Peppajee did not even indicate that he heard or, hearing, understood.
“Bothered much with Injuns?” Baumberger asked carelessly, putting away his pipe. “I see there's quite a camp of 'em up on the hill. Hope you've got good watchdogs—they're a thieving lot. If they're a nuisance, Hart, I'll see what can be done about slapping 'em back on their reservation, where they belong. I happen to have some influence with the agent.”
“I guess you needn't go to any trouble about it,” Peaceful returned dryly. “I've had worse neighbors.”
“Oh—if you're stuck on their company!” laughed Baumberger wheezily. “'Every fellow to his taste, as the old woman said when she kissed her cow.' There may be good ones among the lot,” he conceded politely when he saw that his time-worn joke had met with disfavor, even by the boys, who could—and usually did—laugh at almost anything. “They all look alike to me, I must admit; I never had any truck with 'em.”
“No, I guess not,” Peaceful agreed in his slow way, holding his pipe three inches from his face while he eyed Peppajee quizzically. “Don't pay to have any truck with 'em while you feel that way about it.” He smoothed down his snow-white beard with his free hand, pushed the pipe-stem between his teeth, and went on smoking.
“I never liked the breed, any way you look at 'em,” Baumberger stated calmly.
“Say, you'll queer yourself good and plenty, if you keep on,” Wally interrupted bluntly. “Peppajee's ears aren't plugged with cotton—are they, Jim?”
Neither Peppajee nor Baumberger made reply of any sort, and Peaceful turned his mild eyes reproachfully toward his untactful son. But the supper summons clanged insistently from the iron triangle on the back porch and saved the situation from becoming too awkward. Even Baumberger let his tilted chair down upon its four legs with a haste for which his appetite was not alone responsible, and followed the boys into the house as if he were glad to escape from the steady, uncompromising stare of the Indian.
“Better come and eat, Peppajee,” Peaceful lingered upon the porch to urge hospitably. “You no get mad. You come eat supper.”
“No!” Peppajee jerked the word out with unmistakable finality. “No eat. Bimeby mebbyso makum big talk yo'.”