It was when the road dipped into a ravine that we heard something strange. At first it seemed to be the hoarse growling of an animal, followed by the yapping of smaller animals. “By Grapes!” Doc said. “If I was in any civilized section, I’d say that was some kind of a den of bears and foxes; but being off here in the woods this way, I shouldn’t wonder if Cap Huff had something to do with it, though that growling certainly don’t sound like none of my acquaintances.”

We pushed down the ravine. The growling became a human voice struggling with passages from the song Yankee Doodle. The accompanying yapping proved to be other humans, demonstrating, from time to time, the proper rendition of that same song. Then we distinguished Cap Huff’s stentorian bellow.

“No!” he was saying. “No! How in God’s name you ever expect to get to be an American if you keep saying ‘Shdug’! It’s ‘Stuck!’ Ess, tee, yew, uck, Stuck! ‘Stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni!’ Come on, now! Get it right this time, or you don’t hold Grettle tonight!”

We came into a cleared space on the side of the ravine. A lean-to, made of fir branches, faced the north, and on low bunks within it sat or lay Tom Bickford, Joseph Phipps, and two Indians who seemed almost disguised because of the garish red and white caps they wore—the only means by which our Indians could be distinguished from those who fought with the British. One was Natanis, and the other Lewis Vincent, that friend of Verrieul’s who had helped us escape from the Sacs and Foxes.

Before them stood Cap Huff, as red faced and sweaty as ever, in close communion with an odd-looking youth who had yellow hair, broad hips and a habit of standing with such rigidity that he tilted backward. Thus his stomach was thrust forward and he looked fatter than he actually was. He had on the fragments of a pair of once-white breeches, a green coat from which the sleeves and tails had been removed, and the remnants of a pair of dragoon’s boots.

When Cap saw us he seized the strange-looking youth by the front of his sleeveless green coat and shook him violently. “Hey!” he bawled deafeningly. “Nix more sing. Veer drink! Brink drink!” He stared anxiously into the young man’s eyes. When the young man nodded, Cap sighed with relief and joined the others in greeting us.

“Gosh,” Cap cried, “we thought you was going to miss all the fun, Cap’n Peter! You too, old Catamount!” He slapped Doc affectionately, then contorted his face horribly, jerking both thumb and head toward the strange youth, who had gone down on his knees to fumble in one of the bed-places, seemingly hunting for the drink that Cap had ordered.