He adjusted it as it should be, and lingered to tell her anything else she might wish to know.
"I'm going to give them codfish cakes for breakfast," she confided to him, "a great many! But what on earth can I have for their dinners?"
"There is canned corn beef hash," he suggested. "That would do all right for to-night. Or you might have fish."
"Where would I get it?"
"Indians. They come by with strings of fish to sell, often. I think I can go out and send one your way."
"You speak as if there were Indians around every corner," she said.
"No-o, not exactly," he answered her slowly. "But the truth is that I saw one, with a string of fish, crossing up from the stream, not long ago. As I was riding and he walking, I think it likely that I shall intercept him on my way back. That is, if you want the fish."
"Oh, indeed, I do," she assured him eagerly. "That is—do you think the Indian—he won't hurt me, will he? And do you think he would clean them for me?"
"I think I can arrange that with him," Pennington, who was rapidly assuming the shape of a guardian angel to Marjorie, assured her.
"And now I must go and tell your husband that he's wanted down where the men are."