Zeb, obediently, but somewhat laboriously, read out:
“‘Map of the location of the wreck of the Belle of New Orleans.’ That’s what it says; but what does it mean?”
“That’s plain enough, ain’t it?” retorted the old man. “It’s a map of some wreck or other, but what does this feller want with it? That’s the question.”
“Better ask him. He’s opening his eyes and coming to.”
Sure enough Duval stirred uneasily, and threw up his hand as if to ward off a blow.
“Don’t hit me, Frank Chester,” he cried out; “I’ll give back the plan I stole.”
“Oh-ho! That’s the way the wind blows, is it?” muttered the elder Daniels, and then, addressing Duval, who was now staring wildly about him, he said:
“So you come from Brig Island, eh, my hearty?”
“Yes; but how did I get here? Oh, I remember now. I was looking for food and somebody struck me.”
“That was me, I reckon,” grinned Zeb, “who are you, anyhow? Did those kids on Brig Island send you here after us?”