How long Philip slept he didn't know, but he was awakened by a terriblescreech, and, opening his eyes, say Henry sitting bolt upright, withtrembling limbs and distended eyeballs, gazing fearfully at a tall,muscular-looking Indian, who had just stepped into the cabin through theopen window.
CHAPTER XLII. AN INDIAN AT LAST.
"What's the matter?" asked Philip, rubbing his eyes, for he was hardlyable--so suddenly had he been roused from sleep--to comprehend thesituation.
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 killedand scalped forthwith.
"Oh, Mr. Indian Chief," he exclaimed, in tremulous accents, "don't killme! I--I ain't ready to die!"
The Indian looked amazed, and laughed gutturally, but did not speak. Hislaugh 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 tohave convinced Henry that he had nothing to fear.
But the boy was so frenzied with terror, and so possessed of the thoughtthat the Indian was just like the savage warriors of the plains, of whomhe had read so much, that he still felt his life to be in danger, andanswered the question in a way not expected.
"I suppose you want my scalp," he said; "but I am only a boy, and Idon'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, andwere 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 anyone lived here."
"No matter," said the Indian civilly--that being one of the phraseswhich his knowledge of English included.
"Henry," said Philip, "let us get up. We are sleeping in this--thisgentleman's bed."
He felt a little at a loss how to designate the Indian, but felt that itwas best to be as polite as possible.
The two boys started up, in order to yield to the master of the housethe 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 himselfapparently 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 downagain."
Henry obeyed directions, but he was not altogether free from alarm. Hehad read that the Indians are very crafty. How did he know but theircopper-colored host might get up in the night, skillfully remove theirscalps, and leave them in a very uncomfortable plight?
"Hadn't we better get up, and run away as soon as he is asleep?" hewhispered 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 littlewiser 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 wherethe 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 theroom?"
"I dare say many boys would be frightened," said Philip, "but I don'tthink a boy who left home to go out West to kill Indians ought to beafraid 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'dfind it rather serious business if you should meet any real Indianwarriors."
"I don't know but I should," Henry admitted, rather awkwardly. "I didn'tthink much about it when I left home."
"I suppose you thought you'd be a match for half a dozen Indianwarriors?" said Philip, laughing.
"That was the way with 'Bully Bill'; or, 'The Hero of the Plains,'" saidHenry. "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," saidPhilip. "I might enjoy going out West some time, but I shouldn't expectto kill many Indians. I think they would stand a good deal better chanceof shooting me."
Henry said nothing, but looked thoughtful. His romantic ideas seemed tohave received a sudden shock, and he was trying to adjust his ideas tothe new light he had received.
The boys were preparing to go out, when their Indian host suddenlyreappeared. 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 dutiesof hospitality, and did not intend to let his guests go, uninvitedthough they were, without a breakfast.
Though his stock of English was limited, he made out to invite the boysto breakfast with him.
Henry would have preferred to go to the hotel, but Philip signed to himto accept graciously the Indian's hospitality.
As the bread was fresh, they partook of it with relish, washing it downwith drafts of clear spring water.
The Indian looked on, well pleased to see the justice done to hishospitality. He explained to the boys that he made baskets, caught fish,and sometimes engaged in hunting, managing, in one way and another, tosatisfy his simple wants. His name was Winuca, but his white neighborscalled him Tom.
When the boys were ready to go, Philip drew from his pocket ajack-knife, nearly new, of which he asked the Indian's acceptance.
Winuca seemed very much pleased, and shook hands heartily with his youngguests, wishing them good-by.
The boys kept on to the hotel, where they spent a few hours, takingdinner there. Their breakfast had been so simple that they had a verygood appetite for their midday meal.
"While we are here, Henry, suppose you write to your father and relievehis anxiety?" suggested Philip.
"Why can't you write?" asked Henry, who cherished the general boyishdistaste for letter-writing.
"Because it will be more proper for you to write. I am a stranger tohim."
"You won't be long, Philip? I shall want you to come and make me avisit."
"Perhaps you'll be tired of me before we get to New York," suggestedPhilip, 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 nightwhen the Indian came in."
"It was because I felt sure that any Indian to be found about here wouldbe harmless."
"I wish we could make a journey together some time. I'd like to goWest--"
"To kill Indians?"
"No. If they'll let me alone, I'll let them alone; but there must be alot of fun out on the prairies."
"Well, Henry, go and write your letter, and we can talk about thatafterward."
