Jean Paul turned with an air of mild surprise. "Not'ing," he said. "Wat's the matter? I saw you and Garrod here, and I came. I got not'ing to do."
"Go find something," said Jack. "Clear out! Make yourself scarce! Vamoose!"
Jean Paul, with a deprecatory shrug, walked slowly on up the beach.
"I have pen and paper," Jack said eagerly to Garrod.
Garrod's dazed eyes were following Jean Paul's retreating figure. He paid no attention. It was only too evident that his mood had changed.
Jack's face grew red. "Have you gone back on it already?" he said with an oath.
"I must go," muttered Garrod, struggling to rise.
Jack thrust him back. "You stay where you are!"
But as soon as Jack took his hands off him Garrod endeavoured to get up and follow Jean Paul, who by this time had climbed the bank. Garrod's wasted strength was no match for Jack's but Jack could hardly see himself sitting there holding the other man down until Sir Bryson returned. He looked around for inspiration. There was a length of rope fastened to the bow of the dugout. Cutting off a piece of it, he tied Garrod's wrists and ankles, and let him lie.
Jack sat down and filled his pipe, watching Garrod grimly meanwhile, and trying to puzzle out a solution. The man spoke no articulate word except to mutter once or twice that he must go. Occasionally he struggled feebly in his bonds like a fish at the last gasp. Still it did not occur to Jack to connect this new phase of his sickness with the appearance of the half-breed. Jack's heart was sore. "Of what use was the confession of a man in such a state?" he thought. In Jack's simple system of treatment there was but one remedy for all swoons or seizures, viz., cold water. Upon thinking of this he got up and, filling his hat in the river, dashed the contents in Garrod's face.