"A queer angel, laddie," and Pete glanced at his coarse clothes, "though, I guess, He doesn't mind how a feller looks on the outside, so long's his heart's right. But, thar, I've talked too much already, an' fergot my dooty."
Crossing the room, Pete soon produced a small can, which had been heating for some time upon the rickety stove.
"Here, drink this; it'll narve ye up a bit. It won't hurt ye, fer it's only some moose-meat soup."
"Thar now, ye'll feel better," he remarked, when Keith had finished the savory broth. "When ye've had a good sleep ye'll be all right. The rest of the b'ys have gone, so the cabin'll be quiet."
"Thank you," replied Keith; "you're kind. I do feel sleepy, but there is just one thing I want to ask you about now."
"Fire away, then."
"Who is that man living down the trail?"
"What, Jim Blasco?" and Pete's face suddenly clouded.
"Yes."
"Oh, he's bughouse."