With the old Negro’s help, Judge Barringer managed to bear his weight on the uninjured leg and hobble down the few feet of bank to the boat. Ossabaw Island lay like a black blob in the early morning mist a quarter of a mile away. But their way lay in the opposite direction, and Daddy Ike, for all his eighty-odd years, lost no time in pushing off. Bulldog had told him to bring back a pair of overalls and a shirt, and he wanted to get back as soon as possible before the ravenous giant ate him “into de po’house.” Also he was genuinely alarmed for the escaped convict’s sake and wanted him to get away before the law came after him. “Yo’ ain’ gwine to say nuthin’ ’bout Bulldog, is yo’, Jedge?” the old man asked presently. “Dat nigger’s crazy, but fo’ all he size, he’s jes’ lak a baby.” “I’ll let you know later,” Judge Barringer said absently. He was pondering the question of just what was to be done with Bulldog. He knew that the big Negro would not go far. It was only a matter of time before he would be caught in some shanty or other, giving way to his appetite. But Judge Barringer was also convinced in his own mind that the story of the Washington Negro’s death had been a hoax--a hoax that had worked too well. And when they landed at one of the first river settlements where the judge could get a conveyance that would take him back to the city, the first thing he did was to get to a telephone and wait while he had his secretary at the other end give him a report from the hospital. “Discharged yesterday, Judge,” the secretary reported. “It would be pretty hard to find him now. After his experience with Bulldog I guess he’s left town.” “All right; didn’t want him anyway,” said the judge. “Tell Dr. Rafe Kirby to go out to the hospital and wait for me. I’ll be there in about an hour, bringing an accident case.” Before the secretary could question him further, he hung up the receiver. Judge Barringer hated personal publicity unless it had to do with politics. He turned to the storekeeper, whose telephone he had used. “Would you mind telling that old nigger out there I want to see him a moment?” Daddy Ike came in with his hat in his hand. “What dey say, Jedge?” he asked anxiously. “That Washington nigger was let out of the hospital yesterday and by now he’s halfway home.” “Praise de Lawd for dat!” breathed Daddy Ike. “And tell Bulldog when he finishes eating that he is to come and report to me before he goes back to the chain gang,” Judge Barringer said. The least he could do was suspend sentence, but if possible, he wanted to do something more substantial than that. * * * * * Thorough examination by Dr. Rafe Kirby showed that the gunshot wound was superficial. The hardship of crawling mile after mile through the swamp had caused most of the judge’s suffering. He was promised that he would be around with the aid of a crutch in a day or two.