“He looks awfully hungry, dad,” she whispered, as Batiste finished.
Now, though Sterling was a large-souled, generous man, and jovial—as evidenced by his name of Big Laugh—it happened that, during the past summer, a roving band of Sioux had camped hard by and begged him out of patience. That morning, too, the threatening weather had spoiled an intended trip to Russel and touched his temper—of which he had a goodly share.
“Can’t help it, girl,” he snapped. “If we feed every hungry Injun that comes along, we’ll soon be out of house and home. Can’t do anything for you, boy.”
“Him want ba-kin,” Batiste said.
“Well, you can just want.”
“Iz-le-roy sick, him want ba-kin,” the boy pleaded.
His persistence irritated Sterling, and, crowding down the better feeling which spoke for the lad, he sprang up, threw wide the door, and shouted:
“Get, you son of copper sin! Get, now! Quick!”
“Father!” pleaded the girl.
But he took no heed, and held wide the door.