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“Tell him he has jolly well got to clear out,” said Laddie.

“That’s not Indian talk,” cried Dimples, with all his soul in the game. “Kill him, great Chief–him and his squaw, too.” The two younger warriors merely laughed and little John repeated “Humpty Dumpty!”

“Quite right! Remember the villain’s name!” said Daddy. “Now, then, the whole tribe follows me on the war-trail and we shall teach this Paleface to shoot our buffaloes.”

“Look here, we don’t want squaws,” cried Dimples, as Baby toddled at the rear of the procession. “You stay in the wigwam and cook.”

A piteous cry greeted the suggestion.

“The White Butterfly will come with us and bind up the wounds,” said Daddy.

“The squaws are jolly good as torturers,” remarked Laddie.

“Really, Daddy, this strikes me as a most immoral game,” said the Lady, who had been a sympathetic spectator from a corner, doubtful of the ginger-ale, horrified at the pipe, and delighted at the complete absorption of the children.

“Rather!” said the great Chief, with a sad relapse into the normal. “I suppose that is why they love it so. Now, then, warriors, we go forth on the war-trail. One whoop all together before we start. Capital! Follow me, now, one behind the other. Not a sound! If one gets separated from the others let him give the cry of a night owl and the others will answer with the squeak of the prairie lizard.”

“What sort of a squeak, please?”

“Oh, any old squeak will do. You don’t walk. Indians trot on the war- path. If you see any man hiding in a bush kill him at once, but don’t stop to scalp him–“

“Really, dear!” from the corner.

“The great Queen would rather that you scalp him. Now, then! All ready! Start!”

Away went the line of figures, Daddy stooping with his rifle at the trail, Laddie and Dimples armed with axes and toy pistols, as tense and serious as any Redskins could be. The other two rather more irresponsible but very much absorbed all the same. The little line of absurd figures wound in and out of the furniture, and out on to the lawn, and round the laurel bushes, and into the yard, and back to the clump of trees. There Daddy stopped and held up his hand with a face that froze the children.

“Are all here?” he asked.

“Yes, yes.”

“Hush, warriors! No sound. There is an enemy scout in the bushes ahead. Stay with me, you two. You, Red Buffalo, and you, Black Bear, crawl forward and settle him. See that he makes no sound. What you do must be quick and sudden. When all is clear give the cry of the wood-pigeon, and we will join you.”

The two warriors crawled off in most desperate earnest. Daddy leaned on his gun and winked at the Lady, who still hovered fearfully in the background like a dear hen whose chickens were doing wonderful and unaccountable things. The two younger Indians slapped each other and giggled. Presently there came the “coo” of a wood-pigeon from in front. Daddy and the tribe moved forward to where the advance guard were waiting in the bushes.

“Great Chief, we could find no scout,” said Laddie.

“There was none person to kill,” added Dimples.

The Chief was not surprised, since the scout had been entirely of his own invention. It would not do to admit it, however.

“Have you found his trail?” he asked.

“No, Chief.”

“Let me look.” Daddy hunted about with a look of preternatural sagacity about him. “Before the snows fell a man passed here with a red head, grey clothes, and a squint in his left eye. His trail shows that his brother has a grocer’s shop and his wife smokes cigarettes on the sly.”

“Oh, Daddy, how could you read all that?”