"Just look at that," he said.
On a little grassy knoll close to the water was Chris flat on his back, his mouth open, fast asleep. A half dozen fine bass lay on the grass beside him, the end of his fishing line was tied to one ebony leg, and a coil of slack line lay upon the turf.
"Let's give him a scare for causing us so much worry," Walter suggested.
"Wait a minute," cautioned the captain, "he's gettin' a bite, let's see what he will do."
The little party drew in behind some bushes, where they could peep out at the slumbering little darky.
The slack was running out rapidly, and at last the line tauted with a jerk on the sleeper's leg.
Chris sat up with a start, rubbed his eyes and looked at the sun, then at the pile of fish beside him. The continued jerking of the line at his leg seemed to bring him out of his drowsiness. With a broad grin he began pulling in the line, hand over hand.
The three watchers stood peeping eagerly through the bushes, expecting to see another fine bass appear.
As the hooked victim was drawn in close to the knoll, Chris gave a hearty yank and landed it on the grass beside him.
But the result was not what the watchers expected. With a howl of terror the little darky leaped to his feet and dashed away at a bounding, leaping run, breaking through the undergrowth as though it were reeds. One glance, as he flew by the watchers without seeing them, caused them to hold their sides and double up with laughter. The line was still fastened to Chris' leg, and drew after it the captive of his hook. One glance behind and Chris began to holler, "Help, help, Massa Walt, help, Massa Charley. De snake's goin' to get dis nigger. Oh golly, oh golly!"