Chapter 3

But a great event was now absorbing the attention of all the faculty and students. His Excellency Lord Mortimer was to visit the city, and had expressed his wish to spend an hour or two at this famous college for boys, so with much delight at the compliment paid, the entire school began to make preparations. A handsome address was prepared, and a programme of sports--for the Governor dearly loved athletic boys. In fact gossip at the capital frequently stated that His Lordship would rather witness a good lacrosse match than eat a good dinner. Such a thing as voting as to who should represent the school and read the address was never even thought of. Hal Bennington was the head boy of the whole college, he was the most popular, the best beloved, he had not an enemy in all the scores of boys within its gates, so of course it was a foregone conclusion.

"I hate the idea of it," asserted Hal. "I hate these public show-offs, besides, I don't feel well. I wish they would make some other chap do it." But neither masters nor boys would take no for an answer. Then disaster threatened, for a week before the event Hal fell really ill; a slow fever seemed to grip him, and if Sir George and Lady Bennington had not been already on the sea on their homeward way, Professor Warwick would have felt very much like cabling them. Hal was utterly disgusted when it was mentioned to him. "Don't you think of it," he growled. "You've done as I wished about not telling them about that bally accident, and don't you hurry them home for me." So the boy was made to stay in bed, and, truth to tell, he was too ill to remonstrate much.

But the night before the viceregal visit Hal knew in his heart that he was too ill to go out and read the address. Late at night he sent for Professor Warwick, told him the truth, and asked him to get substitute.

"My boy, I am more distressed than I can say," began the Professor. "Your illness is worse than any upsetting of arrangements; we are getting a trained nurse for you, and I shall relieve your mind of all worries. We have hardly time now to consult everyone about a substitute, but if I tell the boys you have appointed a deputy, so to speak, I think they will be satisfied."

"Then let Shag Larocque take my place," decided Hal instantly.

"Very appropriate, too, I should say," replied the Professor spontaneously. "Lord Mortimer has seen Shag and knows him; very appropriate."

So Hal slept that night contentedly, with never a dream of the storm that would burst on the morrow.

The first indication of the tempest was when Locke burst into his room after breakfast, with, "Hal, you _must_ be sick! Why, man alive, you are clean batty! Shag read that address--why, it is impossible!"

"And why?" said Hal, glaring at him.

"He can't do it; we won't let him; we won't have that Indian heading the whole school!"

"Who won't?"

"We! we! we!--Do you hear it? _We_!" yelled Locke.

"You and Shorty and Simpson and about two others, I suppose," answered Hal. "Well, he's going to read it; now, get out and shut the door--I feel a draft."

"Well, he isn't going to read it!" thundered Locke, banging the door after himself as he stormed down the hall to the classrooms, where the boys were collecting to arrange details for the day. Hal shivered back into the bedclothes, listening anxiously to various footsteps trailing past. He could occasionally catch fragments of conversation; everyone seemed to be in a high state of excitement. He could hear his own name, then Shag's, then Shorty's, and sometimes Locke's.

"I've evidently kicked up a hornets' nest," he smiled weakly to himself, too tired and ill to care whether the hornets stung or not. Presently Locke returned. "I tell you, Hal, it won't do; that Indian isn't a fit representative of this college."

"The masters won't do a thing; you've got to appoint someone else. You're disgracing the college," said Shorty at the door. "We won't stand for it, Hal; this is no North-West Indian school. We won't have it, I tell you!"

"Shag's going to read that address!" said Hal, sitting up with an odd drawn but determined look around his mouth.

"Well, he isn't!" blurted Shorty. "There's a big meeting in the classroom, and there's a row on--the biggest row you ever saw."

"Shag Larocque read that address!" yelled Simpson from the hall; "not if I know it! He's not a decent sport, even--he won't resent an insult. I called him a Red River halfbreed and he never said a word--just swallowed it!"

"Shut that door!" shouted Hal, the color surging into his face, "and shut yourselves on the outside! Go to the classroom, insult him all you like, but you'll be sorry for it--take my word for it!"

Once more they banged the door. No sooner was it closed than Hal sprang out of bed. His legs shook with weakness, his hands trembled with illness, but he began to get into some clothes, and his young face flushed scarlet and white in turn.

