On the fourth day thereafter the long tedium of existence in the settlement began to be broken in earnest. Before they could digest the flavour of one event, something else happened. In the afternoon word came down to Stiffy and Mahooley that the bishop had arrived at the French Mission, bringing the sister of the company trader's wife under his care.

Likewise the Indian agent and the doctor had come to the police post. The whole party had arrived on horseback from the Tepiskow Lake district, where they had visited the Indians. Their boat was held up down the lake by adverse winds.

Before Stiffy and Mahooley had a chance to see any of these arrivals or hear their news, quite an imposing caravan hove in view across the river from the store, and shouted lustily for the ferry.

There were four wagons, each drawn by a good team, beside half a dozen loose horses. The horses were in condition, the wagons well laden. The entire outfit had a well-to-do air that earned the traders' respect even from across the river. Of the four men, one carried his arm in a sling.

Stiffy and Mahooley ferried them across team by team in the scow they kept for the purpose. The four hardy and muscular travellers were men according to the traders' understanding. They used the same scornful, jocular, profane tongue. Their very names were a recommendation: Big Jack Skinner, Black Shand Fraser, Husky Marr, and Young Joe Hagland, the ex-pugilist.

After the horses had been turned out to graze, they all gathered in the store for a gossip. The newcomers talked freely about their journey in, and its difficulties, avoiding only a certain period of their stay at Nine-Mile Point, and touching very briefly on their meeting with the Bishop. Something sore was hidden here.

When the bell rang for supper they trooped across the road. The kitchen in reality consisted of a mess-room downstairs with a dormitory overhead; the actual kitchen was in a lean-to behind. When the six men had seated themselves at the long trestle covered with oilcloth, the cook entered with a steaming bowl of rice.

Now, the cook had observed the new arrivals from the kitchen window, and had hardened himself for the meeting, but the travellers were unprepared. They stared at him, scowling. An odd silence fell on the table.

Mahooley looked curiously from one to another. "Do you know him?" he demanded.

Big Jack quickly recovered himself. He banged the table, and bared his big yellow teeth in a grin.

"On my soul, it's Sammy!" he cried. "How the hell did he get here? Here's Sammy, boys! What do you know about that! Sammy, the White Slave!"

A huge laugh greeted this sally. Sam set his jaw and doggedly went on bringing in the food.

"How are you, Sam?" asked Jack with mock solicitude. "Have you recovered from your terrible experience, poor fellow? My! My! That was an awful thing to happen to a good boy!"

Mahooley, laughing and highly mystified, demanded: "What's the con, boys?"

"Ain't you heard the story?" asked Jack with feigned surprise. "How that poor young boy was carried off by a brutal girl and kep' prisoner on an island?"

"Go 'way!" cried Mahooley, delighted.

"Honest to God he was!" affirmed Jack.

Joe and Husky not being able to think of any original contributions of wit, rang all the changes on "Sammy, the White Slave!" with fresh bursts of laughter. Shand said nothing. He laughed harshly.

"Who was the girl?" asked Mahooley.

They told him.

"Bela Charley!" he exclaimed. "The best looker on the lake! She has the name of a man-hater."

"I dare say," said Jack with a serious air. "But his fatal beauty was too much for her. You got to hand it to him for his looks, boys," he added, calling general attention to the tight-lipped Sam in his apron. "This here guy, Apollo, didn't have much on our Sam."

A highly coloured version of the story followed. In it Big Jack and his mates figured merely as disinterested onlookers. The teller, stimulated by applause, surpassed himself. They could not contain their mirth.

"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" cried Mahooley. "This is the richest I ever heard! It will never be forgotten!"

Sam went through with the meal, gritting his teeth, and crushing down the rage that bade fair to suffocate him. He disdained to challenge Jack's equivocal tale. The laughter of one's friends is hard enough to bear sometimes, still, it may be borne with a grin; but when it rings with scarcely concealed hate it stings like whips.

Sam was supposed to sit down at the table with them, but he would sooner have starved. The effort of holding himself in almost finished him.

When finally he cleared away, Mahooley said: "Come on and tell us your side now."

"Go to hell!" muttered Sam, and walked out of the back door.

He strode up the road without knowing or caring where he was going. He was moved merely by the impulse to put distance between him and his tormentors.

