Chapter IV: Part 4

No need to ask that question; Little Crotchet had a great deal of business on hand. In the first place, while Mr. Simmons's hounds were hunting Aaron, Timoleon, the Black Stallion, had escaped from his stable, and he created a great uproar on the place. When the negro who usually fed and groomed him went into the lot to catch the horse, he found that the catcher is sometimes caught. For Timoleon, made furious by his freedom from the confinement of the halter and the four walls of the stable, seized the man by the shoulder and came near inflicting a fatal injury. Nothing saved the unfortunate negro but the fact that Randall, who chanced to be walking about the lot, made a pretense of attacking the horse with a wagon whip. Timoleon dropped the negro and made a furious rush at Randall; but Randall was in reach of the fence, and so made his escape, while the wounded negro took advantage of the opportunity to stagger, stumble, and crawl to a place of safety. This done, he lay as one dead. He was carried to his cabin, and a messenger was sent, hot-foot, for the doctor, who lived in the neighborhood not far away.

Little Crotchet witnessed a part of the scene, and, oh! he was angry. It was outrageous, wicked, horrible, that a horse should be so cruel. He sat on the Gray Pony and shook his fist impotently at the Black Stallion.

"Oh, if I had you where I could put the lash on you, I'd make you pay for this, you mean, cruel creature!"

Singular to say, Timoleon whinnied when he heard the Little Master's voice, and came galloping to the fence where the Gray Pony stood, and put his head over the top rail.

"Blest ef I don't b'lieve he know you, honey," said Randall.

This somewhat mollified Little Crotchet, but he was still angry. "Why are you so mean and cruel! Oh, I'll make somebody lash you well for this!"

The Black Stallion whinnied again in the friendliest way. "Is anybody ever see de beat er dat!" exclaimed Randall.

Nothing could be done, and so the Black Stallion roamed about the lot at will, and that night when the mules came in from the field they had to be fed and housed under the ginhouse shelter. The White-Haired Master was away from home on business, but the whole plantation knew that he prized Timoleon above all the other horses on the place, and so neither Turin nor Randall would take harsh measures to recapture the horse. They were careful enough, however, to have the high fence strengthened where they found it weak.

This was one of the reasons why Little Crotchet wanted to see Aaron. But there was also another reason. The lad wanted to introduce the runaway to a new friend of his, Mr. Richard Hudspeth, his tutor, who had been employed to come all the way from Massachusetts to take charge of the lad's education, which was already fair for his age. In fact, what Little Crotchet knew about books was astonishing when it is remembered that he never went to school. He had been taught to read and write and cipher by his mother, and this opened the door of his father's library, which was as large as it was well selected.

Mr. Hudspeth had been recommended by an old friend who had served two years in Congress with Mr. Abercrombie, and there was no trouble in coming to an agreement, for Mr. Hudspeth had reasons of his own for desiring to visit the South. He belonged to the anti-slavery society, and was an aggressive abolitionist. He was a fair-skinned young man, with a silk-like yellow beard, active in his movements, and had a voice singularly sweet and well modulated. He talked with great nicety of expression, and had a certain daintiness of manner which, in so far as it suggested femininity, was calculated to give the casual observer a wrong idea of Mr. Hudspeth's disposition and temperament.

He had been installed as Little Crotchet's tutor for more than a week. The lad did not like him at first. His preciseness seemed to smack too much of method and discipline,--the terror of childhood and youth. And there was a queer inflection to his sentences, and his pronunciation had a strange and an unfamiliar twang. But these things soon became familiar to the lad, as Mr. Hudspeth, little by little, won his attention and commanded his interest. The Teacher (for he was emphatically a Teacher in the best sense, and not a Tutor in any sense) saw at the beginning that the dull routine of the text-books would be disastrous here, both to health and spirits. And so he fell back on his own experience, and became himself the mouthpiece of all good books he had ever read, and of all great thoughts that had ever planted themselves in his mind. And he entered with real enthusiasm into all Little Crotchet's thoughts, and drew him out until the soul of the lad would have been no more clearly defined had every detail been painted on canvas and hung on the wall before the Teacher's eyes.

It was this Teacher that Little Crotchet wanted Aaron to see, a fact which, taken by itself, was sufficient evidence that the lad had grown fond of Mr. Hudspeth. Little Crotchet was very cunning about it, too. He invited the Teacher to come to his room after tea, and when Mr. Hudspeth came the lad, lying upon his bed, put the question plumply:--

"Do you want to see my runaway?"

"Your runaway? I don't understand you."

"Don't you know what a runaway is? Why, of course you do. A runaway negro."

"Ah! a fugitive slave. Yes; I have seen a few."

"But you've never seen my runaway at all. He isn't a negro. He's an Arab. I'll let you see him if you promise never to tell. It's a great secret. I'm so small, and--and so crippled, you know, nobody would ever think I had a runaway?"

"Never fear me. Do you keep him in a box and permit only your best friends to peep at him occasionally?"

"Oh, no," said Little Crotchet, laughing at the idea. "He's a sure-enough runaway. He's been advertised in the newspapers. And they had the funniest picture of him you ever saw. They made him look like all the rest of the runaways that have their pictures in the Milledgeville papers,--a little bit of a man, bare-headed and stooped over, carrying a cane on his shoulder with a bundle hanging on the end of it. Sister cut it out for me. I'll show it to you to-morrow."

