Five Children and It, E. Nesbit [good summer reads TXT] 📗

was only a game, the four blanketed, feathered, really and truly Redskins went boldly out to meet the foe. I say boldly. That is because I wish to be polite. At any rate, they went.

Along the hedge dividing the wilderness from the garden was a row of dark heads, all highly feathered.

“It’s our only chance,” whispered Anthea. “Much better than to wait for their blood-freezing attack. We must pretend like mad. Like that game of cards where you pretend you’ve got aces when you haven’t. Fluffing they call it, I think. Now then. Whoop!”

With four wild war-whoops⁠—or as near them as English children could be expected to go without any previous practice⁠—they rushed through the gate and struck four warlike attitudes in face of the line of Red Indians. These were all about the same height, and that height was Cyril’s.

“I hope to goodness they can talk English,” said Cyril through his attitude.

Anthea knew they could, though she never knew how she came to know it. She had a white towel tied to a walking-stick. This was a flag of truce, and she waved it, in the hope that the Indians would know what it was. Apparently they did⁠—for one who was browner than the others stepped forward.

“Ye seek a powwow?” he said in excellent English. “I am Golden Eagle, of the mighty tribe of Rock-dwellers.”

“And I,” said Anthea, with a sudden inspiration, “am the Black Panther⁠—chief of the⁠—the⁠—the⁠—Mazawattee tribe. My brothers⁠—I don’t mean⁠—yes, I do⁠—the tribe⁠—I mean the Mazawattees⁠—are in ambush below the brow of yonder hill.”

“And what mighty warriors be these?” asked Golden Eagle, turning to the others.

Cyril said he was the great chief Squirrel, of the Moning Congo tribe, and, seeing that Jane was sucking her thumb and could evidently think of no name for herself, he added, “This great warrior is Wild Cat⁠—Pussy Ferox we call it in this land⁠—leader of the vast Phiteezi tribe.”

“And thou, valorous Redskin?” Golden Eagle inquired suddenly of Robert, who, taken unawares, could only reply that he was Bobs⁠—leader of the Cape Mounted Police.

“And now,” said Black Panther, “our tribes, if we just whistle them up, will far outnumber your puny forces; so resistance is useless. Return, therefore, to your own land, O brother, and smoke pipes of peace in your wampums with your squaws and your medicine-men, and dress yourselves in the gayest wigwams, and eat happily of the juicy fresh-caught moccasins.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” murmured Cyril angrily. But Golden Eagle only looked inquiringly at her.

“Thy customs are other than ours, O Black Panther,” he said. “Bring up thy tribe, that we may hold powwow in state before them, as becomes great chiefs.”

“We’ll bring them up right enough,” said Anthea, “with their bows and arrows, and tomahawks and scalping-knives, and everything you can think of, if you don’t look sharp and go.”

She spoke bravely enough, but the hearts of all the children were beating furiously, and their breath came in shorter and shorter gasps. For the little real Red Indians were closing up round them⁠—coming nearer and nearer with angry murmurs⁠—so that they were the centre of a crowd of dark cruel faces.

“It’s no go,” whispered Robert. “I knew it wouldn’t be. We must make a bolt for the Psammead. It might help us. If it doesn’t⁠—well, I suppose we shall come alive again at sunset. I wonder if scalping hurts as much as they say.”

“I’ll wave the flag again,” said Anthea. “If they stand back, we’ll run for it.”

She waved the towel, and the chief commanded his followers to stand back. Then, charging wildly at the place where the line of Indians was thinnest, the four children started to run. Their first rush knocked down some half-dozen Indians, over whose blanketed bodies the children leaped, and made straight for the sandpit. This was no time for the safe easy way by which carts go down⁠—right over the edge of the sandpit they went, among the yellow and pale purple flowers and dried grasses, past the little sand-martins’ little front doors, skipping, clinging, bounding, stumbling, sprawling, and finally rolling.

Yellow Eagle and his followers came up with them just at the very spot where they had seen the Psammead that morning.

Breathless and beaten, the wretched children now awaited their fate. Sharp knives and axes gleamed round them, but worse than these was the cruel light in the eyes of Golden Eagle and his followers.

“Ye have lied to us, O Black Panther of the Mazawattees⁠—and thou, too, Squirrel of the Moning Congos. These also, Pussy Ferox of the Phiteezi, and Bobs of the Cape Mounted Police⁠—these also have lied to us, if not with their tongues, yet by their silence. Ye have lied under the cover of the Truce-flag of the Paleface. Ye have no followers. Your tribes are far away⁠—following the hunting trail. What shall be their doom?” he concluded, turning with a bitter smile to the other Red Indians.

“Build we the fire!” shouted his followers; and at once a dozen ready volunteers started to look for fuel. The four children, each held between two strong little Indians, cast despairing glances round them. Oh, if they could only see the Psammead!

“Do you mean to scalp us first and then roast us?” asked Anthea desperately.

“Of course!” Redskin opened his eyes at her. “It’s always done.”

The Indians had formed a ring round the children, and now sat on the ground gazing at their captives. There was a threatening silence.

Then slowly, by twos and threes, the Indians who had gone to look for firewood came back, and they came back empty-handed. They had not been able to find a single stick of wood for a fire! No one ever can, as a matter of fact, in that part of Kent.

The children drew a deep breath of relief, but it ended in a moan of terror. For bright knives were being brandished all about them. Next moment each child was seized by an Indian; each closed its eyes and tried not to scream. They