"Hanging about that cabin are some of the most beautiful skins and furs you ever saw. And then we have rifles and pistols and knives and hatchets, and a shovel and an ax or two, and big soft blankets, and, when we are all in the hut at night, every fellow rolled in his warm blanket, as you will be, being a brave new comrade, and when the wind roars outside, and the hail and the snow beat against it and never touch you, then you feel just about as fine as anybody can ever feel. It’s surely a glorious life that’s ahead of you, Billy Arenberg. Those other two fellows who are waiting for you, Billy, are as good as any you ever saw. One of them is my brother, who has just escaped from a great prison, where wicked men held him for a long time, just as you have escaped, Billy, from the savages, to whom you don’t belong, and the other is the bravest, oddest, wisest, funniest man you ever saw. You can’t help liking him the very first moment you see him. He talks a lot, but it’s all worth hearing. Now and then he makes up queer rhymes. I don’t think he could get them printed, but we like them all the same, and they always mean just what they say, which isn’t generally the way of poetry. I see right now, Billy, that that man and you are going to be great friends. His name is William, just like yours, William Breakstone, but he’s Bill and you are Billy. It will be fine to have a Bill and a Billy around the camp." The boy’s eyes glistened. All sorts of emotion awoke within him. "Won’t it be fine?" he said. "I want to see that camp." Phil had spoken with purpose. He had seen what Arenberg, thinking only of his recovered son, had failed to see, that the boy, taken in his early childhood and held so long, had acquired something of the Indian nature. He had recognized his father and he had clung to him, but he was primitive and as wild as a hawk. The escape from the Indian village had been no escape for him at all, merely a transference. Phil now devoted himself to the task of calling him back to the white world to which he belonged. All the time as they rode forward in the snow, Phil talked to him of the great things that were to be seen where the white men dwelled. He made their lives infinitely grander and more varied than those of the Indians. He told of the mighty battle in which his father had been a combatant. Here the boy’s eyes glistened more than ever. "My father is a great warrior," he exclaimed happily.