Completely and terribly possessed by his rage, as youths are, he felt that it would kill him if he could not do something to fight his way out of the hateful position he was in. But what could he do? He couldn't even sleep out of doors because he lacked a blanket. His poverty had him by the heels.

He came to himself to find that he was staring at the buildings of the company establishment mounted on a little hill. This was a mile from the French outfit. The sight suggested a possible way out of his difficulties. With an effort he collected his faculties and turned in.

The buildings formed three sides of a square open to a view across the bay. On Sam's left was the big warehouse; on the other side the store faced it, and the trader's house, behind a row of neat palings, closed the top. All the buildings were constructed of squared logs whitewashed. A lofty flagpole rose from the centre of the little square, with a tiny brass cannon at its base.

Sam saw the trader taking the air on his veranda with two ladies. The neat fence, the gravel path, the flower-beds, had a strange look in that country. A keen feeling of homesickness attacked the unhappy Sam. As he approached the veranda one of the ladies seemed vaguely familiar. She glided toward him with extended hand.

"Mr. Gladding!" she exclaimed. "So you got here before us. Glad to see you!" In a lower voice she added: "I wanted to tell you how much I sympathized with you the other day, but I had no chance. So glad you got out of it all right. I knew from the first that you were not to blame."

Sam was much taken aback. He bowed awkwardly. What did the woman want of him? Her over-impressive voice simply confused him. While she detained him, his eyes were seeking the trader.

"Can I speak to you?" he asked.

The other man rose. "Sure!" he said. "Come into the house."

He led the way into an office, and, turning, looked Sam over with a quizzical smile. His name was Gilbert Beattie, and he was a tall, lean, black Scotchman, in equal parts good-natured and grim.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"Give me a job," replied Sam abruptly. "Anything."

"Aren't you working for the French outfit?"

"For my keep. That will never get me anywhere. I might as well be in slavery."

"Sorry," said Beattie. "This place is run in a different way. 'The Service,' we call it. The young fellows are indentured by the head office and sent to school, so to speak. I can't hire anybody without authority. You should have applied outside."

Sam's lip curled a little. A lot of good it did telling him that now.

"You seem to have made a bad start all around," Beattie continued, meaning it kindly. "Running away with that girl, or whichever way it was. That is hardly a recommendation to an employer."

"It wasn't my fault!" growled Sam desperately.

"Come, now," said Beattie, smiling. "You're not going to put it off on the girl, are you?"

Sam bowed, and made his way out of the house. As he returned down the path he saw Miss Mackall leaning on the gatepost, gazing out toward the sinking sun over Beaver Bay. There was no way of avoiding her.

She started slightly as he came behind her, and turned the face of a surprised dreamer. Seeing who it was, she broke into a winning smile, albeit a little sad, too. All this pretty play was lost on Sam, because he wasn't looking at her.

"It's you!" murmured Miss Mackall. "I had lost myself!"

Sam endeavoured to sidle around the gate. She laid a restraining hand upon it.

"Wait a minute," she said. "I want to speak to you. Oh, it's nothing at all, but I was sorry I had no chance the other day. It seemed to me as I looked at you standing there alone, that you needed a friend!"

"A friend!"—the word released a spring in Sam's overwrought breast. For the first time he looked full at her with warm eyes. God knew he needed a friend if ever a young man did.

Miss Mackall, observing the effect of her word, repeated it. "Such a humiliating position for a manly man to be placed in!" she went on.

Sam's heart expanded with gratitude. "That was kind of you," he murmured.

It did not occur to him that her position against the gatepost was carefully studied; that the smile was cloying, and that behind the inviting friendliness of her eyes lay the anxiety of a woman growing old. It was enough that she offered him kindness. Both the gift and the giver seemed beautiful.

"There is a bond between us!" she went on, half coquettish, half serious. "I felt it from the first moment I saw you. Arriving together as we did, in a strange and savage country. Ugh!"—a delicate shudder here. "You and I are not like these people. We must be friends!"

A humiliated and sore-hearted youth will swallow more than this. Sam lingered by the gate. At the same time, somewhere within, was a dim consciousness that it was not very nutritious food.

But it went to the right spot. It renewed his faith in himself a little. It gave him courage to face the night that he knew awaited him in the dormitory.

Events still followed fast at the settlement. Next morning a native came in to Stiffy and Mahooley's with the information that two York boats were coming up the lake in company. One was enough to make a gala day. Later came word that they had landed at Grier's Point. This was two miles east.

