Hare gave me good evening with much courtesy and self-possession. Hiakatoo, also, extended a muscular hand, which I was obliged to take or be outdone in civilized usage by a savage. "Well, sir," says Hare in his frank, misleading manner, "the last o' the sugar is a-boiling, I hear, and spring plowing should begin this week." Neither he nor Hiakatoo had as much interest in husbandry as two hoot-owls, nor had they any knowledge of it, either; but I replied politely, and, at their request, gave an account of my glebe at Fonda's Bush. "There is game in that country," remarked Hiakatoo in the Seneca dialect. Instantly it entered my head that his remark had two interpretations, and one very sinister; but his painted features remained calmly inscrutable and perhaps I had merely imagined the dull, hot gleam that I thought had animated his sombre eyes. "There is game in the Bush," said I, pleasantly,--"deer, _bear_, turkeys, and partridges a-drumming _the long roll_ all day long. And I have seen a moose near Lake Desolation." Now I had replied to the Seneca in the Canienga dialect; and he might interpret in two ways my reference to _bears_, and also what I said concerning the _drumming_ of the partridges. But his countenance did not change a muscle, nor did his eyes. And as for Hare, he might not have understood my play upon words, for he seemed interested merely in a literal interpretation, and appeared eager to hear about the moose I had seen near Lake Desolation. So I told him I had watched two bulls fighting in the swamp until the older beast had been driven off. "Civilization, too, will soon drive away the last of the moose from Tryon," quoth Hare. "How many families at Fonda's Bush?" asked Hiakatoo abruptly. I was about to reply, telling him the truth, and checked myself with lips already parted to speak. There ensued a polite silence, but in that brief moment I was convinced that they realized I suddenly suspected them. What I might have answered the Seneca I do not exactly know, for the next instant Sir John entered the room with Ensign Moucher, of the old Mohawk Regiment, and young Captain Watts from New York, brother to Polly, Lady Johnson, a handsome, dissipated, careless lad, inclined to peevishness when thwarted, and marred, perhaps, by too much adulation. Scarce had compliments been exchanged with snuff when Lady Johnson entered the room with Claudia Swift, and I thought I had seldom beheld two lovelier ladies in their silks and powder, who curtsied low on the threshold to our profound bows. As I saluted Lady Johnson's hand again, she said: "This is most kind of you, Jack, because I know that all farmers now have little time to waste." "Like Cincinnatus," said I, smilingly, "I leave my plow in the furrow at the call of danger, and hasten to brave the deadly battery of your bright eyes."