"While runnin' off, yur master let fall a letter, did he? You picked it
up, Bill? Ye've gob it?"
"Hya's dat eyedentikil dockyment."
The negro hands over the epistle, the photograph inside.
"All right, Bill! I reck'n this oughter make things tol'ably clur.
Now, what d'ye want me to do for yurself?"
"Lor, Mass Woodley, you knows bess. I'se needn't tell ye, dat ef ole
Eph'm Darke hear wha dis nigger's been, an' gone, an' dud, de life ob
Blue Bill wuldn't be wuth a ole coon-skin--no; not so much as a
corn-shuck. I'se get de cowhide ebbery hour ob de day, and de night
too. I'se get flog to def, sa'tin shoo."
"Yur right thar, I reck'n," rejoins the hunter; then continues,
reflectingly, "Yes; you'd be sarved putty saveer, if they war to know
on't. Wal, that mustn't be, and won't. So much I kin promise ye, Bill.
Yur evydince wouldn't count for nuthin' in a law court, nohow.
Tharfor, we won't bring ye forrad; so don't you be skeeart. I guess we
shan't wan't no more testymony, as thar ain't like to be any
crosskwestenin' lawyers in this case. Now; d'you slip back to yur
quarters, and gi'e yurself no furrer consarn. I'll see you don't git
into any trouble. May I be damned ef ye do!"
With this emphatic promise, the old bear-hunter separates from the less
pretentious votary of the chase; as he does so giving the latter a
squeeze of the hand, which tells him he may go back in confidence to the
negro quarter, and sit, or sleep, by the side of his Phoebe, without
fear.