The jubilant cries which arose at this announcement gave signal proof of the pleasure of the eight girls. The alluring prospect of the trip was doubly enhanced by the promise of a real Indian guide.
“What is the name of our guide, Miss Drexal?” eagerly inquired Ruth.
“His name is Blue Wolf. He is a Cheyenne, and his grandfather was a famous Cheyenne chief. He lives in a lodge about twenty miles from here, and spends most of his time hunting and trapping in Canada. He was a firm friend of my father’s, who once nursed him through a long illness when they were both young men. He swore allegiance then to my father, and has ever since been a faithful friend to our family. He is a quaint person, middle-aged but so strong and rugged he looks almost like a young man. He is very proud, and dignified, with little to say. When he does talk, his English is rather broken. He is quite easily offended, so you had best treat him with a certain amount of respect. Taking a party of girls on a camping trip will be a new experience for him. I had some difficulty in persuading him to promise his services. It was only to please a Drexal that he consented.”
“We shall have to practice beforehand,” asserted Frances gleefully. “Jane, you may be Blue Wolf, and we will pose as your respectful admirers. You can say ‘How’ when you are pleased with us, and ‘Ugh’ when we don’t come up to your expectations. You can wear one of those striped portieres, that hang in the living room door, for a blanket, and I will thoughtfully pluck a few feathers from that big duster in the kitchen and make you a head-piece. Won’t that be nice?” Frances was captivated by the cleverness of her own idea, and smirked patronizingly at her selected victim.
“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” balked Jane. “Wear your own blankets and feather dusters! They’ll become you better than me.”
“I doubt it,” retorted Frances with a droll significance, that brought a reluctant grin even to Jane’s face.
“If we are going on a hike this morning, we’d better be making ready,” reminded practical Betty. Unconsciously, her eyes strayed to the doorway, through which Blanche had lately disappeared.
Reading their expression aright, Miss Drexal rose from her chair. “I will tell Blanche,” she said. “Ruth, will you go to the kitchen, and ask Martha to pack the luncheon at once?”
“May I help her!” pleaded Marian. “That is, if you think she won’t mind.”
“Oh, let me help, too!” cried Emmy.