elf in a
loud, excited voice.

"Oh, golly!" he exclaimed. "Dis am a pretty fix for a bluegrass cullud
gemman! Dis am a pretty fix--los', los' up heah, in de midst of wolves
an' painters!"

Joe, from behind his rock, wailed mournfully in startling imitation of a
panther's call.

The darkey almost fell prone in his fright. "Name o' goodness!" he
exclaimed. "Wha' dat? Oh--oh--dere's a painter, now!"

Joe called again, more mournfully, more ominously than before.

Neb's fright became a trembling panic. "Hit's a-comin' closer!" he
exclaimed. "I feel as if de debbil's gwine ter git me!" He stooped and
started on a crouching run directly toward the rock behind which Joe was
hiding.

As the old man would have passed, Joe jumped out from his ambush, and,
bringing his right hand down heavily upon the darky's shoulder, emitted
a wild scream, absolutely terrifying in its savage ferocity. With a howl
Neb dropped upon his knees, praying in an ecstasy of fear.

"Oh, good Mister Painter, good Mister Debbil--" he began.

Inasmuch as he was not devoured upon the instant, he finally ventured to
look up and Joe laughed loudly.

So great was the relief of the old negro that he did not think of anger.
A sickly smile spread slowly on his face. "De Lawd be praised!" he said.
"Why, hit's a man!"

"Reckon I am," said Joe. "Generally pass for one." Then, although he
knew quite well just why the man had come, from whom, for whom, he asked
sternly to confuse him: "What _you_ doin' in these mountings?"

"I's lookin' fo' my massa, young Marse Frank Layson, suh," Neb answered
timidly.

"You needn't to go fur to find him," Lorey answered bitterly. "You
needn't to go fur to find him."

The old negro looked at him, puzzled and frightened by his grim tone and
manner.

"Why--why--" he began. "Is it hereabouts he hunts fo' deer? He wrote
home he was findin' good spo't in the mountains, huntin' deer."

Joe's mouth twitched ominously, involuntarily. The mere presence of Old
Neb, there, was another evidence of the great advantage, which, he began
to feel with hopeless rage, the man who had stolen that thing from him
which he prized most highly, had over him. The negro was his servant.
Servants meant prosperity, prosperity meant power. Backwoodsman as he
was, Joe Lorey knew that perfectly. His face gloomed in the twilight.

"Yes," he answered bitterly, "it's here he has been huntin'--huntin'
deer--the pootiest deer these mountings ever see.