“I won’t say I weren’t skeered,” said Balaam, “kaze I was; yit I weren’t skeered ’nough fer ter go slippin’ ’longside er de fences an’ ’mongst de pine thickets. I des kep’ right in de big road. Atter I got out er town a little piece, I tuck off my shoes an’ tied de strings tergedder an’ slung ’em ’cross my shoulder, on top my satchel, an’ den I sorter mended my gait. I struck up a kind er dog-trot, an’ by de time day come a many a mile lay ’twix’ me an’ Atlanta. Little atter sun-up I hear some horses trottin’ on de road de way I come, an’ bimeby a man driv up in a double buggy. He say, ‘Hello, boy! Whar you gwine?’ I pulled off my hat, an’ say, ‘I gwine whar my marster is, suh.’ Den de white man ’low, ‘W’at he name?’ Well, suh, when de man ax me dat, hit come over me like a big streak er de chill an’ fever dat I done clean fergit de name what Marse Berry choosen ter be call by. So I des runned my han’ und’ de lindin’ er my hat an’ pulled out de pass, an’ say, ‘Boss, dis piece er paper kin talk lots better dan I kin.’ “De man look at me right hard, an’ den he tuck de pass an’ read it out loud. Well, suh, w’en he come ter de name I des grabbed holt un it wid my min’, an’ I ain’t never turned it loose tell yit. De man was drivin’ long slow, an’ I was walkin’ by de buggy. He helt de pass in his han’s some little time, den he look at me an’ scratch his head. Atter a while he ’low: ‘You got a mighty long journey befo’ you. Kin you drive? Ef you kin, put on yo’ shoes an’ mount up here an’ take dese lines.’ “Well, suh, I wuz sorter glad, an’ yit I wuz sorter skittish, but I tol’ de white man thankydo, an’ le’pt up in dat buggy like I was de gladdes’ nigger in de worl’. De man he keep on lookin’ at me, an’ bimeby he say, ‘I tuck a notion when I fust see you dat you was de boy w’at Cozart had in Atlanta.’ Mon! you could er knocked me over wid a feather, I was dat weak; but I bu’st out laughin’ an’ ’low, ‘Lord, boss! ef I wa’n’t no better lookin’ dan dat ar Cozart nigger I’d quit bein’ a nigger an’ take up wid de monkey tribe.’ De man say, ‘I had de idee dat de Cozart nigger was a mighty likely boy. What was his name? Balaam?’ I was so skeered it fair make me sick at de stomach, yit I talk right out. I ’low, ‘Dey call ’im Balaam, an’ dey have ter whale ’im.’ De man he laugh, ‘He got a great big scyar on de side er his neck now whar somebody hit ’im a diff, an’ he lay roun’ dem hotels an’ drink dram all night long.’ De man look sideways at my neck. ‘Dat nigger got so bad dat his marster had ter sell ’im, an’ dey tells me, suh, dat de man w’at buy ’im ain’ no mo’ dan paid de money fer ’im dan he have ter take ’im down and strop ’im.’