Chapter I: Looked Up and Whined 104 (4)

With that he turned and went galloping back into the swamp.

IX.

THE WHITE PIG’S STORY.

The next day the children were ready to go to the plum thicket in the peach orchard as soon as they had their breakfast, but while they were talking about it a new trouble arose. It grew out of a question asked by Drusilla.

“Is Unk A’on gwine ’long wid us?” she inquired.

It was a natural and an innocent question, but it presented a difficulty. Sweetest Susan looked at Buster John for an answer, and Buster John looked at Sweetest Susan and Drusilla, but made no reply.

“Kaze ef he ain’t,” remarked Drusilla, pursuing the subject, “you’ll des hatter count me out. I’ll stan’ off som’ers whar I kin run an’ holler when dat ar wil’ hog git mad an’ rip you up, but when it comes ter gwine right whar he is when Unk A’on ain’t wid us, I ain’t gwine ter do it. So dar you got it, flat an’ plain. I ain’t gwine. I watch his eye yistiddy, an’ time I see it lookin’ red on de eye-ball, I know’d dat ar hog was rank pizen when he git mad.”

Finally Buster John said he would find Aaron, but Aaron was not to be found. He had gone off with the plow hands early in the morning, and wouldn’t be back before night. Thereupon Buster John declared that he was going to the plum thicket, if he had to go by himself.

“I’m most afraid,” said Sweetest Susan.

“I’m wuss’n dat,” exclaimed Drusilla. “I’m skeered des dry so.”

“Then both of you stay where you are,” cried Buster John. He started off very boldly, but not without some misgivings. Looking back without pretending to do so, he saw Sweetest Susan coming, though very slowly, while Drusilla was dragging along and bringing up the rear, quarreling, and begging Sweetest Susan to turn back. Buster John stopped and told his sister to come on, and waited for her.

“I’ll go whar I kin see how dat wil’ hog do when he eats folks, but hosses can’t drag me in dat ar plum thicket whar he hidin’,” remarked Drusilla.

Sweetest Susan was not much afraid, seeing Buster John so bold, and Buster John was made bolder by the fact that his sister seemed willing to go. So they went, Drusilla bringing up the rear and protesting.

The plum thicket grew on each side of a gully that had washed in the lower part of the orchard. The plum trees were small and grew very close together, and the gully was filled with a season’s growth of weeds that had not been uprooted by the rains. So that, taken altogether, the plum thicket was a very convenient hiding-place for the White Pig, or for any other creature not larger than a horse.

The children approached it cautiously, and hesitated about entering. While they were halting and considering what to do, they heard a grunt from the middle of the thicket—a grunt as friendly and as familiar as if it came from a fat hog in a pen. Reassured by this, Buster John went into the thicket, followed by Sweetest Susan. They went in cautiously and looked about them very cautiously, but they could see nothing.

“Ooft—gooft!” grunted the White Pig in a contented manner. “Where am I? Can’t you find me?”

They looked about them with all the eyes they had, but failed to find him. Their search became so interesting that Sweetest Susan laughed. There was nothing to laugh at, but she was so thrilled by the excitement of trying to find the White Pig—and he was not a small pig by any means—that she had to express her feelings in some way, and so she laughed.

At that moment Drusilla came to the edge of the thicket. Hearing Sweetest Susan laugh, she grew bold enough to venture in.

“What you-all doin,’ I like ter know?” she asked in a somewhat dubious tone.

“Oh, come and help us, Drusilla!” cried Sweetest Susan, as gleefully as if she were playing hide-the-switch, or kick-the-can. “We are trying to find him. He’s hiding in here, and we can’t find him. Come on!”

Drusilla joined the others, but not with any degree of enthusiasm. “You-all want ter fin’ ’im lots wuss’n I does. I’m mo’ fear’d er fin’in’ ’im dan I is er not fin’in’ ’im.”

“Let’s go across the gully,” said Buster John. He ran down the bank, through the thick weeds, and out on the other side, followed by Sweetest Susan. Drusilla would have followed, too, but just as she had reached the bottom of the gully and started through the weeds, the White Pig rose by her side with a loud grunt. Drusilla was so terrified that she sank in the weeds, unable to utter a sound. Sweetest Susan screamed and Buster John was so taken by surprise and so confused, that for an instant he was undecided whether to take to his heels, dragging his sister after him, or whether to stand his ground.

“Gooft—ooft!” grunted the White Pig. “What is the matter here?”

With this he walked out of the gully, went past Buster John and Drusilla, and lay down where the shade was thickest. Drusilla recovered almost immediately, and, as sometimes happens with older and more enlightened people, anger took the place of fear. To the surprise of her companions, she came out of the gully, walked straight to the White Pig, and sat down by him, so close that she might have touched him with her hand without unbending her arm.

“Humph!” grunted the White Pig, in a friendly way. “That is better. The Son of Ben Ali brought some roasting ears before the sun came out. They were very fine—sweet and juicy. Gooft!” The White Pig smacked his mouth and blinked his eyes as if to show how he had enjoyed the feast. Buster John and Sweetest Susan seated themselves near Drusilla.

