The turtle was allowed to deposit its eggs, and when that operation was supposed to be about over a concerted rush was made.  As we rose from the sand, the animal whirled clumsily around and made for the sea.  It was an enormous loggerhead, and, with its huge head and powerful flippers, presented a decidedly aggressive appearance.  The two boys were first on the field, and, without waiting for the scantling which old Sandy had grasped, seized the creature on the side, between the flippers, and lifted it.  But they had barely raised it from the sand when the great fore flipper, being clear, struck the unfortunate Piffney a sounding blow, knocking him against Rastus, who lost his hold, and both went down in confusion.  The turtle scrambled ahead, throwing sand like a whirlwind.  She seemed to have the faculty of lifting nearly a quart and hurling it with unerring force, and old Sandy’s mouth was soon filled with it.  Three of us again seized the animal and lifted, while the old darky inserted the scantling as a lever.

“Now, den, clap on yere!” he cried, dodging the sand and flippers.

We lifted, and the monster was fairly on its side, when an ominous creak was heard; the plank broke, and before a new hold could be taken the turtle was but ten feet from the water.  Active measures were evidently necessary, and Sandy, taking the board, ran in front of the animal and struck wildly at its head, yelling to us to lift.  But the sand was soft, and every lift was attended by a terrific beating to the man who stood near the fore flipper.  In vain we struck, lifted, and hauled:  the turtle was gaining slowly.  Finally, in his war-dance about the animal’s head, Sandy stumbled, grasped wildly in the air, and went down backward into the water with a sounding crash, the turtle fairly crawling over his legs, and, despite the boys, who hung on to its hind flippers, it slid into the water and disappeared behind a miniature tidal wave, leaving the Pinckey family—­father and sons—­in a state of complete demoralization.

“I ’low dat turkle’s bo’n free,” gasped Sandy, picking himself up and shaking the water from his clothes.

“He ain’t gwine to give up dat calapee yet, da’s a fac’.”

The boys having repaired damages and unloaded the sand received during the melee, and the moon being now well up, the tramp around the key was commenced.  The approved method is to walk along as near the water as possible, and on finding a recent track to follow it up on the run, and thus head off the turtle.  For a mile or more we strolled along the sands, the boys humming in low tones some old plantation melody, and Sandy occasionally venting his wrath at some real or imaginary fault in the young and rising generation.  In the midst of one of these tirades, the boys, who had kept ahead, suddenly darted up toward the bushes.  We were soon after them, following up a broad track distinctly marked on the white, sandy beach, and came