“To show I’m not a tenderfoot.”
“Yes, to show you’re not a tenderfoot. I fancy that will be hardly necessary. Oh, you will be up, eh? Well!”
“Well, I’m a tottering imbecile. What’s the matter with my legs?—my prophetic soul, it hurts! Oh, I see; that’s where the old warrior’s hoof caught me sideways. Now, I’ll tell you what, I’m going to have another moose to take back to Marigold Lake.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I’m going to take back a young, live moose.”
“A significant ambition. For what?—a sacrifice to the gods you have offended in your classic existence?”
“Both. A peace-offering, and a sacrifice to—a goddess.”
“Young man,” said the other, the light of a smile playing on his lips, “‘Prosperity be thy page!’ Big Moccasin, what of this young live moose?”
The Indian shook his head doubtfully.
“But I tell you I shall have that live moose, if I have to stay here to see it grow.”