"Perhaps not, but you are here to spy on us now."
"Not on your life; an' let me advise you, my friend," he answered, opening and shutting his hands nervously, "not to use that word too much in this country, or it'll git you into trouble. I'm no spy, least of all for Pickle."
"Then what are you doing on this boat?" Uncle Job inquired, by no means convinced of the other's good intention.
"Mebbe I'm toorin', but I ain't," he answered, more quietly. "I'm doin' the disappearin' act, though, an' to-morrow they'll be draggin' the river, I 'spect, thinkin' I'm drowned."
"Where are you going?"
"That's nothin' to you, but I don't mind tellin' now we're off. I'm goin' to Rock River, where I fit Black Hawk, to lie on its shady banks an' listen to the birds an' ripplin' waters. It's too noisy an' excitin' here, an' people stare, for I've bin seein' things that ain't real, they say—though you seed them cats yourself, didn't you?" he went on, excitedly, peering into Uncle Job's face. "They was as plain as day to me."
"Is that all you have seen?" Uncle Job answered, evasively.
"No; monkeys an' snakes, an' wassops as big as eagles. Things like that, out of the way, sorty, but all real, though it seems queer."
"Well, you know what causes it," Uncle Job answered.
"You bet; it comes from usin' toothache drops an ole woman give me, filled with opium or pisen of some sort."