"That's your name, all right, I can see. Now, George, what have you been
doing to make you hide out like this in the swamp?" demanded the other
sternly.

"Reckons as how I ain't wanted 'round dis section, boss. Ain't done
nothin' so very ba-ad, but seems like we-uns kain't git on. Some o' the
white gentlemen dey got it in fo' me, an' it was either a case o' hidin'
out er takin' a coat o' tar an' feathers. I reckoned I'd rather lay in de
swamp a while. But, boss, I 'clar tuh Moses I'se mighty nigh starved tuh
death, I is."

The man had evidently come to the conclusion that these Northern lads,
with the motor-boat, could hardly be hunting fugitive blacks in the
swamp. He was beginning to recover a little of his courage.

"How about that, Bluff? What did the people in the town say he had done?"
asked Frank.

"Oh, nothing much, only, just as he says, he's an undesirable citizen
around the place. I think they said he had a weakness for chickens, and
could not keep from sneaking into a coop if half a chance presented
itself," replied the other.

Frank smiled.

"Well, I believe that has never been called more than a weakness with
a colored man, in the North. People who keep chickens should see to it
that a poor fellow is not tempted beyond his strength. Locks are cheap
enough. Then our friend George has not been doing anything particularly
villainous?"