It was a remarkable feature of the great Willimack that when he copied the white man's vices by getting gloriously drunk, he forgot that he could speak Indian and fell into broken English.
"What does my brother mean?" said the new-comer.
"Why you whirl, whirl, whirl, so? Make ground swing too much."
"My brother has fire-water."
"Ugh, good. Huron drink fire-water with his Wyandot brother," said Willimack.
They brought the second bottle, grievously lessened in weight, and the Huron lifted it to his mouth. He kept it there long enough to drink a great deal, but if he did, the throat did not show the process of swallowing in the slightest degree, and he kept his face partly turned away from the wild band. It seemed to affect him strangely, however, for he drew his hatchet and began to dance wildly with the rest until his eyes fell upon the bound captive.
"Who is here?" he cried. "Her skin is white. What does she here among the Wyandots?"
"Prisoner," said the chief. "Take much scalp, take much fire-water. Wah!"
He had indeed taken much, too much fire-water for his own good. The Huron looked hard at the prisoner, and then turned about and asked for the bottle, and prevailed upon the Indians to sit down again.
"Brothers," he said, "there is a devil in the woods."