"Chechako," muttered the Indian, and passed around to the door.
A popular-fiction Indian would have glided stealthily into the shack and, with becoming dignity, have remarked "How."
But Wabishke was just a common Indian—one of the everyday kind, that may be seen any time hanging about the trading-posts of the North-country—unimaginative, undignified—dirty. So he knocked loudly upon the door and waited.
"Come in!" called Carmody, and gazed in surprise at the newcomer, who stared back at him without speaking. Wabishke advanced to the stove, and, fumbling in the pocket of his disreputable mackinaw, produced a very old and black cob-pipe, which he gravely extended toward the other.
"No, thanks!" said Bill hastily. "Got one of my own."
He eyed with disfavor the short, thick stem, about the end of which was wound a bit of filthy rag, which served as a mouthpiece for the grip of the yellow fangs which angled crookedly at the place where a portion of the lip had been torn away in some long-forgotten combat of the wilds.
"T'bacco," grunted the visitor, with a greasy distortion of the features which passed for a smile.
"Oh, that's it? Well, here you are."
Carmody produced a bright-colored tin box, which he handed to the Indian, who squatted upon his heels and regarded its exterior in thoughtful silence for many minutes, turning it over and over in his hand and subjecting every mark and detail of its lettered surface to a minute scrutiny.
Finally with a grunt he raised the lid and contemplated the tobacco, which was packed evenly in thin slices.