It was dark before the birds were ready for the table, and supper was eaten by the aid of numerous candles and lanterns. All were weary, so after the plans for the morrow had been made and everything made secure in camp for the night, each sought his couch and slept; some to dream, perhaps of feasts and plenty, or of ringing shots and pointing dogs; one to dream of “comfy” trousers and handy pockets; another to see in her sleep’s vision, the flaming, dilated nostrils of a fleeing horse and the dark, determined face of his relentless rider.
[CHAPTER XXI]
THE TROUT DEAL
As soon as Bess heard the breakfast fire cracking she crept out of her bed and hurriedly dressed herself. “Peter Pan” begged her softly, so that the other sleepers might not be disturbed, to “Wait a min’t for me.” They looked like two hungry birds as they perched on a log near where Joe was preparing breakfast. Snug in their red sweaters and tams they sat with arms entwined about each other, already fast and true friends.
“Did you ever see Mr. George ‘flop’ pan-cakes?” questioned “Peter Pan,” as she saw with utter satisfaction a creamy mixture being stirred by the cook. “No? Well, I’ll have him give a free exhibition this morning immediately before the big performance,” added the child, with artful mimicry of the man she had heard at the circus during the summer.
“You see, he just takes the frying pan like this—gives it two or three little wiggles—then throws the pan-cake up in the air and makes it turn a ‘somerset’ like the circus performer did, and then lets it splash back into the pan. Ask Joe to let us try one before the others come to breakfast. Shall we?”
All thoughts of any attempts in the culinary art were displaced by the soft sound of a moccasined foot behind them. “Peter Pan” clung tightly to Bess’ hand as they watched the slow approach of the old Indian. What a wrinkled, old visage, hardened by the vicissitudes of years, attenuated by many fasts. A mat of coarse, grey hair partially covered eyes that were still keen and undimmed by the ravages of time. The tattered blanket illy concealed his quivering form, while worn and ragged moccasins scarcely protected his feet from the stones and thorns.
Bess’ heart melted by the picture of abject want, and with a few, quick signs she asked the old Indian “would he eat.” A grin of acquiescence was her reply, and soon she had placed before him such a feast as he had never seen before. He fell to devouring the food, almost like a hungry dog, but was checked by a decisive touch on the shoulder. A look of surprise filled his eyes as he paused with open mouth ready to receive the next morsel.
“Shame;” firmly said the girl; “Why forget to thank God?” and she raised her hand toward heaven. Slowly the food was replaced upon the plate; a look of incredulity rested for a moment upon the seamed, old face; then with eyes turned toward the crests of the hills all radiant with the glow of the morning, a withered, dirty hand reverently made the sign of the cross. When his hunger was appeased he bestowed upon his benefactor a look of thanks.