As the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over them, and they went out on the sandbar and lay down to sleep.  They got scorched out by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast.  After the meal they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little homesick once more.  Tom saw the signs, and fell to cheering up the pirates as well as he could.  But they cared nothing for marbles, or circus, or swimming, or anything.  He reminded them of the imposing secret, and raised a ray of cheer.  While it lasted, he got them interested in a new device.  This was to knock off being pirates, for a while, and be Indians for a change.  They were attracted by this idea; so it was not long before they were stripped, and striped from head to heel with black mud, like so many zebras—­all of them chiefs, of course—­and then they went tearing through the woods to attack an English settlement.

By and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon each other from ambush with dreadful war-whoops, and killed and scalped each other by thousands.  It was a gory day.  Consequently it was an extremely satisfactory one.

They assembled in camp toward supper-time, hungry and happy; but now a difficulty arose—­hostile Indians could not break the bread of hospitality together without first making peace, and this was a simple impossibility without smoking a pipe of peace.  There was no other process that ever they had heard of.  Two of the savages almost wished they had remained pirates.  However, there was no other way; so with such show of cheerfulness as they could muster they called for the pipe and took their whiff as it passed, in due form.

And behold, they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had gained something; they found that they could now smoke a little without having to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to be seriously uncomfortable.  They were not likely to fool away this high promise for lack of effort.  No, they practised cautiously, after supper, with right fair success, and so they spent a jubilant evening.  They were prouder and happier in their new acquirement than they would have been in the scalping and skinning of the Six Nations.  We will leave them to smoke and chatter and brag, since we have no further use for them at present.

CHAPTER XVII

But there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil Saturday afternoon.  The Harpers, and Aunt Polly’s family, were being put into mourning, with great grief and many tears.  An unusual quiet possessed the village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all conscience.  The villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air, and talked little; but they sighed often.  The Saturday holiday seemed a burden to the children.  They had no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them up.

In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the deserted schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy.  But she found nothing there to comfort her.  She soliloquized: