Chapter I: Looked Up and Whined 104 (2)

“Going nearer, I saw that the negro drivers were chained to the wagons. On each side of the file of marching negroes rode a white man, a shotgun lying across his lap. I thought the negroes were prisoners, and that the men were carrying them to court for the judge and jury to sit on them. So the Little Master thought, for he urged me forward until we came up with the man who rode near the tall negro at the head of the file.

“‘Good-morning,’ said the Little Master to the man.

“‘Good-day, sonny,’ replied the man, but he kept his eye on the negro at the head of the file.

“‘Whose negroes are these?’ the Little Master asked.

“‘Mine,’ said the man, smacking his lips over it; ‘every one mine.’

“Then we went on in silence. The Little Master had a way, when he was puzzled, of reaching over the saddle and twisting a wisp of mane between his fingers. He did this now. He curled the wisp of hair on his forefinger and uncurled it ever so many times, as we went on in silence. I noticed that the negro at the head of the file had his arms tied at the elbows. The whole weight of the long rope, which was a big one, fell on this negro, but he was tall and strong and moved forward without sign of distress.

“Presently the Little Master spoke to the man again. ‘What have your negroes done that they should be carried to jail?’

“The man laughed loudly, as he replied: ‘I’m not carrying them to jail. They are for sale.’

“‘Then you are a negro speculator,’ said the Little Master.

“‘That’s what some people call me, sonny; speculator or what not, I have negroes for sale. If you want to buy one, I’ll sell you that buck at the head of the gang. He’s the finest of the lot, but I’ll sell him cheap. He’s worse than a tiger.’

“The Little Master urged me forward until we came to the side of the man at the head of the file. That was my first sight of the Son of Ben Ali. I knew at once that he was no negro. The Little Master spoke to him, and he smiled as he answered.

“‘I’ll sell him cheap, sonny,’ said the man; ‘name your own price, give me the money, and take him.’

“The Little Master slapped the pommel of his saddle, and I knew by that he was angry. But what he intended to say was never said, for just then the White-haired Master and the teacher came by in the buggy, going at a sweeping trot, and the Little Master gave me the rein to follow, which I was more than glad to do. Never before had I seen the White-haired Master use the whip on old Sorrel, the buggy horse, but he used it that day, and I had hard work to catch up and keep up. The teacher had turned in his seat and watched the file of negroes and the covered wagons as far as he could see them. There was a frown on his face, and his eyes had a queer light in them. I always dodge when a man looks at me that way.

“I think the White-haired Master wanted to get the teacher away from that procession of negroes. I heard them talking as I cantered behind the buggy.

“‘You are from the North, and, of course, you don’t understand these things,’ said the White-haired Master.

“‘You are right,’ replied the teacher. ‘I don’t understand them at all. I’m truly sorry I saw that sight. I shall see it again in my dreams.’

“‘I have been living here fifty years,’ the White-haired Master remarked, ‘and that is the second time I ever saw it.’

“The teacher said nothing more, and we soon entered the town, where there was a great many people. Hitched to one of the racks I saw a roan mule that had given me a vicious bite when we were in the drove together. He was poor enough now, and his ears hung dejectedly. I wanted to stop and read him a moral, but the Little Master bade me go on, and I had no opportunity to speak to my old tormentor.”

IV.

GRISTLE, THE GRAY PONY, CONCLUDES HIS STORY.

The Little Master gave me a drink of cool water from the well in the public square, and then he had me carried to a comfortable stall in the stable behind the old tavern. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but by the time I had dropped off into a comfortable doze, dreaming that I was nibbling sassafras buds in the orchard at home, a negro came running into the stable and into my stall. He came upon me so sudden that I turned in the stall to get out of his way, and nearly mashed the breath out of him. He limped along and led me to the front of the tavern. There I saw the Little Master waiting to mount, and I went toward him gladly enough.

“I thought we were to go home, but my thoughts jumped ahead of facts. I soon saw that the speculator’s wagons and his file of negroes had come into town, and had stopped to rest on the public square, where a great crowd had gathered around them—some out of curiosity and some out of sympathy. I heard an old horse, blind in one eye, say to a companion tied near that such sights were seldom seen in these parts. The Little Master had sent for me, so that, by sitting on my back, he would be as tall as any of the men.

“He rode me into the crowd that had gathered around the negroes. The people made way for him, and I soon found myself so close to the Son of Ben Ali that he could touch my nose with his hand, although his elbows were pinioned. So that he was able to give me the sign, and I knew him and spoke to him and he to me; whereupon he knew that he had found one friend there. He had found two friends, for the Little Master stretched forth his hands, white as a flower, and touched the Son of Ben Ali on the cheek, where there was the mark of a wound, saying, ‘Poor fellow! I am sorry for you.’ And the Son of Ben Ali reached up the best he could, his arms being pinioned, and took the white hand of the Little Master in his, and pressed it to his forehead and then to his lips. After that he held his head higher, so that he looked over all that stood around him and beyond him, and smiled a little.