“The first time I saw the Son of Ben Ali,” said the White Pig, “I was just big enough to hide in the grass and run about without squealing for my mammy. I used to slip out of the swamp and run into the woods after the acorns. The red squirrel was my friend then, and his great-grand-children are my friends now. He used to climb the big turkey oak, and run about on the limbs pretending to be playing, but all the time he would be shaking down the sweet little acorns. He barked at me and I grunted at him, and we used to have a very nice time all by ourselves.

“One day, while I was out in the open woods cracking acorns, I heard some one call, ‘Run here little Pig! run quick!’ I didn’t have any better sense than to do as I was told, so I ran as hard as I could toward the call. Then I heard a zooning sound in the air, a loud squall, and a noise as of a tree falling. I ran right into the hands of a big man. I was terribly frightened, and I suppose I must have squealed as loud as I could. The big man was the Son of Ben Ali, and he hushed me up by telling me that he called me because a wildcat had been watching me from the lowest limb of the turkey oak.

“Humph—ooft!” grunted the White Pig, “the only reason he didn’t get me was because the Son of Ben Ali struck him with a stone just as he started to jump. The wildcat fell out of the tree dead. His skull was shivered. You have never seen the Son of Ben Ali throw a stone? Well that is between you and him. I have seen him.

“He killed the wildcat that my mammy had often told me about, and after that I came to know the Son of Ben Ali well. Whenever I could find him, night or day, I trotted around with him, and that is how it happened that when my brothers and sisters were shot by men and caught by dogs I was not with them to be shot or caught. I was trotting about with the Son of Ben Ali.

“It was the same thing day after day and night after night, the Son of Ben Ali coming and going, and I trotting at his heels or running in the bushes close by. One day, when the sun had gone down, we were slipping along behind the orchard here. The Son of Ben Ali said he was going to see the Little Master, and I was to wait for him. I heard a dog bark, and this made me stop. And then, while I was listening, a man came upon us—a white man. He seemed to rise out of a dark place in the road. I dodged into a fence corner before he saw me, and stood there, listening.

“‘Who are you?’ said the Son of Ben Ali. His voice shook a little.

“‘That’s what the owl said,’ answered the white man. This tickled me so that I grunted before I knew it. The white man laughed, too, and said he was the Teacher of the young people at the big house. Gooft! a Teacher! There was once a schoolhouse—they called it that, but it was nothing in the world but a log cabin—in the woods over yonder. Every day the Teacher would come and pound and pummel the boys, and every day the boys would go out and stone the cows and hogs. They killed a blood cousin of mine.

“So I said to myself, Gooft! if this Teacher is teaching the Little Master to do these things, I will keep out of the Little Master’s way.

“Humph! The Son of Ben Ali said to this Teacher: ‘You ought to know me. You saw me in the speculator’s train, and you saw me sold from the block.’

“The Teacher placed his hand on the Son of Ben Ali’s shoulder and replied: ‘I came from far away, and there the people are thinking about you and praying for you. Bear that in mind—thinking about you, and praying for you every day and every night. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands—all thinking about you and praying for you.’

“Gooft—ooft! This Teacher talked as the man talks in the little house on the creek road where the people go when the bell rings—the little house with the high wooden chimney, where the bell is.”

“It is a church,” said Buster John.

“Humph! It may be a church for all I know. I have stood in the woods and heard the man talk to the people, and the Teacher talked just like him. I don’t know what else the Teacher said to the Son of Ben Ali, nor what the Son of Ben Ali said to him, but that night, after the Son of Ben Ali had seen the Little Master, and when we were on our way back to the woods, we met the Teacher again. He had been to another plantation, and told the negroes there how the people in his country were thinking about them and praying for them.

“‘You go too far from home,’ said the Son of Ben Ali. ‘Many a negro where you’ve been to-night will tell what you have said, in hopes of getting an extra rasher of meat.’

“Ooft—gooft!” grunted the White Pig; “and hog meat at that. But the Teacher said that he would trust them.

“‘The best good-night I can give you,’ said the Son of Ben Ali, ‘is not to trust them too much or too far.’

“Ooft—oof! Now you might wonder how I could remember such little things. But little things have a way of growing, and this was one of the little things that grew. Humph! It grew like a pumpkin vine. One thing followed another like sheep jumping over a rail on the ground. The last sheep to go over jumps higher than a man’s head. So with these things I am telling you of. They grew, and they jumped.

“When we met the Teacher, the grass was green, but it was not long before the winds began to blow keen and cold, and then the grass shriveled and the leaves on the trees began to fall. As for me, I could lie in the sedge and keep warm, or I could make me a bed of leaves on the windward side of the fence and never know that the weather was cold. With the Son of Ben Ali, it was different. Not having been born free to the woods and the weather—to the four winds and the four seasons—humph!—he must have a fire. He must have a fire that could be felt and not be seen. So he dug him a hole in the ground, a trench he called it, and in this he made his fire, and he seemed to be very fond of it when the weather was damp and cold.

“One night when I was returning from the yam patch to the top of the hill, I heard horses going along the road. I knew the horses had riders, for I could hear no wheels. The fog was heavy and thick, and so I went close to the road to see and hear what I could. I slipped through the wet grass and listened. Suddenly one of the riders pulled up his horse and cried out:—

“‘Look! look on the hill yonder!’

