“Why don’t they quit, then?  They have the stock—­all gone—­gone, gone for the hides and hoofs,” and he groans bitterly.

“There are other boats below us.  The shanty cannot have drifted far, and perhaps the family are safe by this time,” says the coxswain, hopefully.

We lift the old man up, for he is quite helpless, and carry him to the boat.  He is still grasping the Bible in his right hand, though its strengthening grace is blank to his vacant eye, and he cowers in the stern as we pull slowly to the steamer while a pale gleam in the sky shows the coming day.

I was weary with excitement, and when we reached the steamer, and I had seen Joseph Tryan comfortably bestowed, I wrapped myself in a blanket near the boiler and presently fell asleep.  But even then the figure of the old man often started before me, and a sense of uneasiness about George made a strong undercurrent to my drifting dreams.  I was awakened at about eight o’clock in the morning by the engineer, who told me one of the old man’s sons had been picked up and was now on board.

“Is it George Tryan?” I ask quickly.

“Don’t know; but he’s a sweet one, whoever he is,” adds the engineer, with a smile at some luscious remembrance.  “You’ll find him for’ard.”

I hurry to the bow of the boat, and find, not George, but the irrepressible Wise, sitting on a coil of rope, a little dirtier and rather more dilapidated than I can remember having seen him.

He is examining, with apparent admiration, some rough, dry clothes that have been put out for his disposal.  I cannot help thinking that circumstances have somewhat exalted his usual cheerfulness.  He puts me at my ease by at once addressing me: 

“These are high old times, ain’t they?  I say, what do you reckon’s become o’ them thar bound’ry moniments you stuck?  Ah!”

The pause which succeeds this outburst is the effect of a spasm of admiration at a pair of high boots, which, by great exertion, he has at last pulled on his feet.

“So you’ve picked up the ole man in the shanty, clean crazy?  He must have been soft to have stuck there instead o’ leavin’ with the old woman.  Didn’t know me from Adam; took me for George!”

At this affecting instance of paternal forgetfulness, Wise was evidently divided between amusement and chagrin.  I took advantage of the contending emotions to ask about George.

“Don’t know whar he is!  If he’d tended stock instead of running about the prairie, packin’ off wimmin and children, he might have saved suthin.  He lost every hoof and hide, I’ll bet a cooky!  Say you,” to a passing boatman, “when are you goin’ to give us some grub?  I’m hungry ’nough to skin and eat a hoss.  Reckon I’ll turn butcher when things is dried up, and save hides, horns, and taller.”

I could not but admire this indomitable energy, which under softer climatic influences might have borne such goodly fruit.