“There’s one of ’em coming down through the bushes now, Nick,” exclaimed a man in the stern of the canoe.
“I never could sing that song without interruption, Chevalier.”
The speaker had shipped his paddle and grasped his rifle, saying as he did so: “Look out, boys, the voice is white but there may be red shenannegan behind it.”
Rodney Allison leaped to the beach below in full view of the party. There he stood, panting and staring as though at a ghost.
“I say, sonny, if ye’ve objections to our looks now’s the time to put ’em on file,” said Nick.
“Dominick Ferguson! I thought you were dead!” gasped the boy.
“Aisy now, don’t feel so bad bekase I’m not. Whereabout did ye find the handle o’ me name, lad?”
“So you’re not the man the Indians killed, that day down on the Ohio, when they captured me?”
“Do I look loike I was?” Then dawning comprehension showed in the man’s face. “Ah reckon poor Job Armistead was the unfortnit one; he never showed up. May your name be Allison?” he asked.
“It is. Have you room in the canoe for one more?”