the new commander and
made acquaintance with Lieutenant Fitzhugh Beverley, who just then was
superintending the work of cleaning up an old cannon in the fort and
mending some breaks in the stockade.

Helm formed a great liking for the big Frenchman, whose breezy freedom
of manner and expansive good humor struck him favorably from the
beginning. M. Roussillon's ability to speak English with considerable
ease helped the friendship along, no doubt; at all events their first
interview ended with a hearty show of good fellowship, and as time
passed they became almost inseparable companions during M. Roussillon's
periods of rest from his trading excursions among the Indians. They
played cards and brewed hot drinks over which they told marvelous
stories, the latest one invariably surpassing all its predecessors.

Helm had an eye to business, and turned M. Roussillon's knowledge of
the Indians to valuable account, so that he soon had very pleasant
relations with most of the tribes within reach of his agents. This gave
a feeling of great security to the people of Vincennes. They pursued
their narrow agricultural activities with excellent results and
redoubled those social gayeties which, even in hut and cabin under all
the adverse conditions of extreme frontier life, were dear to the
volatile and genial French temperament.

Lieutenant Beverley found much to interest him in the quaint town; but
the piece de resistance was Oncle Jazon, who proved to be both
fascinating and unmanageable; a hard nut to crack, yet possessing a
kernel absolutely original in flavor. Beverley visited him one evening
in his hut--it might better be called den--a curiously built thing,
with walls of vertical poles set in a quadrangular trench dug in the
ground, and roofed with grass. Inside and out it was plastered with
clay, and the floor of dried mud was as smooth and hard as concrete
paving. In one end there was a wide fireplace grimy with soot, in the
other a mere peep-hole for a window: a wooden bench, a bed of skins and
two or three stools were barely visible in the gloom. In the doorway
Oncle Jazon sat whittling a slender billet of hickory into a ramrod for
his long flint-lock American rifle.

"Maybe ye know Simon Kenton," said the old man, after he and Beverley
had conversed for a while, "seeing that you are from Kentucky--eh?"

"Yes, I do know him well; he's a warm personal friend of mine," said
Beverley with quick interest, for it surprised