Bill, the Slugger, for once was abashed. He put up his right hand as if to keep the missionary back. The latter interpreted this motion as a sign of faintness.
“Come, come, sit right down here,” he said, drawing up a chair to the fire. “I shall give you something to eat at once, and make you a cup of strong tea.”
With a groan Bill slumped into the chair, and when food was brought, he ate ravenously. He gulped down the tea, and handed back his cup for more.
“Say, ye don’t happen to have somethin’ with a kick in it, do ye?” he asked.
“You mean hootch, I suppose,” and a sad expression overspread the missionary’s face. “No, I have no use for the stuff.”
“It’s good enough, though, when it has the right kick,” the visitor mournfully replied.
“It had the wrong kick among my flock, and ruined my work here.”
“Did it? That’s too bad.” Bill was feeling in a better humour now.
“An’ so ye lost ’em all, eh?”
“All but two; old Tom and his wife.”
“Religion doesn’t take much hold on Injuns, so I’ve heard. Ye’ll give up yer job now, I s’pose. Much in it, eh?”
“In what way?”
“Oh, in money. D’ye git much fer hangin’ out here? It’s a wonder ye don’t leave.”
“All I have in this world is here,” was the quiet reply. “My total earthly possessions are under this roof, and out among the trees, a short distance from the building.”
“What! a cache?”
“No—my wife’s grave.”
