Part 10 (2/2)
”I not know that,” he replied, unmoved.
True. And she must have appeared to be greatly in need of a.s.sistance.
”Anyhow, I thank you!” she said sincerely. ”But who am I thanking, please?”
”Pete.”
”Pete! Pete who?”
”Only Pete.”
”But have you no other name?”
”Yes. Indian name.”
And he rolled out a string of guttural syllables that sounded like names of places in the Maine woods.
Indian name! Marion started; and in a flash she knew. Haig's man Friday! Here was luck indeed.
”You are Mr. Haig's--” She hesitated.
”Friend,” he said, completing her sentence.
Marion was again embarra.s.sed. She did not know what to say next, fearing to say the wrong thing, and so to throw away a golden opportunity. In her search for the right lead, her eyes lighted on a fis.h.i.+ng basket that lay on the ground not far from her own.
”Oh!” she cried. ”But it's strange I didn't hear or see you!”
”Indian not make noise.”
”I should say not!” she retorted, laughing.
”Trout very smart,” he added quietly.
”I've caught fourteen,” she volunteered eagerly. ”And you?”
For answer he fetched his creel, and opened it.
”Oh!” she cried, in envy and admiration, seeing that the creel was almost full, and that not a fish in sight was as small as her largest prize.
”I give you some,” he said, glancing at her own basket.
”No! No!” she protested quickly. ”I have plenty.”
She showed him her catch, which was by no means insignificant.
Nevertheless Pete took three of his largest trout, and transferred them to her basket, ignoring her protests.
”But they are for--him, aren't they?” she asked.
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