The boys were preparing to go out, when their Indian host suddenly reappeared. He carried in his hand a large-sized loaf of baker’s bread, which he had procured at the village store. He was alive to the duties of hospitality, and did not intend to let his guests go, uninvited though they were, without a breakfast.
Though his stock of English was limited, he made out to invite the boys to breakfast with him.
Henry would have preferred to go to the hotel, but Philip signed to him to accept graciously the Indian’s hospitality.
As the bread was fresh, they partook of it with relish, washing it down with drafts of clear spring water.
The Indian looked on, well pleased to see the justice done to his hospitality. He explained to the boys that he made baskets, caught fish, and sometimes engaged in hunting, managing, in one way and another, to satisfy his simple wants. His name was Winuca, but his white neighbors called him Tom.
When the boys were ready to go, Philip drew from his pocket a jack-knife, nearly new, of which he asked the Indian’s acceptance.
Winuca seemed very much pleased, and shook hands heartily with his young guests, wishing them good-by.
The boys kept on to the hotel, where they spent a few hours, taking dinner there. Their breakfast had been so simple that they had a very good appetite for their midday meal.
“While we are here, Henry, suppose you write to your father and relieve his anxiety?” suggested Philip.
“Why can’t you write?” asked Henry, who cherished the general boyish distaste for letter-writing.