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THE MOTOR-BOAT AND THE PROWLERS

The unlucky young photographer gave a shriek. He could only think of that
panther Frank had seen on the previous night, and believed that he was
now in the power of the ferocious beast.

As he fell forward he managed to twist himself around so that he lay
almost on his back. This enabled him to look up into the face of the
man who was pinioning him down so fiercely to the earth.

"George!" he exclaimed.

It was the same fugitive black who had visited their camp on the
preceding night. He stared hard at the face of the one he was holding
down.

"Gorry! Am it you, young marse?" he exclaimed, as he released his savage
clutch, and even attempted to help Will up.

"Yes. I'm lost, you see. Tried to do too much. Taking pictures in the
swamp, and kind of got a little mixed. But I'm glad to meet you again,
George. Is this the place where you hold out?"

The negro was breathing hard. He had evidently been greatly excited,
under the belief that the creeping form had been one of his enemies, bent
on effecting his capture, with the idea of furnishing sport for the
idlers at the river town, through the medium of a little "tar and
feathers party," so popular in some sections of the Southern backwoods.

"I heerd a sound like it wor a gun bein' cocked. Dat must 'a' been de
black box heah, suh. Gorry! but I's glad it wan't dem white trash from de
town. I's jest a-gittin' ready tuh vamoose outen heah right smart now.
I's gwine tuh Chattanooga, tuh jine my darter. An' dat grub yuh guv
me'll kerry me part o' the way."

"That's all right, George. Suppose you just take the time to paddle me
back to our camp. I'll promise you a lot more provisions, and some money
in the bargain. This is a serious scrape for me, and while my life may
not amount to much, it does seem a pity to waste all the fine views I've
taken in this old swamp. Will you go?"

"'Deed an' I will, right peart, suh. You-all hev bin mighty good tuh me,
an' I ain't gwine tuh forgit dat you sed as how I mightn't be just as
bad as dey paint me. Git into de leetle boat, young mars, an' I'll paddle
yuh home," said the old negro, with alacrity.

"Hold on a minute, George! I want to shoot you first," observed Will.

"Gorry! Will it hurt, marse?" asked the other, beginning to look worried
as he saw the mysterious black box being aimed at him.

"Not one-tenth as bad as having a tooth pulled out," laughed Will. "In
fact, you probably wo