‘So do I,’ said Hugh.
But Rupert said, ‘No one could have expected a cousin of ours to be a chicken-hearted duffer. He’s a muff. It’s bad enough [p212 to have a muff in the house at all, and at Christmas time, too. But a related muff!’
Still the affair had cast a gloom, and we were glad when it was bed-time.
Next day was Christmas Day, and no presents, and nobody but the servants to wish a Merry Christmas to.
Our cousin Sidney came down to breakfast, and as it was Christmas Day Rupert bent his proud spirit to own he was sorry about the Indians.
Sidney said, ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry too. Only I didn’t expect it.’
We suggested two or three games, such as Parlour Cricket, National Gallery, and Grab—but Sidney said he would rather read. So we said would he mind if we played out the Indian game which we had dropped, out of politeness, when he fainted.
He said:
‘I don’t mind at all, now I know what it is you’re up to. No, thank you, I’d rather read,’ he added, in reply to Rupert’s unselfish offer to dress him for the part of Sitting Bull.
So he read Treasure Island, and we fought on the stairs with no casualties except the gas globes, and then we scalped all the dolls—putting on paper scalps first because Hilda wished it—and we scalped Eliza as she passed [p213 through the hall—hers was a white scalp with lacey stuff on it and long streamers.