Sydney told his story and answered many questions; and when the search had been thus launched, he wandered about, not knowing just what to do next. At a busy corner he was recalled from a brown study by a familiar greeting, “Kla-how-ya!” A Chinook salutation.
“Kla-how-ya!” he returned, stopping beside a group of Indian women, two squaws and a child, squatted against a store front with their wares exposed for sale, baskets, mats, and beadwork. He knew them well; had met them several times at the Reservation. Often he and Max stopped to chat with them, and the older squaw had taken a great fancy to Max.
“Come Tu-la-lip tonight?”
“No; I can’t go tonight.”
“Heap big wau-wau and shantie.” She meant that the Indians were to have a story-telling and sing. Twice Max and Sydney had gone to Tu-la-lip Reservation, for Max was deeply interested in the Indians, some of them old friends of Sydney’s. He had sung for them; and Max played his violin—“tin-tin,” they called it, their name for any musical instrument—and they liked it immensely.
Sydney declined the old squaw a little carelessly. “Some other time.”
“Ow go already.” This was her word for “younger brother,” and meant Max.
Sydney sprang toward her, excited. “When? What boat?”
She told him. It was the four o’clock boat. The next was at six-thirty; and Sydney had ample time to catch it. The Indians rose slowly, rolled up their goods, and plodded gravely toward the dock; the Government obliged them to be at the Reservation every night.
But Sydney ran ahead of them, his brain in a whirl. What could have decided Max to go there, of all places in the world? The fare, to be sure, was only a quarter, but that sum would take him to any one of a score of small ports on the Sound. At the Reservation there was positively nothing in the way of work for Max. Over and over during the half-hour’s travel Sydney pondered the matter, arriving at no conclusion.