"Boy," said the old hunter, "I have seen no man so brave."
Wampum shuddered. "My uncle," he said proudly, "I have lived among brave people, but—" here he shuddered again, for he was only a boy, after all. "Oh, how black their eyes were, and how they hated me!"
"They never hated you as much as we love you," returned the old hunter. The word "love" had never passed his lips before, and Wampum knew then that not only had his courageous act brought the blessing of the white man's God, but it had won for him the priceless friendship of this stalwart old Indian, whose wisdom and whose laughter would be shared with him through all his coming life.
The good missionary said never a word as they drove home through the dark, but as they parted for the night he laid his hand silently, gently, on the proud, dark young head. No word was spoken, but the boy knew that a blessing was not always expressed in language, and that there are some kinds of courage that do not need scalps at one's belt to show that one has fought a good fight.
The King Georgeman
I
"So the little King Georgeman comes to-morrow, eh, Tillicum?" asked the old Lillooet hunter.
"Yes, comes for all summer," replied "Banty" Clark, "and I've got to be polite and show him around, and, I suppose, stay in the ranch house all the hot weather while his nibs togs up in his London clothes, 'don't yer know,' and drinks five-o'clock tea, and does nothing but stare at the toes of his patent leather shoes. Pshaw! What a prospect! Ever see patent leather shoes, Eena?" asked Banty, with some disgust.
"I don't know, me. I think not," replied The Eena.
"You're lucky," went on Banty. "But my cousin's sure to wear them, and they're spoil-sport things, I can tell you! No salmon fishing, no mountaineering, no hunting while they're around. But, Eena, why do you call my cousin a King Georgeman?"