The next morning we were at the station in the far west. We got
off and started for the Indian reservation where the Carlisle
Indian originally came from, and where we were to hire Indians for
our show. We rode about 40 miles in hired buckboards, and just as
the sun was Setting there appeared in the distance an Indian
camp, where smoke ascended from tepees, tents and bark houses.
When the civilized Carlisle Indian jumped up on the front seat of
the buckboard and gave a series of yells that caused pa's bald
head to look ashamed that it had no hair to stand on end, there
came a war whoop from the camp, Indians, squaws, dogs, and
everything that contained a noise letting out yells that made me
sick. The Carlisle Indian began to pull off his citizen clothes of
civilization, and when the horses ran down to the camp in front of
the chief's tent the tribes welcomed the Carlisle prodigal son,
who had removed every evidence of civilization, except a pair of
football pants, and thus he reinstated himself with the affections
of his race, who hugged him for joy.

Pa and the rest of us sat in the buckboard while the Indians began
to feast on something cooking in a shack. We looked at each other
for awhile, not daring to make a noise for fear it would offend
the Indians. Pretty soon an old chief came and called Pa the Great
Father, and called me a pup, and he invited us to come into camp
and partake of the feast.

Well, we were hungry, and the meat certainly tasted good, and the
Carlisle civilized Indian had no business to say it was dog,
'cause no man likes to smoke his pipe of peace with strong tobacco
in a strange pipe, and feel that his stomach is full of dog meat.
But we didn't die, and all the evening the Indians talked about