“We can see acrobats any time,” protested Allan, “and we may never get a chance to photograph Indians—close up—again.”
They both photographed the grand entrée from their seats in the grand stand, though the figures of the soldiers and cowboys and Indians and Arabs looked very small at that distance, and the heads of the people in the spectators’ seats made a rather conspicuous foreground. They caught the bucking broncho while two of the cowboys were trying to master him.
When the Arab acrobats came out, the boys slipped out of their seats and went around to look for Mr. Twink. He was where he had said he would be.
“Now, what do you want to do?” he demanded, so abruptly that Allan was a little at a loss what to say.
“We should like to photograph some of the Indians,” said Allan, finally.
“Well, here’s Walking Dog, photograph him.” And Twink caught a passing Indian by the arm.
Walking Dog was very solemn in appearance, and when Twink said something to him in a language the boys could not understand—it was the first Indian talk Allan or McConnell ever had heard—Walking Dog looked at the boys and at their camera without a smile.
Allan was sure that Walking Dog resented the proposition to be photographed, and felt sorry he had mentioned it. The Indian looked so savage in his paint.
“He says all right,” remarked Twink.
Now, Allan was sure Walking Dog had not uttered a sound, and he wondered very much what language the Indian had used that Twink should feel so sure.