Mr. Hudspeth was very much interested in the runaway, and said he would be glad to see him.

"Well, you must do as I tell you. If I could jump up and jump about I wouldn't ask you, you know. Take the candle in your hand, go out on the stair landing, close the door after you, and stand there until you hear me call."

Mr. Hudspeth couldn't understand what all this meant, but he concluded to humor the joke. So he did as he was bid. He carried the candle from the room, closed the door, and stood on the landing until he heard Little Crotchet calling. When he re├źntered the room he held the candle above his head and looked about him. He evidently expected to see the runaway.

"This is equal to joining a secret society," he said. "Where is your runaway? Has he escaped?"

"I just wanted to make the window dark a moment and then bright again. That is my signal. If he sees it, he'll come. Don't you think it's cunning?"

"I shall certainly think so if the runaway comes," replied Mr. Hudspeth somewhat doubtfully.

"He has never failed yet," said Little Crotchet. "If he fails now, it will be because Jim Simmons's hounds have caught him, or else he is too tired to come out on the hill and watch for the signal."

"Were the bloodhounds after him?" inquired Mr. Hudspeth, with a frown.

"Bloodhounds!" exclaimed Little Crotchet. "I never saw a bloodhound, and I never heard of one around here. If my runaway is caught, the dog that did it could be put in the pocket of that big overcoat you had strapped on your trunk."

The lad paused and held up his finger. His ear had caught the sound of Aaron's feet on the shingles. There was a faint grating sound, as the window sash was softly raised and lowered, and then the Son of Ben Ali stepped from behind the curtain. He stood still as a statue when his eye fell on the stranger, and his attitude was one of simple dignity when he turned to the Little Master. He saw the lad laughing and he smiled in sympathy.

"He's one of us," said Little Crotchet, "and I wanted him to see you. He's my teacher. Mr. Hudspeth, this is Aaron."

Mr. Hudspeth grasped Aaron's hand and shook it warmly, and they talked for some time, the Son of Ben Ali sitting on the side of Little Crotchet's bed, holding the lad's hand in one of his. Aaron told of his day's experiences, and his description of the affair in the Swamp was so vivid and realistic that Mr. Hudspeth exclaimed:--

"If that were put in print, the world would declare it to be pure fiction."

"Fiction," said Little Crotchet to Aaron, with an air of great solemnity, "fiction is a story put in a book. A story is sometimes called a fib, but when it is printed it is called fiction."

Mr. Hudspeth laughed and so did Aaron, but Aaron's laugh had a good deal of pride in it.

"He's crippled here," remarked Aaron, touching Little Crotchet's legs, "but not here,"--touching the boy's head.

"But all this is not what I called you for," said Little Crotchet after a while. "Timoleon tore his stable door down to-day and came near killing one of the hands. He is out now. Father will be angry when he comes home and hears about it. Can't you put him in his stable?"

"Me? I can lead the grandson of Abdallah all around the plantation by a yarn string," Aaron declared.

"Well, if you had been here to-day you'd have found out different. You don't know that horse," Little Crotchet insisted.

"He is certainly as vicious a creature as I ever saw," remarked the Teacher, who had been an amazed witness of the horse's performances.

"I'll show you," Aaron declared.

"Oh, no!" protested Little Crotchet. "Don't try any tricks on that horse. He's too mean and cruel. If you can get him in his stable, and fasten him in, I'll be glad. But don't go near him; he'll bite your head off."

Aaron laughed and then he seemed to be considering something. "I wish"--He paused and looked at Little Crotchet.

"You wish what?" asked the lad.

"I wish you might go with me. But it is dark. The moon is a day moon. I could tote you to the fence."

"And then what?" asked Little Crotchet.

"You could see a tame horse--the grandson of Abdallah."

"I'll go to the fence if you'll carry me," said Little Crotchet. "The air is not cold--no wind is blowing."

"Shall I go too?" asked Mr. Hudspeth.

"I'd be glad," said Aaron.

So, although the night was not cold, Aaron took a shawl from the bed and wrapped it about Little Crotchet, lifted the lad in his arms, and went softly down the stairway, Mr. Hudspeth following. The night was not so dark after all. Once away from the light, various familiar objects began to materialize. The oaks ceased to be huge shadows. There was a thin, milk-white haze in the sky that seemed to shed a reflection of light on the earth below.

A negro passed along the beaten way leading to the cabins, whistling a tune. It was Randall. He heard the others and paused.

"It's your turn to tote," said Aaron.

"Who?" exclaimed Randall.

"The Little Master," replied Aaron.

Randall laughed. Who talked of turns where the Little Master was concerned? When it came to carrying that kind of burden, Randall was the man to do it, and it was "Don't le' me hurt you, honey. Ef I squeeze too tight, des say de word;" and then, "Whar we gwine, honey? A'on gwine in dar en put dat ar hoss up? Well, 'fo' he go in dar less all shake han's wid 'im, kaze when we nex' lay eyes on 'im he won't hear us, not ef we stoop down and holler good-by in his year."

But following Aaron, they went toward the lot where the Black Stallion had shown his savage temper during the day.

VIII.

THE HAPPENINGS OF A NIGHT.

When Aaron and those who were with him reached the lot fence, which had been made high and strong to keep old Jule, the jumping mule, within bounds, not a sound was heard on the other side.