“But just then the man who owned him came hustling toward us, untied the rope to which the Son of Ben Ali was chained and pushed him roughly through the crowd to the sheriff’s block that stood near the court house door. This he made the Son of Ben Ali mount, so that all might see him. As he stood there, without a coat, the collar of his shirt thrown open, and the muscles of his chest swelling and falling, he seemed to be a man among men. When the white man stood on the block beside him, the crown of his hat was no higher than the Son of Ben Ali’s shoulder.

“The man made a speech to the people. I don’t remember everything he said, but I could see he hated the Son of Ben Ali, and was afraid of him. He was ready to jump from the block and run. But the Son of Ben Ali paid no attention to him. He had his eyes fixed on the face of the Little Master, following every movement he made, and always smiling. The Little Master kept his eyes on the White-haired Master, and called and beckoned to him. But somehow—I couldn’t see what the trouble was—the White-haired Master appeared to be very busy. He was talking with a man who was a stranger to me, and, although he heard the Little Master, and nodded and smiled at him, he kept on talking. I went toward him without any urging, and when we got there he was talking about constitutions and other government contraptions, and seemed to be very warm over it. I was so disgusted that I snorted as often and as loud as I could, and if people had only known it, there was more horse sense in one of my snorts than there was in all the politics I have heard from that day to this.

“But all this time the speculator, or trader, or whatever you call him, was calling to the crowd to come and see the fine bargain he was going to offer. I had one ear for the trader and another for the Little Master. One said:—

“‘Come up, gentlemen, and see what a sacrifice I am going to make. Come up, and I’ll tell you why.’

“The other said: ‘Come, father, please come! You’ll be too late!’ The White-haired Master nodded and smiled. ‘Presently, son; presently.’

“The trader said: ‘Walk right up, gentlemen, and I’ll tell you the truth. I’m selling this boy because he’s too tricky to travel with. He’s bad tempered and hard headed. What he needs is a master who will take time to make him buckle down to work.’

“The Little Master said: ‘Father, come. Oh, don’t wait any longer.’ The White-haired Master smiled. ‘Yes, yes!’ and placed his hand on my neck, whereupon I snorted and shook it off.

“The trader cried out at the top of his voice: ‘Come up, gentlemen! Come up! Look at this boy’s limbs. Look at his muscles. Not a flaw about him, except his temper. What am I offered, cash down, for this likely fellow?’

“The Little Master said: ‘Please, please hurry, father! You’ll be too late. The man is selling him now!’ The air was blue with state rights and constitutions. I shook my head and gave a loud whicker. This seemed to irritate the White-haired Master, for he ceased to smile and joke.

“‘Go buy him yourself,’ he said, sharply.

“‘How much shall I bid, father?’

“‘Up to twelve hundred dollars.’

“Before the Little Master could take the bridle reins in his hand, I wheeled and cantered toward the crowd that had gathered around the sheriff’s block, where the Son of Ben Ali stood.

“The trader was saying: ‘How much am I offered? How much? Look at him, gentlemen! As sound as a dollar!’

“The man who lives across the creek—Mr. Goshawk—no—Mr. Gossett—got on the block with the Son of Ben Ali and put on his spectacles and looked at him, and felt of him, and thumped him on the back, and punched him in the sides. The Son of Ben Ali never flinched nor moved a muscle. He kept his eyes fixed on the Little Master. But, after all, what could the Little Master do? He was but a child.

“Mr. Gossett came down from the block, took off his spectacles, and said something to the trader, who then cried out:—

“‘What do you think, good people? I am asked to give this boy away! My friend here offers me five hundred dollars for the finest hand that ever stood on the block in this country. Five hundred dollars! I am offered five hundred dollars!’

“‘Seven hundred dollars!’ cried the Little Master.

“The trader stopped and looked at the Little Master, as if he thought the bid was a joke.

“‘Who said seven hundred?’ he asked.

“‘I did,’ cried the Little Master.

“‘Seven hundred it is,’ said the trader. ‘I am offered seven hundred—only seven hundred!’

“Mr. Gossett said something to the trader, who cried out: ‘Eight hundred! I am offered eight hundred!’

“‘Nine hundred!’ said the Little Master.

“‘That is right!’ cried the trader. ‘In this country even the children have saddle-bags full of money. Nine hundred! I am offered nine hundred!’

“Mr. Gossett nodded his head. I was watching him.

“‘One thousand!’ cried the trader. ‘I am offered one thousand! Am I to give this man away for one thousand dollars?’

“‘Twelve hundred,’ said the Little Master in a voice as clear as a bell.

“This seemed to stagger the trader. He looked at the Little Master, and then he looked at the crowd. He shook his head, and then some of the people laughed. This made others laugh, and then the trader, very red in the face, turned to Mr. Gossett and said:—

“‘I don’t like to be made a fool of. This negro is yours, sir, for one thousand dollars.’

