“And whereabouts is ‘down our way,’ if one may be so bold as to ask the question?” returned le Bourdon, holding the door half-opened, while he turned his face toward the other, in expectation of the answer.

“Why, down at Whiskey Centre, to be sure, as the v’y’gerers and other boatmen call the place.”

“And where is Whiskey Centre?” demanded Ben, a little pertinaciously.

“Why, I thought everybody would ‘a’ known that,” answered Greshom; “sin’ whiskey is as drawin’ as a blister.  Whiskey Centre is just where I happen to live; bein’ what a body may call a travellin’ name.  As I’m now down at the mouth of the Kalamazoo, why Whiskey Centre’s there, too.”

“I understand the matter, now,” answered le Bourdon, composing his well-formed mouth in a sort of contemptuous smile.  “You and whiskey, being sworn friends, are always to be found in company.  When I came into the river, which was the last week in April, I saw nothing like whiskey, nor anything like a Centre at the mouth.”

“If you’d ‘a’ be’n a fortnight later, STRANger, you’d ‘a’ found both.  Travellin’ Centres, and stationary, differs somewhat, I guess; one is always to be found, while t’other must be s’arched a’ter.”

“And pray who are Dolly and Blossom; I hope the last is not a whiskey blossom?”

“Not she—­she never touches a spoonful, though I tell her it never hurt mortal!  She tries hard to reason me into it that it hurts me—­ but that’s all a mistake, as anybody can see that jest looks at me.”

Ben did look at him; and, to say truth, came to a somewhat different conclusion.

“Is she so blooming that you call her ’Blossom’?” demanded the bee-hunter, “or is she so young?”

“The gal’s a little of both.  Dolly is my wife, and Blossom is my sister.  The real name of Blossom is Margery Waring, but everybody calls her Blossom; and so I gi’n into it, with the rest on ’em.”

It is probable that le Bourdon lost a good deal of his interest in this flower of the wilderness, as soon as he learned she was so nearly related to the Whiskey Centre.  Gershom was so very uninviting an object, and had so many palpable marks, that he had fairly earned the nickname which, as it afterward appeared, the western adventurers had given him, as well as his abode, wherever the last might be, that no one of decently sober habits could readily fancy anything belonging to him.  At any rate, the bee-hunter now led the way into his cabin, whither he was followed without unnecessary ceremony, by all three of his guests.

The interior of the “chiente,” to use the most poetical, if not the most accurate word, was singularly clean for an establishment set up by a bachelor, in so remote a part of the world.  The honey, in neat, well-constructed kegs, was carefully piled along one side of the apartment, in a way to occupy the minimum of room, and to be rather ornamental than unsightly.  These kegs were made by le Bourdon himself, who had acquired as much of the art as was necessary to that object.  The woods always furnished the materials; and a pile of staves that was placed beneath a neighboring tree sufficiently denoted that he did not yet deem that portion of his task completed.