“PRICE,” began Mahaffy. They were back in Raleigh in the room the judge called his office, and this was Mahaffy's first opportunity to ease his mind on the subject of the duel, as they had only just parted from Yancy and Cavendish, who had stopped at one of the stores to make certain purchases for the raft.

“Not a word, Solomon—it had to come. I am going to kill him. I shall feel better then.”

“What if he kills you?” demanded Mahaffy harshly. The judge shrugged his shoulders.

“That is as it may be.”

“Have you forgotten your grandson?” Mahaffy's voice was still harsh and rasping.

“I regard my meeting with Fentress as nothing less than a sacred duty to him.”

“We know no more than we did this morning,” said Mahaffy. “You are mixing up all sorts of side issues with what should be your real purpose.”

“Not at all, Solomon—not at all! I look upon my grandson's speedy recovery as an assured fact. Fentress dare not hold him. He knows he is run to earth at last.”

“Price—”

“No, Solomon—no, my friend, we will not speak of it again. You will go back to Belle Plain with Yancy and Cavendish; you must represent me there. We have as good as found Hannibal, but we must be active in Miss Malroy's behalf. For us that has an important bearing on the future, and since I can not, you must be at Belle Plain when Carrington arrives with his pack of dogs. Give him the advantage of your sound and mature judgment, Solomon; don't let any false modesty keep you in the background.”

“Who's going to second you?” snapped Mahaffy.

The judge was the picture of indifference.

“It will be quite informal, the code is scarcely applicable; I merely intend to remove him because he is not fit to live.”

“At sun-up!” muttered Mahaffy.

“I intend to start one day right even if I never live to begin another,” said the judge, a sudden fierce light flashing from his eyes. “I feel that this is the turning point in my career, Solomon!” he went on. “The beginning of great things! But I shall take no chances with the future, I shall prepare for every possible contingency. I am going to make you and Yancy my grandson's guardians. There's a hundred thousand acres of land hereabout that must come to him. I shall outline in writing the legal steps to be taken to substantiate his claims. Also he will inherit largely from me at my death.”

Something very like laughter escaped from Mahaffy's lips.

“There you go, Solomon, with your inopportune mirth! What in God's name have I if I haven't hope? Take that from me and what would I be? Why, the very fate I have been fighting off with tooth and nail would overwhelm me. I'd sink into unimportance—my unparalleled misfortunes would degrade me to a level with the commonest! No, sir, I've never been without hope, and though I've fallen I've always got up. What Fentress has is based on money he stole from me. By God, the days of his profit-taking are at an end! I am going to strip him. And even if I don't live to enjoy what's mine, my grandson shall! He shall wear velvet and a lace collar and ride his pony yet, by God, as a gentleman's grandson should!”

“It sounds well, Price, but where's the money coming from to push a lawsuit?”

The judge waved this aside.

“The means will be found, Solomon. Our horizon is lifting—I can see it lift! Don't drag me back from the portal of hope! We'll drink the stuff that comes across the water; I'll warm the cockles of your heart with imported brandy. I carry twenty years' hunger and thirst under my wes-coat and I'll feed and drink like a gentleman yet!” The judge smacked his lips in an ecstasy of enjoyment, and dropping down before the table which served him as a desk, seized a pen.

“It's good enough to think about, Price,” admitted Mahaffy grudgingly.

“It's better to do; and if anything happens to me the papers I am going to leave will tell you how it's to be done. Man, there's a million of money in sight, and we've got to get it and spend it and enjoy it! None of your swinish thrift for me, but life on a big scale—company, and feasting, and refined surroundings!”

“And you are going to meet Fentress in the morning?” asked Mahaffy. “I suppose there's no way of avoiding that?”

“Avoiding it?” almost shouted the judge. “For what have I been living? I shall meet him, let the consequences be what they may. To-night when I have reduced certain facts to writing I shall join you at Belle Plain. The strange and melancholy history of my life I shall place in your hands for safe keeping. In the morning I can be driven back to Boggs'.”

“And you will go there without a second?”

“If necessary; yes.”

