With the first approach of darkness Carrington made his way to
the shed. Hidden in the shadow he paused to listen, and fancied
he heard difficult breathing from within. The door creaked
hideously on its wooden hinges when he pushed it open, but as it
swung back the last remnant of the day's light showed him some
dark object lying prone on the dirt floor. He reached down and
his hand rested on a man's booted foot.
"George--" Carrington spoke softly, but the man on the floor gave
no sign that he heard, and Carrington's questioning touch
stealing higher he found that George--if it were George--was
lying on his side with his arms and legs securely bound.
Thinking he slept, the Kentuckian shook him gently to arouse him.
"George?" he repeated, still bending above him. This time an
inarticulate murmur answered him. At the same instant the woolly
head of the negro came under his fingers and he discovered the
reason of his silence. He was as securely gagged as he was
bound.
"Listen, George--it's Carrington--I am going to take off this
gag, but don't speak above a whisper--they may hear us!" And he
cut the cords that held the gag in place.
"How yo' get here, Mas'r Ca'ington?" asked the negro guardedly,
as the gag fell away.
"Around the head of the bayou."
"Lawd!" exclaimed George, in a tone of wonder.
"Where's Miss Betty?"
"She's in the cabin yonder--fo' the love of God, cut these here
other ropes with yo' knife, Mas'r Ca'ington--I'm perishin' with
'em!" Carrington did as he asked, and groaning, George sat
erect.
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