"For goodness' sake!" she gasped. "Take it, you filthy Indian. There isn't water enough in Lake Superior to get the smell out of anything you've touched."
"Yas," returned Dave, blandly accepting the quilt, "Ah'm sleep hon dose queelt hall de way from Lakeveele. Night biffore, halso. Ah'm moch obliged for dose present, madame. Dose ver' good queelt, Ah'm t'ink."
"A great deal too good for you, you filthy beast."
Dave's ill-kept teeth still gleamed in his wide, amiable smile; but his narrowed black eyes suddenly glittered in a cold, snaky way that started an unpleasant chill down Aunty Jane's spine.
"That wicked Indian," she said afterwards, "thanked me and looked as if he'd like to murder me, all in the same breath."
"Indians," mused Doctor Tucker, "are said to be revengeful."
Perhaps, with so many little girls sorrowful on Marjory's account, the sky hadn't the heart to keep on smiling. At any rate, a full hour earlier than the visitors had expected to leave, their launch-man was pointing pessimistically toward gathering clouds—no one else had noticed them.
"If you folks want to get home before it rains," said he, "you'd better be climbing aboard—less'n you want to stay here all night."
"Mercy!" cried Aunty Jane, springing to her feet, "I wouldn't stay for a million dollars."