"Oh John!"
"Not a bit of it!" Our much tried physician spoke with salutary
shortness. "They may be Indian-made but that's all. I'll eat my hat
if it's an Indian who has worn them. Did you ever see an Indian with
a foot like that?"
Indignation enabled Aunt Caroline to disclaim acquaintance with any
Indian feet whatever.
"It's a white girl's moccasin," he assured her. "Lots of girls wear
them in camp. Or," hastily, "it may be a curiosity. Benis may be
making a collection."
Aunt Caroline snorted. Her gaze was fixed with almost piteous
intensity upon the tent.
"D'you think I might go in?" she faltered.
"You might" said John carefully.
Aunt Caroline sighed.
"How dreadful to have traditions!" she murmured. "There's no real
reason why I shouldn't go in. And," with grim honesty, "if you
weren't here watching I believe I'd do it. Anyway we may have to, if
they don't come soon. I can't sit on this grass. I'm sure it's
damp."
"I'll get you a chair from Benis's tent," offered John unkindly.
"There are no traditions to forbid that, are there?"
"No. And, John--you might look around a little? Just to make sure."
The doctor nodded. He had every intention of looking around. He
felt, in fact, entitled to any knowledge which his closest
observation might bring him. But the tent was almost empty. That at
least proved that the tent belonged to Spence. He was a man with an
actual talent for bareness and spareness in his sleeping quarters.
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