The
masquerade was a perfect one, and he looked like an Indian who had
just stepped forth from some Wild West show.
"Ach du!" screamed Hans, as he stopped short and grew white.
"It's dem Indians come to take mine hair! Oh, please, Mister
Indian, ton't vos touch me!"
"Dutcha boy heap nice hair," continued Tom, drawing nearer. "Maka
nice door-mat for Big Wolf. Burra!"
"No, no; ton't vos touch mine hair-it vos all der hair I vos got!"
howled Hans. "Please, Mister Indian mans, let me go!" And then
he started to back away.
"White bay stop or Big Wolf shoot!" bellowed Tom, drawing forth a
rusty pistol he had picked up in the barn. This rusty pistol had
done lots of duty at fun-making before.
"No, no; ton't shoot!" screamed Hans. Then he fell on his knees
in despair.
Tom could scarcely keep from laughing at the sight, and a snicker
or two could be heard coming from where Frank, Dick, and the
others were concealed behind the bushes. But the German youth was
too terrorized to notice anything but that awful red man before
him, with his hideous war-paint of blue and yellow.
"Dutcha boy dance for Big Wolf," went on Tom. "Dance! Dance or
Big Wolf shoot!" And the fun-loving Rover set the pace in a mad,
caper that would have done credit to a Zulu.
"I can't vos dance!" faltered Hans, and then, thinking he might
appease the wrath of his unexpected enemy he began to caper about
in a clumsy fashion which was comical in the extreme.
Pages:
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42