“There’s his sister Kate, now,” continued the old gentleman; “she’s as gentle and biddable as a lamb. I’ve only to say a word, and she’s off like a shot to do my bidding; and she does it with such a sweet smile too.” There was a touch of pathos in the old trader’s voice as he said this. He was a man of strong feeling, and as impulsive in his tenderness as in his wrath. “But that rascal Charley,” he continued, “is quite different. He’s obstinate as a mule. To be sure, he has a good temper; and I must say for him he never goes into the sulks, which is a comfort, for of all things in the world sulking is the most childish and contemptible. He generally does what I bid him, too. But he’s always getting into scrapes of one kind or other. And during the last week, notwithstanding all I can say to him, he won’t admit that the best thing for him is to get a place in your counting-room, with the prospect of rapid promotion in the service. Very odd. I can’t understand it at all;” and Mr Kennedy heaved a deep sigh.

  “Did you ever explain to him the prospects that he would have in the situation you propose for him?” inquired Mr Grant.

  “Can’t say I ever did.”

  “Did you ever point out the probable end of a life spent in the woods?”

  “No.”

  “Nor suggest to him that the appointment to the office here would only be temporary, and to see how he got on in it?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then, my dear sir, I’m not surprised that Charley rebels. You have left him to suppose that, once placed at the desk here, he is a prisoner for life. But see, there he is,” said Mr Grant, pointing as he spoke towards the subject of their conversation, who was passing the window at the moment; “let me call him, and I feel certain that he will listen to reason in a few minutes.”

  “Humph!” ejaculated Mr Kennedy, “you may try.”

  In another minute Charley had been summoned, and was seated, cap in hand, near the door.

  “Charley, my boy,” began Mr Grant, standing with his back to the fire, his feet pretty wide apart, and his coat-tails under his arms— “Charley, my boy, your father has just been speaking of you. He is very anxious that you should enter the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company; and as you are a clever boy and a good penman, we think that you would be likely to get on if placed for a year or so in our office here. I need scarcely point out to you, my boy, that in such a position you would be sure to obtain more rapid promotion than if you were placed in one of the distant outposts, where you would have very little to do, and perhaps little to eat, and no one to converse with except one or two men. Of course, we would merely place you here on trial, to see how you suited us; and if you prove steady and diligent, there is no saying how fast you might get on. Why, you might even come to fill my place in course of time. Come now, Charley, what think you of it?”

  Charley’s eyes had been cast on the ground while Mr Grant was speaking. He now raised them, looked at his father, then at his interrogator, and said —

  “It is very kind of you both to be so anxious about my prospects. I thank you, indeed, very much; but I — a—”

  “Don’t like the desk?” said his father, in an angry tone. “Is that it, eh?”

  Charley made no reply, but cast down his eyes again and smiled (Charley had a sweet smile, a peculiarly sweet, candid smile), as if he meant to say that his father had hit the nail quite on the top of the head that time, and no mistake.

  “But consider,” resumed Mr Grant, “although you might probably be pleased with an outpost life at first, you would be sure to grow weary of it after the novelty wore off, and then you would wish with all your heart to be back here again. Believe me, child, a trader’s life is a very hard and not often a very satisfactory one—”

  “Ay,” broke in the father, desirous, if possible, to help the argument, “and you’ll find it a desperately wild, unsettled, roving sort of life, too, let me tell you! full of dangers both from wild beasts and wild men—”

  “Hush!” interrupted Mr Grant, observing that the boy’s eye kindled when his father spoke of a wild, roving life and wild beasts.— “Your father does not mean that life at an outpost is wild and interesting or exciting. He merely means that — a — it—”

  Mr Grant could not very well explain what it was that Mr Kennedy meant if he did not mean that, so he turned to him for help.

