The young Seminole grinned as he came up. “You look as fresh as a daisy!” His tone was cheerful, though it held a hint of weariness. “I certainly hated to leave you up yonder in the plane with that bunch of cutthroats. Sam did too. We’ve been talking about it. Until I saw your parachute open up, I was darned worried, I can tell you.”
“Well,” beamed Bill, grasping their hands, “it sure is good to see you both again, I’m okay, but I take it you made bad landings. My fault, too,—I should have explained more about it before you jumped.”
“Dat’s all right, Marse Bill,” piped up Sam. “It’s me what brung de trouble. Marse Osceola, he sure am a born parachuter! He done landed fine on dis island—but dis old nigger crabbed everything. Come down in de grass out yonder. Dem sharp-tooth edges sure cut me pretty bad. And I ain’t no hand at dis jumpin’ business nohow. Like to drownded myself if Marse Osceola hadn’t come in an’ drug me out. Got all tangled up in de grass and dem ropes, wif de big umbrella down on top of me, tryin’ t’ smudder me to death. I sure is obliged to you gentlemen for gettin’ me away from de workin’s—but I’d rather stay put there all my born days than go through all dat again. Not me, suh!”
The old man sat down suddenly, and began to shake all over.
“Take it easy, Sam,” cautioned Bill. “Just don’t think about it for a while. Everything will come out all right.”
“I hope so, Marse Bill.” Sam’s tone, though gloomy, was much less excited. “Dis heah airplane stuff an’ parachutin’ may be all right fo’ white folks—but if I must do a loop-de-loop, let mine be roun’ some chicken coop.” He grinned appreciatively at his own joke. “Thank goodness I’m down here where I’s gwine to stay. I ain’t gwine to be a-oozin’ round de sky no mo’—Dis heah nigger ain’t got too proud to walk. Nobody ain’t gwine to ketch Sam a-flirtin’ wif de sun no mo’. Unh—unh! Not me!”
Both lads burst out laughing. “You’ve got more nerve than the rest of us put together, Sam,” declared Osceola.
“You sure have!” Bill knelt at his side. “Osceola is a warrior and a gentleman, but he can’t bandage for a tinker’s hoop. Let me fix those things. And how about this ankle—you were limping, uncle?”
“It ain’t no sprain, suh. I kin walk on dat foot—but she sure do hurt po’werful bad.”
“You’ve wrenched and strained it.” Bill’s deft fingers were lightly pressing the old man’s ankle. “We’ll bind it up tighter and keep you off your feet for a couple of days, and you’ll be able to do your hundred yards in ten flat!”