Chapter VII: Introduction: The Judges (7)

“I told Constance he’d be back at it within a year,” remarked Nancy Bromley, when Levering had left the floor and the lights had again been brightened. “A taste of good fortune to a man like that always goes to the head.... Cantor! It is to laugh.”

The others were silent; then Taylor spoke: “That’s not the man we knew, though. Don’t you get the difference? Those first songs were superb. The man who wrote that music is a genius.”

“Changed, nothing! That’s the same old Levering. I’ll prove it to you.” Nancy called a waiter and told him to ask Mr. Levering if he would speak to Miss Bromley.

“What are you going to do?” asked Greville.

“Never mind; you’ll see when he comes,” answered Nancy.

In a few moments Levering appeared and walked through the aisles of tables to where the party was sitting. He did not cross the floor in his old swaggering manner, receiving homage as he went; but with dignity he walked and, reaching the table, bowed quietly to the four people.

“Pull up a chair and have a drink,” invited Taylor.

“No, thank you, just the same. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I am having some people down over the week-end of the twenty-third, Mr. Levering,” said Nancy. “I should like very much to have you come.”

“That is very kind of you, Miss Bromley,” replied Levering quietly; “I should be very glad to come on Saturday evening and entertain your guests. My charge for such an affair is one thousand dollars. I presume you will not want me after eleven-thirty. I must be back in town early, for I sing in a concert Sunday afternoon.”

Nancy’s face was crimson as she answered, “That will be all right, Mr. Levering.” Hal bowed and, turning, walked away.

John Taylor looked with amusement at the discomfited Nancy and then at the proud set of the head of the Jew who was now a Jew, a Prince of Israel, and a verse that he had learned as a child came to him: “For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour.”

BULLDOG

BY ROGER DANIELS

From _Saturday Evening Post_

“Next case!” Judge Barringer was brisk. Word had come to him that the railbirds were plentiful down in the marshes of the Big Swamp and he was going hunting. It was Monday morning, and the police-court docket was an unusually large one even for Monday morning.

Out of the group of Negroes waiting in the prisoners’ pen, a group so large this morning that it overflowed on to the sunny porch beyond, edged a giant Negro in answer to the turnkey’s signal. Rather, he could have been said to plough his way through, for the men and women ranged before him separated as does soft loam under the impelling blade of the ploughshare. Once free of the crowd, the man stepped forward with an easy but awkward shuffle until he stood directly in front of the judge’s desk. At that moment Judge Barringer was intently scanning the docket slip and figuring how soon he would be able to get away.

The prisoner’s massive head might have been chiselled with an ax from a block of black marble, and not too finely chiselled, at that. It had the sheen of black marble, and was square and formidable, that head, viewed from any angle. The jaw was square and protruding, the forehead was square and receding, the nose was broad and flat. Just now the mouth was spread wide across the shining ebony face.

“Mawnin’, Jedge,” the big Negro said with a sheepish grin. “Heah Ah is!”

Judge Barringer’s head jerked up instantly. He was not accustomed to mawkish familiarity from his charges, nor did he fail to administer stinging rebukes, when such were attempted, in the amount of sentence given as well as in verbal reproof to any and all who might presume to take such liberties. But as he took cognizance of the figure that loomed before him, his expression changed. The frown that had furrowed his forehead did not linger. It could not be said that he smiled, but a look of real recognition, kindly and forbearing, came into his eyes. One hardly frowns at an old acquaintance.

“Well, Bulldog,” Judge Barringer said, calling the big Negro by the only name he had, “I haven’t seen you for the longest time. Where have you been hiding?”

Bulldog grinned, even a broader grin than before, so that his white teeth showed in a semicircle. “Same place wheah Ah usually is, Jedge Barringer, Yo’ Honour. Down on the Fahm wiv Cap’n Jim.” The Farm was the chain-gang camp.

“It’s too bad, Bulldog,” the judge said, shaking his head; “you’re big enough to keep out of trouble and mind your own business.”

“Yas-suh, Jedge Barringer, tha’s jes’ what Ah was a-doin’, mindin’ mah business, an’ Ah jes’ gits me into trouble jes’ the same. Seems lak me an’ trouble sticks together lak a pair ob dice.” He grinned again. The grin became infectious and Judge Barringer took it up. Even the stolid fat Sam Perks, the turnkey, grinned. Then came a general titter, to be brought to a sudden halt by the judge’s staccato gavel.

Judge Barringer had suddenly remembered the railbirds and the Big Swamp. He was off for a three-day hunt, and there were several things he must attend to personally before turning over the affairs of court _pro tem._ to the clerk. With still more than half a heavy Monday docket to be heard from, there was no time for amusement this morning.

“Well, where’s the witness against Bulldog? Is the Court to be kept waiting? What has he to say for himself and why isn’t he here?”

The patrolman who had arrested the big Negro stepped forward.

“The witness is still in the hospital, judge,” he said. “Pretty badly done up and they don’t know when he will be out. I guess the case will have to be continued until he can appear.”

“Waste of time,” Judge Barringer said crisply. “I know Bulldog.” He turned abruptly to the big Negro. “Well, what happened this time? Tell us your side of the story.”

