_A BEAUTIFUL THEORY RUINED._
WHEN Benny Mallow went to bed at night, after the great exhibition, he
suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to ask what the grand total of
the receipts for the Beantassel family had been. Under ordinary
circumstances he would have got out of bed, dressed himself, and scoured
the town for full information before he slept. On this particular night,
however, he did not give the subject more than a moment of thought, for
his mind was full of greater things. Paul Grayson an Indian? Why, of
course: how had he been so stupid as not to think of it before? Paul was
only dark, while Indians were red, but then it was easy enough for him
to have been a half-breed; Paul was very straight, as Indians always
were in books; Paul was a splendid shot with a rifle, as all Indians
are; Paul had no parents—well, the tableau made by Paul’s own friend,
Mr. Morton, who knew all about him, explained plainly enough how Indian
boys came to be without fathers and mothers.
Even going to sleep did not rid Benny of these thoughts. He saw Paul in
all sorts of places all through the night, and always as an Indian. At
one time he was on a wild horse, galloping madly at a wilder buffalo;
then he was practising with bow and arrow at a genuine archery target;
then he stood in the opening of a tent made of skins; then he lay in the
tall grass, rifle in hand, awaiting some deer that were slowly moving
toward him. He even saw Paul tomahawk and scalp a white boy of his own
size, and although the face of the victim was that of Joe Appleby, the
hair somehow was long enough to tie around the belt which Paul, like all
Indians in picture-books, wore for the express purpose of providing
properly for the scalps he took.
So fully did Benny’s dreams take possession of him, that, although he
had been awake for two hours the next morning before he met Paul, he was
rather startled and considerably disappointed to find his friend in
ordinary dress, without a sign of belt, scalp, or tomahawk about him.
Still, of course Paul was an Indian, and Benny promptly determined that
no one should beat him in getting information about the young man’s
earlier life; so Benny opened conversation abruptly by asking, “Where do
you begin to cut when you want to take a man’s scalp off?”
“Why, who are you going to scalp, little fellow?” asked Paul.
“Oh, nobody,” said Benny, in confusion. “I’d like to know, that’s all.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask some one else, then,” said Paul, with a
laugh. “Try me on something easier.”
“Then how do you ride a wild horse without saddle or bridle?” asked
Benny.
“Worse and worse,” said Paul. “See here, Benny, have you been reading
dime novels, and made up your mind to go West?”
“Not exactly,” said Benny; “but,” he continued, “I wouldn’t mind going
West if I had some good safe fellow to go with—some one who has been
there and knows all about it.”
“Well, I know enough about it to tell you to stay at home,” said Paul.
This was proof enough, thought Benny; so, although he was aching to ask
Paul many other questions about Indian life, he hurried off to assure
the other boys that it was all right—that Paul was an Indian, and no
mistake. The consequence was that when Paul approached the school-house
half of the boys advanced slowly to meet him, and then they clustered
about him, and he became conscious of being looked at even more intently
than on the day of his first appearance. He did not seem at all pleased
by the attention; he looked rather angry, and then turned pale; finally
he hurried upstairs into the school-room and whispered something to the
teacher, at which Mr. Morton shook his head and patted Paul on the
shoulder, after which the boy regained his ease and took his seat.
But at recess he again found himself the centre of a crowd, no member of
which seemed to care to begin any sort of game. Paul stopped short,
looked around him, frowned, and asked, “Boys, what is the matter with
me?”
“Nothing,” replied Will Palmer.
“Then what are you all crowding around me for?”
No one answered for a moment, but finally Sam Wardwell said, “We want
you to tell us stories.”
“Stories about Indians,” explained Ned Johnston.
Paul laughed. “You’re welcome to all I know,” said he; “but I don’t
think they’re very interesting. Really, I can’t remember a single one
that’s worth telling.”
This was very discouraging; but Canning Forbes, who was so smart that,
although he was only fourteen years of age, he was studying mental
philosophy, whispered to Will Palmer that people never saw anything
interesting about their own daily lives.
“You can tell us something about birch canoes, can’t you?” asked Ned
Johnston, by way of encouragement.
“Oh yes,” Paul replied; “they’re made out of bark, with hoops and strips
of wood inside, to give them shape and make them strong.”
“How do they fasten up the ends?” asked Ned.
