"
So Dimple went in her house and shut the door, fearfully peeping through
the cracks once in a while, as the terrible foe crept softly nearer and
nearer, then with a terrific yell burst in.
"Please, Mr. Indian, don't scalp me."
"Ugh!" said the Indian.
"What shall I do?" said Dimple. "Make me take off my stockings and
shoes, Bubbles. You know the captives must go barefooted."
"Ugh!" said the Indian, pointing to Dimple's feet.
"My shoes and stockings? Well, I will give them to you," and she quickly
took them off. The Indian gravely tied them around his neck, and taking
Dimple by the hand he led her forth in triumph.
But here a disaster followed, for the captive, thinking it her duty to
struggle, knocked the hatchet out of the Indian's hand, and it fell with
its edge on Dimple's little white foot, making a bad gash.
"Oh, you've killed me, sure enough," she cried. "Oh, you wicked, wicked
thing!"
Poor Bubbles cried quite as hard as she, and begged not to be sent to
the orphan asylum.
"Oh! your mother will whip me," she cried. "I 'spect I ought to be
killed, but 'deed I didn't mean to, Miss Dimple; I wisht it had been my
old black foot."
"I wish it had," sobbed Dimple. "Oh, I am bleeding all to nothing! Take
me to mamma, Bubbles!"
Bubbles stooped down and, being a little larger and stronger, managed to
carry her to the house.
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