“How about taking him over here?” said Twink, pointing to a spot where a stretch of canvas would form a background.
Walking Dog seemed to understand at once, and, striding across, he stood with his back against the canvas, his hands on his rifle, and in a position such as soldiers take at “parade rest.”
Walking Dog refused to look pleasant while Allan and McConnell got their camera ready. Or perhaps it was his natural look with the ugly war-paint added.
“Get it?” asked Twink, when he heard the camera click.
“Oh, wait a minute!” cried McConnell. He had forgotten the slide of his plate-holder. Allan rolled his cartridge another number, and took one more to keep McConnell company. Walking Dog remained as still as a soldier’s monument while this was going on.
“Walking Dog refused to look pleasant.”
“I wish you would tell him we are much obliged,” said Allan to Twink.
“Oh, he knows that,” said Twink; but he spoke to the Indian as he was moving away, and Walking Dog shook hands with both boys, stiffly and silently, then walked majestically away.
Twink now left them for a moment and spoke to another Indian, a much handsomer and more gorgeous Indian, though one not less solemn than Walking Dog. They came back together.