"Ugh! Strong Heart him got heap more sense than anybody Joe ever see," asserted the Indian admiringly. "Once git taste of firewater, always be heap fool and drink him some. Many times old Joe he say no drink some more. Head all swell, middle all sick, mouth all dry, taste nasty a lot, bone ache—then him say no more[Pg 245] the firewater. Mebbe he go 'long some time, but bimeby he take it some more. White man make firewater. Bad! bad! bad! No firewater made, nobody drink it."
From inside the cabin a voice called.
"What, ho! Methinks thou hast found a philosopher, Merry! Bring the sage in that I may survey him with my heavenly blue eyes."
"Yes, dew!" drawled another voice. "I want to set my eyes onter him, by gum!"
Merry led the old Indian into the cabin.
"Here he is," Merry laughed. "Crowfoot, these are some of my friends, whom you met last summer. You remember them. They played ball with me in the Mad River country."
"Ugh!" grunted the redskin. "Heap remember!"
Bart Hodge stepped forward, his hand outstretched to the Indian.
"I am glad to see you again, Crowfoot," he said.
"Me same," said Joe, shaking Bart's hand. "You heap good to ketch hard ball when Strong Heart him make it go fast like a bullet and man with stick he—whish!—strike at it so, no hit it at all."