Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Big Otter
Chapter Twenty Eight.
The Wilderness again—New Plans mooted—Treacherous Ice, and a Brave Rescue
The well-known disinclination of time and tide to wait for any man holds good in the wilderness of the Great Nor’-west, as elsewhere.
Notwithstanding the momentous events which took place at Fort Wichikagan and in Colorado, as detailed in preceding chapters, the winter passed away as usual, spring returned, and the voice of the grey-goose and plover began once more to gladden the heart of exiled man.
Jack Lumley sat on a rustic chair in front of the Hall, gazing with wistful eyes at the still ice-covered lake, and occasionally consulting an open letter in his hand with frowning looks of meditation. The sweet voice of Jessie Lumley came from the interior of the Hall, trilling a tuneful Highland air, which, sweeping over the lawn and lake, mingled with the discords of the plover and geese, thus producing a species of wild-wood harmony.
Peter Macnab—who, since the memorable day when the table became a split-camel under his weight, had been to the Mountain Fort and got back again to Wichikagan—came up, sat down on a bench beside his brother-in-law, and said,—“Shall I become a prophet?”
“Perhaps you’d better not, Macnab. It is not safe to sail under false colours, or pretend to powers which one does not possess.”
“But what if I feel a sort of inspiration which convinces me that I do possess prophetic powers, at least to some extent?”
“Then explode and relieve yourself by all means,” said Lumley.
“You have read that letter,” resumed Macnab, “at least fifty times, if you have read it once.”
“If you had said that I had read it a hundred and fifty times,” returned Lumley, “you would have been still under the mark.”
“Just so. And you have meditated over it, and dreamed about it, and talked it over with your wife at least as many times—if not more.”
“Your claim to rank among the prophets is indisputable, Macnab—at least as regards the past. What have you got to say about the future?”
“The future is as clear to me, my boy, as yonder sun, which gleams in the pools that stud the ice on Lake Wichikagan.”
“I am afraid, brother-in-law,” returned Lumley, with a pitiful smile, “that your intellects are sinking to a par with those of the geese which fly over the pools referred to.”
“Listen!” resumed the Highlander, with a serious air that was unusual in him. “I read the future thus. You have already, as I am aware, sent in your resignation. Well, you will not only quit the service of the HBC, but you will go and join your friend Maxby in Colorado; you will become a farmer; and, worst of all, you will take my dear sister with you.”
“In some respects,” said Lumley, also becoming serious, “you are right. I have made up my mind that, God willing, I shall quit the service—not that I find fault with it, very much the reverse; but it is too much of a life of exile and solitude to my dear Jessie. I will also go to Colorado and join Maxby, but I won’t take your sister from you. I will take you with me, brother-in-law, if you will consent to go, and we shall all live together. What say you?”
Macnab shook his head, sadly.
“You forget my boy, that your case is very different from mine. You have only just reached the end of your second term of service, and are still a youth. Whereas, I am a commissioned officer of the Fur Trade, with a fairish income, besides being an elderly man, and not very keen to throw all up and begin life over again.”
There was much in what Macnab said, yet not so much but that Lumley set himself, with all his powers of suasion and suavity, to induce his brother-in-law to change his mind. But Lumley had yet to learn that no power of Saxon logic, or personal influence, can move the will of a man from beyond the Grampian range who has once made up his mind.
When all was said, Macnab still shook his head, and smiled regretfully.
“It’s of no use wasting your breath, my boy,—but tell me, is Jessie anxious for this change?”
“She is anxious. She naturally pines for female society—though she did not say so until I urged her solemnly to tell me all her mind. And she is right. It is not good for woman, any more than for man, to be alone, and when I am away on these long expeditions—taking the furs to the depot, searching out the Indians, hunting, etcetera,—she is left unavoidably alone. I have felt this very strongly, and that was why, as you know, I had made up my mind during the winter, and written to the governor and council that, as my time had expired, I meant to retire this spring.”
“Yes, boy, I know,” returned Macnab. “I foresaw all this even long before you began to move in the matter, and I also took steps with a view to contingencies. You know that I am entitled to a year’s furlough this spring. Well, I wrote during the winter to say that I intended to avail myself of it. Now, then, this is what I intend to do. When you retire, and go off to the States, I will go with you on leave of absence. We won’t lose time by the way, for you may depend on it that Maxby will not delay his wedding longer than he can help. Fortunately, his old father won’t be able to wind up his affairs in England, and set off to Colorado quite as quickly as the son expects, so that will help to delay matters; and thus, though we can hardly expect to be in time for the wedding, we will at least be time enough to claim a revival and extension of the festivities. Then, you know, Big Otter—”
“Aye, what of him?” asked Lumley, seeing that Macnab paused.
