"Well, infidel," said Trinidad, taking Cherokee's vacant chair, "and
so you are too superannuated and effete to yearn for such mockeries as
candy and toys, it seems."

"I don't like you," said Bobby, with acrimony. "You said there would
be a rifle. A fellow can't even smoke. I wish I was at home."

Cherokee drove his sleigh to the door, and they lifted Bobby in beside
him. The team of fine horses sprang away prancingly over the hard
snow. Cherokee had on his $500 overcoat of baby sealskin. The laprobe
that he drew about them was as warm as velvet.

Bobby slipped a cigarette from his pocket and was trying to snap a
match.

"Throw that cigarette away," said Cherokee, in a quiet but new voice.

Bobby hesitated, and then dropped the cylinder overboard.

"Throw the box, too," commanded the new voice.

More reluctantly the boy obeyed.

"Say," said Bobby, presently, "I like you. I don't know why. Nobody
never made me do anything I didn't want to do before."

"Tell me, kid," said Cherokee, not using his new voice, "are you sure
your mother kissed that picture that looks like me?"