“I declare, Price, you are hardly fitted to be at large! Why, you act as if you were tired of life. There's Yancy—there's Cavendish!”

The judge gave him an indulgent but superior smile.

“Two very worthy men, but I go to Boggs' attended by a gentleman or I go there alone. I am aware of your prejudices, Solomon; otherwise I might ask this favor of you.”

Mr. Mahaffy snorted loudly and turned to the door, for Yancy and Cavendish were now approaching the house, the latter with a meal sack slung over his shoulder.

“Here, Solomon, take one of my pistols,” urged the judge hastily. “You may need it at Belle Plain. Goodby, and God bless you!”

Just where he had parted from Ware, Carrington sat his horse, his brows knit and his eyes turned in the direction of the path. He was on his way to a plantation below Girard, the owner of which had recently imported a pack of bloodhounds; but this unexpected encounter with Ware had affected him strangely. He still heard Tom's stammering speech, he was still seeing his ghastly face, and he had come upon him with startling suddenness. He had chanced to look back over his shoulder and when he faced about there had been the planter within a hundred yards of him.

Presently Carrington's glance ceased to follow the windings of the path. He stared down at the gray dust and saw the trail left by Hues and his party. For a moment he hesitated; if the dogs were to be used with any hope of success he had no time to spare, and this was the merest suspicion, illogical conjecture, based on nothing beyond his distrust of Ware. In the end he sprang from the saddle and leading his horse into the woods, tied it to a sapling.

A hurried investigation told him that five men had ridden in and out of that path. Of the five, all coming from the south, four had turned south again, but the fifth man—Ware, in other words—had gone north. He weighed the possible significance of these facts.

“I am only wasting time!” he confessed reluctantly, and was on the point of turning away, when, on the very edge of the road and just where the dust yielded to the hard clay of the path, his glance lighted on the print of a small and daintily shod foot. The throbbing of his heart quickened curiously.

“Betty!” The word leaped from his lips.

That small foot had left but the one impress. There were other signs, however, that claimed his attention; namely, the bootprints of Slosson and his men; and he made the inevitable discovery that these tracks were all confined to the one spot. They began suddenly and as suddenly ceased, yet there was no mystery about these; he had the marks of the wheels to help him to a sure conclusion. A carriage had turned just here, several men had alighted, they had with them a child or a woman. Either they had reentered the carriage and driven back as they had come, or they had gone toward the river. He felt the soul within him turn sick.

He stole along the path; the terror of the river was ever in his thoughts, and the specter of his fear seemed to flit before him and lure him on. Presently he caught his first glimpse of the bayou and his legs shook under him; but the path wound deeper still into what appeared to be an untouched solitude, wound on between the crowding tree forms, a little back from the shore, with an intervening tangle of vines and bushes. He scanned this closely as he hurried forward, scarcely conscious that he was searching for some trampled space at the water's edge; but the verdant wall preserved its unbroken continuity, and twenty minutes later he came within sight of the Hicks' clearing and the keel boat, where it rested against the bank.

A little farther on he found the spot where Slosson had launched the skiff the night before. The keel of his boat had cut deep into the slippery clay; more than this, the impress of the small shoe was repeated here, and just beside it was the print of a child's bare foot.

He no longer doubted that Betty and Hannibal had been taken across the bayou to the cabin, and he ran back up the path the distance of a mile and plunged into the woods on his right, his purpose being to pass around the head of the expanse of sluggish water to a point from which he could later approach the cabin. But the cabin proved to be better defended than he had foreseen; and as he advanced, the difficulties of the task he had set himself became almost insurmountable; yet sustained as he was by his imperative need, he tore his way through the labyrinth of trailing vines, or floundered across acre-wide patches of green slime and black mud, which at each step threatened to engulf him in their treacherous depths, until at the end of an hour he gained the southern side of the clearing and a firmer footing within the shelter of the woods.

Here he paused and took stock of his surroundings. The two or three buildings Mr. Hicks had erected stood midway of the clearing and were very modest improvements adapted to their owner's somewhat flippant pursuit of agriculture. While Carrington was still staring about him, the cabin door swung open and a woman stepped forth. It was the girl Bess. She went to a corner of the building and called loudly:

“Joe! Oh, Joe!”

