“To be sure they do,” I answered; “but am I to understand that you are an Indian?”
“Not ta-day,” replied Dorothy, shaking her head. “Last time Reginald painted me Auntie was awfull’ angry - it took her and nurse ages to get it all off - the war-paint, I mean - so I’m afraid I can’t be an Indian again!”
“That’s very unfortunate!” I said.
“Yes, isn’t it; but nobody can be an Indian chief without any war-paint, can they?”
“Certainly not,” I answered. “You seem to know a great deal about it.”
“Oh, yes,” nodded Dorothy. “Reginald has a book all about Indians and full of pictures - and here’s the letter,” she ended, and slipped it into my hand.
Smoothing out its many folds and creases, I read as follows:
To my pail-face brother:
Ere another moon, Spotted Snaik will be upon the war-path, and red goar shall flo in buckkit-fulls.
“It sounds dreadful, doesn’t it?” said Dorothy, hugging her kitten.
“Horrible!” I returned.
“He got it out of the book, you know,” she went on, “but I put in the part about the buckets - a bucket holds such an awful lot, don’t you think? But there’s some more on the other page.” Obediently I turned, and read:
‘ere another moon, scalps shall dangel at belt of Spotted Snaik, for in his futsteps lurk deth, and distruksion. But fear not pail-face, thou art my brother - fairwell. Sined SPOTTED SNAIK.
“There was lots more, but we couldn’t get it in,” said Dorothy. Squeezed up into a corner I found this postscript:
If you will come and be an Indian Cheef unkel dick, I will make you a spear, and you can be Blood-in-the-Eye. He was a fine chap and nobody could beat him except Spotted Snaik, will you Unkel dick?
“He wants you to write an answer, and I’m to take it to him,” said Dorothy.
“Blood-in-the-Eye!” I repeated; “no, I’m afraid not. I shouldn’t object so much to becoming a red-skin - for a time - but Blood-in-the-Eye! Really, Dorothy, I’m afraid I couldn’t manage that.”
“He was very brave,” returned Dorothy, “and awfull’ strong, and could - could ‘throw his lance with such unerring aim, as to pin his foe to the nearest tree - in the twinkle of an eye.’ That’s in the book, you know.”
“There certainly must be a great deal of satisfaction in pinning one’s foe to a tree,” I nodded.
“Y-e-e-s, I suppose so,” said Dorothy rather dubiously.
“And where is Spotted Snake - I mean, what is he doing?”
“Oh, he’s down by the river with his bow and arrow, scouting for canoes. It was great fun! He shot at a man in a boat - and nearly hit him, and the man got very angry indeed, so we had to hide among the bushes, just like real Indians. Oh, it was fine!” “But your Auntie Lisbeth said you weren’t to play near the river, you know,” I said.
“That’s what I told him,” returned Dorothy, “but he said that Indians didn’t have any aunts, and then I didn’t know what to say. What do you think about it, Uncle Dick?”
“Well,” I answered, “now I come to consider, I can’t remember ever having heard of an Indian’s aunt.”
“Poor things!” said Dorothy, giving the fluffy kitten a kiss between the ears.
“Yes, it’s hard on them, perhaps, and yet,” I added thoughtfully, “an aunt is sometimes rather a mixed blessing. Still, whether an Indian possesses an aunt or not, the fact remains that water has an unpleasant habit of wetting one, and on the whole, I think I’ll go and see what Spotted Snake is up to.”
“Then I think I’ll come with you a little way,” said Dorothy, as I rose. “You see, I have to get Louise her afternoon’s milk.”
“And how is Louise?” I inquired, pulling the fluffy kitten’s nearest ear.
“Very well, thank you,” answered Dorothy demurely; “but oh dear me! kittens ‘are such a constant source of worry and anxiety!’ Auntie Lisbeth sometimes says that about Reginald and me. I wonder what she would say if we were kittens!”
“Bye the bye, where is your Auntie Lisbeth?” I asked in a strictly conversational tone.
“Well, she’s lying in the old boat.”
“In the old boat!” I repeated.
“Yes,” nodded Dorothy; “when it’s nice and warm and sleepy, like to-day, she takes a book, and a pillow, and a sunshade, and she goes and lies in the old boat under the Water-stairs. There, just look at this naughty Louise!” she broke off, as the kitten scrambled up to her shoulder and stood there, balancing itself very dextrously with curious angular movements of its tail; “that’s because she thinks I’ve forgotten her milk, you know; she’s dreadfully impatient, but I suppose I must humour her this once. Good-afternoon!” And, having given me her hand in her demure, old-fashioned way, Dorothy hurried off, the kitten still perched upon her shoulder, its tail jerking spasmodically with her every step.
In a little while I came in view of the Water~stairs, yet although I paused more than once to look about me, I saw no sign of the Imp. Thinking he was most probably ‘in ambush’ somewhere, I continued my way, whistling an air out of “The Geisha” to attract his notice. Ten minutes or more elapsed, however, without any sign of him, and I was already close to the stairs, when I stopped whistling all at once, and holding my breath, crept forward on tiptoe.
There before me was the old boat, and in it - her cheek upon a crimson cushion and the sun making a glory of her tumbled hair - was Lisbeth - asleep.
Being come as near as I dared for fear of waking her, I sat down, and lighting my pipe, fell to watching her - the up-curving shadow of her lashes, the gleam of teeth between the scarlet of her parted lips, and the soft undulation of her bosom. And from the heavy braids of her hair my glance wandered down to the little tan shoe peeping at me beneath her skirt, and I called to mind how Goethe has said:
‘A pretty foot is not only a continual joy, but it is the one element of beauty that defies the assaults of Time,’
Sometimes a butterfly hovered past, a bee filled the air with his drone, or a bird settled for a moment upon the stairs near-by to preen a ruffled feather, while soft and drowsy with distance came the ceaseless roar of the weir.
I do not know how long I had sat thus, supremely content, when I was suddenly aroused by a rustling close at hand.
“Hist!”
I looked up sharply, and beheld a head, a head adorned with sundry feathers, and a face hideously streaked with red and green paint; but there was no mistaking those golden curls - it was the Imp!
“Hist!” he repeated, bringing out the word with a prolonged hiss, and then - before I could even guess at his intention - there was the swift gleam of a knife, a splash of the severed painter, and caught by the tide the old boat swung out, and was adrift.
The Imp stood gazing on his handiwork with wide eyes, and then as I leaped to my feet something in my look seemed to frighten him, for without a word he turned and fled. But all my attention was centred in the boat, which was drifting slowly into midstream with Lisbeth still fast asleep. And as I watched its sluggish progress, with a sudden chill I remembered the weir, which foamed and roared only a short half-mile away. If the boat once got drawn into that - !
Now, I am quite aware that under these circumstances the right and proper thing for me to have done, would have been to throw aside my coat, tear off my boots, etc., and “boldly breast the foamy flood.” But I did neither, for the simple reason that once within the ‘foamy flood’ aforesaid, there would have been very little chance of my ever getting out again, for - let me confess the fact with the blush of shame - I am no swimmer.
Yet I was not idle, far otherwise. Having judged the distance between the drifting boat and the bank, I began running along, seeking the thing I wanted. And presently, sure enough, I found it - a great pollard oak, growing upon the edge of the water, that identical tree with the ‘stickie-out’ branches which has already figured in these narratives as the hiding-place of a certain pair of silk stockings.