id look up, and when he beheld the great sun shining
almost directly over his head he exclaimed in surprise:

"Why, Tom, is it today or tomorrer?"

"It's today, though I guess it's well on to noon."

"Seein' the sun whar it is, an' feelin' now ez ef I had slep' so long, I
thought mebbe it might be tomorrer. An' it bein' so late an' me
sleepin', too, it looks ez ef the warriors ought to hev us."

"But they hevn't, Sol. All safe."

"No, Tom, they hevn't got us, an' now, hevin' learned from your long an'
volyble conversation that it ain't tomorrer an' that we are free, 'stead
o' bein' taken captive an' bein' burned at the stake by the Injuns, I'm
feelin' mighty fine."

"Sol, you talk real foolish at times. How could we be took by the Injuns
an' be burned alive at the stake, an' not know nothin' 'bout it?"

"Don't ask me, Tom. Thar are lots o' strange things that I don't pretend
to understan', an' me a smart man, too. Here, you, Jim Hart! Wake up!
Shake them long legs an' arms o' yours an' cook our breakfast!"

Silent Tom began to laugh, not audibly, but his lips moved in such a
manner that they betrayed risibility. The shiftless one looked at him
suspiciously.

"Tom Ross," he said, "what you laughin' at?"

"You told Long Jim to cook breakfast, didn't you?"

"I shorely did, an' I meant it, too."

"He ain't."

"Why ain't he?"

"Because he ain't."

"Ef he ain't, then why ain't he?"

"Because thar ain't any."

"Thar ain't any breakfast, you mean?"

"Jest what I say. He ain't goin' to cook breakfast, 'cause thar ain't
any to cook, an' thar ain't no more to say."

Henry and Paul, awakening at the sound of the voices, sat up and caught
the last words.

"Do you mean to tell us, Tom," exclaimed Paul, "that we have nothing to
eat?"

"Shorely," said Silent Tom triumphantly. "Look! See!"

All of them examined their packs quickly, but they had eaten the last
scrap of food the day before. Silent Tom's mouth again stretched across
his face with triumph and his eyes crinkled up.

"Right, ain't it?" he asked exultantly.

"Look here you, Tom Ross," exclaimed Shif'less Sol, indignantly, "you'd
rather be right an' starve to death than be wrong an' live!"

"Right, ain't I?"

"Yes, right, ain't you, 'bout the food, an' wrong in everythin' else. Ef
you say 'ain't' to me ag'in, Tom Ross, inside o' a week, I'll club you
so hard over the head with your own gun that you won't be able to speak
another word fur a yea