"No more rum, my son," replied Archer, tossing what was left in the mug against the log wall, and corking the bottle, "and no smoke until you have had a feed. What do you say to bacon and tea! Or would tinned beef suit you better?"
"Bacum," replied Sacobie.
He hoisted himself to his elbow, and wistfully sniffed the fumes of brandy that came from the direction of his bare feet. "Heap waste of good rum, me t'ink," he said.
"You ungratefu' little beggar!" laughed Archer, as he pulled a frying pan from under the bunk.
By the time the bacon was fried and the tea steeped, Sacobie was sufficiently revived to leave the bunk and take a seat by the fire.
He ate as all hungry Indians do; and Archer looked on in wonder and whimsical regret, remembering the miles and miles he had tramped with that bacon on his back.
"Sacobie, you will kill yourself!" he protested.
"Sacobie no kill himself now," replied the Micmac, as he bolted a brown slice and a mouthful of hard bread. "Sacobie more like to kill himself when he empty. Want to live when he chock-full. Good fun. T'ank you for more tea."
Archer filled the extended mug and poured in the molasses—"long sweet'nin'" they call it in that region.
"What brings you so far from Fox Harbor this time of year?" inquired Archer.