CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

OSCAR FINDS THE TRUANTS--BREAKFAST FOR SEVEN--SETH SPINS A YARN--THE WALRUS-HUNTERS--THE INDIANS--BEAUTIFUL SCENERY--A WEEK'S GOOD SPORT.

Rap--rap--rap! Rat--tat--tat--tat!

"What, ho! within there." Rat--tat--tat!

Bow--wow--wow.

Old Seth had been up hours ago, and far away in the forest, but sleep still sealed the eyelids of both Allan and Rory, although it must have been pretty nearly eight bells, in the morning watch.

Rat--tat--tat! "Hi! hi! any one within?"

After a considerable deal of the silly sort of dreaming that heavy sleepers persist in conducting on such occasions, when you are trying your very best to awake them, Rory first, then Allan heard the sound, became sensible at once, and sprang from their couches of skins.

"Why," cried Rory, "it is McBain's voice as sure as a gun is a gun."

"That it is," said the gentleman referred to, entering the wigwam, accompanied by Ralph and Oscar, "and if I had known the door was only latched, it is in I would have been to shake you. Pretty pair of truants you are."

"Indeed," said Ralph, "we had almost given you up for lost, and a weary night of suspense we have had."

You may be sure Oscar the Saint Bernard was not slow in expressing his delight at this reunion. Some large dogs are not demonstrative, but Oscar was an exception; he was not even content with simply leaping on Allan's shoulders and half smothering him with caresses. No, this would not satisfy a dog of his stamp; he must let off the steam somehow, so he seized Allan's hat, and next moment he was careering round and round among the forest trees, in a circle with a radius of about fifty yards, and at the rate of twenty knots an hour. Having thus relieved himself of his extra excitement, he returned to the hut, gave up the hat, and lay quietly down to look at his master.

"Yes," said McBain, "but there was no good starting a search expedition last night, you know, so we left the yacht at daybreak and here we are."

"And here we wouldn't be," added Ralph, "but for that honest dog."

While they were talking, Seth returned with dog and gun, bearing on his shoulders a young doe, its eyes not yet glazed, so recently had it been shot.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, throwing down his burden at the door, while Oscar ran out to say "How d'ye do?" to the mastiff, "I'm skivered. A kind o' right down skivered."

"Well," said McBain smiling, "I trust it is a pleasant sensation."

"Sensation?" said Seth, "here's where the sensation lies. I go out to shoot a doe for breakfast, and when I come back, if I don't find three more on ye. Seven of us and only one doe! But never mind, the old trapper'll do his level utmost. But I say, though, seven of us to one doe. Well, I _am_ skivered!"

When men of the world meet in foreign lands, especially in wild foreign forests, they can dispense with a deal of ceremony, and the old trapper was soon talking away as free-and-easily, and as merrily, with our travellers as if he had known them all his life.

But it would have done your heart good to have seen Seth preparing breakfast. He built a log fire outside the hut and placed an immense tripod over it; on this he hung an immense pot, all in gipsy-fashion. This was what Seth called the "dirty work." That finished, this curious old trapper at once set about transforming himself into _chef_, first and foremost placing a basin and spoon handy for each of his visitors, not forgetting the dogs, and the former were surprised to see everything scrupulously clean. Seth retired for a few minutes with the deer, and in a surprisingly short time reappeared with a large wooden tray, containing evidently everything that would be required for the morning's meal, and old Seth had divested himself of his coat and skin cap, and now wore an immense leathern apron, with a clean linen cap, while his sleeves were rolled up above the elbows.

Our heroes lay on the grass talking and laughing and looking lazily on, but enjoying the sight nevertheless. It was evidently a curry on a grand scale that Seth was going to give them, and he soon had about a dozen sliced onions simmering in fat; when they were enough done the doe's flesh was added, and then Seth set about compounding his curry out of freshly-grated turmeric and many curious herbs. His pestle and mortar were rude but efficient. This was the longest part of the operation, and he had to pause often to take off the lid and stir up the flesh, and every time he did this the two dogs, who had sworn eternal friendship when first they met, must needs walk round to the lee side of the old trapper, and hold their heads high in the air to sniff the fragrant steam.

