burg by kindly shantyboaters, who left word that they had found him sitting on a sandbar, with buzzards sitting in a circle around him, listening to his talk.
Now Storit had one set purpose in mind. That was to find the scoundrel who had betrayed his confidence and stolen his diamonds—equal crimes. Every once in a while someone would tell him the man was on the river, and he would go seeking him, only to lose track of him—or lose track of himself. It was difficult to move up and down the river, chasing rumours. He had his living to make, anyhow.
Making a living was a tremendous business. He would go hunting for birds' eggs, to eat. He would creep up to the hole of a rabbit, and watch in the moonlight, to seize the little animal with his hands. He gathered hickory nuts at Columbus and other famous hickory groves. Sometimes he lived for days at a time on pecans. He fished some, too, and he foraged in drift piles for clothes to wear. Cornfields supplied him with some sustenance. When he was feeling well, he picked cotton, or even hoed cotton, but a good deal of the time his head hurt and he could not work. He had lucky hauls, sometimes, taking ropes from fleets or boats or government works. He sometimes ventured to steal a skiff or something of that kind.
One night, when he had tried to steal a skiff, a scoundrel frightened him terribly, having taken an air