“I turned to see what it was, and it was terrible enough to scare anybody. On the clouds above the hill was the shadow of a man as big as a fodder stack, and as high as the tallest pine. Even the horses saw it and snorted with fear. The shadow raised its arms above its head and then let them drop quickly. I knew at once that it was the shadow of the Son of Ben Ali, but even then I had a quaking fear. Suddenly I heard another voice call out:—

“‘Whoever you are, come and help a man in trouble.’

“The Son of Ben Ali heard it, too, for the cry of the man for help had hardly died away before the shadow on the clouds disappeared as if it had been wiped out. I knew that the voice that had called to the shadow was the voice of the Teacher, the man who had told the Son of Ben Ali that thousands and tens of thousands were praying for him. And I wondered whether the thousands and the tens of thousands were praying for the Teacher, now that he seemed to be in trouble.

“The Teacher called again, and then I heard the voice of old Grizzly’s son George tell the man to hush or he would blow his brains out.

“‘But I have done nothing to you, gentlemen,’ said the Teacher. ‘I have not harmed you in the least. What have you seized me for, and where are you taking me?’

“‘Hush, you sniveling wretch!’ said old Grizzly’s son George. ‘You’ve been colloguing with the niggers, and telling them about freedom. You want to raise an insurrection, and you’ll have to pay for it!’

“After that the Teacher said no more, and the patrol rode on. I could see, dark as it was, that they had the Teacher riding behind Old Grizzly’s son George. The Teacher was tied with a rope, and the rope was fastened to Old Grizzly’s son. All this I saw, and I saw guns—gooft—the things that burn and sting you from afar. It was well that my eyes were fitted for the dark, otherwise the Son of Ben Ali would have been riddled. But I ran and met him, and told him of the guns. He wanted to slip among the horses, cut the ropes that bound the Teacher, and carry him out of hearing among the bushes. But there were the guns!

“Then the Son of Ben Ali wanted me to run ahead, get in the road and rush out at the horses when they came up, while he cut the ropes from the Teacher. Gooft! But there were the guns! We heard the men talking, and found that they were going to take the Teacher to a cross-roads store, called Harmony, seven miles away, and there hang him.”

Sweetest Susan shuddered. Drusilla cried, “Well, suh!” Buster John pulled up a big bunch of grass and threw it away from him. His face was red with anger or excitement.

“Humph! Hang him to a limb!” grunted the White Pig. “Ooft! There was a bridge a quarter of a mile ahead. It was long and narrow and low—just wide enough for a wagon and not higher from the shallow creek than a man’s head. Over this bridge the men had to go, and the Son of Ben Ali wanted me to run ahead, get on the further end of the bridge, charge the horses when they reached the middle, and then jump off and get under the bridge before the men could make their guns talk. It was not to my taste. If I had had to choose between charging the horses on that bridge and a mess of ripe persimmons—humph—I think I would have taken a few of the persimmons. But what could I do? Gooft! The Son of Ben Ali had his mind made up.

“So I ran ahead, jumped over a low place in the fence, and reached the bridge before the horses did. I heard them come on the other end of the bridge, and I tried to get my bristles up, but—gooft—ooft—they wouldn’t stay up. As the men came across I went to meet them, and when they came within a few steps of me, I charged at them, making as much noise as I could, crying:

“‘Gooft—ooft! Gooft!’

“It was all so sudden that the horses were terribly frightened. There were five of them. One reared and I ran under his forelegs. Another shied too far to one side, and went crashing through the railing into the creek. One of the horses kicked me, and—gooft!—that made me mad. For the first time my bristles rose. I rushed at them with open mouth. Another crashed through the railing and went over. All this time I could see the Son of Ben Ali at the heels of the horse that was carrying the Teacher and old Grizzly’s son.

“But the horse was scared nearly to death. His rider couldn’t manage him. He was wild. Before the Son of Ben Ali could cut the rope, the scared horse had whirled and rushed off the bridge, and I went after him. The Son of Ben Ali disappeared, and I went over the fence and rested in the bushes. Presently the Son of Ben Ali came creeping to where I was. He was wet with sweat and trembling all over.

“Neither the men nor the horses were hurt. Gooft! they came together and sat on their horses within a few steps of where we lay. One said it was a man seven feet high. Another said it was a wild varment as big as a lion. Still another said it was Satan. Gooft—ooft! The Teacher said it was a warning. Ooft! ‘The hand of the Lord is in it,’ he said.

“‘It will be a hard race, little Grunter—a hard race! It is three miles to the big house, and from there eight miles to Harmony. It is to be a hard race, little Grunter—a hard race. But it must be run.’ So said the Son of Ben Ali.

“‘Am I to go, Son of Ben Ali?’ I said.

“‘As far as you may and as fast as you can, little Grunter.’

“Gooft! you have never seen the Son of Ben Ali throw a stone, and you have never seen him run! We got in the big road where the ground was firm. Gooft! I began to gallop, but I heard the Son of Ben Ali right at my heels. I began to run, and—gooft—ooft!—I heard him closer at my heels. The faster I went, the faster the Son of Ben Ali went. I was a pretty swift runner and am to this day, but that night I could never get more than twenty steps away from the Son of Ben Ali. Gooft! he was running to save life, and I was running for fun. Once we passed a stray traveler—a stray negro. He called out: ‘What are you trying to do, brother? ‘Ooft!—and the Son of Ben Ali called back: ‘Trying to catch little Grunter, brother!’ Gooft—and the stranger cried: ‘I wish you mighty well, my brother!’

