d.

"Now Gabriel can't overhaul me," Johnson exclaimed; "thar's no more road
on the Dorchester side, an' the Somerset roads is all gashed by creeks
an' barred by farm-gates. I'll sink that dab an' stiffy."

He called two deck hands, and lifted the body out of the hold. Phoebus
still placidly slept upon his face, and Johnson looked at him with
peculiar envy after a hurried glance at the dead. Some ropes being put
around the bed, and drag-irons attached to them, the whole weight was
unceremoniously thrown overboard at the point of Hungry Neck, and the
dealer remarked, apologetically:

"There goes a great hypocrite, gentlemen; he wasn't above piracy, ef he
could git another man to fly the black flag for him. I reckon he'll be
'conservative' enough after this. And now I'll snooze. Steer her for
Ragged Point, yonder, Whatcoat, an' when you git thar wake me. It's
clear broad inlet all the way; an' remember, nigger, I sleep and shoot,
on hair triggers!"

With his pistols in his hand, Johnson lay down in the cabin a few feet
from the helmsman, and tried to see and sleep at once. He had been
without rest for many nights, and sleep soon bound him in its own clevis
and manacles.

When he awoke, so deep had been his slumber that he could not recall for
a moment where he was. The tiller was unmanned, the stars shone in the
cabin hatchway, a cold bilge-water draft blew through the old hulk, and,
as he dragged himself up the steps, he saw tall woods near by, and heard
the voice of solemn pines.

The vessel was aground; wild geese were making jubilant shrieks as they
cut the water with their fleecy wings, like cameo engraving; the outlaw
gazed and gazed, and finally muttered:

"Deil's Island, or I'm a billy noodle! I run from it the last time I was
yer, an' my blood runs cold to be yer agin; my daddy got his curse from
this camp-meetin'."

Taking speed from his apprehensions, Johnson slid back the hatchway and
leaped into the hold, starlight and moonlight following him, and nothing
did they reveal there except one man, peacefully sleeping upon his face,
as Phoebus had last been seen.

The kidnapper shook his captive, but he did not awaken. He turned the
man over, and there met his eyes the cold blue stare and Roman nose and
bleeding lips of Allan McLane, apparently returned from the bottom of
the river.

With a shriek, the outlaw bounded upon the deck and ran to the bow of
the pungy.

"Help me!" came a faint cry from the