ttle."

"Yesh, Rufush," and he came to me as if I were his only friend on earth.

"The bottle will go through the window and it won't go through the
mirror," I began.

"Dammie--I knew that," he snapped out, ready to weep.

"Well--you undo these things," nodding to the ropes about my arms, "and
I'll find out which opens, and the one that opens is the window, and you
can throw out the bottle."

"The very thing, Rufush, wise--sh--head--old--old--ol' solemncholy," and
he ripped the ropes off me.

Now I offer no excuse for what I did. I could have opened that window
and let myself out some distance ahead of the bottle, without involving
Louis and his gang in greater mischief. What I did was not out of spite
to the governor of a rival company; but mischief, as I said, was in the
very air. Besides, the knaves had delayed me far into midnight, and I
had no scruples about giving each twenty-four hours in the fort
guardroom. I took a precautionary inspection of the window-sash. Yes, I
was sure I could leap through, carrying out sash and all.

"Hurry--ol' tombshtone--governor--sh-comin'," urged Louis.

I made towards the window and fumbled at the sash.

"This doesn't open," said I, which was quite true, for I did not try to
budge it. Then I went across to the mirror. "Neither does this," said I.

"Wha'--wha'--'ll--we do--Rufush?"

"I'll tell you. You can jump through a window but not through a glass.
Now you count--one two--three,"--this to the red-faced man--"and when
you say 'three' I'll give a run and jump. If I fall back, you'll know
it's the mirror, and fling the bottle quick through the other. Ready,
count!"

"One," said the red-faced man.

Louis raised his arm and I prepared for a dash.

"Two!"

Louis brought back his arm to gain stronger sweep.

"Three!"

I gave a leap and made as though I had fallen back. There was the
pistol-shot splintering of bottle and mirror crashing down to the floor.
The window frame gave with a burst, and I was outside rushing past the
sleepy sentinel, who poured out a volley of curses after me.

CHAPTER XXII

A DAY OF RECKONING

As well play pussy-wants-a-corner with a tiger as make-believe war with
an Indian. In both cases the fun may become ghastly earnest with no time
for cry-quits. So it was with the great fur-trading companies at the
beginning of this century. Each held the Indian in subjection and
thought to use him with daring impunity against its rival. A