Explore "The Boy Fortune Hunters in Panama" by L. Frank Baum on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"Turn him over, Tom," said I, softly, and the sailor clambered into the canoe and obeyed -- rather gingerly, though, for no one likes to touch a dead man.
The bearded face and staring eyes that confronted us were those of one of our own race, a white man who had been shot through the heart with an arrow that still projected from the wound. His clothing was threadbare and hung almost in rags, while his feet were protected by rude sandals of bark laced with thongs of some vegetable fibre. He was neither a Mexican nor a Spaniard, but I judged him a North American of German descent, if his physiognomy could be trusted.