But no Indians troubled us.
When father came home, April 30th, we all ran out to meet him.

But mother's quick eye detected something wrong.

"Why, I look all right, don't I ?" he asked, smiling.

When we reached the house she again questioned him, and he sat down, rolled up his sleeve, and showed us his arm, brown with tar, and fuzzy with cotton.

Then he told us his story.