"Talks like a white man," said Quonab coldly. Rolf was speechless.
To toil so devotedly, and to have such filthy, humiliating words
for thanks! He wondered if even his Uncle Mike would have shown
so vile a spirit.
Hoag gave free rein to his tongue, and found in his pal, Bill Hawkins,
one with ready ears to hear his tale of woe. The wretch began to feel
himself frightfully ill-used. So, fired at last by the evermore lurid
story of his wrongs, the "partner" brought the magistrate, so they
could swear out a warrant, arrest the two "outlaws," and especially
secure the bundle of "Hoag's furs" in the canoe.
Old Silas Sylvanne, the mill-owner and pioneer of the place, was
also its magistrate. He was tall, thin, blacklooking, a sort of
Abe Lincoln in type, physically, and in some sort, mentally. He
heard the harrowing tale of terrible crime, robbery, and torture,
inflicted on poor harmless Hoag by these two ghouls in human shape;
he listened, at first shocked, but little by little amused.
"You don't get no warrant till I hear from the other side,"
he said. Roff and Quonab came at call. The old pioneer sized
up the two, as they stood, then, addressing Rolf, said:
"Air you an Injun?" "No, sir.
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