“Gooft—ooft! It was a warm race and a long one. We were not going as fast at the end as we were at the beginning. Ooft! but we were going. And we went till we came to the horse lot, and then I stopped. I spoke to the Son of Ben Ali and said that we were now as close to the hogpen as I hoped ever to be, and so he cried out as he ran: ‘Good night, little Grunter!’ I heard him go to the stable where the Black Stallion, the Son of Abdallah, is kept. Then I heard the door thrown open, and the Son of Abdallah came out with a scream and a snort, and that is all I know. The rest the Black Stallion can tell you.

“Ooft—gooft! That is all. Say nothing to no one. I’ll sleep here a little, and when the sun gets lower I’ll slip away to the swamp.”

“We are very much obliged to you,” said Sweetest Susan.

“Humph—umph! Humph—umph!” grunted the White Pig. “Nicely said—nicely said! I’m over-paid.”

X.

THE BLACK STALLION’S STORY.

The children were anxious to hear the rest of the story at once, but they were compelled to wait. The White Pig had told all he knew, and Aaron was on the other side of the plantation. So Buster John and Sweetest Susan amused themselves by wondering whether the Teacher was hanged or whether he was rescued. As for Drusilla, she very plainly said that she didn’t much care. It was all past and gone anyhow. Break a pumpkin, she said, and nobody in the world can mend it, not even if people were to come and cry over it.

But Buster John and Sweetest Susan thought it made all the difference whether a man was hanged or saved. They talked about it a good deal, and when they went to the house they asked their grandfather the name of the man who had come from a far country to teach their Uncle Crotchet. The old gentleman leaned back in his chair and looked at the youngsters. He smiled a little, and then closed his eyes and seemed to be thinking. The question had carried him back to the past.

“Have you forgotten his name, Grandfather?” asked Sweetest Susan, after a while.

“Forgotten his name!” exclaimed the grandfather. “Oh, no! No, indeed! His name was Hudspeth—Richard Hudspeth. I remember him as well as if he had been here only yesterday. At bottom, he was a fine character. He came here from Massachusetts, and he went back there.”

The grandfather paused and drummed gently on the arms of his easy chair. Then—

“Yes; he went back there. He is a big man now. He was elected to Congress some time ago. We have had some correspondence. He is a very able man. I wonder if he remembers his adventures here?”

“He is a bitter abolitionist,” said the children’s father.

“He was always that,” said the grandfather. “But I shall always love him on account of Little Crotchet. The two were devoted to each other.”

“Grandfather,” said Sweetest Susan, after a while, “what is a bitter abolitionist? Isn’t that what papa said?” she asked, seeing her grandfather laugh.

“My darling child, you wouldn’t know now if I were to tell you. Run along with Drusilla. I’ll think it over, and tell you about it some other time.”

Sweetest Susan and Drusilla joined Buster John in the yard, and there they discussed the matter, without coming to any conclusion. Buster John knew that the abolitionists wanted to free the negro slaves, but that was all.

That night they went to Aaron’s house and asked him whether the Teacher had been hanged or rescued, but Aaron said he was too tired to sit up and talk. He said he would be around the lot all day the next day, and then they could go and see Timoleon, who could tell all about it. This satisfied the children, and they went to bed happy in the expectation of visiting the Black Stallion.

The children were up bright and early the next morning, which was something unusual, for they were very fond of sleeping late. As soon as Drusilla had eaten her breakfast—she waited on the children, at the table, and was allowed to eat as soon as they had finished—all three went hunting for Aaron. They found him right where they wanted to find him, in the lot where Timoleon’s stable stood. So they went to him, and he lost no time in opening the door of the stable.

The Black Stallion did not have fresh air and exercise every day, and so he sprung through the open door and went galloping madly about the field, sending forth a screaming challenge to the whole plantation. He galloped about the field as far as the limits of the high fence would permit, and paid no attention to either Aaron or the children.

“He has forgotten us,” said Sweetest Susan in some alarm.

Aaron laughed. “Folks forget,” said he, “but my brothers that run on four legs never forget.”

When the Black Stallion had taken his exercise, he walked slowly back to the stable, sometimes pausing to crop the grass or to hold his head high in the air.

“Grandson of Abdallah,” said Aaron, “you have forgotten your friends.”

“I am the forgotten one, Son of Ben Ali,” replied Timoleon, “my feed is chucked into the trough, the door is shut, and I am left to chew my cud. Am I a cow, that I should be chewing my cud? Am I a hog, that I should be fastened in a pen?”

“Whose fault, Grandson of Abdallah? You will have no one to feed you but me, and I—well, what I have to do I must do. The grandchildren of the White-haired Master are here.”

“I thought they had forgotten me, Son of Ben Ali. I am glad they are here. But what of it? I go in my pen, and the door is closed; what matters it to me whether they are here or yonder?”

“No, Grandson of Abdallah. In the pasture here the morning sun shines, the grass is green, the air is cool. Here for a little while you may stay with these grandchildren of the White-haired Master. Your stable is to be cleaned.”

For answer, the Black Stallion sought out a soft place in the grass, held his head close to the ground, walked in a small circle that constantly grew smaller until his knees bent under him, and then he keeled over on his side and began to wallow. This finished, he rose and began to graze close to the children, apparently as gentle as any horse could be.

