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For a while there was no sound in the shack but Husky muttering over his game, the licking of the wood fire, and faint, mournful intimations down the chimney from the pines. The man on the bed shuddered involuntarily, and glanced at his mates to see if they had noticed it. This one, Joe Hagland, was considerably younger than the other three.
The proceedings were opened by a formal questioning. "Name?" "Samuel Gladding." "Age?" "Twenty-four." "Nativity?" "American. Born in Orange, New Jersey." "Citizen of Canada?" "No." "First came to Canada?" "February 18 last." "Arrived at Caribou Lake?" "May 3. Travelling with Messrs. Skinner, Marr, Hagland, and Fraser in the capacity of cook."
On the bed sprawled young Joe Hagland, listlessly turning the pages of the exhausted magazine. The only contented figure was that of Sam Gladding, the cook, a boyish figure sleeping peacefully on the floor in the corner. He had to get up early. It was a typical Northern interior: log walls with caked mud in the interstices, a floor of split poles, and roof of poles thatched with sods.
Later word came back that he had built himself a raft, and had gone down to Fort Ochre, the farthest point that white men had reached. The other two stuck it out. Big Jack Skinner philosophically abandoned his pretensions, but Joe Hagland would not take his answer. He continued to besiege Bela, and the general opinion was that he would wear her out in the end.
"Hello, Bela!" cried Sam. "Can I have some supper?" She looked him over coolly. "Sure," she said. "Sit down by Stiffy." They roared with laughter at her manner. Sam laughed, too, to hide the discomfiture he privately felt. Sam took his allotted place. The laughter of the crowd was perfectly good-natured, except in the case of one man whom Sam marked. Opposite him sat Joe Hagland.
He was a heavy, muscular youth with curling black hair and comely features, albeit somewhat marked by wilfulness and self-indulgence. Back in the world outside he had made a brief essay in the prize-ring, not without some success. He had been driven out, however, by an epithet spontaneously applied by the fraternity: "Crying Joe Hagland." The trouble was, he could not control his emotions.
Those who came in from around the bay said he had not been seen over there, though Joe Hagland had barricaded himself in his shack in the expectation of a visit. It was finally decided that Sam must be hiding in the bush somewhere near, and that he would come in with his tail between his legs when he got hungry. There was not much concern one way or the other.
Bela kept her eyes down to hide their angry glitter at the men's comments. Joe Hagland was in the highest spirits. In him this took the form of boisterousness and arrogance. Not only did he usurp the place at the head of the table, but he held everybody off from the place at his right. "That's reserved," he said to all comers.
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.
At the sight of it a little spring of joy welled up in Sam's breast. "Pretty near all in, eh?" he said. "You're going to get licked, and you know it! There's fear in your eye. You always had a yellow streak. Crying Joe Hagland!" Joe, missing a wild swing, fell of his own momentum amid general laughter. Derision ate the heart out of him. He rose with a hunted look in his eyes.
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