“‘A very rough passage,’ replied the youngster, whose mind was quite confused by hearing the captain of the ship, who sat next to him, giving to his next neighbour a graphic account of the voyage in a very loud key—‘I mean, if you please, no, thank you,’ he stammered, endeavouring to correct himself.
“‘Ah! a cup of tea perhaps.—Here, Anderson,’ (turning to the butler), ‘a cup of tea to Mr Peterkin.’
“The butler obeyed the order.
“‘And here, fill my cup,’ said old Rogan, interrupting himself in an earnest conversation, into which he had plunged with the gentleman on his left hand. As he said this he lifted his cup to empty the slops, but without paying attention to what he was doing. As luck would have it, the slop-basin was not at hand, and Peterkin’s cup was, so he emptied it innocently into that. Peterkin hadn’t courage to arrest his hand, and when the deed was done he looked timidly round to see if the action had been observed. Nearly half the table had seen it, but they pretended ignorance of the thing so well that he thought no one had observed, and so went quietly on with his breakfast, and drank the tea! But I am wandering from my story. Well, about this time there was a young Indian who shot himself accidentally in the woods, and was brought to the fort to see if anything could be done for him. The doctor examined his wound, and found that the ball had passed through the upper part of his right arm and the middle of his right thigh, breaking the bone of the latter in its passage. It was an extraordinary shot for a man to put into himself, for it would have been next to impossible even for another man to have done it, unless the Indian had been creeping on all fours. When he was able to speak, however, he explained the mystery. While running through a rough part of the wood after a wounded bird, he stumbled and fell on all fours. The gun, which he was carrying over his shoulder, holding it, as the Indians usually do, by the muzzle, flew forward, and turned right round as he fell, so that the mouth of it was presented towards him. Striking against the stem of a tree, it exploded, and shot him through the arm and leg as described ere he had time to rise. A comrade carried him to his lodge, and his wife brought him in a canoe to the fort. For three or four days the doctor had hopes of him, but at last he began to sink, and died on the sixth day after his arrival. His wife and one or two friends buried him in our graveyard, which lies, as you know, on that lonely-looking point just below the powder-magazine. For several months previous to this our worthy doctor had been making strenuous efforts to get an Indian skull to send home to one of his medical friends, but without success. The Indians could not be prevailed upon to cut off the head of one of their dead countrymen for love or money, and the doctor had a dislike to the idea, I suppose, of killing one for himself; but now here was a golden opportunity. The Indian was buried near to the fort, and his relatives had gone away to their tents again. What was to prevent his being dug up? The doctor brooded over the thing for one hour and a half (being exactly the length of time required to smoke out his large Turkey pipe), and then sauntered into Wilson’s room. Wilson was busy, as usual, at some of his mechanical contrivances.
“Thrusting his hands deep into his breeches pockets and seating himself on an old sea-chest, he began,—
“‘I say, Wilson, will you do me a favour?’
“‘That depends entirely on what the favour is,’ he replied, without raising his head from his work.
“‘I want you to help me to cut off an Indian’s head!’
“‘Then I won’t do you the favour. But pray, don’t humbug me just now; I’m busy.’
“‘No; but I’m serious, and I can’t get it done without help, and I know you’re an obliging fellow. Besides, the savage is dead, and has no manner of use for his head now.’