"You er takin' yo' life in yo' han', mon," said Randall in a warning tone, as Aaron placed one foot on the third rail and vaulted over. The warning would have come too late in any event, for by the time the words were off Randall's tongue Aaron was over the fence. Those who were left behind waited in breathless suspense for some sound--some movement--from Timoleon, or some word from the Arab, to guide them. But for a little while (and it seemed to be a long, long while to Little Crotchet) nothing could be heard. Then suddenly there fell on their strained ears the noise that is made by a rushing horse, followed by a sharp exclamation from Aaron.

"What a pity if he is hurt!" exclaimed the Teacher.

Before anything else could be said, there came a whinnying sound from Timoleon, such as horses make when they greet those they are fond of, or when they are hungry and see some one bringing their food. But Timoleon's whinnying was more prolonged, and in the midst of it they could hear Aaron talking.

"Ef horses could talk," remarked Randall, "I'd up 'n' say dey wuz ca'n on a big confab in dar."

Little Crotchet said nothing. He had often heard Aaron say that he knew the language of animals, but the matter had never been pressed on the lad's attention as it was years afterwards on the attention of Buster John and Sweetest Susan.

Finally Aaron came to the fence, closely followed by the Black Stallion.

"Man, what you think?" said the Son of Ben Ali to Randall; "no water, no corn, no fodder since night before last."

"De Lord 'a' mercy!" exclaimed Randall. "Is anybody ever hear de beat er dat? No wonder he kotch dat ar nigger an' bit 'im! When de rascal git well I'm gwine ter ax Marster ter le' me take 'im out an' gi' 'im a paddlin'--an' I'll do it right, mon."

Mr. Hudspeth made a mental note of this speech, and resolved to find out if Randall meant what he said, or was merely joking.

"Man, give me the Little Master," said Aaron from the top of the fence, "and run and fetch two buckets of water from the spring."

"Dey's water in de lot dar," Randall explained.

"It is dirty," replied Aaron. "The grandson of Abdallah would die before he would drink it."

He leaned down and took Little Crotchet in his arms. The muzzle of Timoleon was so near that the lad could feel the hot breath from his nostrils. Involuntarily the Little Master shuddered and shrank closer to Aaron.

"He'll not hurt you," said Aaron. He made a queer sound with his lips, and the horse whinnied. "Now you may put your hand on him--so." The Arab took the Little Master's hand and placed it gently on the smooth, sensitive muzzle of the horse. The lad could feel the nervous working of Timoleon's strong upper lip. Then he stroked the horse's head and rubbed the velvety ears, and in less time than it takes to write it down he felt very much at home with the Black Stallion, and had no fear of him then or afterwards.

Randall soon returned with cool, fresh water from the spring. The Black Stallion drank all that was brought and wanted more, but Aaron said no. He had placed the Little Master on Randall's shoulder, and Timoleon, when he finished drinking, was taken to his stable and fed, and the broken door propped in such a manner that it could not be forced open from the inside. This done, Aaron returned to the others, relieved Randall of Little Crotchet, though the frail body was not much of a burden, and the three started back to the big house.

"You are still anxious to punish the poor man who was hurt by the horse?" asked the Teacher, as Randall bade them good-night.

"I is dat, suh. I'm des ez sho ter raise welks on his hide ez de sun is ter shine--leas'ways ef breff stay in his body. Ef I'd 'a' been dat ar hoss an' he'd done me dat away, I'd 'a' trompled de gizzard out 'n 'im. Ef dey's anything dat I do 'spise, suh, it's a low-down, triflin', good-fer-nothin' nigger."

Mr. Hudspeth knew enough about human nature to be able to catch the tone of downright sincerity in the negro's voice, and the fact not only amazed him at the time, but worried him no little when he recalled it afterward; for his memory seized upon it and made it more important than it really was. And he saw and noted other things on that plantation that puzzled him no little, and destroyed in his own mind the efficiency of some of his strongest anti-slavery arguments; but it did not, for it could not, reach the essence of the matter as he had conceived it, that human slavery, let it be national or sectional, or paternal and patriarchal, was an infliction on the master as well as an injustice to the negro.

So far so good. But Mr. Hudspeth could not see then what he saw and acknowledged when American slavery was happily a thing of the past, namely: That in the beginning, the slaves who were brought here were redeemed from a slavery in their own country worse than the bondage of death; that though they came here as savages, they were brought in close and stimulating contact with Christian civilization, and so lifted up that in two centuries they were able to bear the promotion to citizenship which awaited them; and that, although this end was reached in the midst of confusion and doubt, tumult and bloodshed, it was given to human intelligence to perceive in slavery, as well as in the freedom of the slaves, the hand of an All-wise Providence, and to behold in their bondage here the scheme of a vast university in which they were prepared to enjoy the full benefits of all the blessings which have been conferred on them, and which, though they seem to have been long delayed, have come to them earlier than to any other branch of the human race.

The Teacher who played his little part in the adventures of Aaron played a large part in national affairs at a later day. He saw slavery pass away, and he lived long enough after that event to put on record this declaration: "Looking back on the history of the human race, let us hasten to acknowledge, while the acknowledgment may be worth making, that two hundred and odd years of slavery, as it existed in the American republic, is a small price to pay for participation in the inestimable blessings and benefits of American freedom and American citizenship." And as he spoke, the great audience he was addressing seemed to fade before his eyes, and he found himself wandering again on the old plantation with Little Crotchet, or walking under the starlit skies talking to Aaron. And he heard again the genial voice of the gentleman whose guest he was, and lived again through the pleasures and perils of that wonderful year on the Abercrombie place.

