“My name is Lester Terabon,” the man said. “I landed in Saturday, and went up town. When I returned, my skiff and outfit were all gone—somebody stole them.”
“Sho!” Rasba exclaimed. “I’ve heard of you. You write for newspapers?”
“Yes, sir, and I’m some chump, being caught that way.”
“They meant to rob you?” Rasba asked.
“Why, of––I don’t know!” Terabon saw a new outlook on the question.
“Did they go down?”
“Yes, sir, I heard so. I don’t care about my boat, typewriter, and duffle; what bothers me is my notebooks. Months of work are in them. If I could get them back!”
“What can I do for you?”
“I don’t know—I’m going down stream; it’s down below, somewhere.”
“I need someone to help me,” Rasba said. “I’ve a wounded man here who has a doctor with him. If he goes up to the hospital or stays with us, I’ll be glad to have you for your help and company.”