At first I enjoyed my story immensely; it
was about a boy who was having the wildest kind of adventures among the
Indians. I wouldn't go through such exciting times for anything; but I
enjoy reading about 'em, when I'm all safe and comfortable at home.
Well, when it grew too dark to read, I laid my book down and began to
think, and presently it seemed as if a whole pack of Indians were
dancing like wild round me, in full war-paint and feathers, and nipping
little pieces out of my arms and legs. I stood it as long as I could,
and then I began to hit out at 'em. All at once one of the creatures
commenced flourishing his tomahawk at me, getting nearer and nearer all
the time. "I _have_ tried, but I can't get in," he said, grinning
horribly, and the voice sounded just like Phil's; "he's locked his door,
and he won't even answer me,--he's madder than hornets."
[Illustration: "'WHY, _JACK_!' SAID NANNIE."]
"I'm sure you can't blame him: what you said was very unkind, Phil; I
didn't think it of you!" The voice was certainly Nannie's; and yet there
was that horrid old Indian still nipping me.
"I know it, Nan; you needn't rub it in," groaned Phil,--the Indian.
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