Then followed a narration of two occasions when Shag’s father had saved Sir George’s life, once from drowning in the Assiniboine and once from freezing to death on the plains.  The recreation interval was all too short for the boys to have their talk out, and when the “good-nights” came Hal wrung Shag’s hand with a sincerity and heartiness that brought a responsive thrill into the fingers of the lonely boy who was spending his first night fifteen hundred miles away from home.

“Well,” snorted Shorty, as the two boys left for the night, “going to chum around with the son of your father’s cook, are you?”

Hal whirled on his heel, his hand clenched, his knuckles standing out white and bony; then he checked the torrent of words that sprang to his lips and answered quietly, “Yes, I am.”

“Going to take him to Sir George and Lady Bennington’s city residence for the Easter Vac?” sneered Shorty.

The answer came again quietly, “Yes, I am”; then, after a brief interval, “if he will pay me the compliment of coming.”

Shorty subsided; he had not expected this, and, truth to tell, he felt at that moment that his sneers had accomplished precisely the opposite effect to what he had intended; but Hal made no comment until just before they got into their beds; then he said evenly: 

“Shorty, you and I are room-mates, we have been pals for over a year; we won’t discuss Shag Larocque, for I see that we shall never agree about him.”

“I hate a mongrel,” sniffed Shorty; “this fellow is neither Indian nor white.”

“He’s more Indian than white, and better for it, too,” said Hal; “but, I say, Shorty—­what nationality was your father?”

“Irish,” said Shorty, with some pride.

“And your mother?” persisted Hal relentlessly.

“Oh, mother’s parents were English; she was born here in Canada,” replied Shorty a little weakly.

“Oh!” was all Hal said, but it held a world of meaning.

“Now, see here, Hal,” began Shorty apologetically, “I know what you are thinking, but I’m British right through and my skin’s white, no matter how you take it.  I’m white on both sides of the family; I’m not splashed with tinted blood like this fellow from the North-West that’s strayed in here; his skin’s almost yellow.”

“Yes,” acquiesced Hal, “his skin is tinted—­it is tinted, not tainted.  There’s a big difference, Shorty.  Do you know, I’d give the world if I had as much of a copper-colored tint to my skin as Shag has.”

“Rot!” ejaculated Shorty.

“No rot at all,” cut in Hal; “I love the Indian people.  You call this chap a ‘mongrel,’ but I tell you he is Indian—­anyone can see it, and I know it.  His father may have cooked in camp for my father, and did so, but from what my father told me, he, French Pete, was an honest man, and a brave one, too, and his son’s good enough for me, and I’m his friend until the last dog’s hung.”