The old fur-trader endeavours to “fix” his son’s “flint,” and finds the thing more difficult to do than he expected.

Near the centre of the colony of Red River, the stream from which the settlement derives its name is joined by another, called the Assiniboine. About five or six hundred yards from the point where this union takes place, and on the banks of the latter stream, stands the Hudson’s Bay Company’s trading-post, Fort Garry. It is a massive square building of stone. Four high and thick walls enclose a space of ground on which are built six or eight wooden houses, some of which are used as dwellings for the servants of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and others as stores, wherein are contained the furs, the provisions which are sent annually to various parts of the country, and the goods (such as cloth, guns, powder and shot, blankets, twine, axes, knives, etcetera, etcetera,) with which the fur-trade is carried on. Although Red River is a peaceful colony, and not at all likely to be assaulted by the poor Indians, it was, nevertheless, deemed prudent by the traders to make some show of power; and so at the corners of the fort four round bastions of a very imposing appearance were built, from the embrasures of which several large black-muzzled guns protruded. No one ever conceived the idea of firing these engines of war; and, indeed, it is highly probable that such an attempt would have been attended with consequences much more dreadful to those behind than to those who might chance to be in front of the guns. Nevertheless they were imposing, and harmonised well with the flagstaff, which was the only other military symptom about the place. This latter was used on particular occasions, such as the arrival or departure of a brigade of boats, for the purpose of displaying the folds of a red flag on which were the letters H.B.C.

The fort stood, as we have said, on the banks of the Assiniboine River, on the opposite side of which the land was somewhat wooded, though not heavily, with oak, maple, poplar, aspens, and willows; while at the back of the fort the great prairie rolled out like a green sea to the horizon, and far beyond that again to the base of the Rocky Mountains. The plains at this time, however, were a sheet of unbroken snow, and the river a mass of solid ice.

It was noon on the day following that on which our friend Charley had threatened rebellion, when a tall elderly man might have been seen standing at the back gate of Fort Garry, gazing wistfully out into the prairie in the direction of the lower part of the settlement. He was watching a small speck which moved rapidly over the snow in the direction of the fort.

“It’s very like our friend Frank Kennedy,” said he to himself (at least we presume so, for there was no one else within earshot to whom he could have said it, except the door-post, which every one knows is proverbially a deaf subject). “No man in the settlement drives so furiously. I shouldn’t wonder if he ran against the corner of the new fence now. Ha! just so—there he goes!”

And truly the reckless driver did “go” just at that moment. He came up to the corner of the new fence, where the road took a rather abrupt turn, in a style that ensured a capsize. In another second the spirited horse turned sharp round, the sleigh turned sharp over, and the occupant was pitched out at full length, while a black object, that might have been mistaken for his hat, rose from his side like a rocket, and, flying over him, landed on the snow several yards beyond. A faint shout was heard to float on the breeze as this catastrophe occurred, and the driver was seen to jump up and readjust himself in the cariole; while the other black object proved itself not to be a hat by getting hastily up on a pair of legs, and scrambling back to the seat from which it had been so unceremoniously ejected.

In a few minutes more the cheerful tinkling of the merry sleigh-bells was heard, and Frank Kennedy, accompanied by his hopeful son Charles, dashed up to the gate, and pulled up with a jerk.

“Ha! Grant, my fine fellow, how are you?” exclaimed Mr Kennedy, senior, as he disengaged himself from the heavy folds of the buffalo robe and shook the snow from his greatcoat. “Why on earth, man, don’t you put up a sign-post and a board to warn travellers that you’ve been running out new fences and changing the road, eh?”

“Why, my good friend,” said Mr Grant, smiling, “the fence and the road are of themselves pretty conclusive proof to most men that the road is changed; and, besides, we don’t often have people driving round corners at full gallop; but—”

“Hollo! Charley, you rascal,” interrupted Mr Kennedy—“here, take the mare to the stable, and don’t drive her too fast. Mind, now, no going off upon the wrong road for the sake of a drive, you understand.”

“All right, father,” exclaimed the boy, while a bright smile lit up his features and displayed two rows of white teeth: “I’ll be particularly careful,” and he sprang into the light vehicle, seized the reins, and with a sharp crack of the whip dashed down the road at a hard gallop.

“He’s a fine fellow that son of yours,” said Mr Grant, “and will make a first-rate fur-trader.”

“Fur-trader!” exclaimed Mr Kennedy. “Just look at him! I’ll be shot if he isn’t thrashing the mare as if she were made of leather.” The old man’s ire was rising rapidly as he heard the whip crack every now and then, and saw the mare bound madly over the snow. “And see!” he continued, “I declare he has taken the wrong turn after all.”

“True,” said Mr Grant: “he’ll never reach the stable by that road; he’s much more likely to visit the White-horse Plains. But come, friend, it’s of no use fretting. Charley will soon tire of his ride; so come with me to my room and have a pipe before dinner.”

Old Mr Kennedy gave a short groan of despair, shook his fist at the form of his retreating son, and accompanied his friend to the house.

It must not be supposed that Frank Kennedy was very deeply offended with his son, although he did shower on him a considerable amount of abuse. On the contrary, he loved him very much. But it was the old man’s nature to give way to little bursts of passion on almost every occasion in which his feelings were at all excited. These bursts, however, were like the little puffs that ripple the surface of the sea on a calm summer’s day. They were over in a second, and left his good-humoured, rough, candid countenance in unruffled serenity. Charley knew this well, and loved his father tenderly, so that his conscience frequently smote him for raising his anger so often; and he over and over again promised his sister Kate to do his best to refrain from doing anything that was likely to annoy the old man in future. But, alas! Charley’s resolves, like those of many other boys, were soon forgotten, and his father’s equanimity was upset generally two or three times a day; but after the gust was over, the fur-trader would kiss his son, call him a “rascal,” and send him off to fill and fetch his pipe.

