There were six men, dressed in suits of coarse, gray kersey. Three of them were sitting on a bench, smoking; the other three lay on a bunk by the stove, while a dirty, tough-looking woman, of perhaps forty-five years, sat at a rough board table, mending socks by a dim candle. She seemed to be listening to the conversation of the three men on the mat, who spoke in rather low tones, yet distinctly audible to the quick ear which was laid close to a gap between the boards of the hut.
At last the woman said, in a cross, disapproving tone:
"I don't see what you wanted to do it for. Why can't you let Indian folks alone, when they are doing you no harm?"
"I hate the varmints," answered one of the three men on the floor, "and so do you, Mother Minotte. These were the poorest, meanest pack that you ever did see,—a lot of women and one sick old man."