But all this was twenty-five years in the future, and Mr. Hudspeth had not even a dream of what that future was to bring forth. Indeed, as he followed Aaron and Little Crotchet from the horse lot to the house he was less interested in what the years might hold for him than he was in one incident that occurred while Aaron was preparing to take the Black Stallion back to his stall. He was puzzled and wanted information. How did Aaron know that the horse had gone without water and food? He observed that neither Little Crotchet nor Randall questioned the statement when it was made, but treated it as a declaration beyond dispute. And yet the runaway had been in the woods, and a part of the time was pursued by hounds. He had no means of knowing whether or not the Black Stallion had been attended to.

The matter weighed on the Teacher's mind to such an extent that when he and his companions were safe in Little Crotchet's room he put a question to Aaron.

"By what means did you know that the horse had been left without food and water?"

Aaron glanced at Little Crotchet and smiled. "Well, sir, to tell you would be not to tell you. You wouldn't believe me."

"Oh, you go too far,--indeed you do. Why should I doubt your word?"

"It don't fit in with things you know."

"Try me."

"The grandson of Abdallah told me," replied Aaron simply.

The Teacher looked from Aaron to Little Crotchet. "You must be joking," he remarked.

"Oh, no, he isn't," protested Little Crotchet. "I know he can talk with the animals. He has promised to teach me, but I always forget it when I go to the Swamp; there are so many other things to think about."

"Would you teach me?" Mr. Hudspeth asked. His face was solemn, and yet there was doubt in the tone of his voice.

Aaron shook his head. "Too old," he explained. "Too old, and know too much."

"It's another case of having a child's faith," suggested the Teacher.

"Most, but not quite," answered Aaron. "It is like this: The why must be very big, or you must be touched."

The Teacher pondered over this reply for some moments, and then said: "There must be some real reason why I should desire to learn the language of animals. Is that it?"

"Most, but not quite," Aaron responded. "You must have the sure-enough feeling."

"I see. But what is it to be touched? What does that mean?"

"You must be touched by the people who live next door to the world."

The Teacher shook his head slowly and stroked his beard thoughtfully. He tried to treat the whole matter with due solemnity, so as to keep his footing, and he succeeded.

"Where is this country that is next door to the world?" he asked, turning to Little Crotchet.

"Under the spring," the lad replied promptly.

"Have you ever visited that country?" the Teacher asked. His tone was serious enough now.

"No," replied Little Crotchet, with a wistful sigh. "I'm crippled, you know, and walk only on my crutches. It is far to go, and I can't take my pony. But Aaron has told me about it, and I have seen Little Mr. Thimblefinger--once--and he told me about Mrs. Meadows and the rest and brought me a message from old Mr. Rabbit. They all live in the country next door to the world."

For several minutes the Teacher sat and gazed into the pale flame of the candle. The wax or tallow had run down on one side, and formed a figure in the semblance of a wee man hanging to the brass mouth of the candlestick with both hands. Glazing thus, queer thoughts came to the Teacher's mind. He tugged at his beard to see whether he was awake or dreaming. Could it be that by some noiseless shifting of the scenery he was even now in the country next door to the world? He rose suddenly, shook hands with Aaron, and, swayed by some sudden impulse, stooped and pressed his lips to the pale brow of the patient lad. Then he went to his room, threw open the window, and sat for an hour, wondering what influence his strange experiences would have on his life.

And his reflections were not amiss, for years afterwards his experiences of this night were responsible for his intimacy with the greatest American of our time,--Abraham Lincoln. It was in the early part of the war that Mr. Hudspeth, one of a group of congressmen in consultation with the President, let fall some chance remarks about the country next door to the world. Mr. Lincoln had been telling a humorous story, and was on the point of telling another, when Mr. Hudspeth's chance remark struck his ear.

"Whereabouts is that country?" he asked.

"Not far from Georgia," replied Mr. Hudspeth.

"Who lives there?"

"Little Crotchet, Aaron the Arab, Little Mr. Thimblefinger, Mrs. Meadows, and old Mr. Rabbit." Mr. Hudspeth counted them off on his fingers in a humorous manner.

Mr. Lincoln, who had been laughing before, suddenly grew serious--melancholy, indeed. He talked with the congressmen awhile longer, but they knew by his manner that they were dismissed. As they were leaving, the President remarked:--

"Wait till your hurry's over, Hudspeth; I want to talk to you."

And sitting before the fire in his private office, Mr. Lincoln recalled Mr. Hudspeth's chance remark, and questioned him with great particularity about Aaron and Little Crotchet and all the rest.

"Of course you believed in the country next door to the world?" Mr. Lincoln suggested.

"To tell you the truth, Mr. President, I felt queerly that night. It seemed as real to me as anything I ever heard of and never saw."

"Get the feeling back, Hudspeth; get it back. I can believe everything you told me about it."

And after that, when Mr. Hudspeth called on the President, and found him in a mood between extreme mirth and downright melancholy, he would say: "I was with Aaron last night," or "I'm just from the country next door to the world," or "I hope Sherman won't get lost in the country that is next door to the world."

