"Nobody ain't thar with you, I reckon," said Godfrey.

"No, I'm all by myself. But be you sartin that's you, pap?"

"In course I am, an' I've been a waitin' an' a watchin' fur yer. I'll
bring you over. You're an ongrateful an' ondutiful boy to leave your
poor ole pap, what's fit the Yankees an' worked so hard to bring you
up like a gentleman's son had oughter be brung up, out here in the
cane so long all by hisself."

"Why, pap, I didn't know you was here," said Dan.

Godfrey walked briskly along the shore until he reached a little
thicket of bushes into which he plunged out of sight. He appeared
again almost immediately, dragging behind him a small lead-colored
canoe which Dan recognized the moment he saw it. It was Don Gordon's
canoe, the one he used to pick up his dead and wounded ducks when he
was shooting over his decoys. It was a beautiful little craft, and
Dan had often wished that he could call it his own. It was one thing
that made him hate Don and Bert so cordially, and he had often told
himself that when he was ready to carry out the threats he had so
often made, that canoe should be one of the first things to suffer.
The brothers took altogether too much pleasure in it, and he wouldn't
have them rowing about the lake enjoying themselves while he was
obliged to stay ashore. The sight of it satisfied him that the man on
the opposite bank was his father, and nobody else. If he had been a
"haunt" he would not have needed a canoe to carry him across the
bayou.