"I trust you," said Mrs. Clifford; "you will not deceive me, Horace. If you ever find that little Wampum says bad words, tells falsehoods, or steals, I shall not be willing for you to play with him. You are very young, and might be greatly injured by a bad playmate."
The tent was rude enough. In one corner were skins laid one over another: these were the beds which were spread out at night for the family. Instead of closets and presses, all the wearing apparel was hung on a long rope, which was stretched from stake to stake, in various directions, like a clothes-line.
It was curious to watch the brown fingers moving so easily over the white strips, out of which they wove baskets. It was such pretty work!
it brought so much money. Horace thought it was just the business for him, and Wampum promised to teach him. In return for this favor, Horace was to instruct the little Indian in spelling.
For one or two evenings he appointed meetings in the summer-house, and really went without his own slice of cake, that he might give it to poor Wampum, after a lesson in "baker."
He received the basket in due time, a beautiful one--red, white, and blue. Just as he was carrying it home on his arm, he met Billy Green, the hostler, who stopped him, and asked if he remembered going into "the Pines" one day with Peter Grant? Horace had no reason to forget it, surely.
"Seems to me you ran away with my horse-basket," said Billy; "but I never knew till yesterday what had 'come of it."
"There, now," replied Horace, quite crestfallen; "Peter Grant took that!
I forgot all about it."
What should be done? It would never do to ask his mother for the money, since, as he believed, she had none to spare. Billy was fond of joking with little boys.
"Look here, my fine fellow," said he, "give us that painted concern you've got on your arm, and we'll call it square."
"No, no, Billy," cried Horace, drawing away; "this is a present, and I couldn't. But I'm learning to weave baskets, and I'll make you one--see if I don't!"
Billy laughed, and went away whistling. He had no idea that Horace would ever think of the matter again; but in truth the first article the boy tried to make was a horse-basket.
"Me tell you somethin," said little Wampum, next morning, as he and Horace were crossing the field together. "Very much me want um,--um,--um,"--putting his fingers up to his mouth in a manner which signified that he meant something to eat.
"Don't understand," said Horace: "say it in English."
"Very much me want um," continued Wampum, in a beseeching tone. "No tell what you call um. E'enamost water, no _quite_ water; e'enamost punkin, no _quite_ punkin."
"Poh! you mean watermelon," laughed Horace: "should think you'd remember that as easy as pumpkin."
"Very much me want um," repeated Wampum, delighted at being understood; "me like um."
"Well," replied Horace, "they aren't mine."
"O, yes. Ugh! you've got 'em. Melon-water good! Me have melon-waters, me give you moc-suns."
"I'll ask my grandpa, Wampum."
Hereupon the crafty little Indian shook his head.
"You ask ole man, me no give you moc-suns! Me no want _een_--me want bimp--bumpin--jiggets."
Horace's stout little heart wavered for a moment. He fancied moccasins very much. In his mind's eye he saw a pair shining with all the colors of the rainbow, and as Wampum had said of the melons, "very much he wanted them." How handsome they'd be with his Zouave suit!
But the wavering did not last long. He remembered the blue book which his mother was to see next week; for then the month would be out.
"It wouldn't be a 'D.,'" thought he, "for nobody told me _not_ to give the watermelons."
"No," said Conscience; "'twould be a black S.; _that_ stands for stealing! What, a boy with a dead father, a dead soldier-father, _steal_! A boy called Horace Clifford! The boy whose father had said, 'Remember God sees all you do!'"
"Wampum," said Horace, firmly, "you just stop that kind of talk!
Moccasins are right pretty; but I wouldn't steal, no, not if you gave me a bushel of 'em."
After this, Horace was disgusted with his little friend, not remembering that there are a great many excuses to be made for a half-civilized child. They had a serious quarrel, and Wampum's temper proved to be very bad. If the little savage had not struck him, I hope Horace would have dropped his society all the same; because, after Wampum proved to be a thief, it would have been sheer disobedience on Horace's part to play with him any longer.
Of course the plan of basket-making was given up; but our little Horace did one thing which was noble in a boy of his age: perhaps he remembered what his father had said long ago in regard to the injured watch; but, at any rate, he went to Billy Green of his own accord, and offered him the beautiful present which he had received from the Indians.
"It's not a horse-basket, Billy: I didn't get to make one," stammered he, in a choked voice; "but you said you'd call it square."
"Whew!" cried Billy, very much astonished: "now look here, bub; that's a little too bad! The old thing you lugged off was about worn out, anyhow.
Don't want any of your fancy baskets: so just carry it back, my fine little shaver."
To say that Horace was very happy, would not half express the delight he felt as he ran home with the beautiful basket on his arm, his "ownest own," beyond the right of dispute.
The Indians disappeared quite suddenly; and perhaps it was nothing surprising that, the very next morning after they left, grandpa Parlin should find his beautiful melon-patch stripped nearly bare, with nothing left on the vines but a few miserable green little melons.
CHAPTER XII.
A PLEASANT SURPRISE.
"It's too bad," said Horace to his sister, "that I didn't get to make baskets; I'd have grown rich so soon. What would you try to do next?"
"Pick berries," suggested Grace.
And that very afternoon they both went blackberrying with Susy and aunt Madge. They had a delightful time. Horace could not help missing Pincher very much: still, in spite of the regret, it was a happier day than the one he and Peter Grant had spent "in the Pines." He was beginning to find, as all children do, how hard it is to get up "a good time" when you are pricked by a guilty conscience, and how easy it is to be happy when you are doing right.
They did not leave the woods till the sun began to sink, and reached home quite tired, but as merry as larks, with baskets nearly full of berries.
When Horace timidly told aunt Madge that he and Grace wanted to sell all they had gathered, his aunt laughed, and said she would buy the fruit if they wished, but wondered what they wanted to do with the money: she supposed it was for the soldiers.
"I want to give it to ma," replied Horace, in a low voice; for he did not wish his aunt Louise to overhear. "She hasn't more than three bills in her pocket-book, and it's time for me to begin to take care of her."
"Ah," said aunt Madge, with one of her bright smiles, "there is a secret drawer in her writing-desk, dear, that has ever so much money in it.
She isn't poor, my child, and she didn't mean to make you think so, for your mother wouldn't deceive you."
"Not poor?" cried Horace, his face brightening suddenly; and he turned half a somerset, stopping in the midst of it to ask how much a drum would cost.
The month being now out, it was time to show the blue book to Mrs.
Clifford. Horace looked it over with some anxiety. On each page were the letters "D.," "B. W.," "B. G. P.," and "F.," on separate lines, one above another. But there were no figures before any of the letters but the "B. W.'s;" and even those figures had been growing rather smaller, as you could see by looking carefully.
"Now, Grace," said her little brother, "you'll tell ma that the bad words aren't swearin' words! I never did say such, though some of the fellows do, and those that go to Sabbath School too."
"Yes, I'll tell her," said Grace; "but she knows well enough that you never talk anything worse than lingo."