But all this was in the future, and, as we all know, Mr. Hudspeth, sitting at his window and gazing at the stars that hung sparkling over the Abercrombie place, could not read the future. If it was too late for him to learn the language of the animals, how could he hope to interpret the prophecies of the constellations?

Aaron sat with Little Crotchet until there was no danger that the red goblin, Pain, would put in an appearance, and then he slipped through the window, and was soon at the foot of the oak, where Rambler was taking a nap. He gave the dog some of the food that Little Crotchet had put by for him, ate heartily himself, and then went toward the Swamp.

On the hill he turned and looked back in the direction of Little Crotchet's window. As he paused he heard a voice cry "Hello!" Aaron was not startled, for the sound came from a distance, and fell but faintly on his ears. He listened and heard it again:--

"Hello! Hello!"

It seemed to come from the road, half a mile away, and Aaron knew that there was no house in that direction for a traveler or a passer-by to hail. There was something in the tone that suggested distress.

Without waiting to listen again, the Arab started for the road in a rapid trot. He thought he heard it again as he ran, and this caused him to run the faster. He climbed the fence that marked the line of the road, and sat there a moment; but all was silence, save the soft clamor of insects and frogs that is a feature of the first half of the night.

Aaron had now come to a point from which he could reach the Swamp more conveniently by following the road for half a mile, though he would have another hill to climb. As he jumped from the fence into the road the cry came to his ears again, and this time with startling distinctness:

"Hello! Hello! Oh, isn't there some one to hear me?"

It was so plainly the call of some one in distress that Aaron shouted an answer of encouragement, and ran as fast as he could in the direction from which the sound came. The situation was so new to Rambler that, instead of making ahead to investigate and report, he stuck to Aaron, whining uneasily. As the Son of Ben Ali ran he saw dimly outlined at the foot of the hill a short distance beyond him a huge something that refused to take a recognizable shape until he stood beside it, and even then it was startling enough. It was the Gray Mare, Timoleon's sister, lying at full length by the side of the road, and underneath her the Son of Ben Ali knew he would find the White-Haired Master. But it was not as bad as it might have been.

"Hurt much, Master?" said Aaron, leaning over Mr. Abercrombie and touching him on the shoulder.

"Not seriously," replied the White-Haired Master. "But the leg that is under the mare is numb."

The Gray Mare, after falling, had done nothing more than whinny. If she had struggled to rise, the White-Haired Master's leg would have needed a doctor: and if she had risen to her feet and started home the doctor would have been unnecessary, for the imprisoned foot was caught in the stirrup.

Well for Mr. Abercrombie that Aaron knew the Gray Mare, and that the Gray Mare knew Aaron. She whinnied when the runaway spoke to her. She raised her head and gathered her forefeet under her, and then suddenly, at a word from Aaron, lifted her weight from the leg, while the foot was taken from the stirrup. Again the word was given and the Gray Mare rose easily to her feet and shook herself.

"Can you walk, Master?" Aaron asked.

"I think so--certainly."

Yet it was not an easy thing to do. Though the limb was not broken, owing to the fact that the ground was damp and soft where the Gray Mare fell, yet it had been imprisoned for some time, and it was both numb and bruised. The numbness was in evidence now, as the White-Haired Master rose to his feet and tried to walk; the bruises would speak for themselves to-morrow.

"What is your name?" Mr. Abercrombie asked.

"I am called Aaron, Master."

"I thought so, and I'm glad of it. Some day I'll thank you; but now--pins and needles!" The blood was beginning to circulate in the numb leg, and this was not by any means a pleasant experience. Aaron shortened it somewhat by rubbing the limb vigorously.

"Are you still in the woods, Aaron?"

"Yes, Master."

"Well, I'm sorry. I wish you belonged to me."

"I'm wishing harder than you, Master."

"What a pity--what a pity!"

"Don't get too sorry, Master."

"No; it would do no good."

"And don't blame the Gray Mare for stumbling, Master. The saddle too high on her shoulders, the belly-band too tight, and her shoes nailed on in the dark."

Aaron helped Mr. Abercrombie to mount. "Good-night, Master!"

"Good-night, Aaron!"

The Arab watched the Gray Mare and her rider until the darkness hid them from view. And no wonder! He was the only man, living or dead, that the Son of Ben Ali had ever called "Master." Why? Aaron tried to make the matter clear to his own mind, and while he was doing his best to unravel the problem he heard buggy wheels rattle on the hilltop. The horse must have shied at something just then, for a harsh voice cried out, followed by the sound of a whip falling cruelly on the creature's back. The wheels rattled louder as the creature leaped frantically from under the whip. The harsh voice cried "Whoa!" three times, twice in anger, and the third time in mortal fear. And then Aaron knew that he had another adventure on his hands.

IX.

THE UPSETTING OF MR. GOSSETT.

If Aaron had known it was Mr. Gossett's voice he heard and Mr. Gossett's hand that brought the buggy whip down on the poor horse's back with such cruel energy, the probability is that he would have taken to his heels; and yet it is impossible to say with certainty. The Son of Ben Ali was such a curious compound that his actions depended entirely on the mood he chanced to be in. He was full of courage, and yet was terribly afraid at times. He was dignified and proud, and yet no stranger to humility. His whole nature resented the idea of serving as a slave, yet he would have asked nothing better than to be Little Crotchet's slave: and he was glad to call Mr. Abercrombie master. So that, after all, it may be that he would have stood his ground, knowing that the voice and hand were Mr. Gossett's when his ears told him, as they now did, that the horse, made furious by the cruel stroke of the whip, was running away, coming down the hill at breakneck speed.

