Red-feathered Indians were visible behind the white man as the door swung open, but he closed the door with a jerk, and none of the Indians offered to enter.
“Howdy!” he said, looking at the German.
“Yaw,”, said the German, staring in surprise, yet pleased to know that a white man was in this place. “I vass pooty goot, bud I don’t like diss chail pitzness. How you vass yourselluf, heh?”
“Set down there, and let’s have a talk,” said the white man, motioning to a bearskin rug on the floor, while he dropped down against the opposite wall.
The baron clattered obediently across the stone floor with his heavy wooden shoes and dropped heavily down on the bearskin; astonishment was growing in his round face.
“You vass a vite Inchun, heh?” he asked.
“No, I’m a prisoner, like you.”
The baron twisted his head round with a comical jerk and stared hard at the white man.
“You ton’d loogk id, mine frient,” he declared. “A brisoner ton’d can come unt vent vhen he likes—nein! He is putt indo a blace like diss. Yaw, I dinks me dat iss so, unt dhe troot. You vass come here like a vree mans yet already.”
The white man, who was none other than Tom Conover, did not laugh at this sally; his face had a serious, grave look.