“Alex is a doggoned fool.” ... The speaker, a middle-aged Yankee
trapper, spat thoughtfully on the red hot stove, then gazed inquiringly
at his audience.
We were four, in a log cabin on the banks of the Churchill River. It was
night—late in the fall—and already cold. Inside, the atmosphere was
oppressive, reeking with tobacco smoke, sweat, fish scales, and grease.
Outside, the wind blew in great, uneven gusts and the shack creaked like
the timbers of a labouring ship at sea.
I finally inquired why Alex was a fool, and promptly heard the following
story:
“One evening last June, Alex blew in with a couple of Chippewayan
Indians. He had a load of fur in his canoe and was hurrying to the line
to sell it and get drunk. Alex wanted me to lend him a shirt. He was as
lousy as a pet coon, and said he didn’t have time to wash his shirt. I
had only one shirt, a clean one I had only worn a few times, and I was
thinking of using it myself when I moved south. So I said ‘no’, and
advised him to take his shirt off and lay it on an ant heap. Alex didn’t
like the idea, but I told him the ants would clean up every insect. He
did what I said.
“When the time came to leave, there was a fair wind down the stretch so
they put up a sail in a hurry. Alex grabbed his shirt and they left.
“I saw Alex again last week. He said when he put on his shirt the vermin
were gone, but he forgot to shake it first and the ants were still
there! You know the kind, boys! The little red ones! And they sure did
bite like hell before he could strip again!”
[Illustration: Alex]