“Do you remember the night the White-haired Master rode you to Harmony?” asked Aaron from inside the stable.

The Grandson of Abdallah raised his head and went to the stable door, his mouth half full of grass. Some of the grass must have tickled his nose, for he snorted twice in quick succession.

“Do I remember it, Son of Ben Ali? How could I forget it? It was a little while before the big race at Lexington. That was the night I learned how to put my nose at a horse’s flank and run the breath out of him.”

“The children of the White-haired Master would like to hear of that,” said Aaron.

“It was at night,” remarked the Black Stallion, threshing at a perverse fly with his tail. “What time, I know not, but I had been dozing, and just before that I had heard the chickens crow. There was no moon. The big white star was glittering where the sun rises, and there was frost in the air. Suddenly I heard some one tugging at my stable door and the voice of the Son of Ben Ali calling.

“The door was barred, but he broke the bar. The stable was dark, but he found the bridle, blanket, and saddle. He cried:—

“‘Steady, Son of Abdallah! There is work for us this night!’

“I bit at him in play, and took a piece of his coat off, but he made no pause until saddle and bridle were on. Then he ran through the door, crying ‘Come, Son of Abdallah! Come! There is work for us to-night! Steady! You will have play enough before the night is over.’

“I liked nothing better than that, so I sprang through the door, and went galloping after the Son of Ben Ali. He ran to the house, and there I saw the Gray Mare, my sister, standing. She was bridled, but the saddle was missing.

“‘Stand here!’ said the Son of Ben Ali. He placed his hand on the yard fence and sprang over, though the gate was near. He ran to the big tree near the corner of the house, and began to walk upward. This was new to me, so I started back in some surprise. But the Son of Ben Ali called to me to be quiet, and in a minute he had disappeared in the little window that juts from the roof.

“Then I heard the voice of the Little Master crying ‘Take me down stairs!’

“In a little while the Son of Ben Ali came down the tree and stood at the door, which was presently opened by the White-haired Master. His speech was short and quick:—

“‘Where are the horses?’

“‘Here, Master,’ said the Son of Ben Ali, who came running toward me. ‘Mount here, Master.’

“‘Show me the way!’ said the White-haired Master.

“The Son of Ben Ali flung himself on the Gray Mare, my sister. The gates were all open, and we went through them in a hurry. I felt the White-haired Master settle himself in the saddle and try the stirrups. Then his knees pressed a little closer to the saddle, and I thought, ‘Here is a rider—a little heavy, but more helpful than a lighter man who has never learned to fit himself to the curve of the saddle, and to move as the horse moves.’ He reached his right arm forward to feel of the play of my shoulders, and gave me a gentle pat by way of praise.

“The Gray Mare, my sister, was trained for racing, while I was raw and untried, waiting for my turn, that came afterward, and she tripped along ahead of me as lightly as a rabbit that has just been frightened from its bed.

“We cleared the gates and the narrow lane, and presently struck into the big road.

“‘Are we going to Harmony?’ asked the White-haired Master.

“‘Yes, Master.’

“‘We shall have to ride, then.’

“At that the Gray Mare, my sister, seemed to glide away from me. The Son of Ben Ali had slapped her with his open hand. I went after her with a little rush that never moved the White-haired Master in his saddle. I felt my blood tingling. Whatever the Gray Mare, my sister, was doing, I knew I was going at only half speed, and I longed to show the White-haired Master what I could do.

“I said as we galloped, ‘My sister, this night you will see which of us has the swiftest feet.’ The answer she made was a loud snort, and again she tried to glide away, but I kept my muzzle at the Son of Ben Ali’s knee.

“‘Not now,’ said the Son of Ben Ali. ‘Wait! Wait till we cross the bridge.’

“‘Are we riding or playing?’ asked the White-haired Master. Man, we’ll be too late!’

“‘When we cross the bridge, we’ll go, Master,’ said the Son of Ben Ali.

“Yet the ground was firm and springy, and the road level. I was so fretted that I bit at the Son of Ben Ali’s leg. ‘You won’t play when you come to your journey’s end, Grandson of Abdallah,’ he said. I knew then that we would go fast enough after awhile, and so I fell back a little and settled down to a swift, steady gallop. My easy movements must have pleased the White-haired Master, for he reached forward and gave me a love-lick, saying, ‘Good horse!’

“So in a little while we came to the bridge, a small affair, but rickety. On the other side the Son of Ben Ali leaned forward a little, saying, ‘Now, Master!’ The Gray Mare, my sister, leaped away from me with a snort. I threw my head forward as the White-haired Master gave me the length of the rein, and the Gray Mare, my sister, soon found that she would not have the road to herself.

“Within a quarter of a mile, I was running with my nose at her flank, and I kept it there. I could have run past her, but I knew the White-haired Master would give the word for that, and so I kept my place. Yet, I could feel that the Gray Mare, my sister, was trying her best to get away from me.

“The sound of our feet on the hard road must have made a terrible clatter. I could hear it flung back at us from the woods on either side. Once, as we were passing a house by the roadside, a pack of curs came trooping out at us. This was my chance. The Gray Mare, my sister, shied, while I ran right through the pack, knocking them right and left. The White-haired Master touched me again, saying, ‘Good horse!’ and shook the reins just a little, but it was enough. Before the dog I had crippled could yelp twice, I had taken the road away from the Gray Mare, my sister. I could hear her coming behind me. I could hear the Son of Ben Ali slap her first with his open hand, and then with the slack of the bridle rein.

