truly--that he was there to stand by his uncle and Fox-Foot should he
be called upon to do so.

Dawn was breaking as they awoke--simultaneously to a slight crackling
sound outside. Larry's head burrowed out of the tent.

"Foxy cooking breakfast," was his cool remark. Then, "Jingo! He's got
a fish--a regular crackerjack! It's as long as my arm! Ha! there's a
breakfast for you!" But Jack was already up and out.

"Fine luck I have! Big fish!" smiled Fox-Foot, as fresh and alert as if
he had had a night in blankets instead of hours of watchfulness. Already
half of the freshwater beauty was sizzling in the frying-pan, the Indian
lifting and turning it with a long pointed stick. Matt Larson got busy
coffee-making. "We'll pit these two odors one against the other," he
remarked; "though I am bound to admit that the only time a frying fish
does really smell good and appetizing is when it has been dead about
twenty minutes, and is cooking over a camp-fire." Then quickly, in a
low, tense voice: "Where is he, Foxy? Where did you leave him?"

The Indian went on turning the fish, indicating with his head the
direction across the river.

"He's over there, asleep."

"He may wake at any moment; we must get away at once," hurried Larry.

"No," said Fox-Foot, with indifference, "he won't wake. There is a
flower grows here, small seeds; I creep up close, put it in his teapot.
He not see me. He boil tea, he drink it; he wake--maybe sundown