Joe turned angrily on the other.
“I geev you one chance,” he said; “you fool me no more. You tell me where dat skeen ees or les garçons go to Red Fox for zee autarkies.”
The sick man grinned again, showing his yellow molars, that looked like stumps protruding from the sands at low tide.
“I tole yer, yer wouldn’t find it, Frenchy,” said he, “an’ I reckon you won’t. I ain’t got it, an’ that’s the truth.”
Joe’s jaw closed with a click. His teeth clenched and his old eyes flashed.
“Ver’ well den, mon ami. I search your blankets.”
It might have been fancy, but Joe thought that he saw the man on the ground turn a shade paler. Old Joe approached the bed. In the dim light his face looked as ferocious as the countenance of a wolf. Perhaps something warned Peabody Dolittle that it was no use to evade the question of his guilt any longer.
“It’s under the lower blanket,” he said weakly.
Old Joe thrust his hand under and then, for the second time, he looked up just in the nick of opportunity. As he stooped low, the sick man had raised himself on his bed, and now had a knife poised above the old French-Canadian’s back.
With a shout of rage, the trapper struck the upraised arm and sent the blade halfway across the tent. It fell ringingly to the ground. At the same instant, the boys, who had heard Joe’s shout, came running into the tent, their arms full of wood.