Christy Passford did not intend to cut the negro's punt into two pieces, though perhaps there was some mischief in the purpose of the cockswain. The boatman gave him an evasive answer to his question, which provoked the young officer. The punt was a very old affair, reduced almost to punk by the decay of the boards of which it was built, or the bow of the cutter would not have gone through it so readily. The lieutenant had simply desired to get alongside the negro's shaky craft in order to question him, for he was satisfied from the fellow's manner that he knew more than he pretended to know. The boatman had come off from the shore of his own accord; he had not been solicited to give any information, and his movements had been entirely voluntary on his own part. Yet Christy was sorry that his punt had been stove, valueless as the craft had been; for, as a rule, the colored people were friendly to the Union soldiers, and he was not disposed to do them any injury. As soon as the officer in charge of the boat saw that the bow was likely to strike the punt, he directed the cockswain to stop and back her, which was done, but too late to save the flimsy box from destruction. The two bowmen drew in the negro without any difficulty; and so expeditiously had he been rescued that he was not wet above the hips. He had been caught up just as the bow of the cutter cut into the punt. "That was well done, bowmen," said Christy, as the boatman was placed upon his feet in the fore sheets. The negro was rather small in stature, and black enough to save all doubts in regard to his parentage; but there was an expression of cunning in his face not often noticed in persons of his race. The coast of Florida, south of the entrance to Tampa Bay, as in many other portions, is fringed with keys, or cays as they are called in the West Indies, which are small islands, though many of them are ten miles in length. This fringe of keys extended up Tampa Bay for over twenty miles; and it was from behind one of them that the punt had put out when Christy's boat approached. The negro had been obliged to paddle at least half a mile to come within speaking-distance of the cutter. "You done broke my boat in two pieces!" exclaimed the boatman, gazing at the two parts of the floating wreck. "Don't t'ink you is a frien' ob de colored man widin no limits at all, or you don't smash his boat like dat." "That was an accident, my friend," replied Christy. "How much was the punt worth?" "Dat boat wan't no punk, massa, and it was wuf two dollars in good money," replied the colored man, his eyes brightening, and his expression of cunning becoming more intense, when he realized the possibility of being paid for his loss.