  “Exactly so,” said that gentleman, taking a strong pull at the pipe for inspiration. “It’s no ways interesting or exciting at all. It’s slow, dull, and flat; a miserable sort of Robinson Crusoe life, with red Indians and starvation constantly staring you in the face—”

  “Besides,” said Mr Grant, again interrupting the somewhat unfortunate efforts of his friend, who seemed to have a happy facility in sending a brilliant dash of romantic allusion across the dark side of his picture— “besides, you’ll not have opportunity to amuse yourself, or to read, as you’ll have no books, and you’ll have to work hard with your hands oftentimes, like your men—”

  “In fact,” broke in the impatient father, resolved, apparently, to carry the point with a grand coup— “in fact, you’ll have to rough it, as I did, when I went up the Mackenzie River district, where I was sent to establish a new post, and had to travel for weeks and weeks through a wild country, where none of us had ever been before; where we shot our own meat, caught our own fish, and built our own house — and were very near being murdered by the Indians; though, to be sure, afterwards they became the most civil fellows in the country, and brought us plenty of skins. Ay, lad, you’ll repent of your obstinacy when you come to have to hunt your own dinner, as I’ve done many a day up the Saskatchewan, where I’ve had to fight with red-skins and grizzly bears, and to chase the buffaloes over miles and miles of prairie on rough-going nags till my bones ached and I scarce knew whether I sat on—”

  “Oh” exclaimed Charley, starting to his feet, while his eyes flashed and his chest heaved with emotion, “that’s the place for me, father! — Do, please, Mr Grant, send me there, and I’ll work for you with all my might!”

  Frank Kennedy was not a man to stand this unexpected miscarriage of his eloquence with equanimity. His first action was to throw his pipe at the head of his enthusiastic boy; without worse effect, however, than smashing it to atoms on the opposite wall. He then started up and rushed towards his son, who, being near the door, retreated precipitately and vanished.

  “So,” said Mr Grant, not very sure whether to laugh or be angry at the result of their united efforts, “you’ve settled the question now, at all events.”

  Frank Kennedy said nothing, but filled another pipe, sat doggedly down in front of the fire, and speedily enveloped himself, and his friend, and all that the room contained, in thick, impenetrable clouds of smoke.

  Meanwhile his worthy son rushed off in a state of great glee. He had often heard the voyageurs of Red River dilate on the delights of roughing it in the woods, and his heart had bounded as they spoke of dangers encountered and overcome among the rapids of the Far North, or with the bears and bison-bulls of the prairie, but never till now had he heard his father corroborate their testimony by a recital of his own actual experience; and although the old gentleman’s intention was undoubtedly to damp the boy’s spirit, his eloquence had exactly the opposite effect — so that it was with a hop and a shout that he burst into the counting-room, with the occupants of which Charley was a special favourite.

  Chapter Three.

  The counting-room.

  Every one knows the general appearance of a counting-room. There are one or two peculiar features about such apartments that are quite unmistakable and very characteristic; and the counting-room at Fort Garry, although many hundred miles distant from other specimens of its race, and, from the peculiar circumstances of its position, not therefore likely to bear them much resemblance, possessed one or two features of similarity, in the shape of two large desks and several very tall stools, besides sundry ink-bottles, rulers, books, and sheets of blotting-paper. But there were other implements there, savouring strongly of the backwoods and savage life, which merit more particular notice.

  The room itself was small, and lighted by two little windows, which opened into the courtyard. The entire apartment was made of wood. The floor was of unpainted fir boards. The walls were of the same material, painted blue from the floor upwards to about three feet, where the blue was unceremoniously stopped short by a stripe of bright red, above which the somewhat fanciful decorator had laid on a coat of pale yellow; and the ceiling, by way of variety, was of a deep ochre. As the occupants of Red River office were, however, addicted to the use of tobacco and tallow candies, the original colour of the ceiling had vanished entirely, and that of the walls had considerably changed.

