owever, before a "stick-kettle," the invariable tom-tom,
was produced, the ear-splitting chant raised, and a game of _met-o-wan_,
a sort of Cree equivalent for Billy-Billy-who's-got-the-button, started
on the shore.

The steersman, pausing only to put on a gold-embroidered waistcoat,
approached Garth with a disposition to be friendly--too friendly by
half, Garth thought. He was an undersized man of not more than thirty,
but already somewhat withered; a specimen of the unwholesome, weedy
breed of the settlements.

"Well, Charley," he said affably.

They shook hands with the touch of impressiveness that always marks this
ceremony in the North; and then Hooliam, with a shifty glance, extended
his hand to Garth. At the same time he said something in Cree.

"He says: 'You want to go up the lake,'" translated Charley.

"How does he know that?" asked Garth quickly.

Hooliam answered in Cree without waiting for Charley to translate.
Evidently, like most of the breeds, he understood more English than he
cared to confess.

"He says that Pierre Toma told him," said Charley.

"Ask him how it is he comes up with such a small load," suggested Garth.

Charley repeated the question in Cree. Hooliam's answer was prompt and
glib. "He says that the water was too low to bring a full load,"
translated Charley.

"Ask him when he means to go on," said Garth.

Hooliam gave a glance at the still tossing lake. "As soon as the wind
dies or changes. This wind would blow him right back on the shore," such
the gist of his answer by way of Charley.

"Tell him to let me know before he starts; and I'll tell him if we wish
to go along," said Garth coolly.

"I want to have a talk with you," he added in a lower tone for Charley's
benefit.

They sat down apart on the sand.

"What do you think of this outfit, Charley?" asked Garth.

The boy was surprised at the question. "Well," he said, "it does look
a bit queer, their coming all this way with half a load. But you never
can tell about these crazy niggers; they may have dumped out half their
stuff on the bank somewhere, and left it to rot. A French range for the
inspector has been lying on the point across the river for two months."

"Who is this Hooliam?" Garth asked.

"He boats back and forth pretty regular. He's a footless kind of
breed--but straight, as far as I know. What do you care?" the boy asked
curiously. "If he takes you on board, he's got to put you across."

Garth looked