Henry, in the bright sunlight of the June afternoon, loitered, drinking in the details of the scene. There were actual signs of an intent to chop out the forest and make the beginnings of a farm. Amid stumps some struggling stalks of corn were tasseling. Beside them appeared a small patch of thrifty-looking potatoes. A cow browsed near, tethered safely from the corn, and a runty horse whinnied from a yard of poles behind a little log stable. Signs of humble thrift, signs of domestic aspiration these, springing from the soul of a red man.
But then two things had happened to make Adam John superior: the Mission School—now taught by Miss Marceau—and the army.
Harrington raised a shout. A swart, sturdy figure emerged from the lodge and stood peering, then gave an answering shout, and Adam John walked straight down to Henry. He was wearing overalls and boots, with an ex-army shirt and a nondescript hat! A man below the medium height whose features had a half-emerged look; yet the sloe-black eyes were expressive of keenness and tenacity as his manner was of dignity.
"How!" greeted Henry, and outstretched a hand.
"How!" smiled the Indian with a kind of solemn joy. "You come see my place?" Plainly he was as proud of his island as a monarch of his throne. "You t'ink I make farm here—mebbe so?" he queried, indicating fondly his struggling corn and potatoes.
But Harrington shook his head. "You're a skookum Indian, all right, Adam; but it's too much of a job," he announced, surveying the timber. "Besides, I've got a better prospect for you than that. Mr. Boland wants your island for a shingle mill. Oh, but he will give
