"Truly?" muttered Ned Lister. "Then I'm thinking the Lord in His wisdom laid His hand pretty heavily on the poor silly savages just for our profit."
There was little enough love already between Lister and Dotey, so Giles headed off a possibly bitter argument by continuing hastily: "So, as my father says, Squanto is, in a way, the owner of the land here, and as such has a right to shelter and food amongst us."
Miles listened to this story with a grave, stolid face, such as the others kept, and made no word of comment. But afterward he thought much of what had been told him, and wondered if Squanto had had a wife and copper-colored babies, and had come home to find them dead. He felt sorry for the poor, lone Indian, and watched him with new sympathy; but to all appearances Squanto was more occupied in consuming English biscuit and butter than in grieving for his lost friends.
Whether or no he had a claim upon the English, the Indian speedily showed himself able to repay them for any kindness. He told the men how they must wait yet some days before they planted their corn, and how there would then be plenty of fish in the river, which they must set with the seed; and much more that was useful. But nothing of the Indian's arts impressed Miles so much as his prowess in eel-catching, for he would go often into the forest and return, after a few hours, with fat, sweet eels, as many as he could lift in one hand.
Of an afternoon in April, nearly a fortnight after the coming of Massasoit, Ned Lister and Giles Hopkins went to the southward with Squanto on such a fishing trip, and, as Miles was very eager to share in it, they let him come too. Their course took them over steep, wooded hills, where always they had blue water close on the left hand, and, looking back over their shoulders, could see the bay of Plymouth, with its flanking headlands. A tender leafage was upon the trees, and in the southern hollows, where the birds sang, the air was warm; but on each hilltop a chillier blast stung in the faces of the fishermen and urged them to trudge more briskly.
At length they came to a gully, where two hills curved into each other, and descended it, half running, to the bank of a small river that flowed seaward through a level reach. Here was where the eels dwelt, Squanto gave his companions to understand; and then, without spear or any implement, he waded gently into the quiet water. The three English-born, from the bank, watched him intently, yet they scarcely realized how he did it, when he suddenly made a swift dart forward, and rose with a long, slimy thing writhing in his hands.
"Do you just tread 'em out with your feet, Squanto?" Ned queried after a time, as, keeping pace with the savage, they trailed along the bank.
When the Indian gave an "Um" that implied assent, Ned presently suggested: "Say we venture it, lads. It has a simple seeming. Tell us, Squanto, can a white man take eels that way?"
"White man try," advised Squanto, stolidly. He had caught enough for a mess, so he probably thought that the splashings of the English fellows would do no harm now.
Ned and Giles, stripping off shoes and stockings, waded in; and Miles, not to be outdone, followed after. The water felt stingingly cold against his bare legs, and set his teeth chattering so he could not talk. The very ooze of the river bed was clammy; and then he suddenly found his tongue and gave a frightened scream, as his toes touched something that rolled beneath them.