“My boy,” he said, “I am going on board a ship lying in the river—a vessel used by cruel-hearted men for trafficking in their fellow-creatures.”
“Yes, I know, father,” I said; “a slaver.”
He frowned a little, but went on.
“I am going to see if I can do any good among my friends and neighbours. It would be no proper sight for you.”
I felt disappointed, but when my father spoke in that firm, quiet way, I knew that he meant every word he said, and I remained silent, but followed him as he took his hat and stick and walked slowly down to the little landing-place, where Morgan was already seated in the boat with the painter held in one hand, passed just round the trunk of the nearest tree, and ready to slip as soon as my father stepped on board.
A slight motion of an oar sent the stern of the boat close in to the bank, my father stepped in, the painter was slipped, and the boat yielded to the quick current, and began to glide away.
But just then my father raised his head, saw me standing there disconsolate, and said aloud—
“Would you very much like to come, George?”
“Oh, yes, father,” I shouted; and he made a sign. Morgan pulled his left-hand oar, and I forced my way through the dense undergrowth to reach the spot where the boat was being pulled in, fifty yards down stream.
It was hard work, and I had not gone far through the dense leafage, and over the soft, spongy, river-soaked bank, before there was a rush and a scuffle, followed by a splash, and though I saw nothing, I knew that it was a small alligator, taking refuge in the water after a night’s wandering ashore.