“But it did no good. I loved to listen to the clatter of my feet on the hard clay in the road. I was proud to feel that I was not running at full speed. I was proud to know that the White-haired Master had grown young again, and to feel him holding the reins just steady enough to catch me should I chance to stumble. I was proud to feel him sitting in the saddle, balancing himself to all my movements so as not to worry me with his weight.

“Suddenly I felt him turn in the saddle and look back. Then his firm hand checked me, and I knew that the Gray Mare, my sister, had been more than matched. As I settled down into a steadier gallop the White-haired Master said:—

“‘Another racehorse here, boy—the greatest of all.’

“‘Yes, Master,’ replied the Son of Ben Ali, ‘he is the grandson of Abdallah.’

“It was well that the White-haired Master drew rein when he did, for we still had two miles to go, and the Gray Mare, my sister, was beginning to blow a little. But we rested ourselves by going easily. Presently I saw firelight shining through the trees half a mile ahead.

“‘That’s the place!’ cried the White-haired Master.

“He leaned forward in the saddle, and I took that for a signal to go. It was a level road, and I stretched myself out for a run that would please and surprise the White-haired Master. As I ran I wondered what the people at the fire would think as they heard us thundering down the road.

“Nobody knows to this day what they thought. We were upon them before they could gather their wits about them. We were upon them before they could get out of the way. The torches glimmering through the trees blinded the eyes of the White-haired Master, so that he drew rein a little too late to stop me near the group of men standing there. One of them, the son of the man called Old Grizzly, tried to dodge out of the way, but as he dodged I swerved to one side, and so struck him fairly on the shoulder. He went down as if a tree had fallen on him. As I turned again I caught the arm of one of them in my teeth, and carried him with me, screaming like a woman. From that day to this I have been called the Man-eater; but as to eating a man—Blibbelibbel—it makes me sick to think of it!

“I was still jumping, but trying to come to a halt, when the White-haired Master drove his heels at me, and whirled me around on my hind feet as on a pivot. As I turned I saw why. The man called the Teacher had been sitting on a horse, his arms tied, and a rope around his neck, one end fastened to the limb of a tree. As we came up, some of the men had given the horse a cut with a hickory, and he had jumped away, leaving the Teacher swinging by the neck.

“With one stroke of a knife he carried, the White-haired Master cut the rope, and then he leaped nimbly from my back and lifted the man called the Teacher to his feet, cutting the rope from his arms and from his neck.

“The man called the Teacher was neither much hurt nor frightened, but he was weak. So he leaned against me as I stood panting for breath. There the White-haired Master left him and turned his attention to the men who were standing around. He called them murderers and assassins and cowards, but they made little or no reply. The Son of Old Grizzly, who was rubbing his shoulder, made some kind of excuse. He said he thought anybody had a right to hang anybody else who was trying to make the negroes rise and kill their masters.

“But the man called the Teacher hit the saddle he was leaning against so hard with his fist that it made me jump, and said it was a lie. He declared that he had told the negroes to be patient, that thousands of good people were praying for them, and that the time would come when they would be free.

“‘What do I care what he told the negroes?’ cried the White-haired Master, turning upon the men. ‘Don’t you know, you cowardly wretches, that I will protect whoever lives under my roof with my life? Take yourselves off, and be glad that you have escaped so lightly. I know all of you, and I’ll have an eye on you hereafter.’ So said the White-haired Master; and the men, making what excuses they could think of, slunk away to where they had left their horses tied.

“Seeing the Gray Mare, my sister, standing near, I looked around for the Son of Ben Ali, but he was nowhere to be seen. I knew he was not far off. He was waiting till the men should get out of sight. Then he came forth from the bushes, and in the dark, lifted the man called the Teacher to the back of the Gray Mare, my sister.

“And so we went back home, going slowly, the man called the Teacher riding the Gray Mare, my sister, and the Son of Ben Ali walking alongside to hold him in place should his strength fail.

“That is all. I saw no more of the Son of Ben Ali until after the big fire.”

“When the house was burned?” asked Buster John.

“The big house—yes,” replied the Black Stallion.

“That was the time you broke down your stable door,” suggested Aaron, who was working away inside the stable.

“And came near catching the son of Old Grizzly, as he went over the fence,” said the Black Stallion.

“Mr. George Gossett?” exclaimed Buster John. “Why, he’s an old man.”

“He’s older than he’s good,” remarked Aaron.

“I heard a great noise,” said the Black Stallion—“the cows asking the mules what the trouble was, the mules asking the horses, and the geese screaming and flying about—and so I broke down my stable door. Just then I saw some one running through the field away from the house, and I tried to catch him. He was too near the fence, but I saw it was the son of Old Grizzly.”

“Why was he running through the field?” inquired Buster John.

“Well,” said Aaron, “there was a fire burning the house, and there was this George Gossett running away. You can put the two together, if you want to, or you can leave them just as the Grandson of Abdallah saw them—one burning the house and the other running away.”

“Huh! he sot dat house afire!” exclaimed Drusilla; “kaze I hear my mammy an’ ol’ Aunt Free Polly sesso.”

All this made Sweetest Susan open her eyes in amazement, and they were very bright and beautiful eyes.