“This made the people laugh again, but the Little Master didn’t laugh. He cried to the crowd around. ‘Get out of the way here!’ and gave me the word to push my way through. I needed neither whip nor spur for that, and the people in front of me had as much as they could do to scuffle and scramble out of my way.

“‘Here, sir, what does this mean?’ cried the Little Master. ‘I bid twelve hundred dollars, and you sell him for one thousand dollars. What do you mean?’

“‘Don’t bother me, sonny,’ the man replied. ‘The negro is mine. I sell him for what I please. This gentleman here,’ he pointed to Mr. Gossett, ‘said you were playing one of your pranks. I’ve no time for pranks. If you are not pranking, plank down your twelve hundred dollars on that block there.’

“Mr. Gossett had taken from his pocket a long red book, and was already counting out the money he had bid. Then and there a thing happened that has never been understood by anybody but me. Everybody will tell you that the Little Master tried to ride over and run down Mr. Gossett, but it is not so. The Little Master had no more to do with it than the old buggy horse who was tied to the rack near by. I felt the Little Master’s hand shake as it rested on my shoulder, and I heard him sob. I was so mad that everything grew dark except Mr. Gossett’s face. I plunged at him and tried to get his head in my mouth, but he saw me coming and fell backward and rolled out of the way before I could reach him, nor could I trample him. His luck saved him.

“And then somebody caught my bridle and gave it a jerk that brought me to my senses. Whoever it was led me out of the crowd and away from the court house. I could feel the Little Master shaking in the saddle, and I knew he was crying, but I held my head down, not knowing what to do or where to go.

“Presently the White-haired Master, hearing of the commotion, came running toward us. His face was as white as a sheet.

“‘Why, my son! my darling boy! What is the trouble?’ He placed his arms around the Little Master. ‘Oh, tell your father! Has any one dared to hurt so much as your little finger? There, don’t cry any more.’

“Then the Little Master told him what you have already heard, his voice shaking and his white hands trembling.

“‘Wait!’ said the White-haired Master.

“With that he suddenly turned and went toward the crowd at the court house. I followed, though the Little Master never touched a rein. The people seemed to expect something, and they made way for the White-haired Master, and for me, with my nose at his coat-tails.

“‘Has the sale been closed?’ he asked sharply. His words snapped out like the popping of a whip.

“‘Yes, sir; yes, sir—it has been closed,’ the trader replied. He was as humble and polite as one of his poor negroes.

“‘Gossett!’ said the White-haired Master—his voice sounded as I have heard it when he was talking to a lazy plough hand—‘Gossett! I will give you fifteen hundred dollars for your bargain.’

“Mr. Gossett shook his head and smiled, showing two or three yellow teeth. I was so anxious to get at him that the Little Master was compelled to slap me with the slack of the bridle reins and bid me stand still.

“‘No,’ said Mr. Gossett, ‘I’d ruther have the nigger than the money.’

“‘I’ll give you two thousand dollars,’ persisted the White-haired Master.

“Mr. Gossett showed his yellow teeth again. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘if he’s worth that to you, he’s worth it to me. The fact is, I want to tame the nigger. They say he’s as wild as a buck, and as hard-headed as a mule. I want to tame him.’

“The White-haired Master turned to the trader. ‘Why did you insult my son and me by refusing to cry his last bid?’ He caught the man by the throat and shook him. The people gave back and scattered a little at this, for in those times men were quick to use their knives and pistols. But the trader had no idea of using his, though he had both in his belt.

“‘Let me explain, sir; let me explain,’ he cried, as the White-haired Master released his hold. ‘That gentleman there said the youngster was only playing me one of his jokes.’

“‘What gentleman?’ the White-haired Master asked, as quick as a flash. He wheeled and looked around, as if searching for some one. The people were still afraid a fight was about to take place, and they stood off some distance, but not so far that they couldn’t hear every word that was said.

“‘What gentleman?’ the White-haired Master repeated, facing the trader.

“The trader went to Mr. Gossett and touched his shoulder so as to make no mistake. ‘This is the gentleman, sir,’ he said.

“At this the White-haired Master fairly roared with laughter. ‘Pay him another hundred, Gossett—pay him another hundred! He has earned it. You’ll not find another man in the county to pay you such a compliment.’

“There must have been some joke or hit in this, for the people laughed even louder than the White-haired Master, and Mr. Gossett turned very red in the face. But if it was a joke it passed over my head. I saw no fun in it, and neither did the Son of Ben Ali, who had drawn near and was fondling the thin white hand of the Little Master in his.”

Here the Gray Pony paused and held his head up as if he heard a noise somewhere. Then he cropped off a bunch of peach leaves and chewed on them, to all appearances relishing their flavor. This done, he scratched his neck by rubbing it against the peach-tree, which was old and rough. The children sat absorbed in the story he was telling.

