“But—­but—­” He struggled to collect his thoughts.

“No ‘buts,’ dear.  I’ve refused Lablache once.  I guess I can size up the racket he thinks to play.  Money—­money!  He’d like to buy me, I take it.  Say, uncle, can’t we frolic him some?  Now—­what did he say?”

“I—­can’t tell you, child,” the old man protested desperately.  Then he weakened further before those deep, steadfast eyes.  “Don’t—­press me.  Don’—­press me.”  His voice contained maudlin tears.  “I’m a vill’n, girl.  I’m worse.  Don’—­look a’ me—­like that.  Ja’y—­Ja’y—­I’ve—­sol’—­you!”

The miserable old man flung himself back in his chair and his head bowed until his chin sank heavily upon his chest.  Two great tears welled into his bloodshot eyes and trickled slowly down his seared old cheeks.  It was a pitiable sight.  Jacky looked on silently for a moment.  Her eyes took in every detail of that picture of despair.  She had heard the old man’s words but took no heed of them.  She was thinking very hard.  Suddenly she seemed to arrive at a decision.  Her laugh rang out, and she came and knelt at her uncle’s side.

“So you’ve sold me, you old dear, and not a bad thing too.  What’s the price?”

Her uncle raised his bowed head.  Her smiling face dried his tears and put fresh heart into him.  He had expected bitter invective, but instead the girl smiled.

Jacky’s task now became a simple one.  A mere matter of pumping.  Sharp questions and rambling replies.  Bit by bit she learned the story of Lablache’s proposal and the manner in which an acceptance had been forced upon her uncle.  She did not relinquish her task until the minutest detail had been gleaned.  At last she was satisfied with her cross-examination.

She rose to her feet and passed her hand with a caressing movement over her uncle’s head, gazing the while out of the window.  Her mind was made up.  Her uncle needed her help now.  That help should be his.  She condoned his faults; she saw nothing but that which was lovable in his weakness.  Hers was now the strength to protect him, who, in the days of his best manhood had sheltered her from the cruel struggles of a life in the half-breed camp, for such, at the death of her impecunious father, must otherwise have been her lot.

Now she looked down into that worn, old face, and her brisk, business-like tones roused him into new life.

“Uncle, you must meet Lablache and play—­the game.  For the rest, leave it to me.  All I ask is—­no more whisky to-day.  Stay right here and have a sleep.  Guess you might go an’ lie down.  I’ll call you for supper.  Then you’ll be fit.  One thing you must remember; watch that ugly-faced cur when you play.  See he don’t cheat any.  I’ll tell you more before you start out.  Come right along now and have that sleep.”

The old man got up and the girl led him from the room.  She saw him to his bedroom and then left him.  She decided that, for herself, she would not leave the house until she had seen Bill.  She must get her uncle sober before he went to meet Lablache.