“Well, I think we may prevail on him to go with us, as our guide, till we reach the civilised world, after which, we can take him in charge—turn the tables as it were—and guide him to Sunny Creek.”
“Yes—or send him on in advance of us, through the wood in a straight line, like the swallow, to announce our approach.”
At this point, Jessie, who had been busy with the household bread, came to the door with a face radiant from the combined effect of hard work and happiness.
“What is the subject of all this earnest conversation, Jack?” she asked, pulling down the sleeves that had been tucked up above her elbows.
“Ask your brother, Jess,” said Lumley, rising. “I shall have time before supper to pay a visit to Big Otter on a matter of some importance.”
He passed into the house to take up his gun and powder-horn, while Jessie sat down on the rustic chair, and her brother returned to the subject that had been interrupted.
Now there occurred that afternoon an event which might have put a final and fatal termination to the plans which had just been so eagerly discussed.
I have said that spring was so far advanced at that time, that pools of water were formed on the ice of Lake Wichikagan. The heat which caused these had also the effect of softening the snow in the woods, so as to render walking in snow-shoes very laborious. As walking without them, however, was impossible, Lumley had no other course left than to put them on and plod away heavily through the deep and pasty snow.
Big Otter at that time occupied the important position of hunter to the establishment. He supplied it with fresh meat and dwelt in a small wigwam, about six miles distant from the fort, on the borders of a little lake—little at least for that region, but measuring somewhat over three miles in diameter. He also, for his own advantage and recreation, carried on the business of a trapper, and had that winter supplied many a silver fox and marten to the fur-stores at Wichikagan.
When Lumley set out to visit the chief he knew that there was a possibility of his being out after deer, but in that case he meant to await his arrival, at least until nightfall, and then he could leave a hieroglyphic message, which the Indian would understand, requiring his immediate presence at the fort. In any case Lumley thought nothing of a twelve-mile walk, even though the snow was soft and deep.
Nothing worthy of notice occurred until he reached the lake above-mentioned, on the borders of which he halted. Looking across the bay, on the other side of which the hunter’s wigwam stood, he could discern among the pines and willows the orange-coloured birch-bark of which it was made, but no wreath of blue smoke told of the presence of the hunter.
“H’m! not at home!” muttered Lumley, who then proceeded to debate with himself the propriety of venturing to cross the bay on the ice.
Now, it must be told that ice on the North American lakes becomes exceedingly dangerous at a certain period of spring, for, retaining much of its winter solidity of appearance, and, indeed, much of its winter thickness, it tempts men to venture on it when, in reality, it has become honeycombed and “rotten.” Ice of this kind—no matter how thick it be,—is prone to give way without any of those friendly cracks and rends and other warnings peculiar to the new ice of autumn, and, instead of giving way in angular cakes, it suddenly slides down, letting a man through to the water, by opening a hole not much larger than himself. Of course Lumley was well aware of this danger—hence the debate with himself, or rather with his judgment.
“It looks solid enough,” said Lumley.
“Looks are deceptive,” said his judgment.
“Then, it’s rather early yet for the ice to have become quite rotten,” said Lumley.
“So everyone goes on saying, every spring, till some unfortunate loses his life, and teaches others wisdom,” said judgment; “besides, you’re a heavy man.”
“And it is a tremendous long way round by the shore—nearly four times the distance,” murmured Lumley.
“What of that in comparison with the risk you run,” remarked judgment, growing impatient.
“I’ll venture it!” said the man, sternly.
“You’re a fool!” cried the other, getting angry.
It is surprising with what equanimity a man will stand insulting language from himself! With something like a contemptuous smile on his lips, Lumley took off his snow-shoes and set off to cross the bay.
As he had anticipated, he found it as firm as a rock. The surface, indeed, had a dark wet look about it, and there were various pools here and there which he carefully avoided; but there was no other indication of danger until he had got three-quarters of the way across. Then, without an instant’s warning, the mass of ice on which he stood dropped below him like a trap-door and left him struggling in a compound of ice and water!
The first shock of the cold water on his robust frame was to give it a feeling of unusual strength. With a sharp shout, caused by the cold rather than alarm, he laid both hands on the edge of the ice, and, springing like an acrobat out of the water to his waist, fell with his chest on the still sound ice; but it was not long sound. His convulsive grip and heavy weight broke it off, and down he sank again, over head and ears.
It is not easy to convince a very powerful man that he may become helpless. Lumley rose, and, with another Herculean grip, laid hold of the edge of the ice. His mind had not yet fully admitted that he was in absolute danger. He had only been recklessly vigorous at the first attempt to get out—that was all—now, he would exercise caution.
With the coolness that was natural to him—increased, perhaps, by the coolness of the water—he again laid his hands on the edge of the ice, but he did not try to scramble upon it. He had been a practised gymnast at school. Many a time had he got into a boat from deep water while bathing, and he knew that in such an effort one is hampered by the tendency one’s legs have to get under the boat and prevent action—even as, at that moment, his legs were attempting to go under the ice. Adopting, therefore, his old plan and keeping his hands on the edge of the ice, he first of all paddled backwards with his legs until he got himself into a quite perpendicular position, so that when he should make the spring there would be no fear of retarding his action by scraping against the ice with his chest. While in this position he let himself sink to the very lips—nay, even lower—and then, acting with arms and legs at the same moment, he shot himself full half his length out of the water.
The whole process was well calculated, for, by sinking so deeply before the spring, he thus made use of the buoyancy of water, and rendered less pressure with his hands on the ice needful. But, although he thus avoided breaking the ice at first he could not by any device lessen the weight of his fall upon it. Again the treacherous mass gave way, and once more he sank into the cold lake.
Cold, far more than exertion, tells on a man in such circumstances. A feeling of exhaustion, such as poor Lumley had never felt before, came over him.
“God help me!” he gasped, with the fervour that comes over men when in the hour of their extremity.
Death seemed at last evidently to confront him, and with the energy of a brave man he grappled and fought him. Again and again he tried the faithless ice, each time trying to recall some device in athletics which might help him, but always with the same result. Then, still clinging to life convulsively, he prayed fervently and tried to meet his fate like a man. This effort is probably more easy on the battle-field, with the vital powers unexhausted, and the passions strong. It was not so easy in the lone wilderness, with no comrade’s voice to cheer, with the cold gradually benumbing all the vital powers, and with life slipping slowly away like an unbelievable dream!
The desire to live came over him so strongly at times, that again and yet again, he struggled back from the gates of the dark valley by the mere power of his will and renewed his fruitless efforts; and when at last despair took possession of him, from the depths of his capacious chest he gave vent to that:—
“Bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony!”
Sleeping soundly in his wigwam, Big Otter heard the cry.
Our Indian was not the man to start up and stare, and wonder, and wait for a repetition of any cry. Like the deer which he had so often roused, he leaped up, bounded through the doorway of his tent, and grasped gun and snow-shoes. One glance sufficed to show him the not far distant hole in the ice. Dropping the gun he thrust his feet into the snowshoes, and went off over the ice at racing speed. The snow-shoes did not impede him much, and they rendered the run over the ice less dangerous. Probably Lumley would not have broken through if he had used his snow-shoes, because of the larger surface of ice which they would have covered.
To come within a few yards of the hole, slide to the edge of it on his chest, with both snow-shoes spread out under that, by way of diffusing his weight over as much surface as possible, was the work of only a few minutes. But by that time the perishing man was almost incapable of helping himself. The great difficulty that the rescuer experienced was to rouse Lumley once more to action, for the torpor that precedes death had already set in, and to get on his knees on the edge of the ice, so as to have power to raise his friend, would only have resulted in the loss of his own life as well. To make sure that he should not let go his hold and slip, Big Otter tied the end of his long worsted belt round his friend’s right wrist.
“Now,” he said, earnestly, “try once more.”
“Too late—too late! God bless you, Big—” He stopped, and his eyes closed!
“No!” cried the Indian, vehemently, giving the perishing man’s head a violent shake—then, putting his mouth close to his ear, added in a deep tone—“Not too late for the Master of Life to save. Think! The dark-haired pale-face waits for you.”
