nterlopers. One La Martiniere of the Company of the North had
sailed into the Bay with two ships laden with cargo from Quebec for the
fur trade; and the two Hudson's Bay traders had manipulated matters so
craftily that not an Indian could the French find. Not a pelt did La
Martiniere obtain. The French captain then inquired very particularly
for his compatriot--M. Radisson. M. Radisson was safe in England. One
can see old Sargeant's eyes twinkle beneath his shaggy brows. La
Martiniere swears softly; a price is on M. Radisson's head. The French
king had sent orders to M. de Denonville, the governor of New France, to
arrest Radisson and 'to pay fifty pistoles' to anyone who seized him.
Has His Excellency, M. Sargeant, seen one Jean Pere, or one M. Comporte?
No, M. Sargeant has seen neither 'Parry'--as his report has it--nor 'a
Comporte.'

La Martiniere sailed away, and old Sargeant sent his sentinel to the
crow's nest--a sort of loft or lighthouse built on a high hill behind
the fort--to hoist the signals for incoming boats and to run up the
flag. He had dispatched Sandford or 'Red Cap,' one of his men, a little
way up the Albany to bring him word of the coming of the Indian canoes;
but this was not Sandford coming back, and these were not Indian canoes
coming down the Albany river from the Up-Country. This was the long slow
dip of white voyageurs, not the quick choppy stroke of the Indian; and
before Sargeant could rub the amazement out of his eyes, three white
men, with a blanket for sail, came swirling down the current, beached
their canoe, and, doffing caps in a debonair manner, presented
themselves before the Hudson's Bay man dourly sitting on a cannon in the
gateway. The nonchalant gentleman who introduced the others was Jean
Pere, dressed as a wood-runner, voyaging and hunting in this
back-of-beyond for pleasure. A long way to come for pleasure, thought
Sargeant--all the leagues and leagues from French camps on Lake
Superior. But England and France were at peace. The gentlemen bore
passports. They were welcomed to a fort breakfast and passed pretty
compliments to Madame Sargeant, and asked blandly after M. Radisson's
health, and had the honour to express their most affectionate regard for
friend Jean Chouart. Now where might Jean Chouart be? Sargeant did not
satisfy their curiosity, nor did he urge them to stay overnight. They
sailed gaily on down-stream to hunt in the cedar swamps south of Albany.
That night while