Free Freddy and Simon the Dictator by Walter R. Brooks

down! I don’t want to get massacred.” But the committee seemed to be taking it calmly. It looked pretty safe. So he went on.
    Miss Anguish had joined the committee on the terrace, and she waved to Freddy and patted the seat of a chair beside her. “Sit here, Chief,” she said. “Unless you’re taking part in the dance.”
    Mr. Camphor said: “This is Frederick Bean, the poet, Miss Anguish. You met him yesterday. The chief is the one with the feather headdress, just getting his make-up on.”
    â€œBut that’s black and white he’s putting on—war paint!” Freddy exclaimed. “Is this business safe?”
    â€œSure. I’ve known these Indians a long time. They’re Otesaragas—I think some offshoot of the Six Nations. They have a settlement about thirty miles north of the lake, and summers they come down and sell stuff to tourists and summer people. I asked them to come down and put on a dance for the committee.”
    Miss Anguish put fluttering fingers on Freddy’s arm. “Tell me, Chief, have you lifted any good scalps lately?” she asked, and gave a trill of silver laughter that reminded him of Uncle Solomon.
    Freddy said: “Haven’t had much luck lately. But—” he lowered his voice, “we’ve got a nice raid coming up. We’re planning to raid the Centerboro Rotary Club meeting tomorrow night. The trouble is, so many of the members are bald. Not much good as decorations.”
    â€œYou ought to raid it on Ladies’ Night,” said Miss Anguish, and laughed again. “Look, they’re going to dance; aren’t you going to join them?”
    Freddy grinned. “I think I’ll sit this one out,” he said. “Hey, what’s Jimson doing?”
    Mr. Camphor, who had been talking with the chief, had suddenly stripped off his coat and shirt and the chief was painting his face and chest in broad bars of black and white. “For goodness’ sake, is he going on the war path?”
    Mr. Camphor swam a good deal during the summer; his skin was sunburned nearly as dark as the Indians’. Now when with a tomahawk in his hand he took his place among the others who began yelling and stamping and cavorting in a circle on the grass, Freddy had a hard time distinguishing him from the Indians. “Gosh, they look just like the Horribles!” Freddy thought, remembering the way the disguised rabbits had pranced and flourished knives about their scared victims.
    Now with a tomahawk he took his place .
    â€œVery pretty dance,” said Miss Anguish. “So dignified and graceful.” Freddy glanced at her, but she seemed to be quite serious. He wondered how she could always manage to make her remarks have so little reference to what she talked about.
    The dance went on for some time. Most of the Indians wore khaki pants and moccasins, and only two had their heads shaved except for the scalp lock; the others wore their black hair like white men, only rather longer.
    The committee paid little attention to the war dance. They were still busy digging into their memories for old jokes for Mr. Camphor to tell on the platform. They had decided that he should give each of them credit for his own jokes; as for instance—“This reminds me of a favorite story of Senator Blunder’s,” and then he would tell the joke. They liked this idea, because each was sure that his own jokes were the funniest, and each expected to get a good deal of credit from Mr. Camphor’s telling them. After all, what better reason is there for voting for a congressman than that he’s made you laugh?
    After the dance was over, the chief came up and was thanked and congratulated by the committee members. He smiled and grunted, and then turned back to the canoes. Presently they pushed off. It wasn’t until they were well out on the lake that Freddy noticed that the bowman in the first canoe had sandy hair.