ed him till he began
to show signs of life again. But you may judge, mes garcons, of my
misery when I found that the coil of tobacco was gone. It had come off
his neck during his struggles, and there wasn't a vestige of it left,
except a bright red mark on the throat, where it had nearly strangled
him. When he began to recover, he put his hand up to his neck as if
feeling for something, and muttered faintly, `The tabac.' `Ah,
morbleu!' said I, `you may say that! Where is it?' Well, we soon
brought him round, but he had swallowed so much water that it damaged
his lungs, and we had to leave him at the next post we came to; and so I
lost my friend too."

"Did Francois get better?" said Charley Kennedy, in a voice of great
concern.

Charley had entered the store by another door, just as the guide began
his story, and had listened to it unobserved with breathless interest.

"Recover! Oh oui, monsieur, he soon got well again."

"Oh, I'm so glad," cried Charley.

"But I lost him for that voyage," added the guide; "and I lost my tabac
for ever!"

"You must take better care of it this time, Louis," said Peter
Mactavish, as he resumed his work.

"That I shall, monsieur," replied Louis, shouldering his goods and
quitting the store, while a short, slim, active little Canadian took his
place.

"Now then, Baptiste," said Mactavish, "you want a--"

"Blanket, monsieur."

"Good. And--"

"A capote, monsieur."

"And--"

"An axe--"

"Stop, stop!" shouted Harry Somerville from his desk. "Here's an entry
in Louis's account that I can't make out--30 something or other; what
can it have been?"

"How often," said Mactavish, going up to him with a look of
annoyance--"how often have I told you, Mr Somerville, not to leave an
entry half finished on any account!"

"I didn't know that I left it so," said Harry, twisting his features and
scratching his head in great perplexity. "What _can_ it have been? 30--
30--not blankets, eh?" (Harry was becoming banteringly bitter.) "He
couldn't have got thirty guns, could he? or thirty knives, or thirty
copper kettles?"

"Perhaps it was thirty pounds of tea," suggested Charley.

"No doubt it was thirty _pipes_," said Peter Mactavish.

"Oh, that was it!" cried Harry, "that was it! thirty pipes, to be sure.
What an ass I am!"

"And pray what is _that_?" said Mactavish, pointing sarcastically to an
entry in the previous account--"5 _yards of superfine Annette_? Really,
Mr