George and Joe were telling amusing stories of their boyhood
experiences at Rupert's House, the pranks they played on their
teacher, their fights, football, and other games, and while they
talked I bestowed some special care upon my revolver. Job sat
smoking his pipe, listening with a merry light in his gleaming,
black eyes, and Gilbert lounged on the opposite side of the fire
with open-mouthed boyish attention.
The talk drifted to stories of the Indians, tributary to Rupert's
House, and the practical jokes perpetrated on them while camped
about the post to which they brought each spring from the far
interior their winter's catch of furs. There were stories of
Hannah Bay massacre, and the retribution which followed swift and
certain; and of their own trips inland, and the hospitality of the
Indians. The talk ended with an anxious "If it were only the
Hudson Bay Indians we were coming to, there would be no doubt about
the welcome we should get."
Turning to me, George remarked, "You are giving that revolver a
fine rubbing up to-night."
"Yes," I replied, laughing a little: "I am getting ready for the
Nascaupees."
"They would not shoot you," he said gravely.
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