He slept under a tree (a cold, miserable sleep it was), and in the sunless morning he set out with little certainty to find his "pal." After some time he stumbled on the trail that led him to the boys' camp. He was now savage with hunger and annoyance, and reckless with bottle assistance, for he carried a flask. No longer avoiding being seen, he walked up to the teepee just as Little Beaver was frying meat for the noonday meal he expected to eat alone. At the sound of footsteps Yan turned, supposing that one of his companions had come back, but there instead was a big, rough-looking tramp.
"Well, sonny, cookin' dinner? I'll be glad to j'ine ye," he said with an unpleasant and fawning smile.
His manner was as repulsive as it could be, though he kept the form of politeness.
"Where's your folks, sonny?"
"Haven't any—here," replied Yan, in some fear, remembering now the tramps of Glenyan.
"H-m—all alone—camped all alone, are ye?"
"The other fellers are away till the afternoon."
"Wall, how nice. Glad to know it. I'll trouble you to hand me that stick," and now the tramp's manner changed from fawning to command, as he pointed to Yan's bow hanging unstrung.
"That's my bow!" replied Yan, in fear and indignation.
"I won't tell ye a second time—hand me that stick, or I'll spifflicate ye."