His handsome face, with its high-arched nose, was expressionless. His eyes stared straight in front of him. He wore the go-lea, or breechcloth, and thigh-leggings of soft, tanned deerskin. A single eagle feather rose from the scalp-lock which hung from his shaven head.
He was naked from the waist up, and on his massive chest was painted in yellow and red pigments the head of a wolf. He wore no other paint, and he was weaponless, except for the tomahawk and knife which hung at his belt.
The children danced around him like so many little animals. They never touched him, but some of the more venturesome hurled pebbles from the walk at his brawny shoulders.
"Injun Jim came to town, with his breeches falling down," they chanted.
"Scalp-taker, scalp-taker," shrieked another.
"Big Injun drink much fire-water," howled a group.
"Injun dirt, Injun dirt, always 'feared that soap will hurt," proclaimed others.
I can not repeat all the catch-calls and rimes which they employed, some of them too disgusting for print. Sure, the gamins of Paris, with their natural ability at verbal filth, might have listened respectfully to these children of a far province, attempting to humiliate one of the race who had formerly been lords of the whole land.
I looked to see some citizen intervene, but several who sat on their doorsteps or lounged in front of shops, smoking the inevitable pipe, viewed the spectacle with indifference or open amusement. And the Indian stalked along, his dignity unruffled through it all.
My wrath boiled over, and I charged down upon the tormentors.