Tim Reardon again gestured for silence and induced his companion to approach nearer. Whereupon he pointed gleefully at the face of the sleeper. Young Joe, bending down softly, beheld the painted features of the great chief, Red Bull.
"Hmph!" he exclaimed. "It's only one of the Injuns. Saw 'em at the show this afternoon."
Little Tim, in reply, seized Young Joe mysteriously by an arm, drew him away a few paces and whispered something, excitedly.
Young Joe gave a subdued roar.
"Cracky!" he cried, doubling up. "Tim, you're the craziest youngster. What put it into your head? We couldn't do it."
"No, you and I couldn't," answered Tim; "but the whole of us could—Jack Harvey and Henry Burns, and the rest of the fellers. Gee! Joe, just think of it. A real live Injun—a live one-'twould be just like the Last of the Mohigginses."
"What would we do with him if we got him?" asked Joe.
"Nothin'," replied Little Tim—"Oh, yes, we could,—take him off up stream to the camp and—dance 'round him, like they do in the show."
"Come on," said Joe Warren. "Let's find Jack and Henry Burns and George. They won't do it, though."
If one could have seen Henry Burns's eyes twinkle, when they had found the three a few moments later, however, they would have thought differently.