"My son, the Great Chief does the thinking. It's the rabble—that's you and Sappy—that does the work."
But all the same he set about it at once with Yan, Sappy following with a slight limp now. They removed the sticks and rubbish for twenty feet of the trail at each end and sprinkled this with three or four inches of fine black loam. They cleared off the bank of the stream at four places, one at each side where it entered the woods, and one at each side where it went into the Burns's Bush.
"Now," said Sam, "there's what I call visitors' albums like the one that Phil Leary's nine fatties started when they got their brick house and their swelled heads, so every one that came in could write their names an' something about 'this happy, happy, ne'er-to-be-forgotten visit'—them as could write. Reckon that's where our visitors get the start, for all of ours kin write that has feet."
"Wonder why I didn't think o' that," said Yan, again and again. "But there's one thing you forget," he said. "We want one around the teepee."
This was easily made, as the ground was smooth and bare there, and Sappy forgot his limp and helped to carry ashes and sand from the fire-hole. Then planting his broad feet down in the dust, with many snickers, he left some very interesting tracks.
"I call that a bare track" said Sam.
[276] "Go ahead and draw it," giggled Sappy.
"Why not?" and Yan got out his book.
"Bet you can't make it life-size," and Sam glanced from the little note-book to the vast imprint.