“Oh, how could he be so cruel?” she cried.

“He thought the White-haired Master rode him down that night on purpose,” said Aaron, “and he had a good many other thoughts.”

The Black Stallion galloped to another part of the field, and Aaron said it was time for the children to go to the house and fix for dinner. So they went running along.

XI.

FREE POLLY’S STORY.

It was not long before the children had an appointment to see Free Polly. She had chosen their father for her guardian, and was in the habit of visiting the plantation very often, sometimes staying there for weeks at a time.

Free Polly was sixty years old, but very frisky and fond of fun—always ready to listen to a joke or tell a story. All her stories were older than she was, but she never told one without laughing at it just as heartily as if she had heard it for the first time. She bowed her head from side to side in jaunty fashion, and laughed loudly. The children laughed, too, for she made a very comical appearance. She had on a yellow basque with flowing sleeves, and a blue skirt. On her head she wore a flaming red bandana, and on top of that a bonnet shaped like a sugar scoop and stuffed full of faded artificial flowers. At sixty years old Free Polly still considered herself a belle, and put on a great many airs. Whenever she met anybody, black or white, she always bowed her head, first to the left, then to the right, and made a low curtsy. This she did now when the children called her. She bowed and curtsied, and then placed her arms akimbo, and waited for the youngsters to come up.

“Oh, I so glad to see you,” she cried, “I can’t tell you how glad I is. You mos’ done grown. ’Fo’ I know it you’ll be done grown an’ married. Hey-hey! You nee’n ter laugh. I done see young people ’fo’ I see you. Dey mos’ all do dat away.”

“Aunt Polly,” said Buster John, “do you remember the night the big house burned?”

Free Polly ceased laughing and screwed up her mouth and face in pretended indignation.

“How I gwine ter fergit it? Wa’n’t I right dar in de house? Right un’ de roofness?”

“Won’t you please tell us about it?” asked Sweetest Susan, with her pretty, coaxing smile.

Free Polly shook her head solemnly, closed her eyes, and heaved a deep sigh.

“How kin I tell you stan’in’ up here flat-footed in de sun? Wait. I comin’ in de house atter supper to see Mistiss. When you see me in dar, run an’ ax me to come in yo’ room ’fo’ I go. But when I go in dar I mus’ fin’ sump’n else ’sides a cheer, an’ a table, an’ a bedstid, an’ a washstan’.”

“What do you want to find?” Buster John inquired.

Again Free Polly closed her eyes and sighed, as she answered:—

“What I want to fin’? Biscuit. Battercakes. Butter. Ham.” At each word Free Polly smacked her lips and opened her mouth wide. The children laughed, and promised that they would carry as much food into the nursery as they could make an excuse for.

At supper their mother saw them buttering more biscuits than they usually ate. So she suddenly asked:—

“Has any one seen Free Polly to-day?”

“Yes’m,” promptly replied Drusilla, who was waiting on Buster John and Sweetest Susan.

“Is she coming here to-night?”

“I—I speck so,” Drusilla answered somewhat doubtfully.

At this the mother looked at the children and laughed.

“Mamma, how did you know?” cried Sweetest Susan.

“Because she used to come to see me when I was a little girl, and I always had to carry biscuits and ham to my room, if I wanted her to tell me a tale. Drusilla, put those biscuits and three slices of ham on a plate, and carry it to the nursery.”

Naturally the children were delighted at the way their mother fell into their innocent little plans, and they waited with a good deal of impatience for Free Polly to come. She came after what seemed to be a very long while. She was even more comically polite in the house than she was out of doors, and pretended to have a good deal to say to the “Mistiss;” but the lady said she was busy at that moment, and told Free Polly to go into the nursery and see the children.

Thus it came about that Buster John and Sweetest Susan heard all the particulars of the burning of the big house, told in a style that was to them the most graphic and complete that could be imagined.

After eating the supper that had been brought in for her, Free Polly wiped her mouth with the back of her hands, placed her heels on the top round of the chair she sat in, and clasped her knees with her long arms. Then closing her eyes, she began:

“I dunner how come it, but when de sun shine it look like a long time ago when de house burn. When night come, it look like it done happen yistiddy. It so come ’bout dat I hatter come see ol’ Marster dat ve’y night. I start from de place whar I been workin’ time de sun go down, an’ when I come to turn in de big gate up yander, twuz gittin dark. I raise de latch er de big gate, I did, an’ den I say ter myse’f, ‘No, I won’t go de front way, kaze dey might be comp’ny in de front peazzer, an’ I’ll go roun’ de back way an’ come in by de nigger quarter.’ I had my min’ on dat ar man what dey like ter hang—dat ar Mr. Hudspy”—

“Hudspeth,” said Buster John.

“Kaze he gimme a sev’m-punce one time, an’ I wuz mighty sorry he had to go back home. I walk ’long, I did, an’ I ’low I mighty sorry dat ar Mr. Hudspy ain’t here now, kaze he might fergit hissif an’ gimme a n’er sev’m-punce.’ Des ’bout dat time I look up an’ look ’round, an’ right at me wuz a man. I could ’a’ put out my han’ an’ totch him. Ef he’d ’a’ said ‘Boo!’ at me, I’d ’a’ drapt right in my tracks. But I bowed, I did, an’ drapt him a curtsy, an’ ax’d him howdy.

