“Indian shacks.”
“Indians here? What do they do?” exclaimed Ted.
“Pick blueberries, fish and sell them and the things they weave to the tourists at the Soo.”
“I wish it was daylight so that we could see them. Just think, real Indians, Phil!”
“Oh, you’ll have a chance to see enough of them at the canal,” smiled the skipper.
“But they don’t go into the town, do they? I should think they would scare the women and children to death.”
“They not only go into the Soo, but they bother the life out of people trying to sell their wares. The quickest way to get rid of them is to buy something. Children don’t even notice them, unless to make fun of them. But you mustn’t expect to see story-book Indians, in war paint, feathers, and blankets. They have taken to trousers and shirts.”
The disappointment which settled on Ted’s face at this shattering of his mental picture of the redmen caused the skipper to add with a smile:
“You can still get a thrill from them, though, if we are held up at the canal, by getting one to shoot the St. Mary’s rapids with you.”
“Provided you can find one sober enough,” supplemented the first mate.