“What’s the matter?” asked Connorton, anxiously, as he noticed these strange actions.
“Him lost,” replied Jim.
“Lost!” exclaimed Connorton. “A guide lost! Well, that’s a good joke! How about you?”
“Me lost too,” replied the Indian, imperturbably. “Sit down and let Joe find way out.” And he seated himself placidly on a log.
“You lost, too!” cried Connorton in consternation. “Good Lord! Lost in an impenetrable forest, with two fool Indians and a crazy man! Oh, if I ever get out of here alive there isn’t money enough in the world to bring me back! Here!” he thundered at the placid Jim, “what you loafing there for? Get up and help Joe find a way out! Hustle, too! I’ll bet we starve to death,” he added gloomily to himself. “I’m starving already.”
Late that evening two stolid Indian guides and two very weary white men got back to the camp, where Paulson was anxiously waiting for them. One of the white men, although weary, seemed to be quite happy, even going so far as to release an occasional chuckle. The other was exhausted almost to the point of collapse, and nothing but groans were heard from him.
“Do you know, Connorton,” remarked the first white man, as they left their respective canoes and walked slowly toward the camp-fire, “I don’t believe you think any more of money than I do of my life—really, I don’t.”
Connorton had not the spirit to reply.
SUPPER, although lacking the viands that would have appealed to Connorton in more favorable circumstances, tasted unusually good to him that evening; and he was disposed to give thanks that he was still alive rather than complain of what he had suffered. But he had acquired a great fear of Hartley’s impulsive vagaries.
“May I speak briefly of business?” he asked, as they sat by the fire.