"Ye wouldn't know a wife from a sack
o' meal!"
"Now don't git too peart an' fast, Si Kenton," cried Oncle Jazon,
glaring truculently at his friend, but at the same time showing a
dry smile that seemed to be hopelessly entangled in criss-cross
wrinkles. "Who told ye I was a bach'lor? Not by a big jump. I've
been married mighty nigh on to twenty times in my day. Mos'ly
Injuns, o' course; but a squaw's a wife w'en ye marries her, an' I
know how it hurts a gal to be dis'p'inted in sich a matter. That's
w'y I put the question I did. I'm not goin' to let no man give
sorry to that little Roussillon gal; an' so ye've got my say. Ye
seed her raise thet flag on the fort, Lieutenant Beverley, an' ye
seed her take it down an' git away wi' it. You know 'at she
deserves nothin' but the best; an' by the Holy Virgin, she's got
to have it, or I'm a goin' to know several reasons why. Thet's
what made me put the question straight to ye, young man, an' I
expects a straight answer."
Beverley's face paled; but not with anger. He grasped one of Oncle
Jazon's greasy hands and gave it such a squeeze that the old
fellow grimaced painfully.
"Thank you, Oncle Jazon, thank you!" he said, with a peculiar
husky burr in his voice. "Alice will never suffer if I can help
it. Let the subject drop now, my friend, until we have saved her
from the hands of Hamilton.
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