“He say, ‘Ain’t dat Free Polly?’ I say, ‘Yasser.’ I know’d time he open his mouth dat ’t’wan’t nobody in de roun’ worl’ but dat ar George Gossett.

“He say, ‘I got a crow to pick wid you.’ I say, ‘How come dat, suh?’

“He say, ‘You been harborin’ runaway niggers.’ I say, ‘I don’t see how I kin do dat, suh, when it’s e’enabout all I kin do fer ter harbor myse’f, let ’lone runaway niggers.’

“He say, ‘I hear tell you es des han’ in glove wid dat ar nigger A’on what Pap bought fum de speculator.’ I say, ‘Ef A’on ever is been at my house, suh, it wuz unbeknownst to me.’

“He say, ‘Nummine. I’ll git you yit; an’ when I does, hit’ll be all night Isom dar wid you.’ I say, ‘Yasser,’ and den I bowed perlite ez I know how, an’ come on to de big house.

“I ain’t been here long, ’fo’ dey tell me dat de Little Marster—which dey call him Little Crotchet—is sorter ailin’, an’ I say ter myse’f dat I’ll go up sta’rs dar whar he stay at, an’ see him. So, atter while, up I goes, an’ sho’ nuff, dar wuz de Little Marster layin’ up dar readin’.

“He put down his book, he did, an’ look like he mighty glad ter see me, an’ he ax me what good fer deze here long-time pains in de legs; an’ I say I dunno, ’cep’n you have somebody to rub ’em. He ax me ef I won’t rub ’em; an’ I say tooby-shore I will, an’ glad to do it, an’ den I whirled in an’ rub ’em; an’ whiles I’m a-rubbin’ he ax me de names er all de presidencies er de Nunitin’ States whar we live at, an’ I say ef I ever know’d ’em I done fergitted ’em off’en my min’. Desso.

“An’ den, bless yo’ souls, he lay dar flat er his back, an’ call off de names er all de presidencies er de Nunitin’ States same ez ef he had ’em right dar in a book, an’ den when he done dat he tol’ me all ’bout John Henry Bonaparte an’ Mr. Benjamin Arnold, which he traded off his country fer a pa’r er shiny boots an’ a cocked hat.”

Buster John and Sweetest Susan laughed heartily at this, and Free Polly laughed in sympathy.

“Yes, honey, he lay dar flat er his back an’ tol’ me all de news. I dunner how long I sot dar, rubbin’ an’ noddin’, an’ lis’nin’ ter de Little Marster, tellin’ me all ’bout how de Nunitin’ State of Americus, Georgy, come up, an’ how he wuz skeer’d she wuz gwine down agin ef de folks up dar whar dey make laws did’n’ stop scandalizin’ an’ gwine on. I speck both un us must er drapt off ter sleep, kaze when I waked up, de candle had done burnted mos’ down. Bimeby de Little Marster say, ‘Polly Ann’—he call me Polly Ann fer short—‘Polly Ann, I smell smoke. What does you smell?’

“I say, ‘I smells smoke, too. I speck somebody burnin’ off a new groun’.’

“He say, ‘Polly Ann, dis ain’t de time er de year when dey burns off de new groun’.’

“I say, ‘Maybe somebody possum huntin’ drapt der torch an’ sot fire to de woods.’

“He say, ‘Polly Ann, dis ain’t de time er de year when dey hunts possums.’

“I say, ‘I dunner how come it den.’

“He say, ‘All de same, Polly Ann, I smells smoke.’

“I say, ‘Dat what Brer Fox say when Brer Rabbit put fire ter de hay what he totin’ on his back.’

“De Little Marster say, ‘Polly Ann, maybe somebody done put fire ter de hay what we got on our backs.’

“I say, ‘I ain’t skeer’d er dat.’

“Dis make him laugh. He say, ‘Polly Ann, folks don’t hafter be skeer’d ter git burnted up.’”

At this point Free Polly suddenly became very solemn. A heavy frown appeared on her face. Her voice fell to a tragic whisper. She placed one hand lightly on Sweetest Susan’s shoulder and held the other to a gesture of warning, looking all around the room as if expecting to discover the beginning or the ending of some horrible catastrophe.

“Right dar an den,” she said, “I not only smelt de smoke, I seed it. Seed it wid my own eyes. Yes, honey! A little streak un it, not much bigger dan a pipestem, come curlin’ up by de candle an’ went dancin’ up ter de ceilin’. Den’ way off yander, I hear somebody holler. Den somebody holler’d mo’ closer. Den de cows ’gun ter low, an’ de hosses ter whicker.

“I say ter myse’f, ‘Nigger ’oman, you better keep yo’ eye peeled, kaze sump’n n’er gwine on, an’ ’tain’t so mighty fur fum here, needer.’ Den I hear somebody holler right out in de lot dar.

“De Little Marster say, ‘Polly Ann, I tell you I smells smoke. Hit’s right off’n de fire.’

“I say, ‘I b’lieve you, honey.’

“By dis time, de fuss outside wuz gittin’ wuss an’ wuss, an’ I could hear somep’n cracklin’ like somebody walkin’ thoo a patch er ragweed in de winter time. It look like de little candle got mo’ paler, an’ den it seem like I could see shadders dancin’ on de wall. Den I happen to look up at de window, an’, man, suh, de whole place wuz lit up.