These thoughts assailed, pursued me, as I crept cautiously down the steep bank, concealed by the shadows of the rushes.  Yet in reality I remained intent enough upon my purpose.  Although unable to wholly banish all memory of the young girl just left behind, I still realized the gravity of my task, and my eyes were watchful of the shrouded figure I was silently approaching.  I drew nearer inch by inch, advancing so slowly, and snake-like, that not even the slightest sound of movement aroused suspicion.  Apparently the fellow was engaged in oiling the machinery, for he had placed the lantern on deck, and held a long-spouted can in his fingers.  His back remained toward me as I drew near the stern, and, consequently, I no longer had a glimpse of his face.  The wooden wheel of the boat, a clumsy appearing apparatus, rested almost directly against the bank, where the water was evidently deep enough to float the vessel, and the single rope holding it in position was drawn taut from the pressure of the current.  Waiting until the man was compelled to bend lower over his work, utterly unconscious of my presence, I straightened up, and, pistol in hand, stepped upon the wooden beam supporting the wheel.  He must have heard this movement, for he lifted his head quickly, yet was even then too late; already I had gained the after-deck, and my weapon was on a level with his eyes.

“Don’t move, or cry out!” I commanded, sternly.  “Obey orders and you will not be hurt.”

He shrank away, sinking upon the bench, his face upturned so that the light fell full upon it, for the instant too greatly surprised and frightened to give utterance to a sound.  His mouth hung open, and his eyes stared at me.

“Who—­who wus yer?  Whatcha want yere?”

“I am asking questions, and you are answering them.  Are you armed?  All right, then; hand it over.  Now put out that light.”

He did exactly as I told him, moving as though paralyzed by fear, yet unable to resist.

“You are a negro—­a slave?”

“Yas, sah; Ah’s Massa Donaldson’s boy frum Saint Louee.”

“He is the sheriff?”

“Yas, sah—­yas, sah.  Whar is Massa Donaldson?  Yer ain’t done bin sent yere by him, I reckon.  ’Pears like I never see yer afore.”

“No, but he is quite safe.  What is your name?”

“Sam, sah—­just plain Sam.”

“Well, Sam, I understand you are an engineer.  Now it happens that I want to use this boat, and you are going to run it for me.  Do you understand I am going to sit down here on the edge of this cockpit, and hold this loaded pistol just back of your ear.  It might go off at any minute, and surely will if you make a false move or attempt to foul the engine.  Any trick, and there is going to be a dead nigger overboard.  I know enough about engines to tell if you play fair—­so don’t take any chances, boy.”

“Ah—­Ah—­reckon as how I was goin’ fer ter run her all right, sah; she’s sum consid’ble contrary et times, sah, but Ah’ll surely run her, if thar’s eny run in her, sah.  Ah ain’t carryin’ ‘bout bein’ no corpse.”