"Ketchum pappoose?" said this awful warrior, and his voice was barely audible. She whirled around, saw the face, tried to scream, and failed.
"Injun Jim h-e-a-p sick," drawled the chieftain, who had satisfied himself that his son and heir was present, the youngster being seated on the floor—"h-e-a-p sick, heap likum biscuit-lah-pooh."
Miss Hobart rallied. "Perhaps," she thought, "Charles has pacified the tribe." Then she said, "Oh, Mr. Indian Jim—James, is this your son—your little boy?"
"Yesh, h-e-a-p my boy. Injun Jim heap likum biscuit-lah-pooh, h-e-a-p sick."
"Are you sick? Poor man! you shall have all the biscuit you want. Here," she said, in a timid voice, as he tucked away a package of food, "is your son—your nice little boy—very nice little boy; and I'm very sorry—"
"Yesh, h-e-a-p nice—all same Injun Jim. You like buy um? Two dollar hap, you buy um, h-e-a-p goot!"
"Mercy! Oh, oh!" she gasped. "He would sell it! Two dollars and a half—and after such a night! Oh no—no, Jim—James—take him to his yearning mother, please!"
As the warrior slowly shuffled away to the gate, leading his son and heir by the hand, the bright little face was turned toward the woman who was standing in the door.
"It is a beautiful child," she said. "I wish I had noticed before."