I couldn’t get the Indian out of my head.  Only a short time previously the Cherokees—­or was it the Camanches?—­had been removed from their hunting-grounds in Arkansas; and in the wilds of the Southwest the red men were still a source of terror to the border settlers.  “Trouble with the Indians” was the staple news from Florida published in the New Orleans papers.  We were constantly hearing of travellers being attacked and murdered in the interior of that State.  If these things were done in Florida, why not in Massachusetts?

Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was eager to be off.  My impatience was increased by the fact that my father had purchased for me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it to Rivermouth a fortnight previous to the date set for our own departure—­for both my parents were to accompany me.  The pony (which nearly kicked me out of bed one night in a dream), and my father’s promise that he and my mother would come to Rivermouth every other summer, completely resigned me to the situation.  The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanish for gypsy; so I always called her—­she was a lady pony—­Gypsy.

At length the time came to leave the vine-covered mansion among the orange-trees, to say goodby to little black Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to get rid of me), and to part with simple Aunt Chloe, who, in the confusion of her grief, kissed an eyelash into my eye, and then buried her face in the bright bandana turban which she had mounted that morning in honor of our departure.

I fancy them standing by the open garden gate; the tears are rolling down Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth are glistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully then I call out “goodby” in a muffled voice to Aunt Chloe; they and the old home fade away.  I am never to see them again!

Chapter Three—­On Board the Typhoon

I do not remember much about the voyage to Boston, for after the first few hours at sea I was dreadfully unwell.

The name of our ship was the “A No. 1, fast-sailing packet Typhoon.”  I learned afterwards that she sailed fast only in the newspaper advertisements.  My father owned one quarter of the Typhoon, and that is why we happened to go in her.  I tried to guess which quarter of the ship he owned, and finally concluded it must be the hind quarter—­the cabin, in which we had the cosiest of state-rooms, with one round window in the roof, and two shelves or boxes nailed up against the wall to sleep in.

There was a good deal of confusion on deck while we were getting under way.  The captain shouted orders (to which nobody seemed to pay any attention) through a battered tin trumpet, and grew so red in the face that he reminded me of a scooped-out pumpkin with a lighted candle inside.  He swore right and left at the sailors without the slightest regard for their feelings.  They didn’t mind it a bit, however, but went on singing—­