At this he thrust both hands deep in his pockets and went stumping away.
CHAPTER XV
STRANGE VOICES
As for Florence and Jeanne, they were still hidden away in that riddle of a place by the lake shore on “made land.”
A more perplexing place of refuge could not have been found. What was it? Why was it here? Were there men about the place within the palisades? These were the questions that disturbed even the stout-hearted Florence.
They were silent for a long time, those two. When at last Jeanne spoke, Florence started as if a stranger had addressed her.
“This place,” said Petite Jeanne, “reminds me of a story I once read before I came to America. In my native land we talked in French, of course, and studied in French. But we studied English just as you study French in America.
“A story in my book told of early days in America. It was thrilling, oh, very thrilling indeed! There were Indians, real red men who scalped their victims and held wild war dances. There were scouts and soldiers. And there were forts all built of logs hewn in the forest. And in these forts there were—”
“Fort,” Florence broke in, “a fort. Of course, that is what this is, a fort for protection from Indians.”
“But, Indians!” Jeanne’s tone reflected her surprise. “Real live, wild Indians! There are none here now!”
“Of course not!” Florence laughed a merry laugh. “This is not, after all, a real fort. It is only a reproduction of a very old fort that was destroyed many years ago, old Fort Dearborn.”