The Big Otter Part 17

"Well, perhaps it was," I replied, scarce knowing what to say. "And why did he give you the name of Waboose?" I asked.

"Because when I was small I was round and soft," replied the girl, with a slight smile, "like the little animal of that name. He told me that in his own language the animal is called rubbit."

"Rabbit, not rubbit," said I, with a laugh.

"My father taught me rubbit," returned Waboose, with a simple look, "and he was _always_ right."

I felt that it would be useless to press my correction, and therefore changed the subject by asking if her father had never tried to teach her English. Immediately she answered, with a somewhat bashful air--

"Yes, a leetil."

"Why, you can _speak_ English, Waboose," I exclaimed, stopping and looking down at her with increasing interest.

"No--note mush, but me un'erstan' good--deal," she returned, with a hearty laugh at my expression.

I found on trial, however, that the girl's knowledge of English was so slight that we could not readily converse in it. We therefore fell back on the Indian tongue.

"I wish I had known your father, Waboose," I said earnestly. "He must have been a very good man."

She looked at me gratefully.

"Yes," she returned, "he was _very_ good."

As she said this Waboose cast on me a look which I could not understand; it was so intense, as if she were trying to read my thoughts, and at the same time seemed mingled with doubt. Then, with some hesitation, she said--

"My father left a secret with me. He told me never to show it to my tribe, as they could not understand it--not even to my mother."

"What is the secret, Waboose?" I asked, seeing that she hesitated again and looked at me with another of her searching glances.

"I do not know," she replied.

"It must indeed be a secret, if none of your people know it, and you don't know it yourself," I returned with a peculiar smile.

"It is a written secret, I believe, but I--I--do not know. He told me never to show it to any but a white man--to one whom I felt that I could trust. May I trust _you_?" she asked, looking me full in the face.

The question naturally surprised as well as flattered me.

"You may trust me, Waboose," I said earnestly, laying my hand involuntarily on my heart, "I would die rather than deceive or injure you."

She seemed satisfied and resumed in a low tone--

"Not long before my dear father died he took me into the woods to walk in a place that we were both fond of. We had long sweet talks in that wood; sometimes walking under the trees, sometimes sitting on the hill-tops, and always happy--very happy! One day he looked sad. He took my hand as we sat together on a bank. He said, `I have sometimes longed to open up all my heart to you, my rubbit,' (he was fond of calling me by the English name), `but I cannot do so yet.'"

"`Why not, my father?' I asked.

"`Because--because--' he answered, `it could do no good, and it might do harm. No, my rubbit, the time may come, but not now--not yet. Listen; for your mother's sake I left the home of the pale-faces and came to live with your tribe. For her sake I shall remain. But you know that life is uncertain. We cannot tell when the Great Master of Life may call us away. Sometimes he calls us suddenly and we are forced to leave our works unfinished. I may be called away thus, before the time comes when I may tell you what I want you to know. If so, you will find it all here.'

"My father took from the breast of his coat a small bundle wrapped in birch-bark and placed it in my hands.

"`Do not open it,' he said. `Do not show it to man or woman in the tribe. They could not understand, but if ever a white man comes here, _whom you feel that you can trust_, show it to him.'

"My father rose as he said this, and as he seemed to wish not to speak more about it, I did not trouble him, but I went and hid the parcel with care. It was almost immediately afterwards that my dear father was taken from me."

We were suddenly interrupted at this point by the appearance of a man in the distance walking smartly towards us. I could perceive, as he drew near, that it was James Dougall.

"Well, well, Muster Maxby," he said on coming up, "it's gled I am to find you. I've been seekin' you far an' near."

"Nothing wrong, I hope, Dougall," said I with some anxiety, on observing that the man was perspiring and panting vehemently.

"No, no, nothin' wrong, Muster Maxby, only it's runnin' aboot the wuds I've been, lookin' for ye an' skirlin' like a pair o' pipes. We're aboot to draw the seine-net, ye see, an' Tonald Pane said it would be a peety, says he, to begin when ye wur awa', an' Muster Lumley agreet wi'

um, an' sent me oot to seek for 'ee--that's a'."

"Come along then, Dougall, we won't keep them waiting."

Nodding adieu to Waboose, I hurried away towards Fort Wichikagan, followed by the st.u.r.dy Highlander.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

FISHING AND ITS RESULTS--ENGINEERING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

I found on reaching Wichikagan that the fun was about to begin.

