"'Deed, Miss Dimple"—Bubbles began.
"Don't you 'deed me. I tell you to go and I mean it. I'll send you to the orphan asylum, if you don't, and I wonder how you will like that; no more cakes, no more chicken and corn-bread for you, Miss Bubbles. Mush and milk, miss."
This dreadful threat had its desired effect, and Bubbles' bare black legs went scudding through the grass, and were back in a twinkling.
"Hyah it is," she said. "I was skeered, sho' 'nough."
"Oh well, you are a goose," said Dimple. "Who ever heard of an Indian being scared at a hatchet? Now I will go into the woodshed—that is my house, you know—and you must skulk softly along, and when you get to the door bang it open with the hatchet, and give a whoop."
So Dimple went in her house and shut the door, fearfully peeping through the cracks once in a while, as the terrible foe crept softly nearer and nearer, then with a terrific yell burst in.
"Please, Mr. Indian, don't scalp me."
"Ugh!" said the Indian.
"What shall I do?" said Dimple. "Make me take off my stockings and shoes, Bubbles. You know the captives must go barefooted."
"Ugh!" said the Indian, pointing to Dimple's feet.