hand as if to grasp and hold the native. “Fer God’s sake, stay here an’ don’t let me die alone!”
Tom’s eyes brightened as he turned them intently upon the pleading man before him. This was more than he had expected.
“Tom no leave Bill,” he replied. “Tom Clistin. Wan tam Tom no Clistin, leave Bill to die, keel heem, mebbe. Now, Tom all sam’ Gikhi, good to Bill.”
“Oh, shut up about yer religion,” the suffering man snapped. “I’m sick of it. Git me something to eat. That’ll do me more good than all your yangin’ about religion. Ye’ve gone daft over it.”
“Ah, ah, Tom geeve Bill grub,” was the quiet reply. “But Tom ask Bill wan t’ing, eh?”
“Well, what is it? Out with it. I’m hungry.”
“Bill no say bad word. Bill no talk ’bout ’ligion. Bill keep still.”
This was more than Bill was inclined to do, so he gave expression to his feeling in a string of oaths. Tom listened for only a few seconds, when he suddenly turned, left the side of the bunk, and started for the door. Seeing that he was about to leave, the injured man realised his mistake, and yelled for him to come back. Tom hesitated before complying with this request. He then slowly retraced his steps and once again stood looking down upon the white man.
“Bill call, eh?” he simply asked.
“Yes, I did. Don’t go an’ I’ll hold my tongue, an’ say nuthin’ more about religion. Hurry up an’ git me something to eat.”
“Good, good,” the Indian grunted. “Tom git grub now.”
Tom at once turned his attention to the stove. There was still some fire in the battered sheet-iron heater, so
