“Dick, you’re a trump,” said the scout.
“I’m a lucky fellow, anyhow,” returned Dick.
“In very truth ye are, lad, to escape from such a big bunch o’ Redskins without a scratch; why—”
“Pooh!” interrupted the sailor, “that’s not the luck I’m thinkin’ of. Havin’ overhauled Roarin’ Bull an’ his little girl in time to help rescue them, that’s what I call luck—d’ee see?”
“Yes, I see,” was Hunky Ben’s laconic reply.
Perhaps the scout saw more than was intended, for he probably observed the glad enthusiasm with which the bold seaman mentioned Roaring Bull’s little girl. We cannot tell. His wooden countenance betrayed no sign, and he may have seen nothing; but he was a western scout, and accustomed to take particular note of the smallest signs of the wilderness.
“Capital—first-rate!” exclaimed Charlie, looking up from his letter when he had finished it.
“Just what I was going to say, or something of the same sort,” said Leather, as he folded his epistle.
“Then there’s nothing but good news?” said Charlie.
“Nothing. I suppose it’s the same with you, to judge from your looks,” returned Shank.