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.