I suggested that the Lizzie might like a turn at frogging, and Josef, with Indian wordlessness, handed the net to him.  Whereupon, with his flabby mouth wide and his large gray eyes gleaming, he proceeded to miss four easy ones in succession.  And with that Josef, in a gibberish which is French-Canadian patois of the inner circles, addressed the Tin Lizzie and took away the net from him, asking no orders from me.  The Lizzie, pipe in mouth as always, smiled just as pleasantly under this punishment as in the hour of his opportunities.  He would have been a very handsome boy, with his huge eyes and brilliant brown and red color and his splendid shoulders and slim waist of an athlete if only he had possessed a ray of sense.  Yet he was a good enough guide to fill in, for he was strong and willing and took orders amiably from anybody and did his routine of work, such as chopping wood and filling lamps and bringing water and carrying boats, with entire efficiency.  That he had no initiative at all and by no chance did anything he was not told to, even when most obvious, that he was lacking in any characteristic of interest, that he was moreover a supreme coward, afraid to be left alone in the woods—­these things were after all immaterial, for, as John pointed out, we didn’t really need to love our guides.

John also pointed out that the Lizzie—­his name was, incidentally, Aristophe—­had one nice quality.  Of course, it was a quality which appealed most to the beneficiary, yet it seemed well to me also to have my guests surrounded with mercy and loving kindness.  John had but to suggest building a fire or greasing his boots or carrying a canoe over any portage to any lake, and the Lizzie at once leaped with a bright smile as who should say that this was indeed a pleasure.  “C’est bien, M’sieur,” was his formula.  He would gaze at John for sections of an hour, with his flabby mouth open in speechless surprise as if at the unbelievable glory and magnificence of M’sieur.  A nice lad, John Dudley was, but no subtle enchanter; a stocky and well-set-up young man with a whole-souled, garrulous and breezy way, and a gift of slang and a brilliant grin.  What called forth hero-worship towards him I never understood; but no more had I understood why Mildred Thornton, Colonel Thornton’s young sister, my very beautiful cousin, should have selected him, from a large assortment of suitors, to marry.  Indeed I did not entirely understand why I liked having John in camp better than anyone else; probably it was essentially the same charm which impelled Mildred to want to live with him, and the Tin Lizzie to fall down and worship.  In any case the Lizzie worshipped with a primitive and unashamed and enduring adoration, which stood even the test of fear.  That was the supreme test for the Tin Lizzie, who was a coward of cowards.  Rather cruelly I bet John on a day that his satellite did not love him enough to go out to the club-house alone for him, and the next day John was in sore need of tobacco, not to be got nearer than the club.