“We made quite a ceremony of it,” was the reply. “First of all, we gathered a lot of stinging nettles that grew outside the cave and mashed them up with vinegar in an old tin can. The vinegar, you know, holds the sting; it even seems to make it stronger. Then, in an old iron pot we had, we mixed up a lot of corn syrup and red ink—we always used that in our initiation powwow, and it certainly did look and feel like blood. “Next we blindfolded the unfortunate ‘Pioneer.’ We dipped a piece of string in the nettle juice and tied it loosely round his head, and sprinkled his head with the nettle vinegar, knowing that it would only take a minute or two before it began to sting. Then we took his cap, dipped it into the red ink and syrup, and clapped it—not boiling, but still fairly hot—on his head. At the same instant, one of the ‘braves’ stuck a bit of stick in a loop of the nettle-soaked string and twisted it tight, also running his thumbnail around, as if it were a knife. The cap and the blindfold were then yanked off together. “The youngster gave just one look. He saw the cap, all blood, in the other fellow’s hand, and jumped to the conclusion that it was his scalp. The tight string around his forehead felt like a cut and the nettles began to sting like blazes. He put his hand up to his head, felt the sticky wetness, looked at his hand, all red, let out an earpiercing screech, and started to run. That was forty years ago, but I believe he’d have been running yet, if he hadn’t bumped into some one on the road. “Help! I’ve been scalped!’ he yelled. “I reckon he must have given the farmer a jolt, for while we were a good way from the Indian country, still there were plenty of ‘hostiles’ about, and any day there might be a raid. This was about the time of the Little Big Horn Massacre.” “You mean Custer’s last stand?” “Yes. So, you see, the farmer had reason enough to be startled. As soon as he had a good look at the boy, though, he saw that the youngster was only frightened. He cut the nettle string from the lad’s head, washed off in the nearest brook as much of the red ink and corn syrup as he could, and started for town. “I thought we were in for real trouble, but to do that boy’s father plain justice, I’ll admit he was a good sport. Though he was as mad as a hornet, he was fair. He gave me a good tongue-lashing, and told me—which was true—that I ought to have had more sense, as the boy might have been killed with fright. He repeated to me the old story of the man who was ordered to be beheaded, and who died when a cup of cold water was dashed on his neck in joke. Still, he said it was a boys’ row, he remembered when he was a boy himself, and it wasn’t his business to interfere. He added that he hoped I would get my medicine from the other gang, twice as hot as I had given it.” “That was fair enough, Father.” “Indeed it was. But even he was satisfied with what I got in return.” “What was it?”