His comrades were the first to miss him; and they, perhaps, were reminded of him by their backers in the crowd, for triumph is a self-engrossing passion, and glory so sweet a sugar-stick, that, while sucking it, we are not too likely to go in search of the comrade to whom the most of it is due. "Where is the young 'un?" was questioned in the crowd. "Where is Paul?" and the crowd turned to the now deserted portion of the field where he had last been seen. He was there still. A squaw in a red blanket was beside him; she had raised his head and was chafing his temples. Another squaw--a young one, this--was seen fetching water to pour on him. But now the crowd was interested, they had gathered round him, and soon carried him into the refreshment tent, where whisky, the sporting man's nostrum, was used to restore him. The notable Indians on the ground, the elders who did not join in youthful sports, had gathered to look at the youth who had done so well, and who might yet, for anything they could know, come forth one day, a champion of their race. For who can tell what fancies may be cherished by the red man? The white does not sympathize with them, and therefore he puts them away, behind his impenetrable stolidity of bearing, which might conceal so much, but more frequently and with equal success hides nothing at all. They were once possessors of the land, in so far, at least, as being there, for they shared it with the beasts. Traditions of the physical prowess of their fathers are handed down among them, and who can tell but, in their dreams, they may look forward to a hero like those of old to arise and vindicate their place among the whites. Our old friend, Paul, of long ago, was a leading figure among these elders, and one of evident consideration. A tall man, grown fleshy from ease and lack of exercise, the violent exercises of his youth, with his straight black hair threaded plentifully with white--a "respectable" Indian, one seemingly well to do. The token of his respectability was likewise that which deprived him of every vestige of dignity or grace, to wit, a suit of rusty black clothes. It is the queer tribute of respect which men of other races pay to our European civilization. They cast away their native braveries and picturesqueness of apparel, and accept the clothing of the white man taken at its baldest and worst. An Indian, a Japanese, or a negro, goes into full dress by putting on a chimney-pot hat and black raiment, resembling that worn by undertakers' mutes, never well-fitting, never well cared for, and harmonizing vilely with his dusky skin, while his own natural instincts can arrange combinations so suitable and becoming.