Carrington glanced in the direction of the keel boat and an instant later saw Slosson clamber over its side. The tavern-keeper crossed to the cabin, where he was met by Bess, who placed in his hands what seemed to be a wooden bowl. With this he slouched off to one of the outbuildings, which he entered. Ten or fifteen minutes slipped by, then he came from the shed and after securing the door, returned to the cabin. He was again met by Bess, who relieved him of the bowl; they exchanged a few words and Slosson walked away and afterward disappeared over the side of the keel boat.

This much was clear to the Kentuckian: food had been taken to some one in the shed—to Betty and the boy!—more likely to George.

He waited now for the night to come, and to him the sun seemed fixed in the heavens. At Belle Plain Tom Ware was watching it with a shuddering sense of the swiftness of its flight. But at last the tops of the tall trees obscured it; it sank quickly then and blazed a ball of fire beyond the Arkansas coast, while its dying glory spread aslant the heavens, turning the flanks of the gray clouds to violet and purple and gold.

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. “I'm like I was gone to sleep all over,” he said.

“You'll feel better in a moment. Tell me about Miss Malroy?”

“They done fetched us here last night. I was drivin' Missy into Raleigh—her and young Mas'r Hazard—when fo' men stop us in the road.”

“Who were they, do you know?” asked Carrington.

“Lawd—what's that?”

Carrington, knife in hand swung about on his heel. A lantern's light flashed suddenly in his face and Bess Hicks, with a low startled cry breaking from her lips, paused in the doorway. Springing forward, Carrington seized her by the wrist.

“Hush!” he grimly warned.

“What are you doin' here?” demanded the girl, as she endeavored to shake off his hand, but Carrington drew her into the shed, and closing the door, set his back against it. There was a brief silence during which Bess regarded the Kentuckian with a kind of stolid fearlessness. She was the first to speak. “I reckon you-all have come after Miss Malroy,” she observed quietly.

“Then you reckon right,” answered Carrington. The girl studied him from beneath her level brows.

“And you-all think you can take her away from here,” she speculated. “I ain't afraid of yo' knife—you-all might use it fast enough on a man, but not on me. I'll help you,” she added. Carrington gave her an incredulous glance. “You don't believe me? What's to hinder my calling for help? That would fetch our men up from the keel boat. No—yo'-all's knife wouldn't stop me!”

“Don't be too sure of that,” said Carrington sternly. The girl met the menace of his words with soft, fullthroated laughter.

“Why, yo' hand's shakin' now, Mr. Carrington!”

“You know me?”

“Yes, I seen you once at Boggs'.” She made an impatient movement. “You can't do nothing against them fo' men unless I help you. Miss Malroy's to go down river to-night; they're only waiting fo' a pilot—you-all's got to act quick!”

Carrington hesitated.

“Why do you want Miss Malroy to escape?” he said.

The girl's mood changed abruptly. She scowled at him.

“I reckon that's a private matter. Ain't it enough fo' you-all to know that I do? I'm showing how it can be done. Them four men on the keel boat are strangers in these parts, they're waiting fo' a pilot, but they don't know who he'll be. I've heard you-all was a riverman; what's to hinder yo' taking the pilot's place? Looks like yo' was willing to risk yo' life fo' Miss Malroy or you wouldn't be here.”

“I'm ready,” said Carrington, his hand on the door.

“No, you ain't—jest yet,” interposed the girl hastily. “Listen to me first. They's a dugout tied up 'bout a hundred yards above the keel boat; you must get that to cross in to the other side of the bayou, then when yo're ready to come back yo're to whistle three times—it's the signal we're expecting—and I'll row across fo' you in one of the skiffs.”

“Can you see Miss Malroy in the meantime?”

“If I want to, they's nothin' to hinder me,” responded Bess sullenly.

“Tell her then—” began Carrington, but Bess interrupted him.

“I know what yo' want. She ain't to cry out or nothin' when she sees you-all. I got sense enough fo' that.”

Carrington looked at her curiously.

“This may be a serious business for your people,” he said significantly, and watched her narrowly.

