was embodied the living, breathing spirit of this new world into which David’s leap out of the baggage car had plunged him.  He was picturesquely of the wild; his face was darkly bearded; his ivory-white teeth shining as he smiled a welcome; his tricoloured, Hudson’s Bay coat of wool, with its frivolous red fringes, thrown open at the throat; the bushy tail of his fisher-skin cap hanging over a shoulder—­and with these things his voice rattling forth, in French and half Indian, his joy that Father Roland was not dead but had arrived at last.  Behind him stood the Indian—­his face without expression, dark, shrouded—­a bronze sphinx of mystery.  But his eyes shone as the Little Missioner greeted him—­shone so darkly and so full of fire that for a moment David was fascinated by them.  Then David was introduced.

“I am happy to meet you, m’sieu,” said the Frenchman.  His race was softly polite, even in the forests, and Thoreau’s voice, now mildly subdued, came strangely from the bearded wildness of his face.  The grip of his hand was like Father Roland’s—­something David had never felt among his friends back in the city.  He winced in the darkness, and for a long time afterward his fingers tingled.

It was then that David made his first break in the etiquette of the forests; a fortunate one, as time proved.  He did not know that shaking hands with an Indian was a matter of some formality, and so when Father Roland said, “This is Mukoki, who has been with me for many years,” David thrust out his hand.  Mukoki looked him straight in the eye for a moment, and then his blanket-coat parted and his slim, dark hand reached out.  Having received his lesson from both the Missioner and the Frenchman, David put into his grip all the strength that was in him—­the warmest hand-shake Mukoki had ever received in his life from a white man, with the exception of his master, the Missioner.

The next thing David heard was Father Roland’s voice inquiring eagerly about supper.  Thoreau’s reply was in French.

“He says the cabin is like the inside of a great, roast duck,” chuckled the Missioner.  “Come, David.  We’ll leave Mukoki to gather up our freight.”

A short walk up the track and David saw the cabin.  It was back in the shelter of the black spruce and balsam, its two windows that faced the railroad warmly illumined by the light inside.  The foxes had ceased their yapping, but the snarling and howling of dogs became more bloodthirsty as they drew nearer, and David could hear an ominous clinking of chains and snapping of teeth.  A few steps more and they were at the door.  Thoreau himself opened it, and stood back.

“Apres vous, m’sieu,” he said, his white teeth shining at David.  “It would give me bad luck and possibly all my foxes would die, if I went into my house ahead of a stranger.”