made the most of the time by flocking to the ale-houses. M. Radisson
drew Jean and me apart.

"We'll beat our detractors yet," he said. "If news of this capture be
carried to the king and the Duke of York[1] before the shareholders
spread false reports, we are safe. If His Royal Highness favour us,
the Company must fall in line or lose their charter!"

And he bade us hire three of the fleetest saddle-horses to be found.
While the English crew were yet brawling in the taverns, we were to
horse and away. Our horse's feet rang on the cobblestones with the
echo of steel and the sparks flashed from M. Radisson's eyes. A
wharfmaster rushed into mid-road to stop us, but M. Radisson rode him
down. A uniformed constable called out to know what we were about.

"Our business!" shouts M. Radisson, and we are off.

Country franklins got their wains out of our way with mighty confusion,
and coaches drew aside for us to pass, and roadside brats scampered off
with a scream of freebooters; but M. Radisson only laughed.

"This is living," said he. "Give your nag rein, Jean! Whip and spur!
Ramsay! Whip and spur! Nothing's won but at cost of a sting! Throw
off those jack-boots, Jean! They're a handicap! Loose your holsters,
lad! An any highwaymen come at us to-day I'll send him a short way to
a place where he'll stay! Whip up! Whip up!"

"What have you under your arm?" cries Jean breathlessly.

"Rare furs for the king," calls Radisson.