At the bayou at last, they wriggled Jeems awkwardly into the boat. Val had no doubt that a woodsman might have done the whole job better in much less time and without a tenth of the effort they had expended. But all he ever wondered afterward was how they ever did it at all. [Illustration: _At the bayou at last, they wriggled Jeems awkwardly into the boat._] It was when Ricky had made their passenger as comfortable as she could in the bottom of the boat, steadying his head across her knees, that her brother partially relaxed. "Val, you run the engine," she said without looking up. He dragged himself toward the stern of the boat, remembering too late, when he had cast off, that he had not taken the canoe in tow. The engine coughed, sputtered, and then settled down to a steady _putt-putt_. They were off. "Val, do you--do you think he is badly hurt?" He dared not look down; it required all his powers of concentration on what lay before them to keep his hand steady. "No. We'll get a doctor when we get back. He'll come around again in no time--Jeems, I mean." But would he? Head injuries were sometimes more serious than they seemed, Val remembered dismally. It was not until they came out into the main bayou that Jeems roused again. He looked up at Ricky in a sort of dull surprise, and then his gaze shifted to Val. "What--" "We won the war," Val tried to grin, an operation which tore his mask of dried blood, "thanks to Ricky. And now we're going home." At that, Jeems made a violent effort to sit up. "_Non_!" his English deserted him and he broke into impassioned French. "Yes," Val replied firmly as Ricky pushed the swamper down. "Of course you're coming with us. You've had a nasty knock on the head that needs attention." "Ah'm not a-goin' to no hospital!" His eyes burned into Val's. "Certainly not!" cried Ricky. "You're bound for our guest-room. Now keep quiet. We'll be there soon." "Ah ain't a-goin'," he declared mutinously. "Don't be silly," Ricky scolded him; "we're taking you. Does Val have to come and hold you down?" "Ah can't!" His eyes flickered from Val's face to hers. There was something more than independence behind that firm refusal. "Ah ain't a-goin' theah." "Why not?" He seemed to shrink from her. "It ain't fitten," he murmured. "How perfectly silly," laughed Ricky. But Val thought that he understood. "Because of the secret you know?" he asked quietly. The pallor beneath Jeems' heavy tan vanished in a flush of slow-burning red. "Ah reckon so," he muttered, but he met Val's eyes squarely. "Let's leave all explanations until later," Val suggested. "Ah played haunt!" the confession came out of the swamper in a rush. "Then you _were_ my faceless ghost?" Jeems tried to nod and the action printed a frown of pain between his eyes. "Why? Didn't you want us to live there?" asked Ricky gently. "Ah was huntin'--" "What for?"