Bulldog shuffled from one foot to the other. “It was thisaway, Jedge, Yo’ Honour. The las’ six months what you give me, they ain’t up till to-morrow. Cap’n Jim, he startin’ the big ’Geechee Canal to-morrow. Come las’ Friday, Cap’n Jim, he say, ‘Bulldog, yo’ bin a mighty good nigger this trip. Ah’m lettin’ yo’ out a couple ob days ahaid ob time. Mebby you-all be back so’s we kin staht wif the new ‘Geechee Canal together.’ Ah reckon dat Cap’n Jim be right, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, cause heah Ah is!”

As Bulldog broke into another of those infectious grins, it was necessary for Judge Barringer to rap for order, although he was forced to cough to hide his own mirth. Any other morning Bulldog might have been highly amusing entertainment, but the railbirds were calling from the Big Swamp.

“So much for that,” Judge Barringer said. “Tell us what happened. Why is this man in the hospital?”

“It was thisaway, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog repeated the formula: “Ah gits me home an’ Ah finds that a yaller Washin’ton nigger been shinin’ up to my Sally while Ah bin down on de Fahm. Yassuh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, he’s shinin’ when I gits home. I comes in de front do’ an’ he goes out de back. All Ah done, Jedge, was jes’ flicked dat nigger, ’cause he don’ move fas’ enough.”

“You just flicked him. What with?” Judge Barringer asked, as the term was a new one to him.

“Wif the back ob mah han’, Jedge, thisaway.” Bulldog made a snapping gesture with one hand; “jes’ lak yo’d flick on a fly, Jedge. Dat’s all Ah done to dat measly little nigger. He wasn’t big enough to hit.”

“So you just flicked him like you’d flick off a fly?” Judge Barringer questioned.

“Yas-suh, dat’s all, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog answered.

“And now this man is in the hospital and they don’t know when he will be able to appear. It seems to me that the last time you were here you said you had just made a pass at a man and when they got him to the hospital he was cut in ten different places.” Judge Barringer leaned back with an air of resignation. “Bulldog, you’re hopeless. I’m going to send you back to Captain Jim for another six months. For the general safety of the community at large, you’d better do your flicking on the new Ogeechee Canal.”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog answered.

Such a remark coming from any other prisoner would have been impertinence and would have been swiftly treated as such. But between old friends there are no impertinences. Bulldog turned away with a grin and ploughed his way through the crowd in the prisoners’ pen to the bench in the rear. Two Negroes got up hastily to make room for him.

The business of the court moved along swiftly. The railbirds were calling to the judge’s bench from the Big Swamp. Bulldog, on the prisoners’ bench, was thinking of the convict captain. He liked Captain Jim. “Ah guess he knowed Ah’d be back in time all right,” he mused to himself. “Well, Cap’n Jim, Ah’m comin’.”

Later that afternoon there was a meeting between the two. “Been waitin’ all mawnin’ for you, Bulldog,” was the convict captain’s greeting. “Just you run along and get your work clothes and then you can go over and clean up my quarters.”

The regular routine of the check-in was usually dispensed with in Bulldog’s case, as it was to-day. Once safe in the convict camp, he caused no trouble. He did the work of seven ordinary men and had withal the stolid patience of a work horse. Only when he was at liberty was Bulldog dangerous, like a colt turned out to grass which suddenly remembers that he can kick. Captain Jim had been busy for several minutes with the other prisoners before he realized that Bulldog still stood back of him, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. He recalled that the same thing had happened on one other occasion and grinned inwardly.

He half turned. “Bulldog, you go over and tell old Henry,” Cap’n Jim said, “to give you something to eat.”

“Yas-suh, Cap’n Jim,” Bulldog said with alacrity, his eyes brightening and his lower lip hanging expectantly at the thought of food. “Dat’s what Ah was hopin’ yo’ was goin’ to say, Cap’n Jim. Ah ain’t eat since las’ night.” The sheepish grin spread over his face. “Seems lak Ah cain’t relish de bacon and grits what dey gives up to dat city jail. Dey don’t know how to feed a nigger lak yo’ does, Cap’n Jim.”

“So that’s why you came back so soon, is it?” the convict captain said with a laugh.

“No, suh,” Bulldog answered soberly, his brows knit and his lips protruding. “Ah didn’ come back fer no perticular reason, Cap’n Jim. Now Ah stops and figgers it out, Ah guess it jus’ happen.” His face lit up with an idea as he asked with all the wonder of a small boy, “Cap’n Jim, you-all didn’ put no sign on me to make me come back?”

“If you don’t get out of here quick I’ll put a sign on you you won’t forget,” the captain exploded.

“Yas-suh,” Bulldog called back to him over his shoulder, being already half a dozen paces on his way.

Ten minutes later, garbed in his chain-gang work clothes, with a chain dangling from his waist, Bulldog poked his head through the open window of the cook shanty.

“Ev’nin’, Uncle Henry,” he said in a mellifluous tone to a gray-haired Negro in cap and apron who was ladling the contents of a huge pot set at the back of the big square stove.

Uncle Henry looked up, his face crinkled with smiles that seemed to close his eyes until they were shiny, laughing dots.

