The swimmer reached the bank, caught hold of an overhanging bush, and dragged himself out of the river. He was a hang-dog looking sort of fellow, anyway; and in his saturated condition his appearance was not improved. He lay panting for a minute like an expiring fish, and Ruth looked down at him perhaps more contemptuously than she realized.
“Well, who you looking at?” he growled at length.
“I suppose I am looking at one of Mr. Horatio Bilby’s choice assistants,” Ruth returned scornfully.
“Huh? What do you know about Bilby?” demanded the fellow, evidently much surprised.
“I know nothing very good of him, I am sure,” the girl of the Red Mill replied coolly. “And I am quite confident that you are a fit companion for him.”
The fellow sat up and leered at her.
“I ain’t such a mighty fine sight just now, I guess,” he said. “But there are worse than me. I didn’t know there were any white folks interested in this business.”
“You make a perfectly proper distinction,” Ruth told him. “Bilby is not a white man—not in his business ethics I am sure. I want to warn you that those Indians have powerful friends and you would do well to have nothing more to do with them.”
“I get you,” growled the fellow. “But take it from me; that Injun don’t need no friends. He can take care of himself. He’s as strong as a bull.”
“And with a temper you would best not ruffle. I do not know what Bilby’s scheme was, or how he got you into it. But take my advice and keep out of any further association with Bilby in this matter.”