OLD FRIENDS The sunrise gun awoke me.

I rolled out of my blanket, saw the white cannon-smoke floating above the trees, ran down to the river, and plunged in.
When I returned, the Sagamore had already broken his fast, and once more was engaged in painting himself--this time in a most ghastly combination of black and white, the startling parti-coloured decorations splitting his visage into two equal sections, so that his eyes gleamed from a black and sticky mask, and his mouth and chin and jaw were like the features of a weather-bleached skull.
"More war, O Mayaro, my brother ?" I asked in a bantering voice.

"Every day you prepare for battle with a confidence forever new; every night the army snores in peace.

Yet, at dawn, when you have greeted the sun, you renew your war-paint.

Such praiseworthy perseverance ought to be rewarded." "It has already been rewarded," remarked the Indian, with quiet humour.
"In what manner ?" I asked, puzzled.
"In the manner that all warriors desire to be rewarded," he replied, secretly amused.
"I thought," said I, "that the reward all warriors desire is a scalp taken in battle." He cast a sly glance at me and went on painting.
"Mayaro," said I, disturbed, "is it possible that you have been out forest-running while I've slept ?" He shot a quick look at me, full of delighted malice.
And "Ho!" said he.