Following which he grimaced as if something smelled bad, adding in a barely audible whisper, "And that's the worst lie I ever told."
"We met Mr. Schwandorf last night after you went," Knowlton said, easily, drawing down one eyelid. "Very likable sort of chap. He's going to help us get started upriver."
"Uh-huh. When do we go? To-day?"
"If possible."
"Glad of it. This big-town sportin' life would be the ruination of a simple country kid like me. Yo-hum! Wonder how all our neighbors are this mornin'—the goat and the drunk and the two sick fellers. Kind o' quiet over that side o' the room."
Thomaz entered just then with more coffee. Knowlton turned to him.
"Are the sick men better to-day, Thomaz?"
"Much better, senhor," the lad said, carelessly. "They are dead."
"Huh?" Tim grunted, explosively.
"Dead," the youth repeated. "They were taken out at dawn. Do not be alarmed. It was the swamp fever, which is not—what you say?—catching."