isson's philosophy--we were back at the beach.

The Indians were not in such a state as I have seen after many a
trading bout. They were able to accompany us. In embarking, M.
Radisson must needs observe all the ceremony of two races. Such a
whiffing of pipes among the stately, half-drunk Indian chiefs you never
saw, with a pompous proffering of the stem to the four corners of the
compass, which they thought would propitiate the spirits. Jean blew a
blast on the trumpet. I waved the French flag. Godefroy beat a
rattling fusillade on the drum, grabbed up his bobbing tipstaff, led
the way; and down we filed to the canoes.

At all this ostentation I could not but smile; but no man ever had
greater need of pomp to hold his own against uneven odds than Radisson.

As we were leaving came a noise that set us all by the ears--the dull
booming reverberations of heavy cannonading.

The Indians shook as with palsy. Jean Groseillers cried out that his
father's ships were in peril. Godefroy implored the saints; but with
that lying facility which was his doom, M. de Radisson blandly informed
the savages that more of his vessels had arrived from France.

Bidding Jean go on to the Habitation with the Indians, he took the rest
of us ashore with one redskin as guide, to spy out the cause of the
firing.

"'Twill be a pretty to-do if the English Fur Company's ships arrive
before we have a French fort ready to welcome them," said he.

CHAPTER X

THE CAUSE OF THE FIRING

The landing was but a part of the labyrinthine trickery in which our
leader delighted to play; for while Jean delayed the natives we ran
overland through the woods, launched our canoe far ahead of the Indian
flotilla, and went racing forward to the throbs of the leaping river.

"If a man would win, he must run fast as the hour-glass," observed M.
Radisson, poising his steering-pole. "And now, my brave lads," he began,
counting in quick, sharp words that rang with command, "keep
time--one--two--three! One--two--three!" And to each word the paddles
dipped with the speed of a fly-wheel's spokes.

"One--two--three! In and up and on! An you keep yourselves in hand,
men, you can win against the devil's own artillery! Speed to your
strokes, Godefroy," he urged.

And the canoe answered as a fine-strung racer to the spur. Shore-lines
blurred to a green streak. The frosty air met our faces in wind.
Gurgling waters curled from the prow in corrugated