“I guess it’s rolling faster than I am,” thought Bunny.  “It will get to the bottom first, and go in the water.”

This seemed to be what would happen.  For the engine and cars had started ahead of Bunny, and, too, they were not so big as he.  It took him some time to turn over, for there was more of him.

It was not the first time Bunny had rolled downhill.  Often he and Sue, finding a nice smooth, grassy slope in the country, had started at the top and rolled all the way to the bottom, over and over, getting up slightly dizzy.

But Bunny had never rolled down such a long, steep and rough hill as this, and he really did not mean to do it.  He had started out to run to the bottom, or slide along, his feet buried in the soft sand and gravel.  But he had slipped, and the only thing now to do was to roll, just as the train was doing.

Bunny looked down the slope again.  He saw that the train was almost in the water, and he was wondering how much spoiled it would be, and whether it could be fixed again, so it could be run, when he suddenly saw a man step from the fringe of bushes at the edge of the lake and pick up the engine and cars just as they went into the water, getting only a little wet in the edge of the lake.

The man was roughly dressed, and for a moment Bunny thought he was the old hermit who lived in the lonely log cabin, and who had sold Bunny and Sue some milk the day before, when the dog had taken their pailful.

But another look, as Bunny tried to slow-up his rolling, told him it was another man.  He was just as ragged as the hermit who kept a cow, but he did not have long hair, nor a long white beard, and his face was very dark.

“Oh, that’s one of the Indians!” quickly thought Bunny.  “Well, he saved my train all right.  I’m glad of that.”

With a slide and a roll Bunny reached the foot of the hill, and by catching hold of a small tree he saved himself from slipping into the water.

The Indian looked up from the toy train at which he was gazing in puzzled fashion.

“That’s mine,” said Bunny, speaking slowly.  He knew some of the Indians who lived on a reservation in the big woods, not far from Camp Rest-a-While.  Some of them could speak fairly good English and understand it.  Others knew only a few words and Bunny wanted to make sure this Indian understood him.

“Huh!  This you?” asked the red man, as the Indians are sometimes called.

“Yes, that’s mine,” said Bunny.  “It’s a train of cars.”

“Oh, puff-puff train.  Eagle Feather ride in puff-puff train once.  How him go?” and he set Bunny’s train down on a smooth rock, while the little boy shook the dust from his clothes and tried to comb it out of his hair with his fingers.

“It can’t go now—­no track—­no electric current,” explained Bunny.  “Track up there on top of hill,” he went on, motioning and speaking as slowly as he could, and with few words, so the Indian would understand.