“Don’t desert me, if you be men with hearts!” he cried out, in seeming agony.
“Who are you, and what ails you?” demanded Mr. Armstrong.
“My name is Elijah Fish, and with my mate I was taken prisoner by the bloodthirsty Shawanees a moon ago. They have tortured us both, and my comrade finally fell a victim to their savage hatred. I managed to escape four days ago, and they have been hunting for me ever since. If you leave me here, they will surely find me, and take my life. I beg of you to pull in at least part way, and let me come aboard!”
“He talks straight, seems to me,” declared young Amos Terry. “I don’t see no sign of any Indians, and for one I’d hate to think I left a poor white man to be put to death. Ain’t there some way he might be saved, Mr. Armstrong?”
For answer the leader of the expedition put his hands to his mouth, using them for a trumpet, and called aloud:
“We cannot come in any closer, because we must not risk chances of being beset by the Indians; but, if you wish to come aboard, why not enter the water, and swim out after us? That is your only chance, Elijah Fish, which, for one, I do not believe to be your name.”
“Why, who do you take me for?” asked the man, still running along the sandy strip of shore between the edge of the water and the forest.
“Well, you might be the renegade, Simon Girty, or perhaps McKee. And so we must refuse to risk the lives of all on board in order to do you a good turn. If you can swim, enter the water. We will immediately anchor the boat, and wait for you to come aboard. But that is as far as we dare go!”
The man ceased running at hearing this.
“Yew must have broken his heart with that, Mr. Armstrong,” said the Yankee, Amos Terry.