"It is well," said the Seminole. "Some tobacco now."
Charley went to the supply and got a package, and the Indian, filling his pipe, sat down on a log and puffed away in silent content, his son sitting by his side silent and motionless except for the quick shifting of his black, beady eyes that took in every detail of the camp and its occupants.
"Fine boy you've got," observed Walter, who had been admiring the perfect form and proud carriage of the Indian lad.
There was a glint of fatherly pride in Willie John's eyes as he laid his hand caressingly on the lad's black head. "Him good boy," he said simply. "Him run faster, wrestle better, swim better than any other Indian boy. Him no drink wyomee (whiskey). Him no smoke. Him save all money. By and bye, he go to school, all the same as pale-face boy."
"That's good," Walter approved. "How old is he?"
"Twelve years," answered the Seminole. "We go back to camp now. Good-by."
"He certainly thinks a lot of that boy for an Indian," Walter remarked to his chum.
"Why not?" said Charley. "Don't you suppose Indians have feelings like other human beings?"
Both lads had occasion to remember this conversation in the near future.