The ground being high and dry just at that particular spot, they built a fire and determined to cook supper ashore.  There would likely be plenty of opportunities for doing this aboard, later, and they could not resist that chance for an open campfire.

Bluff was assisted by Jerry in getting the first supper.  It turned out to be appetizing.  They had been in the woods so much now that even the poorest cook in the club, Will, was picking up quite a little knowledge of the art, and felt an occasional desire to show off.

The boys never got over joking poor Will about his first experience in cooking rice, however.  He had put the entire four pounds in a pot while the rest were away.  One of them, coming back to camp presently, found Will in distress.  He had filled every kettle and pannikin with the swelling rice, and despite the glistening heaps the original kettle was still boiling up heaps of it, so that it threatened to even smother the fire.

He knew better now.

After the meal was over they sat around, taking things easy.  Frank was writing in his logbook, Will monkeying with his camera, while Jerry and Bluff sat there discussing something that had to do with their respective lung power—­a question never, as yet, fully settled, although they had had many a friendly contest to thresh out this rivalry.

“Frank, don’t look up, please!  Listen to me!” said Will in a low voice.

“Well, what is it?” asked the other, simply pausing in the act of writing a word.

“I saw something moving over behind that bunch of saw-palmettos on your left.  Pretending not to be looking, I squinted out of the tail of my eye.  What do you think I saw?  The head of a black man raised—­an awfully wicked-looking head, too, Frank.  What had we better do about it?” went on Will, his whispering voice quivering.

“Nothing.  Leave it to me.  Don’t show any signs of excitement, please, but just keep on with what you are doing,” and Frank allowed his left hand to slowly creep in the direction where his shotgun lay on the ground.

CHAPTER VI

THE SWAMP FUGITIVE

“Now, my friend behind the bunch of saw-palmetto, won’t you join us?”

Frank had slowly risen, picking up his gun as he gained his feet.  There was a movement in the quarter where his gaze seemed directed, then a human figure began to crawl into the camp, looking more like a great dog than a man.

“Great Caesar’s ghost!” ejaculated Bluff.

“Tell me about that, will you!” exclaimed Jerry, making a dive for his own gun.

“Quiet, fellows!  There’s no need of any excitement.  It’s only a visitor from the swamp, come to have a cup of coffee with us,” remarked Frank steadily.

He made no attempt to aim his weapon, being satisfied to let the negro see that he was armed, and ready for action.  The wretched outcast was almost in tatters.  He looked thin and haggard, in marked contrast with the sleek and well-fed darkies the boys had generally noticed since reaching the Sunny South.