Indians and wood rangers have two languages, of which they make use by turns, according to circumstances—spoken language, and the language of gestures.
Like the spoken language, the language of signs has, in America, infinite fluctuations; everyone, so to say, invents his own. It is a compound of strange and mysterious gestures, a kind of masonic telegraph, the signs of which, varying at will, are only comprehensible to a small number of adepts.
The Babbler and his companion were conversing in signs.
This singular conversation lasted nearly an hour; it appeared to interest the speakers warmly; so warmly, indeed, that they did not remark, in spite of all the precautions they had taken not to be surprised, two fiery eyes that, from the middle of a tuft of underwood, were fixed upon them with strange intenseness.
At length the Babbler, risking the utterance of a few words, said, "I await your good pleasure."
"And you shall not wait it long," the other replied.
"I depend upon you, Kennedy; for my part, I have fulfilled my promise."
"That's well! that's well! We don't require many words to come to an understanding," said Kennedy, shrugging his shoulders; "only you need not have conducted them to so strong a position—it will not be very easy to surprise them."
"That's your concern," said the Babbler, with an evil smile.