"Shut up, Tim," said Joe Warren.
"He's alive again," declared Henry Burns, solemnly. "He was only wounded.
"Here is the cruel Huron," continued Henry Burns, "delivered into our hands by that daring scout who knows no fear."
Little Tim grinned joyously at this praise from his leader.
"What shall we do with our captive?" solemnly inquired Henry Burns. "Shall we show mercy to the slayer of the brave Uncas? Shall we be women and let him go, to roam the forests and ravage the homes of our settlers, or shall he be put to death?"
"He must die," growled Scout Harvey. "The daring leader has spoken well. Is it not so, men?"
The doom of Red Bull, otherwise Magua, the dog of the Wyandots, was declared.
The death of the captive followed swiftly—in pantomime—the brave scouts, under the leadership of Henry Burns, performing a series of dances about the helpless one, accomplishing his end with imaginary tomahawk blows.
"Now he must be scalped," said Henry Burns. "What say you, men, shall we cast the lot to see who takes the scalp of Magua, the great chief of the Hurons?"
It was done. The short stick was drawn by Little Tim—to his inexpressible joy.