“Well, that’s hardly a photograph, is it, after all?”
“No,” his father answered, “it’s not. I suppose I’ll have to admit that it is partly imaginative. But the dragon I fought was something like that.”
“You’ve got me guessing,” the boy admitted. “Won’t you tell me the story, Father? It ought to be a great yarn.”
“I suppose I’ll have to,” the other agreed, “since I’ve led you on so far.” He reached out for a new cigar, clipped it, lighted it, and when sure that it was drawing properly, leant back in his chair and began.
“I suppose I was about thirteen years old,” he said reminiscently, “when this famous combat was held. At that time my folks were living at a small place called Proctor’s Cave, on the Green River, in Kentucky, not far from the Mammoth Cave. As you probably know, Perry, that whole section is just riddled with caves, made by the gradual dissolving of the limestone rock through the action of underground rivers. Most of them, too, are full of stalactites.
“Proctor’s Cave, right on the river, was quite a growing town, and though it was small, there was a right smart heap of children in proportion to its size. About thirty-five boys around my age went to the school there. I can remember the number because we were divided into two gangs. Ours had fifteen members and the other had twenty.”
“I suppose you were ‘boss’ of your gang, Father?”
“I was the ‘War-Chief,’” was the smiling response. “Our gang was called the ‘Indians’ and the others were the ‘Pioneers.’ You can see that it was natural for us always to be ready for a fight. Everything was taken in good part, though, until one day we caught one of the chaps in the other gang and scalped him.”
“You didn’t really scalp him!”
“No, not exactly. There were limits, Perry, even in my young days. But the victim thought it was genuine. That’s where the trouble came in.”