“Now, right here,” the Gray Pony went on, “two or three things happened so close together that the quickest eye could hardly separate them. If I told them as they happened I should have to tell them all at once, but this can’t be done, not even in your tongue. So I’ll have to blunder along the best I know how. In cantering or galloping I always start off on my right forefoot. A man taught me that with a whip, and I’ve never been able to forget it. That foot comes down heaviest, and I always fling the right foreshoe first. It was loose when we started from home that morning, and when I jumped at Mr. Gossett I wrenched it nearly off. For a time I didn’t mind it, but every time I stamped my foot to drive the flies away it rang and rattled like a cow bell. The Son of Ben Ali, hearing it rattle as he stood by the Little Master, stooped and placed his hand on my knee. I gave him my foot, and he drew the shoe off by giving it a slight twist with his fingers.

“When the White-haired Master told Mr. Gossett to pay the trader another hundred dollars he made a step toward the man to see what he would do. At that moment Mr. Gossett’s son George, a great rowdy and bully, came rushing through the crowd. He was red in the face and fairly foaming at the mouth. He came crying, ‘Is pap in a fuss? Where are you, pap?’ He had a pistol in his hand, and when he saw the White-haired Master standing so near his pap, as he called him, he bellowed like a mad bull, and came rushing up, leveling the pistol as he got near.

“This happened just as the Son of Ben Ali wrenched the shoe from my foot. Still stooping he turned his head and saw George Gossett halt and point his pistol at the White-haired Master. I felt the body of the Son of Ben Ali sway under my neck in the most unaccountable manner, and the next moment I saw young Gossett fall as if he had been struck by lightning. The Son of Ben Ali crept under my belly, and when I saw him again he was sitting on the block where he had stood to be sold, his arms folded, and his eyes closed as if he were fast asleep.

“No one knew what had happened except the Son of Ben Ali and myself. All eyes had been fixed on George Gossett and the White-haired Master. Some said Gossett had fallen in a fit of passion and that the blood had burst from his face. Some said that he had fallen on a horseshoe that happened to be lying near. Some said one thing and some another. George Gossett always declared, so I’ve heard, that somebody jabbed him in the face with a forked stick, but his best friends said he was drunk at the time and fell on the horseshoe and hurt himself. But there were some people who whispered it around that they saw the blood gush from his face as he fell forward.

“The matter was never explained, and for many a long day no one but the Son of Ben Ali and I knew that Gossett had been hit in the face by one of my shoes. I think the White-haired Master learned the truth by asking the Son of Ben Ali about it one night, when they were returning from a long ride together.

“In the midst of the excitement, old Mr. Gossett forgot all about the Son of Ben Ali. But after the wounded man had been carried to a doctor’s shop and physicked, and the doctors had said that he would recover, though the bruise was a serious one, Mr. Gossett remembered his purchase, and came out to the public square in some alarm, fearing that his newly-bought slave had given him the slip. But he had not far to seek. Though the public square was deserted, except for the horses and mules tied to the racks and a few people straggling aimlessly about, the Son of Ben Ali still sat on the sheriff’s block, erect and silent, his arms folded and his feet crossed. The trader’s wagons and his train of slaves had passed on through the town.

“When Mr. Gossett saw the Son of Ben Ali sitting where he had left him, he nodded his head approvingly. His son had come to town in a wagon, and in this the young man had to be carried home. Straw was spread in the body of the wagon, and into this George Gossett was lifted. The old man had come in a buggy and he made the Son of Ben Ali sit beside him and drive him.”

At this point the Gray Pony paused and bit at a speckled fly that was sitting on his fat side out of reach of the sweep of his tail.

“Is that all?” asked Buster John.

“It is enough,” replied the Gray Pony. “A few days afterward, being on the far side of the plantation, I heard a plough mule telling Mr. Gossett’s buggy horse that the Son of Ben Ali had gone to the woods.”

The Gray Pony, saying this, turned and walked away.

V.

RAMBLER, THE TRACK DOG, BEGINS HIS STORY.

The children thought that they had been treated somewhat impolitely by the Gray Pony, and so, as soon as they could find an opportunity, and when they thought he was in a good humor, they asked him why he walked away so abruptly and refused to tell them the reason Aaron went to the woods and what befell him when he got there.

“As for that,” the Gray Pony answered, “I know nothing of the matter of my own knowledge. It is all hearsay with me. The Son of Ben Ali can tell you. He knows. He was there.”

The children had to be content with this until they found an opportunity to talk with Aaron. He was very busy during the day, and sometimes at night, managing the affairs of the plantation, but he told them that whenever they saw a light in his cabin right after supper, he would have time to talk to them. This happened the next night. Drusilla saw the light, and told Sweetest Susan and Buster John it was there, and in a few minutes they were all in Aaron’s cabin.

They found him baking a hoecake and frying some bacon, and it smelt so good that Buster John’s mouth began to water, although he had just eaten his supper.

“Uncle Aaron,” he said, “I’ll give you two biscuits and a piece of ham for a piece of your hoecake and some of your meat.”

“Do so—do so,” answered Aaron.

