We could tell our friends that we wanted them to go hunting, fishing or blackberrying with us; we could ask them to come over and pay us a visit; and we could tell them when to expect us. We had signals of distress, too, and we were all bound to give heed to them when we heard them.
I ought to say that this idea did not originate with us; we learned it from the settlers, who also had a code of signals which had been in use as long as I could remember.
If a planter some evening took it into his head that he would like to go bear-hunting on the following day he would go out with his horn and blow five long blasts and three short ones; and, like us when we called our fellows, he was certain of a reply.
The neighbor who heard him first would respond, then another and another would follow, until all the men in the settlement for two or three miles around, had agreed to go bear-hunting, and that, too, without having seen one another.
Perhaps, now that you have heard so much about our fellows, you would like to have them personally presented. Step into headquarters, and I will introduce you. After that, if you think you would enjoy a four-mile gallop before supper, we will find you a good horse to ride. We are going down the bayou to visit an Indian camp: and if you have never seen one, now is your chance.
The boy who sits in that big arm-chair, thrumming on his guitar and tickling the dog’s ears with the toe of his boot, is my brother Mark. If you don’t find him in some mischief every time you meet him, you mustn’t think it is his fault.
Do you see that broad-shouldered, long-legged, awkward-looking fellow sitting on the floor at the opposite side of the fire-place, with a hammer in his hand and a pan of hickory nuts by his side? That is Sandy Todd, the strongest boy and the best shot in our party.
That curly-headed, blue-eyed fellow, who smiles so good-naturedly every time he speaks, and who sits at the table devouring the hickory-nuts as fast as Sandy cracks them, is Herbert Dickson. He is blessed with a good deal of flesh, is Herbert, and sometimes answers to the name of “Chub”; at others, “Ducklegs.”
I have known plenty of boys at school to be badly deceived in that same Herbert Dickson. As clumsy as he looks, he can run faster and jump higher and further than any other fellow of his age in the settlement. There is nothing in the world that Herbert more enjoys than the astonishment and chagrin of some lithe young fellow who may have challenged him, “just for the fun of the thing,” to run a race; for I don’t remember that I ever saw him beaten.
On the table at Herbert’s elbow is a chessboard with men scattered over it. I am sitting at one end of it, and the tall, dark, dignified-looking youth, in blue jeans roundabout and heavy horseman’s boots, who is sitting opposite me, is Duke Hampton, than whom a better fellow never lived. He is an acknowledged leader. He settles all our disputes, when we have any—which, by the way, does not often happen—and is the projector and manager of most of our plans for amusement. He is handsome and polite, and, of course, a great favorite with the girls. He is a boy of high moral principle, strictly truthful, and honorable even in the smallest matters, and these qualities render him a favorite with the men. He is the most daring and graceful rider among our fellows, and, next to Mark, the best wrestler. He is a good chess-player, too; but by some unaccountable fortune I have driven him into a tight corner.