came squattering and wheezing up to the bar where Runnion had built
his fire that morning, and a long, shrill blast summoned him from
the point above. When he did not appear the priest took Poleon and
his round-faced, silent crew of two and went up the bank, but they
found no sign of the crippled man, only a few rags, a trampled patch
of brush at the forest's edge, and--that was all. The springy moss
showed no trail; the thicket gave no answer to their cries, although
they spent an hour in a scattered search and sounded the steamboat's
whistle again and again.

"He's try for walk it back to camp," said Doret. "Mebbe he ain' hurt
so much, after all."

"You must be right," said Father Barnum. "We will keep the steamer
close to this shore, so that he can hail us when we overtake him."

And so they resumed their toilsome trip; but mile after mile fell
behind them, and still no voice came from the woods, no figure
hailed them. Doret, inscrutable and silent, lounged against the
pilot-house smoking innumerable cigarettes, which he rolled from
squares of newspaper, his keen eyes apparently scanning every foot
of their slow way; but when night fell, at last, and the bank faded
from sight, he tossed the last butt overboard, smiled grimly into
the darkness, and went below.




CHAPTER XVIII