This was a judicious touch. The energy which could not be aroused by any consideration of self was electrified by the thought of the waiting wife. Lumley made one more desperate effort and once again cried to God for help. Both acts contributed to the desired end, and were themselves an answer to the prayer of faith. Mysterious connection! Hope revived, and the vital fluid received a fresh impulse. In the strength of it Lumley raised himself so far out of the water that the Indian was able to drag half his body on the ice, but the legs still hung down. Creeping back a few feet, the Indian, still lying flat on his face, cut a hole in the ice with his hatchet into which he stuck his toe, and seized hold of the end of his worsted belt.
“That’s right,” said his friend, faintly—“wait.”
Big Otter knew that full consciousness had returned. He waited while Lumley, gently paddling with his legs, got them into a horizontal position.
“Now!” cried Lumley.
The Indian pulled—softly at first, then vigorously, and Lumley slid fairly on the ice. The rest, though still dangerous, was easy. In a few minutes more the red-man had the pale-face stripped beside a rousing fire in the wigwam—and thus he brought him back to life from the very gates of death.
“You have saved me, my good friend,” said Lumley, when he began to recover.
“The Great Master of Life saved you,” returned the Indian. “He made use of me—for which I thank him.”
It was not until late on the following day that Lumley felt strong enough to return to the fort, and relate what had occurred. Then the plans for the future were laid before Big Otter, and, to the satisfaction of all parties, he agreed at once to fall in with them.
“But,” said he, “Big Otter will not stay. He loves the great wilderness too well to be content to live among the wooden wigwams of the pale-faces.”
“Well, we won’t bother ourselves on that point just now,” said Macnab, “and so, as that’s comfortably settled, I’ll pack up and away back to my mountain fort to get ready for a trip, with you and Lumley and Jessie, to Colorado.”
Chapter Twenty Nine.
The Last
Once more I change the scene, from the wild regions of the north to the little less wild lands of Colorado.
On a certain bright forenoon in Autumn I stood in the doorway of Sunny Creek Cottage watching a clumsy vehicle as it laboured slowly up the hill. I was alone that day, old Mrs Liston, Eve, and “Aunt Temple” having gone off in the waggon for a long drive to visit a relative with hunting proclivities, who had built himself a log-hut in a ravine of the neighbouring mountains, that he might be in closer proximity to the bears and deer.
With some curiosity I approached the lumbering machine to assist the occupant, who seemed unable, or too impatient, to open the door. It was a stiff door, and swung open with a jerk which caused the occupant’s hat to fall off, and reveal a bald head.
“Father!” I gasped.
“Punch, my boy!”
The dear old man tripped in his haste to get down, plunged into my bosom, threw his arms round my neck to save himself, and almost bore me to the ground. Neither of us being demonstrative in our affections, this unpremeditated, not to say unintentional, embrace I felt to be quite touching. My father obviously resolved to make the most of his opportunities, for he gave me a thoroughly exhaustive hug before releasing me.
“I—I—didn’t m–mean,” said my father, blazing with excitement, and gasping with a mingled tendency to laugh and weep, “didn’t mean to come it quite so strong, P–Punch, my boy, b–but you’ll make allowance for a momentary weakness. I’m getting an old man, Punch. What makes you grin so, you backwoods koonisquat?”
The last sentence, with its opprobrious epithet (coined on the spot), was addressed with sudden asperity to the driver of the clumsy vehicle, who was seated on his box, with mouth expanded from ear to ear.
“Wall, stranger, if you will insist on knowin’,” said he, “It’s sympathy that makes me grin. I do like to see human natur’ out of its go-to-meetin’ togs, with its saddle off, an’ no bridal on, spurtin’ around in gushin’ simplicity. But you’re wrong, stranger,” continued the driver, with a grave look, “quite wrong in callin’ me a koonisquat. I have dropt in the social scale, but I ain’t got quite so low as that, I guess, by a long chalk.”
“Well, you compound of Welshman and Yankee, be off and refresh yourself,” returned my father, putting an extra dollar, over and above his fare, into the man’s hand, “but don’t consume it on your filthy fire-water cock-tails, or gin-slings, or any other kind of sling-tails. If you must drink, take it out in strong hot coffee.”
The man drove off, still grinning, and I hurried my father into the cottage where, while I set before him a good luncheon, he gave me a wildly rambling and interjectional account of his proceedings since the date of his last letter to me.
