Fort Desolation | Page 3

mountain nor hill larger than an inverted
wash-hand basin, within ten miles of him! He was wont to defend the
misnomer on the ground that it served to keep him in remembrance of
the fact that hills really existed in other parts of the world.

Jack was in a desponding mood. His pipe would not "draw" that
morning; and his mind had been more active than usual for a few days
past, revolving the past, the present, and the future. In short, Jack was
cross. There could be no doubt whatever about it; for he suddenly, and
without warning, dashed his pipe to pieces against a log, went into the
house for another, which he calmly filled, as he resumed his former
seat, lit, and continued to smoke for some time in sulky silence. We
record this fact because it was quite contrary to Jack's amiable and
patient character, and showed that some deep emotions were stirring
within him.
The second pipe "drew" well. Probably it was this that induced him to
give utterance to the expression--
"I wonder how long this sort of thing will last?"
"Just as long as you've a mind to let it, and no longer," answered a man
clad in the garb of a trapper, whose mocassin foot had given no
indication of his approach until he was within a couple of paces of the
door.
"Is that you, Joe?" said Jack, looking up, and pointing to a log which
served as a seat on the other side of the doorway.
"It's all that's of me," replied Joe.
"Sit down and fill your pipe out of my pouch, Joe. It's good 'baccy,
you'll find. Any news? I suppose not. There never is; and if there was,
what would be the odds to me?"
"In the blues?" remarked the hunter, regarding Jack with a peculiar
smile through his first puff of smoke.
"Rather!" said Jack.
"Grog?" inquired Joe.
"Haven't tasted a drop for months," replied Jack.

"All square here?" inquired the hunter, tapping his stomach.
"Could digest gun-flints and screw nails!"
The two smoked in silence for some time; then Joe drew forth a soiled
letter, which he handed to his companion, saying--
"It's bin lying at the post-office for some weeks, and as the postmaster
know'd I was comin' here he asked me to take it. I've a notion it may be
an offer to buy your clearin', for I've heerd two or three fellows speakin'
about it. Now, as I want to buy it myself, if yer disposed to sell it, I
hereby make you the first offer."
Jack Robinson continued to smoke in silence, gazing abstractedly at the
letter. Since his mother had died, a year before the date of which we
write, he had not received a line from any one, insomuch that he had
given up calling at the post-office on his occasional visits to the nearest
settlement. This letter, therefore, took him by surprise, all the more that
it was addressed in the handwriting of his former partner, Murray.
Breaking the seal, he read as follows:
"Fort Kamenistaquoia, April the somethingth:--
"Dear Jack,--You'll be surprised to see my fist, but not more surprised
than I was to hear from an old hunter just arrived, that you had taken to
farming. It's not your forte, Jack, my boy. Be advised. Sell off the farm
for what it will fetch, and come and join me. My antecedents are not in
my favour, I grant; but facts are stubborn things, and it is a fact that I
am making dollars here like stones. I'm a fur-trader, my boy. Have
joined a small company, and up to this time have made a good thing of
it. You know something of the fur trade, if I mistake not. Do come and
join us; we want such a man as you at a new post we have established
on the coast of Labrador. Shooting, fishing, hunting, ad libitum. Eating,
drinking, sleeping, ad infinitum. What would you more? Come, like a
good fellow, and be happy!
"Ever thine, J. MURRAY."

"I'll sell the farm," said Jack Robinson, folding the letter.
"You will?" exclaimed Joe. "What's your price?"
"Come over it with me, and look at the fixings, before I tell you," said
Jack.
They went over it together, and looked at every fence and stump and
implement. They visited the live stock, and estimated the value of the
sprouting crop. Then they returned to the house, where they struck a
bargain off-hand.
That evening Jack bade adieu to the Mountain House, mounted his
horse, with his worldly goods at the pommel of the saddle, and rode
away, leaving Joe, the trapper, in possession.
In process of time our hero rode through the settlements to Montreal,
where he sold his horse,