triumph if less.

In my craft sailed, besides Josef and myself, as bow paddler, The Tin
Lizzie. We called him that except when he could hear us, and I think it
would have done small harm to call him so then, as he had the brain of a
jack-rabbit and managed not to know any English, even when soaked in it
daily. John Dudley had named him because of the plebeian and reliable
way in which he plugged along Canadian trails. He set forth the queerest
walk I have ever seen--a human Ford, John said. He was also quite mad
about John. There had been a week in which Dudley, much of a doctor, had
treated, with cheerful patience and skill, an infected and painful hand
of the guide's, and this had won for him the love eternal of our Tin
Lizzie. Little John Dudley thought, as he made jokes to distract the
boy, and worked over his big throbbing fist, the fist which meant daily
bread--little John thought where the plant of love springing from that
seed of gratitude would at last blossom. Little he thought as the two
sat on the gallery of the camp, and the placid lake broke in silver on
pebbles below, through what hell of fire and smoke and danger the
kindliness he gave to the stupid young guide would be given back to him.
Which is getting ahead of the story.

I suggested that the Lizzie might like a turn at frogging, and Josef,
with Indian wordlessness, handed the net to him. Whereupon, with his
flabby mouth wide and his large gray eyes gleaming, he proceeded to miss
four easy ones in succession. And with that Josef, in a gibberish which
is French-Canadian patois of the inner circles, addressed the Tin Lizzie
and took away the net from him, asking no orders from me. The Lizzie,
pipe in mouth as always, smiled just as pleasantly under this punishment
as in the hour of his opportunities. He would have been a very handsome
boy, with his huge eyes and brilliant brown and red color and his