On came the canoe. The two paddlers sent it forward at a swift pace.
“They’re Indians,” observed Jerry a little later. “One of ’em looks just like Ottiby.”
“It is Ottiby!” exclaimed the professor.
This was confirmed a few minutes later, when the Seminole chief stepped ashore, followed by another bronze-skinned individual.
“Ugh!” grunted the chief. “Glad to see. This my son, Skamore.”
“We’re glad to see you,” replied the professor. “We’re in a bad fix and perhaps you can help us, as you know a lot about these queer lakes.”
“Me help. Yo’ help Ottiby, Ottiby help yo’,” and with that the Indian squatted down and began to smoke a pipe, which example his son followed.
Waiting until the red-men had recovered from the exertion of their paddling, the professor told them of the plight of the party, and also of Bob’s illness. He asked if Ottiby did not know of something that was good for fevers. The chief grunted and spoke to his son who, without a word, glided off into the woods.
Then Ottiby began to talk. He said his son would search for a certain plant that the Indians used when they had fevers. As for the blocking of the passage, that was another matter. Ottiby said he and his son had come to the lake to fish. He knew of no outlet from it other than the two already described. One was impassable as it was blocked by the falling of the water and the other was closed by a mass of land—a veritable floating island. The Indian said he had reached the lake by an overland route; he and his son carrying their canoe.
“But me help yo’,” finished the Indian. “We go look at place in mornin’.”