The trader quietly held his gaze until the other had somewhat mastered his agitation, then:
“Don’t be a fool,” he added sharply.
These peremptory words, coupled with the speaker’s perfect coolness, had the desired effect. Assuming courage borrowed from Roy’s composure, Sahanderry continued his labors with less nervousness, but heavily and with scant interest.
Broom, who was feeling “as fresh as a daisy,” returned to his seat on the edge of the bunk, where he sat warbling scraps of songs of questionable morality in a harsh, grating voice, like the rasping of dull metal, beating a tattoo meanwhile with the heels of his naked feet and throwing Sahanderry an occasional glance to see how he was appreciating these efforts.
Strange to say, Sahanderry was far from being offended at the levity of the singer, and hovered about the table with an approving smile on his dark face long after he had completed his duties. Perceiving his apparent interest, Broom threw himself into the attitude of a preacher and with inscrutable face severely lectured the Indian on his indiscretion in listening.
“You are a hardened sinner, my man,” he declared sharply. “Mind what you are about, or you will come to a bad end.”
This admonition discomfited Sahanderry for the moment, then he threw the incorrigible Broom a look of infinite scorn and abruptly walked out with his head in the air.
Left alone, the other delivered himself of a rattling chorus as a grand finale, then, dropping on his feet, he pulled on his clothes with a dexterity almost incredible. In a few moments Mr. Broom was dressed and out of doors.
After breakfast the trader rose from the table and paced the room restlessly. “That packet!” he murmured, sighing a little. “How I wish it would turn up. For some unaccountable reason my fiancée’s letters missed connection last mail; I haven’t heard from her for a year.”
“What, a whole twelve months!” cried his companion with a theatrical start of horror. “A year without a ‘billy-doo.’ What a calamity!”