CHAPTER XLII. AN INDIAN AT LAST
“What’s the matter?” asked Philip, rubbing his eyes, for he was hardly able—so suddenly had he been roused from sleep—to comprehend the situation.
Henry, as white as a sheet, could only point at the tall Indian, who, standing motionless, was gazing as intently at the boys.
He made one step forward, and Henry thought he was about to be killed and scalped forthwith.
“Oh, Mr. Indian Chief,” he exclaimed, in tremulous accents, “don’t kill me! I—I ain’t ready to die!”
The Indian looked amazed, and laughed gutturally, but did not speak. His laugh increased Henry’s dismay.
“I’ve got a revolver. I’ll give it to you if you won’t kill me,” continued Henry.
Then the Indian spoke.
“Why should I kill white boy?” he asked in a mild tone, which ought to have convinced Henry that he had nothing to fear.
But the boy was so frenzied with terror, and so possessed of the thought that the Indian was just like the savage warriors of the plains, of whom he had read so much, that he still felt his life to be in danger, and answered the question in a way not expected.
“I suppose you want my scalp,” he said; “but I am only a boy, and I don’t mean any harm. I hope you’ll spare my life.”
Another fit of guttural laughter from the Indian, which perplexed Henry, and after a pause he said:
“Me no want white boy’s scalp! Me good Indian!”
An immense burden seemed lifted from poor Henry’s breast.
“Then you don’t want to kill me?” he said.
“No!”
“Then why do you come here?”
“Me live here.”
The secret was out—a secret which Philip had suspected from the first, though Henry had not dreamed of it.
They had lain down in the Indian’s cabin, appropriating his blanket, and were simply intruders.
Philip thought it was time for him to take part in the conversation,
“I hope you’ll excuse us,” he said, “for coming here. We had no idea any one lived here.”
“No matter,” said the Indian civilly—that being one of the phrases which his knowledge of English included.
“Henry,” said Philip, “let us get up. We are sleeping in this—this gentleman’s bed.”
He felt a little at a loss how to designate the Indian, but felt that it was best to be as polite as possible.
The two boys started up, in order to yield to the master of the house the bed which properly belonged to him.
“No,” said the Indian, with a wave of his hand. “White boys stay there. Indian sleep anywhere.”
So saying, he lay down in one corner of the cabin, and settled himself apparently to repose.
“But,” said Philip, “we don’t want to take your bed.”
“No matter!” said the Indian once more.
“You are very kind,” said Philip. “Henry, we may as well lay down again.”
Henry obeyed directions, but he was not altogether free from alarm. He had read that the Indians are very crafty. How did he know but their copper-colored host might get up in the night, skillfully remove their scalps, and leave them in a very uncomfortable plight?
“Hadn’t we better get up, and run away as soon as he is asleep?” he whispered to Philip.
“No; he’s friendly,” answered Philip confidently.
As Henry had read about friendly Indians—all he knew about Indians, by the way, was derived from reading stories written by authors little wiser than himself—he concluded that perhaps there was nothing to fear, and after a while fell asleep again.
When the boys awoke it was morning. They looked toward the corner where the Indian had lain down, but it was vacant.
“He’s gone.” said Henry, rather relieved.
“You were pretty well frightened last night,” said Philip, smiling.
“Who wouldn’t be!” asked Henry; “to wake up and see a big Indian in the room?”
“I dare say many boys would be frightened,” said Philip, “but I don’t think a boy who left home to go out West to kill Indians ought to be afraid of one.”
“I guess I’ll give up going,” said Henry, rather abashed.
“I think myself it would be as well,” observed Philip quietly. “You’d find it rather serious business if you should meet any real Indian warriors.”
“I don’t know but I should,” Henry admitted, rather awkwardly. “I didn’t think much about it when I left home.”
“I suppose you thought you’d be a match for half a dozen Indian warriors?” said Philip, laughing.
“That was the way with ‘Bully Bill’; or, ‘The Hero of the Plains,’” said Henry. “He always came off best when he fought with the Indians.”
“I don’t think either you or I will ever prove a Bully Bill,” said Philip. “I might enjoy going out West some time, but I shouldn’t expect to kill many Indians. I think they would stand a good deal better chance of shooting me.”
Henry said nothing, but looked thoughtful. His romantic ideas seemed to have received a sudden shock, and he was trying to adjust his ideas to the new light he had received.
The boys were preparing to go out, when their Indian host suddenly reappeared. He carried in his hand a large-sized loaf of baker’s bread, which he had procured at the village store. He was alive to the duties of hospitality, and did not intend to let his guests go, uninvited though they were, without a breakfast.
Though his stock of English was limited, he made out to invite the boys to breakfast with him.
Henry would have preferred to go to the hotel, but Philip signed to him to accept graciously the Indian’s hospitality.
