Ambrose, expecting Tole, looked for a dugout. There was none in sight.
Job's agitated barks were addressed in the other direction.
Issuing from his tent, Ambrose beheld a quaint little man squatting on top of the bank like an image. He had an air of strange patience, as if he had been waiting for hours, and expected to wait.
His brown mask of a face changed not a line at the sight of Ambrose.
"What do you want?" demanded the white man.
"Please, I want spik wit' you," the little man softly replied.
"Come down here then," said Ambrose.
The early caller looked at Job apprehensively. Ambrose silenced the dog with a command, and the man came slowly down the bank, cringing a little.
The quaintness of aspect was largely due to the fact that he wore a coat and trousers originally designed for a tall, stout man. Ambrose suspected he had a child to deal with until he saw the wrinkles and the sophisticated eyes.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I Alexander Selkirk, me," was the answer.