Suddenly a shadow fell obliquely across the foot of his narrow bed, and Cavendish, bending his long body somewhat, thrust his head in at the opening. He found himself looking into a pair of eyes that for the first time in many a long day held the light of consciousness.
“How are you, stranger?” he demanded, in a soft drawl.
“Where am I?” the words were a whisper on Yancy's bearded lips.
“Well, sir, you are in the Tennessee River fo' certain; my wife will make admiration when she hears you speak. Polly! you jest step here.”
But Polly had heard Cavendish speak, and the murmur of Yancy's voice in reply. Now her head appeared beside her husband's, and Yancy saw that she was rosy and smiling, and that her claim to good looks was something that could not well be denied.
“La, you are some better, ain't you, sir?” she cried, smiling down on him.
“How did I get here, and where's my nevvy?” questioned Yancy anxiously.
“There now, you ain't in no condition fo' to pester yo'self with worry. You was fished up out of the Elk River by Mr. Cavendish,” Polly explained, still smiling and dimpling at him.
“When, ma'am—last night?”
“You got another guess coming to you, stranger!” It was Cavendish who spoke.