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He would have shared it with them, if they had asked him, for they ran behind him on the trail.But when they both set their teeth in his neck, there was nothing to do but to lay them both out: which he did.Afterward he was willing enough to make friends, but they bristled and cursed whenever he came near them.

It was the same with everybody.If he went out for a walk on the beach, Vigneau's dogs or Simard's dogs regarded it as an insult, and there was a fight.Men picked up sticks, or showed him the butt-end of their dog-whips, when he made friendly approaches.With the children it was different; they seemed to like him a little; but never did he follow one of them that a mother did not call from the house-door: "Pierre! Marie! come away quick! That bad dog will bite you!" Once when he ran down to the shore to watch the boat coming in from the mail-steamer, the purser had refused to let the boat go to land, and called out, "M'sieu' MacIntosh, you git no malle dis trip, eef you not call avay dat dam' dog."True, the Minganites seemed to take a certain kind of pride in his reputation.They had brought Chouart's big brown dog, Gripette, down from the Sheldrake to meet him; and after the meeting was over and Gripette had been revived with a bucket of water, everybody, except Chouart, appeared to be in good humour.The purser of the steamer had gone to the trouble of introducing a famous BOULE-DOGGEfrom Quebec, on the trip after that on which he had given such a hostile opinion of Pichon.The bulldog's intentions were unmistakable; he expressed them the moment he touched the beach; and when they carried him back to the boat on a fish-barrow many flattering words were spoken about Pichou.He was not insensible to them.But these tributes to his prowess were not what he really wanted.His secret desire was for tokens of affection.His position was honourable, but it was intolerably lonely and full of trouble.He sought peace and he found fights.

While he meditated dimly on these things, patiently trying to get the ashes of Dan Scott's pipe out of his nose, his heart was cast down and his spirit was disquieted within him.Was ever a decent dog so mishandled before? Kicked for nothing by a fat stranger, and then beaten by his own master!

In the dining-room of the Post, Grant was slowly and reluctantly allowing himself to be convinced that his injuries were not fatal.

During this process considerable Scotch whiskey was consumed and there was much conversation about the viciousness of dogs.Grant insisted that Pichou was mad and had a devil.MacIntosh admitted the devil, but firmly denied the madness.The question was, whether the dog should be killed or not; and over this point there was like to be more bloodshed, until Dan Scott made his contribution to the argument: "If you shoot him, how can you tell whether he is mad or not? I'll give thirty dollars for him and take him home.""If you do," said Grant, "you'll sail alone, and I'll wait for the steamer.Never a step will I go in the boat with the crazy brute that bit me.""Suit yourself," said Dan Scott."You kicked before he bit."At daybreak he whistled the dog down to the chaloupe, hoisted sail, and bore away for Seven Islands.There was a secret bond of sympathy between the two companions on that hundred-mile voyage in an open boat.Neither of them realized what it was, but still it was there.

Dan Scott knew what it meant to stand alone, to face a small hostile world, to have a surfeit of fighting.The station of Seven Islands was the hardest in all the district of the ancient POSTES DU ROI.

The Indians were surly and crafty.They knew all the tricks of the fur-trade.They killed out of season, and understood how to make a rusty pelt look black.The former agent had accommodated himself to his customers.He had no objection to shutting one of his eyes, so long as the other could see a chance of doing a stroke of business for himself.He also had a convenient weakness in the sense of smell, when there was an old stock of pork to work off on the savages.But all of Dan Scott's senses were strong, especially his sense of justice, and he came into the Post resolved to play a straight game with both hands, toward the Indians and toward the Honourable H.B.Company.The immediate results were reproofs from Ottawa and revilings from Seven Islands.Furthermore the free traders were against him because he objected to their selling rum to the savages.

It must be confessed that Dan Scott had a way with him that looked pugnacious.He was quick in his motions and carried his shoulders well thrown back.His voice was heavy.He used short words and few of them.His eyebrow's were thick and they met over his nose.Then there was a broad white scar at one corner of his mouth.His appearance was not prepossessing, but at heart he was a philanthropist and a sentimentalist.He thirsted for gratitude and affection on a just basis.He had studied for eighteen months in the medical school at Montreal, and his chief delight was to practise gratuitously among the sick and wounded of the neighbourhood.His ambition for Seven Islands was to make it a northern suburb of Paradise, and for himself to become a full-fledged physician.Up to this time it seemed as if he would have to break more bones than he could set; and the closest connection of Seven Islands appeared to be with Purgatory.

First, there had been a question of suzerainty between Dan Scott and the local representative of the Astor family, a big half-breed descendant of a fur-trader, who was the virtual chief of the Indians hunting on the Ste.Marguerite: settled by knock-down arguments.