WITH THE VOYAGEURS 15 



The various boatmen, Indians and half-breeds, came 

 with their troubles, and, thanks chiefly to their faith, 

 were cured. But one day John MacDonald, the chief 

 pilot and a mighty man on the river, came to my tent 

 on Grand Island. John complained that he couldn't 

 hold anything on his stomach; he was a total peristaltic 

 wreck indeed (my words; his were more simple and 

 more vivid, but less sonorous and professional). He 

 said he had been going down hill for two weeks, and 

 was so bad now that he was "no better than a couple 

 of ordinary mien." 



"Exactly so," I said. "Now you take these pills and 

 you'll be all right in the morning." Next morning 

 John was back, and complained that my pills had no 

 effect; he wanted to feel something take hold of him. 

 Hadn't I any pepper-juice or brandy? 



I do not take liquor on an expedition, but at the 

 last moment a Winnipeg friend had given me a pint 

 flask of pure brandy — "for emergencies." An emer- 

 gency had come. 



"John! you shall have some extra fine brandy, 

 nicely thinned with pepper-juice." I poured half an 

 inch of brandy into a tin cup, then added half an inch 

 of "pain-killer." 



"Here, take this, and if you don't feel it, it means 

 your insides are dead, and you may as well order your 

 cofiin." 



John took it at a gulp. His insides were not dead; 

 but I might have been, had I been one of his boatmen. 



He doubled up, rolled around, and danced for five 

 minutes. He did not squeal — John never squeals — but 



