"Is that you, Dannie?" asked the latter.

"You're just a shoutin'," was the reply.

"n.o.body ain't thar with you, I reckon," said G.o.dfrey.

"No, I'm all by myself. But be you sartin that's you, pap?"

"In course I am, an' I've been a waitin' an' a watchin' fur yer. I'll bring you over. You're an ongrateful an' ondutiful boy to leave your poor ole pap, what's fit the Yankees an' worked so hard to bring you up like a gentleman's son had oughter be brung up, out here in the cane so long all by hisself."

"Why, pap, I didn't know you was here," said Dan.

G.o.dfrey walked briskly along the sh.o.r.e until he reached a little thicket of bushes into which he plunged out of sight. He appeared again almost immediately, dragging behind him a small lead-colored canoe which Dan recognized the moment he saw it. It was Don Gordon's canoe, the one he used to pick up his dead and wounded ducks when he was shooting over his decoys. It was a beautiful little craft, and Dan had often wished that he could call it his own. It was one thing that made him hate Don and Bert so cordially, and he had often told himself that when he was ready to carry out the threats he had so often made, that canoe should be one of the first things to suffer.

The brothers took altogether too much pleasure in it, and he wouldn't have them rowing about the lake enjoying themselves while he was obliged to stay ash.o.r.e. The sight of it satisfied him that the man on the opposite bank was his father, and n.o.body else. If he had been a "haunt" he would not have needed a canoe to carry him across the bayou.

Having placed the canoe in the water G.o.dfrey went back into the cane after the oars--the little craft was provided with rowlocks and propelled by oars instead of paddles--and in a few seconds more he was on Dan's side of the bayou. The moment the canoe touched the bank he sprang out, and if one might judge by the cordial manner in which father and son greeted each other, they were glad to meet again.

"I didn't never expect to feel your grip no more, pap," said Dan, who was the first to speak, "an' I'm ridikilis proud to see you with this yere dug-out. How came you by it, and whar did you git it?"

"I jest took it an' welcome," answered G.o.dfrey. "I wasn't goin' to swim over to the island every time I wanted to go there, was I?"

"In course not. I'm scandalous glad you tuk it; an' now I'll have a ride in it, an' no thanks to Don Gordon nuther. Been a livin' here ever since you've been gone?" added Dan, as he stepped into the boat and picked up the oars.

"Yes, an' I've been a lookin' fur you every day. Seems to me you might a knowed where to find me, kase here's whar I hung out when the Yanks was in the country. Hear anything about me, in the settlement?"

"Yes, lots. Silas Jones has done been to Dave fur them eight dollars you owe him."

"Much good may they do him, when he gets 'em," said G.o.dfrey, snapping his fingers in the air.

"Dave's goin' to pay the bill," added Dan. "I done heard him say so."

"The ongrateful an' ondutiful scamp!" exclaimed G.o.dfrey. "If he's got that much money, why don't he give it to me, like he had oughter do?

I need it more'n Silas does. Hear anything else, Dannie?"

"Yes; General Gordon says, why don't you come home an' go 'have yourself? n.o.body wouldn't pester you."

"Does you see anything green in these yere eyes?" asked G.o.dfrey, looking steadily at Dan. "That would do to tell some folks, but a man what's fit the Yanks ain't so easy fooled. I'm safe here, an' here I'll stay, till----Hear anything else, Dannie--anything 'bout them two city chaps, Clarence an' Marsh Gordon?"

"O, they've gone home long ago."

"You didn't hear nothing about them gettin' into a furse afore they went, did you?"

"Course I have. Everybody knows that you an' Clarence thought Don was ole Jordan an' shet him up in the tater-hole."

"An' sarved him right, too," exclaimed G.o.dfrey. "I reckon he's well paid fur cheatin' me outen that chance of making eighty thousand dollars. I heard Clarence was robbed afore he went away," added G.o.dfrey, at the same time turning away his head and looking at Dan out of the corner of his eyes.

"I didn't hear nothing about that," said Dan.

G.o.dfrey drew a long breath of relief. Ever since he took up his abode on the island he had been torturing himself with the belief that the robbery of which he was guilty was the talk of the settlement, and that he would be arrested for at if he should ever show himself at the landing again. He breathed much easier to know that his fears on this score were groundless.

"Hear anything else, Dannie?" asked G.o.dfrey, and his voice was so cheerful and animated that the boy looked at him in amazement.

"What's Dave an' the ole woman doin'?"

"That thar Dave is goin' to git rich, dog-gone it," replied Dan, in great disgust. "He got a letter from some feller up North this mornin' tellin' him if he would trap fifty dozen live quail fur him, he'd pay him so't he could make three dollars a dozen on 'em. I seed Don give him the letter, an' I heard 'em a talkin' and a laughin'

about it."

"That's what makes me 'spise them Gordons so," said G.o.dfrey, slapping the side of the canoe with his open hand. "They're all the time a boostin' Dave, an' me and you could starve fur all they keer. Now jump out, an' we'll go up to my house an' talk about it. We'll leave the boat here, so't it will be handy when you want to go back."

