etriever, stretched at the door. The dining-room was abandoned,
the general room was full of children engaged in some merry game, but
otherwise the place wore that air of utter do-nothingness which
characterizes a warm afternoon in the country. Yet Ringfield
persevered and at last heard familiar accents from the "store" across
the road, a kind of shack in which a miscellaneous collection of
groceries, soft drinks, hardware and fishing appliances were presided
over by the man called Crabbe. Ringfield crossed, and found the two
men lolling on chairs; Poussette slightly drunk and Crabbe to all
appearances decidedly so. The place was of the roughest description;
it had no windows but an open space occupied by a board counter on
which were boxes of cigars, bottles, a saucer of matches and the mail,
duly sorted out for the inhabitants by Crabbe, who was supposed to be a
person of some importance and education, and postmaster as well as
guide. As Ringfield paused at this aboriginal place of barter, not far
removed from the rough shelter up the road under the trees where some
Indians held camp and displayed their grass and quill wares on planks
supported by barrels, he was struck by the sight of his own name.
There in front of him lay the missing telegram which Mr. Beddoe had
dispatched to Montmagny nearly a fortnight before. He took the folded
yellow paper up and put it in his pocket--no need to open it there and
then.

"How long has this been here?" he asked, but Crabbe only moved uneasily
in his chair, reaching sideways in a pretence of arranging boxes
underneath the improvised counter, his hands shaking so that the goods
tumbled out of them.

Poussette laughed and swore, yet a gleam of good nature seemed to
illumine his puffy face, and Ringfield, catching at this ray of
kindness, hoped he had come at the right moment.

"Why, Poussette!" he said. "I'm sorry to see you neglecting a good
business like yours in this manner.--Get up, man, and walk along the
road with me. Where is the fun, or glory, or enjoyment of this
muddling and tippling--I am ashamed of you! Come on, I say!"

But Poussette was hard to move; Crabbe, on the other hand, rose and
shuffled out of doors in the direction of the forest; Ringfield thought
he saw Madame Poussette's skimp skirts behind a tree; presently she
emerged and stood talking to the guide.

"Come now, Poussette! There's your wife. Don't let her see you like
this. Then there's F