During the occurrence of the events related in the preceding chapters, the disputes and difficulties attending the distribution of peltries among the different fur companies at St. Louis had rather increased than diminished, and Ethelston had found himself compelled, however unwillingly, again to bid adieu to Lucy, and take a trip to the Mississippi for the arrangement of his guardian’s affairs in that quarter; a considerable portion of the fortune that he inherited from his father was invested in the same speculation, and he could not, without incurring the charge of culpable negligence, leave it in the hands of others at a great distance, many of whose interests might perhaps be at variance with those of Colonel Brandon and himself. He had been only a short time in St. Louis when, one day, on passing the cathedral, he met two men, whose appearance attracted his attention. The one was past the meridian of life, and the benevolent thoughtfulness of his countenance accorded well with the sober suit of black that indicated the profession to which he belonged; the other was a stout, square–built man, evidently cast in a coarser mould than his companion, but apparently conversing with him on terms of friendly familiarity. After looking stedfastly at this second, Ethelston felt convinced that he was not mistaken in addressing him: “Bearskin, my good friend, how come you to be in St. Louis? I thought you were busy, bear and buffalo hunting with my friend Reginald, among the Delawares of the Missouri?” “Ha! Master Ethelston,” replied the sturdy voyageur, “I am right glad to see your face here. We have been in some trouble of late, and instead of our hunting the bears, the bears has hunted us.” “I see you have been in some trouble,” said Ethelston, noticing for the first time the boatman’s scars and bruises; “but tell me,” he added, hastily catching him by the arm, “has any evil befallen my friend, my brother Reginald?” “No harm that I knows of,” replied the other; “but I must say that things wern’t what a man might call altogether pleasant, where I left him.” “What!” exclaimed Ethelston, with an indignation that he made no attempt to conceal, “you left him in danger or in difficulties, and can give no account of him? Bearskin, I would not have believed this of you, unless I had it from your own lips!” “Master Ethelston,” answered the justly offended voyageur, “a man that goes full swing down the stream of his own notions, without heeding oar or helm, is sure to run athwart a snag; here’s my worthy friend here, Paul Müller, and though he is a preacher, I’ll hold him as honest a man as any in the territory; he can tell you the whole story from one end to t’other; and when he’s done so, perhaps you’ll be sorry for what you’ve said to old Bearskin.”