chosen to do without it, and fish was frequent. Also a certain regularity was observed by his ancient handmaiden, his morning meal being prepared for him ere he was more than half awake—indeed, it was often the fumes of the fire or the moving about of the squaw that aroused him—and the evening meal coming at about five in the afternoon. Not infrequently at first he grew hungry long before the second meal appeared, missing the hearty midday dinner to which he was accustomed, but before long he grew used to the new arrangement. Had he sought food at such times as he wished it, he would not have had far to seek, for the Indian, whatever faults he had, was never inhospitable. To tarry near where a family was eating was sufficient to draw an invitation, as David discovered one day. On that occasion, although he had no stomach for it, he partook of a loathsome stew of doubtful ingredients rather than seem discourteous, for it was his effort to make as many friends as he might.
This evening, ere his meal was ready for him, John returned, and to him David put the question: “What meat does the squaw cook?” After some difficulty John was made to understand and he went inside and spoke
