Horace, not very respectfully, as he ran back, shoe-knife in hand, to
cut the watermelon.

This was the beginning of a hasty friendship between himself and Wampum.
For a few days there was nothing so charming to Horace as the wild life
of this Indian family. He was made welcome at their tent, and often went
in to see them make baskets.

"I trust you," said Mrs. Clifford; "you will not deceive me, Horace. If
you ever find that little Wampum says bad words, tells falsehoods, or
steals, I shall not be willing for you to play with him. You are very
young, and might be greatly injured by a bad playmate."

The tent was rude enough. In one corner were skins laid one over
another: these were the beds which were spread out at night for the
family. Instead of closets and presses, all the wearing apparel was hung
on a long rope, which was stretched from stake to stake, in various
directions, like a clothes-line.

It was curious to watch the brown fingers moving so easily over the
white strips, out of which they wove baskets. It was such pretty work!
it brought so much money. Horace thought it was just the business for
him, and Wampum promised to teach him. In return for this favor, Horace
was to instruct the little Indian in spelling.

For one or two evenings he appointed meetings in the summer-house, and
really went without his own slice of cake, that he might give it to poor
Wampum, after a lesson in "baker."

He received the basket in due time, a beautiful one--red, white, and
blue. Just as he was carrying it home on his arm, he met Billy Green,
the hostler, who stopped him, and asked if he remembered going into "the
Pines" one day with Peter Grant? Horace had no reason to forget it,
surely.

"Seems to me you ran away with my horse-basket," said Billy; "but I
never knew till yesterday what had 'come of it."

"There, now," replied Horace, quite crestfallen; "Peter Grant took that!
I forgot all about it."

What should be done? It would never do to ask his mother for the money,
since, as he believed, she had none to spare. Billy was fond of joking
with little boys.

"Look here, my fine fellow," said he, "give us that painted concern
you've got on your arm, and we'll call it square."

"No, no, Billy," cried Horace, drawing away; "this is a present, and I
couldn't. But I'm learning to weave baskets, and I'll make you one--see
if I don't!"

Billy laughed, and went away whistling. He had no idea that Horace would
eve