"You will have to carry them yourself, you know," warned Tad.

"What do you think I'm going to do with those joy shoes?" demanded the fat boy.

"I supposed you intended to wear them when sitting by the fireside."

"Like the squaw, you've got another guess coming. I'm going to send those moccasins to my aunt in Chillicothe."

This was an unusual thing to do. Stacy usually thought of himself, but seldom of others. Tad called to the other boys to tell them the news.

They examined the moccasins gravely.

At this juncture the Professor beckoned to the boys to come into the store, which they did after hastily staking down their stock.

"This gentleman says he thinks he can get us a guide," announced the Professor. "I tell him we must have a reliable one, for we know absolutely nothing about the country from here on."

"Black or white?" questioned Stacy.

"Oh, black, of course. There are no white guides up here. I think this one was out with a government surveying party once," said the store-keeper.

"He should do very well, then," nodded the Professor, well pleased.

"What's good enough for our Uncle Sam surely should be good enough for us," agreed Ned Rector. "What do you say, Chunky?"

"I decline to commit myself. I've been taken in on guides before this.

Trot out your guide and, after I've tried him out, I'll tell you what I think of him. In buying guides I follow the same tactics that Tad Butler does in purchasing horses."

"Oh, you do, eh?" jeered Ned.

"Always."

"Then be sure you examine this fellow's legs to make certain that they are sound. Feel his ankles that there is neither spavin nor ringbone, then open his mouth and look at his teeth to be sure that he isn't lying to you," advised Tad dryly.

"After which, one Stacy Brown will be reduced to the condition that he deserves," laughed Ned.

"What condition?" demanded the fat boy.

"Use your imagination."

"It isn't working to-day. I'm too hungry."

"Plenty of crackers and cheese and other things here," said Tad. "I am going to have some. Isn't that 'pop' up there, sir?" he asked the proprietor.

"Yes; have some?"

"What flavors have you?"

"Sarsaparilla and ginger ale."

"Give me both," interjected Stacy. "I'll have a pound of that cheese and about a peck of crackers. Got anything else?"

"Ginger snaps?"

"Hooray! Just like being in Chillicothe, isn't it?" Stacy filched a hard cracker and slipped it into the mouth of a papoose on its mother's back.

The squaw did not observe the action, but one of her sister squaws muttered something, whereat the mother s.n.a.t.c.hed the cracker from the mouth of her young hopeful, cast the cracker on the floor and put her moccasined foot on it. She launched into a volley in her own language, directed at Chunky.

"That's all right, madam. Roast me all you wish. I don't care how much you insult me so long as I don't understand a word you are saying."

"Do you wish the cheese done up?" asked the proprietor.

"Done up? Certainly not. I'll attend to the doing up myself." Chunky took a large bite, then banged the end of the pop bottle against the counter to open the bottle. The stuff was highly charged, and a good quant.i.ty of it struck Ned Rector in the eye. Stacy waved the bottle at arm's length before placing it to his mouth. The charge went over his shoulder and soaked the Professor's whiskers before the fat boy succeeded in steering the mouth of the bottle safely to his lips.

Professor Zepplin sputtered, Ned Rector threatened, but the fat boy ate and drank, regardless of the disturbance he had caused.

"If you open any more of that stuff be good enough to go outdoors to do so," advised the Professor.

"I wuz thinking ob doig it in here and shooting a papoose with some ginger ale," answered Stacy thickly.

"You will keep on till you have those squaws pulling your hair, Chunky,"

warned Butler.

The other boys were by this time eating cheese, crackers and ginger snaps. The proprietor had sent one of the Indian children to fetch the man he had recommended as a guide, and by the time the Pony Rider Boys had satisfied their appet.i.tes, the guide entered the store and stood waiting to be recognized.

The boys laughed when they saw him.

CHAPTER XI

THE GUIDE WHO MADE A HIT

The guide might have been anywhere from twenty to forty years of age.

The boys were unable to say, though they decided that he was quite young. He was considerably shorter in stature than the Indians they had seen, and Tad wondered if he were not an Eskimo. The guide's head was shaven except for a tuft of black coa.r.s.e hair on the top, standing straight up, while a yellow bar of paint had been drawn perpendicularly on each cheek. He wore a shirt that had once been white, a pair of trousers, one leg of which extended some six inches below the knee, the other as far above the knee of the other leg. Over his shoulders drooped a blanket of gaudy color. The guide's feet were clad in the mucklucks worn both in summer and winter. Taking him all in all, the man was a smile-producing combination.

"Are you a guide?" asked the Professor.

"Me guide."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty year."

"I think that is about it," said the store-keeper. "These natives never know their age exactly."

"You look to me more like an Eskimo than an Indian," observed Professor Zepplin.

"Me Innuit--Siwash. You savvy me?"