“Well, we’ve had a rather strenuous afternoon,” remarked Bob, when Jerry had been comfortably propped up with cushions. “Now what’s next on the program? Supper I believe.”
“You’re not going to give anyone else a chance to vote, are you, Chunky?” cried Ned. “Never mind, I believe you’re right. Come on, and we’ll get a meal ready.”
The old Indian, who had not taken the trouble to remove his wet clothes sat on the stern of the Dartaway watching with curious eyes the preparations for the meal.
“Shall we ask him to stay?” inquired Bob of the professor. “He looks hungry.”
“Stay? Eat?” inquired the scientist of the Indian, making motions toward the victuals which the boys were laying out.
“Me stay,” was the laconic answer.
After the early supper it was decided they should camp where they were for the night, until they saw how Jerry’s sore foot was. The bunks were made up and the mosquito canopy spread, as, with the approach of darkness, myriads of these and other insects made life miserable.
Ottiby watched these preparations with wonder in his eyes, but said nothing. It was dusk when he got into his canoe and began to paddle off.
“Me see yo’ some more,” he promised as he disappeared amid the darkening shadows. “Ottiby no forget.”
“He’s a queer customer,” remarked Bob, as the Indian’s boat passed around a bend in the river.