“Bring four biscuits and two pieces of ham,” cried Sweetest Susan, as Buster John rushed out of the door. He returned in a little while with four biscuits, each sandwiched with a piece of ham. Whereupon Aaron turned over to the children all his hoecake and fried bacon, which they devoured with a relish which belongs to youth alone. This done, they gave Aaron to understand what they came for, and he, without any apology, explanation, or delay, such as a negro would have indulged in, and likewise without any humor, told his story. Perhaps there was no room for humor, but a negro would have found a place for it.

“I can’t tell you the story as the field hands could,” said Aaron. “They have a word for everything. What I know is that when I saw the little white boy crying about me, I was no longer the same man. Something swelled here”—touching his throat—“and something broke here”—striking his breast. “I had said to myself, be as cunning as a snake. My mind was made up to run away from the man that bought me, and follow the negro trader and strangle him in the night. He was a beast. I promised myself that he should live no more. The thoughts made me happy, and then I saw the white child, small and crippled, crying because his father had not bought me. I said, what is he to me? And then my hands shook and my knees trembled. Another man crept into my skin and looked out of my eyes. Not since my mother shook hands with me and told me good-by when I was a boy had I seen anybody crying for me. Then, I said, the man who gets me to-day will get a good bargain.

“In my mind there was but one thought—the child is my Little Master. The Gray Pony has told you what happened. It was to save the Little Master’s father that I threw the horseshoe. I thought the young man was killed, and I said, it is a pity! When I rode home with Mr. Gossett, I kept on saying it is a pity—a great pity; and when my new master asked me if I would treat him right, I smiled and told him I would do the best I could. And I did. I worked for him as hard as I ever worked for a man. But he never trusted me. He was always watching me.

“One night, just after sundown, he called me out of my hut—it was not a cabin—and said he wanted me to get in the one-horse wagon and take a bale of cotton to a neighbor’s house and sell it to him. At once I smelled trouble.

“‘But will the man buy it?’ I asked.

“The answer was: ‘He may; if he does, the money is yours. If not, no harm is done.’

“‘I am afraid of the patterrollers,’ said I.

“The answer was: ‘I’ll not be far away.’

“I had nothing else to do but go, but I knew there was trouble at the end of the road. I had seen negroes lashed for selling their masters’ things, and I had seen white men sent to jail for trading with negroes between two suns. I found out long afterward that Mr. Gossett’s neighbor had some land that he refused to sell. He was not very well off, but he held to his land and made poor crops. If he bought the cotton from me, Mr. Gossett could buy his land or put him in jail. But this was all dark to me then.

“I mounted the wagon—But wait! Rambler, the track dog, is here. He knows what happened. I will call him.”

Aaron went to the door of his cabin, put his right hand to his mouth, and gave a musical halloo. The dogs were barking in another part of the lot, but they ceased instantly, as if listening. Then Watch, the catch dog, barked three times:—

“Who is it?”

Again Aaron gave the halloo, and this time it was answered by the quavering cry of a hound. Before the children learned the language of the animals, they would have said a dog was howling somewhere on the plantation, but now they knew that Rambler was saying:—

“I am c-o-m-i-n-g!”

In a few minutes he came running into the cabin, his hair damp with the dew. He looked rather sheepish, as the saying is, and crouched near Aaron, as if he expected to be scolded. Once upon a time Rambler had been a black-and-tan, but he was now old, and the gray hairs had well-nigh obliterated the tan, and were encroaching on the black. His muzzle was very gray, and his dew-claws had grown until they were nearly an inch and a half long. One of his long ears was split a little at the end, the result of a skirmish with old Mr. Raccoon. He kept his eyes averted from Aaron and the children and seemed to be both humble and uneasy. He was better satisfied when Aaron told him what was wanted. Indeed, he became very lively and went about the room picking up the scraps of bread the children had dropped on the floor. Aaron went to his little pine cupboard and got out a pone of corn bread that he had saved from the day before. Rambler took the bread in his mouth and then placed it gently on the floor. Gently wagging his tail, he looked up in Aaron’s face.

“Son of Ben Ali,” he said, “I am getting old, and, what with gnawing bones and killing cats and fighting coons, my teeth are bad. This bread is hard.”

Whereupon Aaron took the bread, crushed it in his hands, dropped it in an old tin platter, and placed it on the hearth.

“This would taste better, if it had ham gravy on it,” remarked Rambler, after saying “Thanky” with his tail; “yes, a good deal better, but I’ll not be choice.”

When he had finished the bread, he seated himself near the chimney corner and licked his chops carefully.

“You want to know about that trip the Son of Ben Ali made to sell the cotton. But I don’t even know how to begin. My tongue and my tail will be here talking and wagging, and my mind will be off in the woods hunting minks and coons and possums. You know how one thing leads to another. Well, if I get started I’ll get things upside down, as the rabbit does when he tries to run down hill.”

“When I started with the cotton,” suggested Aaron, “you made up your mind to go with me.”