“Dat you-all, Bulldog? Sho’ nuff I jes’ dis minute ’cided you done dis’point Cap’n Jim an’ slumped a fresh ham bone an’ two pounds ob meat on it into dat soup. But, Bulldog, boy, for you I fishes it out.”

“Yas-suh, Uncle Henry, Ah knowed yo’ ain’t goin’ to see Bulldog starve. Mebbe yo’ has a handful ob dem yaller sweet yams.” Bulldog’s mouth fairly dripped.

“Hush up dat fool talk, boy,” the old cook chuckled. “Don’ it do my heart good to see them what likes they vittles? Bulldog, yo’ am de most satisfactoriest meal hound what I know.” Uncle Henry doubled with laughter, in which Bulldog, his mouth already crammed full, joined heartily.

Uncle Henry sincerely liked Bulldog. The giant never referred to the fact that Uncle Henry was a lifer. For twenty-seven years he had been a convict-camp cook. It was as a young man that, under the influence of ten-cent white mule, he had lifted a chair against his legally married wife. In Uncle Henry’s mind that dreadful event had always remained as an accident. His whole life was being freely given in atonement. When some of the younger convicts taunted him and called him the old murderer, they left a hurt that remained with Uncle Henry for weeks.

Bulldog shuffled toward the door finally with a sigh. “Ef Ah swallows another swallow, Uncle Henry, Ah busts.”

“Boy, come again when yo’s hungry; yo’ makes me proud.” The old cook chortled, looking after him.

As Bulldog turned into the lane to Captain Jim’s quarters, a small whitewashed bungalow, two hounds bayed a ferocious greeting.

“Yo’ Lady Belle, yo’ Junie, hush yo’ mouf!” Bulldog bayed back. Then he grinned and tossed the remains of the fresh ham bone over the chicken-wire inclosure. The hounds left off their racket instantly and pounced on the bone, while Bulldog leaned complacently against the inclosure and eyed them with satisfaction.

“Dem houn’ dawgs go after dat bone lak it was a runaway nigger,” he commented with approval. Though every other Negro on the place looked upon the bloodhounds as a possible Nemesis, such a thought had never entered Bulldog’s massive head. To him they were companions, and the fact that he was allowed to feed them was proof conclusive that he was above the ordinary regulations of the convict camp.

He turned from the hounds presently and made his way to a small outhouse, where he procured a pail, a whitewash brush and a scraper. Captain Jim liked things to look spick-and-span, and the timbers supporting the bungalow porch had acquired a reddish-brown mud colour from the recent rains. Bulldog proceeded at the first job that he knew would catch Captain Jim’s eye. He knew on which side his bread was buttered.

“Wasn’ it sad to see _Titanic_ sinkin’ down,
Wasn’ it sad to see _Titanic_ sinkin’ down;
Husban’s an’ wives, little chilluns los’ dey lives;
Wasn’ it sad to see _Titanic_ sinkin’ down.”

Verse after verse, in the droning singsong of the old spirituals, kept time to the whitewash brush. The underpinning of the bungalow was certainly going to catch Captain Jim’s eye when he came up the lane.

Two and a half hours later Bulldog took up his accustomed place in line on the way to the mess hall. If he had recently gorged until he couldn’t swallow another swallow, that was not going to interfere with his doing full justice to Uncle Henry’s supper. And later, spread out at full length in the bunk room over the mess hall, he lay on his back and slept the sleep of the just. Sleeping on one’s back is said to be conducive to snoring, but Bulldog was a silent sleeper. If he was primitive in his mode of living, so, too, he was primitive in his sleeping hours. Dead to the world he was, yet ready to be instantly awake.

Once upon a time a fellow convict night guard had taken the liberty to bring his stick across the soles of Bulldog’s bare feet as he lay asleep. It was a common trick, and as the sleepers were chained to their flat bunks, the guard had only to step back out of harm’s way, while the startled sleeper rubbed open his eyes and bellowed revenge to the accompaniment of catcalls from the other prisoners. But the unlucky guard who had attempted the prank at Bulldog’s expense carried an eye that squinted forever after as a warning to all and sundry that the giant was equally dangerous, asleep or awake. It must have been that Bulldog had heard the swish of the descending stick in his sleep, for the smack of it against the soles of his feet and the whoosh of his hand striking the unwitting guard had been nearly simultaneous. So Bulldog slept the sleep of the just.

He was awake with the sun, and lay there for half an hour studying his toes, even as a small boy of five or six months studies them. When a man can do that intently for half an hour, his conscience isn’t bothering him. So to breakfast presently and to take his place at the head of the squad line. They were starting the new Ogeechee Canal and Bulldog knew that Captain Jim meant him to set the pace. It was an accepted fact that a squad line with Bulldog at its head got about a week and a half of digging done in a week. It was useless to try to drive labour out of Negro chain gangs, but to lead it out of them--that was different. It explained why Captain Jim needed Bulldog. Winter was coming along and the new drainage canal must be finished before the flood rains of spring.

