The Red Mans Revenge | Page 4

to shoot than to be able to hit a bull's-eye."
"True, but he who cannot hit a bull's-eye," returned Ian, with a smile, "can scarcely be expected to touch a maiden's--I mean a grizzly's heart."
A shout of laughter from Lambert greeted him as he left the house. His way home lay over the frozen bed of the river. Victor accompanied him part of the way.
"That was a strange slip for an unromantic fellow like you to make about a maiden's heart, Ian," said Victor, looking up at the rugged countenance of his friend.
"`Unromantic,' eh? Well, I suppose I am."
"Of course you are," said Victor, with the overweening assurance of youth. "Come, let's sit down here for a few minutes and discuss the point."
He sat down on a snowdrift; Ian kicked off his snowshoes and leaned against the bank.
"You're the most grave, sensible, good-natured, matter-of-fact, unsentimental, unselfish fellow I ever met with," resumed Victor. "If you were a romantic goose I wouldn't like you half as much as I do."
"Men are sometimes romantic without being geese," returned Ian; "but I have not time to discuss that point just now. Tell me, for I am anxious about it, have you spoken to your father about selling the field with the knoll to my father?"
"Yes, and he flatly refused to sell it. I'm really sorry, Ian, but you know how determined my father is. Once he says a thing he sticks to it, even though it should be to his own disadvantage."
"That's bad, Victor, very bad. It will raise ill-blood between them, and estrange our families. You think there's no chance?"
"None whatever."
"One more word before we part. Do you know much about that redskin whom your father called Petawanaquat?"
"Not much, except that he has come from a considerable distance to make inquiries, he says, about the Christian religion. He has been prowling about our place for a few days, and father, who has no great love to missionaries, and has strong suspicions of converted Indians, has twice treated him rather roughly."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Victor. These fellows are sometimes very revengeful. If you'll be advised by me you'll keep a sharp eye upon Petawanaquat. There, I'll say no more. You know I'm not an alarmist. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, old boy."
"I say."
"Well?"
"It was an awfully bad shot, that last of mine."
"It was," admitted Victor, with a laugh, "to miss a thing as big as a door at a hundred yards is only so-so."
"No chance of improvement, I fear," said Ian, with a sigh.
"Oh, don't say that," replied Victor. "Practice, perseverance, and patience, you know, overcome every--"
"Yes, yes. I know that well. Good-bye." They shook hands again, and were soon striding over the snow to their respective homes.
CHAPTER TWO.
CONFLICTING ELEMENTS AND A CATASTROPHE.
Hoary winter passed away, and genial spring returned to rejoice the land.
In a particularly amiable frame of mind, old Ravenshaw went out one morning to smoke.
Everything had gone well that morning. Breakfast had been punctual; appetite good; rheumatics in abeyance; the girls lively; and Miss Trim less of a torrent than was her wont. Mrs Ravenshaw's intellect had more than once almost risen to the ordinary human average, and Master Tony had been better--perhaps it were more correct to say less wicked-- than usual.
Old Ravenshaw was what his friends styled a heavy smoker, so was his kitchen chimney; but then the chimney had the excuse of being compelled to smoke, whereas its owner's insane act was voluntary.
Be not afraid, reader. We have no intention of entering into an argument with smokers. They are a pigheaded generation. We address those who have not yet become monomaniacs as regards tobacco.
In order to the full enjoyment of his pipe, the old gentleman had built on a knoll what Elsie styled a summer-house. Regardless of seasons, however--as he was of most things--her father used this temple at all seasons of the year, and preferred to call it a smoking box. Now, as this smoking-box, with its surroundings, had much to do with the issues of our story, we bring it under particular notice. It resembled a large sentry-box, and the willow-clad knoll on which it stood was close to the river. Being elevated slightly above the rest of the country, a somewhat extended view of river and plain was obtainable therefrom. Samuel Ravenshaw loved to contemplate this view through the medium of smoke. Thus seen it was hazy and in accord with his own idea of most things. The sun shone warmly into the smoking-box. It sparkled on the myriad dew-drops that hung on the willows, and swept in golden glory over the rolling plains. The old gentleman sat down, puffed, and was happy. The narcotic influence operated, and the irascible demon in his breast fell sound asleep.
How often do bright sunshine and profound calm precede a storm? Is