"Good-morning," said he.
The startled Indian almost dropped his burden.
"Goo'-morn'," he grunted, surlily.
"Why!" exclaimed Mr. Black, closely scrutinizing the half-breed's not very prepossessing countenance, "I think I've met you before. You're Dave Gurneau, the man I bought this land from."
"Yass, I guess, mebbe-so," returned Dave. "You ol' Pete Black, I t'ank so?"
"Yes," admitted the gentleman, "I'm old Pete Black. But what are you doing here? I thought I bought this land with the understanding that you were to vacate it—leave it—get off of it? How long have you lived here?"
The culprit wriggled his toes in the sand.
"Ever since Ah'm sell heem," returned Dave, whose small black eyes were shifty.
"Well!" gasped Mr. Black, "that's nerve for you—stayed right here, did you?"
"Yass, Ah'm stay hon dose plass. Me, I must sell dese lan' to you so I can buy proveesion enough for leeve hon heem—som' leetle onion, som' potate, som' flour——"