“How do,” he said.
His shapeless hat of weather-beaten felt was on his head, a dark pipe with a rank aroma protruded from his mouth. He held a paddle in one hand and an ancient double-barreled duck gun, a muzzle loader, in the other. Marion Sherwood stared at him wide-eyed for a moment. Then she shot from her chair, flew to him and embraced him.
“Mind yerself!” he exclaimed. “Look out for dat gun!”
“Why have you come, Noel?” she cried, pulling at his belt. “Why didn’t you come to see me before? Has dad come home?”
“Nope, not yet. Two-t’ree day he come. How you feel, hey?”
“I am very well, thank you,” she replied, “but worried about dad—and I’ve missed you. Now you must take off your hat and speak to Mrs. O’Dell, who is very kind.”
McAllister and the little girl relieved the old Maliseet of his gun, paddle and hat and Mrs. O’Dell brought a chair to the table for him and fetched more eggs and bacon from the kitchen.
Noel inquired about Sherwood at the first opportunity.
“He’s gone, I guess,” said Jim. “I’m afraid he’s done for. One night when Ben and I were away, the last night we were away, a darned nasty thing happened. My brother, Ian McAllister, set a fox trap in the pantry. Whoever has been taking the food got a hand into it and had to pry himself clear of the jaws with an ax—and nothing’s been taken since. It was dirty work! If Sherwood was the man, then I guess there’s no chance of ever finding him—not alive, anyhow. I’ve hunted for him, night and day, but ain’t seen track nor hair of him. He’s kept right on running till he dropped, I guess. That would jist about finish him, that trap. He’d think the whole world was against him for sure.”
“Yer brodder do dat, hey?” cried old Noel, angry and distressed. “You got one fool for brodder, hey? Go trappin’ on de pantry for to catch dat poor hungry feller Sherwood! You better keep ’im ’way from me, Ma-callister; or maybe he don’t last long!”