Sandy.

'And suppose he found a boat here,' I suggested, 'and made the shore
some ways down?'

'He couldn't get Firefly into a boat--we should only waste time in
scouring the other bank. The swamp this side the next run has forced him
into the road within five miles. The trick is transparent. He took me
for a fool,' replied the Colonel, answering both questions at once.

I had reined my horse out of the road, and when my companions turned to
go, was standing at the edge of the bank, overlooking the river.
Suddenly I saw, on one of the abutments of the bridge, what seemed a
long, black log--strange to say, _in motion!_

'Colonel,' I shouted, 'see there! a living log, as I'm a white man!'

'Lord bless you,' cried the planter, taking an observation, 'it's an
alligator!'

I said no more, but pressing on after the hound, soon left my companions
out of sight. For long afterward, the Colonel, in a doleful way, would
allude to my lamentable deficiency in natural history--particularly in
such branches as bacon and 'living logs.'

I had ridden about five miles, keeping well up with the hound, and had
reached the edge of the swamp, when suddenly the dog darted to the side
of the road, and began to yelp in the most frantic manner. Dismounting,
and leading my horse to the spot, I made out plainly the print of
Firefly's feet in the sand. There was no mistaking it--that round shoe