The Indian shook his head. Then, later, when it ended, he said: “That is the mystery song of some one I never saw him.”
There was a long silence, then the lad began, “There's no good hunting here now, Quonab. Why don't you go to the north woods, where deer are plentiful?”
The Indian gave a short shake of his head, and then to prevent further talk, “Put up your dew cloth; the sea wind blows to-night.”
He finished; both stood for a moment gazing into the fire. Then Rolf felt something wet and cold thrust into his hand. It was Skookum's nose. At last the little dog had made up his mind to accept the white boy as a friend.
Chapter 7. Rolf Works Out with Many Results
He is the dumbest kind of a dumb fool that ain't king in
some little corner.—Sayings of Si Sylvanne
The man who has wronged you will never forgive you, and he who has helped you will be forever grateful. Yes, there is nothing that draws you to a man so much as the knowledge that you have helped him.
Quonab helped Rolf, and so was more drawn to him than to many of the neighbours that he had known for years; he was ready to like him. Their coming together was accidental, but it was soon very clear that a friendship was springing up between them. Rolf was too much of a child to think about the remote future; and so was Quonab. Most Indians are merely tall children.
But there was one thing that Rolf did think of—he had no right to live in Quonab's lodge without contributing a fair share of the things needful. Quonab got his living partly by hunting, partly by fishing, partly by selling baskets, and partly by doing odd jobs for the neighbours. Rolf's training as a loafer had been wholly neglected, and when he realized that he might be all summer with Quonab he said bluntly: