My companion arose and kicked together the logs in the fireplace.  This fireplace was one of the great room’s comforts as well as ornaments.  The logs leaped into much accession of flame, and crackled into sparks, and these went gossiping up the mighty chimney, their little fiery voices making a low, soft roaring like the talk of bees.

“This chimley draws plenty successful,” commented my friend.  “Which it almost breaks even with a chimley I constructs once in my log camp on the Upper Red.  That Red River floo is a wonder!  Draw?  Son, it could draw four kyards an’ make a flush.  But that camp of mine on the Upper Red is over eight thousand foot above the sea as I’m informed by a passel of surveyor sports who comes romancin’ through the hills with a spyglass on three pegs; an’ high altitoods allers proves a heap exileratin’ to a fire.

“But speakin’ of Bill Connors:  In Wolfville—­which them days is the only part of my c’reer whereof I’m proud an’ reviews with onmixed satisfaction—­Doc Peets is, like you, inquis’tive touchin’ Injuns.  Peets puts it up that some day he’s doo to write books about ’em.  Which in off hours, an’ when we-all is more or less at leesure over our Valley Tan, Peets frequent comes explorin’ ’round for details.  Shore, I imparts all I saveys about Bill Connors, an’ likewise sech other aborigines as lives in mem’ry; still, it shakes my estimates of Peets to find him eager over Injuns, they bein’ low an’ debasin’ as topics.  I says as much to Peets.

“‘Never you-all mind about me,’ says Peets.  ’I knows so much about white folks it comes mighty clost to makin’ me sick.  I seeks tales of Injuns as a relief an’ to promote a average in favor of the species.’

“This Bill Connors’ is a good-lookin’ young buck when I cuts his trail; straight as a pine an’ strong an’ tireless as a bronco.  It’s about six years after the philanthrofists ropes onto Bill an’ drags him off to a school.  You-all onderstands about a philanthrofist—­one of these sports who’s allers improvin’ some party’s condition in a way the party who’s improved don’t like.

“‘A philanthrofist,’ says Colonel Sterett, one time when Dan Boggs demands the explanation at his hands; ’a philanthrofist is a gent who insists on you givin’ some other gent your money.’

“For myse’f, however, I regyards the Colonel’s definition as too narrow.  Troo philanthrofy has a heap of things to it that’s jest as onreasonable an’ which does not incloode the fiscal teachers mentioned by the Colonel.

“As I’m sayin’; these well-meanin’ though darkened sports, the philanthrofists, runs Bill down—­it’s mebby when he’s fourteen, only Injuns don’t keep tab on their years none—­an’ immures him in one of the gov’ment schools.  It’s thar Bill gets his name, ‘Bill Connors.’  Before that he cavorts about, free an’ wild an’ happy onder the Injun app’lation of the ‘Jack Rabbit.’

“Shore!  Bill’s sire—­a savage who’s ‘way up in the picture kyards, an’ who’s called ‘Crooked Claw’ because of his left hand bein’ put out of line with a Ute arrow through it long ago—­gives his consent to Bill j’inin’ that sem’nary.  Crooked Claw can’t he’p himse’f; he’s powerless; the Great Father in Washin’ton is backin’ the play of the philanthrofists.