Out in the classroom a perfect bedlam reigned. Dozens of voices shouted, "Shag's the man for us! Hurrah for Shag!" and dozens replied, "Who will join the anti-Indians? Who will vote for a white man to represent white men? This ain't an Indian school--get out with the Indians!"

Then Shorty took the floor. "Boys," he yelled, "we won't stand for it. No Indian's going to be head of this school, and Shag Larocque isn't even a decent Indian, he's a halfbreed, a French halfbreed, he's--"

The door burst open and Hal Bennington flung himself into the room; his trousers were dragged up over his nightshirt, his feet were in slippers without socks, his hair was unbrushed, his eyes were brilliant with fever, his face was pinched and grey; but his voice rang out powerfully, "Stop it, boys!" He had taken in the situation instantly--the crowd breaking from all rule, two masters endeavoring to restore order, and Shag, alone, terribly alone, his back to the wall, his face to the tumult, standing like a wild thing driven into a corner, but yet gloriously game. "Shorty, how dare you speak of Shag Larocque like that?" Hal cried furiously.

"And how dare you support him?" Shorty flung back. "How dare you ask us to have as our leader a halfbreed North-West Indian, who is the son of your father's cook?"

"Yes, he is the son of my father's cook, and if I ever get the chance I'll cook for him on my knees--cook for him and serve him; he saved my life and nearly lost his own--while you, Shorty, a far better swimmer, would have let me drown like a dog."

"He's nothing but a North-West halfbreed," sneered Shorty, hiding his cowardice behind ill words for others.

"So is my mother a North-West halfbreed, and she's the loveliest, the grandest woman in all Canada!" said Hal in a voice that rang clear, sharp, strong as a man's.

There was a dead silence. "Do you hear me, you fellows?" tormented Hal's even voice again, "you who have of your own free will placed me, a quarter blood, as the leading boy in this school, my mother is a halfbreed, if you wish to use that refined term, and my mother is proud of it. Her mother, my grandmother, wore a blanket and leggings and smoked a red stone pipe upon the Red River years ago, and I tell you my mother is proud of it, and so am I. I have never told you fellows this before--what was the use? I felt you would never understand, but you hear me now! Do you quite grasp what I am telling you--that _my mother is a halfbreed_?"

Shorty's hand went blindly to his head; he looked dazed, breathless. "Lady Bennington a halfbreed!" was all he said.

"Yes, Lady Bennington," said Hal. "And now will you let Shag read that address?" But Shag was at his elbow.

"Hal, Hal, oh, why did you tell them?" he cried.

Hal whirled about like one shot. "_Tell them_--what do you mean by tell _them_? Did you know this all along?"

"Yes," said Shag regretfully. "I always knew that Lady Bennington was half Indian, but I thought that you didn't, and I promised father that I should never tell when I came down East." But softly as he spoke, the boys near by heard him. "Do you mean to say," Locke, gripping Shag's shoulders in vice-like fingers, "that all this time we have been ragging you and running on you, that you knew Hal's mother was a half Indian and you never said a word?"

"Why should I?" asked Shag, raising his eyebrows.

"Boys," said Locke, facing the room like a man, "we've been--well, just cads. And right here I propose that Shag Larocque read the address to His Excellency to-day."

"And I second the motion," said Shorty--"second it heartily"; then he walked over to Shag.

"I'm not going to ask you to shake hands with me, Larocque," he said; "I've been too much of a cad for that. You must despise me too much to forgive me, despise me for my cowardice in not going with you to help Hal when he was drowning, despise me for my mean prejudices, despise me for--oh, pshaw! I ain't fit to even ask you to forgive me. I ain't fit to even offer you my hand."

"Hold on! hold on!" smiled Shag. "There is nothing to despise in a chap who is big enough to offer an apology. Here's my hand, Shorty. Will you take it at last?"

And Shorty took it.

A few hours later, just before Shag stepped out on the platform to read the address to His Excellency, he paid a flying visit to Hal, who, feeling much better, in fact quite on the mend, was sitting up in bed devouring toast and broth.

"Luck to you, old Shag," he said between mouthfuls.

"Oh, Hal, you've been all the world to me," was all he could reply.

