“Well, to be sure, I haven't used them very much. The bow and arrows I could manage fairly well, after busy practice. They have saved me from more than one hungry night. But as for the rest—”
“You might have worn the—Is it a ghost-dance shirt, though?” hesitatingly asked Waldo, gingerly fingering the wadded tunic.
“Waldo, I'm ashamed of you, boy!” almost harshly reproved the professor. “Ghost-dance shirt, indeed! And this one of the most complete—the only perfectly preserved specimen of the ancient Aztec—pray, my good friend, where did you discover them? Surely there can be no burial mounds so far above the latitude where that unfortunate race lived and died?”
Mr. Edgecombe shook his head, with a puzzled look, then made reply:
“No, sir. I took these all from an Indian I was forced to kill in order to save my own life. I never thought—You are ill, sir?”
“Bless my soul!” ejaculated the professor, falling back a pace or two, then sitting down with greater force than grace, all the while gazing upon those weapons like one in a daze. “Found them—Indian—killed him in order to—bless my soul!”
Then, with marvellous activity for one of his age, the professor recovered his footing, mumbling something about tripping a heel, then resumed his examination of the curiosities as though he had care for naught beside.
Cooper Edgecombe turned away, and the professor improved the opportunity by muttering to the brothers:
“Careful, lads. Give the poor fellow his own way in all things, for he is—he surely must be—eh?”
Forefinger covertly tapped forehead, for there was no time granted for further explanations. Edgecombe turned again, speaking in hard, even strained tones: