A sudden fear seized him now--a fear that Abe or Allen might appear at the gunwale and see him. That would be dangerous, he knew. Obviously, he could not stay where he was. Something had to be done, and done at once. With desperation in his heart, the boy again measured the distance to the flatboat, then drew a deep breath, and took off from the steamer’s side in a long plunge. He had swum under water many times before, but never when he was so tired, or with so much at stake. Five strokes he took--ten--twelve, with his lungs ready to burst for air--thirteen--fourteen--fifteen--sixteen--he _must_ come up--seventeen--eighteen, and his hand touched planks! He was there, safe under the flatboat’s counter. For a moment he lay with mouth and nose just out of water, gasping in the breaths he so sorely needed. A stray end of rope, hanging from the stern, gave him something to hold on to. From the tall, white _Natchez_ there came a jangle of bells and a thrashing of the water as her paddles turned over. This was Tad’s chance. All eyes would be on the steamer for the next minute or two. He took a firm grip on the rope and went up with a kick of his feet. At the gunwale he had just strength enough left to fling up a leg and pull himself over. Five seconds later he rolled over the edge of the after deck and dropped without ceremony into the middle of Allen’s preparations for dinner. If Tad had not instantly signaled him to silence it is certain that the _Katy Roby’s_ cook would have yelled aloud in terror. As it was he toppled over backward on the planking and sat there looking comically pale. “Great--hallelujah--fishhooks!” he choked out, at last. “I shore never looked to see your face ag’in, boy! How in Tarnation did ye git away?” “I’ll tell you--pretty soon,” grinned Tad, still too weary to talk. “Where’s Abe?” “Up thar in the town--Natchez-’top-o’-the-Hill,” said Allen. “He’s been tryin’ to git ’em to send a sheriff’s posse arter you. But gosh, boy, look at them feet!” Tad was bleeding from half a dozen cuts and bruises that he had got in the course of his flight. Until now he had not even noticed them. His shirt was in tatters, and even the stout homespun trousers, in addition to being heavy with mud and water, had been torn in several places. Gaunt with hunger and fatigue and wet as a drowned kitten, he looked little like his usual sturdy self. But Poke knew him. The gangling baby bear stretched his chain as far as it would go and licked with a warm pink tongue at Tad’s face. Chuckling with delight, the boy rolled over to scratch his pet’s inquisitive round ears. And at that moment a long shadow fell across the deck and they heard the tread of moccasined feet. Abe, still frowning and preoccupied with the business that had taken him ashore, dropped down from the fore deck and almost stepped on Tad before he saw him. “Wal, I’ll be--” he began. But his vocabulary, for once, was totally inadequate to the occasion.