He turned half round and sat for a few moments in a listening attitude. Then he turned back, and leaning forward toward Delgezie, “Look here, old man,” he said, laughing oddly, “what I’ve come to see you about is this: I want your girl—” He left the sentence unfinished; there was that in the old man’s face that caused him to stop.
For Delgezie had turned white, his lower jaw dropped, his eyes set in a fixed, horrified stare; he breathed heavily. So paralyzed was he at the news that he lost his faculties. Something like a groan escaped his lips.
“You—want—my—daughter!” he gasped, at length.
“Yes, I do,” replied Broom, mercilessly, with another odd laugh. “I’m in love with her. Course I can’t marry her properly here, we haven’t a parson; but I’m going south first open water and will take her along. We can get hitched up then, at Churchill. In the meantime an Indian marriage will have to do.”
The look in the old man’s honest eyes caused Broom’s to wander.
“Well,” said the old fellow shakily, “I can’t give you my girl. She’s all I’ve got.” His voice broke and a tear showed on his cheek. “Besides,” he added, pulling himself together, “you don’t love her; you say you do, but by and by—”
“I know what you mean. You mean I would grow tired of her and throw her off.”
“Yes,” said the brave old Indian, slowly, “that’s what I mean.”
Broom laughed harshly. “You’re candid, at any rate, old man; but you’re wrong. Besides, how do you know that the girl don’t want me?”
“You can ask her yourself, in front of me,” replied Delgezie with honest indignation. And rising slowly, he crossed the room and went out. Broom heard the old man’s voice in conversation outside for a few moments, then he returned, leaving the door ajar behind him.