BREEDS DON’T COUNT.
Who made those naked footprints in the sand? For hours afterward the
boys puzzled over it, but could come to no satisfactory conclusion.
Indians, as they well knew, seldom went barefoot. If, on the other hand,
the tracks had been made by a white man, who was he and from whence had
he come? Though they searched long and diligently for the remains of a
campfire or other evidences of the stranger’s presence, none was to be
found. The tracks could be followed for a distance of nearly a quarter
of a mile along the shore, after which they turned away from the river
and became lost in the thick moss that carpeted the woods.
Nor could they pick up the tracks again. Toma, whom nature and training
had specially fitted for this kind of work, was forced to admit,
finally, that even he was baffled. Given a little more time, he believed
that he could find other imprints, but inasmuch as Sandy and Dick chafed
at the delay already caused by the mysterious, barefoot stranger, he
decided to concur with popular sentiment and try to think no more about
it.
But it was not thus to be dismissed so lightly. The passing of time
seemed only to add fresh interest to the puzzle. During the next two
days it was the popular topic of discussion. New theories were advanced
by one or other of the boys, argued over sometimes for hours, then
relegated to the limbo of dead and forgotten things.
On the morning of the third day, however, while travelling over a rough
section of country near the winding, interminable river, Dick was
reminded again of the tracks. His own toes had worn through his
moccasins. There was a hole about the size of a silver dollar in each
one of his heels. In another day or so, he, too, would be walking
barefoot, much as he dreaded to think of it, making those peculiar and
tragic marks in the sand.
He glanced over at Sandy’s moccasins and noted with a sinking of the
heart that his were even in worse condition than his own. Toma’s were in
better shape, but also very badly worn. Soon they must all endure the
torture of going unshod, or else cut up their moosehide coats and make
new footgear.
None of the three wanted to part with his coat. The nights were often
chilly and it would be a positive hardship to do without them.
“I’d almost as soon go barefoot,” declared Sandy.
“Yes, I know,” Dick’s face clouded, “but do you think we can endure
these forced marches if our feet are cut and bruised? Mine are beginning
to cause me untold suffering now. You, Sandy, are limping. No! Don’t try
to deny it. I’ve been watching you. A few more bruises, a few more
scratches and cuts, and we won’t be able to walk five miles a day. You
may not have noticed it, but already we have begun to slacken down. I
don’t believe we made more than eighteen miles yesterday. We put in the
hours but we don’t seem to get the results. I’ll admit that it’s tough
going through here, but we won’t find anything better until we reach the
seventh portage.”
“I know it,” sighed the other. “Yet I hate to part with my coat.
Say—where in the dickens has Toma gone?”
“I saw him around here only a few minutes ago,” Dick answered
absent-mindedly, still absorbed with the pressing problem of footgear.
“No, you didn’t,” his chum flatly contradicted. “He’s been away a long
time now—over an hour, I’m sure. I’m beginning to worry about him.”
“Probably away somewhere getting fish for breakfast,” Dick decided.
“He’s done that already.”
“You couldn’t lose that restless scamp if you tried, so stop worrying.”
“I can’t help it,” grumbled Sandy.
Dick suddenly sat up straight, the perplexed lines vanishing from his
forehead.
“Say, I’ll bet I know. He’s gone off to snare rabbits. He’s been
complaining a lot lately about our fish diet. I recall now that when we
were walking along together early this morning he informed me that at
our next stop he intended to set out some snares.”
“Don’t blame him one bit. I’m tired of this fish diet myself. Every time
I wake up, I examine my body to see if I haven’t started to grow
scales.”
Dick laughed. “Fish are called brain-food, Sandy. Don’t forget that. By
the time we reach Half Way House, we’ll all be very learned and wise.”
“I much prefer to wallow along in ignorance,” Sandy retorted. “I hate
fish. When we get home I never want to see another. Lately, about all I
can think about is flapjacks and coffee and thick slices of white bread
with a top covering of butter. Last night, or to be more exact,
yesterday afternoon while I slept, I dreamed that Uncle Walter had just
received one of those big plum puddings from England and that he made me
a present of the whole of it.”
Sandy paused to moisten his lips.
“I never had such a vivid dream,” he went on. “At one sitting I ate the
whole of it. It had dates and raisins in it, and currants and nuts, and
there was a rich sauce that I kept pouring over it and—yum, yum—”
“Stop! Stop!” Dick shouted, vainly trying to shut out the appetizing
picture. “You can tell the rest of that some other time when I’m in a
better condition to appreciate it.”
“Well, if you won’t listen to me,” Sandy said aggrievedly, “I’m going to
curl up here in the sun and go to sleep. Maybe I’ll dream about another
plum pudding.”
“Think I’ll roll in too,” said Dick, smiling at the idiom.
_Sans_ blankets or covering of any kind, even a coat, there was, of
course, nothing to roll into. One simply stretched out in the sunshine,
covered one’s face with a handkerchief to keep away the flies and fell
away into deep slumber. He felt particularly tired today and decided
that, as soon as Toma returned, he’d follow Sandy’s example. He lay
back, his arms pillowed under his head, watching a few widely scattered
fleecy clouds floating lazily along under the deep blue field of the
sky.
He did not hear the young Indian steal quietly into camp more than two
hours later, having fallen asleep in spite of himself. But when he did
recover consciousness, Toma was the first person his eyes lighted upon.
The Indian was standing less than twenty feet away, his back toward him,
and he was busily absorbed in feeding a freshly-kindled fire. Something
unusual about the native boy’s appearance immediately attracted Dick’s
attention. He saw what it was. Toma, apparently, had rolled up his
moose-hide trousers and had gone wading for clams. From his ankles to
his knees his legs were bare.
“Did you get any clams, Toma?” Dick inquired sleepily. “How long have
you been back? Why didn’t you wake me, Toma?”
The young Indian answered none of Dick’s questions. However, he smiled
somewhat sheepishly as he turned around and faced his chum. Then Dick
gave utterance to a prolonged exclamation of genuine astonishment. His
eyes widened perceptibly. He sat up very quickly, contemplating Toma as
one might contemplate a man from Mars.
“What in blue blazes have you done with the bottom of your pants?”
gasped Dick.
“I cut ’em off,” answered Toma, flushing.
“Yes, I see you have—but why?”
By way of explanation, and not without a touch of the Indian’s native
dignity, he strode over to a pile of driftwood and fished out of it two
new moccasins. Excellent work, Dick could see at a glance; moccasins of
which anyone might have been proud.
“Sew ’em all same like squaw,” said Toma.
“But you had no needle.”
“Make ’em needle out of stick,” came the prompt reply.
“But what about the sinew, Toma? You had no thread. How could you sew
without thread?”
Toma hung his head. He hated to make this admission, but the truth must
come out. Toma was always truthful.
“I use part of fish-line,” he explained.
“Part of the fish-line?” gurgled Dick.
“Yes, I use ’em part of the fish-line.”
“Well, I must admit that you made _good_ use of it. There is really more
than we require anyway. I’m glad for your sake, Toma. Who, beside
yourself, would ever have thought of a stunt like that? They’ll come in
mighty handy for you, of course, but won’t you feel cold, Toma? When the
winds are chilly I’m afraid you’ll suffer.”
Toma shook his head, bit his lips and stared very hard at some imaginary
object across the river. It was plain that he was keenly embarrassed and
quite at a loss to know what to say. Finally, he found the words that he
had been vainly striving for and quickly blurted them out:
“Dick, I no can stand it any longer to see Sandy all time limp. Mebbe
two, three more days Sandy sit down and feet swollen so bad not walk any
farther.”
He gulped, averted his eyes, then tossed the result of his handiwork
over at the sleeper’s side. Dick took in the little tableau, feeling
suddenly very sick and mean and miserable and selfish. He did not try to
hide the tears that came into his eyes. Through a sort of mist he saw
Sandy’s blurred form stretched out there on the sand. Then he glanced at
Toma, who looked very ludicrous and silly standing there in his
abbreviated trousers, the cool night wind blowing over his bare legs.
At that instant there popped into his mind the sarcastic utterance of
one Toby McCallum:
“Breeds don’t count!”