The letter was written and mailed, and arrived in New York several daysbefore the boys did.
CHAPTER XLIII. A WELCOME LETTER.
Alexander Taylor, a Wall Street broker, sat at breakfast in his finehouse 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 girlanxiously.
/> "Only that the boy who got started with him on his foolish tramp gotback 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 youadvertise for him, or send out a detective, or something?"
"I will tell you, Jennie," said Mr. Taylor, laying down the morningpaper. "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 toeat. You wouldn't want him to starve, papa?"
"There isn't much chance of it. If he is in danger of that, he will havesense enough to ask for food, or to write to me for help. I rather hopehe will have a hard time."
"Oh, papa!"
"It will do him good. If I sent for him and brought him back against hiswill, he would probably start off again when he has a good chance."
Jennie could not quite follow her father in his reasoning, and wasinclined to think him hard and unfeeling. She missed her brother, who,whatever his faults, treated her tolerably well, and was at any rate agood deal of company, being the only other young person in the house.
Just then the servant entered with three letters, which he laid downbeside 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 deliberatelyfor the impatience of his daughter:
"Dear Father: I am alive and well, and hope to see you in a few days. Iguess I made a mistake in running away, though I didn't think so at thetime, for I wanted to see life, and have adventures. I don't know howI should have got along if I hadn't met Philip Gray. He's a tip-topfellow, and is paying my expenses. I told him you would pay him back. Hehas got me off the idea of going West to kill Indians."
"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Jennie, opening her eyes wide. "I didn't know thatwas what Henry went for."
"I don't think the Indians would have felt very much frightened if theyhad heard of his intention. However, I will proceed:
"I was all out of money when Philip met me, and I hadn't had anything toeat 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 hasgot a violin, and he plays beautifully. He earned all the money he hasby 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. Hetold me he wouldn't do anything for me unless I would agree to comehome."
"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 towalk 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. Yourson, HENRY TAYLOR."
"Is that all?" asked Jennie.
"Yes; I consider it a very fair letter. It is evident Henry has made theacquaintance of a sensible boy. I shall take care that he doesn't let itdrop."
CHAPTER XLIV. A FRESH START.
Five days later, just as Mr. Taylor was sitting down to dinner, at theclose of the day, the door-bell rang violently.
There was a hurried step heard in the hall, and the door opening quicklyHenry Taylor rushed in, his face beaming with smiles.
"Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Henry!" said Jennie, embracing him. "Imissed 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 yourscalps?"
"What?" ejaculated Henry, bewildered.
"I thought you left home to kill Indians."
"Oh!" said Henry, smiling faintly. "I didn't meet any Indians--exceptone--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 scalpswould be of great use to you. I fully expected a present of one, asa trophy of my son's valor; but still, in case the Indian objectedto being scalped, there might be a little risk in performing theoperation."
"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 makea good living hunting Indians--I don't know myself how much their scalpsbring 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 toldme--"
"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 ongoing to a hotel and washing and dressing themselves.
As he followed Henry into the room, with modest self-possession, hischeeks glowing with a healthy color, both Jennie and Mr. Taylor wereinstantly 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 goodadvice, which I consider of still greater importance and value."
"Thank you, sir. I don't feel competent to give much advice, but Ithought 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 muchright to live as we, if they behave themselves."
"I think so, too," said Henry, who was rather ashamed of what had oncebeen 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 herbrother's friend, for she dropped "Mr. Gray" altogether, and called himPhilip.
At her solicitation he played on his violin. Both Mr. Taylor and Jenniewere 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 ourguest."
"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 asa favored guest.
The next morning, when Mr. Taylor went to his office, he asked Philipto go with him. Arrived in Wall Street, he sent a boy to the bank witha check. On his return, he selected five twenty-dollar bills, and handedthem 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 newclothes. Henry will take you to our tailor. Don't spare expense. Thebill 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 tomake to you."
This was the proposal, and the way it was made:
"I find, Philip," said Mr. Taylor, some days later, "that Henry is muchattached to you, and that your influence over him is excellent. He hasagreed 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'tcompleted your
education?"
"No, sir."
"I shall pay all the bills and provide for you in every way, exactly asI 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 morejudicious."
"I will certainly do the best I can for him, sir."
During the next week the two boys left New York, and became pupils atDoctor Shelley's private academy, at Elmwood--a pleasant country townnot far from Long Island Sound--and there we bid them adieu.
THE END.
The Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way Page 17