The man climbing over his family indiscriminately, landed and came up
the bank with outstretched hand. The woman and children remained
sitting like statues in their narrow craft, staring unwinkingly at the
white men.

Mrs. Goussard as a full-blooded Cree was considerably below Peter's
half-breed wife in the social scale, and she knew better than to make a
call uninvited. Even in the north, woman, the conservator, maintains
the distinctions.

"Stay all night," urged Peter when formal greetings had been exchanged.
"Bring your family ashore."

Poly Goussard shook his head. Poly had a chest like a barrel, a face
the color of Baldwin apples and a pair of rolling, gleaming, sloe-black
eyes. His head of curly black hair was famous; some one had called him
the "Newfoundland dog."

"I promise my wife I sleep wit' her folks to-night," he said. "It is
ten miles yet. I jus' come ashore for a little talk."

"Fine!" said Peter, "we're spoiling for news. Come on up to the store
and have a cigar."

Seven hundred miles from the railway a cigar is something of a
phenomenon. Poly Goussard displayed twenty dazzling teeth and made
haste to follow. The three men entered the store and found seats on
boxes and bales.