“No, Rolfe, there is no lie in a face, when the soul beams out as it now does in his. I would trust it, if 'twas green or grizzle, much less red.”
“But then, Earth, where have they gone, and when did they leave, and who carried them away?”
“Ah, that I can't tell; let Oloompa alone,—he'll worm it out. These red skins are mighty keen upon tracks. Now you may believe me or not, but I had rather have that fellow's eyes upon a warm trail, than old Jupe's nose;—she was mighty good. Poor thing! she's gone now.”
“But then, Earth, he will have to examine so closely as he goes along, that we shall not be able to go as far in a month, as those who have taken her away, will in a day.”
“Ah! there you are out agin, Rolfe. When Oloompa satisfies himself that he is right, he will follow their tracks through the woods in a hand gallop. It is true he will have to stop sometimes, to see if they have turned off,—but that won't take him long. You see the Ingens havn't roads as we have, and are therefore compelled to travel by courses.—If he can find out where they are going, he has got 'em slick enough.”
As Earth finished the remark, Oloompa made his appearance at the door, and said with a bright face, “Come! come quick!—you shall see.”
Rolfe and Earth both ran forward, that they might behold it, whatever it were, and found Oloompa wild with pleasure, and gazing on the little images made by Miskwa, and which still occupied the positions in which she had left them.
“Oh! Earth,” said Rolfe, wringing his hands in disappointment, “this is too bad, I thought it was something.”
“Yes,” said Earth, “the fellow is a fool;” then gazing at them more closely, “but Rolfe, it was a right slick dirt-dauber that made 'em.”
“Can the white man see?” said Oloompa, now joyously happy.