o the south as they were
plunged into the black shore shadows.

But what he did not see was a big muscular hand which had thrust itself
out of the impenetrable gloom and clutched the side of the keel boat.
Coincident with this there arose a perfect babel of voices, high-pitched
and shrill.

"Sho--I bet it's him! Sho'--it's Uncle Bob's nevvy! Sho', you can hear
'em! Sho', they're shootin' guns! Sho'!"

Carrington cast a hurried glance in the direction of these sounds. There
between the boat and the shore the dim outline of a raft was taking
shape. It was now canopied by a wealth of pale gray smoke that faded
from before his eyes as the darkness lifted. Turning, he saw Slosson and
his men clearly. Surprise and consternation was depicted on each face.

The light increased. From the flat stone hearth of the raft ascended
a tall column of flame which rendered visible six pygmy figures,
tow-headed and wonderfully vocal, who were toiling like mad at the huge
sweeps. The light showed more than this. It showed a lady of plump and
pleasing presence smoking a cobpipe while she fed the fire from a tick
stuffed with straw. It showed two bark shanties, a line between them
decorated with the never-ending Cavendish wash. It showed a rooster
perched on the ridge-pole of one of these shanties in the very act of
crowing lustily.

Hannibal, who had climbed to the roof of the cabin, shrieked for help,
and Betty added her voice to his.

"All right, Nevvy!" came the cheerful reply, as Yancy threw himself over
the side of the boat and grappled with Slosson.

"Uncle Bob! Uncle Bob!" cried Hannibal.

Slosson uttered a cry of terror. He had a simple but sincere faith in
the supernatural, and even with the Scratch Hiller's big hands gripping
his throat, he could not rid himself of the belief that this was the
ghost of a murdered man.

"You'll take a dog's licking from me, neighbor?" said Yancy grimly. "I
been saving it fo' you!"

Meanwhile Mr. Cavendish, whose proud spirit never greatly inclined him
to the practice of peace, had prepared for battle; Springing aloft he
knocked his heels together.

"Whoop! I'm a man as can slide down a thorny locust and never get
scratched!" he shouted. This was equivalent to setting his triggers;
then he launched himself nimbly and with enthusiasm into the thick of
the fight. It was Mr. Bunker's unfortunate privilege to sustain the
onslaught of the Earl of Lambeth.

The light from the Cavendish hear