“I reckon you’ll have to try some day—with all of us far away,” said the gentle Lydia.
“No doubt, no doubt.” He fell upon his breakfast.
“Purple, crimson, and gold—daughters of the sun—such are not for the poor hunter—alack, alack!”
“Poor boy!” said Lydia, and Polly looked at her with quickening wonder. Rallying Dave with soft-voiced mockery was a new phase in Lydia. Dave gave his hunting-knife a pathetic flourish.
“And when the Virginia gallants come, where will poor Dave be?”
Polly’s answer cut with sarcasm, but not at Dave.
“Dave will be busy cuttin’ wood an’ killin’ food for ’em—an’ keepin’ ’em from gettin’ scalped by Indians.”
“I wonder,” said Lydia, “if they’ll have long hair like Dave?” Dave shook his long locks with mock pride.
“Yes, but it won’t be their own an’ it’ll be powdered.”
“Lord, I’d like to see the first Indian who takes one of their scalps.” Polly laughed, but there was a shudder in Lydia’s smile. Dave rose.