“Who’s Granny de Neuville?”

“Oh, she’s the old witch that lives down at the bend o’ the creek.”

“What?  Has she got a granddaughter named Biddy?” said Yan, suddenly remembering that his ancient ally came from this part of Sanger.

“Oh, my!  Hain’t she?  Ain’t Biddy a peach—­drinks like a fish, talks everybody to death about the time she resided in Bonnerton.  Gits a letter every mail begging her to come back and ‘reside’ with them some more.”

“Ain’t this fine,” said Yan, as he sat on a pile of Fir boughs in the wigwam.

“Looks like the real thing,” replied Sam from his seat on the other side.  “But say, Yan, don’t make any more fire; it’s kind o’ warm here, an’ there seems to be something wrong with that flue—­wants sweepin’, prob’ly—­hain’t been swep’ since I kin remember.”

The fire blazed up and the smoke increased.  Just a little of it wandered out of the smoke-hole at the top, then it decided that this was a mistake and thereafter positively declined to use the vent.  Some of it went out by chinks, and a large stream issued from the door, but by far the best part of it seemed satisfied with the interior of the wigwam, so that in a minute or less both boys scrambled out.  Their eyes were streaming with smoke-tears and their discomfiture was complete.

“’Pears to me,” observed Sam, “like we got them holes mixed.  The dooer should ’a ‘been at the top, sence the smoke has a fancy for usin’ it, an’ then we’d had a chance.”

“The Indians make it work,” said Yan; “a White hunter ought to know how.”

“Now’s the Injun’s chance,” said Sam.  “Maybe it wants a dooer to close, then the smoke would have to go out.”

They tried this, and of course some of the smoke was crowded out, but not till long after the boys were.

“Seems like what does get out by the chinks is sucked back agin by that there double-action flue,” said Sam.

It was very disappointing.  The romance of sitting by the fire in one’s teepee appealed to both of the boys, but the physical torture of the smoke made it unbearable.  Their dream was dispelled, and Sam suggested, “Maybe we’d better try a shanty.”

“No,” said Yan, with his usual doggedness.  “I know it can be done, because the Indians do it.  We’ll find out in time.”

But all their efforts were in vain.  The wigwam was a failure, as far as fire was concerned.  It was very small and uncomfortable, too; the wind blew through a hundred crevices, which grew larger as the Elm bark dried and cracked.  A heavy shower caught them once, and they were rather glad to be driven into their cheerless lodge, but the rain came abundantly into the smoke-hole as well as through the walls, and they found it but little protection.

[Illustration:  “The wigwam was a failure.”]

“Seems to me, if anything, a leetle wetter in here than outside,” said Sam, as he led in a dash for home.