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Updated: June 21, 2025
"It's a cold night, and I don't care if I do. Virginia, pass down the cups." Of course there were not enough cups to go around. There were three of tin, however, counting one that Bill made from an empty can. "You'll drink?" Joe asked Bill. The woodsman's face was grave. "Wolfpaw, it's against the law of this province to give or receive liquor from Indians," he replied gravely.
Joe answered at last, in a bewildered tune. Harold himself could not have given a better simulation of amazement. "Don't know 'em. I'm Wolfpaw Black he's Jimmy Jimmy DuBois." The names were convincing, typical breed names, the latter with a touch of French. But Harold's admiration for the resourcefulness of his confederate really was not justified. Joe hadn't originated the two names.
The sight of the dark bottles woke his old passion for it in a flash. His blood leaped, a strange and dreadful eagerness transcended him. Virginia was horrified at the sudden, insane light in his eyes, the drawing of his features. "Have a drink?" Joe invited. Bill started then, but he made no response. Harold moved toward the table. "You're a real life-saver, Wolfpaw," he replied genially.
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