“Must be getting hot in there,” he murmured, going nearer. “I hope the Colonel isn’t getting hors de combat.”
He was looking into the dining room, a small apartment floored and wainscoted in dark Canadian wood, and hung around with pictures, trophies, and implements of hunting life. The floor was partly-covered with bear and wolfskin rugs, and in the middle of the room stood a small table, covered with a spotless damask cloth, and having served on it a dinner for one person. Of this dinner Colonel Armour had evidently been partaking, but at the moment when Dr. Camperdown looked in at the window, his strength or will to enjoy it had suddenly forsaken him, for the Micmac was carefully assisting him to the floor.
Colonel Armour was, as usual, handsomely dressed, and held his serviette clutched in his hand, but his head hung on one side and his limbs seemed powerless as the Micmac, holding him under the arms, slipped him to the center of the soft, bearskin rug. The rug had been dressed with the head of the bear, and placing his master’s head close to the fiery jaws, Joe took the napkin from the clasped fingers, straightened out the loose limbs, and placing a fire-screen between Colonel Armour’s face and the leaping flames on the hearth, seated himself at the table and proceeded to eat up the dinner decently and in order.
Rejecting all the wine glasses that stood in a group beside Colonel Armour’s plate, Joe selected one of the several decanters on the table, and drank only from it, tilting it up to his mouth with an occasional stealthy glance at the prostrate figure beyond him.
“Port!” ejaculated Dr. Camperdown. “The beggar has a discriminating tooth. Drinks moderately too. Doesn’t emulate his master,” with a contemptuous glance at the hearth rug. “Sound as a pig, he is. I’ll go in. First though,” with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “must frighten Joe. He’s doing wrong. Ought to be punished.”
Drawing in a deep breath he ejaculated in a sepulchral voice, “Joe Christmas!”
The Indian had a conscience, and he knew that he ought to be taking his dinner in the kitchen, so when Dr. Camperdown’s terrifying voice fell on his ear he sprang from his seat, wildly extended his arms in the air, and still clutching between his fingers the half-empty decanter, unfortunately reversed it and allowed the wine to trickle in a red stream down Colonel Armour’s immaculate shirt front.
Camperdown laughed convulsively, and strode along the path to the front door.
The Micmac let him in and surveyed him with mingled respect, admiration, and remonstrance.
“Couldn’t help it, Joe,” exclaimed Dr. Camperdown chuckling. “You looked too comfortable. Is the colonel sick?” pointing to the hearthrug.