With that dull, callous, rooted impudence,
  Which, dead to shame and every nicer sense,
  Ne’er blushed, unless, when spreading Vice’s snares,
  He stumbled on some virtue unawares. ­CHURCHILL.

A YEAR has passed since the events recorded in the preceding pages, and it is summer again.  Far up, beside one of those tributaries of the Mississippi, in the western portion of what is now the State of Minnesota, stands a small cabin, such as the early settlers in new countries build for themselves.  About a quarter of a mile further up the stream is a large Sioux village, separated from the hut by a stretch of woods through which runs a well-worn footpath.  This arrangement the young missionary, Harvey Richter, preferred rather than to dwell in the Indian village.  While laboring with all his heart and soul to regulate these degraded people, and while willing to make their troubles and afflictions his own, he still desired a seclusion where his domestic cares and enjoyments were safe from constant interruption.  This explains why his cabin had been erected at such a distance from his people.

Every day, no matter what might be the weather, the missionary visited the village, and each Sabbath afternoon, when possible, service was held.  This was almost invariably attended by the entire population, who now listened attentively to what was uttered, and often sought to follow the counsels uttered by the good man.  A year’s residence had sufficed to win the respect and confidence of the Indians, and to convince the faithful servant that the seed he had sown was already springing up and bearing fruit.

About a mile from the river, in a dense portion of the wood, are seated two persons, in friendly converse.  But a glance would be required to reveal that one of these was our old friend Teddy, in the most jovial and communicative of moods.  The other, painted and bedaubed until his features were scarcely recognizable, and attired in the gaudy Indian apparel, sufficiently explains his identity.  A small jug sitting between them, and which is frequently carried to the mouth of each, may disclose why, on this particular morning, they seemed on such confidential terms.  The sad truth was that the greatest drawback to Harvey Richter’s ministrations was his own servant Teddy.  The Indians could not understand why he who lived constantly with the missionary, should be so careless and reckless, and should remain “without the fold,” when the good man exhorted them in such earnest language to become Christians.  It was incomprehensible to their minds, and served to fill more than one with a suspicion that all was not what it should be.  Harvey had spent many an hour with Teddy, in earnest, prayerful expostulation, but, thus far, to no purpose.

For six months after the advent of the missionary and his wife, nothing had been seen or heard of the strange hunter, when, one cold winter’s morning, as the former was returning from the village through the path, a rifle was discharged, and the bullet whizzed within an inch or two of his eyes.  He might have believed it to be one of the Indians, had he not secured a fair look at the man as he ran away.  He said nothing of it to his wife or Teddy, although it occasioned him much trouble and anxiety of mind.

A month or two later, when Teddy was hunting in the woods, and had paused a moment for rest, a gun was discharged at him, from a thick mass of undergrowth.  Certain that the unknown hunter was at hand, he dashed in as before, determined to bring the transgressor to a personal account.  Teddy could hear him fleeing, and saw the agitation of the undergrowth, but did not catch even a glimpse of his game.

While prosecuting the search, Teddy suddenly encountered an Indian, staggering along with a jug in his hand.  The savage manifested a friendly disposition, and the two were soon seated upon the ground, discussing the fiery contents of the vessel and exchanging vows of eternal friendship.  When they separated it was with the understanding that they were to meet again in a couple of days.

Both kept the appointment, and since that unlucky day they had encountered quite frequently.  Where the Indian obtained the liquor was a mystery, but it was an attraction that never failed to draw Teddy forth into the forest.  The effect of alcoholic stimulants upon persons is as various as are their temperaments.  The American Indian almost always becomes sullen, vindictive and dangerous.  Now and then there is an exception, as was the case with the new-made friend of Teddy.  Both were affected in precisely a similar manner; both were jolly.

“Begorrah, but yees are a fine owld gintleman, if yer face does look like a paint-jug, and ye isn’t able to lay claim to one-half the beauty meself possesses.  That ye be,” said Teddy, a few moments after they had seated themselves, and before either had been affected by the poisonous liquid.

“I loves you!” said the savage, betraying in his manner of speech a remarkable knowledge of the English language.  “I think of you when I sleep ­I think of you when I open my eyes ­I think of you all the time.”

“Much obleeged; it’s meself that thinks and meditates upon your beauty and loving qualities all the time, barring that in which I thinks of something else, which is about all the time ­all the same to yer honor.”

“Loves you very much,” repeated the savage; “love Mister Harvey, too, and Miss Harvey.”

“Then why doesn’t ye come to hear him preach, ye rose of the wilderness?”

“Don’t like preaching.”

“Did yees ever hear him?”

“Neber hear him.”

“Yer oughter come; and that minds me I’ve never saan ye around the village, for which I axes yees the raison?”

“Me ain’t Sioux ­don’t like ’em.”

“Whinever yees are discommoded with this jug, p’raps it wouldn’t be well for yees to cultivate the acquaintance of any one except meself, for they might be dispoused to relave yees of the article, when yees are well aware it’s an aisy matter for us to do that ourselves.  Where does yees get the jug?”

“Had him good while.”

“I know; but the contents I mean.  Where is it ye secures the vallyble contents?”

“Me get ’em,” was the intelligent reply..

“That’s what I’ve been supposing, that yees was gitting more nor your share; so here’s to prevint,” remarked Teddy, as he inverted the jug above his head.  “Now, me butternut friend, what ’bjections have yees to that?”

“All right ­all be good ­like Miss Harvey?”

Teddy stared at the savage, as if he failed to take in his question.

“Like Miss Harvey ­good man’s squaw ­t’ink she be good woman?”

“The loveliest that iver trod the airth ­bless her swate soul.  She niver has shpoken a cross word to Teddy, for all he’s the biggest scamp that iver brought tears to her eyes.  If there be any thing that has nigh fotched this ould shiner to his marrowbones it was to see something glistening in her eyes,” said the Irishman, as he wiped his own.  “God bliss Miss Cora,” he added, in the same manner of speech that he had been wont to use before she became a wife.  “She might make any man glad to come and live alone in the wilderness wid her.  It’s meself that ought to be ashamed to come away and l’ave her alone by herself, though I thinks even a wild baste would not harm a hair of her blissid head.  If it wasn’t for this owld whisky-jug I wouldn’t be l’aving her,” said Teddy, indignantly.

“How be ’lone? ­Mister Harvey dere.”

“No, he isn’t, by a jug-full ­barring the jug must be well-nigh empty, and the divil save the jug, inny-how; but not until it’s impty.”

“Where Mr. Harvey go, if not in cabin?” asked the savage, betraying a suspicious eagerness that would have been observed by Teddy upon any other occasion.

“To the village, that he may preach and hould converse wid ’em.  I allers used to stay at home when he’s gone, for fear that owld thaif of a hunter might break into the pantry and shtail our wines ­that is, if we had any, which we haven’t.  Blast his sowl ­that hunter I mane, an’ if iver I cotch him, may I be used for a flail if I don’t settle his accounts.”

“When Mister Harvey go to village?”

“Whin he plaises, which is always in the afternoon, whin his dinner has had a fair chance to sittle.  Does ye take him for a michanic, who goes to work as soon as he swallows his bread and mate?” said the Irishman, with official dignity.

“Why you not stay with squaw?”

“That’s the raison,” replied Teddy, imbibing from the vessel beside him.  “But you will plaise not call Miss Cora a shquaw any more.  If ye does, it will be at the imminent risk of havin’ this jug smashed over yer head, afther the whisky is all gone, which it very soon will be if a plug isn’t put into your mouth.”

“Nice woman ­much good.”

“You may well say that, Mister Copperskin, and say nothing else.  And it’s a fine man is Mister Harvey, barring he runs me purty close once in a while on the moral quishtion.  I’m afeard I shall have to knock under soon.  If I could but slay that thaif of a hunter that has been poking around here, I think I could go the Christian aisy; but whin I thinks of that man, I faals like the divil himself.  They’s no use tryin’ to be pious whin he’s around; so pass the jug if ye don’t mane to fight meself.”

“He bad man ­much bad,” said the savage, who had received an account of him from his companion.

“I promised Master Harvey not to shoot the villain, excipt it might be to save his life or me own; but I belave if I had the chance, I’d jist conveniently forgit me promise, and let me gun go off by accident.  St. Pathrick! wouldn’t I like to have a shindy wid the sn’akin, mean, skulkin’ assassin!”

“Does he want kill you?”

“Arrah, be aisy now; isn’t it me master he’s after, and what’s the difference?  Barring I would rather it was meself, that I might sittle it gintaaly wid him;” and Teddy, “squaring” himself, began to make threatening motions at the Indian’s head.

“Bad man ­why not like Mr. Harvey?” said the savage, paying no attention to Teddy’s demonstrations.

“There yees has me.  There’s something atween ’em, though what it might be none but Mr. Harvey himself knows, less it mought be the misthress, that I don’t belave knows a word on it.  But what is it yer business, Mr. Mahogany?”

“Mebbe Mr. Harvey hurt him some time ­do bad with him,” added the Indian, betraying an evident interest in the subject.

“Begorrah, if yees can’t talk better sinse nor that, ye’d bist put a stopper on yer blab.  The idaa of me master harming any one is too imposterous to be intertained by a fraa and inlightened people ­a fraa and inlightened people, as I used to spell out in the newspapers at home.  But whisht!  Ye are a savage, as don’t know anything about Fourth of July, an’ all the other affections of the people.”

“You dunno what mebbe he done.”

“Do ye know?” asked Teddy, indignantly.

“Nebber know what he do ­how me know?”

“Thin what does ye mane by talking in that shtyle?  I warns ye, there’s some things that can’t be passed atween us and that is one of ’em.  If ye wants to fight, jist you say that again.  I’m aching for a shindy anyhow:  so now s’pose ye jist say that again.”  And Teddy began to show unmistakable signs of getting ready.

“Sorry ­didn’t mean ­feel bad.”  “Oh blarney!  Why didn’t ye stick to it, and jist give me a chance to express meself?  But all’s right; only, be careful and don’t say anything like it again, that’s all.  Pass along the jug, to wash me timper down, ye know.”