Mr Grant, who was in charge of Fort Garry, led the way to his smoking apartment, where the two were soon seated in front of a roaring log-fire, emulating each other in the manufacture of smoke.

“Well, Kennedy,” said Mr Grant, throwing himself back in his chair, elevating his chin, and emitting a long thin stream of white vapour from his lips, through which he gazed at his friend complacently—“well, Kennedy, to what fortunate chance am I indebted for this visit? It is not often that we have the pleasure of seeing you here.”

Mr Kennedy created two large volumes of smoke, which, by means of a vigorous puff, he sent rolling over towards his friend, and said, “Charley.”

“And what of Charley?” said Mr Grant, with a smile, for he was well aware of the boy’s propensity to fun, and of the father’s desire to curb it.

“The fact is,” replied Kennedy, “that Charley must be broke. He’s the wildest colt I ever had to tame, but I’ll do it—I will—that’s a fact.”

If Charley’s subjugation had depended on the rapidity with which the little white clouds proceeded from his sire’s mouth, there is no doubt that it would have been a “fact” in a very short time, for they rushed from him with the violence of a high wind. Long habit had made the old trader and his pipe not only inseparable companions, but part and parcel of each other—so intimately connected that a change in the one was sure to produce a sympathetic change in the other. In the present instance, the little clouds rapidly increased in size and number as the old gentleman thought on the obstinacy of his “colt.”

“Yes,” he continued, after a moment’s silence, “I’ve made up my mind to tame him, and I want you, Mr Grant, to help me.”

Mr Grant looked as if he would rather not undertake to lend his aid in a work that was evidently difficult; but being a good-natured man, he said, “And how, friend, can I assist in the operation?”

“Well, you see, Charley’s a good fellow at bottom, and a clever fellow too—at least so says the schoolmaster; though I must confess that, so far as my experience goes, he’s only clever at finding out excuses for not doing what I want him to. But still I’m told he’s clever, and can use his pen well; and I know for certain that he can use his tongue well. So I want to get him into the service, and have him placed in a situation where he shall have to stick to his desk all day. In fact, I want to have him broken in to work; for you’ve no notion, sir, how that boy talks about bears and buffaloes and badgers, and life in the woods among the Indians. I do believe,” continued the old gentleman, waxing warm, “that he would willingly go into the woods to-morrow, if I would let him, and never show his nose in the settlement again. He’s quite incorrigible. But I’ll tame him yet—I will!”

Mr Kennedy followed this up with an indignant grunt, and a puff of smoke, so thick, and propelled with such vigour, that it rolled and curled in fantastic evolutions towards the ceiling, as if it were unable to control itself with delight at the absolute certainty of Charley being tamed at last.

Mr Grant, however, shook his head, and remained for five minutes in profound silence, during which time the two friends puffed in concert, until they began to grow quite indistinct and ghostlike in the thick atmosphere. At last he broke silence.

“My opinion is that you’re wrong, Mr Kennedy. No doubt you know the disposition of your son better than I do; but even judging of it from what you have said, I’m quite sure that a sedentary life will ruin him.”

“Ruin him! Humbug!” said Kennedy, who never failed to express his opinion at the shortest notice and in the plainest language—a fact so well known by his friends that they had got into the habit of taking no notice of it. “Humbug!” he repeated, “perfect humbug! You don’t mean to tell me that the way to break him in is to let him run loose and wild whenever and wherever he pleases?”

“By no means. But you may rest assured that tying him down won’t do it.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr Kennedy testily; “don’t tell me. Have I not broken in young colts by the score? and don’t I know that the way to fix their flints is to clap on a good strong curb?”

“If you had travelled farther south, friend,” replied Mr Grant, “you would have seen the Spaniards of Mexico break in their wild horses in a very different way; for after catching one with a lasso, a fellow gets on his back, and gives it the rein and the whip—ay, and the spur too; and before that race is over, there is no need for a curb.”

“What!” exclaimed Kennedy, “and do you mean to argue from that, that I should let Charley run—and help him too? Send him off to the woods with gun and blanket, canoe and tent, all complete?” The old gentleman puffed a furious puff, and broke into a loud, sarcastic laugh.

“No, no,” interrupted Mr Grant; “I don’t exactly mean that, but I think that you might give him his way for a year or so. He’s a fine, active, generous fellow; and after the novelty wore off, he would be in a much better frame of mind to listen to your proposals. Besides” (and Mr Grant smiled expressively), “Charley is somewhat like his father. He has got a will of his own; and if you do not give him his way, I very much fear that he’ll—”

“What?” inquired Mr Kennedy abruptly.

“Take it,” said Mr Grant.

The puff that burst from Mr Kennedy’s lips on hearing this would have done credit to a thirty-six pounder.

“Take it!” said he; “he’d better not.”

The latter part of this speech was not in itself of a nature calculated to convey much; but the tone of the old trader’s voice, the contraction of his eyebrows, and above all the overwhelming flow of cloudlets that followed, imparted to it a significance that induced the belief that Charley’s taking his own way would be productive of more terrific consequences than it was in the power of the most highly imaginative man to conceive.

“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.