When Judge Wellington died, Free Joe's troubles began. The judge's negroes, including Lucinda, went to his half-brother, a man named Calderwood, who was a hard master and a rough customer generally--a man of many eccentricities of mind and character. His neighbors had a habit of alluding to him as "Old Spite"; and the name seemed to fit him so completely that he was known far and near as "Spite" Calderwood. He probably enjoyed the distinction the name gave him, at any rate he never resented it, and it was not often that he missed an opportunity to show that he deserved it. Calderwood's place was two or three miles from the village of Hillsborough, and Free Joe visited his wife twice a week, Wednesday and Saturday nights. One Sunday he was sitting in front of Lucinda's cabin, when Calderwood happened to pass that way. "Howdy, marster?" said Free Joe, taking off his hat. "Who are you?" exclaimed Calderwood abruptly, halting and staring at the negro. "I'm name' Joe, marster. I'm Lucindy's ole man." "Who do you belong to?" "Marse John Evans is my gyardeen, marster." "Big name--gyardeen. Show your pass." Free Joe produced that document, and Calderwood read it aloud slowly, as if he found it difficult to get at the meaning: "_To whom it may concern: This is to certify that the boy Joe Frampton has my permission to visit his wife Lucinda._" This was dated at Hillsborough, and signed "_John W. Evans_." Calderwood read it twice, and then looked at Free Joe, elevating his eyebrows, and showing his discolored teeth. "Some mighty big words in that there. Evans owns this place, I reckon. When's he comin' down to take hold?" Free Joe fumbled with his hat. He was badly frightened. "Lucindy say she speck you wouldn't min' my comin', long ez I behave, marster." Calderwood tore the pass in pieces and flung it away. "Don't want no free niggers 'round here," he exclaimed. "There's the big road. It'll carry you to town. Don't let me catch you here no more. Now, mind what I tell you." Free Joe presented a shabby spectacle as he moved off with his little dog Dan slinking at his heels. It should be said in behalf of Dan, however, that his bristles were up, and that he looked back and growled. It may be that the dog had the advantage of insignificance, but it is difficult to conceive how a dog bold enough to raise his bristles under Calderwood's very eyes could be as insignificant as Free Joe. But both the negro and his little dog seemed to give a new and more dismal aspect to forlornness as they turned into the road and went toward Hillsborough.