“Folks who live in glass houses, should not shy rocks,” observed the fat boy wisely.

By that time the squaws were setting out corn cakes, dried peaches and a heap of savory meat that was served on a bark platter.  The meal was spread on a bright blanket regardless of the fact that grease from the meat was dripping over the beautiful piece of weaving.  The boys thought it a pity to see so wonderful a piece of work ruined so uselessly, but they made no comment.  Then all sat down, the Indians squatting on their haunches, while the white men seated themselves on the ground.  There were neither knives nor forks.  Fingers were good enough for the noble red man.

First, before beginning the meal, the Kohot lighted a great pipe and took a single puff.  Then he passed it to Professor Zepplin, who, with a sheepish look at the Pony Rider Boys, also took a puff.

Stacy came next.  The chief handed the pipe to the fat boy in person.  Stacy’s face flushed.

“Thank you, but I don’t smoke,” he said politely.  The lines of the chief’s face tightened.  It was an insult to refuse to smoke the pipe of peace when offered by the Kohot.

CHAPTER XXI

CHUNKY GETS A TURKISH BATH

“Put it to your lips.  You don’t have to smoke it,” whispered Dad.  “It won’t do to refuse.”

Stacy placed the stem to his lips, then, to the amazement of his fellows, drew heavily twice, forcing the smoke right down into his lungs.

Stacy’s face grew fiery red, his cheeks puffed out.  Smoke seemed to be coming out all over him.  Ned declared afterwards that Stacy must be porous, for the smoke came out of his pockets.  Then all of a sudden the fat boy coughed violently, and tumbled over backwards, choking, strangling, howling, while the Professor hammered him between the shoulders with the flat of his hand.

“You little idiot, why did you draw any of the stuff in?” whispered Professor Zepplin.

“Da—–­Da—–­Dad to—–­to—–­told me to!  Ackerchew!  Oh, wow!”

More choking, more sneezing and more strangling.  The Professor laid the boy on the grass a little distance from the table, where not a smile had appeared on a single face.  The Indians were grave and solemn, the Pony Rider Boys likewise, although almost at the explosive point.  The others had merely passed the Pipe of peace across their lips and handed it on to the next.  In this manner it had gone around the circle.

Then all hands began dipping into the meat with their fingers.  This was too much for the red-faced boy lying on the grass.  He sat up, uttered a volley of sneezes then unsteadily made his way back to the blanket table and sat down in his place.  The Indians paid no attention to him, though sly glances were cast in his direction by his companions.  For once, Ned Rector was discreet enough not to make any remarks.  He knew that any such would call forth unpleasant words from Stacy.