“I don’t believe it.”
“Still it ees so. But now listen—I haf ze gran’ plan—ze plan to do you goot! Ze tradin’-post ees mine, but I gif it to you and your fadder, yes, efery-t’ing, if——” And here the French trader paused.
“If what?” questioned Dave, although he guessed what was coming.
“If you say noddings ’bout me here—if you help me to get away,” answered Jean Bevoir, in a still lower whisper.
“Help you to get away?” cried Dave.
“Sh-sh! Not so loud. Yes, help me. It vill be easy to do zat. An English uniform, a dark night, and it ees done. You haf ze tradin’-post, and I also gif you dis.”
As Jean Bevoir spoke he drew from his bosom a small bag tied with a long string. Opening the bag he produced half a dozen English and French pieces of gold, worth probably a hundred dollars all told.
“You will give me that money if I help you to get away?” said Dave slowly.
“Yees, efery piece of it. Now vat you say? Am I not ze goot-hearted man?”
“Good-hearted?” said Dave scornfully. “I think you are a first-class villain, and if you weren’t in the hospital I’d do my best to knock you down for your impudence.” Dave was speaking loudly. “You can keep your dirty gold, and I shall do my best to put you in prison. And as for the trading-post——”