I waded towards it and
stooped, steadying myself against the current.
It was a paper boat.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE WOMEN IN THE GRAVEYARD.
I turned it over in my hand. Yes; it was a boat such as children
make out of paper, many times folded, and "What on earth," thought I,
"put such childishness into the head of Captain Branscome or Mr. Jack
Rogers?"
Then it occurred to me that they might be caught in some peril higher
up the stream, and had launched this message on the chance of its
being carried down to the waters of the creek. A far-fetched
explanation, to be sure! But what was I to think? If it were the
explanation, doubtless the paper contained writing, and, carrying it
to the bank, I seated myself and began to unfold it very carefully;
for it was sodden, and threatened to fall to pieces in my hands.
Then I reflected that the two men carried no writing materials, or,
at the best, a lead pencil, the marks of which would be obliterated
before the paper had been two minutes in the water.
Yet, as I parted the folds, I saw that the paper had indeed been
scribbled on, though the words were a smear; and, moreover, that the
writing was in ink!
In ink! My fingers trembled and involuntarily tore a small rent in
the pulpy mass.
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