It was cheerless.  When I say we made a camp it is misleading, for we could not swing our kettles for fear of the betraying smoke.  We sat down stiffly, for the ground was still wet from the night dew, and we passed our bags of dried maize and jerked meat from hand to hand.  I made some ado to eat cheerfully, for I saw that the men were surly from this unnecessary hardship.  The western Indians were friendly, and if we had not had this incubus of an Englishman on our hands we should have had fire and song, a boiling pot, and roasting maize cakes.  There was no muttering among the men, for I was there, but they looked glowering, and drew away.

The Englishman ate in silence.  I was too ruffled and crossgrained to talk to him, but I could not keep myself from watching him.  His eyes were less sad than I had thought.  I could imagine that they might easily be merry.  But they were watchful eyes.  He saw the discontent among the men, and finally he rose and went to them.  I followed him with some warning in my look, for I thought that he was vexed, and I knew that his tongue was sharp, but I realized in a moment that his brain was in control and that he was safe.

“I have brought you all discomfort,” he said, with a shake of the head, and his slow French gave his words more meaning than they perhaps deserved.  “I regret this.  It is hard for me to bear, for it is new to me to be a burden.  But what can I do?  I cannot go away.  I am not enamored of this voyage, for I do not like being thrust upon your company, but you saved my life, and I have no right to throw away what you went to such lengths to preserve.  What would you have me do?”

The oafs exchanged glances.  They spoke after a minute in a united, disjointed grumble.

“You don’t work.”

The Englishman looked at them and at me.  I realized that he was curiously slight and young, and that we seemed hostile.  That was hardly just, and I was ready to go to his rescue.  But he turned from me to the men.

“It is true that I work very badly,” he said.  “I do not know how.  But men are born of women, and—­well, what a man can do I can learn.  Suppose, now, that I go and relieve Pierre at the watch.  If you will show me what to do I think you will find me teachable.  I shall try to be as little of a burden as possible.  Here is my hand on it.”  And he held out his slim palm for their grasp.

Again they stared; but the hand won them.  They touched it fumblingly and were impressed.  They were a slow lot, selected for various purposes other than wit.  Their minds moved too sluggishly for swift reactions, and I dismissed anxiety about them from my mind.

The Englishman turned to me.  “Will you conduct me to the shore?  I will take Pierre’s place.”

It was my turn to stare.  “Suppose you conduct yourself,” was on my tongue, but I let it escape unsaid.  “Come, then,” I answered, with a shrug.