"When you first come. When Shamán make Ol' Chief all well."
"I don't remember it."
"Yes."
"I think you misunderstood me, Muckluck."
"Heh?" Her countenance fell, but more puzzled than wounded.
"That is—oh, yes—of course—you're a nice girl."
"I think—Anna, too—you like me best." She helped out the white man's bashfulness. But as her interlocutor, appalled, laid no claim to the sentiment, she lifted the mittened hand to her eyes, and from under it scanned the white face through the lightly falling snow. The other hand, still held out to the comfort of the smoke, was trembling a little, perhaps not altogether with the cold.
"The Colonel'll have to take over the breeches," said the Boy, with the air of one wandering in his head. Then, desperately: "What am I to do? What am I to say?"
"Say? You say you no like girl scream, no like her fight like Anna. Heh? So, me—I come like your girls—quite, quite good.... Heh?"
"You don't understand, Muckluck. I—you see, I could never find that Orange Grove if you came along."