Darkness fell rapidly. There is little twilight in Florida.
"They can't go much farther," he said. He was right. In a very short time the dull glow of a fire showed where the others had camped.
"What shall I do?" he asked himself. "Go right up and tackle Randal Fearon? No; he'd have some excuse ready, and I'd only get Pete into trouble. I must wait till Randal goes to sleep."
The mosquitoes were savage. Young Rutherford, tired and hungry, found it maddening to wait in the damp gloom, and watch Randal gorge on the supper which Pete cooked. Nearly two hours passed before Randal, having finished a cigar, rolled himself, head and all, in a blanket and lay down.
A few minutes more, and a snore told Rutherford it was safe to venture closer.
Pete heard him, and glided out. The black man chuckled silently when he saw the boy. "Reckoned you'd be along, sah. You foun' de sign Pete lef' for you. Now de firs' thing is you eat. Den we talk."
He put corn, bread, and bacon into Rutherford's hands, and the boy made a hearty meal.
"Now, sah," said Pete. "You see what dat man want to do. He lose you in de swamp, den go home, say you fell in de water and was drowned. Den he an' his dad, dey take dat blow-up bullet ob yours an' sell him."
Lionel Rutherford was aghast. He had never dreamed of such wickedness.
"But we beat dem," went on Pete, with a chuckle. "I like you, an' I hate dat Randal."