CHARACTER
The old hunter stood by the table, with a slow smile breaking upon his thin face as he looked upon the grovelling, snake-like figures at his feet. Then he sniffed at the atmosphere, and began to comprehend.
'Sit here,' he said to the girl, whose head was covered in a flowing blanket, pushing a chair into the corner. 'I'll have to sort some order out of this crowd.'
Then he pulled at a leg which wriggled from beneath the table. It belonged to McAuliffe, and its owner bellowed fearfully at the clutch.
'It's got me, Captain. Hold on to my arm, Davey. It's going to drag me off.'
'Come out, Alf. Don't you know an old pard?'
It was ineffectual. The Factor only raved and struggled the more. So Sinclair turned his attention to the others, who proved more amenable.
'It is you, Billy?' said the awe-stricken Captain. 'There's no foolery? You're not a pesky spirit come to scare us for our sins?'
'Get up and put your arms round me,' said the hunter, a trifle testily. 'I never had much flesh to carry; what I've got now is solid, though, I reckon.'
Then Dave peered up, a queer object with stains of liquor and sodden tobacco down his cheeks. 'We reckoned you were fixed, Billy. 'Way up the Saskatchewan by the nitchies.'