But the work line was watched over by a convict guard whose duty it was to sit on a palmetto stump all day with a sawed-off shotgun across his knees. Sometimes a prisoner escaped, but not often. Bulldog, at the head of the line, had never tried to escape. When his time was up he had always hurried to town in high glee, but with a certain remote feeling that sooner or later he would be coming back to Cap’n Jim. Once back, he was content to work out his time. He liked to work, he gloried in the fact that he could do the work of seven. “Ah reckon, big boy, dey hangs yo’ dis time.” Chinkapin, so named because of his size, was the middle prisoner in Bulldog’s squad. He had spoken irrelevantly to the landscape, a dreary waste of cypress knees and cabbage palmetto extending half a dozen miles to the row of live oaks that marked the river line. No one in the squad paid any attention. “Ah reckon, big boy, dey hangs yo’ dis time!” Chinkapin repeated. This time Bulldog half turned his head to speak, but as he did so three turkey buzzards flapped crazily out of the swamp just ahead and absorbed his attention for the moment. By the time the buzzards had settled out of sight again Bulldog had forgotten Chinkapin. But the little convict was not to be so readily neglected. “Ah reckon, big boy, dey hangs yo’ dis time,” he intoned once more. “Hangs who?” Bulldog demanded bluntly. “Chinkapin, yo’ half-size nigger, shut yo’ mouf befo’ Ah sicks dem eye-pickin’ buzzards on yo’!” “Ah ain’ kill nobody,” Chinkapin answered glibly; “dem flip-flop death angels ain’ lookin’ fo’ me.” “What yo’ mean yo’ ain’ kill nobody? What lie yo’ fixin’ to tell now?” Bulldog had stopped and was facing his tormentor. “Who hangs who for what? Yo’ tells de truf or Ah smacks yo’ cross-eyed.” Chinkapin had an active mind. Although he had never seen him, he had heard about the squint-eyed night guard. Bulldog towered above him. In one glance Chinkapin made full appraisal. Bulldog’s hand was the size of a ham. There was no going back now, for the big Negro was evidently riled. The three buzzards taking wing had been an omen. Chinkapin should have realized that before he pressed his point. “Ah ain’ lyin’, Bulldog,” the diminutive one countered quickly. “My gal done tol’ me las’ night when she brung mah clo’s. Ah’m leavin’ Sa’day.” “Who cares when yo’ leaves, han’ful? Did Ah ax yo’ when yo’ leaves? Who hangs for what? Yo’ answer me dat in de whole truf or I slaps you pas’ an’ presen’ an’ back again!” Chinkapin shivered. The delay had stopped the whole squad line, and back along the line a convict guard was shouting. But Bulldog was intent only on the little Negro before him. “Does yo’ answer me, Chinkapin, or does I knock you loose?” One hand, open palmed, was raised threateningly. “Dat Washin’ton nigger died,” Chinkapin blurted out in shaking fear. “My gal tol’ me when she come las’ night.”