“That’s so,” said Rambler. “I don’t know why. I knew well enough you weren’t going hunting. It was just a notion that seized me. I trotted along sometimes in front of the wagon and sometimes behind it. Before we had gone very far I happened to be in front of the wagon when a rabbit ran across the road. I dashed after it and bumped my head against a fence rail. It hurt so that I sat down by the roadside and waited for the pain to go away. The wagon went by and I concluded to go back home and go to bed in the shuckpen. I started back, but before I had gone far, I heard the clinking of bridle-reins and bits, and presently I saw two men on horseback.

“I stopped until they passed by. And then I saw that it was Old Grizzly and the overseer.”

“Old Grizzly!” cried Buster John. “Who was he?”

“That was the name the negroes had for Mr. Gossett,” Aaron explained.

“Old Grizzly and the overseer,” Rambler continued, paying no attention to the interruption. “They were riding along after the wagon, but at some distance behind it. I says to myself, well, well! something is up. So, instead of going back home, I turned around and trotted along the road till I passed Old Grizzly and the overseer, and caught up with the wagon. I said to the Son of Ben Ali:—

“‘Get down and fix one of your wagon wheels, and see who comes behind you.’

“This he did, but when Old Grizzly and the overseer heard the Son of Ben Ali knocking on one of the wagon wheels with a rock, they stopped, and came no farther until after he drove on again. Then I knew, and the Son of Ben Ali knew, that Old Grizzly and the overseer were coming to see that orders were obeyed.

“The house to which the Son of Ben Ali was carrying the cotton was not far. It was in the midst of a big grove of oak-trees. The trees were too big for the house, or the house was not fine enough for the trees, for they made everything so dark that, from the road, those who cannot see in the night would never know that a house was there.

“The Son of Ben Ali drove the wagon under the trees, waited until he could hear the clinking of bridles and bits, as Old Grizzly and the overseer rode up, and then he slipped around the house and went to the back door. I waited until I saw Old Grizzly and the overseer stop under one of the big oaks, and then I followed.

“The Son of Ben Ali knocked at the back door, which was soon opened by a negro woman, who asked him what he wanted. He told her, and then the man came to the door.

“‘What do you want?’ he asked.

“‘I want to see you,’ said the Son of Ben Ali. ‘I want to sell you a bale of cotton.’

“‘Who is your master?’ the man asked.

“‘Mr. Gossett,’ the Son of Ben Ali answered.

“‘What is your name?’

“‘They call me Aaron.’

“‘You are the boy he bought not long ago.’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘Wait a moment.’ The man went into another room, and when he appeared again he had a shotgun in his hands. My hide is not very thick, and so I went under the steps. The man seemed to be mad. The Son of Ben Ali had some such idea, for he asked:—

“‘What are you going to do with the gun, sir?’

“‘Get the truth out of you.’

“‘A dead man will neither lie nor tell the truth,’ said the Son of Ben Ali. His voice sounded as if he might be laughing, but I was under the steps and couldn’t see.

“‘Is the cotton yours?’ the man asked.

“‘It is Mr. Gossett’s.’

“‘Why do you bring it here to-night?’

“‘I had my orders.’

“‘Oh, if I had the old scoundrel here!’ cried the man in a rage.

“‘If you talk loud, he’ll hear you,” said Aaron.

“The man understood at once. ‘Wait!’ he whispered. Then he slipped around the corner of the house. Suddenly I heard the gun go off, and it scared me so I couldn’t help but cry out. Some one else yelled, too — some one under the oaks in front, and then I heard the snorting and stamping of horses. The Son of Ben Ali stole off in the dark before the man returned, and I followed him, not knowing what had happened or what might happen.

“But I soon found out, and it was not as bad as it might have been. The shot the man fired had shattered one of the overseer’s arms. He was not hurt so badly but he could ride his horse, and he and Old Grizzly hurried home as fast as they could.

“After a while the Son of Ben Ali followed, but instead of riding in the wagon, he walked by the side of it, and I went ahead to see that the way was clear. The Son of Ben Ali knew that there was trouble in store for him, and he didn’t want Old Grizzly to get hold of him.”

“I don’t see why,” said Buster John.

“Why, Old Grizzly didn’t know but the Son of Ben Ali had gone to the man’s house and told him about the whole business. There was nobody else to tell the man, and if he knew that Old Grizzly and the overseer were waiting in the grove, of course he must have got the news from the Son of Ben Ali. But it happened that the overseer was so badly scared about his wounded arm that Old Grizzly had to go home and sit up with him, and this left the way clear for the Son of Ben Ali to take the mule and wagon and cotton where they belonged. He drove the wagon under the gin-shelter, unharnessed the mule and fed it, and then went to his hut and gathered up his belongings and took to the woods.”

“Then he was a runaway,” said Sweetest Susan. She looked at Aaron with new interest. She had often heard of runaways, but she had never seen one.