  There were three doors in the room (besides the door of entrance), each opening into another apartment, where the three clerks were wont to court the favour of Morpheus after the labours of the day. No carpets graced the floors of any of these rooms, and with the exception of the paint aforementioned, no ornament whatever broke the pleasing uniformity of the scene. This was compensated, however, to some extent by several scarlet sashes, bright-coloured shot-belts, and gay portions of winter costume, peculiar to the country, which depended from sundry nails in the bedroom walls; and as the three doors always stood open, these objects, together with one or two fowling-pieces and canoe-paddles, formed quite a brilliant and highly suggestive background to the otherwise sombre picture. A large open fireplace stood in one corner of the room, devoid of a grate, and so constructed that large logs of wood might be piled up on end to any extent. And really the fires made in this manner, and in this individual fireplace, were exquisite beyond description. A wood-fire is a particularly cheerful thing. Those who have never seen one can form but a faint idea of its splendour; especially on a sharp winter night in the arctic regions, where the thermometer falls to forty degrees below zero, without inducing the inhabitants to suppose that the world has reached its conclusion. The billets are usually piled up on end, so that the flames rise and twine round them with a fierce intensity that causes them to crack and sputter cheerfully, sending innumerable sparks of fire into the room, and throwing out a rich glow of brilliant light that warms a man even to look at it, and renders candles quite unnecessary.

  The clerks who inhabited this counting-room were, like itself, peculiar. There were three — corresponding to the bedrooms. The senior was a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man — a Scotchman — very good-humoured, yet a man whose under-lip met the upper with that peculiar degree of precision that indicated the presence of other qualities besides that of good-humour. He was book-keeper and accountant, and managed the affairs entrusted to his care with the same dogged perseverance with which he would have led an expedition of discovery to the North Pole. He was thirty or thereabouts.

  The second was a small man — also a Scotchman. It is curious to note how numerous Scotchmen are in the wilds of North America. This specimen was diminutive and sharp. Moreover, he played the flute — an accomplishment of which he was so proud that he ordered out from England a flute of ebony, so elaborately enriched with silver keys that one’s fingers ached to behold it. This beautiful instrument, like most other instruments of a delicate nature, found the climate too much for its constitution, and, soon after the winter began, split from top to bottom. Peter Mactavish, however, was a genius by nature, and a mechanical genius by tendency; so that, instead of giving way to despair, he laboriously bound the flute together with waxed thread, which, although it could not restore it to its pristine elegance, enabled him to play with great effect sundry doleful airs, whose influence, when performed at night, usually sent his companions to sleep, or, failing this, drove them to distraction.

  The third inhabitant of the office was a ruddy, smooth-chinned youth of about fourteen, who had left home seven months before, in the hope of gratifying a desire to lead a wild life, which he had entertained ever since he read “Jack the Giant Killer,” and found himself most unexpectedly fastened, during the greater part of each day, to a stool. His name was Harry Somerville, and a fine, cheerful little fellow he was, full of spirits, and curiously addicted to poking and arranging the fire at least every ten minutes — a propensity which tested the forbearance of the senior clerk rather severely, and would have surprised any one not aware of poor Harry’s incurable antipathy to the desk, and the yearning desire with which he longed for physical action.

  Harry was busily engaged with the refractory fire when Charley, as stated at the conclusion of the last chapter, burst into the room.

  “Hollo!” he exclaimed, suspending his operations for a moment, “what’s up?”

  “Nothing,” said Charley, “but father’s temper, that’s all. He gave me a splendid description of his life in the woods, and then threw his pipe at me because I admired it too much.”

  “Ho!” exclaimed Harry, making a vigorous thrust at the fire, “then you’ve no chance now.”

  “No chance! what do you mean?”

  “Only that we are to have a wolf-hunt in the plains tomorrow; and if you’ve aggravated your father, he’ll be taking you home to-night, that’s all.”

  “Oh! no fear of that,” said Charley, with a look that seemed to imply that there was very great fear of “that,” — much more, in fact, than he was willing to admit even to himself. “My dear old father never keeps his anger long. I’m sure that he’ll be all right again in half an hour.”

  “Hope so, but doubt it I do,” said Harry, making another deadly poke at the fire, and returning, with a deep sigh, to his stool.

  “Would you like to go with us, Charley?” said the senior clerk, laying down his pen and turning round on his chair (the senior clerk never sat on a stool) with a benign smile.

  “Oh, very, very much indeed,” cried Charley; “but even should father agree to stay all night at the fort, I have no horse, and I’m sure he would not let me have the mare after what I did to-day.”

