EAGER as he was to leave his new associates, Tom was wise enough to understand that it must not be thought of at present. He must bide his time.

Meanwhile he must make himself as agreeable as possible to the young Indian whose friendly feeling had saved his life. Had Miantonimo still remained sick, he would have watched by his sick couch, but of this there was no need. A wonderful change had come over the boy. His sickness, whatever it was, seemed to have left him all at once. His strength rapidly returned, and he was able to resume his usual sports.

In these he always wanted Tom to participate, and the white boy was entirely willing. While he remained in captivity he must pass the time in some way, and none seemed more agreeable than to share the life and employments of Miantonimo.

There were some things which the Indian boy could teach him. In the course of a few weeks Tom became expert with the bow; he even rivaled his adopted brother, who was remarkably skillful. He learned to ride a horse bareback, to shoot, to hunt. He also picked up some of the Indian dialect, so that he and Miantonimo could converse after a fashion.

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All this was regarded by Wanuka and his followers with quiet approval. Tom seemed to become more and more like their people, and they looked forward to his becoming a great warrior, for his courage and skill were understood and appreciated by them.

Oftentimes Wanuka, as he sat in silence and watched the two boys at their sports, congratulated himself that his son had found a friend so congenial, and one in whose society he seemed to take so much delight.

But how was it with Tom? Was he contented?

At first when under the tutelage of his young Indian friend he was learning to ride and to shoot, he found these exercises so interesting that he, for the time being, forgot to regret civilization and all its advantages and opportunities. But when he had learned all that Miantonimo could teach, when he could rival his teacher, and there was nothing to do but repeat from day to day the same routine, life became monotonous.

For three months he had not read a word of print. Not even a scrap of newspaper had fallen beneath his eye. Tom was troubled with a sense of dreariness and mental vacancy. If he could have bought the dullest and most trivial book he would have regarded it as a literary treasure.

“Must it be always so?” he asked himself, one evening. “Must I live cut off from all that I have been accustomed to enjoy, eating, sleeping, and hunting, and with nothing else to look forward ............