“Yes, he was a runaway,” Rambler answered, “and it was a long time before he was anything else. I didn’t bother my head about the Son of Ben Ali when he went to the woods, for I knew he was just as much at home there as I was. I stayed behind to see what would happen, and by staying I soon found out that I had made some trouble for myself.

“It was very curious, too, when you come to think about it. Old Grizzly behaved with so much meanness toward his negroes, half feeding and clothing them, and working them long after dark, that some of them were in the woods most of the time. Now, Old Grizzly’s son, George, was very fond of fox-hunting, and some of his friends sent me to him when I was quite young. My whole family have a great name for running foxes, so it is said, and Old Grizzly’s George wanted me to hunt foxes for him along with the other dogs. I didn’t need any teaching in that business, for the minute I smelled a fox, no matter at what hour of the day or night, I felt bound to hunt him up and run him down. I had that feeling as far back as I can remember.

“One day, when I was very young, I was playing at hunting with the little negroes just to pass the time away. One would hold me, and another would go far out of sight and hide. I had to use my nose to find him, and I soon came to enjoy the fun. Once Old Grizzly himself saw us playing, and he seemed to be very much pleased with the way I followed the trail of the little negroes. He took part in it himself, holding me while one of the children ran through the pasture and down the branch, and around by the gin-screw back to the house. He did this many times, and seemed to be very much pleased with me. After a while, when I grew older, he made some of the large negroes run, but I never failed to find and bay them. I soon found out why Old Grizzly was so well pleased. One morning, one of the negroes was missing. He had run away some time during the night, having been promised a strapping for the next morning. Old Grizzly called me, and we went to the negro’s hut, where I was made to smell of his blanket and such of his belongings as he had failed to take with him. I knew at once what Old Grizzly wanted me to do, and I was more than willing to do it, for the negro happened to be one that had given me more kicks than scraps. I settled down to business at once. I ran for the hut, and circled around it. The scent was as plain to me as a track in the mud is to you. I followed it with no trouble at all, and Old Grizzly, having his horse ready, went along with me, keeping as close to me as he could. In an hour we had overtaken the negro, and Old Grizzly carried him back, making him walk before the horse all the way home.

“After that I had to look out for myself. The negroes treated me worse than ever. They were ready to kill me at any time, and I had to keep out of their way. This made it worse for the negroes. None of them could escape Old Grizzly by going to the woods. I had help, too, for some of the other hounds, seeing me made much of by the master and the overseer, joined me in my expeditions, and in a short while Old Grizzly had a pack of ‘nigger dogs,’ as he called us, that seemed to fill him with pride.

“This was going on when the Son of Ben Ali came—when he came and touched me and gave me the sign. And then I knew more than I had known before. After he came he was the first to go into the woods, as I have told you, and the next morning my trouble began.

“Old Grizzly was very mad when, at daylight, he sent for the Son of Ben Ali and found him gone. I slept under the house in a corner of the chimney stack, and I heard Old Grizzly when he came in from the overseer’s house. He bawled at the cook for not having breakfast ready, though it was not time, and then he came out, ripping and rearing, and sent the house-boy for the Son of Ben Ali. But the Son of Ben Ali was not to be found. This made matters worse. Old Grizzly called up my companions and myself, gave us a few bites of stale bread, had his horse saddled, and then carried us to the hut where the Son of Ben Ali had lived.

“I knew then what was going to happen. I ought to have known before, but it had never occurred to me. We were to run the Son of Ben Ali down so that Old Grizzly could capture him. This didn’t suit me at all, but I had to go. There was no way to get out of it.”

“Oh, I don’t see why!” cried Sweetest Susan.

“Me, nuther,” Drusilla chimed in.

“It is simple enough,” said Rambler, placing himself in a more comfortable position—he had been sitting on his haunches. “The other dogs would have gone whether I went or not. So I pretended I was very glad to go. I circled around the house, and ran over the scent twice so as to see what the other dogs would do. They ran over it, too, but I knew that one of them had a faint hint of it. He went back to it, and then”—

Here a spark from the pine knot that made a light in the cabin flew out near Rambler’s head, and suddenly burst into a shower of smaller sparks. Rambler dodged and jumped out of the way so quickly that the children laughed.

“You may think it is funny,” said Rambler, “and it may be, but I’ll not laugh until I see you with a hot spark in your ear.”

He settled himself again and resumed his story, but this time he kept one eye on the pine knot.

VI.

A RUN THROUGH THE WOODS.

“As I was saying,” Rambler went on, “the scent was as plain as the nose on your face, and, although I passed it over, one of the other dogs had a hint of it and whimpered over it. This dog afterwards made a very good track dog. He had what they call a cold nose, and he was hard headed enough to hang on. But at that time he was young and foolish, and new to the business. He had no mind of his own. So I went back to the trail, picked up the scent and went along with it slowly, as if it were a tedious job to unravel it.

“What I wanted to do was to follow it until it crossed some other trail, and then pick up the new one and carry Old Grizzly away from the Son of Ben Ali. But it was impossible. No one had passed, and so we ran on after the Son of Ben Ali.

