III.

Of many other of the deeds of Ogla-Moga--of how he imprisoned three

estimable old ladies in the elevator, and before they were released

had frightened them into hysterics; of how he at first took the

milkman to be a brother Indian, and regularly for a time answered his

morning howl with a terrifying war-whoop; of how he kept the house in

turmoil by ringing an electric bell wherever he could find one, in

doing which he took a childish delight--there is no need to speak

here. Happily for Miss Slopham, it so came about that Ogla-Moga was

rescued from all his scrapes without the responsibility for him being

traced to her, and without her secret being discovered, although many

complaints poured into the office of the carelessness by which strange

and dreadful men were allowed to get into the house--a subject,

however, on which the landlord could never get any satisfactory

information from Mr. Doherty. Happily for Miss Slopham again, the week

of trial was almost ended. She had issued invitations to a reception

for a Thursday evening, at which she caused it to be understood a

paper would be read upon an important reform question. Many of her

friends in the apartment-house were included in the bidding to this

feast of reason. The evening had arrived, and she was seated in her

reception-room, talking to the first-comer--a very tall and grave

gentleman with solemn long hair. This was Mr. Blagg, the well-known

newspaper correspondent. He was a most ingenious and laborious writer.

Having accumulated a certain amount of information, he wrote it out on

Monday to a paper in the far West, and on Tuesday to another paper in

the far East, varying the mixture somewhat, and on Wednesday varying

it again to a paper in the North, and on Thursday to a paper in the

South, giving the kaleidoscope of gossip still another shake. If it be

true that a stamp of the foot displaces every atom of the globe, and

that a word, once spoken, never ceases to reverberate through the

universe, the intellectual atmosphere must have been disorganized with

the clash and confusion of Mr. Blagg's contributions to contemporary

history. But Mr. Blagg was also a general literary workman. He took

contracts to write articles, pamphlets, and books, as a lawyer takes

cases--not on their merits, but for the fee. If it must be admitted,

he had written Miss Slopham's paper on the wrongs of the Indian, for a

pecuniary compensation, for that lady was far from being a literary

person.

"Oh, it is so strong, Mr. Blagg," she was saying, "so noble, and the

array of facts is so overwhelming! Where did you get them? Oh, what a

power your pen is!"

"Such as it is, Miss Slopham, it is always at your service;" and Mr.

Blagg closed his eyes in a faint ecstasy. Unlike literary persons as a

class, he was not reluctant to be openly appreciated. "As for the

facts," he continued, "they were easily secured. I had occasion to

write another article on the Indian question, taking an exactly

opposite view, and I found that many of the facts, in the hands of a

skilful artist, could be used in both articles. I have often found

that plan beneficial. It economizes labor, gives exercise to all the

intellectual faculties, and, where one can secure orders for a brace

of documents to contradict each other, is, I may say"--and here Mr.

Blagg coughed a little cough--"pleasant to the pocket."

"But I want your help still further, dear Mr. Blagg. We must make this

poor Indian's cause our own. We must agitate the matter. I hope that

when this paper has been read to-night" (and Miss Slopham looked down

at the roll in her lap), "you will be willing to write something about

it to your papers. I want the influence of your pen to rouse the

country."

"I'll do what my pen enables me to do, Miss Slopham; and I will say

that I think it is not without its effect," replied Mr. Blagg, with

the conscious pride of a man who knew that public opinion would never

get itself properly moulded without his help.

"It will be painful for us, of course, to be involved in anything like

notoriety, but" (and now a shade of lofty resignation passed over the

lady's face), "we must bear it for the sake of the cause." Miss

Slopham already called it "the cause."

But the company had begun to assemble. Mr. Michst was there, having

deprived the Ethical Circle of the benefit of his ministrations for an

entire week in order to be present. Mr. and Mrs. Ayr were there, with

Miss Josephine and her lover, who was heard to remark that this would

be "great larks to tell the boys." The Misses Pound were also there,

conveying in their looks their profound pity for a young man so sadly

insnared. Mrs. Gottom was there, with her pretty niece, who looked, as

really pretty girls always do, prettier than ever. Professor Phyle was

there, and Mrs. Blenkin. But Lieutenant Wray had not been able to

accept Miss Slopham's invitation. There were besides a considerable

number of persons of limited celebrity, most of them fierce hobby

riders, who, instead of leaving those unruly animals at home in their

luxurious stalls, or outside of their friends' houses, as the instinct

of politeness might have suggested, rode them boldly into the parlors

of the best society, and ran them at full gallop into the midst of any

conversation, so that often no sound could be heard but the noise of

their hoofs. Of the number and kind of these hobbies there is no need

here to speak, but when there were so many gathered into a single

place, the neighing and snorting, the champing of conversational bits,

and the pounding of huge and heavy feet were curious to behold and to

hear.

And Ogla-Moga? Now the native costumes were coming into play, and Miss

Slopham's long martyrdom was to have its reward. She had conveyed to

the Indian her desire that he should discard the garments of

civilization, and array himself in those of his pristine barbarity.

