"Now, see here, Hal," began Shorty apologetically, "I know what you are
thinking, but I'm British right through and my skin's white, no matter
how you take it. I'm white on both sides of the family; I'm not splashed
with tinted blood like this fellow from the North-West that's strayed in
here; his skin's almost yellow."

"Yes," acquiesced Hal, "his skin is tinted--it is tinted, not tainted.
There's a big difference, Shorty. Do you know, I'd give the world if I
had as much of a copper-colored tint to my skin as Shag has."

"Rot!" ejaculated Shorty.

"No rot at all," cut in Hal; "I love the Indian people. You call this
chap a 'mongrel,' but I tell you he is Indian--anyone can see it, and I
know it. His father may have cooked in camp for my father, and did so,
but from what my father told me, he, French Pete, was an honest man, and
a brave one, too, and his son's good enough for me, and I'm his friend
until the last dog's hung."

That ended things for the time, for the college bells clanged out
"lights out," and the inmates, both white and Indian, slept.

* * * * * * * *

"Yes, my dear boy," wrote Sir George, some weeks later, "by all means
bring young Larocque home for the Easter vacation; I shall welcome the
son of my old friend and guide with the greatest delight. I have
frequently told you of French Pete's heroism and unselfishness, and if
by a little hospitality I can show the son what I think of the father,
I shall regard it as a privilege. Your dear mother will write you