“And who may Black Bart be?” was Billy’s contribution.
“And what is that funny pot with a pipe on the top of it over there?” concluded Lathrop.
“One at a time, mates,—one at a time or you’ll swamp me,” cried Ben, getting back a little of his easy-going manner; “wail, now, first of all, I am Black Bart.”
“What?” was the amazed chorus.
“Sure,” was the reply, “but I’ve reformed now, shipmates, so don’t be afeard; but the boys here still call me by the old name.”
“Well, go on, Black Bart,” said Frank, smiling at the idea of good-natured Ben’s ever having owned such a ferocious name.
“Wall,” drawled Ben, “I got here in the Squeegee after I had seen from the Carrier Dove a man snooping around our fire and heard the old ‘Hoo-hoo’ cry—the owl hail, you know.”
The boys nodded.
“We heard it in the jungle before we were surrounded,” said Frank.
“That gave me a queer idea—the hearing of the old cry did”—went on Ben—“that there might be some of my friends hereabout. I had reason to know they were in this part of the country, for after they were driven out of Tennessee by the government a lot of them came down here into the ’glades.”