, flapjacks, or hominy, with coffee.
So hold your horses, Nick, and get ready to take your turn."

After the meal had been completed, preparations were made looking
toward an early start. They anticipated having a hard day's work,
several inlets having to be crossed, with the ocean setting in heavy
against them, it might be.

Jack had heard some pretty wild stories concerning the perils that
might be expected while crossing these same inlets, where at the full
sweep of the tide small boats were in danger of being upset in the mad
swirl.

He hardly believed more than half of what he heard, however, knowing
how prone the natives are to exaggerate things. Besides, the staunch
motor boats were not in the same class as the clumsy craft used by
those who navigated these shoal waters along the Virginia coast.

They said good-bye to the fugitive black. Some of them, in the
generosity of their boyish hearts, had slipped quarters and half
dollars in the ready hand of the fellow; and his eyes danced with
happiness as he stood there, waving the skippers and crews of the
little flotilla farewell.

"It was a mighty lucky thing for George Washington that he dropped into
our camp last night," laughed Herb, as they began to lose sight of the
waving hat of the negro.

"Yes, and just as lucky that he made a failure of his job," remarked
Jack, for they were moving along close together, so that it was easy to
talk back and forth. "If he'd managed to get away with a duck or two,
that would have ended it all. As it is, he's holding a nice little
bunch of coin, that will help pay for the grub, after he gets to
Baltimore with his family."

"I suppose it's a square deal George gave us?" queried Josh.

"Now, what do you mean by that?" demanded Herb.

"He couldn't have been playing a trick on us, could he?" the other went
on; for Josh was often inclined to be somewhat suspicious.

"Come off!" scoffed George.

"That's too bad, Josh, for you to suspect him of trying to pull the
wool over our eyes," Jack declared, reproachfully.

"Oh! I don't doubt him, so to speak," Josh protested; "but you know
I'd hate everlastingly to be done by a coon."

"That letter was genuine enough," observed Jack, thoughtfully; "and
fellows, perhaps you didn't notice the thing, but there were blurs on
that writing, just as if somebody had been crying, and the tears
dropped on the paper. Whether it was poor old George Washington,
feeling awful lonely,