“And you-all may get killed. I reckin if yo' want to do a thing bad enough you don't mind much what comes after,” she answered with a hard little laugh, as she went from the shed.

“Come!” said Carrington to the negro, when he had seen the cabin door close on Bess and her lantern; and they stole across the clearing. Reaching the bayou side they began a noiseless search for the dugout, which they quickly found, and Carrington turned to George. “Can you swim?” he asked.

“Yes, Mas'r.”

“Then go down into the water and drag the canoe farther along the shore—and for God's sake, no sound!” he cautioned.

They placed a second hundred yards between themselves and the keel boat in this manner, then he had George bring the dug-out to the bank, and they embarked. Keeping within the shadow of the trees that fringed the shore, Carrington paddled silently about the head of the bayou.

“George,” he at length said, bending toward the negro; “my horse is tied in the woods on the right-hand side of the road just above where you were taken from the carriage last night—you can be at Belle Plain inside of an hour.”

“Look here, Mas'r Ca'ington, those folks yonder is kin to Boss Hicks. If he get his hand on me first don't you reckon he'll stop my mouth? I been here heaps of times fotchin' letters fo' Mas'r Tom,” added George.

“Who were the letters for?” asked the Kentuckian, greatly surprised.

“They was fo' that Captain Murrell; seems like him and Mas'r Tom was mixed up in a sight of business.”

“When was this—recently?” inquired Carrington. He was turning this astonishing statement of the slave over in his mind.

“Well, no, Mas'r; seems like they ain't so thick here recently.”

“I reckon you'd better keep away from the big house yet a while,” said Carrington. “Instead of going there, stop at the Belle Plain landing. You'll find a raft tied up to the shore, it belongs to a man named Cavendish. Tell him what you know. That I've found Miss Malroy and the boy, tell him to cast off and drift down here. I'll run the keel boat aground the first chance I get, so tell him to keep a sharp lookout.”

A few minutes later they had separated, George to hurry away in search of the horse, and Carrington to pass back along the shore until he gained a point opposite the clearing. He whistled shrilly three times, and after an interval of waiting heard the splash of oars and presently saw a skiff steal out of the gloom.

“Who's there?” It was Bess who asked the question.

“Carrington,” he answered.

“Lucky you ain't met the other man!” she said as she swept her skiff alongside the bank.

“Lucky for him, you mean. I'll take the oars,” added Carrington as he entered the skiff.

Slowly the clearing lifted out of the darkness, then the keel boat became distinguishable; and Carrington checked the skiff by a backward stroke of the oars.

“Hello!” he called.

There was no immediate answer to his hail, and he called again as he sent the skiff forward. He felt that he was risking all now.

“What do you want?” asked a surly voice.

“You want Slosson!” quickly prompted the girl in a whisper.

“I want to see Slosson!” said Carrington glibly and with confidence, and once more he checked the skiff.

“Who be you?”

“Murrell sent you,” prompted the girl again, in a hurried whisper.

“Murrell—” And in his astonishment Carrington spoke aloud.

“Murrell?” cried the voice sharply.

“—sent me!” said Carrington quickly, as though completing an unfinished sentence. The girl laughed nervously under her breath.

“Row closter!” came the sullen command, and the Kentuckian did as he was bidden. Four men stood in the bow of the keel boat, a lantern was raised aloft and by its light they looked him over. There was a moment's silence broken by Carrington, who asked:

“Which one of you is Slosson?” And he sprang lightly aboard the keel boat.

“I'm Slosson,” answered the man with the lantern. The previous night Mr. Slosson had been somewhat under the enlivening and elevating influence of corn whisky, but now he was his own cheerless self, and rather jaded by the passing of the hours which he had sacrificed to an irksome responsibility. “What word do you fetch from the Captain, brother?” he demanded.

“Miss Malroy is to be taken down river,” responded Carrington. Slosson swore with surpassing fluency.

