"Seems to be. You're not by any chance lookin' for trouble?"
"Duckin' it," answered Tom promptly.
The officer smiled genially. "It's knocking at your door." His knuckles rapped on the desk.
"If I ever bumped into a Santa Claus of joy—"
"Oh, thanks!" Beresford murmured.
"—you certainly ain't him. Onload your grief."
"The theme of my discourse is aborigines, their dispositions, animadversions, and propensities," explained the constable. "According to the latest scientific hypotheses, the metempsychosis—"
Tom threw up his hands. "Help! Help! I never studied geology none. Don't know this hypotenuse you're pow-wowin' about any more'n my paint hawss does. Come again in one syllables."
"Noticed any trouble among the Crees lately—that is, any more than usual?"
The junior partner of C.N. Morse & Company considered. "Why, yes, seems to me I have—heap much swagger and noise, plenty rag-chewin' and tomahawk swingin'."