trading now at Missináibie, and if he ain't chummed up with some of them
Ojibways to get permission to trap in their allotments, and if he ain't
pushed right on home to his own people or out west to Winnipeg country,
then most likely we'll find him somewheres about the region of th'
Kabinakágam."

"So we'll go up th' Missináibie River first," surmised Dick.

"That's how we'll make a start," assented Bolton.

As though this decision had terminated an interview, they turned with
one accord toward the dim group of their companions. As they approached,
they were acclaimed.

"Here he is," "Dick, come here," "Dick, sing us the song. Chante donc
'Oncle Naid,' Deeck."

And Dick, leaning carelessly against the breech of the field-guns, in a
rich, husky baritone crooned to the far north the soft syllables of the
far south.

"_Oh, there was an old darkey, and his name was Uncle Ned,
And he lived long ago, long ago!_"




CHAPTER THREE