The beginning was to be made some three miles away from camp, and they marched out in formation, five men to a squad. The chain-gang squad of five meant two ahead, two behind, and one in the middle. Each prisoner had a leg iron around his right ankle, to which was attached the four-foot squad chain. When they were on the march the squad chains of each squad were linked together in a common ring, so that if a man attempted to bolt on the road he would have to take four of his companions with him. Even if the bolt were successful, it was poor work for five men, chained together, to beat off pursuit in the swamp. When they worked, each man carried his own chain hooked to a snaffle sewed to his tunic.

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.”

Bulldog’s hand dropped to his side. He stood absolutely motionless, looking blankly at the quivering messenger of bad news. For a full minute he stood there, and to Chinkapin it seemed that death itself was standing there.

“Is yo’ tellin’ de whole truf?” Bulldog demanded.

“So help me!” quavered the terror-stricken Chinkapin.

“If yo’ ain’----”

But the sentence was never finished. One of the guards, alarmed at the sudden halt, had fired into the air as a signal to the others. The report of the gun had an electrical effect on Bulldog. If the Washington Negro had died, he would hang. The three turkey buzzards, frightened by the gun, came winging past. Out of the corner of one eye Bulldog saw them.

“Stan’s yo’ back!” he commanded quickly, at the same time shoving the four other members of the squad into a huddle. That gave him about six feet of chain to work on. Swiftly he bent. The chain was coiled like magic first around one forearm and then the other. There was a grunt, the ring of metal, and the chain had parted. Bulldog dived headlong off the trail into the palmetto scrub just as the first convict guard came running up. He fired both barrels of the sawed-off shotgun point-blank in the general direction of Bulldog’s dive. Then he reloaded and fired again, keeping up the process until the other guards arrived. In a circle they closed in on the place. But the turned-back palmetto scrub revealed nothing. Bulldog was gone.

It was Chinkapin who turned an almost pasty gray face toward heaven as he exclaimed, “May de Lawd have mercy on dis pore little nigger’s soul, Ah didn’ mean no hahm!”

When he dived, Bulldog landed in the lush swamp grass and proceeded through it bellywise like a snake. He made a hundred yards that way before he got to his feet and broke into a run. The palmetto scrub was slightly higher than his head as he pressed forward ankle-deep in the slime. He came to a halt presently to get his second wind, knowing that he was safe for the immediate present. The convict guards couldn’t leave the chain gang. They would have to summon Captain Jim and a posse. By that time Bulldog would be well on his way. But where?

Half an hour later, ploughing his way through the swamp grass to the river, he was still pondering the question when his ear caught the far-away bay of a hound.

“Dere’s dat posse, sho’ nuff,” Bulldog grunted, and put on speed. He was nearing the river and higher ground, and the going was easier. The Big Swamp, on both sides of the river, was mostly tidal backwash. There wasn’t a habitation for miles ahead, and once he got to the river, Bulldog felt he could swim downstream and lose himself in the swamps on the other side. Unless the crime were a very terrible one, a white man’s posse wouldn’t break its neck searching the swamps for one chain-gang Negro more or less. Bulldog, for all his uncouthness, had a rough-and-ready knowledge of the customs of the country. But for one day the chase would be hot; the cry of the hounds, giving tongue, assured the big Negro of that. Even now the dogs seemed to have gained on him, and he stopped to listen. They were much nearer than they had been before. Bulldog’s worried face changed to reveal a grin.

“Dem houn’ dawgs ain’ on no leash. Cap’n Jim done loosed ’em!” He chortled aloud as if to convince himself that his ears had not deceived him. He cocked his head on one side and listened intently. “Sho’ nuff! Dat’s Lady Belle and Junie.”

The river line, with its row of live oaks festooned with Spanish moss, was a scant half mile away now, and the going underfoot was solid. Bulldog broke into a steady run. In a few minutes he had reached the first of the live oaks. Back in the glory days of the old South, these magnificent trees had been set out by some long-since-departed rice planter. Now their branches interlaced.

Bulldog swung himself into a tree, got up among the middle branches, ran out a good-sized limb like some giant monkey, paused, and then swung himself into the next tree. The hounds were close now; he could hear them as he climbed. But they were running the trail far ahead of the posse. Through the second tree and into the third swung the apelike giant. He kept on until he had reached the fifth, from which he dropped swiftly to the ground. He found a stout section of an old branch, tested it with the weight of his hand, and then swung back in a circle to lie in wait beside his trail.

He did not wait long. The hounds went by in full cry, Junie in the lead, Lady Belle at his heels. The bloodhound cares neither for sight nor sound, but follows his nose. Bulldog closed in behind them and grinned broadly as they came to a baffled halt at the foot of the live oak.

“Yo’ Lady Belle, yo’ Junie, hush dat racket!”

At the sound of his voice the hounds whirled to face him, baying excitedly at this strange turn of affairs.

“Yo’ heah me? Hush dat racket!” Brandishing the broken limb, Bulldog stepped toward them. “Ah feeds yo’ wiv mah own han’s and yo’ runs me down jes’ lak Ah was a runaway convic’ nigger! Junie, Lady Belle, fo’ dat Ah frails yo!”

The broken limb descended in a sidelong swish and Junie was bowled over. A split second later, in the midst of a protracted howl, Lady Belle got the same treatment. Both hounds scrambled to their feet whimpering.

