"But the town?" says I. "Where's the town?"
Well, it appeared that this was the town, or part of it. The rest was scattered along through the next three or four miles of wilderness. Where was the center? Oh, there wa'n't any. There was a schoolhouse and a meetin'-house, and a blacksmith's, and such, on the main road up a piece, that was all.
"But where do the Injuns live?" I wanted to know. "The knittin' women, the Lamp Mat Trust—where does it—she—they, I mean, live?"
He couldn't seem to make much out of this; and by and by he went into the house and fetched out his wife. She was about as black as he was; and I cal'lated they was a Portygee family; but, no, lo and behold you, it turned out they was Injuns themselves! But they never heard of anybody named Rose, nor of anybody that knit centerpieces, nor of an "antique," nor anything. I give it up pretty soon, for my temper was beginnin' to heat up the surroundin' air, and the mosquitoes seemed to think I was "Old Home Week," and come for miles around and brought their relations. I give up and drove away over a fairly decent road this time, till I found another house. But this was just the same; Injuns in plenty—'most everybody was part Injun—but nobody had heard of our special Mohican nor of an "antique." And, which was queerer still, they never heard of anybody around that done knittin' or crochetin' or lace makin', or had sold any, if they did do it. And they didn't any of 'em talk story-book Injun dialect, same as Uncas did. They used pretty fair United States.
Well, to bile this yarn of mine down, I rode through those woods and around the settlement most of that afternoon. Then I was ready to give up, and so was my old livery-stable horse. He'd gone dead lame, and 'twould have been a sin and a shame to make him walk a step farther. I took him to the blacksmith's shop, and left him there. I pounded mosquitoes, and asked the blacksmith some questions, and he pounded iron and wanted to ask me a million; but neither of us got a heap of satisfaction out of the duet.
Two things seemed to be sure and sartin. One was that Solomon Uncas Rose, the "child of the forest" and chief of the tattin' tribe, was mistook when he give Wampaquoit as his home town; and t'other that, much as I wanted to, I couldn't get out of that town until evenin'. My horse wa'n't fit to travel, and I couldn't hire another, not until after the blacksmith had had his supper. Then he'd hitch up and drive me back to the Narrows.
But luck was with me for once. Up the road came bumpin' a nice-lookin' mare and runabout wagon, with a pleasant-faced, gray-haired man on the seat. The mare pulled up at the blacksmith's house, and the man got down and went inside.
"Who's that?" says I. "And what's he done to be sentenced to this place?"
"Doctor," says the blacksmith, with a grunt—he was one-quarter Injun, too. "Comes from West Ostable. My wife's sick."
"I sympathize with her," says I. "I'm sick, too—homesick. Maybe this doctor'll help me out. What I need is a change of scene; and I need it bad."