"But t' get back t' what I know 'bout Injuns," said Bill, after the
discussion had gone on for some time. "What d'ye s'pose our Injun
thinks 'bout this here rule as says he ain't as good as that pie-faced
Jim Adams? He knows 'tain't right, same as we do, an' he thinks to
himself, 'Here's another thing I got t' put up with, an' if I rare up
an' make a row 'bout it, I'll get th' wuss of it, as my people always
has. So what'll I do? I'll lay low, an' say nothin', an' I won't give
them white brothers no chance t' see that they've hurt my feelin's. I'll
hide my hurt with my pride--one o' th' only things my white brothers has
left me.'"

There was silence for a moment in the bunk house. Then Jim Walker spoke.
"Well, Injun may think that," he said. "But whatever he thinks you won't
never really know. He's that savin' o' speech, like all Injuns."

"They're savin' enough o' speech here, 'mongst us folks," Bill Jordan
said. "But with their own people they're great speech-makers."

"G'wan," objected Buck Higgins. "Who ever heard of a Injun talkin'
much."

"Yes, siree," Bill declared. "They're great talkers 'mongst folks they
knows and trusts. Why, at their pow-wows they're reg'lar orators.
Ev'body knows that what's had a lot t' do with 'em, same as me. John Big
Moose was easy with white folks, an' look the way he could spill
langwidge. 'Most as good as we all."

The others silently agreed to this, thinking what a great advantage it
would be to John Big Moose in the Eastern college to talk as well as