Mr. Gossett had been on a fruitless errand. When his son George reached home that morning and told him that Mr. Jim Simmons's dogs had followed the trail to the river and there lost it, Mr. Gossett remarked that he was glad he did not go on a fool's errand, and he made various statements about Mr. Simmons and his dogs that were not at all polite. Later in the day, however (though the hour was still early), when Mr. Gossett was making the customary round of his plantation, he fell in with a negro who had been hunting for some stray sheep. The negro, after giving an account of his movements, made this further remark:--

"I sholy 'spected you'd be over yander wid Mr. Jim Simmons, Marster. His dogs done struck a track leadin' inter de swamp, an' dey sho went a callyhootin'."

"When was that?" Mr. Gossett inquired.

"Not mo' dan two hours ago, ef dat," responded the negro. "I lis'n at um, I did, an' dey went right spang tor'ds de Swamp. I know'd de dogs, kaze I done hear um soon' dis mornin'."

Giving the negro some instructions that would keep him busy the rest of the day if he carried them out, Mr. Gossett turned his horse's head in the direction of the Swamp, and rode slowly thither. The blue falcon soared high in the air and paid no attention to Mr. Gossett. For various reasons that the Swamp knew about the Turkey Buzzard was not in sight. The Swamp itself was full of the reposeful silence that daylight usually brought to it. Mr. Gossett rode about and listened; but if all the dogs in the world had suddenly disappeared, the region round about could not have been freer of their barking and baying than it was at that moment.

All that Mr. Gossett could do was to turn about and ride back home. But he was very much puzzled. If Mr. Simmons had trailed a runaway into the Swamp and caught him, or if he had made two failures in one morning, Mr. Gossett would like very much to know it. In point of fact, he was such a practical business man that he felt it was Mr. Simmons's duty to make some sort of report to him. In matters of this kind Mr. Gossett was very precise.

But after dinner he felt in a more jocular mood. He informed his son George that he thought he would go over and worry Mr. Simmons a little over his failure to catch Aaron, and he had his horse put to the buggy, and rode six or seven miles to Mr. Simmons's home, smiling grimly as he went along.

Mr. Simmons was at home, but was not feeling very well, as his wife informed Mr. Gossett. Mrs. Simmons herself was in no very amiable mood, as Mr. Gossett very soon observed. But she asked him in politely enough, and said she'd go and tell Jimmy that company had come. She went to the garden gate not very far from the house and called out to her husband in a shrill voice:--

"Jimmy! Oh, Jimmy! That old buzzard of a Gossett is in the house. Come see what he wants. And do put on your coat before you come in the house. And wash your hands. They're dirtier than sin. And hit that shock of yours one lick with the comb and brush. Come right on now. If I have to sit in there and talk to the old rascal long I'll have a fit. Ain't you coming? I'll run back before he ransacks the whole house."

Mr. Simmons came sauntering in after a while, and his wife made that the excuse for disappearing, though she went no further than the other side of the door, where she listened with all her ears, being filled with a consuming curiosity to know what business brought Mr. Gossett to that house. She had not long to wait, for the visitor plunged into the subject at once.

"You may know I was anxious about you, Simmons, or I wouldn't be here." ("The old hypocrite!" remarked Mrs. Simmons, on the other side of the door.) "You didn't come by when your hunt ended, and I allowed maybe that you had caught the nigger and either killed or crippled him, and--ahem!--felt a sort of backwardness in telling me about it. So I thought I would come over and see you, if only to say that whether you caught the nigger or killed him, he's responsible for it and not you."

"No, Colonel, I'm not in the practice of killing niggers nor crippling 'em. I've caught a many of 'em, but I've never hurt one yet. But, Colonel! If you'd 'a' gone through with what I've been through this day, you'd 'a' done exactly what I done. You'd 'a' went right straight home without stopping to ask questions or to answer 'em--much less tell tales."

Thereupon Mr. Simmons told the story of his adventure in the Swamp, varnishing up the facts as he thought he knew them, and adding some details calculated to make the episode much more interesting from his point of view. It will be remembered that Mr. Simmons was in total ignorance of what really happened in the Swamp. He had conceived the theory that his dogs had hit upon the trail of a wildcat going from the river to its den in the Swamp, and that, when the dogs had followed it there, they had been attacked, not by one wildcat, but by the whole "caboodle" of wildcats, to use Mr. Simmons's expression.

Having conceived this theory, Mr. Simmons not only stuck to it, but added various incidents that did credit to his imagination. For instance, he made this statement in reply to a question from Mr. Gossett:--

"What did I think when I heard all the racket and saw Sound come out mangled? Well, I'll tell you, Colonel, I didn't know what to think. I never heard such a terrible racket in all my born days. I says to myself, 'I'll just ride in and see what the trouble is, and if there ain't but one wildcat, why, I'll soon put an end to him.' So I spurred my hoss up, and started in; but before we went anyways, hardly, the hoss give a snort and tried to whirl around and run out.

