“My brother is very quick of eye, but he is not an Indian, born in the woods. Can you read the little marks on a book?”
“Well, Custa, what a question; you know I can.”
“And an Indian can read the print of a foot,” said the warrior, with a grim smile, as he saw the pun, but could not check it.
“Now for an Injun to make a joke about the print of a foot and the print in a book, is mighty queer,” put in Harvey; “wouldn’t Jane laugh and show her pretty teeth. She’d say six years’ study had done you good, too.”
Custaloga remained silent a moment, as if ashamed of his weakness, and then continued his explanation in the same dignified and solemn manner in which he had commenced it.
He proposed to enter the village under cover of the night, trusting to his skin, and discover, roaming about, whether Amy was really there, as this would materially aid their plan the next day. He undertook to return before daylight, in time for a short rest.
“’Tis plaguy risky,” said Harvey, moodily. “I don’t like it Custa. A pretty kettle of fish if you get took.”
“I will not be taken,” replied Custa, simply.
“I know you won’t—but you’ll be worse,” continued Harvey, sulkily.