"Now the devil fly off with me, an I don't slit him
like a Dutch herring for a traitor and a knave and a thief and a cheat!
By Judas, if he doesn't turn up with the furs, I'll do to him as I did to
the supercargo last week, and bury him deep in the bastion! Very fine,
him that was to get the furs hiding inland! Him, that didn't add a cent
to what Kirke and Stocking paid; they to supply the money, my father to
keep the company from knowing, and me to sail the ship--him, that might
'a' hung in Boston but for my father towing him out o' port--him the
first to turn knave and steal all the pelts!"
"Who?" quietly puts in M. Groseillers, who had been listening with wide
eyes.
But Ben's head rolled drunkenly and he slid down in sodden sleep.
Again the fort door opened with the rush of frost clouds, and in the
midst of the white vapour hesitated three men. The door softly closed,
and Le Borgne stole forward.
"White-man--promise--no--hurt--good Indian?" he asked.
"The white-man is Le Borgne's friend," assured Groseillers, "but who are
these?"
He pointed to two figures, more dead than alive, chittering with cold.
Le Borgne's foxy eye took on a stolid look. "White--men--lost--in the
snow," said he, "white-man from the big white canoe--come
walkee--walkee--one--two--three sleep--watchee good Indian--friend--fort!"
M.
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