"I don't think I'll tell you my name—now," she said thoughtfully.
"Perhaps—after you've seen the land you purchased from Senator
Fairclothe. Perhaps—not. Good-by."
Roger looked at Ramos, watching them from a distance, and replied:
"So long."
X
Higgins sat facing the silent Seminole, who swiftly paddled the long dugout out of the little lake before the house and into a sluggish creek running into it from the northeast. The Indian wore the mauve-tinted, gaudily embroidered dress shirt of his tribe, but as a concession to civilization he had donned a pair of overalls so much too large for him that the belt was high round his strapping chest.
"What name did she call you by, Willy?" asked the engineer.
"Me Willy Tiger."
"Tiger doesn't fit you, Willy."
Higgins dipped his hand overboard and sprinkled water on the Indian's head.
"I hereby christen you Willy High Pockets. And may they never be empty."