There was nothing he could do to relieve the sufferer, so Walter with a heavy heart stole out of the hut.
The captain and Chris were busy over the fire preparing breakfast. They greeted Walter with grave faces for Charley's condition was resting heavily upon them.
"If I only had some quinine I could check that fever," sighed the old sailor. "He is healthy and clean-blooded and I reckon he'd get over that bad leg in time, but he can't fight them both. How in the world did he come to start the wound to bleeding again?"
Sadly Walter recounted the adventures of the night. He told of their previous discovery of the bell, their first fruitless search of the chapel, and of his venturing in alone and the shooting of the bell-ringer.
As he proceeded with his narrative the captain's face grew crimson with mortification and chagrin, as he saw his much-asserted ghostly theories shattered.
The effect on Chris' humorous nature was different. The first expression of relief on his little ebony face was succeeded by a broad grin.
"Golly," he giggled, "an' me an' Massa Capt was scart nigh to death by a poor ole harmless monkey."
Few men like to be placed in a ridiculous position and the captain turned on the little darky in a rage.
"Shut up, you grinning little imp," he shouted, "or I'll thrash you so you can't sit down for a week. What call have you got to be giggling over the death of one of your ancestors?"
Chris checked the flow of words on his tongue, but sat rocking back and forth in glee muttering, "Golly, only a monkey. A poor, old, he-monkey," until the irate captain chased him out of ear-shot.