Remembering also that an Indian toilet is not complete without a good

deal of decorative art, she lent him a collection of artists'

materials kept for purposes of aesthetic display, and explained to him

how to use them. The result was that when he emerged he was a sight to

strike terror into any heart. His robes became him fiercely, and the

blazonry of his colors even frightened her a little. She began to

wonder whether, after all, Indian reform might not be a dangerous

pursuit. But all this was accomplished, in her haste, three hours

before the time of the reception. What was to be done with him in the

mean time? He must needs sit and wait, like the ladies in the olden

time who on the occasion of some great fete were obliged, through the

multiplicity of the hair-dresser's engagements, to pass under his

hands early in the morning, perhaps, and then to sit like statues all

day lest the lofty and beautiful structure on their heads should

tumble into ruins. But how restrain him--this untutored Kickapoo? In

her desperation a wild and wonderful scheme occurred to her. He had

become savagely fond of raspberry jam. She would offer him a bribe of

an unlimited quantity of this delicacy to go into some room and stay

there, and once there, she would quietly lock the door. She canvassed

in her mind all the rooms in her little box of a home. There was one,

convenient, appropriate, and secure--the store-room. No sooner said

than done. To see this fierce-looking Kickapoo clad in robes of

savagery, and gleaming in all the paint of the war-path, seated on

Miss Slopham's refrigerator, and looking about on either side with

barbaric curiosity at her array of shelves of jars and bottles, while

he ate raspberry jam out of a rare and elegant saucer with an

exquisite silver spoon, might have seemed a ludicrous spectacle to

anybody less austere than Miss Slopham. But she only gave a sigh of

relief, and softly turned the key, and went away to prepare for her

guests. Ogla-Moga did not miss her. He finished the saucer of jam,

and finished the jar, and then began explorations. He found various

relishes, condiments, and preserves, and what not, all of which he

tasted, some of which he enjoyed, and some of which he seemed to

objurgate in choice Kickapoo. At last--for his terrific figure was now

erect on the refrigerator--he saw something that sent a gleam of joy

across his fiery face. It was a dark bottle that bore an inscription

which he could not read, "S. O. P. Brandy." But there is one sense

which needs no education. He pulled out the cork, and put the mouth of

the bottle to his nostrils; then he smiled grimly, and straightway sat

down on the refrigerator.

The time had arrived for Miss Slopham to read her paper. Mr. Michst

claimed the attention of the company by tapping on a table with a

paper-knife. "Laties and shentlemen," said he, "we haf come here dis

efening as drue philossophers--not for our own selfish bleasure

enti-er-_lee_, but"--Mr. Margent looked uneasy, and fidgeted in his

chair--"in order to hellp in de solution of one of de great questions

of de day--de Indian question. I haf met some off dese obbressed and

downdrodden beoble. I know how amiable, how excellent, they are--like

little shildren dey haf lissened to me ven I haf talked to dem of de

_aura_ of Schrellenbach and de ofersoul--all vunder, and, I know, all

pelief. But I vill not take down de time. My young and pyootiful

friend, Miss Slobham" (the good, loyal man was sadly near-sighted),

"vill read to you, and I belief she vill have some derrible dings to

say."

Terrible things indeed! Miss Slopham's manuscript ran with gore--the

gore of the red-man always. Massacres, surprises, and butcheries, in

which the white man had slaked, only to renew it, his notorious thirst

for Indian blood, followed each other across the pages of the paper,

leaving each a darkening trail behind. The government of these United

States, which, in the inconsistent, uncontinuous, and often bungling

way of all governments, has probably tried to do its duty by the

Indian--often succeeding only in making its benevolence a source of

pauperism, and often betrayed by unfaithful officials and corrupt

citizens into shameful acts of bad faith--was portrayed as a huge

ogre, a giant Blunderbore, drinking Indian blood from two-quart

bowls, and never breakfasting but on Indian baby. Meantime there

filed through Miss Slopham's flowing sentences, like a procession

of children with banners, the mild and faithful Modoc, the

unsophisticated Sioux, the exemplary Pi-Ute, the large-eyed and

pensive Pottawattamie, the polished Nez-Perce, the amiable Pawnee, the

meek and unobtrusive Ogallala, and the playful Apache. If there ever

had been a massacre by Indians, or an act of savage cruelty by other

than white men, it was not found necessary for the purposes of this

paper to mention it. Perhaps emphasis is indispensable in advocating

reforms, and Indian reforms are surely needed. At all events, there

was no lack of accentuation in Miss Slopham's paper. The little

audience murmured to each other of its literary skill, and noticed

that Mr. Blagg, who was a high authority, wore an approving smile.

"And now," she read, as she approached the end of the essay, "we have

felt that there could be no better way to enlist the sympathies of

practical men and women than to show them one of these unfortunate

people as he is at home, in his native dress, in the picturesque

pigments which he delights, in his innocent and child-like fancy, to

adorn himself with, and to let you see how far he is from being the

wretch he is represented to be, how clearly the natural mildness of

his disposition, when unvexed by the tyranny of governments, shines

through the manly beauty of his countenance. It has so happened that

one of these poor creatures has been placed for a time under my

charge" (and here a look of dawning suspicion began to appear

simultaneously upon the faces of Miss Ayr and Miss Tristan), "and I

shall be able to summon him in a few moments into your presence, and

beg you to render, in behalf of this simple and suffering race, the

kind yet impartial testimony of your own eyes. I ask this because"--

But what was this strange noise in the distance that made Miss Slopham

pause in her reading, and sent a pallor across her cheek?--a sound as

of the dragging of a heavy body through the private hallway leading

from her kitchen--a sound as of a struggle, and of scuffling and

heavy breathing, and loud mutterings. It flashed upon her in an

instant that she had forgotten the little window in the store-room.

Had Ogla-Moga escaped? What had happened?