“Ah, yes! but if he happens to be out of it just now, and can’t get a fresh supply?” suggested Cute, lugubriously. He appeared determined to take a discouraging view of the situation. “I know the tricks of these red codgers; I’ve read about ’em in books. He has got some horrible old idol in a cave up at the Rapids, where he lives, and he makes human sacrifices to it. We shall be grilled, like a couple of innocent lambs, as we are.”
“Pshaw! don’t lose all your courage at the first reverse. You’re not goin to funk, are you?”
“Nary a funk! I’m only taking a rational view of the situation. It’s kind of tight papers now, ain’t it—you’ll allow that?”
“Perhaps; but then we can’t help it, can we?”
“No; that’s what’s the matter!”
“Besides, we can’t die but once.”
“I know it; that’s what makes it so awkward. If a chap could die two or three times he might get used to it, don’t you see?”
This reasoning provoked a smile from Percy Vere.
“Well, we must take our chances,” he answered. “Repining won’t help us. You wanted a brush with the red-skins, and you’ve had it.”
“You bet! My head sings yet where the big chap hit me. It’s lucky for me that my skull is tolerably thick. Didn’t I see stars when I went down? And I never expected to get up again. Well, we peppered some of ’em, as Gummery would say, and that’s some satisfaction. I wonder if he got safe off?”