Lawson smiled. "You'll think this is the real thing before you get inside the door. I've known tenderfeet to weaken at the last moment."
Parker pretended to be a little nervous. "Suppose they should get hold of some liquor."
"This band is too far away from the white man to have his vices," replied Curtis with a slight smile. He had wondered at Elsie's going, but concluded she had grown weary of the old chief's speech.
"There is great charm in this life," said Lawson, as they all gathered before their tent and sat overlooking the village and the lake. "I sometimes wonder whether we have not complicated life without adding to the sum of human happiness."
"I'm thinking of this in winter," said Elsie. "O-o-o! It must be terrible! No furnace, no bath-tubs."
The others laughed heartily at the sincerity of her shudder, and Curtis said:
"Well, now, you'd be surprised to know how comfortable they keep in their tepees. In the old skin tepee they were quite warm even on the coldest days. They always camp in sheltered places out of the wind, and where fuel is plenty."
"At the same time I prefer my own way of living to theirs—when winter comes."
"I know something of your logic," replied Curtis. "But I think I understand the reluctance of these people when asked to give up the old things. I love their life—their daily actions—this man coiling a lariat—that child's outline against the tepee—the smell of their fresh bread—the smoke of their little fires. I can understand a Tetong when he says: 'All this is as sweet to me as your own life—why should I give it up?' Feeling as I do, I never insist on their giving up anything which is not an impediment. I argue with them, and show that some of their ways are evil or a hinderance in the struggle for life under new conditions, and they always meet me half-way."
"Supper is ready," called Jennie, and his audience rose.