Frona shuddered.
"Man, it's fair gruesome," McPherson muttered, running his hand up a
shrunken arm.
"You go on to the canoe, Frona," Corliss said. "Tommy and I will carry
him down."
But her lips set firmly. Though the descent was made easier by her
aid, the man was well shaken by the time they laid him in the bottom of
the canoe,--so well shaken that some last shreds of consciousness were
aroused. He opened his eyes and whispered hoarsely, "Jacob Welse . . .
despatches . . . from the Outside." He plucked feebly at his open
shirt, and across his emaciated chest they saw the leather strap, to
which, doubtless, the despatch-pouch was slung.
At either end of the canoe there was room to spare, but amidships
Corliss was forced to paddle with the man between his knees. La Bijou
swung out blithely from the bank. It was down-stream at last, and
there was little need for exertion.
Vance's arms and shoulders and back, a bright scarlet, caught Frona's
attention. "My hopes are realized," she exulted, reaching out and
softly stroking a burning arm. "We shall have to put cold cream on it
when we get back."
"Go ahead," he encouraged. "That feels awfully good."
She splashed his hot back with a handful of the ice-cold water from
over-side. He caught his breath with a gasp, and shivered. Tommy
turned about to look at them.
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