Notwithstanding the altered tone of Mordecai, and the cordiality of our reception, there was one individual who remained inveterate in his prejudices against them. This was the French boy Joe: he never spoke of the Indians without some qualifying expression of ill-will. Whenever any thing was stolen, he at once attributed it to them. Frequently, however, his loud vociferation on these occasions caused us strongly to suspect that he was the delinquent, and that this clamour of indignation was raised that he might escape unsuspected. His sole occupation was to spread the bearskins at night, and remove them in the morning. During the rest of the day he strolled about abusing the Indians, cracking his whip, or hallooing at the stray curs who were skulking around. “Mordecai,” said he, one day to that worthy, who was standing in the midst of a group of Indians, in his usual stately attitude, with one hand tucked in his side, while the other held a frying pan,—“Mordecai, dere is no good in having dese Ingens around you; dey’m all d——d rascals any how.” Mordecai gave a self-satisfied smirk, threw a compassionate glance at Joe, then extending his arm with an impressive air, “Joe,” said he, “don’t abuse the Indians; it hurts my feelings—I’m an Indian myself.” “Yes, a nigger von,” replied Joe, turning upon his heel. It seems, too, that the Iotan was of the same opinion; for whenever Mordecai spoke of his Indian descent, the old warrior quietly shook his head, remarking, “that he had never seen an Indian with woolly hair.” It was evident, however, that his contempt was engendered by seeing him perform menial offices; for, like all Indians, he had a great distaste for labour, and respected those only who, like himself, did nothing. CHAP. XX. A MAN OF THE WORLD. A number of idlers usually assembled in front of our tents during the fine sunshiny afternoons, to sing their songs and smoke their pipes, and regale themselves by listening to the adventures of their neighbours, which they had heard recounted a hundred times before. Among them was a tall thin Indian, with a wrinkled, hard-looking face, and a head covered with a profusion of long knotty hair, which he occasionally combed by raking it with his fingers. He seemed as if he had been smoke-dried for a century, until his flesh had hardened into gristle, and looked as if further shrivelling was an impossibility. He had a very small, busy eye, which twinkled with an incessant play of humour. It overcame even the grave disposition of the oldest warriors, and surprised them into as broad a laugh as was ever known to proceed from the mouth of the most scape-gallows Indian of the tribe, or even from the broader mouth of that vociferous character, the Black Bear.