Buckra man own 'em to-day; ain't
sartin if he own 'em to-morrow, dough. What country-born nigger is
you?"
"Down country! My poor old master's gone, and now I'm goin'; but God
only knows where to. White man sell all old Boss's folks in a
string,--my old woman and children among the rest. My heart is with
them, God bless them!"
"Reckon how ya' had a right good old Boss what larn ye somethin."
The boy listens to Harry with surprise. "Don't talk like dat down
dis a way; no country-born nigger put in larn'd wods so, nohow,"
returns the boy, with a look of curious admiration.
"But you harn't told me what place this is?"
"Dis 'ouse! e' ant nowhare when Buckra bring nigger what he want to
sell, and don' want nobody to know whar e' bring him from. Dat man
what bring ye here be great Buckra. De 'h way he lash nigger whin e'
don do jist so!" The boy shakes his head with a warning air.
"How did you get here? There must be roads leading in some
directions?"
"Roads runnin' every which way, yand'r; and trou de woods anyway,
but mighty hard tellin whar he going to, he is. Mas'r Boss don lef
'e nigger know how 'e bring'um, nor how he takes 'um way. Guess da
'h gwine to run ye down country, so God bless you," says the boy,
shaking him by the hand, and taking leave.
"Well! if I only knew which way I was going I should feel happy;
because I could then write to my old master, somewhere or somehow.
And I know my good friend Missus Rosebrook will buy me for her
plantation,--I know she will.
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