We, Hutchins and I, set up the stove against a large rock, and when the teakettle started to boil it gave the river front a homey look.  Sitting on my folding-chair beside the stove, with a cup of tea in my hand and a plate of beans on a doily on a packing-box beside me, I was entirely comfortable.  Through the glasses I could see the red-haired man on the other shore sitting on a rock, with his head in his hands; but Mr. McDonald had clearly located on the other side of his island and was not in sight.

Aggie and Tish were putting up the tent, and Hutchins was feeding the tea grounds to the worms, which had traveled comfortably, when I saw a canoe coming up the river.  I called to Tish about it.

“An Indian!” she said calmly.  “Get the beads, Aggie; and put my shotgun on that rock, where he can see it.”  She stood and watched him.  “Primitive man, every inch of him!” she went on.  “Notice his uncovered head.  Notice the freedom, almost the savagery, of the way he uses that paddle.  I wish he would sing.  You remember, in Hiawatha, how they sing as they paddle along?”

She got the beads and went to the water’s edge; but the Indian stooped just then and, picking up a Panama hat, put it on his head.

“I have called,” he said, “to see whether I can interest you in a set of books I am selling.  I shall detain you only a moment.  Sixty-three steel engravings by well-known artists; best hand-made paper; and the work itself is of high educational value.”

Tish suddenly put the beads behind her back and said we did not expect to have any time to read.  We had come into the wilderness to rest our minds.

“You are wrong, I fear,” said the Indian.  “Personally I find that I can read better in the wilds than anywhere else.  Great thoughts in great surroundings!  I take Nietzsche with me when I go fishing.”

Tish had the wretched beads behind her all the time; and, to make conversation, more than anything else, she asked about venison.  He shrugged his shoulders.  J. Fenimore Cooper had not prepared us for an Indian who shrugged his shoulders.

“We Indians are allowed to kill deer,” he said; “but I fear you are prohibited.  I am not even permitted to sell it.”

“I should think,” said Tish sharply, “that, since we are miles from a game warden, you could safely sell us a steak or two.”

He gazed at her disapprovingly.  “I should not care to break the law, madam,” he said.

Then he picked up his paddle and took himself and his scruples and his hand-made paper and his sixty-three steel engravings down the river.

“Primitive man!” I said to Tish, from my chair.  “Notice the freedom, almost the savagery, with which he swings that paddle.”

We had brought a volume of Cooper along, not so much to read as to remind us how to address the Indians.  Tish said nothing, but she got the book and flung it far out into the river.