“Ess,” was the reply. “Me Sioux—wise chief. Know ’em.”
And without more ado he took up the money and slipped it, piece by piece, inside his belt.
“All righty,” said Joe. “Now, whare’s de victuals?”
“Ah! No understan’ English.”
“De victuals!” screamed the negro again, pointing down his widely opened mouth.
“No understan’.”
“Corn—venison—bear’s meat—anything to eat,” continued the pertinacious Joe, pantomiming mastication by snapping his great white teeth together like a hungry mastiff.
“Ah! ah! phuff! ess! Buckle, tuckle, gon so ripta, honorable much tosh-a-long! Uh! uh!” said the chief, smiling with a sudden gleam of intelligence and trying to rise.
“Dat’s it!” replied Joe. “You’ve got it now, I guess, dough I can’t say I quite understand you.”
“Listen, my son!” said the chief, sinking back upon the skins from which he had partly risen. “Me great chief.”