"The noble red man has an instinct," said Brave imperturbably, "which sits in his belly and beats on a tomtom when trouble's coming. I don't mean ghastly wounds that don't make men cry out, or even lunatics laying for you thereafter--and there's a connection between the two, that's sure. But I mean big trouble. There's something in the air. I can't quite catch it, but it's been there for a long time. Weeks and months, sirdar." "You've been reading the thesaurus again. You know more synonyms for 'master' than Roget. You mean this seriously, Brave? About trouble?" He had a respect for the Indian's intuition which was based half on his anthropological knowledge of the weird powers of certain older races, and half on pure human superstition; at times when Brave made his predictions, Alan felt as though a gypsy crone had passed by him and whispered some incantation in his ear. "I mean it, Alan. And the damned instinct has never been wrong yet. It's beating in my guts right now like it did at Campana just before hell broke loose." "Well, batten down the hatches, then," said Alan resignedly, while the hair on the back of his neck prickled and tried to stand up. "It's got itself off to a fine start, your trouble. My tailor will never be able to mend this jacket." "Why don't you cook us some oysters Rockefeller and lobster thermidor and all that Frenchified goop you brew up?" suggested Brave. "If we're in for afflictions, we may as well meet 'em with pleasantly full stomachs." "Right. While I'm at it, you write a report of the incident--of both of them--and sign my name. Getty'll never know the difference. He thinks you haven't mastered Basic English yet." "Ugh," said Brave. "Noble red man will inscribe li'l pictures on birchbark for medicine man, while medicine man raises cain in frozen food locker. Don't get that sauce too thin this time, patriarch. I can't bear watery sauce on my lobsters." CHAPTER II Next morning, while Alan was still dressing and yawning, and Brave was clattering skillets in the kitchen, humming the _allegro con passionato_ movement from "Hard Hearted Hannah the Vamp of Savannah," the door chimes bonged softly. Brave went to the spywindow, surveyed the caller, and shifted his grenade pistol to a handier position before opening the door. A stranger stood on the threshold. "Ichabod Crane," said Brave to himself, and aloud, "Yes?" "Ah," said the stranger, "you would be the tough egg with the unpronounceable name. Greetings, chieftain." "How," said Brave with a straight face. "You want-um audience with great sachem?" "That I do, Lo." "Oh, gad," groaned the Indian, "if I hear that weary old jest once more I'll burst into tears and die. Come in, comedian. Dr. Rackham's dressing."