“Stranger——”
“Lycurgus B. Spooner, M.D. That is my name and title.”
“Then Mr. Spooner—or, Dr. Spooner—won’t you oblige me by removin’ your hat?”
Dr. Spooner did so, and displayed a thick mass of red hair.
“I don’t see any signs of scalpin’,” said Mr. Brush, puzzled.
The doctor removed his wig, and displayed the marks of the unpleasant surgical operation to which he had been subjected by the Indians.
“How was it you didn’t die?” asked Tom.
“The confounded redskins thought I was dead, and left me lying on the prairie. But I wasn’t so far gone as they supposed. After awhile I came to, and a party of travelers coming up, took care of me. I recovered after a time, and tried to make up for my loss by a wig.”
“How long ago was that?”