"And you'll be all the world to my dad and mother when they hear what you have done, fishing me out of the drink and saving my life." But Shorty shouting up the hall interrupted them.

"Come on, Shag," he called; then, as he appeared in the doorway, he said bravely, "I haven't been so happy for years; I've been a sneak and now that I say it I feel better. Shag, there isn't a boy living who I consider better fitted to represent this school than you. Do you believe me?"

"I do believe you, and I thank you, Shorty, old chap," said Shag happily, and linking arms they left Hal's room together, for cheers outside were announcing the approach of Lord Mortimer--and the feud was ended forever.

The King's Coin

I

Because the doctor had forbidden Jack Cornwall to read a single line except by daylight, the boy was spending a series of most miserable evenings. No books, no stories, no studies, for a severe cold had left him with an inflammation of the eyes; and, just as he was careering with all sorts of honors through the high school, he was ordered by the great oculist to drop everything, leave school, and--"loaf."

Young Cornwall hated "loafing." His brain and body loved activity. He would far sooner have taken a sound flogging than all the idle hours that had been forced on him to endure. To-night, particularly, time hung very heavy on his hands. He sat for a full hour, his eyes shaded from the lamp, his hands locked round his knee, doing nothing, and finding it most difficult. His father read the newspaper, his mother mended stockings, his little brother pored frowningly over his algebra. Presently Jack's nerves seemed to break. He sprang up impetuously, then, controlling himself, sat down again, and said: "Oh, it is brutal, this sitting around! I don't believe I can stand it much longer. I wish I were out in the wilds, or on the sea, or somewhere where I could work with my hands, if I mustn't use my eyes."

His mother looked up, saying, sympathetically, that it _was_ hard. His father put down the paper, looked at him quizzically for a moment, then, extracting a letter from his pocket, and laying it on the table, said:

"John, did you ever know that your father was a stupid old numskull? Here's news that I have had for three days, and I never thought of you in connection with it. Here's the chance of your life--the very thing you want--a letter from your Uncle Matt. He's going up North, to the end of civilization. Started at his old business of fur-trading again. He says here"--and Mr. Cornwall referred to the letter, reading--"'But there's something else taking me north besides otter and mink skins. I'll tell it to you when I return, but just now the secret must be mine alone. I only wish I had some decent chap to go with me; but in this chasing-for-the-dollar age, no one seems to be able to leave their miserable little shops for mere adventures into the wilds. I suppose I'll have to hunt up some strapping boy as a partner, but the trouble is to get one who is strong enough to work and starve alternately; one who will sleep in the open, live on rabbits and beans, let his clothes dry on him when they get wet, and who will keep his mouth shut and his ears open. They aren't making young men like that now, I'm afraid.'"

"Yes, they are, father! Yes, they are!" cried Jack, springing to his feet, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Do you think Uncle Matt will take me?"

His father measured him carefully with a very keen eye. "You certainly have great shoulders, my son. Why, I never really noticed them before. You're built like an ox! How old are you?"

"Seventeen next month, and I'm not only built like an ox, I'm as strong as one, and--I think I can keep my mouth shut and my ears open."

"Yes, you can do that if you are your mother's son," said his father, glancing slyly at his mother. Then they all laughed, for Mrs. Cornwall was renowned among her relatives as a silent little woman, who heard everything but who repeated nothing.

That night a telegram was sent to Uncle Matt, and, late the following day, came the reply:

"Sure! Will take Jack gladly. Expect me Saturday. Be ready to start Tuesday. MATT."

When Matt Larson arrived he was not at all what Jack expected he would be. In the first place, he was not like one's uncle. Jack had forgotten that his mother had frequently told him that her little brother Matt was only six years old when she was married, and had acted "page" at the wedding. So to-day Matt, who was only twenty-five, looked more like a big brother than an uncle. His eyes, however, were as shrewd as those of a man of forty, and already a fine dusting of grey hairs swept away from each temple. His skin was swarthy from many winds and suns, his nose determined, and his mouth as kind and sweet as Jack's own mother's, but his hands and shoulders were what spoke of his pioneer life. There was something about those strong, clean fingers, those upright shoulders, that made Jack love him at sight.

Matt Larson never dressed like anyone else. Years of exploring the wilds had got him so accustomed to heavy boots and leather knee gaiters, that he never seemed to be able to discard them when he touched town life, which, truth to tell, was as seldom as possible. His suit of heavy, rough tweeds, blue flannel shirt and flowing black silk handkerchief for a tie, never seemed to leave his back, and no one recollected having ever seen him wear a hat. A small, checked cloth cap, flung on the very back of his head, was his only head covering, rain or shine.

"No, don't call me 'uncle,'" he laughed, as Jack greeted him with the respect the relationship demanded. "You and I are just going to be pals. All hands up north call me Larry--I suppose it's short for Larson--so it's Larry to you, isn't it, old man?"

"Yes, Larry," replied Jack, with all his heart warming to this extraordinarily handsome, genial relative, "and I think we will be pals, all right," he continued.

"No 'think' about it; it's a dead sure fact!" asserted Matt Larson, gripping Jack's hand with those splendid, sturdy fingers of his. Then, turning abruptly to his dunnage bags, gun cases, and the general duffle of the "up-norther," he extracted therefrom a most suspiciously-shaped russet leather case, and handing it to Jack, said: "That's yours, boy, never to be used except in emergency, but always to be kept in the pink of condition, ready for instant action."

Jack's poor, weak eyes fairly danced; it was a beautiful new revolver.

"But, unc--I mean, Larry--why do we take revolvers on a fur-trading expedition?" he asked.

Matt Larson shot a swift glance at him, answering quietly, "There are other things up north besides furs."

"Do you mean desperadoes?" questioned Jack.

"Well," hesitated his uncle, "perhaps I do; perhaps I mean other things, too." And that was all Jack could get him to say on the subject. But the boy was very proud of his "gun," and a little curious as to just why his uncle had given it to him, so that night, when they were alone a moment, he said: "Larry, that shooter is--bully! It's great to have it. I'd rather have it at my hip than be in a position sometime to wish I had it."

"I was there once, and not so very long ago, my boy," said Matt Larson, with a quick frown. Then, half to himself, "But the man in the mackinaw* will never catch me unarmed again."

[*A mackinaw is a short, rough coat of material much like a grey horse blanket. It is worn by most lumberjacks, explorers, miners and woodsmen in the regions north of the great Canadian lakes.]

"The man in the mackinaw, eh?" echoed Jack, lifting his eyebrows meaningly.

"Oh, ho, youngster! You're the boy for me!" grinned his uncle. "You're sharp! You've caught on, all right. Yes; he's the man you've got to keep your eyes in the back of your head to watch for. He's a bad lot. He may bother us. Now, are you afraid to tackle the wilderness, since you know there is menace--perhaps danger?"

"I'm not afraid of anything with you, Matt Larson," said the boy, gravely, looking the other directly in the eyes.

"But suppose we should get separated, by some unlucky chance, what then?" asked the man.

"I don't think I would be afraid--I _shall not_ be afraid, even then," Jack answered.

"That's the way to talk! Now I know you are game," said Larson, seizing the boy by the shoulders and peering into his eyes. Then they shook hands silently, but it was an unspoken pledge nevertheless.

"The man in the mackinaw," repeated Jack, slowly, as their hands gripped. Then his eyes narrowed down to little slits of light. "I think, Larry, I should know him by instinct."

"You're a wolf on two legs, boy!" replied Larry, with delight. "You have the intuition of the wiser animals. Why have I never really known you before? Why have I not had you?"

"You've got me now, anyway, and you are going to keep me, Larry," said the boy. Then they said good-night with a bond of manly friendship between them that was destined to last throughout their lives.

* * * * * * * *

They left the luxurious sleeping-car of the great Canadian Pacific Railway, at a little settlement on the north shore of Lake Superior. There were but three buildings in the place, all of logs: the railway station, the Hudson's Bay Company's trading post, and "French" Pierre's "bunk and eating-house." The northern forest closed in on all sides, and the little settlement in all amounted to nothing more than a clearing.

