“Very true,” interrupted Hamilton. “Then there’s your friend Charles Kennedy, whom you so often talk about, and many other young fellows we know, who have been sent to the Saskatchewan, and to the Columbia, and to Athabasca, and to a host of other capital places, where they have enough of society—male society, at least—and good sport.”
The young men had climbed a rocky eminence which commanded a view of the lake on the one side, and the fort, with its background of woods, on the other. Here they sat down on a stone, and continued for some time to admire the scene in silence.
“Yes,” said Harry, resuming the thread of discourse, “you are right: we have a good chance of seeing some pleasant parts of the country. But suspense is not pleasant. O man, if they would only send me up the Saskatchewan River! I’ve set my heart upon going there. I’m quite sure it’s the very best place in the whole country.”
“You’ve told the truth that time, master,” said a deep voice behind them.
The young men turned quickly round. Close beside them, and leaning composedly on a long Indian fowling-piece, stood a tall, broad-shouldered, sun-burned man, apparently about forty years of age. He was dressed in the usual leathern hunting-coat, cloth leggings, fur cap, mittens, and moccasins that constitute the winter garb of a hunter; and had a grave, firm, but good-humoured expression of countenance.
“You’ve told the truth that time, master,” he repeated, without moving from his place. “The Saskatchewan _is_, to my mind, the best place in the whole country; and havin’ seen a considerable deal o’ places in my time, I can speak from experience.”
“Indeed, friend,” said Harry, “I’m glad to hear you say so. Come, sit down beside us, and let’s hear something about it.”
Thus invited, the hunter seated himself on a stone and laid his gun on the hollow of his left arm.
“First of all, friend,” continued Harry, “do you belong to the fort here?”
“No,” replied the man, “I’m staying here just now, but I don’t belong to the place.”
“Where do you come from then, and what’s your name?”
“Why, I’ve comed d’rect from the Saskatchewan with a packet o’ letters. I’m payin’ a visit to the missionary village yonder”—the hunter pointed as he spoke across the lake—“and when the ice breaks up I shall get a canoe and return again.”