NEW YORK HARRY.
The gray light of morning was revealing the camp of the United States troops when the sentry before General Alvin Gillem’s head-quarters halted a stalwart Indian who, with aboriginal boldness, was stalking toward the door.
“What blue-coat stop Indian for?” demanded the red-man.
“For the simple reason that you have no business with the General.”
“Indian much talk with gold-star chief. He lookin’ for Klamath.”
“But I shall not disturb him on your account,” said the sentry. “You can loiter about the camp till sunrise.”
The Klamath did not move, but burst into a hearty cachinnation, decidedly English.
“So you thought I was an Indian, Tom Baird,” he said. “Well now, that’s a rich joke. Can’t you tell old Kit South from a Klamath?”
“Kit South it is, upon my honor!” exclaimed the sentry. “Here, give me your hand; but don’t tell the boys how you sold me.”
The scout took the extended hand, and shook it heartily while he laughed.