There was a pause while Joe reconstructed things. It was broken in upon by another piping up of the thin voice of the man on the ground.
“See that sack over thar, stranger?” said the little man, indicating a partially filled pack-bag in one corner of the tent.
“Oui! I see heem,” rejoined Joe in a dazed voice.
“Wa’al, thar’s fish in thar. I’d take it real kind in yer ef yer’d jes’ feed my dorgs, mister. They ain’t hed much ter sot their teeth in lately, me being hurried like along the trail.”
The boys exchanged glances. They had met with many strange experiences, but this appeared to be the cap-sheaf of them all. Old Joe simply shrugged his shoulders; he was bereft of speech. In the face of this astonishing end to their long, grim chase, he was, for the time being, incapable of finding words.
He crossed over to the sack and began pulling out fish, but in the midst of the operation he found his voice again.
“Say, you, what’s zee matter weez you, anyhow?”
“I’m sick,” responded the man under the shabby blanket, “right sick.”
“I see you seeck, all right,” said Joe, “but what ails you? Boosh!” he concluded, puffing out his sun-burned cheeks.
“I don’t rightly know,” rejoined the other; “it’s a sorter pain all over.”