"I'll bleed him!" cried Johnson at last--"run for a calabash, one of
you!"

"Life ho!" here sung out Navy Bob, as if he had just spied a sail.

"What under the sun's the matter with him!" cried the physician,
starting at the appearance of the mouth, which had jerked to one
side, and there remained fixed.

"Pr'aps it's St. Witus's hornpipe," suggested Bob.

"Hold the calabash!"--and the lancet was out in a moment.

But before the deed could be done, the face became natural;--a sigh
was heaved;--the eyelids quivered, opened, closed; and Long Ghost,
twitching all over, rolled on his side, and breathed audibly. By
degrees, he became sufficiently recovered to speak.

After trying to get something coherent out of him, Johnson withdrew;
evidently disappointed in the scientific interest of the case. Soon
after his departure, the doctor sat up; and upon being asked what
upon earth ailed him, shook his head mysteriously. He then deplored
the hardship of being an invalid in such a place, where there was not
the slightest provision for his comfort. This awakened the compassion
of our good old keeper, who offered to send him to a place where he
would be better cared for. Long Ghost acquiesced; and being at once
mounted upon the shoulders of four of Captain Bob's men, was marched
off in state, like the Grand Lama of Thibet.