Publisher's Synopsis
"Hollo, Phil!" That was the name to which I answered, especially when it was spoken as decidedly as on the present occasion. "I'm coming," I replied, at the top of my lungs. I had been a-fishing in a stream which flowed into the Missouri about a mile above my home. I had been very successful, and had as many fish as I could carry. I was gathering them up, after I had fastened my bateau to the stake, and intended to convey them to the Castle, as our log hut was rather facetiously called by its owner. "Phil! Phil!" repeated the voice above the bluff of the river. It was Matt Rockwood who called; and as he was the only master and guardian I had ever known, I always obeyed him-when I could not help doing so. His tones were more imperative than before, and I proceeded with greater haste to gather up my fish, stringing them upon some willow twigs I had just cut for the purpose. Crack went a rifle. The sound startled me, and, dropping my fish, I ran up the steep bank of the river to the summit of the bluff on which the Castle was located.
