too strong a hold upon them. Owing to the silence, he believed that he was really exerting some influence upon these people. But the entire effect of his oration was counteracted by a sneering laugh from one of the white men, followed by the words, “What is the old fool trying to say?” At this the young men burst into uproars of laughter in which most of the women joined. Tumult again broke forth, and when Tom tried once more to speak, he was jeered at, told to go back home and attend to his prayers. Stung to the quick by such taunts, Tom leaped forward and faced the nearest white man. Thinking that the Indian was going to attack him, the villain lifted his clenched fist and struck him a savage blow on the face.
“Take that, you d crazy fool and mind your own business,” he cried.
Tom staggered back, stunned by the blow, tripped over a stick and fell heavily to the ground. He struck the side of his forehead against a stick, and in another minute blood was streaming down his right cheek. Picking himself up with difficulty, he wiped away the blood and gazed around in a dazed manner. Nothing but shouts of merriment greeted his woeful appearance, and no one came to his assistance. He was in the midst of his own people, but they had returned to the ways of the wild where sympathy is unknown, and where on the slightest pretext they would have rent him asunder.
Knowing now that further efforts would be all in vain, and wishing to be by himself, Tom moved slowly from the encampment. He was the dignified Indian once more, walking as erect as possible, paying no attention to the laughter and jibes which followed his departure. His forehead was sore, but much more so
