Barbara laughed.
“I wouldn’t like to lose my hair.”
“I’ll watch out for that,” said the boy with such confident gravity that Barbara turned to look at him.
“I believe you would,” she murmured. And presently:
“What did the Indians call you?”
“White Arrow.”
“White Arrow. That’s lovely. Why?”
“I could outrun all the other boys.”
“Then you’ll have to run to-morrow when we go to the fair at Williamsburg.”
“The fair?”