When he had given away all of his possessions the potlatch was over; it was then very near morning but as the boys were tired they stayed over at the village until the following day.
“Old hatchet face can have my vote, anytime,” proclaimed Bill, as he admired his trophy.
“You’re a nice American, you are,” said Jack; “selling your vote for a blanket, eh!”
“There’s a big difference,” proclaimed Bill; “this man-who-wants-to-be-chief is a heathen savage politician while down in the States the politicians are civilized Christians. An’ besides they’ve got jails down there. Get me?”
Just as they were ready to start back Kloshsky, the half-breed boy, told them it is the custom to return all gifts to the man-who-would-be-chief within a month and that they must bring his blankets back by the next moon.
Jack and Bill reluctantly handed over their presents to Kloshsky and told him to give them back to the man-who-would-be-chief with their best wishes and kindest personal regards and other nice felicitations that are usually found on the ends of business letters.
“Mush, you huskies!” yelled Jack and Bill simultaneously while the Indians, less cheerful than on the night of the potlatch, waved them their adieus.
“Indian giver,” said Jack when they were beyond earshot.
“I wouldn’t vote for that stingy guy now if he gave me all the blankets he owns,” groused Bill.
But while they soon forgot the blankets they could not forget the necklaces and belts of nuggets the Indians wore and they had more reason than ever to believe they were at the rainbow’s end where it dipped into pots of pure gold.