"Charles Floyd. He danced and got hot. Lay down on the sand all night and got cold. Now very sick."
"Huh," grunted Peter. "Mebbe get well?"
"I don't know," said George, soberly.
That was too bad. Why didn't they call in the black medicine-man?
Except for George and the sick Charles Floyd, the boat was deserted; for on the shore another dance and feast were in progress. Chief Little Thief and his Indians were staying, and the 'Nited States appeared to be bent upon giving them a good time.
All that night the sick Charles Floyd moaned at intervals, in the bunk; and George Shannon and Patrick Gass and others kept watch over him; while Peter, on the other side of the partition, listened or slept. Toward morning, when Peter next woke up, he had been aroused by tramp of feet over his head, and splash of water against the boat, and orders shouted, and a movement of the boat itself.
They were starting, and he was starting with them! Hoorah! Now he was not hungry or thirsty or tired; he was excited.
Yes, the boat was moving. He could hear the plashing of oars, and the creak as the sail was raised. And in a few minutes more the boat leaned and swerved and tugged, and the river rippled under its bow.
Peter waited as long as he possibly could stand it to wait. Patrick Gass had said for him to lie hidden
