"Let us not go near the dreadful old thing," pleaded Fanny once more, her alarm returning.
Again I proposed to her to stay in the boat with Charlie, which had the effect, as before, to determine her upon going with us; which determination I strengthened by an encouraging pressure of the little gloved hand in my possession; and without waiting for further alarms pressed on at once, with Charlie for guide, to the spot where the "dreadful old thing" was understood to be.
And there, sure enough, he was, squatting on the ground beside a spring, where grew a thicket of willows and wild roses; alone and silent, evidently watching, if not waiting, for our approach.
"What will you say to him?" asked Fanny, as we came quite near, eyeing the singular object with evident dread.
"We'll ask him if he is hungry," said Charlie lightly. "If he is a live Indian he is sure to say 'yes' to that proposition;" and Charlie actually produced from his pockets some sandwiches, in a slightly damaged condition. Holding these before him, very much as one holds an ear of corn to a frisky colt he wishes to catch, he approached near enough to offer them, Fanny still holding me back just enough to let this advance be made before we came up. To her great relief the mummy put out a skinny hand, and snatched the offered provisions under its robe.
"You see he is only a poor starving old Indian," I said.
"Me no poor—no starve; me big chief," retorted the old man, glancing disdainfully at us, with eyes that now appeared bright.
I exchanged telegraphic communication with Charlie and Fanny, seated her comfortably upon a mossy boulder, and threw myself at her feet, while Charlie disposed of himself also, within conversational distance.
"May I ask what is your name?" I inquired, insinuatingly.
"My name is Nittinat—this is my country; this water is mine; this earth, these stones—all mine that you see."
