e heard the one word "gun," and
that settled the matter.

Phil thought fast. He had no doubt but that this fellow must indeed be
the man the sheriff and his posse were hunting with hounds. He was an
escaped convict, from the turpentine camp, where the chain gang worked
out their various sentences under the rifles of the guards.

Perhaps after temporarily eluding his pursuers the fellow had happened
on the boat as it lay there alongside the bank. He was possibly nearly
starved; and rendered desperate by his condition had determined to
attempt to steal some food, taking his very life in his hands in order
to do so.

Phil knew just where a lantern lay. And he always carried plenty of
matches on his person, so as to be provided in case he became lost in
the wilderness at any time.

So he now decided to have some light on the subject. At the crackling
of his match the negro uttered a low whine, and began to struggle
slightly again, possibly fearing that he was about to be shot.

"Keep still, now!" cried Tony, knocking the fellow's head smartly on
the planks of the deck; for he was sprawled out on the intruder's chest.

Phil, having succeeded in lighting the lantern, held it up. The first
thing he saw was the frightened face of the escaped convict. Somehow
it sent a pang through the heart of the boy, for he had never in all
his life looked on a human countenance that was stamped with suffering
as that black one seemed to be.

"Let him up, Tony; I've got the gun, and will keep him covered!" he
said.

The swamp boy obeyed. Perhaps he hardly thought it wise of Phil to act
as he did, for it might be noticed that the first act of Tony was to
pick up the hatchet, and keep it handy.

Larry had finally succeeded in unwinding that blanket from around his
person. He was staring at them as though he could hardly believe the
whole thing were not a nightmare.

"Sit up, you!" Phil repeated; and the negro obeyed.

It was plain that astonishment was beginning to share the element of
fear in his face, when he saw that his captors were three half-grown
boys instead of gruff men. And perhaps for the first time a glimmer of
wild hope began to struggle for existence in the oppressed heart of the
runaway.

"What's your name?" asked Phil, sternly.

"Pete Smith, sah," replied the other, in a quavering tone.

"You escaped from the convict camp, and it was you they were hunting
with the dogs, wasn't it?" the boy went on.