David had come at a propitious moment—­a “most propichus moment,” Hatchett told him.  He had done splendidly that winter.  His bargains with the Indians had been sharp and exceedingly profitable for the Company and as soon as he got his furs off to Fort McMurray on their way to Edmonton he was going on a long journey of inspection, which was his reward for duty well performed.  His fur barges were ready.  All they were waiting for was the breaking up of the ice, when the barges would start up the Athabasca, which meant south; while he, in his big war canoe, would head up the Peace, which meant west.  He was going as far as Hudson’s Hope, and this was within two hundred and fifty miles of where David wanted to go.  He proved that fact by digging up an old Company map.  David’s heart beat an excited tattoo.  This was more than he had expected.  Almost too good to be true.  “You can work your way up there with me,” declared Hatchett, clicking his pipe stem.  “Won’t cost you a cent.  Not a dam’ cent.  Work.  Eat.  Smoke.  Fine trip.  Just for company.  A man needs company once in a while—­decent company.  Ice will go by middle of May.  Two weeks.  Meanwhile, have a devil of a time playing cribbage.”

They did.  Cribbage was Hatchett’s one passion, unless another was—­beating the Indians.  “Rascally devils,” he would say, driving his cribbage pegs home.  “Always trying to put off poor fur on me for good.  Deserve to be beat.  And I beat ’em.  Dam-if-I-don’t.”

“How did you lose your teeth?” David asked him at last.  They were playing late one night.

Hatchett sat up in his chair as if stung.  His eyes bulged as he looked at David, and his pipe stem clicked fiercely.

“Frenchman,” he said.  “Dirty pig of a Frenchman.  No use for ’em.  None.  Told him women were no good—­all women were bad.  Said he had a woman.  Said I didn’t care—­all bad just the same.  Said the woman he referred to was his wife.  Told him he was a fool to have a wife.  No warning—­the pig!  He biffed me.  Knocked those two teeth out—­down!  I’ll get him some day.  Flay him.  Make dog whips of his dirty hide.  All Frenchmen ought to die.  Hope to God they will.  Starve.  Freeze.”

In spite of himself David laughed.  Hatchett took no offense, but the grimness of his long, sombre countenance remained unbroken.  A day or two later he discovered Hatchett in the act of giving an old, white-haired, half-breed cripple a bag of supplies.  Hatchett shook himself, as if caught in an act of crime.

“I’m going to kill that old Dog Rib soon as the ground’s soft enough to dig a grave,” he declared, shaking a fist fiercely after the old Indian.  “Beggar.  A sneak.  No good.  Ought to die.  Giving him just enough to keep him alive until the ground is soft.”

After all, Hatchett’s face belied his heart.  His tongue was like a cleaver.  It ripped things generally—­was terrible in its threatening, but harmless, and tremendously amusing to David.  He liked Hatchett.  His cadaverous countenance, never breaking into a smile, was the oddest mask he had ever seen a human being wear.  He believed that if it once broke into a laugh it would not straighten back again without leaving a permanent crack.  And yet he liked the man, and the days passed swiftly.