Blondin, who was our chief fisherman, had let down a long seine-net, which was being drawn slowly in by a band of natives, whose interest in a process which they had never before seen was deepening into excitement, as they observed here and there a symptom of something shooting below the surface of the still water, or beheld a large fish leap frantically into the air.

At first, when the net was being prepared, those children of the forest had merely stood by and looked on with curiosity. When Blondin and his men rowed out from the sh.o.r.e, letting the net drop off the stern of our boat as they went, they indulged in a few guesses and undertoned remarks. When the boat gradually swept round and turned sh.o.r.eward again, having left a long line of floats in its wake, they perceived that a large sheet of water had been enclosed, and a feeling of wonder, combined with a half guess as to what all this portended caused their black orbs to enlarge, and the whites thereof to glisten. But when they were requested to lay hold of a rope attached to the other end of the net and haul, the true state of the case burst upon their awakened minds and proportionate excitement followed.

As the circle of the net diminished and the evidences, above referred to, of life in the water became more frequent, gleeful expectation took the place of wonder, and a disposition to chatter manifested itself, especially among the women and children, who by that time had eagerly laid hold of the drag-rope.

Soon it became apparent that a mighty ma.s.s of fish had been enclosed, and the creatures seemed themselves to become suddenly alive to their danger, for the crowded condition of their element--which, no doubt, caused only surprise at first--became so inconvenient that with one accord they made a terrified rush to the right. Failing to obtain relief they turned and rushed to the left. Discomfited again, they dashed lakeward. Each rush was followed by a howl of anxiety from the natives; each failure was hailed with a yell of joy. Three birch-bark canoes followed the net to send the more obstreperous of the fish sh.o.r.eward. Finding that they could not escape, the finny prisoners seemed to lose their wits and took to rushing skyward, with splashing consequences that almost drove the red-men mad!

"Hold on! not so hard! You'll break it!" shouted Lumley to the men and women at the rope.

"What a tremendous haul!" said I, as I joined my friend, who stood at the outer end of our little wharf, enjoying the scene.

"I hope the net won't break," he replied. "If it does we shall lose them all, and the disappointment to the Indians might be almost too much to bear. See, they prepare for action!"

This was very obvious. The men of the tribe, who might be described as glaring maniacs, had dropped their robes, and, almost naked, ran waist-deep into the water in a vain attempt to catch some of the larger fish as they were slowly forced towards the beach. Even some of the women lost self-control and, regardless of petticoats, floundered after the men. As for the children, big and little, they developed into imps of darkness gone deranged.

Suddenly a very wave of fish was sent upon the sh.o.r.e, where, of course, they began to leap about wildly. Not less wildly did the Indians leap among them, throttling the big ones and hurling armfuls of the lesser ones high up on the sward.

By that time the net was close in sh.o.r.e. The whole of the enclosed s.p.a.ce became a sweltering ma.s.s. Treading on the fish at last, many of both men and boys slipped in the water, and fell down over head and ears, so that the spectacle was presented of human beings bounding out of the water in apparent emulation of their prey. The excitement was almost too much for them. Several of the boys were seen to rush up into the woods and dash back again, with no apparent reason except the desire to get rid of superabundant energy. One brave, in particular, so far forgot the characteristic dignity of the red-man, that he rushed up on the bank, bent forward, clapped a hand on each knee, threw back his head, shut his eyes, opened wide his mouth, and sought to relieve his feelings in one stupendous roar. But it would not do. He became suddenly solemn, glared again, and went at the fish more furiously than ever.

Our men in the canoes landed, and rendered a.s.sistance. Salamander was in one of the canoes which ran alongside of the wharf. The only other occupant was Donald Bane, who sat in the stern and steered. Salamander was greatly excited. As the canoe ran up to the wharf, the bow was thrust over the net-rope, and he gazed at the struggling creatures below with intense delight on his brown visage.

"You had petter take care," said Donald Bane, as he grasped the edge of the wharf, and cautiously rose up, "for canoes are easily overturned."

But Salamander was too much engrossed to hear or reply. The Highlander, who had not forgotten the trick formerly played on him and his countryman by the interpreter, stepped carefully out on the wharf. As he did so, he gave the canoe a little tilt with his foot, and Salamander went head-foremost down among the fish!