"Hyu heehee," said Indian Annie. By which she meant in her short way that it was all great fun, and that they were jolly companions everyone. Besides Annie there were three other klootchmen in the room and their garments were not valuable. But it was "hyu heehee" all the same, for Jack Mottram brought the whisky in; Indians not being allowed to buy it, as they are apt, even more apt than whites, the noble whites, to see red and run "Amok." "Here two dollah, you buy mo' whisky, Jack," said Pete, who was almost whooping drunk by now and as happy as a chipmunk in a deserted camp, or a dog at some killing, perhaps. "Righto," hiccupped Jack, and away he Went. Pete sang something. There's bawdry in Chinook even. Pete was a handsome boy if one likes or does not dislike the Indian cheekbones. For the features of the Sitcum-Siwash were almost purely Indian; his colour was a memory of his English father. He was tall, nearly five foot ten, lightly and beautifully built. He was as quick on his feet as a bird on the wing. His hands, even, were fine considering he was one who would work. His eyes were reddish brown, his teeth ivory: his moustache was a scanty Indian growth. Not a doubt of it but that Pete was the best-looking "breed" round about Westminster. And he wasn't as lazy as most of them. Take his history on trust. It is easy to imagine it. He had half learnt to read at an Anglican Mission. His English was not bad when he talked to white men. In truth it was better and heaps cleaner than Jack Mottram's. But talk on the American side of the water is always cleaner. "If you don't like bawdry, we'll have very little of it," said Lucio to the Friar, who was perhaps American. Pete was a nice boy of twenty-three. But he had a loose lip and could look savage. His mind was a tiny circle. He could reach with his hand almost as far as his mind went. He had a religion once, when he left the Fathers of the Mission. He then believed in the Saghalie Tyee, the Chief of Heaven: in fact, in the Head Boss. Now he believed in the head boss of the Mill and in whisky and in his wife: all of them very risky beliefs indeed. So far Jenny, Pete's little klootchman (and a sweet pretty creature she was) hadn't yet showed up in the shebang. She had been out somewhere, the Lord alone knows where (Quin would have wished he knew), and she was now in the inside room, dressing or rather taking off an outside gown and putting on a gorgeous flowered dressing-gown given her by a lady at Kamloops. Now she came out.