in a grim line. "Time for
his lesson," he murmured to Walter.

Chris waited until they had come within a hundred yards of the crane
when he unslung his rifle and dismounted while the others reined in to
watch the outcome.

The little darky rested his gun on his saddle and took careful aim.
The crack of his rifle was followed by a hoarse squawk and the tall
bird tumbled over lifeless.

Chris danced with delight. "I got 'em, I'se got 'em," he cried. Like
a flash he was on his pony and galloping towards the dead bird.

"Come back, Chris," shouted Charley, but the little darky galloped on
unheeding.

And now the rest of the party beheld a curious thing. Chris' pony had
reached the edge of the grass and had stopped so suddenly as to nearly
throw its rider over its head. In vain did the little negro apply whip
and spur. Not a step further would the animal budge. They saw Chris
at last throw the reins over the pony's head and leaping from his
saddle plunge into the grass. Only the top of his head was visible but
they could trace his progress by that and it was very, very slow. At
last he reached the crane and slinging it over his shoulder began to
retrace his footsteps. His return was infinitely slow, but at last he
regained his pony and dragging himself and his burden into the saddle
headed back towards the group of curious watchers. As he drew nearer
they stared in silent amazement. He was wet from head to foot, his
clothing was in tatters, and the blood flowed freely from a hundred
cuts on face, hands and arms.

He rode up to Charley with a sickly smile. "I got 'em, Massa Charley,"
he boasted weakly.

Without a word Charley reached over and took the crane from him.
Stripping away the feathers, he exposed the body of the great bird and
held it up to view. The captain and Walter gave an exclamation of
disgust. The body was merely a framework of bones with the skin
hanging loosely from it.

"It's their moulting season," he explained simply.

"Why you doan tell me dat place full of water, dat grass cut like
knife, an' dat ole mister crane wasn't no good nohow," Chris demanded,
hotly.

Charley gazed at the pathetic, wretched, little figure and his
conscience smote him.

"I told you not to go, Chris," he said gently, "but you would do it.
This time there was plenty of time to explain to you that what you
thought was merely a plot of grass was really a saw-grass pond, and
that sand-hill cranes are n