Pushing his pistol in the man's face, he cried: "Surrender, you black fiend, or I'll bore you!" "Don't shoot, boss!" roared the coon, frantically. "Are you going to submit?" "Yassah, yassah!" "Without a fight?" "Fo' sho' I is." "Roll over on your face." "Ober I go! Don't fire!" said the coon, turning over. "Now, put your hands on your back." "Heah dey am, boss!" And the negro did as he was told. Out came Harry's handcuffs, "click!" they snapped on his wrists, and in another instant the man was a prisoner. When Old King Brady reached the boy he was pulling a big navy revolver out of the man's hip pocket. "Got him, Harry?" "Safe, Old King Brady." "Get him upon his feet." They raised the man, and now got a good square look at him. He was a short, heavily-built fellow, clad in rags, and had as villainous a face as any they had ever seen. The man was trembling with fear. It was plain he was an arrant coward. When the detectives looked him over, Old King Brady asked him: "Say, what's your name?" "Nick Wiffles." "Where do you live?" "In de swamp." "Ain't you the man who built a bonfire on the railroad track some time ago, to stop a train from running into an obstruction?" "I is." "And you did it to stop the train?" "He done telled me ter do it, boss." "So you could steal a box containing Mr. Dalton's body from the baggage car during the confusion?" "Dat's about de size ob it." "And you got Dalton's body out of the box and carried it into the swamp?" "I did." "Into the hut?" "Yassah." "Were you alone?" "All alone." "When you got the body in the hut, what did you do with it?" "I ain't a-gwine ter tell yer." "All this was prearranged between you and Mason, wasn't it?" "Yassah." Old King Brady smiled. He had cleared up another mystery. CHAPTER XIV. EXPOSING THE SWAMP MYSTERY. The Bradys were surprised at the prompt manner in which the negro answered the questions put to him. But they presently observed that he was keeping a wary eye upon their revolvers, and evidently feared to get shot if they caught him lying to them. Moreover, Old King Brady showed plainly by the questions he asked that he was familiar with the true inwardness of the things he accused Nick of. It made the darky think the old detective knew more about the case than he actually did know. Seeing his advantage, Old King Brady said: "Now, see here, Mr. Wiffles, you know we are detectives, don't you?" "Ob c'ose," admitted the coon, in gloomy tones. "You tried to shoot us, and you tried to kill us in the quick-sand. That gives us the right to put you on trial for your life, charged with attempted murder. You are in a pretty bad fix, old man. I wouldn't give two cents for your life. You know what little evidence is required here to hang a Georgia nigger. Therefore you can realize what your fate will be." Nick began to cry. Big tears rolled down his cheeks. Falling on his knees, he cried in despairing tones: