All I said, however, was, "You make my flesh creep." (NOTA BENE: Women like these little compliments.) Well, when the Indian said, "Hold out your hand," the boy shrunk back, and shook his head, and said he didn't like it.

The Indian, thereupon, asked him (not at all unkindly), whether he would like to be sent back to London, and left where they had found him, sleeping in an empty basket in a market--a hungry, ragged, and forsaken little boy.

This, it seems, ended the difficulty.

The little chap unwillingly held out his hand.

Upon that, the Indian took a bottle from his bosom, and poured out of it some black stuff, like ink, into the palm of the boy's hand.