  “Do you think he’s not open to persuasion?” said the senior clerk.

  “No, I’m sure he’s not.”

  “Well, well, it don’t much signify; perhaps we can mount you.” (Charley’s face brightened.) “Go,” he continued, addressing Harry Somerville— “go, tell Tom Whyte I wish to speak to him.”

  Harry sprang from his stool with a suddenness and vigour that might have justified the belief that he had been fixed to it by means of a powerful spring, which had been set free with a sharp recoil, and shot him out at the door, for he disappeared in a trice. In a few minutes he returned, followed by the groom Tom Whyte.

  “Tom,” said the senior clerk, “do you think we could manage to mount Charley to-morrow?”

  “Why, sir, I don’t think as how we could. There ain’t an ‘oss in the stable except them wot’s required and them wot’s badly.”

  “Couldn’t he have the brown pony?” suggested the senior clerk.

  Tom Whyte was a cockney and an old soldier, and stood so bolt upright that it seemed quite a marvel how the words ever managed to climb up the steep ascent of his throat, and turn the corner so as to get out at his mouth. Perhaps this was the cause of his speaking on all occasions with great deliberation and slowness.

  “Why, you see, sir,” he replied, “the brown pony’s got cut under the fetlock of the right hind leg; and I ‘ad ‘im down to L’Esperance the smith’s, sir, to look at ‘im, sir; and he says to me, says he, ‘That don’t look well, that ‘oss don’t,’ — and he’s a knowing feller, sir, is L’Esperance, though he is an ‘alf-breed—”

  “Never mind what he said, Tom,” interrupted the senior clerk; “is the pony fit for use? that’s the question.”

  “No, sir, ‘e hain’t.”

  “And the black mare, can he not have that?”

  “No, sir; Mr Grant is to ride ‘er to-morrow.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said the senior clerk.— “I fear, Charley, that you’ll need to ride behind Harry on his gray pony. It wouldn’t improve his speed, to be sure, having two on his back; but then he’s so like a pig in his movements at any rate, I don’t think it would spoil his pace much.”

  “Could he not try the new horse?” he continued, turning to the groom.

  “The noo ‘oss, sir! he might as well try to ride a mad buffalo bull, sir. He’s quite a young colt, sir, only ‘alf broke — kicks like a windmill, sir, and’s got an ‘ead like a steam-engine; ‘e couldn’t ‘old ‘im in no’ow, sir. I ‘ad ‘im down to the smith t’other day, sir, an’ says ‘e to me, says ‘e, ‘That’s a screamer, that is.’ ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘that his a fact.’ ‘Well,’ says ‘e—”

  “Hang the smith!” cried the senior clerk, losing all patience; “can’t you answer me without so much talk? Is the horse too wild to ride?”

  “Yes, sir, ‘e is,” said the groom, with a look of slightly offended dignity, and drawing himself up — if we may use such an expression to one who was always drawn up to such an extent that he seemed to be just balanced on his heels, and required only a gentle push to lay him flat on his back.

  “Oh, I have it!” cried Peter Mactavish, who had been standing during the conversation with his back to the fire, and a short pipe in his mouth: “John Fowler, the miller, has just purchased a new pony. I’m told it’s an old buffalo-runner, and I’m certain he would lend it to Charley at once.”

  “The very thing,” said the senior clerk.— “Run, Tom; give the miller my compliments, and beg the loan of his horse for Charley Kennedy. — I think he knows you, Charley?”

  The dinner-bell rang as the groom departed, and the clerks prepared for their mid-day meal.

  The senior clerk’s order to “run” was a mere form of speech, intended to indicate that haste was desirable. No man imagined for a moment that Tom Whyte could by any possibility run. He hadn’t run since he was dismissed from the army, twenty years before, for incurable drunkenness; and most of Tom’s friends entertained the belief that if he ever attempted to run he would crack all over, and go to pieces like a disentombed Egyptian mummy. Tom therefore walked off to the row of buildings inhabited by the men, where he sat down on a bench in front of his bed, and proceeded leisurely to fill his pipe.