Then he departed up the hill to the tent, hugging the purchase closely, and broke in on Corliss, who sat in the blankets mending moccasins.
"I'll fix 'm yet," Del remarked casually, at the same time patting the book and throwing it down on the bed.
Corliss looked up inquiringly and opened it.

The paper was yellow with age and rotten from the weather-wear of trail, while the text was printed in Russian.

"I didn't know you were a Russian scholar, Del," he quizzed.

"But I can't read a line of it." "Neither can I, more's the pity; nor does Whipple's woman savve the lingo.

I got it from her.