"It made me mad at the time," Mr. Simmons went on, his inventive faculty rising to the emergency, "but, Colonel, it's a mighty good thing that hoss had more sense than I did, because if he hadn't I'd 'a' never been setting here telling you about it. I tried to make the hoss stand, but he wouldn't, and, just then, what should I see but two great big wildcats trying to sneak up on me? And all the time, Colonel, the racket in the Swamp was getting louder and louder. Pluto was in there somewheres, and I know'd he was attending to his business, so I just give the hoss the reins and he went like he was shot out of a gun.

"I pulled him in, and turned him around, and then I saw Pluto trying to come out. Now, Colonel, you may know if it was too hot for him it was lots too warm for me. Pluto tried to come, and he was a-fighting like fury; but it was no go. The two cats that had been sneaking up on me lit on him, and right then and there they tore him all to flinders! Colonel, they didn't leave a piece of that dog's hide big enough to make a woman's glove if it had been tanned. And as if that wouldn't do 'em, they made another sally and come at me, tush and claw. And I just clapped spurs to the hoss and cleaned up from there. Do you blame me, Colonel?"

"As I understand it, Simmons," remarked Mr. Gossett, after pulling his beard and reflecting a while, "you didn't catch the nigger."

("The nasty old buzzard!" remarked Mrs. Simmons, on the other side of the door. "If I was Jimmy I'd hit him with a cheer.")

"Do you think you'd 'a' caught him, Colonel, taking into account all the circumstances and things?" inquired Mr. Simmons, with his irritating drawl.

"I didn't say I was going to catch him, did I?" replied Mr. Gossett. "I didn't say he couldn't get away from my dogs, did I?"

"Supposing you had," suggested Mr. Simmons, "would you 'a' done it? I ain't never heard of you walking in amongst a drove of wildcats to catch a nigger."

"And so you didn't catch him; and your fine dogs are finer now than they ever were?" Mr. Gossett remarked.

("My goodness! If Jimmy don't hit him, I'll go in and do it myself," said Mrs. Simmons, on the other side of the door.)

"Well, Colonel, it's just like I tell you." Mr. Simmons would have said something else, but just then the door opened and Mrs. Simmons walked in, fire in her eye.

"You've saved your $30, hain't you?" she said to Mr. Gossett.

"Why--er--yes'm--but"--

"No buts about it," she snapped. "If you ain't changed mightily, you think a heap more of $30 in your pocket than you do of a nigger in the bushes. Jimmy don't owe you nothin', does he?"

"Well--er--no'm." Mr. Gossett had been taken completely by surprise.

"No, he don't, and if he did I'd quit him right now--this very minute," Mrs. Simmons declared, gesticulating ominously with her forefinger. "And what Jimmy wants to go trolloping about the country trying to catch the niggers you drive to the woods is more'n I can tell to save my life. Why, if he was to catch your runaway niggers they wouldn't stay at home no longer than the minute you took the ropes off 'em."

Mr. Simmons cleared his throat, as if to say something, but his wife anticipated him.

"Oh, hush up, Jimmy!" she cried. "You know I'm telling nothing but the truth. There ain't a living soul in this country that don't know a Gossett nigger as far as they can see him."

"What are the ear-marks, ma'am?" inquired Mr. Gossett, trying hard to be jocular. In a moment he was heartily sorry he had asked the question.

"Ear-marks? Ear-marks? Hide-marks, you better say. Why, they've been abused and half fed till they are ashamed to look folks in the face, and I don't blame 'em. They go sneaking and shambling along and look meaner than sin. And 't ain't their own meanness that shows in 'em. No! Not by a long sight. I'll say that much for the poor creeturs."

There was something of a pause here, and Mr. Gossett promptly took advantage of it. He rose, bowed to Mrs. Simmons, who turned her back on him, and started for the door, saying:--

"Well, Simmons, I just called to see what luck you'd had this morning. My time's up. I must be going."

Mr. Simmons followed him to the door and out to the gate. Before Mr. Gossett got in his buggy he turned and looked toward the house, remarking to Mr. Simmons in a confidential tone:--

"I say, Simmons! She's a scorcher, ain't she?"

"A right warm one, Colonel, if I do say it myself," replied Mr. Simmons, with a touch of pride. "But, Colonel, before you get clean away, let's have a kind of understanding about this matter."

"About what matter?" Mr. Gossett stood with one foot on his buggy step, ready to get in.

"About this talk of Jenny's," said Mr. Simmons, nodding his head toward the house. "I'll go this far--I'll say that I'm mighty sorry it wasn't somebody else that done the talkin', and in somebody else's house. But sence it was Jenny, it can't be holp. If what she said makes you feel tired--sort of weary like--when you begin to think about it, jest bear in mind, Colonel, that I hold myself both personally and individually responsible for everything Jenny has said to-day, and everything she may say hereafter."

Mr. Gossett lowered his eyebrows and looked through them at Mr. Simmons.

"Why, of course, Simmons," he said a little stiffly, "we all have to stand by the women folks. I understand that. But blamed if I'd like to be in your shoes."

"Well, Colonel, they fit me like a glove."

Mr. Gossett seated himself in his buggy and drove away. Mrs. Simmons was standing in the door, her arms akimbo, when her husband returned to the house.

"Jimmy, you didn't go and apologize to that old buzzard for what I said, did you?"

Mr. Simmons laughed heartily at the idea, and when he repeated what he had said to Mr. Gossett his wife jumped at him, and kissed him, and then ran into the next room and cried a little. It's the one way that all women have of "cooling down," as Mr. Simmons would have expressed it.

