Inwardly he was a bit suspicious of the ultimate ending of the affair.  St. Pierre had almost no cause for complaint, for it was his own carelessness, coupled with his opponent’s luck, that had been his undoing—­and luck and carelessness are legitimate factors of every fight, Carrigan told himself.  But with Bateese it was different.  He had held up his big jaw, uncovered and tempting, entreating some one to hit him, and Carrigan had yielded to that temptation.  The blow would have stunned an ox.  Three others like it had left the huge half-breed sitting weak-mindedly in the sand, and no one of those three blows were exactly according to the rules of the game.  They had been mightily efficacious, but the half-breed might demand a rehearing when he came fully into his senses.

Not until they were half-way to the bateau did Carrigan dare to glance back over his shoulder at the man who was paddling, to see what effect the fistic travesty had left on him.  He was a big-mouthed, clear-eyed, powerfully-muscled fellow, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

“Well, what did you think of it, comrade?”

The other gave his shoulders a joyous shrug.

“Mon Dieu!  Have you heard of wan garcon named Joe Clamart, m’sieu?  Non?  Well, I am Joe Clamart what was once great fightin’ man.  Bateese hav’ whip’ me five times, m’sieu—­so I say it was wan gr-r-r-a-n’ fight!  Many years ago I have seen ze same t’ing in Montreal—­ze boxeur de profession.  Oui, an’ Rene Babin pays me fifteen prime martin against which I put up three scrubby red fox that you would win.  They were bad, or I would not have gambled, m’sieu.  It ees fonny!”

“Yes, it is funny,” agreed David.  “I think it is a bit too funny.  It is a pity they did not stand up on their legs a little longer!” Suddenly an inspiration hit him.  “Joe, what do you say—­shall you and I return and put up a real fight for them?”

Like a sprung trap Joe Clamart’s grinning mouth dosed.  “Non, non, non,” he grunted.  “Dere has been plenty fight, an’ Joe Clamart mus’ save hees face tor Antoinette Roland, who hate ze sign of fight lak she hate ze devil, m’sieu!  Non, non!”

His paddle dug deeper into the water, and David’s heart felt lighter.  If Joe was an average barometer, and he was a husky and fearless-looking chap, it was probable that neither St. Pierre nor Bateese would demand another chance at him, and St. Pierre would pay his wager.

He could see no one aboard the bateau when he climbed from the canoe.  Looking back, he saw that two other canoes had started from the opposite shore.  Then he went to his cabin door, opened it, and entered, Scarcely had the door closed behind him when he stopped, staring toward the window that opened on the river.

Standing full in the morning glow of it was Marie-Anne Boulain.  She was facing him.  Her cheeks were flushed.  Her red lips were parted.  Her eyes were aglow with a fire which she made no effort to hide from him.  In her hand she still held the binoculars he had left on the cabin table.  He guessed the truth.  Through the glasses she had watched the whole miserable fiasco.