“The next best thing to finding some other track, I thought, was to get out of sight of Old Grizzly. I let myself out a little, the other dogs did the same, and in a few moments we had left Old Grizzly behind. Right then I did something I have never done before, and that was to try to catch a rabbit, when I was hunting a different kind of game. While we were going along, full tilt, a big fat rabbit jumped up right under my nose. I dashed after it as hard as I could go, and the other dogs came tumbling after. I was so close to the rabbit that it turned before going into the swamp. I made it turn again, and it ran into the mouth of one of my companions. The others ran up, and they had quite a fight over the rabbit, tearing it to pieces in short order. I was hungry myself, and nothing would have pleased me better than to rush in and take the rabbit away from my companions. But I didn’t have time.

“While the others were snapping and snarling I slipped into the swamp, ran across it and made a circle of a mile or more, and tried to pick up the scent again where I thought it ought to be. But it was not there. I knew then that the Son of Ben Ali had wandered about, not knowing or caring where he went so long as he kept out of the way of Old Grizzly. I made another circle, and this time I picked up the scent again. I had said to myself when I was hunting for it that I would remain silent when I found it, but I came upon it so suddenly and unexpectedly, and it was so warm and fresh, that I cried out at the top of my voice. It was foolish, but such is habit. My companions heard it, and they came to me without delay. I knew they were coming, and the best I could do was to discover quickly which way the scent led, and then take the back track, trusting to the dullness of my companions to mislead them. By the time they came up I was tripping along toward the cold end of the trail as noisily as if the Son of Ben Ali were in plain view. The others, not to be outdone, joined in the cry, and we went bolting along the back track. In this way we came up with Old Grizzly, who seemed to be much astonished to see us running headlong in the way he had just come.

“The scent grew fainter and fainter, and everything would have gone well but for one of my companions, the one that discovered the scent at the beginning of the hunt. When the scent grew colder, he began to circle around for himself, and about a half a mile away he picked it up with such a howl and a flourish that I ran up to him. It was so warm that I looked up, expecting to see the Son of Ben Ali trotting along a quarter of a mile away. But it was not so. He was not in sight.

“I joined in and took the lead, saying to myself that when we got into the woods I’d show my spotted companion a new wrinkle in trailing. When we came to the bushes I dropped back a little, seized my companion by the neck and dragged him around and shook him up in a way that surprised him and the others.

“‘What’s that for?’ he cried. ‘You’re too spotted,’ I replied. This quieted them down, but it was too late to carry out my new plans. The scent had been growing warmer and warmer, and I took it up again as a matter of duty, and the others followed in a more sober manner. We went through the woods at a pretty good pace, and I expected to see the Son of Ben Ali limping along ahead of us, ready to drop, for we had now come several miles in doubling and twisting and turning.

“But instead of seeing the Son of Ben Ali, we saw something that was more surprising. We came upon a young man and a young lady. The young man had been hunting, for he had a gun, and the young lady had been gathering wild flowers, for a negro girl with her had a basketful.”

“I know! I know!” cried Drusilla. “Dat nigger ’oman wuz my mammy. I been hear ’er tell dat many an’ many’s de time. Yes, suh! dat wuz my mammy! An’ dat ain’t all. Dat ar white man an’ dat ar white ’oman wuz yo’ all’s pa an’ ma.”

Buster John and Sweetest Susan looked at Aaron for confirmation or denial.

“That’s so,” Aaron said.

“Mammy say dey wuz courtin’,” explained Drusilla.

Buster John seemed to be somewhat embarrassed at this information, but Sweetest Susan appeared to relish it. On the other hand, Rambler went to Aaron and said:—

“Son of Ben Ali, it would please me much if you would scrape your shoe just behind my shoulders. A colony of fleas has settled there, because they know I can reach them neither with my teeth nor with my hind feet.”

Aaron performed this service willingly, and the scraping seemed to tickle Rambler so that he raised one of his hind feet from the ground, and made believe to be scratching himself, but his foot was simply moving up and down in the air. At this the children laughed very heartily.

“Well,” said Rambler, “when we ran up on the young man and the young lady there was a great flurry. The negro girl screamed, and the young lady rushed into the arms of the young man for protection. My companions and I ran around and circled, but all trace of the Son of Ben Ali had disappeared.

“I found the warm scent of a horse, but there was no horse to be seen. I thought this very strange, so I followed it a few hundred yards, but said nothing to my companions about it. The scent led out of the woods, through a field in which the brown sedge grew high, and, in going through this, I caught the scent of the Son of Ben Ali. It was high on the sedge, and I knew by this that the horse had the Son of Ben Ali for a rider. But I said nothing to my companions. I turned away from the horse’s trail, and continued to go in a circle, until, coming to the point where the young man had entered the woods, I made some fuss over it, and thus drew my companions away from the sedge field. They came to me, but I told them it was a mistake, and in this way cooled them off, so that they were no longer as keen to find the trail of the Son of Ben Ali as they had been.