CHAPTER XX.
THE STORY OF ELSIE CLARK The next two hours dragged dreadfully slow, in spite of my pretense at steady work, and the fact that my thoughts were continuously occupied.
The shores past which we glided were low and monotonous, while the river was but a tawny sweep of unoccupied water.

We were already well above the region of white settlements, in a land beautiful, but uncultivated.

The upper deck remained practically deserted, and I was encouraged to observe, by glancing through the skylight, that a stubborn game of poker was being indulged in at the cabin table below.
The amount of stakes visible, as well as some of the language reaching me, accounted for the absence of passengers outside, even those not playing circling the table in interest.

The deputy, however, was not among these, and occasionally he wandered up the ladder, and patrolled the deck, although making no effort to invade the locked stateroom.
Apparently he was merely performing a duty assigned him by Kirby, but possessed no fear that his prisoners would escape.

The last time he appeared more at ease, and sat down on a stool close to the rail, smoking his pipe, and staring out glumly at the water.