Shif'less Sol took his place in the prow of the boat, and his attitude was
much like that of Tom Ross the night before, only lazier and more
graceful. Sol was a fine figure of a young man, drooped in a luxurious and
reclining attitude, his shoulder against the side of the boat, and a roll
of two blankets against his back. His eyes were half closed, and a stray
observer, had there been any, might have thought that he was either asleep
or dreaming.
But the shiftless one, fit son of the wilderness, was never more awake in
his life. The eyes, looking from under the lowered lids, pierced the
forest like those of a cat. He saw and noted every tree trunk within the
range of human vision, and no piece of floating debris on the surface of
the flooded river escaped his attention. His sharp ears heard, too, every
sound in the grove, the rustle of a stray breeze through the new leaves,
or the splash of a fish, as it leaped from the water and sank back again.
The hours dragged after one another, one by one, but Shif'less Sol was not
unhappy. He was really quite willing to keep the watch, and, as Tom Ross
had done, he regarded his sleeping comrades with pride, and all the warmth
of good fellowship.
The night was dark, like its predecessor.
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