Brent laid his razor upon the table: "Quar' pasht seven? Quar pasht seven isn't eight 'clock. You don' know Joe Pete."
"But, man, you're not ready. There's nothing packed. And you're as drunk as a lord!"
"Sure, I'm drunk's a lord—drunker'n two lords—lords ain't so damn' drunk. If I don't get packed by eight 'clock I'll have to go wishout packin'. You don' know Joe Pete."
At a quarter of eight there was a commotion before the door, and the huge Indian entered the room, dressed for the trail. He stood still, gave one comprehensive look around the room, and silently fell to work. He examined rapidly everything in the cabin, throwing several articles into a pile. Brent's tooth brush, comb, shaving outfit, and mirror he made into a pack which he carried to the sled, returning a moment later with a brand new outfit of clothing. He placed it upon the chair and motioned Brent to get into it. But Brent stood and stared at it owlishly. Whereupon, without a word, the Indian seized him and with one or two jerks stripped him to the skin and proceeded to dress him as one would dress a baby. Brent protested weakly, but all to no purpose. Reeves helped and soon Brent was clothed for the winter trail even
to moose hide parka. He grinned foolishly, and drank the remaining liquor from the bottle. "Whad' I tell you?" he asked solemnly of Reeves. "You don't know Joe Pete."
The Indian consulted a huge silver watch, and returning it to his pocket, sat upon the edge of the bunk, and stared at the wall. Brent puttered futilely about the room, and addressed the Indian. "We got to get a bottle of hooch. I got to have jus' one more drink. Jus' one more drink, an' then to hell wish it."
The Indian paid not the slightest heed, but continued to stare at the wall. A few minutes later he again consulted his watch, and rising, grasped Brent about the middle and carried him, struggling and protesting out the door and lashed him securely to the sled.
Reeves watched the proceeding in amazement, and almost before he realized what was happening, the Indian had taken his place beside the dogs. He cracked his whip, shouted an unintelligible command, and the team started. Upon the top of the load, Brent wagged a feeble farewell to Reeves: "Sho long, ol' man—she you later—I got to go now. You don' know Joe Pete."
The outfit headed down the trail to the river. Reeves, standing beside the door of the deserted cabin, glanced at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He turned, closed the door and started for home chuckling. The chuckle became a laugh, and he
smote his thigh and roared, until some laborers going to work stopped to look at him. Then he composed himself and went home to tell his wife.