“Pish!” says Radisson.  “Anything else?”

There crumpled out a yellow paper.  M. Radisson snatched it up.

“Pish!” says he, “nothing—­put it back!”

It was a page of my copy-book, when I used to take lessons with Rebecca.  Replacing paper and glove, I closed up the sailor lad’s coat.

“Search his cap and moccasins!”

I was mighty thankful, as you may guess, that other hands than mine found the tell-tale missive—­a badly writ letter addressed to “Captain Zechariah Gillium.”

Tearing it open, M. Radisson read with stormy lights agleam in his eyes.

“Sir, this sailor lad is an old comrade,” I pleaded.

“Then’a God’s name take care of him,” he flashed out.

But long before I had Jack Battle thawed back to consciousness in my own quarters, Jean came running with orders for me to report to M. Radisson.

“I’ll take care of the sailor for you,” proffered Jean.

And I hastened to the main hall.

“Get ready,” ordered Radisson.  “We must stir!  That young hop-o’-my-thumb suspects his father has arrived.  He has sent this fellow with word of me.  Things will be doing.  We must stir—­we must stir.  Read those for news,” and he handed me the letter.

The letter was addressed to Ben’s father, of the Hudson’s Bay ship,
Prince Rupert.  In writing which was scarcely legible, it ran: 

  I take Up my Pen to lett You knowe that cutt-throte
  french viper Who deserted You at ye fort of ye bay 10 Years
  ago hath come here for France Threatening us.

  he Must Be Stopped.  Will i Do It?

have Bin Here Come Six weekes All Souls’ day and Not Heard a Word of Him that went inland to Catch ye Furs from ye Savages before they Mett Governor B——.  If He Proves False——­

There the crushed missive was torn, but the purport was plain.  Ben Gillam and his father were in collusion with the inland pirates to get peltries from the Indians before Governor Brigdar came; and the inlanders, whoever they were, had concealed both themselves and the furs.  I handed the paper back to M. Radisson.

“We must stir, lad—­we must stir,” he repeated.

“But the marsh is soft yet.  It is unsafe to cross.”

“The river is not frozen in mid-current,” retorted M. Radisson impatiently.  “Get ready!  I am taking different men to impress the young spark with our numbers—­you and La Chesnaye and the marquis and Allemand.  But where a’ devil is that Indian?”

Le Borgne had slipped away.

“Is he a spy?” I asked.

“Get ready!  Why do you ask questions?  The thing is—­to do!—­do!!—­do—!!!”

But Allemand, who had been hauling out the big canoe, came up sullenly.

“Sir,” he complained, “the river’s running ice the size of a raft, and the wind’s a-blowing a gale.”

“Man,” retorted M. de Radisson with the quiet precision of steel, “if the river were running live fire and the gale blew from the inferno, I—­would—­go!  Stay home and go to bed, Allemand.”  And he chose one of the common sailors instead.