He was limp as a rag and utterly spent when he reached camp. Toma and Sandy, who stood watching him as he glided up to shore, blinked in amazement.
He had not the breath to answer their eager questions. He lay back in the stern, puffing, gasping, while the blood throbbed in his head with such insistence that for a time he actually believed that his temples would burst. His vision was somewhat obscured, too. Through a sort of haze he could perceive Sandy dancing wildly like a jungle savage.
“Dick, you lucky beggar!” shrieked the suddenly daft and madly plunging young maniac. “What’s the meaning of this? O boy! Cracky! If you haven’t turned the tables after all. What a come-back! I’ll bet if either one of ’em had gold teeth you’d have stolen them, too. Where’d you get it?”
Not yet able to speak intelligently, Dick pointed down the river.
“You did, eh?”
Dick nodded.
“Fight ’em?” Sandy persisted.
Dick shook his head.
“Well, that’s too bad. I was hoping that you had left them back there to nurse a couple of broken heads. Serve ’em right after what they did to our canoe.”
Dick sat up, his breathing now less violent.