father, anyway. Grandfather. What about him?"
"That's what I want to ask you," Alan said. "When did he die and how?"
Jo Papo got up and stood leaning his back against a tree. So far from being one who was merely curious about Indians, this stranger perhaps was coming about an Indian claim—to give money maybe for injustices done in the past.
"My grandfather die fifteen years ago," he informed them. "From cough, I think."
"Where was that?" Alan asked.
"Escanaba—near there."
"What did he do?"
"Take people to shoot deer—fish—a guide. I think he plant a little too."
"He didn't work on the boats?"
"No; my father, he work on the boats."
"What was his name?"
"Like me; Jo Papo too. He's dead."
"What is your Indian name?"
"Flying Eagle."
"What boats did your father work on?"
"Many boats."
"What did he do?"
"Deck hand."
"What boat did he work on last?"
"Last? How do I know? He went away one year and didn't come back? I suppose he was drowned from a boat."
"What year was that?"
"I was little then; I do not know."
"How old were you?"
"Maybe eight years; maybe nine or ten."
