“Yes,” the factor would say, blowing the smoke upward, “the Indian should be civilized—­slowly—­the slower the better.”

The cure would pretend to look surprised as he relit his pipe.  Once the cure asked the factor why he was so indifferent to the welfare of the Crees, who were the real producers, without whose furs there would be no trade, no post, no job for the ruddy-faced factor.  The priest was surprised that the factor should appear to fail to appreciate the importance of the trapper.

“I do,” said the factor.

“Then why do you not help us to lift him to the light?”

“I like him,” was the laconic reply.

“Then why don’t you talk to him of his soul?”

“Haven’t the nerve,” said the factor, shaking his head and blowing more smoke.

The cure shrugged his shoulders.

“I say,” said the florid factor, facing the pale priest.  “Did you see me decorating the old chief, Dunraven, yesterday?”

“Yes, I presume you were giving him a pour boire in advance to secure the greater catch of furs next season,” said the priest, with his usual sad yet always pleasant smile.

“A very poor guess for one so wise,” said the factor. “Attendez,” he continued.  “This post used to be closed always in winter.  The tent doors were tied fast on the inside, after which the man who tied them would crawl out under the edge of the canvas.  When winter came, the snow, banked about, held the tent tightly down, and the Hudson’s Bay business was bottled at this point until the springless summer came to wake the sleeping world.

“Last winter was a hard winter.  The snow was deep and game scarce.  One day a Cree Indian found himself in need of tea and tobacco, and more in need of a new pair of trousers.  Passing the main tent one day, he was sorely tempted.  Dimly, through the parchment pane, he could see great stacks of English tweeds, piles of tobacco, and boxes of tea, but the tent was closed.  He was sorely tried.  He was hungry—­hungry for a horn of tea and a twist of the weed, and cold, too.  Ah, bon pere, it is hard to withstand cold and hunger with only a canvas between one and the comforts of life!”

“Oui, Monsieur!” said the cure, warmly, touched by the pathos of the tale.

“The Indian walked away (we know that by his footprints), but returned to the tent.  The hunger and the cold had conquered.  He took his hunting-knife and slit the deerskin window and stepped inside.  Then he approached the pile of tweed trousers and selected a large pair, putting down from the bunch of furs he had on his arms to the value of eight skins—­the price his father and grandfather had paid.  He visited the tobacco pile and helped himself, leaving four skins on the tobacco.  When he had taken tea he had all his heart desired, and having still a number of skins left, he hung them upon a hook overhead and went away.