160 MARTIN RATTLER.

After two hours’ walk, Martin and his companion
reached the lake, and here active preparations were
making for the alligator hunt.

“Ts that the only place ye have to spind the night
in, Sambo?” said Barney to their conductor, as he
pointed to a wooden shed near which some fifteen
or twenty Negro slaves were overhauling the fishing
tackle.

« Vis, massa,” answered the black, showing his
white teeth; “dat is de hottle of dis great city.”
Sambo could speak a little English, having wrought
for several years on the coffee plantation of a Yankee
settler. He was a bit of a wag, too, much to the
indignation of his grave master, the Senhor Antonio,
who abhorred jesting.

“Ye're too cliver, avic,” said Barney, with a
patronizing smile; “take care ye don’t use up yer
intellect too fast. It hurts the constitution in the
long-run.”

“J say, Barney,” cried Martin, who had gone ahead
of his companions, “come here, man, and just look at
this pond. It’s literally crammed full of alligators.”

“ Musha, but there’s more alligators than wather, I
belave!” exclaimed Barney.

The pond was indeed swarming with these fero-

cious reptiles, which were constantly thrusting their