And now Seth added the goat's milk, then the curry, and lastly the flour; after this he left the mess to simmer while he busied himself in preparations for dishing up. Our heroes were intensely hungry, but they were also intensely happy, and when hunger and happiness both go together, it is a sure sign that a man is in health.

"Well, I do declare," said Ralph, passing his dish for the third if not the fourth time, "I don't think I ever enjoyed a breakfast more in my life."

"Nor I either; and fancy getting freshly-baked bread," said Allan.

"And the drink," said McBain, lifting a foaming mug to his lips, "what a glad surprise!"

Simple heather ale it was, reader, made from the heath-tops and sweetened with wild honey.

"And you tell us," said McBain, "that you've been alone in this forest for twelve long years?"

"Not alone," said Seth, pointing with his foot to the mastiff. "I had he, and his father and mother before him."

"And you're your own baker and brewer?"

"Blame me," replied Seth, "if I ain't my own everything, and bar a couple of journeys a year of a hundred odd miles to sell my furs, and buy powder and an old newspaper, I never sees a soul save the Yack Injuns. A little civilisation goes a long way with Seth."

"I dare say," says Rory, "you built your house yourself?"

"Shouldn't wonder if I did," said Seth. "And I cleared all the space you see around; I knocked the forest about a bit, I can tell you, gentlemen; the spruce pines that grow to the north and east of the wigwam are left on purpose for shelter, for in winter it does blow a bit here--ay, and snow a bit as well, and there is sometimes a week and more that old Seth can't put his nose over the threshold. And that's just the time, gentlemen, that I receives visitors, skiver 'em!"

"What, Indians?" asked Rory.

"Oh! no, sirree," said the Yankee trapper; "'tain't likely any Injun could live in a storm that Seth couldn't stand. No, b'ars, sir, b'ars."

"Ah! bears! yes, I see, and I suppose you give them a warm reception?"

Seth chuckled to himself as he replied, "Whatever I gives 'em, gentlemen, I serves it up hot. Then their skins come in handy for blankets and such, you see."

"And the Indians--when do they pay you a visit?"

"After the first fall of snow," said Seth--"soon as they can chivey along in their caribou sledges."

"It must be grand fun," said Allan, "that chiveying along, as you call it, in a caribou sledge."

"It is," said Seth, "when once you get used to it, and you have a deer you can trust. I remember the time when the Yacks knew nothing at all about training deer for the work. A party of Norwegians, in a tub of a walrus brig, got stranded round north here some years ago. Well, sir, the Injuns were going to kill every man Jack of them."

"Savage are they, then?" said McBain. "Not a bit of it!" replied Seth; "they were going to kill them for fun, that was all!"

"Troth?" says Rory, "they must have a drop of the rale ould Oirish blood in them, these same Yacks?"

"They ain't Yacks quite, though," says Seth, "though I calls 'em so; they ain't so indolent as a Yack; they are bigger, too, and a deal more treacherous."

"Did they kill the poor fellows?" asked McBain. "Not a bit of it!" Seth replied. "Nary a one o' them. Seth interceded. Though I say it," continued the trapper, "as mebbe shouldn't say it, and wouldn't say it if there was anybody else to say it for me, Seth had some little influence with these wily blueskins--it ain't red that they be, mind you, but blue. They'll never forget the first taste of my temper they had. Plunket's mother were livin' then, and a fine dog she was, and so was Plunket himself, although not much more'n a year old. The old lady was left to keep the house one day, and Plunket and I went to look for caribou. When we returns in the evening I could tell at a glance the Injuns had been on to us. Everything was upside down; everything was taken away they could carry, and poor Ino was lying wounded and bleeding in a corner; the scoundrels had tomahawked her. You should have seen the way Plunket set his back up and ran round and round the place. But his turn didn't come then for a bit. We just kept quiet for a few weeks, and nursed Ino back to life. We knew they'd return, and they