Bill Mead giggled and that broke the spell.
"How do you do?" said my aunt kindly.
"How," replied the young brave.
"What is your name, and what do you want?" asked our teacher.
"Jean Pahusca. Want school. Want book—" He broke off and finished in a jargon of French and Indian.
"Where is your home, your tepee?" queried Aunt Candace.
The Indian only shook his head. Then taking from his beads a heavy silver cross, crudely shaped and wrought, he rose and placed it on the table. Taking up a book at the same time he seated himself to study like the rest of us.
"He has paid his tuition," said my aunt, smiling. "We'll let him stay."
So Jean Pahusca was established in our school.