"Me no poor—no starve; me big chief," retorted the old man, glancing disdainfully at us, with eyes that now appeared bright.
I exchanged telegraphic communication with Charlie and Fanny, seated her comfortably upon a mossy boulder, and threw myself at her feet, while Charlie disposed of himself also, within conversational distance.
"May I ask what is your name?" I inquired, insinuatingly.
"My name is Nittinat—this is my country; this water is mine; this earth, these stones—all mine that you see."
"Such a great chief must have many warriors—many people. I do not see any. Were those your people that I saw in the canoe?"
"Nittinat's people all gone," answered the old man sadly, dropping his chin upon his rush-clad breast.
"But we saw a canoe with fourteen warriors in it, besides yourself," Charlie eagerly asserted. "Where are those young men?"
"Me great medicine man; make see canoe—make see young men," responded the owner of the place, with a wan yet superior sort of smile.
Charlie glanced at us, then asked quite deferentially, "Can you make us see what is not here?"
"You have seen," was the brief reply.