“Oh-h!  She know Joe savvy.”

The Boy felt painfully small at his own lack of savoir, but no less angry.

“When you marry”—­he turned to her incredulously—­“will it be”—­again the shrieks—­“like this?”

“I no marry Pymeut.”

Glancing riverwards, he saw the dirty imp, who had been so wildly entertained by the encounter on the ice, still huddled on his drift-wood observatory, presenting as little surface to the cold as possible, but grinning still with rapture at the spirited last act of the winter-long drama.  As the Boy, with an exclamation of “Well, I give it up,” walked slowly across the slope after the Colonel and Yagorsha, Muckluck lingered at his side.

“In your country when girl marry—­she no scream?”

“Well, no; not usually, I believe.”

“She go quiet?  Like—­like she want—­” Muckluck stood still with astonishment and outraged modesty.

“They agree,” he answered irritably.  “They don’t go on like wild beasts.”

Muckluck pondered deeply this matter of supreme importance.

“When you—­get you squaw, you no make her come?”

The Boy shook his head, and turned away to cut short these excursions into comparative ethnology.

But Muckluck was athirst for the strange new knowledge.

“What you do?”

He declined to betray his plan of action.

“When you—­all same Joe?  Hey?”

Still no answer.

“When you know—­girl like you best—­you no drag her home?”

“No.  Be quiet.”

"No? How you marry you self, then?”

The conversation would be still more embarrassing before the Colonel, so he stopped, and said shortly:  “In our country nobody beats a woman because he likes her.”

“How she know, then?”

“They agree, I tell you.”

“Oh—­an’ girl—­just come—­when he call?  Oh-h!” She dropped her jaw, and stared.  “No fight a little?" she gasped.  “No scream quite small?"

"No, I tell you.”  He ran on and joined the Colonel.  Muckluck stood several moments rooted in amazement.

Yagorsha had called the rest of the Pymeuts out, for these queer guests of theirs were evidently going at last.

They all said “Goo’-bye” with great goodwill.  Only Muckluck in her chilly “Holy Cross clo’es” stood sorrowful and silent, swinging her medal slowly back and forth.

Nicholas warned them that the Pymeut air-hole was not the only one.

“No,” Yagorsha called down the slope; “better no play tricks with him.”  He nodded towards the river as the travellers looked back.  “Him no like.  Him got heap plenty mouths—­chew you up.”  And all Pymeut chuckled, delighted at their story-teller’s wit.

Suddenly Muckluck broke away from the group, and ran briskly down to the river trail.

“I will pray for you—­hard.”  She caught hold of the Boy’s hand, and shook it warmly.  “Sister Winifred says the Good Father—­”