“All through,” sputtered the amazed Ben, “yes, I’m through, that is for the present. And now, as you seem to be the only one of this collection of dummies that has any glimmering of sense, will you please tell me why I am fetched here like a ship’s cat going aboard a strange craft, all tied up in a bag?”
“No savee—ship’s cat,” replied the Seminole quietly; “plentee—savee, white man tell heap lie—all time.”
“Calling me a liar, now are you, you mahogany-colored lobster,” yelled Ben, “I’d like to get one good punch at you, my matey.”
“All white men liars,” blandly went on the Indian, “steal our land—all time break word to us—um no good.”
“Well?” demanded Ben.
“Well,” went on the spokesman of the tribe, “you stay here lilly while—we no hurt you. When you fren’s go then you go, too. They no hurt us we no hurt you.”
“Oh, is that so?” replied Ben, “werry good of you, I’m sure.”
“You eat plenty sofkee—plenty fowl—plenty tobac. Good time plenty, how?”
Now Ben had been in tight places in his adventurous career and he was by no means disposed to offend the Seminoles by seeming over anxious to get away, at least for the present, for he knew that if he did so any chance that his wrist gyves would be removed would be lost, so he acquiesced gracefully to all the Indian had said.
“All right, old odds-and-ends,” he said, “I’ll act as hostage as long as you feed me well and give me plenty to smoke. Now, take off these.”