"Not so much as a feather of one," I retorted. "But that is what I took you to be."
We were both sitting up by this time, he with his back against the bank, both of us panting as if we could never regain our breath, and eagerly seeking to see each other's features in the gloom. Any attempt at conversation was painful, but I managed at last to stammer:
"You must be a whalebone man, or I 'd have broken every rib in your body."
"An' I 'm not a bit sure ye did n't," was the response, uttered between puffs. "'T was the worst grip ever Ol' Tom Burns had squeeze him,—an' I 've felt o' bars mor' nor oncet. Who may ye be, anyhow, stranger? an' for what cause did ye jump down yere on me?"
There was a trace of growing anger in his tone, as remembrance of the outrage returned to his mind, which caused me to smile, now that I could breathe less painfully. It seemed such a ludicrous affair,—that dark struggle, each mistaking the purpose and color of the other.
"My name is Wayland," I made haste to explain, "and I left the Fort but now, hoping by this round-about route to reach the Kinzie place and return under cover of darkness. I slipped on the edge of the bank up yonder, and the next thing I knew we were at it. I can assure you, friend, I supposed myself in the arms of a savage. You say your name is Burns?"
"Ol' Tom Burns."
"What? It is not possible you are the same who brought a message to
Major Wayland on the Maumee?"
"I reckon I am," he said, deliberately. "An' be you the boy I met?"
"Yes," I said, still doubtful. "But how came you here?"