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.