By this time Teddy’s ideas were beginning to be confused, and his manner maudlin.  He had imbibed freely, and was paying the consequences.  The savage, however, had scarcely taken a swallow, although he had made as if to do so several times.  His actions would have led an inexperienced person to think that he was under the influence of liquor; but he was sober, and his conduct was feigned, evidently, for some purpose of his own.  Teddy grew boisterous, and insisted on constantly shaking hands and renewing his pledges of eternal friendship to the savage, who received and responded to them in turn.  Finally, he squinted toward the westering sun.

“I told Mr. Harvey, when I left, I was going to hunt, and if I expects to return to-day, I thinks, Mr. Black Walnut, we should be on our way.  The jug is intirely impty, so there is no occasion for us to remain longer.”

“Dat so ­me leave him here.”

“Now let’s shake hands agin afore we rise.”

The shaking of hands was all an excuse for Teddy to receive assistance in rising to his feet.  He balanced himself a moment, and stared around him, with that aimless, blinking stare peculiar to a drunken man.

“Me honey, isn’t there an airthquake agitatin’ this solitude?” he asked, steadying himself against a sapling, “or am I standing on a jug?”

“Dunno ­mebbe woods shake ­feel him a little ­earth must be sick,” said the savage, feigning an unsteadiness of the head.

“Begorrah, but it’s ourselves that’s the sickest,” laughed Teddy, fully sensible of his sad condition.  “It’ll niver do to return to Master Harvey in this shtyle.  There’d be a committee of investigation appointed on the spot, an’ I shouldn’t pass muster excipt for a whisky-barrel, och hone!”

“Little sick ­soon be well ­then shoot.”

“I wonder now whether I could howld me gun straight enough to drop a buffler at ten paces.  There sits a bird in that tree that is grinning at me.  I’ll t’ach him bitter manners.”

The gun was discharged, the bullet passing within a few inches of the head of the Indian, who sprung back with a grunt.

“A purty good shot,” laughed Teddy; “but it would be rayther tiresome killing game, being I could only hit them as run behind me, and being I can’t saa in that direction, I’ll give over the idaa; and turn me undivided attention to fishing.  Ah, divil a bit of difference is it to the fish, whin a worm is on the right ind, whether a drunken man or a gintleman is at the other.”

The Indian manifested a readiness to assist every project of the Irishman, and he now advised him to fish by all means, urging that they should proceed to the river at once.  But Teddy insisted upon going to a small creek near at hand.  The savage strongly demurred, but finally yielded, and the two set out, making their way somewhat after the fashion of a yoke of oxen.

Upon reaching the stream, Teddy, instead of pausing upon the bank, continued walking on until he was splashing up to his waist in water.  Had it not been for the prompt assistance of the Indian, the poor fellow most probably would have had his earthly career terminated.  This incident partially sobered Teddy, and made him ashamed of his condition.  He saw the savage was by no means so far gone as himself, and he bewailed his foolishness in unmeasured terms.

“Who knows but Master Harvey has gone to the village, and Miss Cora stands in the door this minute, ’xpacting this owld spalpaan?”

“No go till arternoon,” said the savage.

“What time might it be jist now?”

“’Tain’t noon yit ­soon be ­bimeby.”

“It’s all the same; I shan’t be fit to go home afore night, whin I might bist stay away altogether.  And you, Mr. Copperskin, was the maans of gittin’ me in this trouble.”

“Me make you drink him?” asked the savage.  “You not ax for jug, eh?  You not want him?”

“Yes, begorrah, it was me own fault.  Whisky is me waikness.  Its illigant perfume always sits me wild fur it.  Mister Harvey was belaving, whin he brought me here, that I wouldn’t be drinking any of the vile stuff, for the good rais’n that I couldn’t git none; but, what’ll he say now?  Niver was I drunker at Donnybrook, and only once, an’ that was at me father’s fourteenth weddin’.”

“Don’t want more?”

“NO!” thundered Teddy.  “I hope I may niver see nor taste another drop so long as I live.  I here asserts me ancient honor agin, an’ I defy the jug, ye spalpeen of a barbarian what knows no better.”  Teddy’s reassertion of dignity was very ludicrous, for a tree had to support him as he spoke; but he evidently was in earnest.

“Neber gib it ­if don’t want it.”

“They say an Indian never will tell a lie to a friend,” said Teddy, dropping his voice as if speaking to himself.  “Do you ever lie, Mr. What’s-your-name?”

“No,” replied the savage, thereby uttering an unmitigated falsehood.

“You give me your promise, then, that ye’ll niver furnish me anither drap?”

“Yis.”

“Give me yer hand.”

The two shook hands, Teddy’s face, despite its vacant expression, lighting up for the time with a look of delight.

“Now I’ll fish,” said Teddy.  “P’raps it is best that ye l’ave these parts; not that I intertains inmity or bad-will toward you, but thin ye know ­hello! yees are gone already, bees you?”

The Indian had departed, and Teddy turned his attention toward securing the bait.  In a few moments he had cast the line out in the stream and was sound asleep, in which condition he remained until night set in.