"Yes, I have come home," I replied; "but I don't want you to call me White-chest."
"Sit down," said one of the little brownies. "When we have done, we will give you some, then you can play with us."
When the sticks were finished, I was given five or six of them. The tallest boy led the game. He grasped the small end of the game-stick with his right hand, bracing the top with a finger, then he took two or three quick side-long steps and threw the stick against the ground with all the force he could command; it bounded up and shot through the air like an arrow. The next boy threw one of his sticks in the same manner, and from the same place. All the others played, each in his turn. Then one of the boys shouted, "Your turn, little White-chest. Throw hard!"
I was familiar with the game, and by practice had acquired some skill in throwing the sticks. I selected one that seemed to have the proper weight and feeling, took the usual position, and crouching almost to the earth, I threw my stick with all the force that I could muster. We watched its flight until it touched the ground and slid along, far beyond any stick that had been thrown.
"Woo-hoo!" exclaimed the boys, "he has beaten us all; he's won all our sticks!"
"Kill him! kill him! He's nothing but a thieving Winnebago!" This cry came from the west end of the village, not far from where we were playing. Startled by the angry words, we paused in our sport, and looked in that direction. A crowd began to gather and move along the path that led out of the village.
"What are they doing? Let's go and see," cried Ga-im'-ba-zhe.
We all rushed forward on a keen run, and reached the crowd; there we saw a lad, a little larger than we were, struggling to get away from a swarm of boys and young men who were throwing stones and sticks at him. He was a pitiful object, and why they should abuse him so was more than we could understand. His legs and feet were bare; he carried on his arm something that resembled a worn-out blanket, and in his hand he held tightly a piece of bread. He belonged to the Winnebago tribe, against whom at that time there was much prejudice among the Omahas. Mud was thrown at him; he was pushed and jostled by the crowd, and some persons kicked him. Slowly the boy retreated, at times stopping to look with pleading eyes at his merciless persecutors. When he started to run, some one threw a stick of wood before him; he struck his foot against it and fell; then the crowd laughed.
"They are doing wrong!" exclaimed Ga-im'-ba-zhe. "They ought not to do that!"