“Not bery sick,” said the Micmac, looking at the table. “Drinkum too much wine.”
“Colonel can drinkum wine, but if Micmac drinks too much, he can go live in woods,” said Dr. Camperdown meaningly.
“Me no likum wine,” said Joe.
“Come now, Joe, is that truth in inside heart?” asked the doctor.
The Indian smiled and laid his hand on his wide chest. “Little wine good—make inside warm, Much wine bad—makeum squaws lazy.”
“And Indians too,” said Dr. Camperdown. “Now listen, Joe; I want to talk to you. Who gave Micmac medicine when he was doubled up with awful disease called cramps?”
“Doctor did,” said Joe bluntly.
“Who gave him powders when he got too yellow, and pills when he got too fat?”
“Doctor did,” replied Joe yet more bluntly.
“Who gave him good tobacco, and paid his gambling debts, when colonel would have been angry, and policeman might have taken Joe to prison and skinned him alive?”