"Me no understand."
"I asked what your name is," continued Horace, who was sure the boy understood, in spite of his blank looks.
"Me no hurt white folks; me bunkum Indian."
"Well, what's your name, then? What do they call you?"
No answer, but a shake of the head.
"I reckon they call you John, don't they?"
Here the boy's mother appeared at the door.
"His name no John! Eshy-ishy-oshy-neeshy-George-Wampum-Shoony-Katoo; short name, speak um quick!—Jaw-awn! Great long name!" drawled she, stretching it out as if it were made of India rubber, and scowling with an air of disgust.
"What does she mean by calling 'John' long?" thought Horace.
The woman wore a calico dress, short enough to reveal her brown, stockingless feet and gay moccasons.