Starting with the rest of the
unattached community of Athabasca Landing to go down to the pool-room,
we catch sight of Dr. Sussex and the Cree priest, who have found a
little oasis of their own around a big stove in the upper hall and, with
chairs tilted back, are enjoying some portable hospitality from below.
The doctor arises to escort us through the flood, and when I rally him
about his liquid refreshment, he says, "Oh, I had lemonade."
"I see. And the priest?"
"He had--what he liked."
If local colour and local smell is what we have come north for, we find
it here. Mr. Brabant comes up with "I wonder if that bunch of nuns is
going to get here in time to take scows with us," and we pass into the
billiard-room and watch the game. The players gliding round in moccasins
are all half-breeds. The exclamations are for the most part in Cree or
bad French, and as I crowd in looking for some local terms all that I
hear intelligible is, "That is damn close, I think me."
For thirty-six hours on end it rains. That roof was full of surprises;
you never knew where it would spring a fresh leak. One room is a little
better than the rest, and we all gather there and make the best of
it,--smoking, writing, telling yarns.
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