“No city bred feller could live in the swamp many days. He wouldn’t have sense enough to git his food; at night the sounds would drive him crazy, and he’d end up bein’ bit by a snake.”
“Yet someone stole your gun,” Penny reminded him.
“It waren’t Danny,” said the old trapper with finality.
The skiff glided on. As the sun rose high overhead pouring down upon their backs, Penny and Louise began to feel drowsy. Repeatedly, they reached for Joe’s jug of water.
As the channel became congested with floating plants and rotted logs, the trapper shipped the oars and used a paddle.
Presently they came within view of Lookout Island. In the bow, Penny leaned forward to peer at the jungle-like growth which grew densely to the water’s edge.
“Someone’s on the island!” she exclaimed in a low voice.
“Sure, it’s Coon Hawkins doin’ a little fishin’,” agreed the trapper. “His boat’s pulled up on the point.”
Louise stirred uneasily. “Is anyone with him?” she whispered.
“Don’t see no one ’cepting Coon. He won’t hurt ye. Harmless, ole Coon is, an’ mighty shiftless too.”