“Say, we're five able-bodied men risking our necks to oblige him! You can get married a damn sight easier than this if you go about it right—I've done it lots of times.” Not understanding the significance of Slosson's allusion to his own matrimonial career, Carrington held his peace. The tavern-beeper swore again with unimpaired vigor. “You'll find mighty few men with more experience than me,” he asserted, shaking his head. “But if you say the word—”

“I'm all for getting shut of this!” answered Carrington promptly, with a sweep of his arm. “I call these pretty close quarters!” Still shaking his head and muttering, the tavernkeeper sprang ashore and mounted the bank, where his slouching figure quickly lost itself in the night.

Carrington took up his station on the flat roof of the cabin which filled the stern of the boat. He was remembering that day in the sandy Barony road—and during all the weeks and months that had intervened, Murrell, working in secret, had moved steadily toward the fulfilment of his desires! Unquestionably he had been back of the attack on Norton, had inspired his subsequent murder, and the man's sinister and mysterious power had never been suspected. Carrington knew that the horse-thieves and slave stealers were supposed to maintain a loosely knit association; he wondered if Murrell were not the moving spirit in some such organization.

“If I'd only pushed my quarrel with him!” he thought bitterly.

He heard Slosson's shuffling step in the distance, a word or two when he spoke gruffly to some one, and a moment later he saw Betty and the boy, their forms darkly silhouetted against the lighter sky as they moved along the top of the bank. Slosson, without any superfluous gallantry, helped his captives down the slope and aboard the keel boat, where he locked them in the cabin, the door of which fastened with a hasp and wooden peg.

“You're boss now, pardner!” he said, joining Carrington at the steering oar.

“We'll cast off then,” answered Carrington.

Thus far nothing had occurred to mar his plans. If they could but quit the bayou before the arrival of the man whose place he had taken, the rest would be if not easy of accomplishment, at least within the realm of the possible.

“I reckon you're a river-man?” observed Slosson.

“All my life.”

The line had been cast off, and the crew with their setting poles were forcing the boat away from the bank. All was quietly done; except for an occasional order from Carrington no word was spoken, and soon the unwieldy craft glided into the sluggish current and gathered way. Mr. Slosson, who clearly regarded his relation to the adventure as being of an official character, continued to stand at Carrington's elbow.

“What have we, between here and the river?” inquired the latter. It was best, he felt, not to give Slosson an opportunity to ask questions.

“It narrows considerably, pardner, but it's a straight course,” said Slosson. “Black in yonder, ain't it?” he added, nodding ahead.

The shores drew rapidly together; they were leaving the lakelike expanse behind. In the silence, above the rustling of the trees, Carrington heard the first fret of 'the river against its bank. Slosson yawned prodigiously.

“I reckon you ain't needing me?” he said.

“Better go up in the bow and get some sleep,” advised Carrington, and Slosson, nothing loath, clambered down from the roof of the cabin and stumbled forward.

The ceaseless murmur of the rushing waters grew in the stillness as the keel boat drew nearer the hurrying yellow flood, and the beat of the Kentuckian's pulse quickened. Would he find the raft there? He glanced back over the way they had come. The dark ranks of the forest walled off the clearing, but across the water a dim point of light was visible. He fixed its position as somewhere near the head of the bayou. Apparently it was a lantern, but as he looked a ruddy glow crept up against the sky-line.

From the bow Bunker had been observing this singular phenomenon. Suddenly he bent and roused Slosson, who had fallen asleep. The tavern-keeper sprang to his feet and Bunker pointed without speaking.

“Mebby you can tell me what that light back yonder means?” cried Slosson, addressing himself to Carrington; as he spoke he snatched up his rifle.

“That's what I'm trying to make out,” answered Carrington.

“Hell!” cried Slosson, and tossed his gun to his shoulder.

What seemed to be a breath of wind lifted a stray lock of Carrington's hair, but his pistol answered Slosson in the same second. He fired at the huddle of men in the bow of the boat and one of them pitched forward with his arms outspread.

“Keep back, you!” he said, and dropped off the cabin roof.

His promptness had bred a momentary panic, then Slosson's bull-like voice began to roar commands; but in that brief instant of surprise and shock Carrington had found and withdrawn the wooden peg that fastened the cabin door. He had scarcely done this when Slosson came tramping aft supported by the three men.

