"Bad wind," from one dejected voyageur.
"More cold," from the other.
"Here comes the rain!" cried Doby.
Dark November filled their camp with melancholy discomfort.
In place of the gallant soldier there hovered over the damp and sickly fire an old, old man, blue with chill, and tired and dispirited.
Doby said to himself: "In the matter of delivering the precious papers and of teaching the district the value of tariff and sound banks, the errand for the Northwest was successful. But in the business of collecting some interest to live on he has failed. That means that he has no way to feed himself this winter. Red tape makes poor clothes and worse meals."
Dismayed and pitiful, the boy longed to comfort that good man who had fallen into the habit of sacrificing himself for his country.
"S-w-i-s-h! S-w-i-s-h!" poured the rain; "W-h-e-w! W-h-e-w!" howled the wind, as the swollen current of the Wabash bore them homeward next day.
"H-o-n-k! H-o-n-k!" cried the wild geese overhead.