disappear, the stony faces looking on never changed a muscle though at
heart they were probably quite as astounded as the Welsh monster was
supposed to be when Jack the Giant-Killer, performed such wonderful
feats with hasty-pudding. By degrees, as Tom deemed it prudent to appear
stronger, he would dance the sailors' hornpipe for them, or sing wild,
rollicksome songs, or make beautiful rustic seats and bowers for the
squaws. He was a capital marksman, too, and soon won respect by showing
that he could handle a musket with the best of them. The few Indians who
owned guns had become very expert in their use; and Tom, whenever they
had trials of their skill, took care to shoot just well enough to prove
himself a good marksman, without provoking their anger by excelling too
often.

After awhile, in his desire to win their confidence, he even went so far
as to signify to the Indians that he would like to become one of them;
that their mode of life suited him well, and he would be glad to hunt
and fish with them and be a pale-face no more. Alas! poor fellow, he did
not know what he was saying, or how soon he would find out that even in
cases of great temptation no one can tell a lie without suffering
unhappy consequences. The savages took him at his word. They held a
council. After it was over, while most of them were still smoking their
long, richly ornamented pipes with great deliberation, two or three of
the Indians seized him and gravely commenced plucking out his hair by
the roots.[2] Soon Tom twitched from head to foot, and water stood in
his eyes; but the red men still kept on with their work, dipping their
fingers in ashes occasionally to enable them to take a better hold.
Before long his head was completely bald, with the exception of one long
tuft upon his crown, called the scalp-lock. This was immediately
stiffened and plaited, so as to stand upright and hold a variety of
ornaments, which his glum hairdresser fastened upon it. Then two old