ages of General Washington and yelling after him in
the streets of Philadelphia. You'd have been astonished what those two
fine old chiefs knew of the ins and outs of such matters. The little
I've learned of politics I picked up from Cornplanter and Red Jacket
on the Reservation. Toby used to read the Aurora newspaper. He was
what they call a "Democrat," though our Church is against the Brethren
concerning themselves with politics.'

'I hate politics, too,' said Una, and Pharaoh laughed.

'I might ha' guessed it,' he said. 'But here's something that isn't
politics. One hot evening late in August, Toby was reading the newspaper
on the stoop and Red Jacket was smoking under a peach tree and I was
fiddling. Of a sudden Toby drops his Aurora.

'"I am an oldish man, too fond of my own comforts," he says. "I will
go to the Church which is in Philadelphia. My brother, lend me a spare
pony. I must be there tomorrow night."

'"Good!" says Red Jacket, looking at the sun. "My brother shall be
there. I will ride with him and bring back the ponies."

'I went to pack the saddle-bags. Toby had cured me of asking questions.
He stopped my fiddling if I did. Besides, Indians don't ask questions
much and I wanted to be like 'em.

'When the horses were ready I jumped up.

'"Get off," says Toby. "Stay and mind the cottage till I come back. The
Lord has laid this on me, not on you. I wish He hadn't."

'He powders off down the Lancaster road, and I sat on the doorstep
wondering after him. When I picked up the paper to wrap his
fiddle-strings in, I spelled out a piece about the yellow fever being in
Philadelphia so dreadful every one was running away. I was scared, for
I was fond of Toby. We never said much to each other, but we fiddled
together, and music's as good as talking to them that understand.'

'Did Toby die of yellow fever?'Una asked.

'Not him! There's justice left in the world still. He went down to the
City and bled 'em well again in heaps. He sent back word by Red Jacket
that, if there was war or he died, I was to bring the oils along to the
City, but till then I was to go on working in the garden and Red Jacket
was to see me do it. Down at heart all Indians reckon digging a squaw's
business, and neither him nor Cornplanter, when he relieved watch, was
a hard task-Master. We hired a nigger-boy to do our work, and a lazy
grinning runagate he was. When I found Toby didn't die the minute he
reached town, why, boylike, I t