"I'd take off my hat to you, Smilax, if the storm hadn't blown it away!"
He grinned, feeling the praise if not understanding its medium; then asked:
"We go now?"
"Let's wait half an hour to see if the Whim comes in sight," I told him. "There's a lot to talk over, anyway, before we start. For one thing, if we get separated how shall we find each other?"
"If you lose me, you hunt good place to wait, and wait. Me find you."
For some time we discussed other details. Finally I asked:
"How far down in those islands do you think they are?"
He was sitting with his knees drawn up, his arms crossed upon them, and now let his forehead, too, rest there in meditation.
"One place," he slowly answered, "no white hunter ever get. Injuns know it, but 'fraid to go 'cause evil spirit live there—near mouth of river Seminole call Il-lit; in white man tongue, mean Death. Me think maybe find 'em there."
"Death river's a good place for that old scoundrel to hang out," I agreed. "How far?"