"Say a prayer to Old Man." The Indian maid put up her hands most reverently, for "old man" is a sort of god among her people. "Whenever you feel hungry, you should say, 'For what I am about to receive, please, Old Man, make me truly thankful.'"
"What, for hard-tack and water!"
"Yes, you've been bad; but when you're good and say grace prettily, Old Man will send you something nice to eat, a tongue, or berry pemmican from the captain's food box."
"Old Man!" said Storm, with scorn. "I don't hold with them heathen gods. Nice sort of a Christian you are!"
"And yet," she purred, "I hear that Christians swear by the Christian gods Be Jabers, and S'elp-me-Bob, and Strike-me-pink—or are these holy saints?"
So she began to tease him.
By this time they had traversed the glade which leads into Fairyland, and as Rain sat for the Tuft of Moss in the Fairy Parliament, of course she plumped down flop on her constituency. Moreover, this dream was taking on a certain strangeness, for the Red Indian maid was no longer clad in her warrior dress. All of a sudden she had changed into a stiff costume of ruff and farthingale in the fashions of the reign of James I of England, while her copper color took on a hectic flush, her face became shrunken, and she had a dry cough. The fairies, who have nice manners, pretended to take no notice.
"What do you know," said Storm disdainfully, "of how we swear in England?"
"Gadzooks!" was her joyful answer. "Sirrah, I do assure you"—this very primly—"that when I was in England I could swear like a little gentlewoman. Hoity-toity!"
The fairies had begun to scent a tale, and they are always ravenous for stories.