* * *

I am very nearly to the end of my narrative.

Toward the last Percy was obliged to work far into the night, for of
course we could not assist him. He made a full suit of rabbit skins
sewed with fibers, and a cap and shoes of coonskin to match. The shoes
were cut from a bedroom-slipper pattern that Tish traced in the sand on
the beach, and the cap had an eagle feather in it. He made a birch-bark
knapsack to hold the fish he smoked and a bow and arrow that looked well
but would not shoot. When he had the outfit completed, he put it on,
with the stone hatchet stuck into a grapevine belt and the bow and arrow
over his shoulder, and he looked superb.

"The question is," he reflected, trying to view himself in the edge of
the lake: "Will Dorothea like it? She's very keen about clothes. And
gee, how she hates a beard!"

"You could shave as the Indians do," Tish said.

"How?"

"With a clamshell."

He looked dubious, but Tish assured him it was feasible. So he hunted a
clamshell, a double one, Tish requested, and brought it into camp.

"I'd better do it for you," said Tish. "It's likely to be slow, but it
is sure."

He was eyeing the clamshell and looking more and more uneasy.

"You're not going to scrape it off?" he asked anxiously. "You know,
pumice would be better for that, but somehow I don't like the idea."

"Nothing of the sort," said Tish. "The double clamshell merely forms a
pair of Indian nippers. I'm going to pull it out."

But he made quite a fuss about it, and said he didn't care whether the
Indians did it or not, he wouldn't. I think he saw how disappointed Tish
was and was afraid she would attempt it while he slept, for he threw the
Indian nippers into the lake and then went over and kissed her hand.

"Dear Miss Tish," he said; "no one realizes more than I your inherent
nobility of soul and steadfastness of purpose. I admire them both. But
if you attempt the Indian nipper business, or to singe me like a chicken
while I sleep, I shall be--forgive me, but I know my impulsiveness of
disposition--I shall be really vexed with you."

Toward the last we all became uneasy for fear hard work was telling on
him physically. He used to sit cross-legged on the ground, sewing for
dear life and singing Hood's "Song of the Shirt" in a doleful tenor.

"You know," he said, "I've thought once or twice I'd like to do
something--have a business like other fellows. But somehow dressmaking
never