“A traveller!” repeated Royal; “you look like a traveller.”
He pulled his cap off from Lucy’s head, and put it upon his own; and then held up a paper which he had in his hands, to her view.
There was a frightful-looking figure of a man upon it, pretty large, with eyes, nose, and mouth, painted brown, and a bundle of sticks upon his back.
“It is an Indian,” said Royal. “I painted him myself.”
“O, what an Indian!” said Lucy. “I wish you would give him to me.”
“O no,” said Royal; “it is for my target.”
“Target?” said Lucy. “What is a target?”
“A target? Why, a target is a mark to shoot at, with my bow and arrow. They almost always have Indians for targets.”
Lucy told him that she did not believe his target would stand up long enough to be shot at; but Royal said, in reply, that he was going to paste him upon a shingle, and then he could prop the shingle up so that he could shoot at it. And he asked Lucy if she would go and borrow Miss Anne’s gum arabic bottle, while he went and got the shingle.