"Untie me, Phil," cried he, angrily.
"Excuse me," I replied. "I have you where I want you, and for your sake I hope we shall have a quick passage to Chicago."
"Is she headed for Chicago?"
"Yes, and has been for four hours. The tables are turned."
"Untie me, Phil. I am in great pain."
"If I can do anything to relieve your pain, I will, but I will not untie you."
He pleaded and begged for me to release him, but I dared not do so. He complained bitterly of his head, and made me various offers to let him go. I assured him that I should hand him over to the police the next day; until then, I would do anything I could to make him comfortable, except to give him his liberty. I brought up the bedding and pillows belonging to one of the berths in the cabin, and prepared an easy couch beneath him. I directed Peter to give him his supper, and to feed him like a child. He said he was comfortable then, but begged for whiskey. I refused to honor this demand; and finding that Peter was boozing more than I deemed best, I emptied all the bottles into the lake, with the hope that the fish would not be harmed by it.
Marian retired at an early hour; but she came on deck in the middle of the night, and insisted upon taking the helm; yet I dared not sleep, for the wind was freshening, and we spent the rest of the night in talking. At daylight I discovered the steeples of Chicago in the distance. We had a stiff breeze then, and at six o'clock I ran the Marian into the river.
CHAPTER XXVII.