“Here, here,” interposed Deborah, seizing his arm, “come on, we’ll have to do some forcible feeding, I guess!”
“Aren’t they the cute pair!” whispered Dorothy as she and Bill followed toward the grove of maples where the lads had first sighted them from the plane. “Deb’s asked me to be maid of honor at their wedding. I suppose you’ll be Osceola’s best man?”
“I suppose so,” said Bill gloomily.
“Why, you don’t sound very much interested! The Indian braves will all be in their war paint, and the squaws—”
“—it is hoped will wear something warmer and more appropriate for this climate!”
“Don’t be silly. You know what I mean. And anyway, no self-respecting redskin puts on war paint for his chief’s wedding. I guess it’s too suggestive of what he’s to expect after the ceremony is over.”
“Oh, is that so! Well, you women can certainly get up a good fight, if that’s what you’re driving at. I’ll bet you’re just tickled foolish to be in on the wedding party, and the pageant the tribe will make of it.”
“Why—”
“And your father’s plan to bring the whole tribe to New Canaan is just grand!”
“Oh, that’s part of it. Look here!” Dorothy turned on him. “Just what don’t you like about it, Mister Stuck-up?”