Lying there, still awake, he reflected that he wouldn’t be a scout when he grew up, but would be something like Mr. Peyton, and have a train like this, and invite the Silsbees and Susy to accompany him.  For this purpose, he and Susy, early to-morrow morning, would get permission to come in here and play at that game.  This would familiarize him with the details, so that he would be able at any time to take charge of it.  He was already an authority on the subject of Indians!  He had once been fired at—­as an Indian.  He would always carry a rifle like that hanging from the hooks at the end of the wagon before him, and would eventually slay many Indians and keep an account of them in a big book like that on the desk.  Susy would help him, having grown up a lady, and they would both together issue provisions and rations from the door of the wagon to the gathered crowds.  He would be known as the “White Chief,” his Indian name being “Suthin of a Pup.”  He would have a circus van attached to the train, in which he would occasionally perform.  He would also have artillery for protection.  There would be a terrific engagement, and he would rush into the wagon, heated and blackened with gunpowder; and Susy would put down an account of it in a book, and Mrs. Peyton—­for she would be there in some vague capacity—­would say, “Really, now, I don’t see but what we were very lucky in having such a boy as Clarence with us.  I begin to understand him better.”  And Harry, who, for purposes of vague poetical retaliation, would also drop in at that moment, would mutter and say, “He is certainly the son of Colonel Brant; dear me!” and apologize.  And his mother would come in also, in her coldest and most indifferent manner, in a white ball dress, and start and say, “Good gracious, how that boy has grown!  I am sorry I did not see more of him when he was young.”  Yet even in the midst of this came a confusing numbness, and then the side of the wagon seemed to melt away, and he drifted out again alone into the empty desolate plain from which even the sleeping Susy had vanished, and he was left deserted and forgotten.  Then all was quiet in the wagon, and only the night wind moving round it.  But lo! the lashes of the sleeping White Chief—­the dauntless leader, the ruthless destroyer of Indians—­were wet with glittering tears!

Yet it seemed only a moment afterwards that he awoke with a faint consciousness of some arrested motion.  To his utter consternation, the sun, three hours high, was shining in the wagon, already hot and stifling in its beams.  There was the familiar smell and taste of the dirty road in the air about him.  There was a faint creaking of boards and springs, a slight oscillation, and beyond the audible rattle of harness, as if the train had been under way, the wagon moving, and then there had been a sudden halt.  They had probably come up with the Silsbee train; in a few moments the change would be effected and all of his strange experience would be over.  He must get up now.  Yet, with the morning laziness of the healthy young animal, he curled up a moment longer in his luxurious couch.