eyed him from head to foot, with a sort of innocent wonder.
“George, something has brought you out wonderfully. You hold up your head, and speak and move like another man,” said Mr. Wilson.
“Because I’m a freeman!” said George proudly. “Yes, sir; I’ve said mas’r for the last time to any man. I’m free!”
“Take care! You are not sure—you may be taken.”
“All men are free and equal in the grave, if it comes to that, Mr. Wilson,” said George.
“I’m perfectly dumb foundered with your boldness!” said Mr. Wilson—“to come right here to the nearest tavern!”
“Mr. Wilson, it is so bold, and this tavern is so near, that they will never think of it; they will look for me on ahead, and you yourself wouldn’t know me. Jim’s master don’t live in this country; he isn’t known in these parts. Besides, he is given up—nobody is looking after him; and nobody will take me up from the advertisement, I think.”
“But the mark in your hand?”
George drew off his glove, and showed a newly-healed scar in his hand.
“That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris’s regard,” he said scornfully. “A fortnight ago he took it into his head to give it to me, because he said he believed I should try to get away one of these days. Looks interesting, doesn’t it?” he said, drawing his glove on again.
“I declare, my very blood runs cold when I think of it—your condition and your risks!” said Mr. Wilson.
“Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson; at present, it’s about up to the boiling point,” said George.
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