ve been made children once more by Laddie
and Dimples.

"Hail to the tribe!" cried Daddy.

"Hail, Chief!" answered the voices.

"Red Buffalo!"

"Here!" cried Laddie.

"Black Bear!"

"Here!" cried Dimples.

"White Butterfly!"

"Go on, you silly squaw!" growled Dimples.

"Here," said Baby.

"Prairie Wolf!"

"Here," said little four-year-old John.

"The muster is complete. Make a circle round the camp-fire and we shall
drink the firewater of the Palefaces and smoke the pipe of peace."

That was a fearsome joy. The fire-water was ginger-ale drunk out of the
bottle, which was gravely passed from hand to hand. At no other time had
they ever drunk like that, and it made an occasion of it which was
increased by the owlish gravity of Daddy. Then he lit his pipe and it
was passed also from one tiny hand to another, Laddie taking a hearty
suck at it, which set him coughing, while Baby only touched the end of
the amber with her little pink lips. There was dead silence until it had
gone round and returned to its owner.

"Warriors of the Leatherskins, why have we come here?" asked Daddy,
fingering his rifle.

"Humpty Dumpty," said little John, and the children all began to laugh,
but the portentous gravity of Daddy brought them back to the warrior
mood.

"The Prairie Wolf has spoken truly," said Daddy. "A wicked Paleface
called Humpty Dumpty has taken the prairies which once belonged to the
Leatherskins and is now camped upon them and hunting our buffaloes. What
shall be his fate? Let each warrior speak in turn."

"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