“Pete! Pete who?”
“Only Pete.”
“But have you no other name?”
“Yes. Indian name.”
And he rolled out a string of guttural syllables that sounded like names of places in the Maine woods.
Indian name! Marion started; and in a flash she knew. Haig’s man Friday! Here was luck indeed.
“You are Mr. Haig’s––” She hesitated.
“Friend,” he said, completing her sentence.
Marion was again embarrassed. She did not know what to say next, fearing to say the wrong thing, and so to throw away a golden opportunity. In her search for the right lead, her eyes lighted on a fishing basket that lay on the ground not far from her own.
“Oh!” she cried. “But it’s strange I didn’t hear or see you!”