“Hush dat noise! Yo’ ain’ hurt!” Again the tree branch came swishing down, but this time above their heads. The hounds were cowed. “Tracks me down lak a runaway convic’ nigger, will yo’? Now yo’ gits!” Bulldog grunted savagely. “Home, Junie! Home, Lady Belle, befo’ Ah cuts loose an’ frails yo’ good!”

With tails down, both hounds turned and fled. Bulldog sent the tree branch soaring through the air after them. It lit at their heels and sent them scurrying faster.

“Why fo’ Cap’n Jim let loose dem houn’ dawgs? He might knowed Ah’d frail ’em,” the big Negro commented philosophically. It was common knowledge that a bloodhound loose on the trail could be beaten back, or frailed, as usage had it. But time for philosophy was short. Bulldog went down to the river at a jog trot, hesitated at its brink and then dived overboard into the deep water that cut into the live-oak bank. He came up with a snort and struck out for the opposite shore.

The tide was strong and carried him well downstream, which was to his advantage in putting distance between himself and his pursuers. It was in searching for a convenient landing place that he spied a boat pulled up in a bayou. That meant someone else was there, and he allowed himself to be swept farther downstream. It also offered him means of getting upstream with much less trouble than through the swamp. He cut into shore presently, and keeping well under the bank, worked his way around to the boat. It was high and dry, and a pair of oars were tucked under the seats.

Just as Bulldog reached for them there was the reddish-brown flash of a copperhead that had been sunning itself. Outraged at being disturbed, the reptile struck. But the giant Negro was quicker and snatched his hand back out of harm’s way.

“Jes’ fo’ dat, little red snake, Ah whuffs yo’,” Bulldog grunted.

Sensing danger, the copperhead squirmed for the gunwale of the boat and the safety of the river. Once more the big Negro was quicker. His heel descended and the snake’s head was crushed.

“Whuff!” he grunted. “What Ah tell yo’?” Reaching down, he picked up the remains and tossed them on the sun-baked bank. The whole little drama had consumed not more than ten seconds. Bulldog shoved the boat into the river and clambered quietly aboard.

Once in the current, he pulled upstream, using a long, steady, untiring stroke. As a pickaninny, a flat-bottomed river rowboat had been his hobbyhorse. It would be a full hour before the posse would get within sight of the river, he figured, even if it came that far, now that the hounds were no longer giving cry to guide it. Lady Belle and Junie had cut it straight for home.

Ten miles above the place where he had first struck the river, Bulldog pulled the boat into a bayou, beached it well up among a covering screen of scrub palmetto, and then crawled under it and went to sleep.

The frogs were singing the sun to sleep when he awoke hungry. All along he hadn’t had any idea at all where he was going, but that was a matter which could easily remain indeterminate. The gnawing at his stomach was serious. He would starve to death in the swamp; so, as a hiding place, the swamp was cast aside.

“Ah got to git me goin’,” he mumbled to himself, his lips protruding as they always did when he was perplexed. In an hour it would be dark. He decided to wait. Presently, in the growing dusk, he dragged the boat down to the river, and tucking the oars under the seats as he had found them, he gave it a heave that sent it well out into the stream. He watched while the current caught it up, nosed it around and bore it from sight in the gloom. “Dey don’ git me fo’ stealin’ no boats,” he grumbled dispassionately, “but I sho’ would relish me some food.”

The yellowest of yellow moons, as big as a house, bathed the palmettos with metallic beauty when Bulldog silently and sullenly struck off through the swamp, heading south. He was going down to the sea, but there was no romance in his going. It was the urge of his stomach that led him that way rather than striking inland. The sea coast below the Big Swamp was a series of wind-swept savannas. It was broken by innumerable inlets and fringed with islands. But there were no settlements along this strip for miles and he would be safe from the sight of men. The beaches offered clams, crawfish, and prawn. He had never been a fugitive before. He was lonely for the companionship of his kind. Most of all, he was hungry.

Hour after hour he went on and on through the swamp, another shadow among a million, yet the only one that moved. His gait was rapid, but not hurried, a relentless, ever-forward swinging rhythm of motion. If he took bearings, he took them subconsciously. He made no plan. At the sea he would find something to eat. His mind travelled no farther than that. He even forgot that he was lonely.

A sudden cry through the stillness of the night sent dread loneliness over him like a pall and stirred every fibre of him, so that he quivered where he stood, as frozen as the other million shadows about him. At once the night had a myriad of tiny sounds that mounted and mounted, until, joined with the pulsations of his own body, they seemed to roar in his ears.

But the cry that had startled him had been human. He sensed that, as he stood listening to hear it again, stood like a statue in the moonlight, motionless and breathless. Had the cry come from above or below him, from before or behind him? He couldn’t tell, but as he strained his senses he became gradually aware that he was not alone in the swamp. The moon was well overhead now, and though it was half as bright as day in the upper world, every shadow was as black as pitch. Insects droned, the palmetto leaves caught a fitful breeze and rasped dully, unseen things crackled in the undergrowth.

“Whar yo’ is?”