But it need not be supposed that Mr. Gossett was in a good humor. He felt that Mrs. Simmons, in speaking as she did, was merely the mouthpiece of public opinion, and the idea galled him. He called on a neighbor, on his way back home, to discuss a business matter; and he was in such a bad humor, so entirely out of sorts, as he described it, that the neighbor hastened to get a jug of dram out of the cupboard, and, soothed and stimulated by the contents of the jug, Mr. Gossett thawed out. By degrees his good humor, such as it was, returned, and by degrees he took more of the dram than was good for him. So that when he started home, which was not until after sundown, his toddies had begun to tell on him. His eyes informed him that his horse had two heads, and he realized that he was not in a condition to present himself at home, where his son George could see him. The example would be too much for George, who had already on various occasions shown a fondness for the bottle.

What, then, was to be done? A very brilliant idea struck Mr. Gossett. He would not drive straight home; that would never do in the world. He'd go up the road that led to town until he came to Wesley Chapel, and there he'd take the other road that led by the Aikin plantation. This was a drive of about ten miles, and by that time the effects of the dram would be worn off.

Mr. Gossett carried out this programme faithfully, and that was why the buggy was coming over the hill as Aaron was going along the road on his way to the Swamp.

Contrary to Mr. Gossett's expectations the dram did not exhaust itself. He still felt its influences, but he was no longer good-humored. Instead, he was nervous and irritable. He began to brood over the unexpected tongue-lashing that Mrs. Simmons had given him, and succeeded in working himself into a very ugly frame of mind.

When his horse came to the top of the hill, something the animal saw--a stray pig, or maybe a cow lying in the fence corner--caused it to swerve to one side. This was entirely too much for Mr. Gossett's unstrung nerves. He seized the whip and brought it down upon the animal's back with all his might. Maddened by the sudden and undeserved blow, the horse made a terrific lunge forward, causing Mr. Gossett to drop the reins and nearly throwing him from the buggy. Finding itself free, the excited horse plunged along the road. The grade of the hill was so heavy that the animal could not run at top speed, but made long jumps, flirting the buggy about as though it had been made of cork.

The swinging and lurching of the buggy added to the animal's excitement, and the climax of its terror was reached when Aaron loomed up in the dark before it. The horse made one wild swerve to the side of the road, but failed to elude Aaron. The sudden swerve, however, threw Mr. Gossett out. He fell on the soft earth, and lay there limp, stunned, and frightened. Aaron, holding to the horse, ran by its side a little way, and soon had the animal under control. He soothed it a moment, talked to it until it whinnied, fastened the lines to a fence corner, and then went back to see about the man who had fallen from the buggy, little dreaming that it was his owner, Mr. Gossett. But just as he leaned over the man, Rambler told him the news; the keen nose of the dog had discovered it, though he stood some distance away.

This caused Aaron to straighten himself again, and as he did so he saw something gleam in the starlight. It was Mr. Gossett's pistol, which had fallen from his pocket as he fell. Aaron picked up the weapon, handling it very gingerly, for he was unused to firearms, and placed it under the buggy seat. Then he returned with an easier mind and gave his attention to Mr. Gossett.

"Hurt much?" he asked curtly, shaking the prostrate man by the shoulder.

"More scared than hurt, I reckon," replied Mr. Gossett. "What was that dog barking at just now?"

"He ain't used to seeing white folks in the dirt," Aaron explained.

"Who are you?" Mr. Gossett inquired.

"One," answered Aaron.

"Well, if I'd seen you a half hour ago I'd 'a' sworn you were Two." Mr. Gossett made this joke at his own expense, but Aaron did not understand it, and therefore could not appreciate it. So he said nothing.

"Put your hand under my shoulder here, and help me to sit up. I want to see if any bones are broken."

Aided by Aaron Mr. Gossett assumed a sitting posture. While he was feeling of himself, searching for wounds and broken bones, he heard his horse snort. This reminded him (for he was still somewhat dazed) that he had started out with a horse and buggy.

"That's your horse, I reckon. Mine's at home by this time with two buggy shafts swinging to him. Lord! what a fool a man can be!"

"That's your horse," said Aaron.

"Mine? Who stopped him?"

"Me," Aaron answered.

"You? Why, as near as I can remember, he was coming down this hill like the dogs were after him. Who are you, anyhow?"

"One."

"Well, you are worth a dozen common men. Give me your hand."

Mr. Gossett slowly raised himself to his feet, shook first one leg and then the other, and appeared to be much relieved to find that his body and all of its members were intact. He walked about a little, and then went close to Aaron and peered in his face.

"Blamed if I don't believe you are my runaway nigger!" Mr. Gossett exclaimed.

"I smell whiskey," said Aaron.

"Confound the stuff! I never will get rid of it."

Mr. Gossett put his hands in his pocket and walked around again.

"Your name is Aaron," he suggested. Receiving no reply, he said: "If your name is Aaron you belong to me; if you belong to me get in the buggy and let's go home. You've been in the woods long enough."

"Too long," replied Aaron.

"That's a fact," Mr. Gossett assented. "Come on and go home with me. If you're afeard of me you can put that idea out of your mind. I swear you shan't be hit a lick. You are the only nigger I ever had any respect for, and I'll be blamed if I know how I came to have any for you after the way you've treated me. But if you'll promise not to run off any more I'll treat you right. You're a good hand and a good man."