"My shoes and stockings? Well, I will give them to you," and she quickly took them off. The Indian gravely tied them around his neck, and taking Dimple by the hand he led her forth in triumph.
But here a disaster followed, for the captive, thinking it her duty to struggle, knocked the hatchet out of the Indian's hand, and it fell with its edge on Dimple's little white foot, making a bad gash.
"Oh, you've killed me, sure enough," she cried. "Oh, you wicked, wicked thing!"
Poor Bubbles cried quite as hard as she, and begged not to be sent to the orphan asylum.
"Oh! your mother will whip me," she cried. "I 'spect I ought to be killed, but 'deed I didn't mean to, Miss Dimple; I wisht it had been my old black foot."
"I wish it had," sobbed Dimple. "Oh, I am bleeding all to nothing! Take me to mamma, Bubbles!"
Bubbles stooped down and, being a little larger and stronger, managed to carry her to the house.
Dimple's mamma was horrified when they appeared at her door. Bubbles in war-paint and feathers, carrying the little barefooted girl, from whose foot blood was dropping on the floor.
"What on earth is the matter? Oh, Dimple! Oh, Bubbles! What have you been doing?"
But Bubbles was so overcome by terror, and Dimples by the sight of the blood, that neither could explain till the foot was washed and bandaged.