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"There iss no doubt," remarked MacSweenie, as he surveyed the banks of the river, "that the place is no' that bad, but in my opeenion the summer will be short, whatever, an' the winter it will be long." "Ye may be sure that you are not far wrong if it's like the rest o' this country," replied Mowat.
They appreciated the plum-duff and the greasy cakes highly, and they more than appreciated the tea especially the women which MacSweenie took care to provide hot, strong, and sweet. But there is no doubt that the lion of the evening was the "fuddle."
"My daughter is not a child she is a woman." "Wow, man," said MacSweenie, "tell him that feather is not for a woman. It iss for a man." The Indian, however, needed no explanation. That which had captivated him at a distance lost its attraction on closer examination.
Before leaving, however, they had a specimen of one of the ways in which fur-traders in those lonely regions of the far north enjoy themselves. The whole establishment consisted of the officer in charge MacSweenie his interpreter Donald Mowat, and seven men two of whom were French Canadians, two half-castes, and three Orkney-men.
A few days sufficed to make over the charge, pack up the necessary goods, and arrange the lading of the expedition boat; and, soon after, MacSweenie with Donald Mowat as steersman, Bartong as guide and bowman, and eight men some Orkney-men, some half-breeds were rowing swiftly towards the Arctic shore.
Meanwhile, MacSweenie and his man were informing the Indians at the wharf that a band of their old foes, the eaters-of-raw-flesh, were at that moment lying on the other side of the point in their kayaks. The news was received with surprise, not unmingled with frowns. Every one looked at Nazinred inquiringly, but that astute Red man was engaged in profound contemplation of the clouds.
So thought MacSweenie as he sat one fine spring morning on a rude chair of his own making in front of the outpost on Great Bear Lake which he had helped to build. The Scottish Highlander possessed a comparatively intellectual type of mind. We cannot tell precisely the reach of his soul, but it was certainly "above buttons."
The stream opened out into something like a miniature lake, and the water was so calm that the cliff and its foliage made a clear dark reflection. The left bank was edged by a wide grass plateau some fifty yards wide, beyond which was a background of bushes and trees, with another "wee burn," which doubtless suggested to MacSweenie the useful as well as the picturesque.
Yes, there was enough in that store fully to account for the look of awe-stricken wonder which overspread the visage of Mozwa, and for the restrained tendency to laughter which taxed the solemn Nazinred considerably. "You are fery welcome," said MacSweenie, as he ushered the chief and Mozwa into the store the day after their arrival.
Among other things, he could play splendidly on the violin an instrument which he styled a fiddle, and which MacSweenie called a "fuddle." His repertoire was neither extensive nor select. If you had asked for something of Beethoven or Mozart he would have opened his eyes, perhaps also his mouth.
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