The Shagganappi | Page 6

reply; he was looking across the room at Sir George
Bennington's son. He knew the name of the wealthy man whom Queen
Victoria had honored, knew it well. His father, Trapper Larocque, had
met Sir George in the old pioneer days of the railroad in the
North-West. There was a little story about Sir George, well-known in
the Red River Valley; Trapper Larocque knew it, the Hudson's Bay
Company knew it, Shag knew it, and was asking himself if Hal knew it.
Then the boy from Manitoba took the story and locked it within his
heart, sealed his lips above it, and said to his soul, "Hal Bennington
won't know it from me, nor will anyone else. He's made my first day at
this school an easy day; the fight won't be half what I thought it would.
I owe much to him, and above all I owe him my silence."
"Coming up, fellows?" asked Hal genially, as Cop Billings stretched
his big frame after grind in the evening at recreation hour before going
to bed. The word "fellows" embraced him with a look that included
Shag.
"Thanks, I guess we will," said Cop, and the three boys proceeded
upstairs to the private room occupied by Hal and one other, a stocky
fellow known as "Shorty" Magee, who was just settling to his
letter-writing as the boys entered. He nodded curtly, said "Hello!"

rather grumpily, and did not offer to shake hands when Hal introduced
Shag Larocque. Shorty always hated to be disturbed at anything, even
if it were the irksome weekly letter home. He shoved aside his
note-paper, however, and sat with his hands in his trousers pockets, his
feet stretched out in front of him, and a tolerant expression on his face.
Hal, always gracious and kindly, seemed more so than ever to-night,
evidently trying to make up for his roommate's moroseness by his own
geniality. He showed Shag his treasures, his collection of curiosities,
his two lynx-skin rugs--animals shot by his father years before--his pet
books, and finally came to his photographs.
"This is a splendid one of father," he said enthusiastically; "it was taken
when he was a young man surveying out West before they put the
railroad through. That group of men to the left are axe-men. It should
interest you, for Professor Warwick told me you came here to study
surveying."
"Yes," said Shag, "that is my chosen work."
"Then," continued Hal, "that splendid-looking chap on father's right
was his guide and personal cook--the one in the blanket coat and sash.
He was part French but mostly Indian, I fancy--Why, what's the matter,
Larocque?" for Shag had suddenly made some inarticulate exclamation,
and had carried the photograph nearer the light.
"That is my father," he said quietly. As he spoke the words he was well
aware that they might tell against him some time or other. He knew
enough of the civilization of the white people to understand that when
two boys attend the same school, one with a titled father and the other
with a father who had cooked for the titled one, that things are apt to
become strained; but never for one second did he hesitate about
claiming the Red River trapper as his sire. He would have despised
himself far more than any boy in the school could possibly do now, had
he failed to say the words, "That is my father." The attitude of his three
listeners was certainly a study. Cop Billings stood staring at him for a
moment, then said, "Well, if your dad did cook he gets you far better
shirts and socks than mine does me." Shorty Magee uttered the four

words, "Cooked for Sir George!" and with an ugly sneer turned again to
his letter-writing.
Hal Bennington had sprung forward, tossing his arms about the Indian's
shoulders and exclaiming, "Your father! Is French Pete your father? Oh,
I'm so glad! Father will be delighted when I tell him. I have heard him
say a hundred times that he would never have lived to be 'Sir' George if
it hadn't been for French Pete."
"Yes, they call my father French Pete because, although he is nearly all
Indian, he speaks French so well," announced Shag.
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