He did not offer it to Joe, nor did Joe take it from him, yet in a somewhat bewildered fashion he saw that the sly Christmas had it, and was transferring it to his pocket.
“Ah, well-a-day, it is of small import,” he muttered, while watching the Micmac draw his canoe up on the grass.
“Me hot,” said Joe; “workum no more till morning. You want money?” he added inquiringly.
MacDaly’s eyes brightened. Money! was he not always wanting it?
“You come with me,” said the Indian mysteriously, and MacDaly fearing no treachery followed him.
If he had heard an order that the Indian had received from Mr. Armour a few days previously his heart would not have been so light as it was. “Joe,” Armour had said, “that man MacDaly is troubling Miss Delavigne. If you see him about here send him away.” And Joe, who in his heart despised MacDaly, had grunted acquiescence.
Trippingly MacDaly stepped after him to the shore immediately behind the cottage, where a long black rock ran out so far that if the cottage were dropped off the end of it the tops of the chimneys would not be seen above the water.
“You come here,” said Joe, going to the end of the rock and kneeling down.
“Buried treasure, eh?” said MacDaly gloatingly, “or perchance something sunken in the rock and the savage unaware of its value wishes to receive the opinion of an expert and—what are you doing, you rascal?” he spluttered as he felt the Micmac’s hand on his collar.
“You dirty, me washum,” said Joe playfully, and still gripping the astonished Irish-Canadian by the back of the neck he swung him off the end of the rock and soused him up and down in the water.