A short, stooping figure shuffled in and reeled against him.  A rifle in a woollen case clattered at his feet.

“Mer’ Christmas!  How-do?” said a weary voice.

“Merry Christmas, brother!” replied Archer.  Then, “Bless me, but it’s Sacobie Bear!  Why, what’s the matter, Sacobie?”

“Heap tired!  Heap hungry!” replied the Micmac, sinking to the floor.

Archer lifted the Indian and carried him over to the bunk at the farther end of the room.  He filled his iron-pot spoon with brandy, and inserted the point of it between Sacobie’s unresisting jaws.  Then he loosened the Micmac’s coat and shirt and belt.

He removed his moccasins and stockings and rubbed the straight thin feet with brandy.

After a while Sacobie Bear opened his eyes and gazed up at Archer.

“Good!” he said.  “John Archer, he heap fine man, anyhow.  Mighty good to poor Injun Sacobie, too.  Plenty tobac, I s’pose.  Plenty rum, too.”

“No more rum, my son,” replied Archer, tossing what was left in the mug against the log wall, and corking the bottle. “and no smoke until you have had a feed.  What do you say to bacon and tea!  Or would tinned beef suit you better?”

“Bacum,” replied Sacobie.

He hoisted himself to his elbow, and wistfully sniffed the fumes of brandy that came from the direction of his bare feet.  “Heap waste of good rum, me t’ink,” he said.

“You ungratefu’ little beggar!” laughed Archer, as he pulled a frying pan from under the bunk.

By the time the bacon was fried and the tea steeped, Sacobie was sufficiently revived to leave the bunk and take a seat by the fire.

He ate as all hungry Indians do; and Archer looked on in wonder and whimsical regret, remembering the miles and miles he had tramped with that bacon on his back.

“Sacobie, you will kill yourself!” he protested.

“Sacobie no kill himself now,” replied the Micmac, as he bolted a brown slice and a mouthful of hard bread.  “Sacobie more like to kill himself when he empty.  Want to live when he chock-full.  Good fun.  T’ank you for more tea.”

Archer filled the extended mug and poured in the molasses—­“long sweet’nin’” they call it in that region.

“What brings you so far from Fox Harbor this time of year?” inquired Archer.

“Squaw sick.  Papoose sick.  Bote empty.  Wan’ good bacum to eat.”

Archer smiled at the fire.  “Any luck trapping?” he asked.

His guest shook his head and hid his face behind the upturned mug.

“Not much,” he replied, presently.

He drew his sleeve across his mouth, and then produced a clay pipe from a pocket in his shirt.

“Tobac?” he inquired.

Archer passed him a dark and heavy plug of tobacco.

“Knife?” queried Sacobie.

“Try your own knife on it,” answered Archer, grinning.

With a sigh Sacobie produced his sheath-knife.