“But why did you take me by surprise in this way, dear daddy; why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”
“Because I like to take people by surprise, especially ill-doing scapegraces like—by the way,” said my father, suddenly laying down his knife and fork, “where is she?”
“Where is who?”
“She—her, of course; the—the girl, the Hottentot, the savage. Oh! George, what an ass you are!”
“If you mean Eve, sir,” said I, “she is away from home—and everybody else along with her. That comes of your taking people by surprise, you see. Nobody prepared to receive you; nothing ready. No sheets aired even.”
“Well, well, Punch, my boy, don’t be sharp with your old father. I won’t offend again. By the way,” he added, quickly, “you’re not married yet? eh?”
“No, not yet.”
“Ah!” said my father with a sigh of relief, as he resumed his knife and fork, “then there’s the barest chance of a possibility that if—but you’ve asked her to marry you, eh?”
“Yes, I have asked her.”
“And she has accepted you?”
“Yes, she has accepted me. I wrote all that to you long ago.”
“Ah!” said my father, with a profound sigh of resignation, “then there is no chance of a possibility, for if a man tries to win the affections of a girl and succeeds, he is bound in honour to marry her—even though he were the Emperor of China, and she a—a Hottentot. Now, Punch, I have made up my mind to like the girl, even though she painted scarlet circles round her eyes, and smeared her nose with sky-blue—but you must let your poor old father blow off the steam, for you have been such a—a donkey!—such a hasty, impatient, sentimental, romantic idiot, that—another glass of that milk, my boy. Thank’ee, where do you get it? Beats English milk hollow.”
“Got it from one of our numerous cows, daddy,” said I, with a short laugh at this violent change of the subject, “and my Eve made the butter.”
“Did she, indeed? Well, I’m glad she’s fit for even that small amount of civilised labour; but you have not told me yet when I shall see her?”
“That is a question I cannot exactly answer,” said I, “but you will at all events be introduced to-night to her father’s mother, and her cousin (whom we call aunt), as well as to a young lady—a Miss Waboose—who is staying with us at present. And now, father,” I added, “come, and we’ll have a stroll round the farm. I don’t expect the ladies back till evening. Meanwhile, I want you to do me a favour; to humour what I may call a whim.”
“If it’s not a very silly one, Punch, I’ll do it, though I have not much confidence in your wisdom now.”
“It is simply that you should agree, for this night only, to pass yourself off for a very old friend of mine. You need not tell fibs, or give a false name. You are a namesake, you know. There are lots of Maxbys in the world!”
“Weak, my boy; decidedly weak. They’ll be sure to see through it and I won’t be able to recollect not to call you Punch.”
“No matter. Call me Punch. I’ll tell them you are a very familiar old friend—a sort of relation, too, which will account for the name.”
“Well, well,” said my father, with a smile of pity, “I’ll not object to humour your whim, but it’s weak—worthy of a man who could engage himself to a miserable red-Indian Hottentot!”
This being finally settled, and my father having been pretty well exhausted by his ramble round the farm, I set him down on the rustic chair with a newspaper and left him, saying that I should be back in an hour or so.
I knew the road by which the waggon was to return, walked along it several miles, and then waited. Soon it drove up to the spot where I stood. They were surprised to see me, but more surprised when I ordered the ladies to get out, and walk with me, while the coachman drove on slowly in advance.
Then I hurriedly told of my father’s arrival, and explained more fully than I had yet ventured to do his misconceptions and prejudices as to Eve. “Now, I want you all,” said I, “to help me to remove these prejudices and misconceptions as quickly as possible by falling in with my little plans.”
Hereupon I explained that my father was to be introduced as an old friend and namesake, while Eve was to be presented to him as a visitor at the cottage named Miss Waboose. I had feared that old Mrs Liston would not enter into my plan, but found that, on the contrary, having a strong sense of humour, she quite enjoyed the notion of it. So did Aunt Temple, but Eve herself felt doubtful of her ability to act out her part. I had no doubt on that point, for she had undertaken it, and well did I know that whatever Eve undertook she could, and would, accomplish.
It might be tedious to recount in detail the scenes that followed. The dear old man was charmed with Miss Waboose—as I had fully expected—and Miss Waboose was more than charmed with the dear old man! So that when we bade the ladies good-night, he kissed her fair forehead with quite fatherly tenderness.
