“A-i! So I hear. You’re not going near that shaft I showed you—that way into the old mine?”
“No,” replied Chet. “We’re not taking that trail.”
“All right. You much better keep away from there,” said John, and turned away.
“Say!” cried the too curious Digby, “who burned out your shack, John?”
“Never you mind,” returned the Indian lad, and he showed anger in the expression of his face at this reminder of his loss. “I’ll get my pay for that.”
“I hope you do,” commented Chet soothingly, and preparing to ride on. “We’re all very thankful to you, John. My father would like to see you, if you’ll go up to the house. You know, he’s laid up for a while.”
John Peep looked back at him sharply. “Ugh!” he grunted, in what Dig called his “red Indian style.” “Ugh! Your father give Indian cast-off suit of clothes. Your mother give Indian meal of victuals. Then shake hand, say, ‘Good-bye, Injun!’ I don’t need those things, Chet Havens.”
“Well! by all the hoptoads that were chased out of Ireland!” murmured Dig.
But Chet said calmly: “That isn’t the way my parents will treat you, John.”
The Indian boy was still flushed and angry. “That isn’t even my name!” he exclaimed. “‘John’ is white boy’s name. They make me give it when I go to school. But it does not belong to me.”