The groan was repeated. It was a hollow kind of groan, long drawn out, and given in the most approved ghostly style. Pete groaned on his own account, and collapsed in the bottom of the boat, floundering forward and trying to crawl into the motor and lose himself in the machinery.
While the wretched little darky lay in a palpitating heap under the steering wheel, a funereal voice was wafted toward him—a voice that made him gasp, and close his eyes, and shiver until he shook the boat.
"Who-o are you-u-u?" inquired the voice.
"Oh, lawsy! Oh, mah goodness!" fluttered Pete in tremulous, incoherent tones. "Ah's as good as daid! Ah's nevah gwine tuh git out ob dis alive! Der ha'nts has cotched me! Oh, if I c'u'd only git away dis once, Ah'll nevah brag no mo'! Ah'll nevah tell anodder whopper!"
"Who-o are you-u-u?" insisted the sepulchral voice from the darkness at the top of the bank.
"Ah's er moke," whimpered Pete, "jes' a moke. You-all go 'long an' nevah min' me. Ah ain't nevah done nuffin'—Pickerel Pete's a good l'il coon. Please, Marse Gose, go off some odder place en do yo' gliderin'. Oh, gee! Oh, golly!"
"Go 'way, go 'way, go 'way!" ordered the "ghost."
"Ah'll go, yassuh," chattered Pete, "on'y doan' yo' grab me as Ah run by. Dat's all. Yo' ain't layin' fo' tuh grab me, is yuh?"
"Go 'way, go 'way, go 'way!" insisted the spook, with hair-raising emphasis.
Pete got up slowly and cautiously in the boat. The lantern threw a weird reflection over him, but the most noticeable thing about the frightened little darky, just then, was the white of his eyes. He shook like a person with the ague, and nearly dropped into the water while stepping from the gunwale of the boat.