Every one of his audience stiffened up with intense interest.
One swarthy, keen-featured, slim-waisted, half-Indian-looking fellow, with the shapely hands and feet that mark so many of the Indian mixed-bloods, was sitting on a bale of homespun behind Long Jackson, and smoking solemnly with half-closed lids. His eyes opened wide for a fraction of a second, and darted one searching glance at the child's face. Then he dropped his lids slowly once more till the eyes were all but closed. The others all stared eagerly at Woolly Billy.
Pleased with the interest he had excited, Woolly Billy glanced about him, and shook back his mop of pale curls self-consciously.
"Lots more!" he repeated. "Big handfuls."
Then he remembered his discretion, his resolve to tell no one but Tug Blackstock about his discovery. Seeking to change the subject, he beamed upon Long Jackson.
"Thank you, Long," he said politely. "I love peppermints. An' Jim loves them, too."
"Where did you say that hole in the tree was?" asked Long Jackson, reaching for the box that held the peppermints, and ostentatiously filling a generous paper-bag.
Woolly Billy looked apologetic and deprecating.
"Please, Long, if you don't mind very much, I can't tell anybody but Tug Blackstock that."
Jackson laid the bag of peppermints a little to one side, as if to convey that their transfer was contingent upon Woolly Billy's behaviour.