As the bread was fresh, they partook of it with relish, washing it down with drafts of clear spring water.
The Indian looked on, well pleased to see the justice done to his hospitality. He explained to the boys that he made baskets, caught fish, and sometimes engaged in hunting, managing, in one way and another, to satisfy his simple wants. His name was Winuca, but his white neighbors called him Tom.
When the boys were ready to go, Philip drew from his pocket a jack-knife, nearly new, of which he asked the Indian’s acceptance.
Winuca seemed very much pleased, and shook hands heartily with his young guests, wishing them good-by.
The boys kept on to the hotel, where they spent a few hours, taking dinner there. Their breakfast had been so simple that they had a very good appetite for their midday meal.
“While we are here, Henry, suppose you write to your father and relieve his anxiety?” suggested Philip.
“Why can’t you write?” asked Henry, who cherished the general boyish distaste for letter-writing.
“Because it will be more proper for you to write. I am a stranger to him.”
“You won’t be long, Philip? I shall want you to come and make me a visit.”
“Perhaps you’ll be tired of me before we get to New York,” suggested Philip, with a smile.
“There isn’t much chance of it. I like you better than any boy I know. You’re awful brave, too. You didn’t seem to be at all scared last night when the Indian came in.”
“It was because I felt sure that any Indian to be found about here would be harmless.”
“I wish we could make a journey together some time. I’d like to go West—”
“To kill Indians?”
“No. If they’ll let me alone, I’ll let them alone; but there must be a lot of fun out on the prairies.”
“Well, Henry, go and write your letter, and we can talk about that afterward.”
The letter was written and mailed, and arrived in New York several days before the boys did.
CHAPTER XLIII. A WELCOME LETTER
Alexander Taylor, a Wall Street broker, sat at breakfast in his fine house on Madison Avenue. His daughter, Jennie, about thirteen years old, was the only other person at the table.
“Papa, have you heard nothing of Henry?” asked the little girl anxiously.
“Only that the boy who got started with him on his foolish tramp got back three days since.”
“Is Tom Murray back, then?”
“Yes; he showed himself more sensible than Henry.”
“Oh, I’m afraid something’s happened to him, papa! Why don’t you advertise for him, or send out a detective, or something?”
“I will tell you, Jennie,” said Mr. Taylor, laying down the morning paper. “I want your brother to stay away long enough to see his folly.”
“But perhaps he may get out of money, and not be able to get anything to eat. You wouldn’t want him to starve, papa?”
“There isn’t much chance of it. If he is in danger of that, he will have sense enough to ask for food, or to write to me for help. I rather hope he will have a hard time.”
“Oh, papa!”
“It will do him good. If I sent for him and brought him back against his will, he would probably start off again when he has a good chance.”
Jennie could not quite follow her father in his reasoning, and was inclined to think him hard and unfeeling. She missed her brother, who, whatever his faults, treated her tolerably well, and was at any rate a good deal of company, being the only other young person in the house.
Just then the servant entered with three letters, which he laid down beside his master’s plate.
Mr. Taylor hastily scanned the addresses.
“Here is a letter from Henry,” he said, in a tone of satisfaction.
“Oh, read it quick, papa!”
This was the letter which Mr. Taylor read aloud, almost too deliberately for the impatience of his daughter:
“Dear Father: I am alive and well, and hope to see you in a few days. I guess I made a mistake in running away, though I didn’t think so at the time, for I wanted to see life, and have adventures. I don’t know how I should have got along if I hadn’t met Philip Gray. He’s a tip-top fellow, and is paying my expenses. I told him you would pay him back. He has got me off the idea of going West to kill Indians.”
“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Jennie, opening her eyes wide. “I didn’t know that was what Henry went for.”
“I don’t think the Indians would have felt very much frightened if they had heard of his intention. However, I will proceed:
“I was all out of money when Philip met me, and I hadn’t had anything to eat since morning, he bought me some supper, and is paying my expenses. He is a poor boy, coming to New York to get a place, if he can. He has got a violin, and he plays beautifully. He earned all the money he has by giving concerts.”
“I should like to see Philip,” said Jennie, with interest.
“I asked him if he wouldn’t go out West with me, but he wouldn’t. He told me he wouldn’t do anything for me unless I would agree to come home.”
“He is a sensible boy,” commented Mr. Taylor, in a tone of approval.
“We thought at first of coming right home on the cars, but I wanted to walk and see something of the country, and Philip said he didn’t mind. He told me I must write and tell you, so that you needn’t feel anxious.
“You will see us in a few days. I will bring Philip to the house. Your son, HENRY TAYLOR.”
“Is that all?” asked Jennie.
