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Updated: May 16, 2025
"Galen Albret," announced the old woodsman, "here is the Ojibway, Jingoss." The Factor stirred slightly; his bulk, the significance of his features lost in obscurity. "Me-en-gen!" he called, sharply. The tall, straight figure of his Indian familiar glided from the dusk of the veranda's end.
The men gradually fell silent, smoking their pipes, savouring the sharp snow-tang, grateful to their toughened senses, that still lingered in the air. Suddenly out of the dimness loomed the tall form of an Indian, advancing with long, straight strides. In a moment he was among them responding composedly to their greetings. "Bo' jou', bo' jou', Me-en-gen," said they. "Bo' jou', bo' jou'," said he.
He touched two of the men lightly on the shoulder. They arose, for they knew him as the bowsman of the Factor's canoe, and so understood that Galen Albret desired their presence. Me-en-gen led the way in silence, across the grass-plot, past the flag-staff, to the foot of the steps leading to the Factory veranda. There the Indian left them. They mounted the steps.
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