Now her head appeared beside her husband's, and Yancy saw that she was rosy and smiling, and that her claim to good looks was something that could not well be denied.
"La, you are some better, ain't you, sir ?" she cried, smiling down on him.
"How did I get here, and where's my nevvy ?" questioned Yancy anxiously.
"There now, you ain't in no condition fo' to pester yo'self with worry.

You was fished up out of the Elk River by Mr.Cavendish," Polly explained, still smiling and dimpling at him.
"When, ma'am--last night ?" "You got another guess coming to you, stranger!" It was Cavendish who spoke.
"Do you mean, sir, that I been unconscious for a spell ?" suggested Yancy rather fearfully, glancing from one to the other.
"It's been right smart of a spell, too; yes, sir, you've laid like you was dead, and not fo' a matter of hours either--but days." "How long ?" "Well, nigh on to three weeks." They saw Yancy's eyes widen with a look of dumb horror.
"Three weeks!" he at length repeated, and groaned miserably.

He was thinking of Hannibal.
"You was mighty droll to look at when I fished you up out of the river," continued Mr.Cavendish.

"You'd been cut and beat up scandalous!" "And you don't know nothing about my nevvy ?--you ain't seen or heard of him, ma'am ?" faltered Yancy, and glanced up into Polly's comely face.
Polly shook her head regretfully.
"How come you in the river ?" asked Cavendish.
"I reckon I was throwed in.

It was a man named Murrell and another man named Slosson.