He proved that fact by digging up an old Company
map. David's heart beat an excited tattoo. This was more than he had
expected. Almost too good to be true. "You can _work_ your way up there
with me," declared Hatchett, clicking his pipe stem. "Won't cost you a
cent. Not a dam' cent. Work. Eat. Smoke. Fine trip. Just for company. A
man needs company once in a while--decent company. Ice will go by middle
of May. Two weeks. Meanwhile, have a devil of a time playing cribbage."
They did. Cribbage was Hatchett's one passion, unless another
was--beating the Indians. "Rascally devils," he would say, driving his
cribbage pegs home. "Always trying to put off poor fur on me for good.
Deserve to be beat. And I beat 'em. Dam-if-I-don't."
"How did you lose your teeth?" David asked him at last. They were
playing late one night.
Hatchett sat up in his chair as if stung. His eyes bulged as he looked
at David, and his pipe stem clicked fiercely.
"Frenchman," he said. "Dirty pig of a Frenchman. No use for 'em. None.
Told him women were no good--all women were bad. Said he had a woman.
Said I didn't care--all bad just the same. Said the woman he referred to
was his wife. Told him he was a fool to have a wife. No warning--the
pig! He biffed me.
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