The instant they stepped from the car, Matt Larson's eyes swept the platform, alighting with a pleased expression on the figure of a wiry, alert-looking boy of perhaps eighteen, who stepped forward silently, quickly, and laid his hand in Larson's, outstretched to greet him. The boy was Indian through and through, with a fine, thin, copper-colored face, and eyes of very rare beauty. The instant Jack Cornwall saw those eyes, he knew that they could see almost unseeable things. But Matt Larson was introducing them. "Fox-Foot," he said, turning to the Indian, "here is Jack, my own sister's son. He has my confidence. He will know all that I know. You may trust him with _everything_. Jack, old man, this Chippewa boy, Fox-Foot, is my friend and our guide. His canoe is ours for weeks ahead. He knows what I know. You may trust him with _everything_. Shake hands."

But the two boys were already shaking hands, friends at once because of their friendship for Matt Larson. Then came the packing of duffle and dunnage bags into the narrow bark canoe beached on the river bank, fifty yards away. A last look at the outfit, to see if there were sufficient matches and other prime necessities, then they were off--off on that strange quest Jack knew so little of. His alert senses had long ago grasped the fact that furs alone were not taking them north, that something unspoken of was the real cause of this expedition; but he was content to wait until the time came when he should be told. His handsome young uncle knelt at the bow thwart, the silent Chippewa boy at the stern. The canoe shot forth like a slender arrow, and the wilderness closed in about them Just as they rounded the bend of the river which was to shut the settlement from sight, Matt Larson turned his head several times quickly, looking behind them with something of the lightning movement and sharp rapidity of a wild animal. It struck Jack as an odd action, betraying suspicion--suspicion perhaps that they might be followed. That night wisdom came to him. The day had been a heavy one, paddling upstream against a cruel current; and, after they had pitched camp for the night at the foot of an exquisite cascade of water called the Red Rock Falls, and eaten a tremendous supper, Jack strolled to the water's margin to see that the canoe was properly beached high and safe. On the opposite side of the river a slim shadow slipped along--a canoe that contained a single man, who wore a rough coat of indefinite greyish plaid. Jack crept noiselessly up the river bank. "Larry, Fox-Foot," he said in a hoarse, low whisper, "look, look across the river! A canoe, with a man in it--a man in a mackinaw!"

II

Matt Larson sprang to his feet, spitting out a strange foreign word that boded no good to the intruder. His hand leaped to his revolver instantly. Then he swung around to look at Fox-Foot, but the boy had disappeared for a moment. The two stood silent, then Jack's quick eye caught sight of the Chippewa many yards distant crawling on his belly like a snake, in and out among the blueberry bushes upstream. "Foxy's gone for all night; we'll never see him until daylight. He'll watch that canoe like a lynx. He's worth his weight in gold," murmured Matt Larson. Then he added, addressing Jack, "I thought I brought you out here because your eyes were gone smash! Why, boy, you have an eye like a vulture, to make out that canoe and that coat in this twilight."

Jack fairly beamed with pride at this praise. "Larry," he said, "I believe I saw that canoe as much with my brain as with my eyes; besides, my eyes don't hurt unless I strain them."

"Your eyes are bully; we'll take care of them, and of you, too, Jack. You are--yes, invaluable. Well, somebody has got to sleep to-night to be fit to work up-stream to-morrow, so, Jack, you and I shall be the somebodies, for Foxy will never close an eye to-night. We're safe as a church with that boy a-watch. You must paddle all to-morrow, son, while Foxy sleeps amidships."

"I guess I'm good for it. Feel that forearm," answered Jack.

Larry ran his fingers down the tense muscles, then up to the manly shoulder-blades. "Why, boy, you are built like an ox!" he exclaimed.

"Just father's expression!" smiled Jack.

"Well, to bed and sleep now! If you hear any creeping noise in the night it will be Foxy. He'll never let another living soul near us while we sleep," said Larry, as he prepared for his blanket bed.

"What are you thinking of, boy?" he added, curiously.

"I am wondering if by any chance I could possibly be right," replied Jack. "Tell me, Larry, did that man out there, the man in the mackinaw, have anything to do with causing those grey hairs above your ears--did he?"

"You _certainly_ have the intuition of an animal," was the reply. "Jack, I love you, old pal; you're white and sharp and clean right through! Yes, he 'powder-puffed' my hair. I'll tell you about it some day. Not to-night. You must sleep to-night, and remember, 'all's well' as long as Foxy's at the helm."