“Hush!” We were silent. “Listen!” He puts his arm around my neck and whispers in my ear, “I'm a MOVING OFF!” “Moving off?” “Hush! Don't speak so loud. Moving off. Ah! wot's that? Don't you hear?--there! listen!” We listen, and hear the water gurgle and click beneath the floor. “It's them wot he sent!--Old Altascar sent. They've been here all night. I heard 'em first in the creek, when they came to tell the old man to move farther off. They came nearer and nearer. They whispered under the door, and I saw their eyes on the step--their cruel, hard eyes. Ah, why don't they quit?” I tell the men to search the room and see if they can find any further traces of the family, while Tryan resumes his old attitude. It is so much like the figure I remember on the breezy night that a superstitious feeling is fast overcoming me. When they have returned, I tell them briefly what I know of him, and the old man murmurs again: “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.