"Eli Kirke cannot know you are here, sir--"

"Eli Kirke _need_ not know," emphasized Radisson dryly.

And remembering bits of rumour about M. Radisson deserting the English
Fur Company, I hastened to add: "Eli Kirke _shall_ not know!"

"Your wits jump quick enough sometimes," said he. "Now tell me, whose
is she, and what value do you set on her?"

I was speechless with surprise. However wild a life M. Radisson led,
his title of nobility was from a king who awarded patents to gentlemen
only.

"We neither call our women '_she_' nor give them market value," I
retorted.

Thereupon M. de Radisson falls in such fits of laughter, I had thought
he must split his baldrick.

"Pardieu!" he laughed, wiping the tears away with a tangled lace thing
fit for a dandy, "Pardieu! 'Tis not your girl-page? 'Tis the ship o'
that hangdog of a New England captain!"

The thing came in a jiffy. Sieur Radisson, having deserted the English
Fur Company, was setting up for himself. He was spying the strength of
his rivals for the north sea.

"You praised my wit. I have but given you a sample."