"Gorry! Will it hurt, marse?" asked the other, beginning to look worried as he saw the mysterious black box being aimed at him.
"Not one-tenth as bad as having a tooth pulled out," laughed Will. "In fact, you probably would never know it. Please step back a little. You see, I'm trying to get the shack in, too. That's part of the game."
Will snapped the camera shutter.
"That's all. Didn't feel it, did you, George?"
"Not so's I kin notice, suh. An' will dat show me an' de leetle shack w'en it's done fixed?" asked the fugitive wonderingly, eyeing the camera with respect.
"Fine. And if you leave me your address, or that of your married daughter up in Chattanooga, I promise to send you a copy later on, George."
"Oh! I'll do dat, marse, 'deed I will! Nebber hed my pictur' took yet. My gal, she'll be sure surprised tuh see dat!" exclaimed the negro, still grinning.
"Well, we had better go now. Are you sure you can paddle me around to where the boat is tied up, George?"
"Easy as fallin' off'n a log, suh. Git dar in 'bout a hour er so." And George dipped deeply, with the air of one who was accustomed to the paddle.
Indeed, Will learned presently that he had a dugout canoe hidden near by, and in which he was accustomed to navigate the intricate channels of the great swamp. He had lived out here some time, and knew the place thoroughly.