"Help, help, 'fore dis Indian gentleman—'fore I dies from de wounds dat dey's given me."
"I've heard that voice before," remarked Kent to Leslie, in an undertone.
"So have I," replied the latter. "Why, it is George Leland's negro; he wouldn't decoy us into danger. Let us go in."
"Wait until I speak further with him." (Then, to the person upon shore): "What might be your name?"
"Zeb Langdon. Isn't dat old Kent?"
"Yes; how came you in this scrape, Zeb?"
"Gorra mighty! I didn't come into it. Dem red dogs—dese here nice fellers—brought me here 'bout two months ago, and den dey all fired at me fur two or free days, and den dey hung me up and left me to starve to death. Boo-hoo-oo!"
"But," said Leslie, "you were at home yesterday when I came up the river."
"Yes; dey burned down de house last night, and cooked us all and eat us up. I's come to live ag'in, and crawled down here to get you fellers to take me home; but, Lord bless you, don't come ashore—blast you, quit a hittin' me over de head," added the negro, evidently to some one near him.
Leslie and Whiteman exchanged significant glances, and silently worked the boat further from the land.