"Do not be angry with me, my son," he said, laying a hand on the
young man's arm. "I may be wrong, but I act upon long and
convincing experience."
"Experience or no experience," Helm exclaimed with an oath, "this
fort must be manned and defended. I am commanding here!"
"Yes, I recognize your authority," responded the priest in a firm
yet deferential tone, "and I heartily wish you had a garrison; but
where is your command, Captain Helm?" Then it was that the doughty
Captain let loose the accumulated profanity with which he had been
for some time well-nigh bursting. He tiptoed in order to curse
with extremest violence. His gestures were threatening. He shook
his fists at Father Beret, without really meaning offence.
"Where is my garrison, you ask! Yes, and I can tell you. It's
where you might expect a gang of dad blasted jabbering French
good-for-nothings to be, off high-gannicking around shooting
buffaloes instead of staying here and defending their wives,
children, homes and country, damn their everlasting souls! The few
I have in the fort will sneak off, I suppose."
"The French gave you this post on easy terms, Captain," blandly
retorted Father Beret.
"Yes, and they'll hand it over to Hamilton, you think, on the same
basis," cried Helm, "but I'll show you! I'll show you, Mr.
Priest!"
"Pardon me, Captain, the French are loyal to you and to the flag
yonder.
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