Owing to low water in the lake, laden boats could not come closer in. The first was the police boat, with supplies for the post and for the Indian agent. The second carried the Government surveyors, six strong, and forty hundredweight of implements and grub.

Presently the surveyors themselves arrived at the store, making a larger party of white men than had ever before gathered on Caribou Lake. The natives were in force also. Seeming to spring from nowhere, they gathered in quite a big crowd outside the store and peered through the windows at their betters.

Within, a great gossip was in progress. Especially was the story of Sammy, the White Slave, told and retold, amid uncontrollable laughter. At dinner-time they adjourned to the kitchen in a body to have a look at the hero or victim of the tale, according to the way you looked at it.

It was considered that Sam did not take the chaffing in very good part, but they had to confess that he fed them adequately.

As soon afterward as riding horses could be secured, the whole party, excepting the traders, rode off around Beaver Bay. The Government land was to be laid off on the other side, and Big Jack and his pals were looking for locations there. As Graves, the chief surveyor, was mounting his horse, Mahooley said to him casually:

"How about freighting your outfit around?"

"Oh, that's all arranged for," was the answer.

Mahooley shrugged, supposing that the company had secured the contract outside.

When the excitement of the departure died away, Mahooley for the first time perceived a squat little figure in a blanket capote sitting patiently on the platform in front of the store.

"Musq'oosis!" he exclaimed. "Blest if I didn't overlook you in the shuffle. How did you come?"

"Graves bring me in his boat," Musq'oosis answered.

"Come on in."

"I come get trade for my rabbit-skin robe."

"Sure, what'll you have?"

"W'at you got?"

"Damn little. Take your choice."

After due observance on both sides of the time-honoured rules of bargaining, the matter was concluded, and Musq'oosis made a feint of gathering up his bundles. As a matter of fact, the old man had not yet reached what he had come for.

"What's your hurry?" said Mahooley. "Sit and talk a while."

This was not pure friendliness on the trader's part. He had a particular reason for wishing to cultivate the old Indian.

Musq'oosis allowed himself to be persuaded.

"Where's Bela?" asked Mahooley.

"Home."

"What's all this talk about her carrying off the cook?"

Musq'oosis shrugged. "Fellas got talk."

"Well, what are the rights of the case?"

"I don't know," he returned indifferently. "I not there. I guess I go see Beattie now."

"Sit down," said Mahooley. "What do you want to see Beattie for? Why don't you trade with me? Why don't you tell all the Fish-Eaters to come here? They do what you tell them."

"Maybe," said Musq'oosis, "but we always trade wit' Beattie."

"Time you made a change then. He thinks he's got you cinched."

"Gilbert Beattie my good friend."

"Hell! Ain't I your friend, too? You don't know me. Have a cigar. Sit down. What do you want to see Beattie about in such a rush?"

"I goin' buy team and wagon," said Musq'oosis calmly.

Mahooley laughed. "What are you goin' to do with it? I never heard of you as a driver."

"I goin' hire driver," asserted Musq'oosis. "I sit down; let ot'er man work for me. So I get rich."

This seemed more and more humorous to Mahooley.

"That's the right ticket," he said. "But where will you get the business for your team?"

By way of answer Musq'oosis produced a folded paper from inside the capote. Opening it, Mahooley read:

Richard Graves,

Dominion Surveyor.

Mahooley whistled. This was no longer a joke. He looked at the old man with new respect.

"Well, that's a sharp trick," he said. "How did you get it?"

"Graves my friend," replied Musq'oosis with dignity. "We talk moch comin' up. He say I got good sense." The old man got up.

"Sit down!" cried Mahooley. "I got as good horses as the company."

"Want too much price, I t'ink," said Musq'oosis.

"Let's talk it over. There's my black team, Sambo and Dinah."

This was what Musq'oosis wanted, but nothing of his desire showed in his face. "Too small," he said.

"Small nothing!" cried Mahooley. "Those horses are bred in the country. They will thrive on shavings. They run out all winter."

"How moch wit' wagon and harness?" asked Musq'oosis indifferently.

"Six hundred and fifty."

"Wa!" said Musq'oosis. "You t'ink you got race-horses. I give five-fifty."

"Nothing doing!"

"All right, I go see Beattie."

"Hold on."

