“He is a Comanche. He is ‘Heavy Ox.’ We’ll creep up to him from two sides.”
“Black Panther” and “Flying Arrow” crept across the plot of sand with sly, watchful eyes. Then “Black Panther” sprang up like a steel spring released and swung his lasso. “Heavy Ox” was caught. They tied him to the seat as to a torture post. “Heavy Ox” did not seem to notice anything. From behind, “Black Panther” even managed to put on his head a chieftain’s feather crown consisting of some crow’s feathers pushed into the ribbon of an old, brimless, tattered straw hat. But “Heavy Ox” sat there with his new and wonderful ornament as solemnly and as apathetically unconcerned as ever.
Shrill laughter from “Flying Arrow” greeted this ridiculous apparition.
They began to dance round their victim. Swinging their tomahawks and their bows, they danced to the accompaniment of wild cries of excitement.
“ ‘Heavy Ox’ can’t get free! ‘Heavy Ox’ is fat and stupid! ‘Heavy Ox’ shall die. ‘Heavy Ox’ is fat and stupid!”
This sudden wild joy quite surprised the Crow Indians themselves. They perhaps did not know that there was vengeance in this game. And how much had they not to avenge! How well they might have called out to “Heavy Ox”: “That is for the hundreds of meals that were made disgusting by your nasty snuffling! That’s for your horrid snuffle and for your dull eyes that don’t see us! That’s for the neglect, the ruin, the incurable wounds to our tender beings! That’s for the great musty hole in which we spend our childhood.”
Tired of dancing they sat down to smoke a calumet, whilst still deriding and challenging their bound enemy.
“Heavy Ox” had taken no more notice of his tormentors than of the flies that buzzed around him. But now he showed signs of restlessness. And his restlessness was always of the same kind:
“Is it time for supper soon?” he stammered.
Then they jumped up again and began to dance with a renewal of their wild exultation:
“ ‘Heavy Ox’ shan’t get any food. ‘Heavy Ox’ is fat and stupid. ‘Heavy Ox’ shall die! ‘Heavy Ox’ is fat and stupid!”
Peter was still leaning against the rainpipe. He followed the game with a half troubled, half pleased, grin. “They will catch it for this,” he thought. “I have not taken part in it. I have been standing here the whole time by the rainpipe and have not taken any part in it.”
Then Peter saw Mr. Brundin thrust his head out of a window. It was beginning to get exciting. The punishment for these reckless children was drawing nearer. But Peter was at once disillusioned. Brundin only laughed and puffed at a big cigar. And Peter made a note in his memory that Brundin only grinned at forbidden and dangerous things.
Then at last something happened. Old Hermansson came walking up the avenue. And instantly Brundin’s head disappeared from the window. But “Black Panther” and “Flying Arrow” noticed nothing. Old Hermansson walked quietly across the sand plot. He was as straight-backed as if he had been drawn on a slate by a good boy. He walked with his coat buttoned high up to the throat, his head erect, and his hands behind his back. He walked with measured dignity and each step seemed to be an admonition to the careless, the irreverent and the reckless. One can scarcely imagine anything more typical to children of the grownup.
Peter stood still with excitement and bit his nails. This was really a great moment.
Then Mr. Brundin came rushing out of the door. He had put aside the big cigar and hastened with every mark of respect to free “Heavy Ox” from his bonds, whilst with serious and angry mien he shook his fist at the two Indians.
This was something more for Peter to note: a moment ago Brundin had only grinned and now he became serious when old Hermansson was present.
At last old Hermansson had arrived. Now at last somebody would be cuffed. But Peter had to wait. Old Hermansson first saw that the unsuitable ornament was removed from his old friend’s head. Then he greeted him, obstinately maintaining the habit of speech of past and happier days.
“How do you do, how do you do, my dear Oskar? I hope you are well. Yes, it is a fine day today, a very fine day. So I thought I would take a little walk in order to talk to our good bailiff about the rye-crop.”
Oskar Selamb had recovered his greasy old hat again. But he was clearly completely insensible to these seesaws of exultation and degradation. He stared sulkily in front of him and grunted:
“I want my supper—can’t I have my supper?”
“In due time, my dear Oskar. In due time you will certainly have your supper.”
Now it seemed to be Stellan’s and Laura’s turn. Their guardian placed himself in front of them and made a little speech:
“Listen carefully now, my children,” he said. “I don’t want to see you show your father such disrespect again. Honour thy father and mother that thy days may be long in the land and that it may go well with you.”
Here he shook his head solemnly and let the culprits go. And the fair and plump little Laura danced away with small side steps like a puppy, but not before she had cast a coquettish and triumphant glance at Peter in passing, as if to say—“Cheated!—there was no thrashing!”
But Stellan stood there with all his warlike array in his hand and with an air of disillusionment looked at “Heavy Ox,” who was no longer “Heavy Ox,” but only the familiar dismal figure. Then he lightly shrugged his shoulders and quietly went away whistling among the currant bushes. With his quick