“Yes; I consider it a very fair letter. It is evident Henry has made the acquaintance of a sensible boy. I shall take care that he doesn’t let it drop.”
CHAPTER XLIV. A FRESH START
Five days later, just as Mr. Taylor was sitting down to dinner, at the close of the day, the door-bell rang violently.
There was a hurried step heard in the hall, and the door opening quickly Henry Taylor rushed in, his face beaming with smiles.
“Oh, I’m so glad to see you, Henry!” said Jennie, embracing him. “I missed you awfully.”
Henry looked at his father, a little doubtful of his reception.
“Are you well, father?” he asked.
“Quite well,” responded Mr. Taylor coolly. “Where did you leave your scalps?”
“What?” ejaculated Henry, bewildered.
“I thought you left home to kill Indians.”
“Oh!” said Henry, smiling faintly. “I didn’t meet any Indians—except one—and he was friendly.”
“Then your expedition was a failure?”
“I guess I’ll leave the Indians alone,” said Henry sheepishly.
“That strikes me as a sensible remark. Of course, a few Indian scalps would be of great use to you. I fully expected a present of one, as a trophy of my son’s valor; but still, in case the Indian objected to being scalped, there might be a little risk in performing the operation.”
“I see you are laughing at me, father,” said Henry.
“Not at all. You can see that I am very sober. If you think you can make a good living hunting Indians—I don’t know myself how much their scalps bring in the market—I might set you up in the business.”
“I am not so foolish as I was. I prefer some other business. Philip told me—”
“Where is Philip?” asked Jennie eagerly.
“I left him in the parlor. He said I had better come in first.”
“Go and call him. Invite him, with my compliments, to stay to dinner.”
Henry left the room, and reappeared almost immediately with Philip.
Both boys were perfectly neat in appearance, for Philip had insisted on going to a hotel and washing and dressing themselves.
As he followed Henry into the room, with modest self-possession, his cheeks glowing with a healthy color, both Jennie and Mr. Taylor were instantly prepossessed in his favor.
“I am glad to see you, Philip,” said the broker, “and beg to thank you, not only for the material help you gave Henry, but also for the good advice, which I consider of still greater importance and value.”
“Thank you, sir. I don’t feel competent to give much advice, but I thought his best course was to come home.”
“You haven’t as high an idea of hunting Indians as Henry, I infer?”
“No, sir,” answered Philip, smiling. “It seems to me they have as much right to live as we, if they behave themselves.”
“I think so, too,” said Henry, who was rather ashamed of what had once been his great ambition.
“You haven’t introduced me to Philip—I mean Mr. Gray,” said Jennie.
“This is my sister Jennie, Phil,” said Henry, in an off-hand manner.
“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Gray,” said Jennie, extending her hand.
“I am hardly used to that name,” said Philip, smiling.
“When I get well acquainted with you I shall call you Philip.”
“I hope you will.”
Within an hour Miss Jennie appeared to feel well acquainted with her brother’s friend, for she dropped “Mr. Gray” altogether, and called him Philip.
At her solicitation he played on his violin. Both Mr. Taylor and Jennie were surprised at the excellence of his execution.
When Philip rose to go, Mr. Taylor said cordially:
“I cannot permit you to leave us, Philip. You must remain here as our guest.”
“But, sir, I left my things at a hotel.”
“Then Henry will go with you and get them.”
So Philip found himself established in a fine house on Madison Avenue as a favored guest.
The next morning, when Mr. Taylor went to his office, he asked Philip to go with him. Arrived in Wall Street, he sent a boy to the bank with a check. On his return, he selected five twenty-dollar bills, and handed them to Philip.
“You have expended some money for Henry,” he said.
“Yes, sir; but not quarter as much as this.”
“Then accept the rest as a gift. You will probably need some new clothes. Henry will take you to our tailor. Don’t spare expense. The bill will be sent to me.”
“But, Mr. Taylor, I do not deserve such kindness.”
“Let me be the judge of that. In a few days I shall have a proposal to make to you.”
This was the proposal, and the way it was made:
“I find, Philip,” said Mr. Taylor, some days later, “that Henry is much attached to you, and that your influence over him is excellent. He has agreed to go to an academy in Connecticut, and study hard for a year, provided you will go with him. I take it for granted you haven’t completed your education?”
“No, sir.”
“I shall pay all the bills and provide for you in every way, exactly as I do for Henry.”
“But, Mr. Taylor, how can I ever repay you?” asked Philip.
“By being Henry’s friend and adviser—perhaps, I may say, guardian—for, although you are about the same age, you are far wiser and more judicious.”
“I will certainly do the best I can for him, sir.”
During the next week the two boys left New York, and became pupils at Doctor Shelley’s private academy, at Elmwood—a pleasant country town not far from Long Island Sound—and there we bid them adieu.