“There’s not many knives that can say they killed an eagle,” he said musingly. “This’ll make a great token, Roy.” Then his voice took on a businesslike tone again. The incident was over. The chapter closed. Pop bent down, inserted the blade in the canvas, and drew it along with a ripping sound.
Soon all four were deep in their task. The hole had to be well mended, as the rapids were still ahead of them and the rocks would search hungrily for a weak spot on which to fasten their needle-like fingers. Pop went about the job slowly and deliberately, and it was afternoon before it was finished to his satisfaction.
“Might as well eat,” Bug Eye said as he straightened up and threw his shoulders back to get the kinks out. “Somehow I never did get over that there habit. So you had roast porcupine this morning, Roy? Well, we can’t promise you that, but we have got some pork an’ beans left unless Pop eat ’em all. You feel all right now, Roy?”
“Sure I do!” The boy flexed his muscles. “Those cuts have stiffened up a little, but they’ll soon work out. Yea, Bug Eye, I feel great! I’m mighty hungry, though.”
“You can do the paddlin’,” Teddy remarked with a grin. “And if you see a rock, duck!”
Unconsciously the boy’s healthy mind was bringing to the fore the events of that fear-ridden night just passed, and instead of hiding them deep in the recesses of the subconscious, later to emerge as tangled emotions, Teddy was baring them and destroying their power to haunt. Of course he did not realize all this. He knew only that an unpleasant experience cannot be forcibly forgotten—that it must be aired, shaken, and dry-cleaned.
But now, his eyes seemed still to hold some of the terror of last night when he had thought that his brother was killed. Roy had had other emotions to occupy his mind—pain, amazement, and self-preservation. Teddy had had nothing—nothing but an overpowering dread that increased hourly until, when dawn had come, it seemed to permeate his whole being, sickening him.
When he had seen Roy wading ashore, happiness caught him a sudden blow, and he had staggered for a moment. Then he had rushed forward, unable to do more than cry: “Roy—Roy!” in a voice that was a hoarse whisper. His brother had returned. The world had lurched, hesitated, and then had gone on spinning merrily. They were together again.
Now the repairs on the canoe were finished. Pop yawned, stretched, and pulled out his pipe. Then he followed Bug Eye to camp and spent the next fifteen minutes in disputing Teddy’s mastery over bean-eating. At length their appetites were satisfied. The pans were washed by the simple method of rubbing sand on them and rinsing them in the river. Blankets were folded. Then, having carried their possessions to the craft, they were ready to start once more.
“Remember those old books in our school library?” Teddy asked Roy, as he stood with his hand on the stern, ready to launch the canoe. “The Amazon Adventurers, or something like that. Where the heroes always come bobbing up from tornadoes, volcanoes, or what have you, with a smile on their faces ready to stop a revolution single handed. Remember the verse Spike Murphy wrote—you know, he played tackle our second year at Hopper. Like this, I think: