took down the box, opened it and peered in. It was empty! He had not left much money there, but it was all that he had.
“So he took that!” he exclaimed. “I can understand his stealing food. But my money! The Indians, even when most uncouth, never stole anything from this house. And to think that a white man, and one I trusted, should be the first to steal from me!”
The missionary was standing near the shelf, when a gentle tap sounded upon the door, and old Tom at once entered.
“Good morning, Gikhi,” he accosted in the native tongue. “You are alone, I see.”
“And why shouldn’t I be, Tom?” the missionary asked. “Am I not generally alone?”
“Yes, but not last night. Where is the stranger?”
“Did you see him?”
“Tom saw him. Does Gikhi know who he is, and where he came from?”
“No; I never asked him.”
“Bad white man, ugh!”
“How do you know that, Tom?”
“Tom old man now. Tom knows much. Tom sees here,” and he touched his eyes with the fingers of his right hand. He then placed his hand to his forehead. “Tom sees more here,” he added, while a quaint smile overspread his face. “White man steal grub, eh?” and he looked over toward the corner of the room.
“Why, yes! How did you know that?”
“Tom get Gikhi grub now,” was the native’s reply.
“I can’t pay you, Tom. The white man took my money.”
“Tom doesn’t want pay. Tom glad to give grub. Gikhi good man.”
