“Oh, yes! Mr. George, an’ he knows everything about dogs, told me what it was, and I couldn’t quite remember, you see. Once he told me all about Jack’s grandmothers and grandfathers and uncles and all the family, and he called it a legacy or something like that. Don’t you think it would be grand to know so much about dogs?” chatted the tiny girl to her interested listener.
Soon everything was ready to start for the day’s hunt; lunch basket filled, guns and ammunition ready, dogs eager to be off, and a wagon filled with hearty, happy people. They would try the stubble of the wheat fields on the Baptiste ranch today, and all felt confident already of much sport and many birds.
“Honk—honk—honk” greeted their ears before many miles had passed behind them. Such scrambling for guns! Such hurrying to get a good position! Such banging of shells! “Honk—honk”—and the geese went sailing on.
“Guess the weather isn’t right for a goose,” ventured “Peter Pan,” the only one who felt disposed to make any explanation.
But the weather proved just right for chickens! And the hunters desisted because they were ashamed to slaughter more.
Bess found the Indian squatted at a comfortable distance from the “kitchen fire” waiting her, upon her return. While the others were busy with the birds, or the horses, or supper preparations, she closed her deal for the fish. Spread out upon the large, green thimble-berry leaves were several beautiful speckled and salmon-tinted trout, all large and firm. The old Indian motioned that she was to have them all and that he would keep those left in the basket. Bess peeped inquisitively into the nest of leaves and there beheld—oh! such beauties! Shiny brook trout! They should be the feast. She showed with convincing gestures her unfeigned contempt for large fish when the lovely small ones were to be had. Yes, he might return these to the basket and leave the small ones for her.
At first the grizzled old man looked at her as if he were deeply puzzled. Did she really mean that she preferred the small fish! A queer, hesitating smile slowly began to spread over his face as he reluctantly drew out the fish, one by one, and placed them on the leaves. Several times he paused, and by numerous frantic gestures and gutteral sounds asked again if she really wished him to replace the larger fish.
At last, so completely was he assured, he quickly flung the remaining beauties into the basket, snatched the parcel of food which the cook had prepared for him and arose to hasten away. Again he was checked by a touch on the arm and with his hand half raised again to make the sign of thanks, his astonishment was even greater increased by a proffered half-dollar.
“Trout for breakfast!” Bess called cheerfully to the “colored gentleman” whose white teeth gleamed through a whimsical smile. “Trout for breakfast!” she again announced to the men of the party who had been watching the fish deal with unobserved interest, and by this time were convulsed with laughter.