"It's the wind knockin' down yer chimbly," says Mr. Hardy encouragingly.
"It don't sound like Nich'las, annyhow. May the divil burrn him in tarment and ile fur disappoyntin' th' kid."
A rattle at the latch, and the Pymeut opened the door.
"Lorrd love ye! ye're a jool, Nich'las!" screamed O'Flynn; and the mucklucks passed from one to the other so surreptitiously that for all Kaviak's wide-eyed watchfulness he detected nothing.
Nicholas supped with his white friends, and seemed bent on passing the night with them. He had to be bribed with tobacco and a new half-dollar to go home and keep Christmas in the bosom of his family. And still, at the door, he hesitated, drew back, and laid the silver coin on the table.
"No. It nights."
"But it isn't really dark."
"Pretty soon heap dark."
"Why, I thought you natives could find your way day or night?"
"Yes. Find way."