Mr. Colton was dumbfounded. One minute they had been gliding easily along with no more thought of piracy or highway robbery than you have when on a Thames penny steamer; the next, a revolver had been thrust into his unskilled hands with the recommendation to "look after himself." It was too absurd, yet decidedly awkward; and it would not be a mere case of driving off the canoes by a distribution of grapeshot, but--unless their engine was more powerful than Chippewyan paddles--of being outnumbered by about ten to one and robbed of every cent and every thing they possessed, even if not killed. And worse was behind all this. Why on earth was the boat stopping instead of steering out? Stopped it certainly had, and a cursing match was in progress between the infuriated master and the engineer. In their excitement they had, between them, managed to run the steamer on to a pebble-bank. A yell of delight arose from the Indians; their paddles flashed through the water with greater rapidity than ever, and in another minute the canoes were round the steamer's bows, the paddles dropped, and the spears picked up. Colton had never fired a pistol in his life, but, like many of his cloth, he had a very pretty notion of using his fists when need arose, and he took his stand fearlessly by the side of the journalist, determined to sell his life dearly. Barnes regarded the matter coolly; he had had many a brush with Indians, and had more than once "stripped-to" and thrashed an offensive digger. "What do you want? What's your game?" he shouted to the redskins in their own dialect. "Look; look!" cried the skipper. "Do they conclude to stave her in?--What is it they say, Boss?" Sure enough, every Indian was stooping low, spear in hand and point downwards, earnestly studying the water, and as much of the boat's underside as they could distinguish. A conversation was proceeding meanwhile between Barnes and the Indian nearest him; and all of a sudden the journalist fell back into the arms of the skipper, choking and convulsed with laughter. "_Say!_" remonstrated the skipper mildly. "Don't keep it all to yerself, Squire; if they don't mean mischief, what the plague _do_ they mean?" "_Sturgeons!_" gasped the Canadian. "Oh, my aunt! Somebody's been plumbing them up that the 'fire-canoes' are towed along by great sturgeons. Look at the noble savages." With breathless anticipation, every Indian was gravely watching the water round the bows, ready in an instant to plunge his spear into the first sturgeon that came handy. "Wal," said the skipper, "even then their intentions wasn't more'n middlin' benevolent, I allow. How did they calc'late we'd make any way when a neefarious gang had cleared out our propelling gear for us--_s'posing_ we was towed that way? You'd better argufy with 'em, and bring that p'int home to 'em, Mr. Barnes." After another conversation the journalist turned to the master.