Bulldog jumped two yards at the sound of his own voice, not realizing that he had experienced a psychological moment, that the very stress he had put on his senses of perception had caused him to speak out, just as a householder who fancies he has heard someone outside his door will call out, “Who’s there?” And while he stood there unable to decide whether to remain or run, that human cry came to him again, this time almost at his feet.

His teeth chattered now from mental if not bodily fear. Sounds do not come from nothing; and yet, strain his eyes as he would, he saw only a cabbage palmetto and its jet-black shadow in the place from whence it seemed to him the cry had come. Still he stared at the shadow. Something was there. As he stared, he saw it take form. Slowly at first it grew round and whitish, then its shape became more definite. Bulldog was hypnotized by it now, glued to the spot where he stood. He tried to ask it what it was, but his lips refused to move. He was cold now--cold and shivering. Then, with a rush, his breath came back to him. The thing had moved and was looking at him and he knew what he saw.

“Bulldog!” the thing gasped.

“Jedge Barringer! Ah thought yo’ was a ghos’!”

“Thank God you’ve come,” the judge said weakly. “I’ve had an accident. I’m shot in the leg. Not bad, but I lost a lot of blood before I got the flow stopped. I guess I’ve crawled ten miles trying to find the river and my boat. But I’m all right now. Who’s with you? Captain Jim?”

Bulldog heard and yet didn’t hear. Judge Barringer had been hunting and had shot himself in the leg. He had tried to reach his boat and had failed. The boat in question was the one Bulldog had found and appropriated; the boat he had later set adrift. The judge thought Bulldog had been sent out to look for him by Captain Jim.

“You black hyena, don’t stand there like that!” Judge Barringer exploded feebly. “I’m no ghost. Call Captain Jim.”

“Jedge, Yo’ Honour, dey ain’ nobody heah but me,” said Bulldog, simply stating a fact.

“You mean to say you came for me alone?” Judge Barringer was suffering from a terrible ordeal and was not thinking very clearly. “But how did you know----”

He stopped. Bulldog had not come for him. No one had come for him. He had slipped off quietly to hunt alone, expecting to go on that night to Bryan Neck. The whole idea of someone coming for him had been a sort of nightmare of hope when his brain had failed to function properly. He might still be suffering from hallucinations.

“Bulldog!” He spoke to make sure this towering Negro before him was real.

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour.” Time and circumstances could not alter custom, and Bulldog’s answer was a tribute to habit.

“Bulldog, what are you doing here?”

“Jedge, Yo’ Honour, it’s thisaway,” the big Negro began.

“That’s enough,” the judge cut in with a sigh of relief. “As long as it’s you, I don’t give a damn what you’re doing here. Just give me a hand and help me get to the river. I’ve got a boat there in a little bayou between two live oaks.”

Bulldog bent and helped the judge to a sitting posture. The judge groaned and then swore.

“Dat boat, Jedge Barringer?” Bulldog asked. “Dat was’n de boat wiv de red paint on de oar handles?”

“Yes, that’s the one. So you know where it is? That makes things easier.” Judge Barringer was fast being able to think once more.

“De las’ time Ah see dat boat, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, she was gwine down de middle ob de ’Geechee all by itself,” Bulldog explained honestly.

“You mean adrift?”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, jes’ lak a ol’ tree log.”

“All right.” It was no time to bewail the loss of a boat. “Then you can take me back in your boat, Bulldog.”

“Me, Jedge? Ah swum.”

Judge Barringer put out a quick hand to Bulldog’s leg. The big Negro’s clothes were dry. “You swam across? When?” he asked warily.

“Ah reckon it mus’ ’a’ been a couple hours befo’ dinnertime,” Bulldog answered. He knew from experience it was useless to try to lie to Judge Barringer. But the thought of dinnertime prompted him to add hopefully, “Yo’ ain’t got nuthin’ to eat on yo’, has yo’, Jedge, Yo’ Honour?”

“Do you mean to tell me you broke away from the chain gang?”

“No, suh!” Bulldog answered hurriedly. “Ah didn’ do nuthin’ lak dat. It was thisaway, Jedge, Yo’ Honour: Dat Washin’ton nigger die an’ Ah cain’ see no use in cravin’ to hang by mah neck.”

Judge Barringer was thoroughly aroused now. “Who told you that nigger died?”

“Chinkapin.”

“Where?”

“He’s on de chain gang.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“Befo’ de Lawd, Ah wouldn’ lie to yo’, Jedge Barringer, an’ yo’ knows it!” Bulldog said fervently.

“I mean I don’t believe that nigger died,” the judge explained.

“If yo’ believes it or don’ believes it, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, dat don’ save mah neck.”

“Well, we’ll see about that when we get back. In the meantime you can have my word for it, that nigger didn’t die.”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour. Ah’ll take yo’ word for it--on’y, we ain’ goin’ back,” said Bulldog emphatically.

“Do you mean to say you aren’t going to help me get out of here--that you’d go away and leave me?” Judge Barringer looked straight up into the face of the big Negro.

“No, suh! Ah ain’ goin’ away an’ leave yo’, Jedge Barringer, but also Ah ain’ goin’ back wiv yo’ an’ git hung by de neck for no yaller Washin’ton nigger.... Ain’ yo’ even got a san’widge, Jedge?”

