ond hearing he burst out:

"Dick, did you notice the Chippewa?"

"No. What?"

"He understands English."

"How do you know?"

"He was right behind us when you told me you were goin' to try the
fishing, and he moved out th' way before we'd raised our paddles."

"Might have been an accident."

"Perhaps, but I don't believe it. He looked too almighty innocent.
Another thing, did you notice he was alone in his canoe?"

"What of it?"

"Shows he ain't noways popular with th' rest. Generally they pair off.
There's mostly something shady about these renegades."

"Well?"

"Oh, nothing. Only we got to be careful."

CHAPTER SIX

Camp was made among the trees of an elevated bank above a small brook.

Already the Indian women had pitched the shelters, spreading squares of
canvas, strips of birch-bark or tanned skins over roughly improvised
lean-to poles. A half dozen tiny fires, too, they had built, over which
some were at the moment engaged in hanging as many kettles. Several of
the younger women were cleaning fish and threading them on switches.
Others brought in the small twigs for fuel. Among them could be seen
May-may-gwan, the young Ojibway girl, gliding here and there, eyes
downcast, inexpressibly graceful in contrast with the Crees.

At once on landing the men took up their share of the work. Like the
birds of the air and the beasts of the wood their first thoughts turned
to the assurance of food. Two young fellows stretched a gill-net across
the mouth of the creek. Others scattered in search of favourable spots
in which to set the musk-rat traps, to hang snares for rabbits and
grouse.

Soon the camp took on the air of age, of long establishment, that is so
suddenly to be won in the forest. The kettles began to bubble; the
impaled fish to turn brown. A delicious odour of open-air cooking
permeated the air. Men filled pipes and smoked in contemplation;
children warmed themselves as near the tiny fires as they dared. Out of
the dense blackness of the forest from time to time staggered what at
first looked to be an uncouth and misshapen monster, but which presently
resolved itself into an Indian leaning under a burden of spruce-boughs,
so smoothly laid along the haft of a long forked stick that the bearer
of the burden could sling it across his shoulder like a bale of hay. As
he threw it to the ground, a delicate spice-like aroma disengaged itself
to mingle with the smell of cooking. Just at the edge