“Diable, Michie,” cried Xavier, “you are ze mischief.”

“Nay,” said Nick, “I learned it all and much more from my cousin, Mr. Ritchie.”

Xavier stared at me for an instant, and considering that he knew nothing of my character, I thought it extremely impolite of him to laugh.  Indeed, he tried to control himself, for some reason standing in awe of my appearance, and then he burst out into such loud haw-haws that the crew poked their heads above the cabin hatch.

“Michie Reetchie,” said Xavier, and again he burst into laughter that choked further speech.  He controlled himself and laid his finger on his wen.

“You don’t believe it,” said Nick, offended.

“Michie Reetchie a gallant!” said Xavier.

“An incurable,” said Nick, “an amazingly clever rogue at device when there is a petticoat in it.  Davy, do I do you justice?”

Xavier roared again.

“Quel maitre!” he said.

“Xavier,” said Nick, gently taking the tiller out of his hand, “I will teach you how to steer a keel boat.”

“Mon Dieu,” said Xavier, “and who is to pay Michie Gratiot for his fur?  The river, she is full of things.”

“Yes, I know, Xavier, but you will teach me to steer.”

“Volontiers, Michie, as we go now.  But there come a time when I, even I, who am twenty year on her, do not know whether it is right or left.  Ze rock—­he vair’ hard.  Ze snag, he grip you like dat,” and Xavier twined his strong arms around Nick until he was helpless.  “Ze bar—­he hol’ you by ze leg.  An’ who is to tell you how far he run under ze yellow water, Michie?  I, who speak to you, know.  But I know not how I know.  Ze water, sometime she tell, sometime she say not’ing.”

“A bas, Xavier!” said Nick, pushing him away, “I will teach you the river.”

Xavier laughed, and sat down on the edge of the cabin.  Nick took easily to accomplishments, and he handled the clumsy tiller with a certainty and distinction that made the boatmen swear in two languages and a patois.  A great water-logged giant of the Northern forests loomed ahead of us.  Xavier sprang to his feet, but Nick had swung his boat swiftly, smoothly, into the deeper water on the outer side.

“Saint Jacques, Michie,” cried Xavier, “you mek him better zan I thought.”

Fascinated by a new accomplishment, Nick held to the tiller, while Xavier with a trained eye scanned the troubled, yellow-glistening surface of the river ahead.  The wind died, the sun beat down with a moist and venomous sting, and northeastward above the edge of the bluff a bank of cloud like sulphur smoke was lifted.  Gradually Xavier ceased his jesting and became quiet.

“Looks like a hurricane,” said Nick.

“Mon Dieu,” said Xavier, “you have right, Michie,” and he called in his rapid patois to the crew, who lounged forward in the cabin’s shade.  There came to my mind the memory of that hurricane at Temple Bow long ago, a storm that seemed to have brought so much sorrow into my life.  I glanced at Nick, but his face was serene.