quently. Had there been more like Monapikot amongst the five-score converts that dwelt in Natick, there might well have been a more universal sympathy toward John Eliot’s efforts.
“When we were little,” began Pikot after they had placed a hundred strides between them and the two Indians in the canoe, “you brought me safe from the water of the Great Pond when I would have drowned, albeit you were younger and smaller than I, my brother.”
“Yes, ’tis true, Pikot, but the squirrel is ever more clever than the woodchuck. Besides, then the woodchuck snared himself in a sunken tree root and, having not the sense to gnaw himself free, must needs call on the squirrel for aid.”
Pikot assented, but did not smile at the other’s nonsense. Instead, he laid one slim bronze-red hand against his heart. “You saved the life of Monapikot and he does not forget. Some day he will save the life of David just so.”
“What? Then I shall keep out of the water, Straight Arrow! I doubt not you would bring me ashore as I brought you, but