As G.o.dfrey spoke the bow of the canoe ran deep into the soft mud which formed the beach on that side of the island, and the father and son sprang out. G.o.dfrey led the way along a narrow, winding path which ran through the cane, and after a few minutes walking ushered Dan into an open s.p.a.ce in the centre of the island. Here stood the little bark lean-to that he called his house. The cane had been cleared away from a spot about fifteen feet square, and piled up around the outside, so that it looked like a little breastwork.

The lean-to was not a very imposing structure--G.o.dfrey would much rather sit in the sun and smoke his pipe then expend any of his strength in providing for his comfort--but it was large enough to shelter one man, and with a few more pieces of bark on the roof and a roaring fire in front, it might have been made a very pleasant and inviting camp. Just now, however, it looked cheerless enough. There was a little armful of leaves under the roof of the lean-to and there was a block of wood beside the fire-place, the position of which was pointed out by a bed of ashes and cinders. The leaves served for a bed and the block of wood for a chair; and they were all the "furniture" that was to be seen about the camp. But G.o.dfrey was very well satisfied with his surroundings and Dan was delighted with them.

It must be splendid, he thought, to live there all by one's self with nothing to worry over and no work to do. It was not even necessary that G.o.dfrey should chop wood for the fire, for the upper end of the island was covered with broken logs and branches, and five minutes'

work every morning would suffice to provide him with all the fuel he would be likely to burn during the day.

"What a nice place you've got here, pap!" said Dan, when he had taken a hurried survey of the camp.

"I reckon it's about right," replied G.o.dfrey. "I had this fur a hidin' place while the Yanks was a scoutin' about through the country, an' I come here now kase n.o.body won't think of lookin' fur me so nigh the settlement. An' they won't stumble onto me afore I know it, nuther. They can't git to me if they come afoot kase the bayou'll stop 'em; an' I never heard of n.o.body coming up here in a boat. Nothing bothers me 'ceptin' a bar. He comes over every night to feed on the beech-nuts an' acorns, an' some night he'll come fur the last time. I'll jest knock him over, and then I'll have meat enough to last me a month. I build my fire and do my cookin' at night, so't n.o.body can't see the smoke, an' that's what frightened the bar away afore I could shoot him."

"I've a notion to come here an' live with you, pap," said Dan.

"'Twon't be safe," replied his father, quickly. "If you're missin'

from home folks might begin to hunt fur us, an' that's somethin' I don't want 'em to do. 'Sides you must stay in the settlement an' help me. I shall need things from the store now an' then, an' as I can't go and git 'em myself, you'll have to git 'em fur me. But what was you sayin' about Dave?" asked G.o.dfrey, throwing himself down on one of the piles of cane and motioning to Dan to occupy the block of wood.

"I was a sayin' that he's a little the meanest feller I ever seed,"

replied Dan, "an' don't you say so too, pap? Kase why, he's goin' to git fifty dollars fur them quail, an' he's goin' to give the money all to the ole woman."

"An' leave me to freeze an' starve out here in the cane?" exclaimed G.o.dfrey, with a great show of indignation. "Not by no means he won't.

If he don't mind what he's about we'll take the hul on it, Dan, me an' you will."

"_He_ won't get none on it, you kin bet high on that," said Dan. "I told him I was goin' agin him, an' so I am. I'll bust his traps as fast as I kin find 'em, an' I won't do nothin' but hunt fur 'em, day an' night."

"Now, haint you got no sense at all?" cried his father, so fiercely that Dan jumped up and turned his face toward the path, as if he were on the point of taking to his heels.

"Wal, I wanted to go pardners with him an' he wouldn't le' me,"

protested Dan.

"What's the odds? Set down thar an' listen while somebody what knows somethin' talks to you. What odds does it make to you if he won't go pardners with you?"

"Kase I want some of the money; that's the odds it makes to me."

"Wal, you kin have it, an' you needn't do no work, nuther. I'm Dave's pap an' your'n too, an' knows what's best fur all of us. You jest keep still an' let Dave go on an' ketch the birds; an' when he's ketched 'em an' got the money in his pocket, then I'll tell you what else to do. Le' me see: fifty dozen birds at three dollars a dozen!

That's--that's jest----"

G.o.dfrey straightened up, locked his fingers together, rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at the pile of ashes in the fire-place.

"It's a heap of money, the fust thing you know," said Dan. "It's fifty dollars. Dave told me so."

"Fifty gran'mothers!" exclaimed G.o.dfrey. "Dave done said that jest to make a fule of you. It would be fifty dollars if he got only a dollar a dozen. If he got two it would be a hundred dollars, an' if he got three, it would be----"

G.o.dfrey stopped, believing that he must have made a mistake somewhere, and stared at Dan as if he were utterly bewildered. Dan returned the stare with interest. "A hundred dollars!" he repeated, slowly. "That thar Dave of our'n goin' to make a hundred dollars all by hisself! Some on it's mine."