and though I took
my seat on a thwart, and got an oar over the side, I could hardly
believe it real till I recalled that it was possible that our actions
had all been watched, and that amongst the trees and bushes of the other
side dozens of keen eyes might be aiming arrows at us, and the oar
almost dropped from my hand.

Pomp was thinking of our enemies too, for, as he got his oar over the
side, and was looking down stream, he exclaimed suddenly--

"Yah! Who 'fraid now? Look, Mass' George, dat big ugly ole 'gator,
dah."

"Pomp!" I cried, in an excited whisper; and I half rose to fling myself
down, to lie in shelter of the boat's side.

For at that moment, from some distance off, came a cry that I recognised
as an Indian yell.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

I do not suppose that many who read this have ever heard a Red Indian's
cry, and I hope those who have not never will. It was no doubt invented
on purpose to scare an enemy, and it answers its purpose thoroughly.

To me it sounded blood-curdling, and a curious sensation ran through me,
as if the blood was chilling in my veins. But on thinking of it
afterwards, I did not believe that it curdled, and on talking the matter
over just before sitting down to write this narrative of my boyish
adventures, my doctor said it was all nonsense; that the sensation was
produced by the nerves, and that if a body's blood curdled there would
be an end of him at once.

Of course the doctor was right, for the effect of that cry was to make
me drop down in the boat again, whisper to Pomp to pull, and row with
all my might.

Then another yell came from our right, and was answered from the forest,
the Indian who shouted evidently being not very far away.

"Hear dat, Mass' George?" said Pomp.

"Yes; pull hard. It is the Indians."

"Well, who car' for old Injum? Dey can't cotch us now."

"Don't be too sure," I whispered. "There may be some of them waiting to
shoot at us with their bows and arrows."

Pomp turned his head quickly over his right shoulder to look at the low
bushes and reedy plants by the river-bank, and in doing so thrust his
oar too deeply down, with the result that he received a blow in the
chest, his legs rose up in the air, and his head went down between my
legs.

He lay on his back for a moment staring wildly up at me over his
forehead, his eyes rolling and his mouth wide.

"Why Mass' George do dat?" he cried.

"I didn't, you stupid little nigger," I