“We go sell baskit,” she said. “Plenty folk in big town to buy ’em—”
“Wait a moment,” interrupted Mr. Percival. “You shall tell your story in a moment. Eunice, you give this woman a comfortable place in the kitchen with her babies, will you?”
Both Indians seemed inclined to resent this move, but the magistrate was evidently not a man to be trifled with, and Moll sullenly withdrew, bearing a pappoose on each arm.
“Now,” continued Mr. Percival once more, “did you, Sebattis, see any of these young people yesterday?”
“No. Me hunt on furder side Loon Pond.”
“Did your wife tell you about it when you came back to the tent at night?”
“When me come wigwam, Moll say girl-with-gold-hair fall in pond, come near drown. Ver’ hard make alive ag’in. That all.”
“Didn’t she show you something she had found?”
“Yis.” And the Indian gravely held up his hand, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger.
“What was it?”