Thus it raged back and forth all afternoon. Half a dozen times they went out to look at the horses. Musq'oosis had to admit they were a nervy pair, though small. A dozen times the negotiations were called off, only to be renewed again.

"Be reasonable," said Mahooley plaintively. "I suppose you want a year's credit. I've got to count that."

"I pay cash," said Musq'oosis calmly.

Mahooley stared. "Where the hell will you get it?"

"I got it now."

"Let me see it."

Musq'oosis declined.

Mahooley finally came down to six hundred, and Musq'oosis went up to five-seventy-eight. There they stuck for an hour.

"Five-seventy-eight!" said Mahooley sarcastically. "Why don't you add nineteen cents or so?"

"Tak' it or leave it," said Musq'oosis calmly.

Mahooley finally took it. "Now, let me see the colour of your money," he said.

Musq'oosis produced another little paper. This one read:

Gilbert Beattie.

Mahooley looked discomfited. He whistled.

"That's good money, ain't it?" asked Musq'oosis.

"Sure! Where did you get it?" demanded the trader. "I never heard of this."

"Beattie and me got business," replied Musq'oosis with dignity.

Mahooley was obliged to swallow his curiosity.

"Well, who are you going to get to drive?" he asked.

Musq'oosis's air for the first time became ingratiating. "I tell you," he returned. "Let you and I mak' a deal. You want me do somesing. I want you do somesing."

"What is it?" demanded Mahooley suspiciously.

"You do w'at I want, I promise I tell the Fish-Eaters come to your store."

Mahooley's eyes gleamed. "Well, out with it!"

"I want you not tell nobody I buy your team. Nobody but Stiffy. I want hire white man to drive, see? Maybe he not lak work for red man. So you mak' out he workin' for you, see?"

"All right," agreed Mahooley. "That's easy. But who can you get?"

"Sam."

Mahooley indignantly exploded. Sam, the white slave, the butt of the whole camp, the tramp without a coat to his back or a hat to cover his head. He assured Musq'oosis more than once that he was crazy.

It may be that with his scorn was mixed a natural anxiety not to lose a cheap cook. Anyhow, Musq'oosis, calm and smiling, stuck to the point, and, of course, when it came to it the chance of getting the Fish-Eater's trade was too good to be missed. They finally shook hands on the deal.

Of the night that followed little need be said. As a result of the day's excitement the crowd stopping at the kitchen was in an uplifted state, anyway, and from some mysterious source a jug of illicit spirits was produced. It circulated in the bunk-room until far into the night.

They were not a hopelessly bad lot as men go, only uproarious. There was not one among them inhuman enough of himself to have tortured a fellow-creature, but in a crowd each dreaded to appear better than his fellows, and it was a case of egging each other on. Sam, who had thought he had already drained his cup of bitterness, found that it could be filled afresh.

If he had been a tame spirit it would not have hurt him, and before this the game would have lost its zest for them. It was his helpless rage which nearly killed him, and which provided their fun. Mahooley, keeping what had happened to himself, led his tormentors. Sam was prevented from escaping the place.

Next morning, after he had fed them and they had gone out, he sat down in his kitchen, worn out and sick with discouragement, trying to think what to do.

This was his darkest hour. His brain was almost past clear thinking. His stubborn spirit no longer answered to his need. He had the hopeless feeling that he had come to the end of his fight. What was the use of struggling back to the outside world? He had already tried that. He could not face the thought of enduring another such night, either. Better the surrounding wilderness—or the lake.

He heard the front door flung open and Mahooley's heavy step in the mess-room. He jumped up and put his back against the wall. His eyes instinctively sought for his sharpest knife. He did not purpose standing any more. However, the jocular leer had disappeared from the trader's red face. He looked merely business-like now.

"Ain't you finished the dishes? Hell, you're slow! I want you to take a team and go down to Grier's Point to load up for Graves."

Sam looked at him stupidly.

"Can't you hear me?" said Mahooley. "Get a move on you!"

"I can't get back here before dinner," muttered Sam.

"Who wants you back? One of the breed boys is goin' to cook. Freighting's your job now. You can draw on the store for a coat and a pair of blankets. You'll get twelve and a half cents a hundredweight, so it's up to you to do your own hustling. Better sleep at the Point nights, so you can start early."

Sam's stiff lips tried to formulate thanks.

"Ah, cut it out!" said Mahooley. "It's just a business proposition."