“Hello! Aboard there!” he shouted at last.
There was a sound of stirring in the boat. The door of the cabin opened, and a man stepped out upon the stern deck, a ragged and disreputable object. He was dressed in a tattered cotton shirt and trousers, barefooted and bareheaded, with long, fair hair, straggling mustache and a yellowish, malarial complexion. He looked startled; he gave Joe a glance of mingled fright and suspicion.
“Howdy!” Joe greeted him. “Camping here?”
“Fur a leetle while, mebbe,” drawled the sallow man, looking him carefully up and down. “You’re Burnam’s woods-rider, ain’t you?”
“One of them. Can I come on board?”
The man hesitated, and spat into the bayou.
“I reckon you can’t,” he said at last. “My brother’s in yander, mighty sick, and he’s just gone to sleep.”
“Too bad. What’s the matter with him?”
“Chills ’n’ fever. He’ll git over it. Just done had it myself. Gum runnin’ good?” he added listlessly.
“Pretty fair. Some one’s been stealing some of it. Seen anybody round the woods at night?”