I had not gone far before discovering that speed would have been impossible had I wished making it. The path for the most part ran through a tract of woodland—huge trees thickly set—the heavy bottom timber of the creek. The twilight I had left behind me in the cleared space about the boat-yard, was no longer visible. Under the trees it was dark as the inside of a cave, only a little illuminated by the phosphorescent coruscation of the fire-flies, or "lightning-bugs," as the Tennesseeans term them.
Instead of guiding me, these animated torches, with their fitful, unsteady sparkle, only rendered the track more deceptive, and I was compelled to proceed with circumspection, now groping my way among the tree-trunks, and now stooping to make sure of the path, by the glow of my cigar.
CHAPTER VI.
TWO STRANGE TALKERS.
I had got about half-way to the plantation-house, and nearly clear of the timber, when I heard voices, as of two men engaged in conversation. This it turned out to be—two men upon the same path I myself trod, but coming from the opposite direction.
By the time I had made this observation, they were close up to me.
They appeared to be making way faster than I—no doubt from being more familiar with the track. Though within less than a score of yards, I could not distinguish their figures, nor they mine, so deep was the obscurity of the place.
I was about to call out, so that we might not run foul of one another, when I recognized one of their voices. It was that of the uncivil boat-builder, Black. The other should be his assistant, Stinger?
Not caring for an encounter with these men—even so much as to saluting them—I stepped aside, intending to let them pass without making my presence known. It was easily done in the darkness, by gliding behind a tree.