A strange and remarkable scene was being enacted in the peaceable and civilized State of Connecticut—a scene which must have startled an accidental observer and caused him to fancy for a moment the hand of time had turned back two centuries.
Near a bright fire that was burning on the ground squatted a band of hideously-painted fellows who seemed to be redskins, while close at hand, bound and helpless, were a number of palefaces, plainly the captives of the savages.
That a council of war was taking place seemed apparent. And still the savages seemed waiting for something.
At length, out of the darkness advanced a tall, well-built warrior, the trailing plumes of whose war bonnet reached quite to the ground. If anything, this fellow was more hideously painted than any of the others, and there was an air of distinction about him that proclaimed him a great chief.
"Ugh!" he grunted. "I am here."
The savages arose, and one of them said:
"Fellow warriors, the mighty chief Fale-in-his-Hoce—I mean Hole-in-his-Face—has arrived."
Then a wild yell of greeting went up to the twinkling stars, and every savage brandished a tomahawk, scalping knife, or some other kind of weapon.
"Brothers," said Hole-in-his-Face, "I see that I am welcome in your midst, as any up-to-date country newspaper reporter would say. You have received me with great éclat—excuse my French; I was educated abroad—in New Jersey."
"Go back to Princeton!" cried one of the captives.