On seeing the dug-out, I supposed there was some other party upon the island; but, stepping down and examining it, I saw that its rude hawser of twisted grape-vine must have been holding it there for months. Some worthless, worn-out craft, abandoned, perhaps forgotten.
While making this reflection, my eye wandered to the opposite side of the pool. There I observed other signs of human presence, though not recent. There was a little spot of cleared ground, above a high bank that looked as if it had been used for a landing. Fragments of coarse canvas, such as is used for cotton "bagging," were strewn over it, and there were the ashes of an old fire.
I thought it strange to see such relics in that solitary place, and walked away, wondering what could have taken them there.
My speculations, however, were soon interrupted by the necessity of finding my way back to the skiff, which proved more difficult than I had expected.
Not till I had wandered about for a full half-hour, and scratched my skin among the sharp spikes of the palmettoes, did I succeed in reaching my place of debarkation, and then only by shouting myself hoarse, and getting a responsive shout from the skiffman.
"I's glad, massa, you got safe 'board 'gen," said he, as I stepped into the boat.
"Why?" I asked, wondering at the remark as well as the alacrity with which the darky pulled away from the cottonwood.
"Kase I t'ink dat 'ere island a dangersome place."
"Dangerous place! In what way?"
"Doan' no, massa, doan' no. But folks do say de debbil hab been see'd an' heerd dar ob nights. One ob Mass' Bradley's black people tole me so. Mass' Bradley's plantation not far off on toder side, but none o' dem niggas ebba goes on dat island. Nob'dy else ebba go dar. Sartin shoo de place am ha'nted."