Instead of trickling back, health began to rush back into his long imprisoned body, and though he could not fully use it yet, and though if he hobbled a hundred yards he was compelled to rest it, his wiry mind knew no fatigue. How athletic his brains were was easily perceived by the Indian Agent. The convalescent would hobble over to the store after breakfast and hail the assistant clerk at once. “Morning, Horacles,” he would begin; “how’s Uncle?”--“Oh, when are you going to give us a new joke?” the worried Horacles would retort.--“Just as soon as you give us a new Uncle, Horacles. Or any other relation to make us feel proud we know you. What did his letter last night say?” The second or third time this had been asked still found Horacles with no better repartee than angry silence. “Didn’t he send me his love?” Scipio then said; and still the hapless Horacles said nothing. “Well, y’u give him mine when you write him this afternoon.”--“I ain’t writing this afternoon,” snapped the clerk.--“You’re not! Why, I thought you wrote each other every day!” This was so near the truth that Horacles flared out: “I’d be ashamed if I’d nothing better to do than spy on other people’s mails.” Thus by dinner-time generally an audience would be gathered round Scipio where he sat with his legs on the chair, and Horacles over his ledger would be furiously muttering that “Some day they would all see.” Horacles asked for a couple of days’ holiday, and got it. He wished to hunt, he said. But the Agent happened to find that he had been to the railroad about some freight. This he mentioned to Scipio. “I don’t know what he’s up to,” he said. He had found that worrying Horacles was merely one of the things that Scipio’s brains were good for; Scipio had advised him prudently about a sale of beeves, and had introduced a simple contrivance for luring to the store the customers whom Horacles failed to attract. It was merely a free lunch counter,--cheese and crackers every day, and deviled ham on pay-day,--but it put up the daily receipts. And next, one evening after the mail was in, Scipio, sitting alone in the front of the store, saw the Agent, sitting alone in the back of the store, spring suddenly from his chair, crush a newspaper into his pocket, and stride out to his house. At breakfast the Agent spoke thus to Scipio:-- “I must go to Washington. I shall be back before they let you and your leg run loose. Will you do something for me?” “Name it. Just name it.” “Run the store while I’m gone.” “D’ y’u think I can?” “I know you can. There’ll be no trouble under you. You understand Indians.” “But suppose something turns up?” “I don’t think anything will before I’m back. I’d sooner leave you than Horacles in charge here. Will you do it and take two dollars a day?” “Do it for nothing. Horacles’ll be compensation enough.” “No, he won’t.--And see here, he can’t help being himself.”