“Daddy!” said the elder boy. “Have you seen wild Indians?”
“Yes, boy.”
“Have you ever scalped one?”
“Good gracious, no.”
“Has one ever scalped you?” asked Dimples.
“Silly!” said Laddie. “If Daddy had been scalped he wouldn’t have all that hair on his head—unless perhaps it grew again!”
“He has none hair on the very top,” said Dimples, over the low chair in which Daddy was sitting.
“They didn’t scalp you, did they, Daddy?” asked Laddie, with some anxiety.
“I expect Nature will scalp me some of these days.”
Both boys were keenly interested. Nature presented itself as some rival chief.
“When?” asked Dimples, eagerly, with the evident intention of being present.
Daddy passed his fingers ruefully through his thinning locks. “Pretty soon, I expect,” said he.
“Oo!” said the three children. Laddie was resentful and , but the two younger ones were obviously delighted.
“But I say, Daddy, you said we should have an Indian game after tea. You said it when you wanted us to be so quiet after breakfast. You promised, you know.”
It doesn’t do to break a promise to children. Daddy rose somewhat wearily from his comfortable chair and put his pipe on the mantelpiece. First he held a conference in secret with Uncle Pat, the most ingenious of playmates. Then he returned to the children. “Collect the tribe,” said he. “There is a Council in a quarter of an hour in the big room. Put on your Indian dresses and arm yourselves. The great Chief will be there!”
Sure enough when he entered the big room a quarter of an hour later the tribe of the Leatherskins had assembled. There were four of them, for little Cousin John from next door always came in for an Indian game. They had all Indian dresses with high feathers and wooden clubs or tomahawks. Daddy was in his usual untidy tweeds, but carried a rifle. He was very serious when he entered the room, for one should be very serious in a real good Indian game. Then he raised his rifle slowly over his head in greeting and the four childish voices rang out in the war-cry. It was a prolonged wolfish howl which Dimples had been known to offer to teach elderly ladies in hotel corridors. “You can’t be in our tribe without it, you know. There is none body about. Now just try once if you can do it.” At this moment there are half-a-dozen elderly people wandering about England who have been made children once more by Laddie and Dimples.
“Hail to the tribe!” cried Daddy.
“Hail, Chief!” answered the voices.
“Red !”
“Here!” cried Laddie.
“Black Bear!”
“Here!” cried Dimples.
“White Butterfly!”
“Go on, you silly squaw!” Dimples.
“Here,” said Baby.
“Prairie Wolf!”
“Here,” said little four-year-old John.
“The is complete. Make a circle p. 239round the camp-fire and we shall drink the firewater of the Palefaces and smoke the pipe of peace.”
That was a fearsome joy. The fire-water was ginger-ale drunk out of the bottle, which was gravely passed from hand to hand. At no other time had they ever drunk like that, and it made an occasion of it which was increased by the owlish gravity of Daddy. Then he lit his pipe and it was passed also from one tiny hand to another, Laddie taking a suck at it, which set him coughing, while Baby only touched the end of the with her little pink lips. There was dead silence until it had gone round and returned to its owner.
“ of the Leatherskins, why have we come here?” asked Daddy, fingering his rifle.
“Humpty Dumpty,” said little John, and the children all began to laugh, but the gravity of Daddy brought them back to the mood.
“The Prairie Wolf has spoken truly,” said Daddy. “A wicked Paleface called Humpty Dumpty has taken the prairies which once belonged to the Leatherskins and is now camped upon them and hunting our . What shall be his fate? Let each warrior speak in turn.”
“Tell him he has jolly well got to clear out,” said Laddie.
“That’s not Indian talk,” cried Dimples, with all his soul in the game. “Kill him, great Chief—him and his squaw, too.” The two younger warriors merely laughed and little John repeated “Humpty Dumpty!”
“Quite right! Remember the villain’s name!” said Daddy. “Now, then, the whole tribe follows me on the war-trail and we shall teach this Paleface to shoot our buffaloes.”
“Look here, we don’t want squaws,” cried Dimples, as Baby at the rear of the procession. “You stay in the wigwam and cook.”
A piteous cry greeted the suggestion.
“The White Butterfly will come with us and up the wounds,” said Daddy.
“The squaws are jolly good as torturers,” remarked Laddie.
“Really, Daddy, this strikes me as a most game,” said the Lady, who had been a sympathetic spectator from a corner, doubtful of the ginger-ale, at the pipe, and delighted at the complete absorption of the children.
“Rather!” said the great Chief, with a sad relapse into the normal. “I suppose that is why they love it so. Now, then, warriors, we go on the war-trail. One all together before we start. Capital! Follow me, now, one behind the other. Not a sound! If one gets separated from the others let him give the cry of a night and the others will answer with the of the prairie .”
“What sort of a squeak, please?”
“Oh, any old squeak will do. You don’t walk. Indians on the war-path. If you see any man hiding in a bush kill him at once, but don’t stop to scalp him—”
“Really, dear!” from the corner.
“The great Queen would rather that you scalp him. Now, then! All ready! Start!”
Away went the line of figures, Daddy stooping with his rifle at the trail, Laddie and Dimples armed with axes and toy pistols, as tense and serious as any Redskins could be. The other two rather more irresponsible but very much absorbed all the same. The little line of absurd figures wound in and out of the furniture, and out on to the lawn, and round the laurel bushes, and into the yard, and back to the of trees. There Daddy stopped and held up his hand with a face that froze the children.
“Are all here?” he asked.
“Yes, yes.”
“Hush, warriors! No sound. There is an enemy in the bushes ahead. Stay with me, you two. You, Red Buffalo, and............