Indian, perhaps you're very poor"—I didn't like to tell him we had heard the dreadful truth from his own lips, so I went on, "because of 'Lo, the poor Indian'—you know—and you can't get a good dinner every day. And we are very sorry if you're poor; and won't you come and have dinner with us to-morrow—with us children, I mean? It's a very, very good dinner—rabbit, and hardbake, and cocoanut—and you needn't mind us knowing you're poor, because we know honourable poverty is no disgrace, and——" I could have gone on much longer, but he interrupted me to say—
"Upon my word! And what's your name, eh?"
"Oswald Bastable," I said; and I do hope you people who are reading this story have not guessed before that I was Oswald all the time.
"Oswald Bastable, eh? Bless my soul!" said the poor Indian. "Yes, I'll dine with you, Mr. Oswald Bastable, with all the pleasure in life. Very kind and cordial invitation, I'm sure. Good-night, sir. At one o'clock, I presume?"
"Yes, at one," I said. "Good-night, sir."
Then I went in and told the others, and we wrote a paper and put it on the boys' dressing-table, and it said—
