new but he _might_ yet be a judge? She liked to order him about,
and have him yield to her: still she had great faith in Horace.

"But, Grace, after all that I'll go to war, and turn out a general; now
you see if I don't."

"That'll be a great while yet," said Grace, sighing.

"So it will," replied Horace, sadly; "and ma needs the money now. I wish
I could earn something right off while I'm a little boy."

It was not two days before he thought he had found out how to get rich;
in what way you shall see.

CHAPTER XI.

THE LITTLE INDIAN.

Prudy came into the house one day in a great fright, and said they'd
"better hide the baby, for there was a very wicked woman round."

"Her hair looks like a horse's tail," said she, "and she's got a black
man's hat on her head, and a table-cloth over her."

Aunt Madge took Prudy in her lap, and told her it was only an Indian
woman, who had no idea of harming any one.

"What are Nindians?" asked the child.

Her aunt said they were sometimes called "red men." The country had once
been filled by them: but the English came, a great many years ago, and
shook off the red men just as a high wind shakes the red leaves off a
tree; and they were scattered about, and only a few were left alive.
Sometimes the Oldtown Indians came round making baskets; but they were
quiet and peaceable people.

Horace and his friend "Grasshopper," as they were strolling up the
river, came upon a tent made of canvas, and at the door of the tent sat
a little boy about their own age, with a bow and arrow in his hand, in
the act of firing.

Grasshopper, who was always a coward, ran with all his might; but as
Horace happened to notice that the arrow was pointed at something across
the river, he was not alarmed, but stopped to look at the odd little
stranger, who turned partly round and returned his gaze. His eyes were
keen and black, with a good-natured expression, something like the eyes
of an intelligent dog.

"What's your name, boy?" said Horace.

"Me no understand."

"I asked what your _name_ is," continued Horace, who was sure the boy
understood, in spite of his blank looks.

"Me no hurt white folks; me bunkum Indian."

"Well, what's your name, then? What do they call you?"

No answer, but a shake of the head.

"I reckon they call you _John_, don't they?"

Here the boy's mother appeared at the door.

"His name no _John_! Eshy-ishy-oshy-neeshy-George-Wampum-Shoony-Katoo;
short nam