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.

"_Après 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