Tom rushed in and dragged him out
Returning to his Indian, he found him sitting up, looking dazed and angry, and spitting out water. It was a young fellow of about Tom’s own age, wearing a Mackinaw coat and trousers, and a battered felt hat which had stuck to his head, and he looked at Tom with intensely black and angry eyes.
“Hello! Feeling better?” Tom cried.
The Indian boy spluttered a rapid mixture of unintelligible French and Ojibway.
“What you do that for?” he swerved into English. “You make me upset—mos’ drown. I lose canoe—pelts—gun—everyt’ing.”
“Oh no. I got your stuff ashore, and there’s your canoe yonder,” said Tom. “Sorry I scared you. I shouldn’t have called out, but there’s nothing lost, anyway.”
The Indian got to his feet, went dripping to the rescued pack, and turned it over carefully.
“All right, eh? Merci,” he said, his anger dying out. “All my winter trapping here. Thought heem sure lost. Say, you live here? What your name?”
“Tom Jackson. Yes, I guess I live here.”
“You good fellow, Tom. Me, I’m Charlie. Say, must make a fire, quick.”