They were held together more by sympathy than cohesion. In his right hand was a stout gnarled stick, with which he assisted himself in his frog-like progress. At sight of young Rody, the huge mouth of this uncouth creature seemed to open from ear to ear. "Ha, ha! Who, whoo! Gor bress me, if it ain't Massa Warren hisself dat I see! My stars, massa, but dis ole man am glad to see ye, dat he is!" Such was his salutation. The young man came to a stop, and surveyed the negro with a smile. "Well, Crookleg, what do you want with me, you old fiend?" "Ha, ha! Ho, ho! Bress him, what a brave young gen'lman it is! How han'som'--jess like a pictur'. What do the ole fien' want? Why he want a good deal, massa, good deal." "Are you out of work again?" "Ha, ha, ain't done a bressed stroke of work, massa, for more nor two week! Ain't, 'pon dis old nigger's solemn word! Ain't had it, massa, to do. Poor Crookleg am most used up, sa, most used up." As if to prove his last assertion the hideous wretch cut a high caper into the air, and settled down again in a grotesque attitude. Young Rody laughed heartily at this feat, slapped his riding-whip roughfully across the negro's back, pitched a piece of silver to him, and passed on. Whilst Crookleg stopped to pick up the coin he glanced after him under his arm, and saw, with some surprise, that the youth had paused at a few paces distance as if in thought. After a time the latter faced round and came back along the road. "By the way, Crookleg," said he, "come up to the house, my sister may have something to give you." "Ha, ha! he, he! Miss Alice, bress her, so she may, massa! I'll come, sartin; dis old nigger's always glad to get what he can from Miss Alice." "And," continued Rody, "ask for me when you come. I may find something for you to do that'll help you along a little." Not staying to hear the voluble expressions of gratitude with which Crookleg overwhelmed him, Warren strode on, and was soon lost to sight. The moment of his disappearance the darkey perpetrated another aerial leap, and then hobbled off in a direction opposite to that pursued by the governor's son. He could be heard muttering as he went-- "Wants to see dis chile, does he? Why, dat looks good for de old nigger; and, who knows, but what de long time am a coming to an end, and all dis old nigger's work is gwine to be done for him by odder folk. He, he! dat would make dis chile bust a laffin! He, he, he!" CHAPTER SEVEN. THE TWO CHIEFS. Our story now takes us fifty miles inland from Tampa Bay. The spot on the edge of an everglade. The hour noon. The dramatis personae two Indians. One an old man, the other in the prime of life. The first white-headed, wrinkled, and with traces of a life spent in action. He presented an appearance at once striking and picturesque as he stood beneath the shade of a tall palm tree. His dress was half Indian, half hunter.