“They first sew or tie them together with strings, and then they put
pitch over the seams to make them water-tight.”
“Did you ever see the Indians race in birch canoes?” asked Sam.
“Oh yes, often,” Paul replied; “and they make fast time too, I can tell
you.”
“Did you ever race yourself?” asked Benny.
“No,” said Paul, “but I learned to paddle a canoe pretty well. I’d
rather have a good row-boat, though, than any birch I ever saw. If you
run one of them on a sharp stone, it may be cut open, unless it’s pretty
new.”
“How do the Indians kill buffaloes?” asked Will Palmer.
“Why, just as white men do—they shoot them with rifles. Nearly all the
Indians have rifles nowadays.”
This was very unromantic, most of the boys thought, for an Indian
without bows and arrows could not be very different from a white man.
Still, something wonderful would undoubtedly come before Paul was done
talking.
“Are buffaloes really so terrible-looking as the story-papers say?”
asked Bert Sharp.
“Well, they don’t look exactly like pets,” said Paul. “A bull buffalo,
in the winter season, when he has a full coat of hair, looks fiercer
than a lion.”
“Do the Indians really kill or torture all the white people they catch?”
asked Canning Forbes.
“I don’t know—I suppose so; but perhaps they’re not all as bad as some
white people say.”
[Illustration: “YOU’RE A CHIEF’S SON, AREN’T YOU?”]
Canning shook his head encouragingly at Will Palmer: evidently this
young Indian had a manly spirit, and was not going to have his people
abused. There was a moment or two of silence, each boy wondering what
next to ask. Finally, Napoleon Nott said,
“You’re a chief’s son, aren’t you?”
“What?” exclaimed Paul, so sharply that Notty dodged behind Will Palmer,
and put his hand to his head as if to protect his scalp.
“I meant” said Notty, tremblingly—“I meant to ask what tribe you
belonged to.”
“I? What tribe? Notty, what are you talking about?”
Notty did not answer; so Paul looked around at the other boys, but they
also were silent.
“Notty,” said Paul, “what on earth are you thinking about? Do you
imagine I’m an Indian?”
“I thought you were,” said Notty, very meekly; “and,” he continued, “so
did all the other boys.”
“Well, that’s good,” said Paul, laughing heartily. “What made you think
so, fellows?”
“Benny told us,” explained Ned.
“Benny?” exclaimed Paul. “What put that fancy into your head?”
“I—I dreamed it,” said Benny, almost ready to cry for shame and
disappointment.
“And you told all the other boys?”
“Yes, I believed it; I really did, or I never would have said it.”
Then Paul laughed again—a long, hearty laugh it was, but no one helped
him. Most of the boys felt as if in some way Paul had cheated them. As
for Ned Johnston, he evidently did not believe Paul, for he began to ask
questions.
“If you’re not an Indian, how do you know so much about a birch canoe?”
“Why, I’ve seen dozens of them in Maine, where I used to live; the
Indians make them there.”
“Wild Indians?” asked Ned, and all the boys listened eagerly for the
answer.
“No,” said Paul, contemptuously; “they’re the tamest kind of tame ones.”
This was dreadful, yet Ned thought he would try once more. “How did you
come to know so much about buffaloes?” he asked.
“I saw two in Central Park, in New York,” Paul replied. “Oh, boys! boys!
you’re dreadfully sold.”
“Say, Paul,” said Benny, edging to the front, and looking appealingly at
his friend, “you’ve been away out West, anyhow, haven’t you?—because you
told me you knew about it.” Benny awaited the answer with fear and
trembling, for he felt he never would hear the end of the affair if he
did not get some help from Paul.
“No, I’ve never been farther West than Laketon,” was the disheartening
reply. “All I know of the West I’ve learned from books and newspapers.”
“Dear me!” sighed Benny; and for the first time in his life he wished
the bell would ring, and give him an excuse to get away. Within a moment
his wish was gratified, and he scampered up-stairs very briskly, but not
before Bert Sharp had caught up with him, and called him “Smarty,” and
asked him if he hadn’t some more dreams that he could go about telling
as truth. Poor Benny’s only consolation, as he took his seat, was that
Notty had been the first to suggest the Indian theory, and he ought
therefore to bear a part of whatever abuse might come of the mistake.
At any rate, he had learned that Paul had been in Maine and New York;
certainly that was more than he had known an hour before.