But in spite of his being in the worse position Sam was not beaten. He had fast hold of his enemy with his hands, and had thrown up his legs so as to tighten them round those of his foe, and in this position both held on as if trying to recover breath. Then all at once Sam felt the grip of one of the black's hands loosen, and a horrible thought flashed through his brain-- It was his adversary's right hand, and he was about to seek for his knife! "Look here, you black hound," panted Sam. "If you stab me you'll be hung." "Sam!" came in a hoarse voice, and the grip slackened. "Who are you?" panted Sam. "Why!--what I--'Tain't you, is it, Master Frank?" "Oh, you idiot! you fool!" "But I don't under--I say, Mr Frank, I took you for a nigger." "You've dragged me all to pieces, and I'm so hot I--" "But is it you, Master Frank, dressed up?" "You knew it was," cried the young man angrily, as the grasp being slackened he struggled up, to stand breathing hard. "'Strue as goodness, sir, I didn't!" said Sam, rising to his knees. "Oh, just wait till I get my wind again. I say, Mr Frank, you are strong--strong as--as a donkey." "I? Come, I like that!" panted Frank. "I'm a donkey, am I, sir?" "'Pon my word, Mr Frank, I beg your pardon. I came into the tent and saw, as I thought, a real nigger robbing the place, and though I felt scared about his having a knife, I went at him, and it was you all the time." "Yes, it was I all the time," cried Frank angrily. "Why didn't you speak?" "Never thought about it, sir. Seemed to me that I ought to catch the thief, and I caught a Tartar instead." "It is most vexatious! Oh, how hot I am! Have you got a match?" "Yes, I've got a box somewhere." "Look sharp, then, and light the lamp." "All right, sir," said Sam, fumbling in his box, and proceeding to strike a light. "I 'spose you've made me in a pretty mess, sir." "What! Have I made your nose bleed?" "Oh, no, sir. I meant the lampblack. I suppose I shall be covered with it." "Wait till you get the light, and see," said Frank sharply. _Scratch_! The little wax match flashed, the lamp was picked up uninjured, and after a little trying, burned freely, so that the adversaries could gaze in each other's faces. But prior to doing this Sam examined his hands twice over, and then passed them over his face. He next took out a pocket-handkerchief and rubbed his face well, bringing away plenty of perspiration, but the linen remained white. "It hasn't come off, sir," he said, in a tone full of wonder; and then, moistening his handkerchief with his lips, "Beg your pardon, sir, would you mind?" Frank, whose annoyance was dying out, being driven off by a feeling of amusement caused by the man's looks of wonder, stood fast while Sam passed his handkerchief over the back of one hand and then drew back, laughing softly. "Well, Sam!" he cried.