Judge Barringer was rapidly, in his weakened state, becoming exasperated. “Now, you listen to me, Bulldog, and don’t be a fool. I don’t want you to hang any more than you want to hang. Chinkapin never told the truth in his life. If he said that nigger died, he meant it as a joke, and you jumped to conclusions and----”

“No, suh, Jedge, Ah ain’ jump to nuthing. Jes when Chinkapin say dat nigger die three flip-flop death-angel buzzards come flyin’ right ovah mah haid.... If yo’ ain’ even got a san’widge, we goes hungry, both of us; but, Jedge, we ain’ gwine back fo’ to git me hung.” Bulldog was adamant on that point.

“If I had a gun, Bulldog, I’d shoot you!” Judge Barringer threatened.

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog agreed solemnly. “But dat wouldn’t be gittin’ me hung by de neck. Ah saw oncet a lynch nigger an’ his neck was stretch out as long as mah arm. No, suh, Jedge Barringer, when Ah dies Ah dies so dey can put me in de coffin beautiful.”

“Can’t you do something besides talk like a fool?” Judge Barringer felt that his strength was slipping away from him. The hope that had come with Bulldog’s arrival was fast disappearing. His head sank resignedly to his chest. His brain was beginning to grow muddled again from sheer exhaustion, when he felt that Bulldog had taken him by the shoulder. From a long way off he could hear the big Negro’s voice.

“Jedge Barringer, don’ yo’ go passin’ out. Ah’ll git you home someways. Gives me yo’ arm an’ I totes you to Ossabaw.”

Ossabaw? That was an island at the mouth of the river fully fifteen miles distant. Now Judge Barringer, semiconscious as he was, knew that Bulldog was crazy. If he should be taken to Ossabaw, he would be farther away from help than ever. He would stay rather where he was. It was warm here, and quiet.

But when the black giant reached down and picked him up he made no protest. He was not even aware that he was being carried. Under this new burden, Bulldog found the going heavy in the swamp and made for the higher ground near the river bank. It was the wind coming up from the sea some two hours later that had a reviving effect on Judge Barringer. He opened his eyes to see a shadow a yard away.

“Is that you, Bulldog?” he asked.

“Yas-suh, Jedge, dis is me.”

“If you won’t do anything, why do you stay here?” Judge Barringer said petulantly in his weakness.

“Shucks, Jedge, we ain’ heah no mo’; we’s halfway to Ossabaw. Yo’ weighs like ce-ment, Jedge. When Ah gits me a li’l’ res’ we goes on.”

“Halfway to Ossabaw?”

“Yas-suh, Jedge.”

Judge Barringer lapsed again. It was useless to try to argue with the crazy hyena. If Bulldog had made up his mind to take him to Ossabaw, he would have to go, being unable to resist. He saw a picture of himself as a fellow Crusoe, fugitive from justice with a chain-gang Negro. But if that leg of his lost its soreness, if he ever was able to get around again, he swore that it would be much better for Bulldog to have hanged. A sudden jolt, a feeling that he was floating, and he knew that they were on their way.

When he opened his eyes again they were still on the go. His injured leg--it had been a flesh wound in the calf--was numb and did not pain him now. It occurred to him that he might even be able to walk. But the side-to-side sway, as he was carried along, seemed much easier; and besides, there was little weight to his body now; he felt as light as a feather. Years after, he was to look back at that moment and wonder what ever had put such a crazy notion in his head. He closed his eyes again.

“Jedge Barringer!... Jedge Barringer!” Bulldog was calling to him, but it was cold and he did not want to get up.

“Jedge Barringer!”

That was not Bulldog’s voice. He roused himself with a great effort and sat up. A bent old Negro was on his knees before him, his face a picture of despair. Suddenly it was wreathed in smiles of thankfulness.

“Jedge Barringer, yo’ is alive, thank de Lawd! Ah been callin’ yo’ fo’ de longes’ time until Ah jes’ ’bout reckon yo’ was a corp’.”

“Daddy Ike!” Judge Barringer gasped. “Where did you come from? Where’s Bulldog?”

“Down on de plantation, Jedge.” The old Negro’s face looked puzzled. “How come yo’ don’ know Ah ain’ nebber lef’ Ossabaw, Jedge?”

And then Judge Barringer remembered. Ossabaw Island was the seat of the old Depford plantation, now only a relic of the past, and Daddy Ike was the oldest Negro in the section. He still lived in the old ramshackle slave quarters and eked out a living by fishing and raising truck. Everyone knew Daddy Ike, and yet Judge Barringer had forgotten until now. This was the reason they had come to Ossabaw. It was dawn. Bulldog had been carrying him all night. He owed his life to the big Negro.

Daddy Ike misread the judge’s thoughts. “Bulldog he gone,” the old Negro said quickly. “Yo’ fergit all ’bout him, Jedge Barringer, while Ah helps yo’ to mah boat.”

“That crazy nigger’s gone? Where?”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Bulldog’s de craziest nigger in de worl’. Why fo’ yo’ an’ me gib two goobers wheah dat fool nigger’s gone? Us is gwine to git yo’ home, Jedge. How’s yo’ laig?” Daddy Ike changed the subject.

