Then he listened as he could with the beating fever in his head.
The dip of a paddle!
It was this that had wakened him.
He roused to a sitting posture and gazed through the open side of the
shanty down toward the water.
A man had just landed from an Indian canoe, and stood on the bank,
regarding him in evident astoundment. August could scarcely repress a
cry.
And no wonder.
In front of him, not ten yards distant, stood the man who attempted to
murder him the night before in the lone cabin near the creek falls.
The astoundment was mutual.
Evidently the man was none the worse for the fright he had received over
the grave of his victim in the shanty cellar. He stared at the reclining
form in the fisherman's shanty as though doubting his senses.
After a moment he advanced, and gazed fixedly into the face of
fever-stricken August.
"So!" he exclaimed, and in that one word there was an immense amount of
meaning.
Then he walked up to the bunk and stood within a few feet of the sick
man.
"Hank Jones, what are you doing here?"
"Well, that's a nice question," sneered the villain as he thrust his hand
to his hip pocket.
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