“You say I steal your honey?” cried the squatter angrily. “I tell you I know nottings about it. Look! Is the honey here?”
Carl and Bob both looked, and Bob sniffed as well, and sniffed again with suspicion. The cabin was all one large room, and a thousand pounds of honey certainly could not have been concealed in it. It contained only the simplest furniture, a dirty cooking stove, a table, two rough beds, on which were spread the two fine bearskins that Alice had seen, and a small cupboard. But Bob suddenly darted forward and picked up a small fragment of honeycomb from the floor under the table.
“Where did this come from?” he cried.
“Bee-tree,” returned the half-breed, cunningly.
“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Carl, examining the bit of wax. “This comb was built on foundation. It came from our bee-yard.”
“Give us back our honey, and we’ll say nothing more about it,” urged Bob. “You don’t need to steal honey. We’ll give you all you can eat.”
“Voila!” cried Larue. “I know nottings about your honey. It is that you want to make trouble. You come here to see me; bien, you are welcome. You come here to insult me; you go outside quick.”
“When we come back, we’ll bring a constable!” cried Carl.
The woman said a sentence to her husband in rapid French, which the boys failed to catch.
“Let your constable come,” continued the squatter. “He find nottings. But as for you, you git out and stay out. I know nottings about your honey. Va-t-en! Git!”