"My name is Roger Anderson," and he spoke slowly, so his new friend would have no trouble in understanding, "I am staying with my uncle, Bert Kimball, at Cardiff, and got lost in the woods. I was riding with my cousin, and the horse ran away."
"Bert Kimball yo' say yo' uncle?"
"Yes."
"Over by Cardiff?"
"Yes, do you know him?"
"Sure, sartin. Bert an' me good frens. Yo' loss?"
"Well, I guess that's what you'd call it; I'm lost," admitted Roger, whose spirits had improved very much in the last few minutes. He was no longer in fear of the wild-cat, and, as for the Indian, he thought, rightly, that he need be in no worry as to his intentions, though it was the first time he knew how near he was to an Indian encampment.
He briefly explained how he had come to be in the woods, and then he waited to see what Johnny Green would propose. The Indian stood his rifle up against a tree, stalked off into the darkness, and returned presently, lugging the body of the wild-cat, which he threw on the ground near the smouldering fire. Seeing that the blaze was dying out for lack of fuel, Roger cast on some twigs and branches, until the flames leaped up brightly. Johnny Green squatted down on a log, and Roger followed his example. For a moment there was silence between them. Then the Indian spoke.
"Not much good for eat," he said, indicating the carcass of the dead animal he had shot. "Radder have coon. Fur of 'um good; that all."
"Were you out hunting coons?" asked Roger, and Johnny Green nodded that he was.