“Earth,” said Rolfe, “the dews are very heavy, I feel a little chilly.”
“That is, you would like a little back-warmer,” said Earth, “come out like a man, and don't be so mealy-mouthed.”
“I thought it was all gone.”
“No,” said Earth, drawing from his pocket a small, flat, stone tickler, and shaking it, he smiled as he heard it wash up against its sides. “I'll try it first, to convince you 'tan't poison,” and throwing his head back, he emptied a part of its contents into his throat, and smacking his lips, passed the tickler to Rolfe.
Rolfe went through the same ceremony, and as gurgling out, it pronounced the words, good, good, “there's no lie in that,” said Earth, “it speaks the truth every word on it.”
“It's all lie, I believe,” replied Rolfe, “for it has taken the skin from my tongue, why did you not put some water with it?”
“What! wade through water in order to get at the liquor! no, no, Rolfe, never do that when you have any respect for the spirit.”
“Earth,” said Rolfe, changing the subject, “how little do the people in the States know of the life of a Western hunter; here are we sleeping night after night without a bed, often without food, and now lying in an enemy's country, watching a party of Indians four times our number.”
“Not quite four times, I think,” said Earth; and so saying, he looked archly at Rolfe.
“I understand you, Earth; I saw it all, but did not like the deed; there were eight.”