The boy said, "It is on the road to this house, and on no other, that
the English gentleman will travel to-day." The Indian put a second
question--after waiting a little first. He said: "Has the English
gentleman got It about him?"
The boy answered--also, after waiting a little first--"Yes."
The Indian put a third and last question: "Will the English gentleman
come here, as he has promised to come, at the close of day?"
The boy said, "I can't tell."
The Indian asked why.
The boy said, "I am tired. The mist rises in my head, and puzzles me. I
can see no more to-day."
With that the catechism ended. The chief Indian said something in his
own language to the other two, pointing to the boy, and pointing towards
the town, in which (as we afterwards discovered) they were lodged. He
then, after making more signs on the boy's head, blew on his forehead,
and so woke him up with a start. After that, they all went on their way
towards the town, and the girls saw them no more.
Most things they say have a moral, if you only look for it. What was the
moral of this?
The moral was, as I thought: First, that the chief juggler had heard Mr.
Franklin's arrival talked of among the servants out-of-doors, and saw
his way to making a little money by it. Second, that he and his men and
boy (with a view to making the said money) meant to hang about till
they saw my lady drive home, and then to come back, and foretell
Mr. Franklin's arrival by magic. Third, that Penelope had heard them
rehearsing their hocus-pocus, like actors rehearsing a play. Fourth,
that I should do well to have an eye, that evening, on the plate-basket.
Fifth, that Penelope would do well to cool down, and leave me, her
father, to doze off again in the sun.
That appeared to me to be the sensible view. If you know anything of
the ways of young women, you won't be surprised to hear that Penelope
wouldn't take it. The moral of the thing was serious, according to my
daughter. She particularly reminded me of the Indian's third question,
Has the English gentleman got It about him? "Oh, father!" says Penelope,
clasping her hands, "don't joke about this. What does 'It' mean?"
"We'll ask Mr. Franklin, my dear," I said, "if you can wait till Mr.
Franklin comes." I winked to show I meant that in joke. Penelope took it
quite seriously. My girl's earnestness tickled me. "What on earth should
Mr. Franklin know about it?" I inquired. "Ask him," says Penelope. "And
see whether HE thinks it a laughing matter, too." With that parting
shot, my daughter left me.