I's gwine tuh Chattanooga, tuh jine my darter. An' dat grub yuh guv
me'll kerry me part o' the way."

"That's all right, George. Suppose you just take the time to paddle me
back to our camp. I'll promise you a lot more provisions, and some money
in the bargain. This is a serious scrape for me, and while my life may
not amount to much, it does seem a pity to waste all the fine views I've
taken in this old swamp. Will you go?"

"'Deed an' I will, right peart, suh. You-all hev bin mighty good tuh me,
an' I ain't gwine tuh forgit dat you sed as how I mightn't be just as
bad as dey paint me. Git into de leetle boat, young mars, an' I'll paddle
yuh home," said the old negro, with alacrity.

"Hold on a minute, George! I want to shoot you first," observed Will.

"Gorry! Will it hurt, marse?" asked the other, beginning to look worried
as he saw the mysterious black box being aimed at him.

"Not one-tenth as bad as having a tooth pulled out," laughed Will. "In
fact, you probably would never know it. Please step back a little. You
see, I'm trying to get the shack in, too. That's part of the game."

Will snapped the camera shutter.

"That's all. Didn't feel it, did you, George?"

"Not so's I kin notice, suh. An' will dat show me an' de leetle shack
w'en it's done fixed?" asked the fugitive wonderingly, eyeing the camera
with respect.