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Of the number and kind of these hobbies there is no need here to speak, but when there were so many gathered into a single place, the neighing and snorting, the champing of conversational bits, and the pounding of huge and heavy feet were curious to behold and to hear. And Ogla-Moga? Now the native costumes were coming into play, and Miss Slopham's long martyrdom was to have its reward.
Doherty looked at Miss Slopham in the way in which only a woman can look at another woman; looked at her gray and withered curls, and at her face, which had never, in the spring-time of Miss Slopham's youth, been the kind of face which painters celebrate and poets embalm in verse, and said nothing.
I know how amiable, how excellent, they are like little shildren dey haf lissened to me ven I haf talked to dem of de aura of Schrellenbach and de ofersoul all vunder, and, I know, all pelief. But I vill not take down de time. Terrible things indeed! Miss Slopham's manuscript ran with gore the gore of the red-man always.
He took contracts to write articles, pamphlets, and books, as a lawyer takes cases not on their merits, but for the fee. If it must be admitted, he had written Miss Slopham's paper on the wrongs of the Indian, for a pecuniary compensation, for that lady was far from being a literary person. "Oh, it is so strong, Mr. Blagg," she was saying, "so noble, and the array of facts is so overwhelming!
What was to be done with this terrible infant from the prairies during the week of seclusion that her plan made necessary? She lived alone, except for the companionship of Bridget, and it was asking a good deal of a timid and shrinking nature like Miss Slopham's to take into her little household a gentleman who rolled his eyes in such an alarming manner.
To see this fierce-looking Kickapoo clad in robes of savagery, and gleaming in all the paint of the war-path, seated on Miss Slopham's refrigerator, and looking about on either side with barbaric curiosity at her array of shelves of jars and bottles, while he ate raspberry jam out of a rare and elegant saucer with an exquisite silver spoon, might have seemed a ludicrous spectacle to anybody less austere than Miss Slopham.
Not many mornings after, there was the sound of a strange footstep in Miss Slopham's kitchen, and Bridget emitted a half-shriek. "Mither of Moses! what's that?" It was Ogla-Moga, who had just arrived. His costume was an extraordinary mixture of blanket and trousers and coat, hardly consistent with the requirements of civilization.
Meantime there filed through Miss Slopham's flowing sentences, like a procession of children with banners, the mild and faithful Modoc, the unsophisticated Sioux, the exemplary Pi-Ute, the large-eyed and pensive Pottawattamie, the polished Nez-Percé, the amiable Pawnee, the meek and unobtrusive Ogallala, and the playful Apache.
Gottom was there, with her pretty niece, who looked, as really pretty girls always do, prettier than ever. Professor Phyle was there, and Mrs. Blenkin. But Lieutenant Wray had not been able to accept Miss Slopham's invitation.
He had been having this lively and variegated experience for a century or so, without any intimation, prophetic or present, of Miss Slopham's existence, when that lady discovered him, and when that happened she exclaimed: "He is mine!" Hers, she meant, for the purposes of philanthropy. Wicked tongues had suggested that in Miss Slopham's philanthropy distance lent enchantment to the view.
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