He retired into the depth of the wigwam and returned with a handful of hen feathers. Miss Cannon took off her big shady hat and stuck the feathers into her fluffy brown hair with a laugh.
“This is jolly!” she said. “I love Red Indians!”
“I’ve got some cork you can have to do your face, too,” went on William with reckless generosity. “It soon burns in the fire.”
She threw a glance towards the chimneys of the house that could be seen through the trees and shook her pretty head regretfully.
“I’m afraid I’d better not,” she said sadly.
“Well,” he said, “now I’ll go huntin’ and you stir the Pale-face and we’ll eat him when I come back. Now, I’ll be off. You watch me track.”
He opened his clasp-knife with a bloodthirsty flourish and, casting sinister glances round him, crept upon his hands and knees into the bushes. He circled about, well within his squaw’s vision, obviously bent upon impressing her. She stirred the mixture in the tin with a twig and threw him every now and then the admiring glances he so evidently desired.
Soon he returned, carrying over his shoulder a door-mat which he threw down at her feet.
“A venison, O squaw,” he said in a lordly voice. “Let it be cooked. I’ve had it out all morning,” he added in his ordinary tones; “they’ve not missed it yet.”
He fetched from the “wigwam” two small jagged tins and, taking the larger tin off the fire, poured some into each.