on!" I repeated.
"In and up and on--there's mettle for you, lad!"
And with that terse text--which, I think, comprehended the whole of M.
Radisson's philosophy--we were back at the beach.
The Indians were not in such a state as I have seen after many a
trading bout. They were able to accompany us. In embarking, M.
Radisson must needs observe all the ceremony of two races. Such a
whiffing of pipes among the stately, half-drunk Indian chiefs you never
saw, with a pompous proffering of the stem to the four corners of the
compass, which they thought would propitiate the spirits.
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