Judge Barringer smiled. “Daddy Ike, you old rascal, don’t lie to me. Bulldog saved my life. Where is he?”

“Jedge Barringer, Ah don’ know. De las’ time Ah seed him he was sittin’ in mah house eatin’ hominy grits an’ side meat an’ yams an’ black-eye peas; an’ lissen to me, Jedge, if Ah don’t git yo’ home and git back dat crazy nigger’s gwine to eat me into de po’house. But Ah don’ know wheah he is now.”

“All right,” Judge Barringer laughed. “We’ll see about that later. Where’s your boat, Daddy Ike? If you’ll give me a hand I think I can hobble.”

“Dat’s right, Jedge, lets us go. Heah’s de boat. Bulldog he swum across to de island an’ like to scairt me senseless, comin’ up to mah do’ in dem chain-gang clo’s. Ah’d ’a’ come across to yo’ right away, Jedge, but dat crazy Bulldog said Ah got to feed him fust. If we don’ get yo’ home he’ll eat up all mah winter rations!”

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.

“But I thought you went after railbirds, Judge,” Dr. Kirby said with a grin when the patient’s wound had been dressed.

“Rafe, if you-all don’t want me to lose my reputation as a gentleman before this young lady nurse, get out of here quick,” Judge Barringer bellowed.

* * * * *

It was the following Monday, still hobbling with the aid of a crutch, that Judge Barringer returned to the bench. There had been no word from Bulldog and he did not quite know what to make of it. When the first case was called, a small Negro, whose head was almost completely shrouded in bandages, stood before him, Judge Barringer looked down compassionately.

“Well, what did you run into--a truck?” he asked.

There was a movement in the prisoners’ pen. The Monday-morning crowd was being swayed by some unseen force. Then the force came into view in the shuffling, sheepish form of Bulldog.

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, heah Ah is!”

“Bulldog!”

Judge Barringer was accustomed to almost anything that might happen in his court, but for the moment he was nonplussed. “Didn’t Daddy Ike bring you my message?”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, it was thisaway----”

“Why didn’t you come to me if you got my message?” Judge Barringer interrupted, his dismay turning to reproof.

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, Ah’m comin’ to dat. It was thisaway,” Bulldog pleaded apologetically: “If yo’ was to take dem rags offen dat little half-size nigger, yo’d see it was Chinkapin hidin’ behin’ ’em.”

“Chinkapin!”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, de same what tol’ me dat lie ’bout dat Washin’ton nigger dyin’. Dis heah Chinkapin cause all de trouble, Jedge, Yo’ Honour. If it wasn’ fo’ Chinkapin’s lyin’, Jedge, Ah wouldn’ ’a’ bus’ loose from de chain gang. If it wasn’ fo’ dat little han’ful lyin’, I wouldn’ hab tote’ yo’ all de way to Ossabaw. Don’ blame me fo’ totin’ yo’ to Ossabaw, Jedge; blame Chinkapin; he done it. Dat Chinkapin nigger’s to blame fo’ ev’y las’ bit ob de trouble. So’s when Ah’m comin’ from Ossabaw Sa’day night, comin’ to see you, Jedge, Ah bumps into dat Chinkapin an’ Ah jes nachelly squeeze his lyin’ haid fo’ him and gib him a couple ob shakes and dat’s all.”

“Why did you wait until Saturday to come?” Judge Barringer asked.

“’Deed, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, how come Ah could come befo’ Sa’day? Cap’n Jim didn’ let Chinkapin loose offen de chain gang until Sa’day,” said Bulldog honestly.

Judge Barringer did not smile this morning. The business before him was too personal. The little bandaged Negro had lied to Bulldog. But in breaking away from the chain gang, Bulldog had been the means of saving the judge’s life, for he might never have been found in the swamp. It had been his purpose to suspend sentence on the big Negro, to take him under his wing and get him a job. Now that seemed impossible.

“What do you think I ought to do, Bulldog?” he asked the giant gravely.

“Who, me?” Bulldog looked incredulous. “Shucks, Jedge Barringer, Ah’ don’ know what yo’ ought to do, but Ah knows what yo’ is gwine to do.”

“What’s that?”

Bulldog grew suddenly serious. He had heard enough tales of road gangs in the northern counties of the state, where it was cold in winter, where the prisoners were badly treated, and the food was poor.

“Yo’ ain’ funnin’ wiv me, Jedge, Yo’ Honour? Yo’ ain’ holdin’ it agin me for totin’ yo’ all de way down to Ossabaw? ’Deed, Jedge Barringer”--and here pathos entered Bulldog’s voice--“’deed, if yo’ sen’ me anywheres besides to de Fahm, yo’ll bus’ Cap’n Jim’s heart.”

Judge Barringer sighed a sigh of relief. “All right, Bulldog, you win. Six months on the Fahm. And you, Chinkapin,” he said, turning to the little Negro--“you go with him.”

“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog grinned. As long as he could be under the gentle tutelage of Captain Jim and Uncle Henry, the cook, he was happy.