“She all right,” he said coolly.

“Where is she?”

“I send her to my big camp ’cross the river.”

“You shouldn’t blame Nesis for helping me out,” Ambrose said earnestly—­not that he expected to make any impression.  “She’s only a child.  I made her do it.”

Watusk spread out his palms blandly.  “I not blame her,” he said.  “I not care not’ing only maybe you get drown in the rapids.”

Ambrose studied the brown mask narrowly.  Watusk gave nothing away.  Suddenly the Indian smiled.

“You t’ink I mad for cause she go wit’ you?” he said.  He laughed silently.  “Wa!  There are plenty women.  When I let you out I give you Nesis.”

This sounded a little too philanthropic.

“H-m!” said Ambrose.

“You lak little Nesis, hey?” inquired Watusk, leering.

Ambrose was warned by a crafty shadow in the other man’s eye.

“Sure!” he said lightly.  “Didn’t she help me out of here?”

“You lak talk wit’ her, I t’ink.”

Ambrose thought fast.  The only English words Nesis had spoken in Watusk’s hearing were her cries of fright at his appearance.  In the confusion of that moment it was possible Watusk had not remarked them.

“Talk to her?” said Ambrose, simulating surprise.  “Only by signs.”

“How she get you out, then?” Watusk quickly asked.

This was a poser.  To hesitate was to confess all.  Ambrose drew a quick breath and plunged ahead.

“Why, she and a lot of girls were picking berries that day.  They came around the shack here and began to jolly me through the window.  I fixed Nesis with my eye and scared her.  I made a sign for her to bring me a knife.  She brought it at night.  I put my magic on her and made her help me dig out and get me an outfit.  I was afraid she’d raise an alarm as soon as I left, so I made her come, too.”

“Why you tak’ two canoe?” asked Watusk.

“In case we should break one in the rapids.”

“So!” said Watusk.

Ambrose lighted his pipe with great carelessness.  He was unable to tell from Watusk’s face if his story had made any impression.  Thinking of the conjure-man, he hoped the suggestion of magic might have an effect.

“I let you out now,” said Watusk suddenly.  “You got promise me you not go way from here before I tell you go.  Give me your hand and swear.”

Ambrose smelled treachery.  He shook his head.  “I’ll escape if I can!”

Watusk shrugged his shoulder and turned away.

“You foolish,” he said.  “I your friend.  Good-by.”

“Good-by,” returned Ambrose ironically.

Ambrose walked his floor, studying Watusk’s words from every angle.  The result of his cogitations was nil.  Watusk’s mind was at the same time too devious and too inconsequential for a mind like Ambrose’s to track it.  Ambrose decided that he was like one of the childish, unreasonable liars one meets in the mentally defective of our own race.  Such a one is clever to no purpose:  he will blandly attempt to lie away the presence of truth.