When I conducted the old man to his room I was struck, and made quite anxious, by the disconsolate expression of his face, and asked earnestly what was wrong.
“Wrong!” he exclaimed, almost petulantly. “Everything’s wrong. More particularly, you are wrong. Oh, George, I can’t get over it. To think that you are tied hard and fast—irrevocably—to—a red-Indian—a painted savage—a Hottentot. It is too—too bad!”
He kicked off one of his shoes so viciously at this point, that it went straight into, and smashed, a looking-glass; but he didn’t seem to care a straw for that. He did not even condescend to notice it.
“And to think, too,” he continued, “that you might have had that adorable young lady, Miss Waboose, who—in spite of her heathenish name—is the most charming, artless, modest young creature I ever saw. Oh! Punch, Punch, what a consummate idiot you have been.”
It was impossible to help laughing at my poor father’s comical expression of chagrin, as he sat on the edge of his bed, slapped his hands down on both knees and looked up in my face.
“Excuse me, daddy, but what ground have you for supposing that Miss Waboose would accept me, even if I were free to ask her hand?”
“Ground? Why the ground that she is fond of you. Any man with half an eye could see that, by the way she looks at and speaks to you. Of course you have not observed that. I trust, my boy, you are too honourable to have encouraged it. Nevertheless, it is a fact—a miserable, tantalising, exasperating fact—a maddening fact, now that that hideous red-Indian—Hottentot stands in the way.”
“That red-Indian—Hottentot,” said I, unable any longer to cause my dear father so much pain, “does not stand in the way, for I am happy to tell you that Miss Waboose and Eve are one and the same person.”
“Come, come, Punch,” returned my parent, testily, “I’m in no humour for jesting. Go away, and let me get to bed and pillow my head on oblivion if possible.”
I do assure you, reader, that I had no slight difficulty in persuading my father that Eve Liston and Waboose were really the same person.
“But the girl’s fair,” objected my father, when the truth began to force an entrance.
“Yes—‘passing fair,’” said I.
“And with blue eyes and golden hair!” said he.
“Even so,” said I.
“No more like a savage than I am?” said my father.
“Much less so,” said I.
When at length he did take in the fact, he flung his arms round my neck for the second time that day, and did his best to strangle me. Then, under a sudden impulse, he thrust me out into the passage and shut and locked the door.
“You won’t pillow your head on oblivion now, will you, daddy?” I asked through the keyhole.
“Get away, you deceiver!” was the curt reply.
But surprises did not come singly at that time. Call it a miracle, or a coincidence, or what you will, it is a singular fact that, on the very next day, there arrived at Sunny Creek cottage four travellers—namely, Jack Lumley, the black-haired pale-face, Peter Macnab, and Big Otter.
On beholding each other, Jessie Lumley and Eve Liston, uttering each a little shriek, rushed into each other’s arms, and straightway, for the space of five minutes, became a human amalgam.
“Not too late, I hope?” said Lumley, after the first excitement of meeting was over.
“Too late for what?” said I.
“For the wedding, of course,” said he.
“By no means. It is fixed for this day three weeks.”
“Good—Jessie and I will have the knot tightened a little on the same day by the same man.”
“Wind and weather permitting,” said Macnab, with his wonted irreverence. “Now, Maxby, my boy, take us into the house, and introduce us to old Mrs Liston. But what splendid creature is this coming towards us?”
“Why that’s Aunt Temple,” I whispered, as she came forward. “Let me introduce you, aunt, to Mr Macnab—the jolly fur-trader of whom you have heard me speak so often and so much.”
Macnab made a profound obeisance, and Aunt Temple returned a dignified bow, expressing herself, “much pleased to make the acquaintance,” etcetera, and saying that Mrs Liston, being unable to come out to greet them, was anxious that we should enter. “Particularly Big Otter,” said Aunt Temple, turning to the grave chief, “for whom she has a very great regard.”
Thus invited and specially complimented, our tall Indian stooped to enter the cottage door, but not being accustomed to the wooden wigwams of the pale-faces, he did not stoop low enough, struck his head against the top, and rather damaged an eagle’s feather with which his hair was decorated.
Nothing, almost, could upset the dignity and imperturbable gravity of Big Otter. He stooped lower to conquer the difficulty, and when inside drew himself up to his full height, so that the eagle’s feather touched the ceiling, and tickled up some flies that were reposing in fancied security there.
