“I'd like much to be your guide,” said Rolf, “but I have a partner. I must find out if he's willing.”
“Ye don't mean-that drunken Bill Bymus?”
“No! my hunting partner; he's an Indian.” Then, after a pause, he added, “You wouldn't go in fly-time, would you?”
“No, I want to be in peace. But any time after the first of August.”
“I am bound to help Van Trumper with his harvest; that will take most of August.”
As he talked, the young lawyer sized him up and said to himself, “This is my man.”
And before they parted it was agreed that Rolf should come to Albany with Quonab as soon as he could return in August, to form the camping party for the governor's son.
Chapter 55. The Rescue of Bill
Bales were ready and the canoe newly gummed three days after their arrival, but still no sign of Bill. A messengers sent to the brother-in-law's home reported that he had not been seen for two days. In spite of the fact that Albany numbered nearly “six thousand living human souls,” a brief search by the docksharps soon revealed the sinner's retreat. His worst enemy would have pitied him; a red-eyed wreck; a starved, sick and trembling weakling; conscience-stricken, for the letter intrusted to him was lost; the cargo stolen—so his comforters had said—and the raw country lad murdered and thrown out into the river. What wonder that he should shun the light of day! And when big Peter with Rolf in the living flesh, instead of the sheriff, stood before him and told him to come out of that and get into the canoe, he wept bitter tears of repentance and vowed that never, never, never, as long as he lived would he ever again let liquor touch his lips. A frame of mind which lasted in strength for nearly one day and a half, and did not entirely varnish for three.