“You go catch fish. Bring nice trout here. More muck-a-muck tonight,” instructed Bess with numerous gestures.
The old Indian nodded that he understood and then explained his futile attempt to catch fish the day before. No word did he speak. He waved his hand slowly toward the direction of the North shore of the Big Arm, showed how he had cast the line again and again, but had caught no fish; how he had fished unceasingly all the while the sun arose from its eastern horizon to the zenith and until it had descended to rest behind the hills; how he had returned to his teepee with his willow switch empty and had gone hungry to sleep. Now it was again day! He motioned that he would walk far along the lake’s opposite shore where the rocks jutted into the water—there—could she see? Pointing to some beef which was hung up in the tree he made Bess understand that with the aid of that for bait he could catch the wily trout as fast as he could cast the hook, and that soon his basket of willows and leaves would be full. Soon he was sent on his way rejoicing,—happy because his stomach’s craving had ceased, glad because of the hope of another meal.
The tardy members of the party had at last come to breakfast. Mr. George was prevailed upon to “flop” the pan-cakes, and “Peter Pan’s” number increased alarmingly.
“I eat so many because it is such fun to watch them perform, not because I like them,” she assured her mother, as she watched the marvelous feat repeated.
“My name will now have to be ‘Peter Pan-cake,’ ’cause I’m so full,” she said, as she gathered up the remaining few and fed them to the waiting dogs.
“Oh! Bess—come see Gladstone!” she cried gleefully, as she watched the dog dig a nice little hole in the leaves and then bury his breakfast. How artfully he scraped the twigs and dirt together in long sweeps with his nose, and then pressed it down firmly.
“You see,” she explained, “he does it that way so that the other dogs can’t find it. Then when he gets hungry he goes and digs up his—his—why, his money, and eats it.”
“Money,” laughed Bess, heartily. “I know—you mean cache, don’t you, dear?”