they did.

"Our Injun boy could talk as well as John Big Moose, if he was usin' his
own speech, an' wanted to," continued Bill. "He's rather jerky now
'count of his not knowin' our langwidge very well, for one thing, an'
from bein' in th' habit of concealin' his thoughts from white men--like
all other Injuns--for another thing."

Now you, who read this, must know by this time how well Bill Jordan
liked to tell things and to prove them--if he could; and if he couldn't
make the other fellow believe they were true, to think up something the
other fellow couldn't answer; and if he couldn't do that, to go away
before the other could think of an answer. We all have known boys or men
of this sort, and, being human, we don't like to have them assuming
that they know more than we do. That is, we don't like it all the time.
And this sort of feeling was stirring in that bunk house, at that
moment. And finally Charlie Bassett spoke.

"Bill," he said, "you're allus tellin' us somethin' 'bout somethin' what
we don't know nothin' 'bout, with th' idee of gettin' us t' think you're
a pretty wise feller. Now, all this you've bin tellin' us 'bout Injuns
_sounds_ reason'ble, but if you want us to really b'lieve it, you've got
t' show us. Ain't that so, fellers?"

The others, thus appealed to, nodded solemnly.

"How'm I goin' t' prove it?" asked Bill, thus driven into a corner.

"By gettin' Injun t' talk," Charlie answered. "An' furthermore I'll
betcha a can of peaches or a apple pie for each one of this gang, all