"I'll never let them point at me and say, 'There goes the squaw that—he threw away.'"
"You mak' dis very hard t'ing for me," he said, wearily.
"Listen," she went on, lashing herself with pity and scorn. "You say Father Barnum will be here on Sunday. Well—I'll marry some one, I don't care who!" Then, with a sudden inspiration, she cried, "I'll marry you—you said I could be a wife to you."
He uttered a sharp cry. "You mean dat, Necia?"
"Yes," she declared. "Why not? You'll do it for my sake, won't you?"
"Would you stan' up wit' me 'longside of de pries', lovin' dat oder feller all de tam'?" he asked, queerly.
"Yes, YES! I'd rather it was you than anybody, but married I'll be on Sunday. I'll never let them laugh at me."
Doret held his silence for a moment, then he looked up and said, in level tones:
"It's easy t'ing for go an' ask 'im, but you mus' hear hees answer wit' your own ears—den you can't t'ink I'm lyin'. I'll fetch 'im 'ere on dis place if you feex it for hide you'se'f behin' dose post." He indicated a bundle of furs that were suspended against a pillar, and which offered ample room for concealment. "Dere's goin' be no lies to-day."
He pulled himself together and went out, with the tired gait of an old man, his great shock head bowed low. A few moments later he returned.