Calling to Betty and Hannibal to escape in the skiff which was towing astern the Kentuckian rushed toward the bow. At his back he heard the door creak on its hinges as it was pushed open by Betty and the boy, and again he called to them to escape by the skiff. The fret of the current had grown steadily and from beneath the wide-flung branches of the trees which here met above his head, Carrington caught sight of the starspecked arch of the heavens beyond. They were issuing from the bayou. He felt the river snatch at the keel boat, the buffeting of some swift eddy, and saw the blunt bow swing off to the south as they were plunged into the black shore shadows.

But what he did not see was a big muscular hand which had thrust itself out of the impenetrable gloom and clutched the side of the keel boat. Coincident with this there arose a perfect babel of voices, high-pitched and shrill.

“Sho—I bet it's him! Sho'—it's Uncle Bob's nevvy! Sho', you can hear 'em! Sho', they're shootin' guns! Sho'!”

Carrington cast a hurried glance in the direction of these sounds. There between the boat and the shore the dim outline of a raft was taking shape. It was now canopied by a wealth of pale gray smoke that faded from before his eyes as the darkness lifted. Turning, he saw Slosson and his men clearly. Surprise and consternation was depicted on each face.

The light increased. From the flat stone hearth of the raft ascended a tall column of flame which rendered visible six pygmy figures, tow-headed and wonderfully vocal, who were toiling like mad at the huge sweeps. The light showed more than this. It showed a lady of plump and pleasing presence smoking a cobpipe while she fed the fire from a tick stuffed with straw. It showed two bark shanties, a line between them decorated with the never-ending Cavendish wash. It showed a rooster perched on the ridge-pole of one of these shanties in the very act of crowing lustily.

Hannibal, who had climbed to the roof of the cabin, shrieked for help, and Betty added her voice to his.

“All right, Nevvy!” came the cheerful reply, as Yancy threw himself over the side of the boat and grappled with Slosson.

“Uncle Bob! Uncle Bob!” cried Hannibal.

Slosson uttered a cry of terror. He had a simple but sincere faith in the supernatural, and even with the Scratch Hiller's big hands gripping his throat, he could not rid himself of the belief that this was the ghost of a murdered man.

“You'll take a dog's licking from me, neighbor?” said Yancy grimly. “I been saving it fo' you!”

Meanwhile Mr. Cavendish, whose proud spirit never greatly inclined him to the practice of peace, had prepared for battle; Springing aloft he knocked his heels together.

“Whoop! I'm a man as can slide down a thorny locust and never get scratched!” he shouted. This was equivalent to setting his triggers; then he launched himself nimbly and with enthusiasm into the thick of the fight. It was Mr. Bunker's unfortunate privilege to sustain the onslaught of the Earl of Lambeth.

The light from the Cavendish hearth continued to brighten the scene, for Polly was recklessly sacrificing her best straw tick. Indeed her behavior was in every way worthy of the noble alliance she had formed. Her cob-pipe was not suffered to go out and with Connie's help she kept the six small Cavendishes from risking life and limb in the keel boat, toward which they were powerfully drawn. Despite these activities she found time to call to Betty and Hannibal on the cabin roof.

“Jump down here; that ain't no fittin' place for you-all to stop in with them gentlemen fightin'!”

An instant later Betty and Hannibal stood on the raft with the little Cavendishes flocking about them. Mr. Yancy's quest of his nevvy had taken an enduring hold on their imagination. For weeks it had constituted their one vital topic, and the fight became merely a satisfying background for this interesting restoration.

“Sho', they'd got him! Sho'—he wa'n't no bigger than Richard! Sho'!”

“Oh!” cried Betty, with a fearful glance toward the keel boat. “Can't you stop them?”

“What fo'?” asked Polly, opening her black eyes very wide.

“Bless yo' tender heart!-you don't need to worry none, we got them strange gentlemen licked like they was a passel of children! Connie, you-all mind that fire!”

She accurately judged the outcome of the fight. The boat was little better than a shambles with the havoc that had been wrought there when Yancy and Carrington dropped over its side to the raft. Cavendish followed them, whooping his triumph as he came.