to have all that ar poor crittur’s got to answer for.”
“So’d I, a heap,” said Jake. “Lor, shouldn’t we cotch it, Andy?”
Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent whistle.
“I’m glad mas’r didn’t go off this morning, as he looked to,” said Tom; “that ar hurt me more than sellin’, it did. Mebbe it might have been natural for him, but ‘twould have come desp’t hard on me, as has known him from a baby; but I’ve seen mas’r, and I begin to feel sort o’ reconciled to the Lord’s will now. Mas’r couldn’t help hisself; he did right, but I’m feared things will be kinder goin’ to rack, when I’m gone. Mas’r can’t be spected to be a-pryin’ round everywhar, as I’ve done, a-keepin’ up all the ends. The boys all means well, but they’s powerful car’less. That ar troubles me.”
The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlour.
“Tom,” said his master kindly, “I want you to notice that I give this gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dollars if you are not on the spot when he wants you. He’s going to-day to look after his other business, and you can have the day to yourself. Go anywhere you like, boy.”
“Thank you, mas’r,” said Tom.
“And mind yerself,” said the trader, “and don’t come it over yer master with any o’ yer nigger tricks; for I’ll take every cent out of him, if you an’t thar. If he’d hear to me he wouldn’t trust any on ye—slippery as eels!”
“Mas’r,” said Tom—and he stood very straight—“I was jist eight years ole when ole missis put you into my arms, and you wasn’t a year old. ‘Thar,’ says she, ‘Tom, that’s to be your young mas’r; take good care on him,’ says she. And now I jist ask you, mas’r, have I broke word to you, or gone contrary to you, ‘specially since I was a Christian?”
Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his eyes.
“My good boy,” said he, “the Lord knows you say but the truth; and if I was able to help it, all the world shouldn’t buy you.”
“And sure as I am a Christian woman,” said Mrs. Shelby, “you shall be redeemed as soon as I can anyway bring together the means. Sir,” she said to Haley, “take good account of whom you sell him to, and let me know.”
“Lor, yes, for that matter,” said the trader, “I may bring him up in a year, not much the wuss for wear, and trade him back.”
“I’ll trade with you then, and make it for your advantage,” said Mrs. Shelby.
“Of course,” said the trader, “all’s equal with me; li’ves trade ’em up as down, so I does a good business. All I want is a livin’, you know, ma’am; that’s all any on us wants, I s’pose.”
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the familiar impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the absolute necessity of putting a constraint on their feelings. The more hopelessly sordid and insensible he appeared, the greater became Mrs. Shelby’s dread of his succeeding in recapturing Eliza and her child, and of course the greater her motive for detaining him by every female artifice. She therefore graciously smiled, assented, chatted familiarly, and did all she could to make time pass imperceptibly.
At two o’clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the posts, apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scamper of the morning.
Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abundance of zealous and ready officiousness. As Haley approached, he was boasting in flourishing style, to Andy, of the evident and eminent success of the operation, now that he had “fairly come to it.”
“Your master, I s’pose, don’t keep no dogs,” said Haley thoughtfully, as he prepared to mount.
“Heaps on ’em,” said Sam triumphantly; “thar’s Bruno—he’s a roarer! and, besides that, ’bout every nigger of us keeps a pup of some natur or uther.”
“Poh!” said Haley—and he said something else, too, with regard to the said dogs, at which Sam muttered:
“I don’t see no use cussin’ on ’em, noway.”
“But your master don’t keep no dogs—I pretty much know he don’t—for trackin’ out niggers.”
Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept up a look of earnest and desperate simplicity.
“Our dogs all smells round consid’able sharp. I spect they’s the kind, though they han’t never had no practice. They’s far dogs, though, at most anything, if you’d get ’em started. Here, Bruno,” he called, whistling to the lumbering Newfoundland, who came pitching tumultuously toward him.
“You go hang!” said Haley, getting up. “Come, tumble up, now.”
Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle Andy as he did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a laugh, greatly to Haley’s indignation, who made a cut at him with his riding-whip.
“I’s ’stonished aty er, Andy,” said Sam, with awful gravity. “This yer’s a seris bisness, Andy. Yer mustn’t be a-makin’ game. This yer an’t no way to help mas’r.”
“I shall take the straight road to the river,” said Haley decidedly, after they had come to the boundaries of the estate. “I know the way of all of ’em—they makes tracks for the underground.”
“Sartin,” said Sam, “dat’s the idee. Mas’r Haley hits de thing right in de middle. Now, dere’s two roads to de river,—de dirt road and der pike—which mas’r mean to take?”
Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing this new geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he said by a vehement reiteration.
“’Cause,” said Sam, “I’d rather be ‘clined to ‘magine that Lizy’d take de dirt road, bein’ it’s de least travelled.”
Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and naturally inclined to be suspicious of chaff, was rather brought up by this view of the case.
“If yer warn’t both on yer such cussed liars, now!” he said contemplatively, as he pondered a moment.
The pensive, reflective tone in which this was spoken appeared to amuse Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind, and shook so as apparently to run a great risk of falling off his horse, while Sam’s face was immovably composed into the most doleful gravity.
“Course,” said Sam, “mas’r can do as he’d ruther; go de straight road, if mas’r thinks best—its all one to us. Now, when I study ’pon it, I think the straight road de best, deridedly.”
“She would naturally go a lonesome way,” said Haley, thinking aloud, and not minding Sam’s remark.
“Dar an’t no sayin’,” said Sam; “gals is pecul’ar; they never does nothin’ ye thinks they will; mose gen’lly the contrar. Gals is nat’lly made contrary; and so, if you thinks they’ve gone one road, it is sartin you’d better go t’other, and then you’ll be sure to find ’em. Now, my private ’pinion is, Lizy took der
