t instantly occurs, he plucks his paddle
out of the water, leaving the dug-out to drift.

On his head is a wool hat of the cheap fabric supplied by the
Penitentiaries of the Southern States, chiefly for negro wear. Tilting
it to one side, he bends low, and listens.

Certainly a dog giving tongue--but in tone strange, unintelligible. It
is a hound's bay, but not as on slot, or chase.

It is a howl, or plaintive whine, as if the animal were tied up, or
being chastised!

After listening to it for some time--for it is nearly continuous--the
mulatto makes remark to himself. "There's no danger in the growl of
that dog. I know it nearly as well as my own voice. It's the
deer-hound that belong to young Masser Clancy. He's no slave-catcher."

Re-assured he again dips his blade, and pushes on as before.

But now on the alert, he rows with increased caution, and more
noiselessly than ever. So slight is the plash of his paddle, it does
not hinder him from noting every sound--the slightest that stirs among
the cypresses.

The only one heard is the hound's voice, still in whining, wailing note.

"Lor!" he exclaims once more, staying his stroke, and giving way to
conjectures, "what can be the matter with the poor brute? There must be
something amiss to make it cry; out in that strain. Hope 'taint no
mischance happened its young masser, the best man about all these parts.
Come what will, I'll go to the ground, an' see."

A few more strokes carries the canoe on to the place, where its owner
has been accustomed to moor it, for meeting Blue Bill; and where on this
evening, as on others, he has arranged his interview with the
coon-hunter. A huge sycamore, standing half on land, half in the water,
with long outstretching roots laid bare by the wash of the current,
affords him a safe point of debarkation. For on these his footsteps
will leave no trace, and his craft can be stowed in concealment.

It chances to be near the spot where the dog is still giving tongue--
apparently not more than two hundred yards off.

Drawing the dug-out in between the roots of the sycamore, and there
roping it fast, the mulatto mounts upon the bank. Then after standing
some seconds to listen, he goes gliding off through the trees.

If cautious while making approach by water, he is even more so on the
land; so long being away from it, he there feels less at home.

Guided by the yelps of the animal, that reach him in quick repetition,
he